Some mistakes I've made, sprinkled with salt!

When I accidentally over-salted my food today I thought, man, how many times have I done that in my life, only on purpose.  Then I thought that a lot of people may have made the same mistakes, and are still making the same mistakes that I have made during my life in regards to weight loss and eating.  I thought it would be a good idea to post something here and there to let you guys see that I have messed up royally too.  We are all human.  Worst of all, society has a f***ed up view of what is good and what is bad as far as our health is concerned.  That's why we still have people dying before they even grow old from heart failure.  So, here's my take on salt.
I would take salt, and take it and take it on everything! I love salt.  Love it on anything that wasn't sweet or creamy and sometimes even creamy stuff deserved salt.  I'm talking good old fashioned table salt.  I didn't even bother getting the goodish stuff that had iodine in it because I didn't like the iodine after taste.  Yes! I ate enough salt that I could tell the difference between iodized and non-iodized salt.  I would eat french fries, even baked ones with salt all over them.  I would salt my salads, my sandwiches, not my meat, but most everything else.  I would eat it on Italian food and French food.  You name it almost.  When my kids would serve me breakfast in bed, they would bring the salt.  They knew I would want it, and yes, I have some pretty great kids who give me breakfast in bed occasionally just to say, "I love you."  Occasionally I would hear someone say something about not eating THAT much salt because it is bad for you.  I thought, I've been doing this my whole life and it's not hurting me.  I can't imagine eating anything without salt on it.  Guess what!?  Those assholes who tried to tell me how to eat were right.  It may not affect you now, but it will in fact catch up to you.  I heard a saying once that went something like, "where goes salt, there goes water."  I thought it was asinine.  What a dumb thing to say, that doesn't make any sense at all.
After my third child, and my 34th birthday, I realized that the more salt I ate, the more my feet and legs would hurt.  I thought for a while it was the after effects from my pregnancy, but it persisted and especially when I would eat a lot of salt.  I realized that the salt that I had been consuming for years had finally reared it's ugly head.  It was kicking my butt, making my body hurt all over, and making me feel weak.  I'm a lot of things, even being over a hundred pounds over weight, but I am NOT weak.  I never have been.  My mother nicknamed me Zena when I was younger because if she ever needed heavy lifting done, she called on me. That too has taken it's toll.  My aching back is no joke, but I digress.
If you are like me and you love and adore and cherish salt on all your food and can't imagine living without it, please be aware of the side effects.  It may take years for it to hit you, but one day I'm sure it will.  This of course is not to replace anything that a doctor may have said to you, if your doctor said to eat a lot of salt (*cough* never going to happen *cough*).  This is just to inform you about what has happened to me.  I don't eat nearly as much salt now and mostly use sea salt, but I'm still struggling with the swollen legs and feet.  I wonder how long it will take me to flush all the sodium out of my body.  Oh! And my sister has told me about a pink Himalayan salt that she uses.  It tastes just like salt, only without most of the bad side effects.  Everything is better in moderation though.  I will get some Himalayan salt as soon as I find the Whole Foods store in my area.  I think I will do that on Monday.  I try not to go out on the weekends because the public is crazy.  People get all pissed off for no reason when you're just minding your own business at the grocery store trying to hit you with their shopping carts.  I had a lady hit me with her shopping cart ON PURPOSE when I was 8 months pregnant.  That b**** was lucky I didn't want to have my baby in jail.  Again, my ADD takes hold.  I try to control it without the meds, but it's difficult.
Next mistake I think of, I will post about.  Until then, Sea Salt, Himalayan Salt, nix the table salt! And do it today before your feet hurt like you've been standing on them for 12 hours when you first wake up in the morning.  That doesn't feel good and it's not worth it.  If I can do it, you can do it!

Midair

Sean's entire existence is the essence of the title of this story.  He seems to have no direction.  He goes from one fleeting moment to the next until he finally comes to a moment of understanding at the end.  It was as if his father had suspended Sean's fate not just Sean himself.  Since the time in 1942, he did things based on desire.  There isn't much in the story that is based on logical reasoning.  He is intelligent, but his emotions have too much control over him.  I thoroughly enjoyed this story and I appreciated that it didn't end in death as I suspected it might. 

The Used-Boy Raisers

I love the way that Paley plays with the names in this story.  The two men in this story have been named Livid and Pallid.  The names immediately show that the men are completely different, yet they have lived the same family life.  The title itself, "The Used-Boy Raisers," confused me until I got to the end.  There is an implication that there's something wrong with these boys because they are "used," and it is natural to think that something that is new is better than used.  There's nothing actually wrong with the boys.  They are just average boys.  The story is about the two men that are a part of these boys lives.  It seems as though it should be an awkward situation, but for this family it isn't.  It is awkwardly natural for this family.  These boys have two dads and these men accept their fate sharing these boys and, in a way, their mother as well.    

"A Good Man is Hard to Find"

I think that it is odd that F O'C left the main character, the grandmother, unnamed in this story. She also doesn't name the wife or the baby, but she gives names to the people running "The Tower" and the other two men who murder the family. The two older children in the story are badly behaved. The grandmother chatters throughout the entire story. She talks about being "a lady" and about being a Christian and tells the children how they should behave, but she doesn't act like a Christian herself. She tries to manipulate the family into going to Tennessee instead of Florida, she gossips with the people at The Tower, she lies to the children about the secret door in the old house, she blatantly disregards her son's wishes about the cat staying at home, and she fakes an injury when she has none in order to gain sympathy from her son. In the end, she tries to bring the "Misfit" to Jesus so he won't kill her, but she seems like she has little concern for the family members who are already dead. She calls out for her son twice in the story, but her cries seemed like a plea for her own life instead of his. Her behavior throughout the story seemed like a foreshadowing of the ending. She talked about the Misfit a couple of times in the story so it is evident he will show up somewhere. The ending is disturbing, but not all unexpected. The way that F O'C described the south and southern behavior was excellent.

