Elaine Faber

Barely distinguishable from the surrounding leaves, the gossamer wings of two Praying Mantises fluttered violently, battling to the death.  As the silent war waged on, the leaf crumpled, and the female Mantis lost her death grip on her mate. She fell, landing soundlessly on the blanket where a toddler lay sleeping beneath vines hanging heavy with hops.

In the distance, women stripped oval hops from vines pulled from 12- feet-high wires and dropped them into long cloth bags hanging from their shoulders. Gradually more and more of the stripped vines lay barren and trampled in the pathway. Large naked wires hovered overhead. In the spring, rows of new plants would grow, twisting round the wires, reaching skyward toward the nourishing sun and rain until they blossomed and produced fruit. Then would come the harvest and the cycle would begin again.

Mary halted her work and checked her watch. She dropped her bag and ran to the blanket where her sleeping toddler lay in the shade of the hop vines. Unaware of the recent battle overhead, she flicked the Praying Mantis off the blanket, opened a basket and removed a diaper, changed the baby, pulled up her coveralls and buckled the straps.

Before the attack on Pearl Harbor, she would never have believed she would be working in a hop field, leaving her baby unattended. Her small paycheck was necessary to supplement her husband’s military check for dependents. She agreed to the back- breaking work of picking hops because she was able to bring the toddler to the field.

Conscious of the time lost tending the baby, Mary covered the child with a light quilt and checked the direction of the sun. The child’s blanket would remain in the shade for at least another hour. She kissed her forehead and ran back through the stripped vines where she had left her half- filled cloth bag.

Her companions had moved somewhat ahead, leaving her alone in the center of the field. She pulled the headscarf from her head, wiped her brow, and refastened the heavy bag to her shoulder.

Mary could hear the girls’ exaggerated tales that bore only the faintest resemblance to the truth. Peals of laughter filled the air, as the stories became more provocative.  The foreman weighed bags of hops and recorded the weights beside each woman’s name. The numbers were totaled weekly, paying a few cents for each pound of hops picked.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke warned Mary of the foreman's approach, probably coming to fuss about falling behind the other girls' production. They didn’t have to stop every 20 minutes to run and check on a baby. The foreman approached, sucking on the stub of his cigarette.

"You’ll have to keep up with the others. If that baby makes you fall behind, you won’t be able to bring her out here,” he growled. "I don’t want to come off like an ogre, but we’re on a time frame. The crop has to be in within three weeks or the hops will rot. If you can’t keep up, I’ll have to get someone who can. But since Lilly’s gone, I’ll let it go today. Work faster, will ya'?” He tossed the cigarette and with the ball of his foot, ground it into the tangle of vines.

Mary turned to her task and pulled hops from the hanging vines and stuffed them into the sack. When she had stripped all the hops within reach, she pulled, and the vines tumbled down. She felt a stab of pain in her back and shoulders as she leaned over to glean the remaining hops on the ground.

Her thoughts returned to the baby. She hated bringing her to the field. But the money was too tempting. If she worked hard, she could earn $25 a week. One hundred and fifty dollars for the six-weeks picking season would help this winter when there was no seasonal work. If bringing the baby to work continued to be a problem, she would have to keep her older daughter home from school to baby-sit. These days while husbands were at war, wives and mothers did what was necessary to survive.

Wilson had mentioned Lilly, the first woman to welcome her to the field. Most of the other women were silly girls that didn’t have to face the possible reality that her husband might not return, or the responsibilities of caring for children. Lilly understood. She was a middle-aged Asian woman with small children. Her family had lived here for three generations, and her husband owned a local grocery store. Lilly thought owning their own home and a successful business would protect them, but it hadn’t. After Pearl Harbor when the USA entered the war, the country worried about living alongside Japanese American citizens.

Yesterday afternoon, military men pulled Lilly into an Army truck. The women rushed to intervene, arguing that she was no threat, but to no avail. The men explained that she and her family were being taken “to keep them safe” until the war ended. Lilly’s United States citizenship could not compete with wartime racial prejudice.

The women had cried. “What about their grocery store? What is an "internment camp?" When can she come home? How can the United States do this?” There were no answers.

Lilly’s misfortune secured Mary’s job. For the next few weeks, she would pick hops and save her money. When hop season ended, she would find other work. Her dependent’s check and ration stamps would get them through this winter. Next spring, she would plant a victory garden. Her son would collect items for the rubber drives. They would buy a War Bond. She would knit socks for the boys overseas and contribute to the rag drive. Next year there would be beans, berries, apples, and more hops to pick. Perhaps the war would end, and Ed would come home. Somehow, she would endure.

