Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

March 10, 2008

 Today’s Announcement

Happy Birthday, Geo Rusu, GeoSays@gmail.com from all your friends at Storytime Tapestry

I love you and prayers are going up everywhere.  Please pray for James Rowland he has prostate cancer and has had it for seven years.   It has spread. He is eighty years old and is still working..he is an eye doctor in a small town near here.  He is on the Lyons club.  They paid for my glasses.  He teaches a bible class every fourth Sunday of the month. Janice:  poetrybyjan@nc.rr.com

Don’t forget to order your copy of Angels Watching Over Me, the story of an ordinary woman facing less than ordinary challenges.  Angels Watching Over Me is a story of family love, sacrifices, poverty and an undying faith that makes heroes out of all of us. Here is the link in case you have forgotten it: http://www.lulu.com/content/964306

Important notice: Storytime Tapestry is a free e-zine, however donations are always needed to help with the operating expenses of running the newsletter and to keep Storytime Tapestry the quality newsletter you are so accustomed to.   You can make your donations to paypal at: winterose@videotron.ca, or if you would prefer to use the mail system contact the publisher at the same email address: winterose@videotron.ca

Today’s Stories

Behind The Door -- A Memoir

Ricky Fico

Mom is tossing about the salad, blending together a few leaves of lettuce and a couple of slices of leftover tomato. Thrown in for color a few shavings of carrot.
Since there isn't enough to go around, I am to be given the salad, Mom tells everyone. It's his birthday. But there is enough meatloaf and mashed potatoes, thank goodness. Otherwise, I would feel guilty, birthday or no birthday.

We gather around the table, well, some of us, the table is too small, so Lenny and Trish take their plates to the living room. They don't mind they say, the small black and white television is there to keep them company. Shortly, they will be arguing on what to watch. Lenny prefers cartoons, Trish likes documentaries and reality-based shows. Lenny likes to say that cartoons are reality-based and sometimes I think he's right.

Wendy's sitting on the old barstool, found in the alley behind the Do Drop Inn, one of the taverns Dad and Mom sometimes go to. She spins around a few times between bites of her meatloaf, Dad thinks it funny, but Mom finds it annoying. "Stop that Wendy," Mom says.

"But Mom, it's fun," says Wendy, her hair in pigtails.

"Let her have some fun," Dad says, his hair matted and messed from the earlier winds.

"Vince," Mom says, "why don't you do something with that hair of yours?"

"Later," he says. "Before I go out to?"

"What? You're not going anywhere," Mother interrupts, her hands beginning to shake, her face reddening. "My Mother and Papa Joe might be coming over with a cake. What am I supposed to tell them?"

"That I went to see about a job."

"They don't know about you losing your last job."

That's not my fault," Dad says as he pushes his plate away and leaves the table, leaving Wendy with tears in her eyes and me wondering why this has to happen, especially on the night of my birthday. Mother tells us both to eat, that everything will be okay, that she'll tell Nee and Papa Joe something if they do happen to come over. It's getting late though and by the look of things they probably won't be over and maybe it's better if they don't. I hate to see Mother looking all embarrassed and sad in front of Nee and Papa Joe. It'll break my heart, it really will.

The night wears on. Dad has already left, his hair arranged perfectly atop his head. He had also managed to change his clothes, a spiffy looking sweater and creased trousers. Before he left he kissed both Wendy and me on our cheeks and said that he'd see us in the morning. He wished me a happy birthday again and I thanked him. Mom stood by the front door trying to block him but it was of no use, Dad still had enough muscle to push her out of the way. He did say, though, that when he returned he'd have some good news. Suddenly, I had visions of new bicycles and shiny guitars. I saw canopy beds and refrigerators full of food. Mom, I don't know what she saw, she slammed the door and cursed and then cursed some more before running off to her bedroom, slamming its door as well.

The night wears on. Nee and Papa Joe aren't coming, it's been made official by Ma Bell. I answer the phone, thank goodness and not Mother, who probably hasn't stopped crying since Dad left. Nee tells me that she would see me next weekend and that she has a present for me.

"Okay Nee," I say.

"Just tell your mother that Papa Joe had to work late, okay, my sweet child."

"Okay Nee, I will."

"What did you do today for your birthday?"

"Dad took me on a boat ride?you know the one on Lake Michigan."

"Good, my sweet child. Bet that was fun. Oh, lemme talk to your big sister."

"Trish and Lenny aren't here, Nee. They went out after we had meatloaf and mashed potatoes."

"You tell that sweet grandchild of mine to call me tomorrow, okay."