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

I had to reread parts of this story and then truly reflect on the storyline after reading it.  I initially took this as a crime story with a simple girl playing with fire that she had no idea how to handle and getting herself into trouble.  But it didn't make sense that this man could "see" things that nobody else would be able to see.  The women cleaning the corn and the description of June sitting in her dress and high heels were known to Arnold Friendly.  This made me think that Friendly must have been a figment of some sort of evil, a change, or a challenge.  The girl is young, it's the nineteen sixties, and Arnold is old and broken, but persuasive and unrelenting.  Is this girl fighting something within herself?  Did Oates write this as her view into the fight that all women faced in the sixties trying to gain their place in the world, but then succumbing to outside forces?  "Connie" was a pretty girl and she was happier for it, where "June" was a plain and chunky girl and spent her time with her parents, working a bland job, and having virtually no fun from Connie's perspective.  This could be a view of the feminist perspective on what women were fighting against in this era, either be beautiful and, eventually troubled, or bland, ugly and have no life.

Shiloh

This story has good description and background.  It seems as though they narrator is a guest in his own reality.  His world used to be about his rig and his life on the road.  Now he lives a new life with a woman he's been married to for nearly half his life, but has no idea who she is.  Norma changed when her husband came home for good.  She may have stayed the same woman he never knew if he had stayed on the road and they would have remained married and uninvolved with each other.  The sudden change of living arrangements brought other changes in Norma and at some point in time she decided that she was better off without her husband.  The story could have been told from Norma's point of view, or even from Mabel's point of view, but it's told from Leroy's which allows the reader to see how the absent husband feels after being gone for so many years.  There is no question in writing the story this way that Leroy loves his wife, but told from a different point of view the question would remain on whether or not he actually did.  I think this makes the reader sympathetic to Leroy's situation and his feelings. 

Chapter Two of Untitled Story

Note: This is unassigned, but I wanted to share it with the class for feedback.

Chapter Two

     The courtroom doors stretched out above us as if already passing judgment on my family.  I was too short to see through the windows that held the California State symbol at the top of the door.  It had only been a few weeks since we had seen Aunt Ann, but David and I were no longer riddled with bruises.  Now I stood there in front of those judging doors in a hideous pastel blue and yellow plaid dress and old white Mary Jane knock offs.  Christi was dressed similarly and I could tell she was as uncomfortable as I was.  David was forcing himself to stand still but I could tell it was killing him.  He was almost red with anxiety. 

     “Now you kids keep your mouths shut in here and you don’t move or else,” mother threatened just before entering the courtroom. 

     The doors opened and the musty smell of the courtroom hit us like a brick wall.  The sunlight peaked through the eastern windows which cast a glare through the room and illuminated the dust particles in the air.  We were guided by the bailiff to the middle row of the courtroom on the opposite side of the windows where the glare wouldn’t bother us, but it did.  The sun blinded Christi and me.  David was on the opposite side of mother so he was out of the sun’s reach.  I looked up and saw an old man in a black robe at the front of the courtroom staring back at everyone.  I followed his gaze down to the man sitting between us and the judge.  Daddy!  It seemed like forever since I last saw him.  Maybe a million years.  It had been since before the awful trip to visit my aunt.  Daddy!  I thought to myself again.  Now it was hard for me to sit still.  David had found some lint on the bench to keep him occupied.  Christi seemed bored and inattentive.  Her arm was propped up on the side of the bench which held her head as she stared off into space.  There was inaudible speaking throughout the room, but then the judge’s voice boomed, “Do you understand the charges brought against you?”

     My father stood, “Yes, Your Honor.”

     “And how do you plead?”

     “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

     “Because of the seriousness of this crime, bail is denied.  The trial will be set for two months from today.”

     In an awkward series of movements, mother shoved us out of the bench toward the front of the courtroom.  She was dragging David behind her.  She pushed us all the way to where my father was still standing.  He reached down and hugged me.  Christi stayed back from the short wall that separated us from my father. 

     “Don’t worry about your daddy, baby, everything is going to be fine,” he said in my ear.  Then he reached up to mother and hugged her; then hugged David.

     “What are we going to do?” mother asked him.  I could see the worry and torment on her face.

     “Don’t worry about it.  I got everything handled.  You just get these kids somewhere and stay there until this is all over with.  I’ll get out of this.  Everything’s gonna to be fine.”  He said all this with confidence and assured mother that it was really going to be fine. 

     After the hearing we were separated.  Christi didn’t want to have anything to do with daddy because she was still mad at him for beating her the last time she saw him, and several times before that.  Mother sent Christi down to Riverside where she stayed with Grandmother Debbie until the end of the trial.  She didn’t say she ever minded but I knew that uncle’s treatment towards children was just as unfavorable as Aunt Ann’s and he was living with Grandmother at the time to help her.  In the end, she really didn’t have a choice so she kept any complaints to herself.