She heard her baby cry. She took the bag from her shoulder and walked back to tend the child. The field was quiet except for the sound of her feet crunching the vines beneath her feet.

***

The Praying Mantis sat on the trampled vines near the child. Her peaceful world had turned upside down, her home yanked down, trampled into the earth, ripped asunder by unknown forces. She was powerless to stop the destruction.

The woman’s footsteps echoed louder. The Mantis rose to her hind legs and defiantly waved her antenna toward the threatening danger. Within the ruins of her world, defenseless compared to the giant approaching, she prepared to fight to the death to protect her unborn children. She would endure. She had to endure, because she had no other choice.

Alice pulled in her driveway and stepped out of her Prius. Her neighbor, Millie, hailed from across the street. “Yoo-hoo! Alice! Wait up. Happy Fourth of July!” as she scurried across the street.

Millie was the last person Alice wanted to talk to. They had nothing in common. Millie’s husband, George, collected Revolutionary War memorabilia. Their house looked like a war museum. Why did Millie put up with such nonsense?

Millie ran up, breathlessly, “Are you coming to the Independence Day celebration at the Vet’s Memorial Building? It starts in an hour. They’re having a military band, Viet Nam veteran speakers, and fireworks after the meeting. You’re welcome to ride over with us.”

Alice lifted her grocery bags from the back seat. “Sorry, can’t make it. Gotta’ get these things inside. Frozen stuff, you know. Talk to you later.” She hurried into the house. She felt a twinge of guilt. Snubbing Millie wasn’t very nice, but Millie was so gol-darned boring. Every conversation somehow turned to her husband’s latest E-Bay purchase. A Minute Man rifle. A battered sword. A faded British shirt. Alice sighed. Who cared about all that stuff anymore? What difference did it make, anyway, two hundred years later?

The 4^th of July was such a nuisance. The fireworks always made the neighborhood dogs bark and the next morning, the streets were a cluttered mess.

Alice went to bed early. She pulled the pillow over her head and closed her eyes… It helped block out the sound of fireworks down the street.

Alice jerked and twisted. What? What was that? She opened her eyes to find herself standing in the middle of a battlefield! The boom-boom of nearby firecrackers became the sound of a beating drum. The sun blazed down on men wearing brilliant red jackets. Sweat poured from their faces as they marched in a straight row toward an outline of shadowy figures in buckskin, hiding behind rocks and trees.

Redcoats? English soldiers? A battlefield? She didn’t belong here! She couldn’t be here. That’s it!  She must be dreaming. Wake up! Wake up! The field would soon be littered with dead and dying men. She turned to run.

Someone grabbed her arm and yanked her down behind a rock. Her heart pounded. She could smell the sweat on the man crouched beside her.

Grimaces lined the faces of the older soldiers, knowing what was to come. “Hold the line, men. Steady now.”

Younger soldiers, terrified of the unknown, sniffled as each beat of their drum brought the redcoats closer. Though the ragtag soldiers were outnumbered by the advancing troops, they had the advantage with the cover of trees and rocks. The men primed their guns with powder and ball and squatted in the dirt, waiting, waiting as the formidable enemy advanced, step by step.

Alice had to get away. This couldn’t be real! She knew she was dreaming! Why couldn’t she wake up?

The drumbeat stopped. Silence! What happened? She peeked around the rock. There stood the redcoats, frozen in time, guns at the ready, feet in mid-step. The flag drooped, unmoving. The drummer’s drumstick hung above his drum, suspended in mid-air.

Alice lifted her head toward the brilliant sky where scattered patches of clouds gathered as though suspended from wires. Overhead, a bird hung motionless...

She opened her eyes and blinked against the darkness in her room. “I was dreaming!” Dreams were, after all, just snatches of thoughts and memories, sounds and sights stored willy-nilly in one’s mind, and pulled into a fractured scenario to haunt our restless minds. She shuddered, thinking of the day when her dream had been the reality for young men and old who would not live to see another sunrise.

She turned toward the window. Rivulets of rain streaked the glass, curving and twisting as they traversed the pane. Outside, the tree in the backyard wavered in the breeze of an unseasonable summer shower. The Fourth of July celebrations and fireworks must have ended by now. Alice put her hand to her pounding heart. It was just a dream. Everything was fine. Just a dream.

