He had more than one trick up his sadistic sleeve for punishing deserving children, so Linda, Greg and myself, tending toward the deserving side, were no strangers to his little tortures.

When I was 10, he caught me playing with matches.
He had me strike matches for hours. Boxes and boxes of them, until my fingers were numb and black and smelled like sulfur.

I ran up the stairs.
He told me to keep running up and down them until he said stop. I started out mad and stomping, but ended up with my legs giving out, crying and gasping for air.

I was 8. Linda was 5. We were sitting on a hill in front of our townhouse. We were in a giggly mood and were calling everything broccoli. “There goes a broccoli car.” “There’s a broccoli lady carrying broccoli groceries.” “Look at those broccoli kids on broccoli bikes”

We were laughing so hard, tears rolled down our cheeks. Then, here comes the broccoli stepfather to spoil our fun. He made us go into the house and handed me, the broccoli dictionary. Out loud, I had to read over and over again, the definition of broccoli. To this day I know it is ‘a hardy type of cauliflower.’

I was 12. I don’t remember his question, but I remember that I gave him an answer he didn’t believe. To show how far fetched he felt my answer was, he said, “… and my ass hole sucks collar buttons.” Although I wasn’t quite sure what a ‘collar button’ was, I certainly knew what an ass hole was and I came within a hair of busting out laughing at the picture in my head of him squatted down while his ass sucked up buttons off of the floor, like some kind of vacuum cleaner. To keep from laughing, I looked down at my feet and bit my bottom lip so hard it bled.

I’d still like to know what collar buttons are and why he chose a particular kind of button. Why not just, my ass sucks buttons. Why collar ones?

I was eating oatmeal, leaning down too close to my bowl for his liking. He grabbed the back of my head and shoved my face into it, then held me there for a few seconds. I came up gasping and sputtering. That sure taught me to have some manners. Today I eat sitting on the floor in front of the TV with my plate and elbows on the coffee table.

He went to backhand my face. I saw it coming and threw up my hands to break the brunt of it. They did. He broke my little finger.

Don’t get me wrong. I was no angel. Far from it. Sometime I did deserve to be corrected:

It was the last day that High’s Ice-cream Store would have ice cream cones for 5 cents a scoop. The next day they were raising the price to an astronomical 10 cents! I decided I’d better get a couple of those scoops before the price raise, but I was broke. So, I tip toed down the hall to his bedroom and eased the door open. I poked my head inside.

He was asleep.

I slipped into the room and tiptoed to the dresser at the foot of the bed. He always kept his loose change on top of that dresser. I had no sooner grabbed a handful of that change, when I heard him stir. I crammed the money into my mouth and slowly turned to look.

His lay there, watching me with those flat, dark eyes.

“Good morning.” He said. “You looking for something?”

I shook my head.

I was sure he could hear my heart pounding. I could feel my cheeks bulging with coins, and I knew if I opened my lips the tiniest bit, coins would come tumbling out. Right there on top of his blanket covered feet.

I prayed he wouldn’t make me talk.

He stared at me for a few seconds, then waved a dismissive hand. “Well, run along then.”

I couldn’t believe my luck.

To make up for not speaking I waved at him and hurried out of the room.

When I got outside I spit the change into my hand then dried it off with my shirt and counted. It was mostly pennies, but I had plenty to buy ice cream with and I’d even have money left over!

I ran to High’s and got three huge scoops on a regular cone and a candy bar. I put the leftover money in my pocket for spending later.
I was a sly one.

I walked out of the store and slipped the chocolate bar into my back pocket and smiled up at the afternoon sun. What a beautiful summer day. I got to work on that ice-cream before the sun had it’s chance.

The alley next to the store, was a shortcut back home. I headed down it. I was no more than a few feet inside, when he appeared at the far end and he was coming toward me. Walking slow. With purpose.

I whipped the ice-cream cone behind my back and dropped it. Then, pasting a casual look on my face, I hurried to meet him. I wanted to put as much distance as possible, between me and the evidence.

