Sex - Drugs - Rock-and-Roll

Sparrow Jones was not just “exposed” to drugs in utero, she was fairly awash in the stuff. Her mother, rebelling against the innocence of the rock-and-roll fifties, stepped into the counterculture of the sixties with abandon. She had sex with multiple partners, smoked everything from marijuana to banana peels, and gave new meaning to the word “hippie.” 
Sparrow’s mom wore long skirts and long hair, gave up shaving, went barefoot and joined a commune. She loved folk music, and would sit for hours listening to Bob Dylan and talk to other hippies about how the world was going to hell in a handbasket. She changed her name to Moonbeam Sunflower, and tripped through her days alternating between drug-induced euphoria and sleep.
Moonbeam Sunflower was well into her sixth month before she even realized she was pregnant. Morning sickness had passed in a sort of blur, and was chalked up to bad batches of Mary Jane. In her seventh month she tapered off the drugs a bit, but not much. In her eighth she almost died from an overdose of something somebody had given her; she never knew what.
And in her ninth month, the most extraordinary thing happened. Moonbeam Sunflower gave birth to a little girl. A tiny, perfect, helpless birdlike creature, all arms and legs and a peeping little cry she named Sparrow. It was in that instant, looking down at her daughter, that Moonbeam Sunflower became plain old Sarah Jones again. The next morning, Sarah climbed into her VW bug with the peace symbols painted on the sides, put Sparrow on the seat beside her and tucked an old towel in front of her so she wouldn’t fall off, and began the long trek for home.
Sarah came from Austerlitz, a little town in upstate New York, whose only claim to fame was that it was the home of poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. Sarah had read Millay extensively, drawn to her brooding darkness and free-wheeling lifestyle. Austerlitz was a long way from California, in more ways than one, and Sarah was discovering that Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You could go home again, but it wasn’t easy.
Considering that Sparrow had spend the first months of her life swilling second-hand drugs as she swam in the toxic soup of her mother’s womb, she was a surprisingly easy child. She lay on the front seat of the VW, either sleeping or watching the shadows on the roof or the shine of the love beads hung from the rear-view mirror. She cried when she was wet or hungry, but other than that, she was quiet. 
Every so often, Sarah would reach over and touch the little miracle beside her. She sang Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore or The Times, They Are A’Changing. She stopped often, at gas stations and rest stops, and just walked, with her child hugged tightly to her breast. At night Sarah would curl up with Sparrow in the back seat and catch some sleep before starting out again in the morning. She traded her meager possessions for cloth diapers, which she washed in the restrooms of filling stations and rest stops.
She begged for gas and food, using Sparrow as a bargaining chip, and looking pitiful in her long skirt and unkempt hair. She would promise to send payment as soon as she got home, and even when gas attendants and store clerks didn’t believe her, they took pity on her and let her have what she needed. 
Sparrow slept, and watched, and listened, and Sarah sang, and drove, and thought. Going home was not going to be easy. Not easy at all.
Sarah’s mother couldn’t have been more the stereotypical fifties mother if she had posed for the poster. Sarah’s mother’s name was Jane, and she wore shirtwaist dresses and sensible shoes. She curled her hair every morning, applied make-up and wore an apron when she cooked. Jane was devastated by the behavior of her good-girl-gone-hippie daughter and was heart-broken when Sarah moved out and moved on. She hadn’t heard from her daughter in almost two years. 
That didn’t stop Jane from praying for Sarah every night. She knew nothing of the drugs, or the sex, or the commune. She only knew that her little girl was “out there” somewhere. Every time the phone rang, she froze, wondering if it was the police telling her that her daughter was dead. Every time there was an unexpected knock at the door, it took all of her courage to answer it, fearful. And every night she prayed for her daughter’s safe return.
Sarah, on the other hand, was terrified of going home. She had not left under the best of circumstances. Her middle-class home was full of rules and was boring to boot. She chafed at curfew, rebelled at school, couldn’t wait to try her wings and felt like she was a bird in a cage, pecking at the bars.
She had hooked up with Bobby, a long-haired hippie who had turned her on to LSD and talked about peace, love and freedom. He made the open road seem like the only way out of her stifling, boring, middle-class existence. She left in a cloud of dust and angry words that hung in the air long after she’d gone, perched on the back of Bobby’s motorcycle, three sheets to the wind. 
Within a week, Bobby had left her at a rest-stop somewhere in New Mexico, and Sarah had been too ashamed to call home. She hooked up with a trucker, who took her to California, for a price, and Sarah learned to sell her body and her self-respect. She found the commune quite by accident, and the time there passed in a haze.
Now, it was two years later and Sarah wasn’t at all sure her mother would even take her back. Not sure at all.