     David was oblivious to anything that was going on and just wanted to bounce around pretending he was “Tigger” all the time.  “T-I-double guh-er,” he would say just like Tigger did on Winnie-the-Poo.  He stayed with mother because she still feared he would stop breathing in his sleep like he did when he was a baby.

     I was thrilled to hear that I would be with my grandma and grandpa.  They lived in Fremont, close to where we used to live on the walnut ranch before daddy was gone.  They weren’t actually my grandparents, but I called them that because they were the closest thing that I had.  Grandma was actually my babysitter from the time I was three weeks old.  I was there more often than I was at home and I was lucky for it.  Grandpa was a truck driver and that’s how we met them.  Grandpa even worked for daddy for a little while, but nobody would be working for daddy now.  They had several children that were mostly grown so they enjoyed having me around to keep them busy.  Auntie Sarah, their second youngest daughter, would take me out with her everywhere she went and tell people that I was hers.  She once even talked about adopting me, but she knew daddy would never allow it.  She was in her early twenties and unmarried.  She would take me out on dates with her boyfriend to dinner and drive in movies.  I always fell asleep before we would return home and her date would have to carry me out of her white Trans-Am into the house and on to the couch to sleep.  Frank was always my favorite because he was the nicest and he was the one Auntie Sarah eventually married.

     I lost track of time of how long I had been living with them.  I knew that daddy’s trial had already started because sometimes mother would call and I could hear grandma talking to her about it.  Grandma would listen to mother and respond with concern and then tell her that she needed to get me in school somewhere.  I didn’t even know which grade I was supposed to be in anymore.  It hadn’t been a whole year yet because Christmas hadn’t come around yet.  Then one day grandma was putting me into the hideous plaid dress again.

     “Your mother will be here any minute, Stephie” she rushed me around the steam-filled bathroom.  My hair wasn’t long anymore because I wouldn’t keep it brushed so that eliminated some of my dressing time.  Ugh.  Not that ugly dress, I thought.  It went over my head and grandma fastened the pearl-like buttons up the front.  I hated the dress even more now because I knew it meant that mother was coming to pick me up and take me to that courthouse again.  I was happy that I would get to see daddy but if it was going to be like last time then I would rather stay here.

     I walked into the living room just in time to hear the Mustang growl into the driveway.  A few seconds later the front door flung open.  “Let’s go!” mother said.

     “She’s almost ready, Dawn, give me a second to get her shoes on,” grandma replied to her hastiness.

     “Effie, we don’t have time for that right now.  Stephanie, get your shoes and get in the car.  You can put them on inside.”  I kissed grandma good-bye and did as I was told.

     Christi and David were already in the car.  I was usually the last one to get picked up because I was the closest to everything in town.  The courthouse must have been close because the car ride was always short from grandma’s house.  I slid my shoes on and sat quietly with David in the backseat. 
     “Now that you are all in the car, I will tell you want is going on so I don’t have to repeat myself,” mother said.  “Your father was found guilty yesterday, which means he is going away on a vacation,” she continued. 

     “A vacation?” Christi questioned.  She was too smart for that lame explanation.

     “He’s going to prison,” mother snapped back at her.  “I didn’t want to say it like that in front of your brother and sister.”

     “Oh,” she replied. 

      She didn’t care.  David didn’t seem to care either.  His expression didn’t even change.  He just sat there, emotionless.  I knew about prison because grandma and grandpa talked to me about it while I was with them so I would be prepared for what might happen and understand if daddy didn’t come back.  I doubt David even knew what mother was talking about so I could forgive him for not caring.  

     The Mustang pulled into the parking lot on the south side of the courthouse.  Mother rushed the three of us out of the car and down the sidewalk.  We were always rushing because mother was always running late.  Before I knew it we were standing in front of those judging doors again.  They seemed to be mocking me now because they already knew my father wasn’t coming back. 

     “Mrs. Salvitori, you are running late again,” the bailiff said.  Apparently, he knew her pretty well by now.  He walked us to our seats again in the same bench, on the same side of the courtroom.  The sun’s glare had shifted to a different part of the room now.  The sun was shining up closer to daddy and illuminating the men dressed in suits sitting at a table across from his.  At least it wasn’t blinding me and Christi this time.  The courtroom still smelled the same and it was that smell that distracted me when I heard the judge’s familiar voice.

     “Mr. Salvitori, when examining all the evidence that has been presented before me I find that the act you committed was done intentionally and completely without remorse or consideration of the repercussions.  Counterfeiting is a serious crime and it will not be tolerated by the Federal Government or the State of California, and I must say that the extent of your crime is severe enough that I am compelled to impose a higher sentence upon you to ensure this act is not committed with such disregard again.  Please stand for sentencing.”

     My father stood.

     “Mr. Salvitori, I am hereby sentencing you to ten years confinement to be carried out in a Federal Corrections Institution and fines of two hundred fifty thousand dollars.  You have the right to consult with your attorney about your charges and sentencing.  Do you understand your rights?”

     “Yes, Your Honor,” my father replied.