Of course, in retrospect, it didn’t matter what I did. He’d known all along. He had just waited, like a spider, for the right time to play me. And the time had arrived.

I caught up to him.

“Hi.” I said with forced cheerfulness.

“What are you doing?” He asked not wasting time on niceties. He was out for blood.

“Walking.”

“And what is that back there?” He asked pointing.

I turned and looked back. It was too far away to see well, but still close enough to recognize. My ice-cream cone.

“What?” I said feigning innocence.

He grabbed my arm, held it with that practiced iron grip, and marched me back to the evidence.

“What’s that?” He repeated, jabbing his finger at the rapidly melting mess. The ice-cream had landed first and the cone stubbornly still clung to the top of it like a party hat. Maybe funny at another time, but definitely not now.

I shrugged. “Looks like ice cream.”

“And how do you think it got there?” He asked.

I shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

“That your ice-cream?” He demanded.

I shook my head.

“You sure that’s not yours?”

I nodded.

His ass sucked some collar buttons, and then he moved in for the kill.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Maybe we should go into High’s and see if that ice cream was yours. Maybe the cashier can tell me if you bought any ice-cream today.”

Trapped!

“You can either tell me the truth, or you can make it worse by forcing me to ask the cashier if you paid for ice-cream. And you know how much I hate to be forced into doing something I don’t want to do. And, if I find out you’re lying, you will be in a whole shit load of trouble. You understand me?”

I had to tell.

I got a whipping, right there in the alley, for stealing and lying.

The ice-cream melted on the road, and the candy bar got flattened, beyond eating, by the whipping.

I never did get another 5 cent scoop of ice-cream and I had to give the rest of the change back.

Today, it still amazes me, the things that really stick and hold in your head. I’ll forever remember that hardy cauliflower and those collar buttons.

People should think twice before they speak. They should keep in mind what effect their words will have on others. That casual word or act may make a bigger difference than you think. A difference you might not want to make.

Bone Digger

I loved my grandmother. And she loved me!

I don’t think she meant to, but she played favorites, and out of the three of us that mom got custody of when dad split, I was it. The favorite. The first born. The chosen one.

When grandma took us kids to the grocery store, I got to pick the kind of cookies she bought. When we were punished for any reason – even if it was my fault – Linda was sent to one bedroom, Greg to another, and I was confined to the living room…. watching the TV program of my choice.

It was a hard childhood.

The special treatment I received caused a lot of dissension between the three of us when we were young. Even today, when it is still laughingly mentioned that I was her favorite, I can still hear a smidgen of resentment underneath the joking.

Hey! What’s the big deal? I don’t have any emotional scars. Maybe a few more fat cells than the other two from my bigger food and desert portions, but I had a great childhood.

Anyway, Grandma was a lovely person. Very proper and particular about her surroundings and her hygiene.

That’s what makes this story kind of sad…

Mom said it started with grandma getting forgetful. She forgot to dust. Then she slacked up on of the house cleaning. My grandfather, who usually dried dishes after she washed them, took on the washing part too. Finally, she stopped tending to her daily hygiene too and started spending most of her time lying on the couch in a wrinkled house dress, watching TV and eating candy – Brach’s Bridge Mix was her favorite. She loved candy. Always had fancy candy jars full of chocolates and hard candies with those soft chewy centers.

My grandparent’s United Methodist Church, was having one of their Wednesday night suppers.

I can remember them taking me to those suppers ever since I was a child. Over the years the church and town location had changed, but not the night. Wednesday was the night, and my grandparents always went. My grandfather decided that this dinner was no exception. His wife needed to get out a bit and the suppers were something she had always enjoyed.

They were going.

He said he coaxed her off the couch, helped her wash and dress, then drove her to the church.

The were half way through the dinner, when for one reason or the other he decided that he needed to take her home. I don’t know exactly why. Maybe she wasn’t feeling good or maybe she was acting strangely or something.

He stood up, helped her up from her chair and guided her carefully across the floor toward the exit.