"Yes," I say.

"Well, have to go make some supper for Papa Joe. Tell your mom I'm sorry but?"

"Okay, Nee." I put the receiver back in its cradle and then return to the living room where Wendy is concentrating on her Cinderella Coloring Book. She has already pulled out her sleeping bag for the night and is laying atop it now, knees down, adding black and red and silver to the coach that will whisk Cinderella off to the ball. Wendy lives Cinderella and this annoys Lenny and Trish and sometimes, Mom. But me, I think it's cute. So does Dad. After telling Wendy what a good job she's doing and how proud I am of her I go over to Mom and Dad's bedroom and knock on the door. There's no answer. I knock some more. Nothing. Why isn't she answering? She can't be asleep, could she?

"Ma, are you in there?"

Nothing

"Ma, are you okay?"

Nothing.

The door's locked. I put my ear against it and hear nothing. That's it, I'm worried and becoming scared. I pound on the door and this startles Wendy, who comes running down the hall, begging me to stop. But I can't. I keep pounding till my knuckles bleed.

It's of no use, pounding, yelling and praying to the Lord Jesus. It's no use that Wendy has now added her young voice and little hands to this idea of getting Mother to answer the door. Before long, Wendy's knuckles are bleeding too. Our fists are spiked with splinter, our faces drenched in sweat. We're both out of breath and together, fall to our knees. Oh, somebody help us!

Seconds lend to minutes and minutes are rapidly nearing that god-forsaken hour when I must call the police. What else can I do? I run into the kitchen and grab the rotary. I dial the long number, seven digits and then hang up. Heck, this is an emergency. I dial zero. "Operator, send the police to my house. My mother locked herself in her bedroom and she won't answer me or Wendy." I rattle off our address and slam the phone back into its cradle. I go back to Mother's door and try again with all my might to push it open. It still won't budge. I give up and run to the living room and stand next to the window and wait. Wendy's curled up on the floor next to me, clutching tightly her Cinderella doll. She's as silent as the clock above the television, whose second hand seems to have gone mute all of a sudden. The only sounds I hear are the ones from outside, an occasional beeping of a car horn, a few awkward voices of concerned parents calling out to their to children to come home. Finally a blue and white pulls up.

Two blue men get out of their car, one tall, the other short and chubby. I can hear their radios blaring, reports of crime-infested activity. I open the window wider and hang my head out. "Up here," I say. The two blue men look up, acknowledge me, then put their nightsticks back into their belts. Needn't worry about an innocent kid being concerned about his mother. I buzz them in and go out into the hallway and wait. They're slow in reaching the third floor. Probably out of condition, the result of too many cheeseburgers. How often do I see a group of blue men sitting at the greasy spoon, the one down the street with the Formica countertops and checkered walls? Probably too many times to count.

Finally, the two officers emerge from the stairwell, their faces pocked with droplets of sweat, their breathing heavy and uneven. They gain their breath, then come towards me. The chubby cop wipes his forehead.

"What's the problem?" he says.

"My mother's bedroom door is locked and she won't answer me and Wendy."

"Who is Wendy?" the tall blue man asks, his head straddling the ceiling. I tell him who Wendy is, that she's shy and probably hiding somewhere, probably in the closet and the short and chubby cop tells me that he needs to see Wendy, just to be sure that I'm not trying to conceal something. Why in the hell would I be trying to conceal something? My mother ain't answering her door, my father went out into the night to bring back some good news, my big sis Trish left to hang out with her hippie friends and Lenny, who knows where he went and today's my birthday and Wendy's afraid of strangers, especially those who carry big guns and loud walkie-talkies and think that kids like us must always have something to hide. We ain't hiding nothing.

Ricky Fico

ricky@tri-umphs.com

www.tri-umphs.com 

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Poetry Corner

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A Boy

Harley Sutton

I don't jump high and click my heels 
Just to see how gravity feels. 
I jump up high from sheer joy, 
Because my mind is twelve, and I'm a boy!

I don't prowl the woods and climb the trees, 
Or run full speed into a cooling breeze 
Just because I don't own a fan. 
But because I'm a kid, and I can!

Grown-ups won't lie in a field of clover 
Watching clouds go sailing over, 
Or hunt castles and faces in the sky. 
Play in the dirt?  Why, they would die! 
                    
I think of all the reasons for growing up 
No better than the reasons for throwing up! 
I told myself I was going to remain a kid. 
........So I did........

 Harley Sutton

lsutton@hot.rr.com

Readers Feedback

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