      Then it was over.  I got to say a quick good-bye again, as I dreaded when I left grandma’s house and away he went.  He looked back at us and smiled a sad smile.  I noticed that among the black curly locks on his head, there were some grey strands popping up randomly.  He even seemed shorter than usual.  Mother was always taller than her Italian husband, but he seemed almost miniature now.  We were escorted out of the courtroom and the judging doors were closed behind us.  I looked up at them one last time and the tears welled up in my eyes and spilled out all over the marble courthouse floor.    
©

Character Sketch: Cynthia

     The key turned in the front door and the lock clicked back.  She pushed the door open and flipped on the light at the entrance of the apartment.  The musty smell of her little home was welcoming to her, the smell of a dust and old newspapers with a litterbox undertone.  Her red, three inch heels clicked on the tile floor as she walked the short distance across the apartment.  She pulled off her black overcoat and threw it down on the arm of the couch. 
     "How is my baby today?" she asked her feline, Bartholomew.  He peered up at her from the arm of the recliner he was perched on, "meow," was his response.
     "I know, baby," she said to Bartholomew and then rubbed her face in his furry coat.  "I hate leaving you all day and going to that wretched school, teaching those wretched kids.  They don't ever listen to a word that I say and most of them wouldn't know algebra if it jumped up and smacked them in their empty little heads." 
     Bartholomew gave Cynthia a look of dismay then stretched his feline body, clawing at the arm of the chair.  He was like an old man who had been woken too early from his afternoon nap.
     She gets comfortable in her recliner, which was the same green color of her dress, just in time for the phone to ring.  She reaches over to pick up the receiver, "hello?" she says.
     "Hey, babe," came the deep reply.
     "Hi, sugar.  I was just about to call you.  I had a dreadful day at work today.  My students were horrible. They didn't seem to be interested in anything that I had to say.  My class is failing me.  I told them about our weekend in Atlanta, thinking that it would get their attention, but it didn't work.  Talking about Bartholomew didn't even get --"
     "Wait, what?  You told them about Atlanta?" he cut her off.
     "Why not?  They are going to learn about stuff like that one day.  Besides we had a romantic weekend.  I wanted to share all the details," her southern accent was thick like molassess.
     "Darling, I wouldn't exactly say that telling fifteen-year-olds about spending the weekend in a cheap hotel with me is a good idea," he exclaimed.
     "It was not a cheap hotel!  It was the best hotel in all of Atlanta.  And I couldn't have imagined being there with anyone else but you, my darling," she defended.
     "Look, Cynthia, I really have to go.  I was just calling to let you know that I have to cancel our plans.  I have business that I can't break away from."
     "Cancel our plans?" the tone of her voice got higher.  "But it's last minute.  I've been waiting all day to see you, darling.  It was all that I could do to get through the day.  Hell, I've been so excited I was sweating like a pig all day in class.  Felt like I was on fire.  You can't cancel on me now!"
     "I have to go.  I have no choice.  I will call later."
     She hung up and sat patiently waiting for him to call again.  He never called.  Not that night or the next or the next.
     A week later, she sat at her desk still dreaming about him.  Tears in her emerald eyes.  She had always carried on conversations with her class, rather to her class since very few of her students listened, about weekend getaways and Bartholomew, but now she could only talk about the cat.   
     "You alright, Mrs. Nixon?"  One of her students, Donna, seemed guinuienly concerned.
     "I'm fine," she replied.
     "You look very pretty today," Donna lied hoping to raise her spirits.  Mrs. Nixon may have been a crazy woman with all her talk and never teaching, but Donna didn't like to see anyone upset.
     "I do?" Cynthia asked, her eyes lit up.
     "Yes, ma'am, very pretty today," Donna lied again.  She was sad for her teacher.  Donna knew that Mrs. Nixon was in her mid-forties, she didn't really have any family except her mother was still alive and she considered her cat her child.  She knew about the break-up because Mrs. Nixon had already told the entire class and every other class she taught that day.  Mrs. Nixon often looked messy, but today she was an exceptional disaster with her red hair barely pinned down to her head like it was trying to escape a death sentence all over her head.  Her nails were chipped and her makeup seemed smeared on instead of applied.  Her dress dangled loosely from her body and seemed to be the least flattering color of brown.  She had even put on two different brown dress shoes that day. 
     "Thank you, Donna," Cynthia replied, "that is very nice of you to say." 
     In Cynthia's mind, the wheels had instantly began turning.  She must have done something better today with her appearance, but what?  She decided right then and there that she would head out and find herself a good man starting right after work.
     "We're going to cancel the quiz for the day, but you will all get an automatic A," Cynthia addressed the class.  She didn't want to have to waste precious time grading papers. 
      

"Hills Like White Elephants" response

This story was very vague.  The girl, Jig, is pregnant and the "American" man with her is trying to convince her to have an abortion.  The first thing I noted in the story is that Hemingway refers to the "girl" as a girl and the "American man" as a man.  Why has he not referred to the girl as a woman?  She is obviously old enough to conceive a child, but the initial image in my mind was a man and a child girl.  Instead it turns out to be a man and a woman.  My second notation was the location of these people.  They are travelling from Barcelona to Madrid, Spain and the beginning of the story states their whereabouts, the Ebro valley.  It also states that they are waiting for a train to Madrid.  Then at the end of the story the man carries their bags to the other side of the tracks.  So, initially they are traveling east to west and then decide to go back east to Barcelona.  I am assuming that this is where she is going to have the abortion done and initially attempted to run from the procedure by getting on the train to Madrid.  Also, the fact that they were in Europe at the time of this discussion about abortion didn't escape me.  I am sure that it was intentional for Hemingway to place the setting in Spain rather than in the United States.  Possibly because of the legalities of abortion in the 1920s in the U.S.?  The conversation between the two characters was slow at first, but once read closer it shows that the "man" is from America, yet he speaks Spanish to the waitress.  The "girl" speaks no Spanish and her place of origin is unknown.  She is obviously not from Spain.  It is easier to understand this story with a little information about Hemingway's intentions, but without a little extra research it could be read as pointless dialect between two characters.