Alice rose from her bed and found a book about the Revolutionary War in her library. She sat in a rocker and began to read:

For the sake of independence, farmers, storekeepers, bankers, men from all walks of life, rebelled at the tyranny England imposed on their fledgling nation. Ill equipped, with antiquated guns and untrained, the Continental soldiers chose to fight a highly trained army made up of Englishmen, German mercenaries, and Hessians.

The Revolutionary war lasted over eight years.
The estimated population in America in 1776 was three million.
80,000 militia and Continental Army soldiers served at the height of the war
25,000 American Revolutionary soldiers died during the war
8,000 more Revolutionary soldiers died later from wounds inflicted during battle
17,000 Revolutionary soldiers died from disease
25,000 Revolutionary soldiers were wounded or maimed
1 in 20 men were affected.

All for the sake of following generations, so we could have the freedom to make laws and live by our own rules as established by the Declaration of Independence.

Alice called and left a message on Millie’s answering machine. “This is Alice. Sorry I couldn’t make it tonight. I hope you had fun. I promise I’ll come with you next year. Our freedom is important, isn’t it? We need to remember what the holiday cost our forefathers. It really matters.”

Alice returned to her bedroom. Boom! Another firecracker cracked in the night. Alice stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror. “Does that child have any idea what he’s celebrating or why? We all take so much for granted.”

****

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While sorting through my cedar hope chest recently, I discovered my wedding gown and honeymoon nightie. A few shreds of rice still clung to the folded honeymoon finery. I remembered those precious days as I folded and smoothed the purple nightie and thought about our unusual honeymoon.

Our wedding was on a perfect June day in 1962. The sun shone through the stained glass windows and the church was filled with flowers and music.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” and we were man and wife, 20 years and 18 years old respectively.

Following the wedding reception, we raced through torrents of rice, eager to begin our trip to a secret honeymoon site. When we arrived at our motel in the little resort town, we planned to go “out to dinner.”

While dating we had eaten at hotdog stands, drive-in movie snack shacks and BBQ’s with family, but we had never eaten at a real restaurant. For me, going “out to dinner” symbolized a rite of passage. A candlelight dinner would be a cherished memory, the perfect beginning to our wedding night.

The sun shone hot on our heads as we drove with the top down on our 1958 MGA. The excitement of the day took a toll on my young husband. His head began to throb and maybe “nerves” played a role as well. In our day, “the wedding night” created some anxieties than many young grooms don’t experience today. Several hours later we reached our honeymoon cottage on the shores of a sparkling lake. My young husband threw himself on the bed, head pounding, eyes aching, a wet cloth held to his forehead, and begged to be allowed to die in peace. He wasn’t up to dinner at a fancy restaurant.

“Tomorrow, honey,” he promised, “just let me go to sleep.”

A brand-new blushing bride, I pushed a grocery cart through a tiny grocery store in the resort town on my wedding eve, and selected spaghetti, hamburger, tomato sauce, lettuce, and salad dressing. I soon found myself in front of a tiny stove in our honeymoon cottage, cooking spaghetti while my new husband groaned on the bed.

“I hope this isn’t a sign of what’s ahead,” I thought, as I added a pinch of salt to the boiling water. “This is NOT how I planned my wedding night.”

Monday dawned bright and clear, a hot and perfect June day and we slept late, lulled by the lapping waves on the nearby shore, headaches and anxieties of the day before a forgotten memory. We spent the afternoon in the park in the shade of a willow tree, watching the squirrels. We kissed and spoke of where we would have our special dinner that night, a celebration of our one-day anniversary. We swam and frolicked in the lake. My new lord and master climbed a nearby diving board. “Hey, Hon, look at me,” he shouted, spreading his arms and launching himself in a perfect swan dive into the sparkling water below.

Somewhere between “Look at me,” and the sparkling water below, something went dreadfully wrong with his perfect dive. He hit the water with a resounding “kersplash.” Breaking the surface of the water, he held his hand to his left ear.

“I think I broke something.” The local emergency room confirmed, indeed, a broken eardrum. The doctor advised bed rest and a quiet night…

As a recently married woman, I pushed a grocery cart through a tiny grocery store in the tiny resort town and selected hamburger, tomato sauce and French bread. On my one-day anniversary, I stood in front of the stove, my young husband sleeping off the effects of pain medications. The water lapped onto the shore next to our honeymoon cottage as I sighed and heated the previous night’s spaghetti sauce.

