Kicked to the curb

In 1991, then Tennessee Sen. Al “I invented the Internet” Gore was in town to commemorate an Air Force Base anniversary. Being the seasoned local newspaper reporter, I got the interview. Our only opportunity to speak was in his limo on its way to the airport. Afterward, I was unceremoniously dumped on the side of the road.

Prompt #16: Share a celebrity encounter

I worked for a time at a thrice-weekly newspaper in rural Middle Tennessee. The paper served an area that included Arnold Engineering Development Center, Arnold Air Force Base in Tullahoma.

Gore and Sen. Jim Sasser were special guests at a 40th anniversary commemorating the opening of the base. I was to interview Gore for an article about the event. He was traveling to Chattanooga immediately after the ceremony, so I had a very small window of opportunity.

I knew he was headed to the airport, but had not been told how I was supposed to get back to the base. To say I was distracted during the interview, would be an understatement.

Just before the interstate on-ramp, the limo driver pulled onto the gravel shoulder, turned around and just looked at me. Gore also sat there simply staring at me, not saying a word. I was expected to know this was my stop. Dumbstruck, I got out of the car, all alone in the middle of nowhere, and watched as the car drove off.

This was before cell phones, so I had no way of calling anyone to tell them where to pick me up. Just when I was about to start walking the five miles back to the base, in a dress, in heels, another car pulled up. A Gore staffer got out and opened the back passenger door of car for me to get in. I didn’t say much on the drive back, but my poor husband, who was waiting for me at the base with our two-year-old daughter, certainly got an earful.

Today I shall behave…

Today I shall behave as if this is the day I will be remembered.” ~ Theodor Seuss Geisel

If I had to describe my personality, I’d say I’m fairly introverted. I don’t typically go out of my way to be noticed, staying under the radar whenever possible. I’m not what I would consider memorable.

That is when I can be recognized. From the fringe, where I can’t be readily identified, I can be totally psycho, but that’s not how I truly want to be remembered.

I don’t want to be remembered as the crazy motorist in the blue Honda, yelling obscenities and making rude gestures at anyone she deems incompetent to share a road with her.

I don’t want to be remembered as the ranting woman in mismatched exercise wear, with her mismatched dogs, screaming at cars speeding passed her during her morning walks.

I don’t want to be a doormat who allows others to take advantage of her stubborn belief that people are who they say they are, and avoids conflict instead of speaking up for herself.

What I do want to be remembered for is that I was that friend you could count on for a shoulder to cry on, an ear to vent to, the one who could make you laugh so hard you snorted, or the one who made you glad you knew her.

What I want people to remember about me is that I was the very best mother I could be. That my kids were raised to be happy, compassionate, funny, smart, and productive adults. That they are the type of people you want to be friends with too.

(I have only one person to impress as far as being a wife is concerned…  so, yeah)

I want to be remembered well, with smiles and warm feelings.

On any given day, I should be able to say I live my life like my eulogy depends on it.

Week 10: Inspired by Dr. Seuss, honoring his March 2 birthday. I chose this quote: “Today I shall behave as if this is the day I will be remembered.”

*Photo venue: Jesse Rodgers Memorial Cemetery, Fort Walton Beach, FL

That voice again

It was exactly how it was in the movies. The accident played out in excruciatingly slow motion. From the moment Callie saw the other car rushing at her in her periphery, to the surreal impact, to her car rolling end over end like a giant, metal tumbleweed, it all happened in half time.

Witnesses claimed her car literally exploded in a barrage of glass and steel, like a cardboard piñata hit with a baseball bat. The noise, she testified, was the worst part. It still haunted her dreams.

The pain came later, when she was in the ambulance screaming toward the hospital. Her arms strapped to the gurney, as much to stabilize her, as to keep her from exploring the devastating damage to her face and body.

In a morphine induce fugue, she only caught bits and phrases as doctors and nurses tried to save her life. One young intern couldn’t hold down his lunch after her temporary bandages were removed. An older nurse, crossing herself, wondered aloud if it wouldn’t be better to let her die.

The driver of the other car was lying on a bed across the ER, covered in a white sheet. Naomi’s injuries were beyond repair. The reporting officer, reading from his notes, confirmed that she was not wearing a seat belt, and evidence at the scene indicated that she sped up just before the collision.

When approached, Naomi’s family sorrowfully signed donor forms, hoping her death would have some meaning, perhaps provide another family a chance at life.

Callie’s husband paced the halls waiting for the surgeon to bring him news, unaware that the dead girl from the crash was his former lover. Bryan had ended his affair the day before, telling Naomi he wanted to make his marriage work. Unwilling to accept his rejection, Naomi decided if she couldn’t be with Bryan, neither would Callie.