Never far from Sarah’s mind was what her mother’s reaction to having a grandchild appear on her doorstep was going to be. Would they be thrown out? After all, having a child out of wedlock was simply not done. Her mother and father would be shocked. Would they be turned away at the door? Told never to darken their door again? Or, if they did allow her and her child in, would they make up some lie about a husband killed in an accident? That was the usual lie, wasn’t it? God forbid you actually had a child without being married. It simply wasn’t done. It just wasn’t.
And then what? Where would she go? What would she do? She didn’t want to live on the streets with this tiny life that had miraculously been given into her keeping. How would she live? Where would she live? She couldn’t beg for food and gas forever. 
The miles rolled beneath the VW like a ribbon. Not a red carpet, thank you. Sarah had no doubts that her mother would be shocked, dismayed and appalled at her appearance. Maternal protection for Sparrow sprang deep into her consciousness. She’d do whatever she needed to do to make sure her daughter had a life, a real life. The kind of life Sarah had had, she realized with surprise, was exactly the kind of life she wanted for her own daughter. 
She began to compose her coming home speech. The miles brought her nearer and nearer to home, and Sarah thought about what she would say. She would apologize, of course. Apologize for the way in which she had left, apologize for causing her parents such pain, apologize for not being in touch.
But she would not apologize for Sparrow. Never. 
She would get a job, get on her feet, take care of her daughter. She wouldn’t ask for handouts; just a place to stay until she could take care of herself and Sparrow. She would just ask for a place to stay; she wouldn’t be any trouble. She’d help around the house, do the yard, do whatever they wanted her to do, if only they’d let her and her daughter stay for a while. 
She’d say she was sorry. And she was.
Jane Jones was standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes and looking out the window at her garden. The roses were especially fine this year, she thought. When she heard an unfamiliar car pull into the driveway, she dried her hands on the towel and braced herself, as she had so many times before. 
She peered out the front window, and was relieved to see that it was not a police car. Instead it was a truly awful looking VW bug, with peace symbols and other sixties slogans painted on it. It looked like it hadn’t been washed in months. Inside the car sat a woman. A rather unkempt looking woman, with dirty long hair, seemed to be busy with something on the front seat. 
Jane squinted. Her eyes were not what they used to be, but…could it be? Was it? 
She ran to the door and tore it open, rushed down the walk to the VW where the woman was just getting out. The woman turned around and yes, oh YES! It was!!!!!!
“Mom, I…” but she was engulfed in hugs and kisses and tears of thanksgiving. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” Sarah cried into her mother’s shoulder. “I…”
“Honey, don’t say another word,” Jane said. “You’re home and that’s all that counts.” She brushed the hair away from her daughters face, her beautiful daughter, her beloved daughter. She beamed and cried and smiled and seemed not to see the ravaged skin, the filthy body, the fearful eyes. She only saw her daughter, home again. 
And on Sarah’s part, she only saw her mother’s love, shining through the tears. She didn’t see any condemnation, nor disapproval, nor any of the negative emotions she had so feared. She only saw love.
Just then, Sparrow, who had been asleep on the front seat, peeped. Not a big peep, just her usual little peep that said “I’m wet, Mom, and I’m hungry.” 
Jane stiffened. “What was that?”
Sarah leaned into the car and gathered Sparrow in her arms. 
“Mom, this is Sparrow, your granddaughter.”
Just for the tiniest fraction of an instant, Jane allowed her shock to register. What would the neighbors say? But then, Sparrow waved her tiny fist about. Jane reached out and Sparrow grasped Jane’s finger in her little hand, and Jane no longer gave a damn what the neighbors would think. 
“Oh, Sarah,” Jane said. “She’s beautiful.”
It was a homecoming to be remembered, many years later. Sarah would tell Sparrow how her mother had called all the neighbors to tell them that Sarah was home. She would tell her about the pride in her mother’s voice as she told them that she was a grandmother. She told Sparrow that when Sarah’s father took one look at his new grandchild, he uncharacteristically burst into tears and hugged her so tight she almost couldn’t breathe. 
They threw a party for her. A baby shower. They fixed up her old bedroom to make room for baby things, and Jane watched Sparrow when Sarah went job-hunting. Sarah cut her hair, applied make-up, and bought clothes appropriate for an office. She got a job as a secretary, and worked hard every day. 
They weren’t all easy years, those years of home-coming. There were still rules, and curfew and sometimes that old caged feeling would return. But when she started to feel caged-in again, with the demands of being both daughter in her parent’s house and mother to her own daughter, all she had to do was remember the look in her mother’s eyes when she returned. She knew that should the day come when the circumstances were the same, she would react the same way her mother had, with love, and forgiveness.
Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again. 