Tuesday dawned bright and clear, and we slept late, being lulled by the lapping waves on the nearby shore. All afternoon we streaked across the beautiful waves in a rented speedboat, churning up the water. We talked of a romantic dinner that evening to celebrate our two–day anniversary. The sun shone deceivingly on my husband’s bare legs and they changed from white, to pink, to bright red.

My young husband moved slowly toward our car, each painful step tugging at his sunburned legs. He tried to pull on his trousers but the effort was too painful. My young husband lay on the cool asbestos tile floor (who knew?) of our honeymoon cottage, moaning. “I don’t think I can put my pants on. Sorry, Hon. No fancy dinner. Maybe tomorrow.”

A fairly jaded wife, I pushed a grocery cart through the grocery store in the tiny resort town and selected hamburger, tomato sauce and cookies.  The storeowner smiled. After all, I had shopped there three days in a row and a contender for his newest most-frequent shopper. I vowed to speak to mother about marriage. If this were going to continue, I would need to learn to cook something besides spaghetti.

Wednesday dawned bright and clear, we slept late…  We spent the afternoon driving around the lake. In the late afternoon, we stopped at a nice restaurant before any further calamity. We celebrated our three-day anniversary. It was as romantic as I had imagined. My husband’s head didn’t ache, his ear didn’t throb, his sunburn had faded to a dull pink, his pants were on, we didn’t eat spaghetti and I didn’t have to cook.

After dinner, at a drive-in theater, necking in the front seat somehow didn’t have its pre-marriage appeal. We determined it would be best to leave when the movie was half over. It was getting very late, nearly 9:30, after all, and we were anxious to return to our honeymoon cottage.

Thursday dawned bright and clear, and we slept late, lulled by the waves…

By late afternoon, we thought about the events of the week. A migraine, a broken eardrum, a sunburn, and it became clear that we should cut our honeymoon short and return home before any further disaster occurred. I felt the need to speak to mother about marriage in general and recipes in particular. By early evening, we bid the honeymoon cottage farewell and started for home.

We were both eager to reach home and resume… what honeymooners resume. The air was warm and balmy as we left the resort town. A crooked road down the mountain would take 30 minutes off our travel time. Driving the mountain road was difficult, with switchbacks and no roadside safety rails. Slowly maneuvering hairpin curves, eyes wide, we saw broken, twisted cars in the canyons below. Had they run off the road or were they shoved into the canyon to dispose of them? Reaching the bottom of the mountain, the valley stretched before us, and the terrible ordeal was finally over.

My young husband shifted gears and revved the engine. Nothing happened. He shifted to another gear and stepped on the gas. Nothing happened. The car coasted into a convenient gas station. He crawled under the car, and found…. a broken axle. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he thought about what might have happened if the axle had broken at the top of the mountain on the winding road. We were safe, thank God, but how would we get home, 80 miles away?

As a mature, experienced wife of four days, able to handle any emergency, I dropped coins into the public telephone. Daddy answered, and I said, “Daddy, come get me….” whereupon, Daddy exploded,

“What’s wrong? Where are you? What has that horrid beast done to my baby girl?” I explained that the beast had done nothing that I didn’t want done, but never the less, the axle on the MG was broken and we needed a tow.

Daddy drove for an hour and a half to rescue his baby girl. He towed the car 80 miles unceremoniously at the end of a rope; a discouraged young bride and disgruntled half-frozen groom steering the MGA.

If we had seriously analyzed the disasters of the week, and felt them to be prophetic of our future life together, we might have applied for an annulment the next morning. Perhaps we were too naïve, too inexperienced, or too much in love to realize the pitfalls that lay ahead. Sixty-three years have passed and my husband’s hair is gray and my face is wrinkled. Through our marriage, we have encountered sickness and health, success and failure, joy and sorrow, but we continue to face life’s challenges together.

I placed the nightie back into the hope chest. The pungent aroma of cedar clung in the air as I closed the lid. I closed my eyes, thinking for a moment of those exciting, wonderful days and relived the thrills, frustrations and romance.

Returning to the kitchen, I put a pinch of salt into the spaghetti bubbling on the stove. Like a pinch of salt, it takes a touch of adversity to enhance the flavor so we may appreciate the fullness of life.