That’s when the unthinkable thing happened. The thing that would have embarrassed my grandmother to death if she had been in control of her senses.

It turned out that when my grandfather had helped her dress for the dinner, he forgot one item.

Her underwear.

Those big, white grandmother underwear that girls shudder to think of wearing as a teen, but that they buy when they’re older because they feel so much more comfortable than those tiny bikini things that creep up into your butt crack and cause you to just plain suffer all day, if you don’t keep tugging them out.

So she had no panties on and of all the moments her body could have chosen, it picked that brief walk, from the chair to the exit, to download.

This story was related to me by my grandfather, one year after my grandma’s death. Even then, he was still so upset at losing his life-mate that he told it as a matter-of-fact thing, instead of as an embarrassing incident.

“She did it while she was walking? On the church floor?” I said.

My grandfather sighed. “Yes. She hadn’t been herself for quite some time. She couldn’t help it.”

I felt embarrassment for my, then deceased grandmother, and empathy for the sad man who sat across the dinner table from me, but I couldn’t help myself.

I had to ask.

“So what did you do?”

“What could I do?” He said. “I took her home.”

“You mean you left … it … there? For someone else to clean up?”

“I had to. Your grandmother wasn’t feeling very good. The church members knew she’d been sick. I’m sure they understood.”

Did they?

Even though I know my grandmother would have been horrified at what she did, I can’t help but giggle as I write this. I’d love to have seen the looks on the other diner’s faces.

What would you do if you went to a church supper and saw someone walk out, then notice a trail of poop on the floor? Would you be horrified? Would you laugh? Snatch the kids up and march out of the church? Or just grab up a napkin and try to dispose of the evidence as quickly as possible.

I wonder what they did.

Anyone for desert?

My grandmother died not long afterward from a massive stroke. It was quick and merciful.

My grandfather followed two years later.

On Wednesday afternoon, the day before he died, he ordered flowers to be placed on her grave, come Sunday. Flowers to mark her dead for two years.

Thursday evening he yelled from the bathroom, for my mother who luckily was visiting at the time.

She said his tone made her run and she found him kneeling by the commode. Blood was everywhere. Blood he had vomited.

He looked up at her. His eyes full of fear. “This isn’t very good. Is it?”

Those turned out to be the last words he said to her.

She called 911 and he was rushed to the emergency room where he passed away, just after midnight, from a ruptured, abdominal aortic aneurysm.

Once again. Quick and merciful.

The flowers he had ordered for my grandmother’s grave arrived Sunday afternoon at the same time the flowers my mother ordered for his passing arrived at the funeral home for his memorial service.

Both of my grandparents died on November 8th. Exactly 2 years apart. To the day!

Coincidence?

I still remember standing with my grandfather, at my grandmother’s grave, and him pointing his cane at the empty plot next to her. “That’s where I’ll lie…”

Bone Digger

Or was I hers?

BJ, as she was called, looked and dressed like a man, was 12 years my senior and always pestered me for a date. That evening was no different than the others. She made good money working at the Naval Ship Yard and she was more than willing to spend it on me. I didn’t see any reason to hurt her feelings, so I slipped into the booth next to her and started flirting.  The food and drinks rolled in.

The club served excellent food and sported a huge dance floor with the spinning light ball and strobe lights which were so popular at that time.

An all girl band was playing that night.

Though music moves my very soul, and today I can dance my ass off, back then I felt clumsy and self conscious and would rarely approach a dance floor. I would do the line dances, (they had just come into being popular), and I’d slow dance a little, but never fast dance.

BJ knew all of that, so when the band broke into a slow number, she stood up and asked me to dance. Since I was already 3 mixed drinks, a roast beef dinner and a coke, into her pocket, I felt obliged to accept.

I knew nothing about leading a slow dance and was thankful that she took the lead when we hit the dance floor. I leaned into her, closed my eyes and swayed back and forth with her.

I wasn’t used to mixed drinks, and soon the swaying, combined with the strobe lights and the smell of her manly cologne, got my stomach to rolling. I swallowed hard, trying to will it to settle down, but it just got worse.