Hiccup - Whimsical - Delicious

Maryanne placed the tiny, whimsical teapot on the table, put a hand to her lips and gave a discreet, elaborate, fake hiccup.  “Oh my!”  She said, “That was quite delicious, don’t you think?” 

            Montrose, of course, said nothing.  Montrose never said anything.  Montrose simply sat, staring blankly out of one eye, stuffing falling out of one ear.  Now, if Montrose’s mouth had not been sewn shut, he might have had much to say.  But it was, sewn shut that is, so Montrose simply sat and stared.

            It was tea time at the Pennington house, which meant Maryanne had at least fifteen minutes to herself.  She treasured the time her mother sent her away, with the words, “Go play with your dollies now,” and she could escape the squalling wretched infant that took up most of her mother’s time, and hers. 

            It’s not that she didn’t like the child.  Of course she did.  Sheloved the child.  She was told often enough how much she loved the child.  “Look at how Maryanne loves that child!”  It was true that she watched the child all the time; was never more than a few feet away from it.  “Look at how much Maryanne loves that child!” It was all she heard, day in and day out, from neighbors, friends, and family.  The only person who never said that was her mother, because her mother knew better. 

            Maryanne had tried to kill the child when it was first brought home.  Her mother walked in the door with this…this thing, red-faced, shrieking and stinking to high Heaven, and Maryanne had taken one look at it and said, “You’re not going to keep that, are you?”

            Her mother had laughed.  Her father had laughed.  The child continued to shriek.  And Maryanne made up her mind in that very instant that this child simply had to go.  That evening, when she thought everyone was in bed, she crept into the child’s room and put a pillow over its face.  Two steps behind her was her mother, who took the pillow off the intruder’s face, and sent Maryanne to bed. 

            She plotted her next move.  She schemed.  She waited. Locks were put on the child’s bedroom door, up high where Maryanne could not reach.  She watched and she waited.  She was never allowed to be alone with the child.  But Maryanne was a patient girl, very patient.

            Days turned to weeks.  Weeks turned to months.  The child did not cry quite as much, but still took up an awful lot of Maryanne’s mother’s time.  Maryanne was jealous.  She wanted her mother all to herself again, and as long as this thing was in the house, that wasn’t going to happen.  So, Maryanne bided her time, and waited.

            The thing had a name, of course.  Daniel.  The squalling, red-faced interloper was called Daniel.  And Maryanne hated him. Wanted him dead.  Wanted her mother to herself again.  Wanted things to be back the way they were before it came into the house. 

            Her chance finally came when the child was about four months old.  It was starting to sit up, unaided.  It was starting to roll over, and creep, and scoot about on its belly.  Sometimes it was allowed to play on a blanket put on the living room floor. 