I smiled at the memory of a honeymoon cottage by the shores of a sky-blue lake, and a tiny stove, where another pot of spaghetti bubbled three nights in a row. Despite the unusual circumstance we shared that week, it was the most wonderful, exciting, perfect honeymoon a woman could ever experience, because I was with the man I love.

BLACK CAT AND THE ACCIDENTAL ANGEL

After finding the lost cats, Black Cat and Angel, a newspaper ad was posted. A lady responded, believing Angel to be her lost cat. (Narrated by Black Cat as he faces the loss of his ladylove.)

The crunch of tires announced the arrival of Angel’s owner.

Mrs. Stubblefield wore a pink tee shirt with Miss Boop-kins scrawled across the front. She carried a pink cat carrier with lace around the door and a red bow on top. “Miss Boop-kins” was emblazoned on the side in script that matched Mrs. Stubblefield's tee shirt. Cynthia sat on the floor and pulled Angel and all the babies into her lap, as if to say, “You’ll only take them over my cold dead body.”

I sat beside Angel and growled, fighting the urge to take out anyone who came too close. I was willing to fight for my family until the breath left my body… but I knew I couldn’t. I had to put up a front for Angel and Cynthia’s sake. A bloody 'cat- fight to the death' wouldn’t make Angel’s leaving any easier on anyone.

I froze, facing the moment I dreaded. Mrs. Stubblefield set the cat carrier on the floor and crossed the room, her face wreathed in smiles. Angel looked up and their eyes met. Mrs. Stubblefield burst into tears. Tears of joy, I guessed.

It was too much. I tried to be brave, but I couldn’t hold it together any longer.  I’m not proud of myself, but I ran straight out the door and over to the woodpile. Misery filled my heart. Waves of suicidal thoughts one minute, and homicidal thoughts the next, raged within my breast and I didn’t know who I should kill first; myself or Mrs. Stubblefield.

I heard Cynthia shriek. I guess she was throwing a fit in spite of her promise to be good and let Angel go back to her owner.

She was on the porch, calling. “Black Cat. Come quick. Here kitty, kitty. I have something important to tell you.”

Yeah, right. ...As if I needed a lecture on civility while I watched Mrs. Stubblefield pop Angel into the ridiculous whore wagon. I started to run away through the vineyard. I stopped. At least I owe Angel a decent good-bye. A broken, defeated soul, I slunk so low across the yard, pine needles stuck to my belly fur and dropped to the floor as I crossed the porch.

Inside, I found Mrs. Stubblefield on the rug with Cynthia, giggling and cooing over the kittens.

What’s going on here? Too much jocularity for such a somber occasion.

“Oh, there you are, Black Cat," Cynthia said. Angel isn’t Mrs. Stubblefield's after all, but she wants to take the cream kitten home with her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

At that moment, a beam of sunshine streamed through the window casting a glow across Angel’s face. I swear I heard a chorus of angels singing, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Mrs. Stubblefield stroked the cream baby. “I think I’ll call you… Miss Bubble-kins… Yes, that’s what I’ll call you.”

I shuddered. That I should live to see a daughter of mine go through life called Miss Bubble-kins… but the kitten wound her toes in and out and mouthed an appreciative silent mew, which apparently meant she approved. I guess any lady who would wear a tee shirt with her cat’s name spread across her boobs can’t be all bad. It looked as if… Miss Bubble-kins… would go to a good home with a besotted owner, which, is the goal of any father cat.

On the one hand, Miss Bubble-kins had only started to drink from a bowl the day before. On the other hand, Mrs. Stubblefield would likely move heaven and earth to see that … Miss Bubble-kins… got enough to eat even if it meant feeding her with a bottle. We all kissed the baby good-bye and wished her good luck.

That afternoon, Daddy took Cynthia to the vineyard, and Angel and I snuggled on the blanket with Rambo and Mittens.

“I know she’s going to a good home, but I’m a little sad to see her go so young. I thought I’d have more time to teach her more cat things,” Angel said.

“That’s how things ought to be. You give them life, teach them right from wrong, and kiss them good-bye. That’s what a mother cat does. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

Angel sighed. “I do regret naming her Miss Bubble-kins.” Her mouth twitched.

I rolled over, put my feet in the air and laughed. “And I do regret calling her cat carrier a whore wagon.”

Angel glared at me. “You didn’t!”

“I did, but I have to admit, when they put her into that pink thing with the lace around the door and the red ribbon, she did look kind of cute, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she looked awfully little in there.”