Untitled, chapter one

Northern California, 1986

      When I was a child, I didn’t feel abnormal.  I thought everything was how it should be.  My sister Christi had just turned ten.  She didn’t look like David and me.  She had almond-shaped brown eyes and wavy, dark-brown hair.  Her complexion was lighter and burned easily in the summer sun.  She looked more like our mother and David and I looked more like my father.   David was almost six.  His curly, light brown hair was always a wind-blown mess, and his eyes were like two dark brown disks below his thin eyebrows.  His skin was the color of olives, as was mine.  His clothes were usually too small, and his belly stuck out at the bottom of his shirt.  His hands were perfect and tiny, but always seemed to be getting him in trouble.  David and I looked so much alike that people often mistook us for twins.  I was the middle child, but I was closer to David’s age than I was Christi’s.  My hair was straight and sandy brown.  My eyes were big and brown like David’s, with beautiful, long eyelashes that were often admired by older women.    

     The summer heat was blazing in northern California, where the three of us were sent to live with my aunt.  Aunt Ann had a farm in the northern most part of California outside the redwood forest.  It was a small farm with a two bedroom house and a worn-down red barn.  A single barbed wire fence separated the two buildings to keep the chickens away from the house.  The ground was mostly dirt because the livestock had killed all the grass before the fence was built.            

     Aunt Ann was a tall and stout woman.  Her wild red hair seemed to go everywhere.  She had huge green eyes that turned bright yellow when she was mad.  Her complexion was pale, but it too could change to a bright crimson when compelled by anger. 

     “David, what are you doing?” Ann demanded.

     He shrugged.  His eyes were big in bewilderment of getting caught with the lid off the jar of honey that had been brought in by her gentleman friend.  Ann had come around the corner into the kitchen just in time to see him start to dip his hand down into the jar.  She didn’t wait for an answer.  Her reaction was almost instant.  The yellow floral skirt she wore flowed behind her as she ran towards the drawer that held her most punishment tools.

     “I will beat you, child!” she yelled. 

      Christi and I heard the commotion from the living room and ran to David’s aid.  She had beaten him badly several times before and even though he was mischievous, he didn’t deserve the punishment that our aunt afforded him. 

     Princess, Ann’s old pet basset hound cowered, and then dashed out of the room.  Ann chased David around the kitchen table with her weathered wooden spoon drawn over her head, anxious for the first blow.    

     “Run!” Christi screamed grabbing at us both and forcing us through the back door.  We nearly knocked the screen off the hinges as it swung back hitting the house and then back again hitting the frame once we were through it.  David was quickly ahead of Christi and me, fueled by fear.  We ran across the dirt yard and were facing the barbed wire fence before Ann had managed to emerge from the house.

     “You three are dead when I catch you!” she screamed. 

     “Go up the fence!” Christi urged. 

     Christi knew exactly where to escape to, but the fence was torturous if care wasn’t taken for the barbs.  Ann was in her late forties so she wasn’t going to catch three kids running, but climbing barbed wire slowed us down.  Our small hands and feet maneuvered between the barbs all the way to where the barn roof hung over the top of the fence.  We reached the roof top in seconds and hoisted each other up.  The shingles scraped against our flesh and clothes as we pulled ourselves higher on the roof to safety.

     “Get down from there, or I am going to come up there after you!” my aunt screamed again, as if her fat ass was getting anywhere off the ground. 

     The three of us sat in silence, watching Ann threaten us with her wooden spoon. 

     “So help me God, I am going to kill you children!” Ann promised one last time before kicking the dirt and stomping back into the house, her skirt trailing behind her.

     It was lunchtime, but we hadn’t eaten yet.  The sun was high in the sky, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight that might block out the hot rays. 

     “I hot,” David whined.

     “We are all hot, David, don’t whine.”

     “Christi, I hot,” he whined again. 

     “I heard you, David, but we are all hot so, just try to relax,” Christi replied more patient than I was.

      We all wore tank tops and shorts so the shingles burnt and scratched our flesh.  It felt like it was a thousand degrees on the roof.  The sun reflected off of everything around us.  The light coming from the white roof of the house was nearly blinding us.  The barn’s black shingles were tattered and broken in some places.  Some of the roofing tacks were raised up out of the shingles along the entire roofline and we were careful not to sit on any of them.   

    Our stomachs were all growling, but none of us mentioned getting off the barn.  We knew when we got down there would be hell to pay. 

     “Sissy, I hot and I hungry,” David whined again.

     “David, please stop whining, you’re the reason we are up here!” I said.

      Even though I did nothing wrong, I knew I was in as much trouble as David.  David and I always got punished together.  Whenever he did something wrong, I would get beat too.  Christi was older and easier to manage, so she never got punished, but knew how awful it is to get beaten.  She had been beaten by mother and father the same way.  She did everything that she could to protect us, but there really wasn’t much she could do.

     “Chrisssee, can I sit in you lap?” David asked.

     “Yes, David if you promise to stop whining,” Christi negotiated with him.

     “Otay.”