I told her I felt ill and she immediately looked concerned. “What you need is some fresh air,” she said. “Come on.”

Gratefully, I followed her outside into the cool autumn air, where she took my hand and lead me through the packed parking lot, to her car. She opened the back door and told me to sit for a minute.

Earlier, I had snuck one of my mother’s girdles out of her dresser and struggled for 10 minutes to squeeze into it. I wanted to keep my slightly pudgy tummy looking trim that evening. As I sat down on the car seat I felt the girdle’s tight elastic band, roll down down off my stomach and onto my hip bones.  Instantly, my nausea subsided

“Better?” She asked, offering me a cigarette, then lighting it for me.

“Much!” I said.

The girdle’s tight band was already cutting into the top of my hip bone, but I could deal with pain much better than I could with nausea. I took a big drag off my cigarette, exhaled and smiled at her.

She smiled back and motioned for me to slide over so she could slip in next to me.

I did.

She was a smooth operator. As soon as she sat down, she pulled the car door shut, rolled the window down a bit, and the next thing I knew she was all over me.

I flicked my cigarette out the window, so I could have two hands free to fend her off.
It didn’t phase her.

I had no intention of ‘putting out’, but I still felt a bit guilty about leading her on and spending her money. So I figured I’d give her a couple of the kisses she was trying so hard to take. That would make her happy and ease my guilty conscience at the same time.

Big mistake.

She took that as a green light and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my back and she’s on top of me, pinning me down and struggling with my jeans snap.

I kept trying to fend her off, but she had the advantage of body mass and gravity.
I felt the snap give. Heard the zipper slide down.

I squirmed harder underneath her, but she continued fumbling around. Then as suddenly as she had pounced, she stopped.

“What in the hell are you wearing?” She demanded and lifted up off me so she could see better in the light from the streetlamp.

“What do you mean?”

She reached down, wiggled her fingers just underneath the tightly rolled, girdle band, lifted it as high as she could, which wasn’t very high since the girdle was wicked tight, and then let it go.  The elastic snapped back hard on my hip bone.

“Ouch!” I said. “That hurt!”

“What the hell is all of this?” She repeated, more confused than angry.

I took advantage of her hesitation, pushed her the rest of the way off me, jumped out of the car and zipped up my pants.

“Its a girdle.” I said.

“A girdle?” She asked incredulously. “Why are you wearing a girdle with jeans?”

I was more embarrassed than angry, and not at an age where I could come up with a good come back.

“Because I want to!” I turned and started walking. “I’m going back in.”

“Hold up.” She said locking up the car. “I’ll go with you.”

I don’t remember much more about the evening except that BJ didn’t get any further with me.

I lost touch with her for several years. Then about 10 years later, I ran into her again, while I was shopping. We stopped to chat over a coke, and she reminded me of the ‘girdle incident’ and we both had a good laugh.

Then she asked me if I was wearing a girdle.

I said no

She asked me for a date.

I laughed and said no.

Though that girdle worked as good as a chastity belt and saved me from unwanted advances that evening, I never wore one again. They are much too uncomfortable and I’ve come to the conclusion that its much better to feel good, than to look good – if you only have the choice of one or the other.

I ditched my bra a year later, but that’s another story!

Bone Digger

It was a wonderful lake. Manmade. A good football field wide and at least twenty foot deep in the center. It sat in the middle of a small patch of woods and best of all, it was totally private since it was on Darlene’s, grandmother’s property.

My entire memory of the event is hazy since I spent most of it ‘tripping’ on LSD and smoking pot, but here’s what I do remember.

Early in the day we picked up two hitchhikers. A male and a female, both in their late teens. We must have invited them up to the lake, because the next thing I remember was it was getting dark and all of us were sitting on the dirt ‘beach’ of the lake, finishing eating our fire roasted hotdogs.

Ever seen the opening beach scene of jaws? That was us. Exactly. Just substitute a lake for the ocean.

Someone started playing a guitar, and the LSD we had taken earlier, began working its magic. We watched the colors, chatted and laughed. There was a lot of laughing.