“I’m betting she was in Mrs. Stubblefield’s lap before she turned the corner.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you’re right.” Then, Angel put her paws around the other two kittens and dragged them a little closer to her heart. I think she had a little tear in her eye. Or could it be that I was looking through my own tears? It’s hard to say.

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 (Multiple varieties of pumpkins have various names. Here are just a few.)   

“If I’ve told you once, Jack,” Papa Red Warty Thing said. “I’ve told you a dozen times not to stray so far. Look at you. You’re already at the end of your tendrils and into the road. When the tractor comes, you’ll be smashed flatter than a fritter!”

Turning toward his parents, Papa Red Warty Thing and Sweet Sugar Pie, unruly Harvest Jack huffed, “I’d rather be a fritter than bored to death, lying face up in the sun like my cousins, Baby Boo, Wee-be-Little, and Jack-be-Little. They never stray past the first twist in their vines.”

Harvest Jack’s pumpkin cousins gasped. Such disrespect! Such defiance! And with Halloween and Thanksgiving right around the corner. Unheard of in polite Cucurbita Pepo society! They turned away from the disobedient cultivar and buried their tendrils and stems beneath their prickly leaves.

“That child shall be the death of me yet,” Sweet Sugar Pie declared. “How does he ever expect to become a pumpkin pie acting like that? It’s your fault. Your ancestors never looked like the rest of us. They were always rebellious.”

Papa Red Warty Thing shivered. “If the lad doesn’t change his attitude, he’s likely to end up gutted, with an ugly smirk carved on his face.”

Sweet Sugar Pie waved her sticky leaves in dismay. “Don’t even think such a thing. My family has a proud history of becoming harvest pies for the past 72 generations. Grandma Sirius Star would roll over in her mulch if she heard of such a vulgar future for one of our clan. I know that some of the Rock Star and Howden crew across the field plan to be gutted and carved up. Some even look forward to lighted candles stuck where their innards used to be. That’s not the future I want for our boy.” A drop of morning dew trickled from her stem, down her rounded middle, and plopped into the dirt.

“Now. dear. Don’t carry on so. The season isn’t over yet. It’s just growing pains. I’m sure he’ll come to his senses when he matures a bit.”

Papa Red Warty Thing was wrong, for by now, Harvest Jack had wandered into the road and lay directly in the path of the giant tractor grinding its way down the road, swooping up all in its path, and dumping the unfortunate ones into a hopper to be carried off to an uncertain future. Sweet Sugar Pie shrieked, “It’s coming! Beware!”

Harvest Jack heard the engine and turned toward the sound. “Uh Oh!” The seeds in his belly shook in terror. Papa Red Warty Thing was right. He was about to be crunched into a fritter.

A raven swooped down and landed on his stem. “It serves you right for wandering into the road. Papa Red Warty Thing warned you.”

How he wished to be alongside little, white, cousin Baby-Boo, or little cousin Wee-be-Little’s tiny, orange body. Their future was assured. They would become cute little decorations, perched alongside a costumed vampire doll in the middle of a mantle, or maybe in a wheelbarrow surrounded by harvest leaves and acorns and a couple Rock Star or Howden’s. Even his distant cousin Lil’ Pumpkemon with his white body and orange stripes might end up on the front porch with his larger cousins.

Directly in the path of the tractor, Harvest Jack’s future was destined to be ground into pulp.

Suddenly, he heard guttural, humanoid sounds reverberating through his stem. Harvest Jack felt himself lifted and then felt the cool earth beneath his bottom. What happened? He was lying just inches from Papa Red Warty Thing and Sweet Sugar Pie. Somehow, he’d escaped the wheels of the tractor and was back in his own row of cultivar cousins. “Oh, Papa Red Warty Thing! You were right,” Harvest Jack cried. “I’ll never disobey again. I promise I’ll grow up and become a Harvest dinner pie, but…may I choose which kind of pie I want to be?”

“Of course you can, my dear,” Sweet Sugar Pie cooed, stretching her loving tendrils over her son. “Your great aunt was a pumpkin streusel pie with a gingersnap crust, and your great-grandfather was a pumpkin cheesecake.”

“Good! When I grow up, I want to be… Let me think! I know just the thing. I want to be a cherry pie!”

Sweet Sugar Pie glared at Papa Red Warty Thing and shook her sticky leaves in anger.