     David crawled into Christi’s lap, and she winced from the pain of the shingles scratching the backs of her legs and burning her.  I was thankful that we all were wearing shoes when we escaped.  Christi usually went barefoot, but not here.  Not when she knew at any moment we might have to run somewhere away from our aunt.  I never went without shoes, and neither did David, not even when we slept. 

     The sun was unforgiving and our eyes were burning.  We had been sitting still and silent, roasting in the heat for what seemed to be an eternity.  We thought it was a mirage when we saw Ann reemerge from the house carrying a tray that held three clear plastic cups and a pitcher of lemonade.  It wasn’t Kool-Aid brand lemonade either.  It looked like fresh squeezed lemonade made from lemons that grew on the trees behind the house.  She had even cut pieces of lemons and put them in the pitcher just like in a magazine.  It was the most beautiful thing I had seen all day.  David perked his head up from Christi’s shoulder where it had been resting since he climbed in her lap. 

     “Sissy, whas dat?” David asked.

     “That is auntie with lemonade,” I replied.

     “I wonder what she’s up to,” Christi said.

     “Come on down kids.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to get so upset.  I made you some lemonade.  I know you must be thirsty,” Ann shouted up to us in a much calmer tone.

     “What do you think, Christi?” I asked.

     “I don’t know.  She’s always beaten you two before, but we’ve never run up on top of the roof before, or stayed gone this long.  Maybe she is really trying to be nice,” Christi tried to reason all of this.

     “Come on down kids, it’s going to be fine,” Ann called again.

     “We should go down.  Even if she is just trying to bribe us down to catch us, I don’t know how much longer any of us can stand to stay in this heat on the roof,” Christi said.

     I agreed with her.  We eased back over to the edge of the roof and carefully climbed back down the barbed wire fence.  Our arms and legs were all scratched and bleeding from the shingles and the barbs.  We cautiously approached Ann, still prepared to run again.

     “I’m sorry children,” she started.  “I should have gotten so angry, but David,” she looked directly at him, this time her eyes were green instead of red, “you know you were bad and you should get punished for that.”

     “Yesh,” David whispered, looking at Christi and me for saving.

     “Am I going to get beaten too?” I asked Ann.

     “I won’t punish you if you promise to never go back on the roof,” Ann replied.

     “I promise,” I said, glad I wasn’t going to get the wooden spoon across my own flesh.  “What are you going to do to David?”

     “That doesn’t matter right now,” she said narrowing her eyes at me, “you all get in the kitchen, and I will pour you some lemonade.”

     We all corralled into the tiny kitchen and planted ourselves around the table in the corner.  I looked up at the square, plastic, white clock that hung on the wall over the kitchen window.  It seemed like hours had passed since David had hid behind that same kitchen table trying to steal honey out of the honey jar.  Our sun burns covered mine and David’s cheeks and Christi’s entire body other than where her clothes had barely protected her.  The cuts and scratches from the barbs and shingles that we all endured were being cooled by the kitchen fan since the tiny house didn’t have central air conditioning.  And Christi and I had done nothing to save our little brother.  He was still going to get beaten.

     There had been several punishments bestowed on both David and me in the short time we had been with our aunt.  None of them were pleasant.  I sat at the kitchen table worried about what she was going to do to David while I drank my lemonade. 

     “David, here’s what’s going to happen,” my aunt finally said, “you couldn’t keep your hands out of my things, so I am going to paddle your hands for getting into the honey jar.”

     “That’s it!” I thought astounded.  I was glad, but was it true?  She had beaten David and me black and blue the last time.  Our small bodies still had bruises from that beating.

     “And then what?” Christi asked, also in disbelief. 

     “And then nothing,” Ann responded.  “I talked to your mother while you three were up on the roof, and you are all going home soon.  I won’t have to deal with you little monsters anymore.  Too bad you were up on the barn roof, or you could have said hello to your mom.”

     Mother wasn’t much better than Aunt Ann, but at least she was our mother.  She never beat David because he was the baby and the only boy.  Christi was as used to the physical abuse as any child could be.  I tried to stay out of the radar of any adult as often as I could.  Sometimes I was downright invisible.  My other advantage was that I was my daddy’s little girl, and nobody messed with me much when he was around. 

     Mother had to drive several hours north from Fremont to come pick us up, so there was no telling how long it would be before she got there, but Ann probably didn’t want any more marks and bruises on David and me because then she would have to answer to mother.  Mother didn’t believe that anyone should be allowed to discipline her children other than her.

     Ann picked up the wooden spoon that had been resting on the counter.  Princess scampered out of the kitchen at the sight of her holding it.  She pulled David’s chair back from the table and made him stand and face her. 

     “David, hold out your hands,” Ann demanded in a less pleasant tone.  It was almost like she got angrier at the idea of beating one of us. 

     David did as he was told, but the punishment wasn’t nearly as bad as any of us expected.  Ann barely brought the spoon up to the height of her shoulder before bringing it back down on David’s tiny palms.  He flinched in pain, but he didn’t make a sound.  Crying usually only compelled her to hit harder, so he remained silent even with the tears welling up in his big brown eyes.  They threatened to spill over when she brought the spoon down again.  The spoon wasn’t making the usual whooshing sound as it came down through the air.  The slap against David’s flesh didn’t ring out quiet as loud as it had just two days before when we had last received a beating for his mischief.  And then a third connection between spoon and four-year-old and it was over.  David was still silent.  His tears rolled down his face, and his eyes were big and wide staring up at Ann waiting for the rest of the beating.  Ann sat herself back down at the table and David crawled up into the kitchen chair that I was sitting in.  I moved over to give him more room, but he just scooted over closer to me until I was nearly off the other side of the seat.