Then, Darlene stood up, shrugged off her clothes and ran, giggling into the cool water of the lake.  A handful of others, followed her lead. I stayed dressed, not being much for nudity with my chunky little body.

Lisa, the girl we had picked up hitchhiking, also shrugged off her clothes, took a quick dip in the lake, then giggling, she danced around the lakeside. Her long straight, blonde wet hair, plastered to her perfect body.

She would disappear, dancing into the woods at one spot, then would reappear as she danced out at another. Giggling.

I took turns watching her dance – trying to figure out where she would reappear next- and watching the rest of the people frolicking in the lake.

When you are on LSD, your mind has a tendency to wander. Its very hard to concentrate on a single thing / thought for more than a brief time, before drifting off onto something else. Add that to the wonderful kaleidoscope of geometric colors which swirl and continuously change shape around you and its almost impossible to stay reality based.

I lost track of everything. Time. The dancer. The frolickers.

The next thing I remember was the sun rising and the drugs starting to wear off.

Naked and clothed people, in various mental states, were scattered all around me; some sleeping, some in deep thought, some sitting and chatting … one missing.

“Where’s Lisa?” Her hitchhiking buddy asked.

“Last time I saw her, she was dancing over there in the trees,” I said.

Someone else pointed to an unoccupied blanket. “There’s her clothes. She can’t be far.”

People giggled.

Her buddy frowned. “I’m serious,” he said. “Where is she?” Then he started yelling for her. “Lisa?!” Soon, we all were calling her name, and scouring the small patch of woods.

We searched the entire property, several times, all the way to the road but came up empty handed.

No Lisa.

We offered our consolations to the hitchhiker and he just shrugged. It turned out he had only met her the day before, on the road, and they had only joined together for the company.

No big loss for him. He barely knew her.

We all split up, to head out our separate ways. Someone offered the hitchhiker a ride to the interstate, so he could continue on with his journey.

Darlene suggested we leave Lisa’s clothes by the lake. Just in case she came back for them.

We did.

She didn’t.

I had problems leaving her eternally lost in my head, like that so I fashioned my own ending.

Giggling, Lisa danced in and out of the woods, going a bit further into them with each loop. Between the LSD and her being so ‘into’ her dancing, she lost track of where she was in relation to us. Or maybe just forgot that we existed. She continued her dance to the main road, and some kind soul picked her up, clothed her and sent her on her carefree way.

It works for me. It has to.

I can’t bring myself to think anything else.

Bone Digger

The only rule was that we would spend the entire second week at her parent’s place. The week going and the week coming back were up for grabs. And boy, did we have adventures!

Sometimes we’d take a southern route going and a northern route coming back. Sometimes, vice versa. Once we drove 200 miles out of our way to eat barbecued ribs in Tombstone Arizona. Another time, we boarded the dogs in a kennel, (we always took our dogs), for the day in El Paso so we could cross the Mexican border and shop in Juarez.

We never made any really firm plans for things to see and do, we would start out with a general idea, but things could change on a spur of a moment whim.

We usually took in new sites each year, but if something was really impressive, say for instance, Yellowstone National Park, we might go there again the following year.

Each year was different, but one thing stayed the same. The Tailgate lunches.

To save money on eating at restaurants every day, we kept a cooler packed full of goodies. The top tray held the lunch meats, cheeses and whatever other foods you wanted to stay cool, while below, the pickles, olives, mustard and such, floated in a pool of icy water and half melted ice. The soft drinks from that pool were so cold they would make your teeth ache and bring tears to your eyes. Wonderful stuff!

After our paper plates were loaded down, and the cooler was returned to its place, we would sit cross legged on the tailgate, enjoying the outdoors, and each other while we discussed things we’d seen and things we were headed to see.

I remember one of those ‘things we’d seen’ discussions distinctly.

“That Motel last night was really the pits!” Paula said. She took a big bite of her turkey sandwich and her eyes rolled skyward.