“What’s wrong,” Harvest Jack cried. “You said I could choose what kind of Harvest pie I wanted to be.”

“My dear, you can’t be a cherry pie, because you’re a pumpkin.” Papa Red Warty Thing patiently explained.

Sweet Sugar Pie screamed. “According to today’s social media, if the lad wants to be a cherry pie, then he can be a cherry pie! This is your fault, Papa Red Warty Thing. You’ve always been too lenient on the lad!”

We quarreled this morning. I threw his favorite blue cup across the room and it shattered on the hearth. I screamed “I hate you!,” and ran out the door. I kicked the tires on my car.

I was angry all morning. Every time the phone rang, I was sure he was calling to apologize. Why didn’t he call? I wasn’t about to call him. He was wrong, right?

The afternoon dragged by. Now it’s 5:00 P.M., and I left the office. … The traffic was terrible and I was anxious to get home. It’s not that I was sorry. It’s his fault we quarreled, but it’s too tiring to stay mad. I want things to be the same between us.

The cars crept along the freeway and I checked my watch.

He should be home by now, waiting for me, listening to music, drinking a glass of red wine. I’m sure he bought me flowers. I can’t wait to see what color he chose. If they’re red, I know he still loves me.

Rain and leaves swirled across the highway and gathered on the edge of my windshield. My eyes stung with tears as I remember saying, “I hate you.” The wind shield wipers swished, and seemed to repeat, “hate-shoo, hate-shoo, hate-shoo.” I didn’t mean it. I reached in my purse for my cell phone and touched a melted chocolate candy kiss, his gift to me. I licked the chocolate off my fingers and smiled, remembering the night not so long ago and his words, “This kiss signifies my love.”

How I yearn to tell him I’m sorry, even if he was wrong. I want his arms around me. I want his lips to caress my throat. I want everything to be as it was before we quarreled.

I pull into the driveway, but I don’t see his car. It must be parked in the garage. I know he heard me pull in, and even now, I imagine him rushing to the door with a glass of wine and the flowers. In a minute, I’ll be in his arms. He’ll kiss me and whisper, “I’m sorry…”

I turn the handle on the front door. Why is it locked? I pull my key from my purse  and unlock the door. The room is empty. I call his name. Where can he be?

A gust of wind rushes in, slamming the door behind me. My heart pounds as my gaze is drawn to another chocolate candy kiss as it rolls off the table. A single sheet of paper flutters in the air and settles to the floor...

                             Elaine Faber

Did you ever hear what happened at the Leger Hotel in Mokelumne Hills? Probably not, because I doubt there was anything in the papers about it. Nobody cares much about ghosts anymore. Well, it happened sort of like this.

Mom was Dad rented a room at the Leger Hotel the week before Halloween. The Hotel brochure said the place was haunted, Of course, they took Sissy and me along because we were still too young to stay home alone. Mom had some idea that kittens would enjoy the cultural experience.

Sissy and I stayed in the room while they went exploring. How did mom think we could have a cultural experience from the hotel room? I think it was an excuse because she couldn’t be away from us.

Sissy and I spent the first hour exploring every nook and cranny, looking out the window onto the 2^nd floor balcony where the prostitutes used to sit, advertising their wares. I didn’t make that up. That’s what we heard the maid say. We crawled in the fireplace and under the claw-foot tub in the bathroom. We felt “something”, but we couldn’t exactly figure out what it was.

That’s when I heard the voice. My hair stood on end and my tail fluffed up. I just made out the faint wispy outline of an old guy on the sofa, wearing an old miner’s hat. His face was covered with gray whiskers and he was missing a few teeth. He looked pretty scary!

Sissy was sleeping. She’s not like me. She’s all quiet and prissy. I’m usually awake and looking for trouble. So this old guy waves a gnarled hand and says, “Can ya’ help me? I need help to move on.”

There wasn’t anyone in the room, so I figured he must be talking to me, so I says, “Are you talking to me? I’m a cat.”

“I can see that. Maybe you can help me more than anybody, you bein’ a cat and all.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“Yeah. Guess so. Name’s Joe Harrigan. I died in 1876. My partner and me had a little mine nearby and we usta' come to town on weekends. They hanged me for killin’ my partner, but I didn’t. I shoulda’ gone on to whatever comes next, but since I was innocent, they couldn’t send me to Hell, but bein’ convicted for murder, all official-like in a Court a’ Law, Heaven said they couldn’t take me neither. I’ve been stuck here in this room ever since, tryin’ to get somebody to help me clear my name so's I can cross over.”