     Silence and then, “I hope you all know that you are welcome to come back here any time you like,” Ann stated as if she had been replaced by a nicer version of her horrible self.

     “Thank you, Aunt Ann, we appreciate you having us,” replied Christi.  Christi was taught to always be polite no matter the circumstances.  “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then keep your damn mouth shut!” mother often told us.  If nothing else, we were all fast learners.  Learning fast meant less whuppings.  That is what mother called them, “whuppings.” 

     The rest of the afternoon the three of us sat and watched and listened to our aunt as she examined the fresh honey that was brought to her from a bee farm a few miles south.  She always said that things like that were brought special for her, and she didn’t have any kids so she didn’t have to share any of her special things with anyone.  I was surprised she was suddenly willing to share with us.  The honey comb was still in the jar that seemed big enough that David could have easily fallen into it.  It was filled over half way to the top with the golden gooey substance.  She pulled out a new wooden spoon and dipped it down into the jar.  She pulled out a sample of the sun-colored honey. 

     “Have you ever tasted fresh honey?” Ann asked.

     “No.”

     “There’s nothing in the world like it,” she said. 

     Why was she being so nice now?  For the past two months she did nothing other than punish us and criticize us and our parents.  Her temper was like her hair, hot and wild.  Now she was like a different human being altogether.  Did getting rid of us make her that happy?

     “Try some,” she motioned the spoon towards me knowing I was the lover of foods.

     “How?” 

     “Dip your finger in it,” she instructed.

     “Really?”

     “Yes, go ahead,” she insisted.

     I did.  There was nothing like it in the world.  It stuck to everything in my mouth, and the flavor was so sweet it made my eyes squint up.  The roof of my mouth tickled, and my brain was telling my mouth to chew, but there was nothing to chew.  It was the stickiest thing in the world.  I had eaten peanut butter fresh out of the jar before, but it didn’t compare to this.  I coughed and choked a little, but it finally went down.  The aftertaste was bittersweet.  My hand held the smell on it which slightly nauseated me after the tasting.  I wondered how honeybees made such a thing without getting their tiny feet and wings stuck in it or instantly dying from sugar shock if they consumed a single drop.  David loved it, of course.

     “Not too much, David,” Christi said, knowing he would be bouncing off the walls when he got his sugar high.

    David looked at her and stuck out his bottom lip in a pouty face.  He felt like he deserved the biggest taste since he had to get a hand lashing for getting into it to begin with.  He felt like it was all worth it with the first lick of his fingers.  It was obvious that Christi and I were less than thrilled with the honey, so Ann handed the entire wooden spoon over to David.

     “It’s not for everyone, I guess,” Ann said in defense of her beloved gift.

     “It was good,” Christi said, “thank you.”

     “Yes, thank you, auntie,” I chimed in.

     “More! More! More!” David shouted, waving Ann’s wooden spoon in the air.  It amazed me how it was so easy for him to forget how vicious Ann had been. 

      “No, David,” Christi calmly answered him.

     “David, give me that spoon,” I said, prying it from his little hand.  I didn’t have to fight too hard with him because his palms were still sore from his spanking.  I handed the spoon back to Ann.

     “Thank you,” she said to me.  I gave her a half smile.  I hadn’t forgotten.

     The heat had not subsided outside, but the sun was beginning to settle comfortably on the horizon.  I heard the gravel in the driveway shifting and grinding under the weight of tires.  The headlights of mother’s black 1983 Ford Mustang were on, even in plain daylight.  All of the mustang badges were missing off the car because mother thought that the “5.0” on the sides would attract the attention of traffic cops.  The holes remained in each of the fenders and the rear bumper where the badges had once been proudly displayed by the manufacturer. 

     “Mommy!”  David jumped from our shared chair.

     We all rushed to the door, passed our already packed suitcases that I hadn’t noticed before, just in time to see the long black door of mother’s car swing open.  She emerged with great effort.  First one foot and then the other, she would lean back and scoot her bottom to the edge of the seat closest to the door opening, then grab the steering wheel with her right hand and the top of the seat with her left.  At that point it was almost as if she had to fling herself out of the car to a standing position.  It was a ridiculous feat every time I watched it.  It was highly impractical that she even owned such an automobile with her large frame and three small children to drag along with her, but she loved it and refused to let it go.  She probably would have given us up before the car. 

     Mother walked up to the house, sunglasses gleaming from the reflection of the sun.  Ann pushed the screen door open to invite her in.  David ran out like lightning and looked like a monkey climbing up mother’s leg trying to get her to pick him up.  She ignored him.

     “Hello children,” mother said as if she were proud of her grand entrance back into our lives.  “Hello, sister,” she said looking at Ann, “were they well-behaved for you?”

     “Here it comes,” I thought.  Ann smirked, but formed no words about our behavior or of the beatings. 

     “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” David was repeating at her heels as she stepped into the house. 

     “Hello, David,” she finally acknowledged his presence at her feet and picked him up.  “Why don’t you kids get your stuff together while Ann and I talk and then we will get on the road back home?”  This wasn’t really a question; it was more like a nice way of saying, “kids go away because I don’t want you to hear what I am going to tell your aunt.”  The three of us sat silently in the living room.