            The doorbell rang.  Her mother glanced at Maryanne, thought for a second, then stepped away to answer the door. 

            Now!  Maryanne thought, Now!  Quickly, she rushed to where the child lay on the blanket and thought, Now!  But how? She looked around for something to smother the child with, when she stopped.  He…it…was looking at her.  Daniel looked at her, blue eyes open and trusting.  He smiled at her.  He laughed.  He giggled. He waved his little arms and cooed. 

            Maryanne sat down and looked at him.  Really looked at him.  She marveled at his little toes, his little fingers.  Gently, she reached out, and Daniel grabbed her finger and held on tight. Maryanne smiled, then she laughed.  Why, she thought, he’s not all that bad after all.  She looked around for one of his toys, found a giraffe that rattled and shook it in front of his face.  He laughed and reached for it. 

            Maryanne’s mother and grandmother came into the living room to find Maryanne shaking the giraffe and making faces at Daniel who was laughing and cooing and waving his little arms around. 

            “Just look at how Maryanne loves that child,” the grandmother exclaimed.

            If Montrose’s mouth hadn’t been sewn shut, he would have smiled.

Sign - Umbrella - Fan

"Sign here," the man thrust his pen at me, pulled out his fan and began to fan his face.  His umbrella poked back and forth on his leg like some manic tap dancer.

I couldn't believe what I was doing.  After all, this was a HUGE investment, and I really wasn't in any position to buy ANYTHING right now, let alone this...this thing.


But here I was on the street corner, in a scuzzy part of town, in the middle of what promised to be a heavy downpour, buying this thing from a total stranger.

The stranger wasn't much to look at.  He was actually kind of sleazy-looking.  His hair was black and slicked against his head like he had put vaseline on it to keep down a stubborn cowlick.  His face was swarthy and unshaven, and his clothes rumpled on his body like he had just pulled them out of the dirty clothes bin.  In addition, he had a definite...well, let's just call it a definite odor.  Not an unpleasant odor, exactly, but I suppose the slightly sweet, salty, sweaty odor may have come from the thing I was just purchasing.

But to pay such an exorbitant amount for THIS?  I mean, who knew where it came from?  How did it even GET in this country?  Why did this man, disreputable as he look, come by it in the first place?  And why, oh why, was I buying it???

But, bought it I did.  The man finished fanning himself, trying to stave off the humidity that mixed with the downpour until one wasn't sure what was water from the sky or sweat.  He opened his umbrella, handed me the thing, and walked off whistling something that sounded suspiciously like the Jeopardy tune, and I looked at my purchase with a jaundiced eye.

How on earth was I going to explain THIS to my husband?  It was only then the thing began to speak...

Topic - Card - Printer

Topic of the day:  Moving.  At least, that's what I thought.  Of course, the fact that my printer is acting up again is the least of my worries.  It's the writing everything down on a 3x5 card that gets to me.

But if I'm going to keep to the printing, I suppose I need to get one of those ace bandages.  It will help keep my wrist steady as I hand-write everything I should be printing.  It's not that the printer doesn't usually work.  It's just that when the monkey sat on it, it got hair all inside and it doesn't work well at all.  And I don't have time to take it apart again.

I guess it relates to moving after all.  The monkey, whose name is Harvey, want to move with me, and how can I let him come with me when he sits on my printer and messes everything up?  I mean, when Minnie (she's the mouse) made a next inside the copier, didn't I have a heck of a time getting her out?  And boy, was she ticked!  She had made this lovely little nest in the back, and I know she was planning to start a family back there.  But no, I had to remove her from the premises!

So now Harvey is upset; Minnie is upset, and I'll probably upset Twinkle Toes as well when I tell him I'm moving.  And when Twinkle Toes gets upset, well, things will just not be pleasant around here at all.  Twinkle Toes is a 700 pound gorilla and when he gets upset, the whole neighborhood knows about it!

Which is why I'm moving in the first place.

So, I guess the fact that the monkey sat on my printer is not such a big deal after all in the grand scheme of things.  Now, where did I put those 3x5 cards again?