The operating room was a rush of adrenaline. In a twist of fate, the two women from the car crash were donor compatible. Callie’s throat, ripped apart by flying debris, would be reconstructed using Naomi’s harvested larynx and trachea. A rare transplant, it would be only the third time such an operation was done in the U.S.

Waking after the 18-hour procedure, Callie was only vaguely aware of Bryan sitting at her bedside, her hand clutched in his. He held up his other hand to stop her from trying to talk. Drifting back to sleep, she felt the bandages around her neck, and tried to remember where she was, and why.

Two weeks later, Callie was back at the hospital with Bryan, and ready to have her sutures removed. It would be her first attempt to speak since the accident.

The police told Bryan that Naomi had caused the wreck, crashing into Callie intentionally. What he didn’t know, because of the hospital’s confidentially policy, was that Callie’s organ donation was from his jilted lover. Callie didn’t know anything about Bryan’s affair or its connection to her injuries.

Bryan held his wife’s hand as doctors unwrapped her bandages, and snipped her stitches. Her doctor gave Callie a small cup of water, telling her to take tiny sips to lubricate her throat.

“Are you ready?” The doctor took the cup and sat in a chair across from her, his hands on either side of her neck. “Just one word, that’s all you get right now.”

Callie nodded. Over the past two weeks, she thought a long time about her first words with her new voice. Taking a deep breath, she turned to her husband.

“Bryan…”

All color drained from his face as he frantically backed away from his wife, knocking over the instrument tray with a loud crash.

“Naomi?”

This week’s Studio30 Plus theme is “dry cough,” and/or “tumbleweed.”

*The idea for this came from a morbid fascination with what would happen to someone who could no longer speak because of injuries sustained in some kind of accident. My research found that a larynx, trachea and thyroid transplant has been successfully performed, but is very rare. Only two have been done since 1998. I then wondered if the transplant recipients would speak like the donor, or if they would sound completely different. I lie awake at night pondering these sort of questions.

Ramshackle

She survived two husbands and three children. Living alone in her family home for nearly 30 years, she was well-known in her community. Always ready with a pot of homemade chicken soup for the sick, a hot-from-the oven pie for new neighbors or hand-sewn quilts for the babies.

Her church had a waiting list of congregants wanting to help her with any daily needs. It was a joy to spend time with her, listening to her stories. But, she was tired, so very tired.

With her last breath, “I’ve done enough, it’s time to go home.”

The 100 Word Challenge, to tell a story in only 100 words. This week’s theme is ‘Enough’

When I was a teen, my aunt and several women in her church “adopted” an elderly parishioner named Miss Estes. Occasionally, I would join my aunt when she visited. Miss Estes looked like she was at least 100 years old.

She and her younger brother lived in a ramshackle shack in rural Tennessee. They had no running water. They filled jugs from a well about 20 yards from their house. They had no central heat, nor indoor plumbing. Their three-room cabin warmed only by a coal-burning stove. An outhouse sat behind the cabin at the edge of the woods.

One day, my aunt asked me to stay the night with Miss Estes. Her brother was out of town, and there was no one else who could come over. It was an experience I don’t think I’ll ever forget. This woman, who lived in what I considered abject poverty, was the most cheerful and loving person. She didn’t see herself as poor, because she was rich in other things. She had a home, food, warmth, and caring friends.

It was a humbling lesson.

Tastes like lemons

“Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.”

I pondered my friend’s confession for a moment. She and I were reviewing the merits of the opiate analgesic over coffee. I was telling her about using a morphine pump during a recent hospital visit.

“Really? Other than making me not care about the pain, I didn’t feel, you know, out there when I got morphine.” I refilled our coffee, absently stirring in a spoonful of agave nectar. “It did leave a lemony taste in my mouth. Not a Sourheads good taste, more like a Pledge furniture wax taste.”

Two weeks earlier on Christmas Eve, I went to bed with a terrible stomach ache, hoping a good night’s sleep would cure it. By 4 a.m. I knew I was in trouble, and that I needed to clean the grout around my toilet better.

Rebounding briefly, I made it to the living room later Christmas morning long enough to watch the kids open their presents, with a double-bagged trashcan by my side.

Once the kids tore off all the paper and bows from boxes and gift bags, I stumbled back to my bathroom. The cold tile leaving red creases on my cheek.

At the 12-hour mark in my Puke Fest, and about the time the red-hot poker began jabbing me in the side, I called the Ask-A-Nurse number on the back of my medical insurance card. Unwilling to diagnose over the phone, she did agree that with my symptoms, my plan to go to the ER was warranted.

By emergency room standards, a faulty appendix was quickly pinpointed as my central ailment, with dehydration secondary – a blown-out vein from several attempts to establish an IV line being their primary clue for that determination, that and half a day of throwing up.

Successful surgery the following morning relieved me of a nasty, little, vestigial structure, and within 24 hours of arriving at the hospital, I was on my way home.