     The two sisters sat at the kitchen table chatting about my father.  Mother looked completely natural to me, sitting there in Ann’s small wooden chair at the mismatched table.  Her denim pants were clearly cutting her waistline in half, and her blue shirt barely covered her midsection that bulged over the top of her pants.  Her height made it hard for her to find shirts that were long enough to fit, but she didn’t care.  She couldn’t care less if the entire world could see the stretch marks that were like the lines of a road map on her stomach, left by us three children.  Her hair was wild like my aunts, but it was blonde.  She insisted that she was only twenty-seven years old and had been for as long as I could recall.  Distress was written all across mother’s pale, wide face.  This was a common affliction to her physical character though. 

     Ann got up to brew tea, but mother stopped her.

     “Don’t bother, I have to get these kids back on the road,” she said.

     “Okay, well let me know if you need any help,” she replied and hugged her good-bye as mother stood so that the hug wasn’t complete. 

     “Let’s go kids,” mother demanded, “get your bags and the rest of your stuff in the car.”

     We heaved our bags out to the back of the car and watched the hatch door open to display one of the smallest trunks in American automobile history, or so it seemed.  I flung my blue canvas bag over the back of the car into the trunk.  Christi loaded her bag and then David’s on top of mine. 

     “Go tell your aunt bye and thank her for her hospitality,” mother insisted.

     We ran back up to the house where Ann stood at the door to wave us off.  The three of us hugged her simultaneously.

     “Thank you, auntie, for taking care of us,” Christi said. 

     “Yes, thank you,” I also tried to sound grateful.

     David was silent until, “Byeee!”  He waved behind him as he ran to his usual side of the mustang and crawled in behind the driver’s seat.

   I got in behind Christi’s usual seat on the passenger side and Christi climbed in after me.  Mother was already in the car right after David and was pushing in the clutch by time Christi shut her door.  The sun was setting by then, and the sky was turning orange and purple.  The engine roared to life and mother shifted the car into reverse and hit the gas pedal.  We entered Ann’s street.  Mother shifted into first gear and then all the way through fifth as we headed towards home.  The ride home started in silence other than the constant rumbling of the one hundred seventy-five horse power engine.  As the sky became dark, Christi decided to plead our case against Ann.

     “Mom, please don’t send us back there ever again,” Christi begged.

     “Please, mom,” I said with the same urgency.

     “Dat lady was mean to us,” David said.

     This had been mine and David’s first encounter with our mother’s sister, but Christi had seen the woman several times in her life. 

     “I had no choice,” mother replied, “and if I have to do it again, then I will.  I am the parent here, you are the children, remember that.”

     “Where’s daddy,” I asked.  Mother knew my loyalty was with my father.  

     “He’s gone,” she said flatly.

     “What do you mean gone?” Christi asked. 

     “Look, things are going to be different now,” mother started.  “Much more different than they have ever been.” 

     I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, all I heard was the word “gone.”  First, I imagined all the horrible ways that daddy could be gone.  Was he dead gone or left gone?  Did he decide he didn’t love us and leave us with mother?  Was he taking a vacation?  Maybe he took the Harley out on a road trip down the coast like he always wanted to do.  Then, I thought of all the things that I used to do with my father before we were shipped off to Ann’s house.  He had seven Harley motorcycles in the garage.  Mother hated them, but daddy had this one special bike that had big silver boxes on the sides that he called saddle boxes.  They were just big enough to hold David in one side and me in the other.  He would put us in those saddle boxes and drive us all over Fremont and show us off to his friends.  He once let me climb up into one of his semi trucks that he ran for his trucking business and taught me how to shift all twelve gears.  The steering wheel was bigger than I was.  He’s gone.  I started to cry.

     Mother must have seen me crying in her rear view mirror.  “Stop all that nonsense.  You will still be able to see your father.”  Mother’s reaction to my tears was cold and abrasive.

    “Where is he? How can he be gone, and I can still see him?” I wailed.

    “Look, first stop the damn crying!” mother started to raise her voice, which was never a good thing.  I stifled my cries.

     “Tony screwed us, ok?” mother began again.  Tony was a single father living in our house, at our ranch, in Fremont with his son, Buddy.  “He turned your father in to the FBI, and now your father is in jail.  He’ll be going to court soon, and I had to come get you kids so I could take you with us to court to show the judge that your dad has a family to support, and maybe he will show some leniency on your dad.”

     This all seemed like a crazy dream.  Maybe mother had finally lost her mind. 

     “They seized everything.  The ranch.  The house.  All of our belongings.  All of our money.  It’s gone.  The business.  The trucks.  Everything’s gone!” she seemed close to hysterics talking about all our material possessions.  “They didn’t get my mustang baby though, and they left your father’s Ford pickup too,” she seemed thrilled about that. 

     “That’s all there is left?” Christi was distressed now too and raising her voice.  “Where are we going to live?  What are we going to do?  Are you going to get a job, mother?  How are we going to live?”

     Mother pulled her hand up off the gear shifter in one swift movement and slapped Christi in the mouth. 

     “You don’t talk to me like that!” mother screamed at her.  “That is my business, not yours!  You aren’t running shit around here, but your mouth!”

    Christi turned her whole body and leaned away from mother.  I could see her face reflected back at me from the passenger side window.  Her tears streamed down her sun burnt cheeks, and a tiny hint of red grew bigger by the second at the corner of her mouth.  She licked away the blood and cried silently, staring off into the blackness that surrounded the Mustang as it raced back to a place where I thought my life had always been average.            
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