Lettuce - Speaker - Jar

Speakers were lined up along the all like so many soldiers, waiting their turn to speak.  One was going to talk about how iceberg lettuce was so nutritionally poor that even rabbits wouldn't eat it.  Another was going to talk about spaghetti sauce that came in a jar and how wonderful it was not to have to cook all day.

At least, that's what the plan WAS.  the was it turned out, though, was that one little tiny old lady, who couldn't have been more than 4'10" in her stockinged feet got up and began to speak about the power of vacuum cleaners and how a vacuum cleaner could lead you to Christ if you would only listen.

Well, that pretty much ticked off the Evangelical Right and the Conservative Left all at the same time.  Nobody gave her a chance to explain what she meant, and I, for one, was terribly sorry to see her ushered off the stage in such an unceremonious manner.  I mean, one big burly guy picked up one arm, and another big burly guy picked up the other, and out she went, little tiny legs not even touching the floor and hollering all the while.

The convention was pretty boring after that.  The speaker who wanted to speak about spaghetti talked instead about lasagna.  The speaker who was scheduled to talk about lettuce ended up talking about rabbits instead, of which she seemed to have an exceptionally high number.

I wandered out in the hall after the speaker who was scheduled to expound on the dangers of horseradish started talking about baked potatoes instead.  I looked around for the tiny lady, but she was nowhere to be found.

Faintly disappointed, I walked out into the cool night air.  There she was, sitting quietly underneath a tree, smoking a cigarette.

"Say, Lady!"  I hollered as I walked up to her.  "I wanted to hear what you had to say..."

She blew an exceptional smoke ring in the air and eyed me through the ring.  "I didn't think anybody wanted to hear what I had to say," she said, in a voice that sounded as if she'd been crying.

I sat on the grass next to her.  "Well," I said, "I do."

And I waited...

Your - Three - Words

Words banged against each other in the box, turning your three words into seven and mine into six.  Words are alive, you know.  Living, breathing, exciting creatures, just waiting for us to craft them into believable shapes and sizes.

I reached in and pulled out a word.  Oh, please!  And I put it back.  How exciting can THAT word be?  But then I paused, and picked up the tile again.  If I am any kind of writer at all, I thought, I can turn even THIS word into something beautiful.

I turned the tile over in my hand.  It was soft and hard at the same time, not yet alive, but waiting for the touch of the hand of a master to bring it into being.

"MAN."

Now, what kind of silly word was that?  It was too short, for one thing, and what sort of creature would MAN be?  I paused, pondering for a moment what I could do with MAN.

I put the word in the box again, shook it up, and tried again.

"MAN."

Oh, brother.  Fine.  I can take a hint.

So I took the tile that said MAN, placed it between both hands and blew life into the word and it became a living, breathing creature.  I had a funny feeling as I put the creature down on the spinning ball I had created earlier.  I just had a funny feeling that this time I had created something very special indeed.

But, there was something wrong.  MAN.  MAN needed something.  He just seemed...incomplete.  He needed a companion, a friend, a help-mate.  I shook the box, reached in and pulled out "WO."  Well, "WO" didn't make much sense, and this was even shorter than MAN.  What if....what if I put the two together?

Hey, I like that!  MAN and WOMAN.  Now, that's complete!

Frame - Ticker - Creek

Framed against the soft light pouring through the window was the inspiring vistas of Ticker Creek.  Tiny and perhaps not as spectacular as other bodies of water, Ticker Creek had its own charm, and I leaned against the headboard of my bed, cup of coffee warming my hands, and just watched.

This was my first day of vacation, and I was SO ready.  I really needed this time to myself.  My job is stressful and painful and aggravating and rewarding and I love it.  But sometimes, well, you just have to get away, you know?

So, I was just savoring the time alone, watching Ticker Creek flow along like some sort of image of life, my life, flowing along, over rocks, and sand, and fish, and bugs.

Anyway, here I was, as I say, watching the creek and thinking up all sorts of metaphors about my own life that was currently filled with sand and bugs, when there was a short, staccato tap on the door of my room.