God, I loved watching that woman eat. She enjoyed her food like no one I had ever seen before, or since. Now there’s someone who liked my cooking! (An admirable trait).

I giggled. She was right. It had been one of the sleaziest places I had ever visited. And believe me, I’ve been to many a strange, sleazy place.

I should have been suspicious from the moment I read the room rates on the sign, but instead of raising my eyebrow, the low rate is what pulled me in. It was half of what most rooms normally went for, but the place looked fine on the outside and I was dead beat, so I parked the truck and we went in to register.

I should have been tipped off once again, when the cashier cast an odd look at us and made a comment about how she hadn’t seen us there before, and then asked if this was our ‘first time’. I gave a tired nod and took the key she offered.

As we walked through the courtyard toward our room, I asked Paula what she thought the cashier had meant, but she just shrugged. She was more interested in the fenced-in pet area, right outside of our room, where our dogs could do their business and get a little exercise off the leash. She always fretted over and pampered the animals. (Another admirable trait).

What finally cleared it up for me was the TV.

As soon as we walked into the room, Paula headed to the bathroom. I plopped down on the foot of the bed and clicked the TV on for some background sound. And boy, did I get sound!

Moaning and groaning, and some major X rated action. Men and women doing all kinds of stuff I won’t mention. I flipped the channel but there were only two other stations. Both with the same sounds, just different people.

Wow. Is this all that Arizona watches? I thought. No ‘I Love Lucy’ or ‘Andy Griffith’, late night reruns?

“You gotta see this.” I said loud enough so my voice would carry to the bathroom.

The toilet flushed and here comes Paula. Paula who has never slept with a man and has no desire in that direction. Paula, the woman’s woman.

I giggled and watched her face, knowing what was coming.

She stopped short, her eyes glued on the TV. A look of horrendous disgust crossed her face and her mouth fell open. I figured she was pretty near to puking. For real.

My giggling turned to laughter. I collapsed back on the bed and howled.

“Turn that off!” She demanded.

I laughed harder. Tears rolled down my face.

She grabbed for the remote. I slipped it underneath me.

She pounced on me and wrestled me for it. She finally pinned my arm, and took the remote by force.

Triumphant, she aimed it at the TV like a gun, and FIRED. The screen went black.

“There. That’s better.” She said as she walked over and put the remote on the window ledge, a good way from my reach. “I should have known this place was weird, there aren’t any towels in the bathroom.”

“I guess they don’t expect people to stay all night.” I said. “And considering most men I’ve heard about, I bet they turn this room over, twice an hour.” I broke into fresh giggles.”

She cut me a dark look. “Maybe we should just get our money back and go to another motel.”

“No way!” I said, and the smile fell from my face. “I just drove for 14 hours and if I have to drive one more second, I’m going to die.”

Paula looked unsure.

“You can sleep in the truck if you want.” I said. “But, I’m beat. I’m going to bed.”

I stood up and jerked the bedcover down to make my point. And, I had full intention of jumping into that bed, covering up and passing out. But, where my fresh white sheets should have been, were some sad looking, dingy, wrinkled things and it crossed my mind that they might not change sheets between customers.

We both stared at those sheets.

“I’m not sleeping on THAT!” She said jabbing her finger at the bed. “God knows what’s on that sheet!”

She had me there. This time I didn’t argue. I pulled the bedcover back up.

She had won.

“So what do we do now?” I asked, deflated.

Paula marched out the door and came back a few minutes later with our sleeping bags and blankets in tow. We made a makeshift bed on the floor and fell into it. Then she coaxed the dogs into settling down next to us. She wouldn’t let them up on the bed either.

I had just about fallen asleep, when I heard the moaning again. My eyes flew open and found the TV. The screen was still black.

Realization flooded over me. The sound wasn’t coming from the TV, it was coming from the room next to ours. I cast a glance at Paula and in the light that filtered through the thin curtain from the flashing, neon vacancy sign, I could see her mouth was set in a tight line.

I giggled.

“Its not funny!” She snapped.

I broke out laughing.

Bone Digger