“Morphine I can handle, but give me codeine, and I see yellow bats,” and with that I tipped back the last sip of my blonde roast.

*True story… I spent Christmas 2009 in the hospital having my diseased appendix removed. The sickest, and most pain I’ve ever experienced. Natural child-birth was less miserable. I also do hallucinate if I take codeine. A red, frowny-face sticker is on my medical chart warning against the drug reaction.

Inspired by Kelle Groom’s “I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl ” – “Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.”

Five

Looking around the room, she saw many familiar faces and knew all their stories. Every few weeks a new person showed up, but understandably their stories were all the same, only the names changed to protect the innocent.

She was one of the old-timers. The group offered more than a place to unload her burden, it had become a family. She came back not only to share her own tale, but to also help the others in their transition.

Most looked to her as the de facto leader, often seeking her out over the actually administrator. With her life experiences, she understood better, having lived through it and having emerged whole and stable.

The program considered her its poster child, recruiting her out to speak to other similar groups, proving it could be done.

With all the newbies, the admin asked her to tell her story, to make them feel welcome, and give them hope for their reconciliation. Their lives were changing and it was often difficult to adjust to those changes, even when they were welcome and sought after changes.

Making her way to the front of the assembly, she accepted well-wishes and back slaps from the other long-term members.

“Today I’m five.” That declaration brought gasps even from other old-timers.

“That’s right, it’s been five cycles since the host brought me in. Five cycles for me to accept the beauty of the host and assimilate into my role within, and you too can find that same joy.”

Inspired by Emma Donoghue’s “Emma”
“Today I’m five“

Bequest

The room was designed to intimidate. The oversized partners desk and chair made any visitor feel Lilliputian. I sank into the antique, leather wingback opposite the solicitor who ruled the domain, my toes barely brushing the floor.

The Wallis family retainer for generations, this would be the final last will and testament Raymond Blackburn, Esq., administered as executor. Effie’s heirs had challenged my inheritance, and attempted to invalidate her bequest to me, a mere domestic.

They refused to acknowledge that, as her caregiver for the past 10 years, I had been her constant companion and confidant, whereas they were only visitors on gift-giving holidays. Their main concern was that she had left my gift open-ended. I was given first-refusal over all her material assets.

That was why Blackburn summoned me into his realm of old money and greed. It was time for me to choose.

From a large, black attaché, he removed a piece of crisp, white parchment, and slid it across the desk toward me.

Struggling to lift myself from the confines of the chair, I managed to grab the table’s edge and drew the paper closer. The spreadsheet listing all of Effie’s valuables filled one column – antiques, fine china and silver sets, jewelry and original artwork by the masters. In the column to the right, each item’s appraised value was noted.

Amassed by her late husband, Effie was unconcerned with material wealth. If she had her way, it would all be sold at auction and the proceeds given to charity. The conditions of her will were determined by her husband at the end of his life, she was only able to add a codicil to include me in her coterie of beneficiaries.

Running a finger down the list of chattel, I didn’t find what I was looking for, and pushed the sheet away.

“It’s not there,” I told him, standing with as much grace as I could.

A frown creased his already deeply wrinkled face, as he tucked the paper back into his briefcase.

“What are you wanting to find?” He leaned back against his chair, steepling his fingers. He was still able to look down at me from his lofty position.

I described the item, saying it was the only thing I wanted that belonged to Effie.

He continued to frown, but I saw from his subtle reaction, he knew what I was asking.

“It’s just an old figurine, what could you possibly want with it?”

“It holds great sentimental value for me.” I stood firm, refusing to let him dissuade me.

“I’ll see what I can do to locate it,” his tone dismissive. “My secretary will contact you.”

His brief phone call to the estate’s appraiser, revealed that the small, porcelain vase had no, real monetary value and could be packaged, and delivered to me within a few days.

Unwrapping Effie’s treasure, I placed it on top of my bureau. A simple little trinket, but I knew she had cherished it above all else.

“Oh, Carl, it’s beautiful. I love it.”

“It’s just a little thing, Effie, but I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

“I could never forget you Carl Bowman, you know that, don’t you?”

“I do, Effie. You can never tell anyone where you got this, it would be bad for both of us.”

“I know, and I wish it were different.”

“A black man in the south can’t be giving a white woman gifts, it’s too dangerous.”

“That’s why you’re leaving, isn’t it?”

“I can’t stay here, Effie. It’s too hard to see you and not be with you. I can’t put you in that position. It’s best this way.”

“But, Carl… there’s a war on, you could be killed.”

“Just promise you’ll never forget me, promise me that.”

“Carl I will always love you, that’s a solemn promise.”

“I love you too Effie Johnson, more than I can ever say.”

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Melissa gave me this prompt: “It’s just an old figurine, what could you possibly want with it?”

I gave Dara this prompt: It’s nothing a second cup of coffee won’t cure.