"Miz Martin?"  A hesitant voice said, "Miz Martin?  You awake?"

Ricky opened the door quietly, bearing a wonderful tray of pancakes, sausages and fresh fruit.  "I thought you might like some breakfast."

Ah, the blessings of vacation!  "Yes, Ricky," I said, "that would be just lovely!"

Ricky put the tray and turned to leave.  "Ricky,"  I said.

He stopped and turned around.

"Can you stay for a minute?"

"Miz Martin, I can't stay.  You know I can't."  But he did not leave.  He stayed in the door, looking at me propped up in bed.  "Really, Miz Martin.  Not this morning.  Really."  But he did not leave.

He never leaves.  Ricky stays, and with a reluctant sigh, he comes over, gently lifts the blanket away from my misshapen and atrophied legs, sits down at the edge of the bed.  He pulls a bottle of lotion from his pocket (always prepared, my Ricky, like a Boy Scout), and gently rubs my feet and legs.  I can't feel anything, of course, not from the waist down, since the accident.  But I like to look at him rubbing my feet, and remember what it felt like, and I am content for one more day.

Here - They - Are

"Here," and at this the docent flung the sheet from the sculptures with a flourish, "is the famous piece done by the artist Horace Grimsby.  They say amongst all his works, these are the most interesting and exciting."

We all just stood there with our mouths open.  There before us marble that Master Grimsby himself had touched, worked with, slaved over, and it was close enough to touch.  More than one person reached out a tentative finger, but the docent quickly said, "No touching!! No!"  And fingers retreated, twitching.

Horace Grimsby used to a deputy on a rural police department.  It was said the he still used words like "ain't" and "shore 'nuff," but his work in marble was fantastic.

How Master Grimsby came about his talent is still a mystery to most.  It seems that he started out whittling wood in his spare time, and before he knew it, he was creating birds and beasts that looked so real one might have thought the little piece of wood would just rear up and start breathing.

Then he graduated to soap.  White bars of Ivory soap became flowers, insects, and fantastic creatures under his skillful hand.

And then, poking around the cemetery one day, he came across an old piece of marble that had been discarded from a tombstone that hadn't turned out well, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Convoluted - Address - Pocket

Pocketing the address with the convoluted directions, Misty peered through the fog.  She could barely make out the dim shapes of the apartment buildings lined up along the street like so many identically shaped boxes.  The street lamps gave off the barest hint of light, haloed against the sky, but it was better than nothing.

She read the directions again, and they didn't make any more sense this time than the last.

"Turn left at the building with the eagle on the front, then turn right at the building with the cat in the window.  Walk straight on until you come to old man Humphrey's place, then squeeze between the alleys on the right.  I'll be at the old mill around the corner."

Well, if THAT wasn't clear as mud!  for one thing, Misty didn't see a cat anywhere, let alone one in a window, and she was darned if she was squeezing between any alleys.  Who did she think she was, Batwoman?

But, Misty was desperate, so she read the directions again, then clutched the rumpled and slightly damp paper in her hand.  She bent her head and said a quick prayer.

When she looked up, lo and behold, there was a cat in the window!  It had been there the whole time.  She had been looking for a real cat, but the cat in the window of the downstairs apartment was a porcelain cat in colors no self-respecting cat would be caught dead in.  Bright oranges, reds and greens adorned this cat which stared out from unseeing eyes.

Misty glanced at the directions, then turned right at the apartment building with the cat in the window, and crept along towards her date with destiny.

Short - Lamp - Flower

Short man, fat man, beggar man, thief
Flowers in the dumpster in a big heap
Lamps in the windows, pictures in the hall
Joy comes in the morning, or it doesn't come at all.

Purple hats, scarlet mats, poems by the bay
Prodigal children return at end of day
Joy comes in the morning, or it doesn't come at all
Gather up the leaves of gold with every lovely fall.

Quick cat, slow mouse, dinner on the floor
Fed the beast this morning, now she wants some more
Evening settles slowly, like an orange sinking ball
Joy comes in the morning, or it doesn't come at all.