“Why hasn’t anyone helped you before?”

“Some folks can see me, but I can’t make them hear me. They run off yellin,’ “I seen a ghost! I seen a ghost!” and change rooms. Sometimes there’s a dog stay in the room. They can see and hear me, but they growl or hide under the bed. Maybe cats is more understandin’?”

Sissy was awake now. She puffed her fur up, and her eyes got all big. “Whaaat’s going on?”

“Calm down, scardy-cat. It’s just an old ghost. They hanged him so he can’t move on. He wants us to help him.”

“What can we do? We’re cats!”

I was about to agree when Mom and Dad came in. The ghost melted away, so we couldn’t ask any more questions.

“What’s up with Sissie Amber? She looks like a porcupine!” Mom said.

“Maybe she’s seen a ghost!” says Dad, and both of them fell down laughing on the bed and got all kissie. Sissie and I tossed sand from the litterbox onto the hearth, to let them know what we thought about such nonsense.

A while later, Mom and Dad went to dinner and locked us in the room. We waited for the ghost to come back again but he didn’t. Mom and Dad came back and went to bed. We could see ghostly shadows all over the room and chased them around for the next three hours until Mom tossed us into the bathroom.

About 6:00 AM, I clawed the door and woke up Dad. He hasn’t needed an alarm clock since we came to live here. I just claw the door and howl, and like Pavlov’s dog, he’s out of bed, opens the door, and feeds us. Just three or four days of repetition and humans are fairly easy to train.

Mom and Dad went off to breakfast and left us in the room. So much for day two of our cultural experience. The old guy showed up about 9:00 AM. His aura faded in and out, much fainter than the day before. His hands trembled when he spoke. “Look, girls, I think I’m about at the end of my rope…no pun intended… If I don’t get some help movin’ on pretty soon, I don’t think I’ll ever make it.”

“But, you never said how we could help you,” I exclaimed.

“There’s a secret panel in the back of the old armoire in the corner. I hid a paper inside the panel. My partner writ out his will, tellin’ how he accidentally shot hisself’ cleanin’ his gun. After I buried him, I was grieving’ his death and come to town to get drunk. I hid that Will in the armoire before I went to the bar. I told um’ my partner was dead and they thought I kilt’ him to get the mine all to myself. One thing led to another until someone got a rope. They had a trial, but I was so drunk, I plumb forgot to tell um’ about that air’ Will in the armoire. So they hanged me.

“Bein’ dead sorta’ cleared my head and I remembered the Will, but it was too late. I’ve been ‘ahoverin’ ever since, hopin’ someone would find the Will and clear my name, so’s I can get a crack at Heaven, which it’s doubtful I deserve, but I’d like to give it a try!”

Sissy and I jumped off the bed and clawed at the door of the armoire. We got the door open and began clawing at the back wall of the paneling.

“That’s it!  Right there!  Give it all you got, girls. If you push on it, it sorta’ slides in. There! You can see the paper stickin' out?”

“You can do it, SissyAmber! Go for it!”

Amber had plenty of practice pulling thumbtacks out of bulletin boards and pulling papers off the wall. She grabbed the paper with her teeth and pulled it out.

Old Joe was pretty excited. Mom and Dad came into the room about then and saw us pawing at the paper.

“What have you girls been doing? What’s that?” Mom picked up the faded paper with teeth marks in the corners… I was quick to explain that if anybody was in trouble, I didn’t have anything to do with it... Mom read the paper.

Joe, he didn’t shoot me. I done it kleenin my gun.  I got no fambly and my frend Joe Harrigan otta have my shar a the mine. Sined July 1876  George Wales

“Where did this come from?” Mom asked.

“It looks like they were inside the armoire,” Dad said. “The door’s open and the paneling on the back wall is pushed in.”

“Let’s take it down to the manager and see what they make of it.”

Mom and Dad put on our collars and leashes and carried us downstairs to the manager’s office. At last, our cultural experience!

“Our girls found this in the armoire up in Room two. This old paper looks like a handwritten Last Will and Testament. Your Historic Society should see this,” Mom said.

“My goodness, yes. I know the name, Joe Harrigan. He was hanged for killing his partner, old George. They say Joe haunts Room two. Indeed, the Historic Society will be very interested! Poor old Joe. So, he was innocent after all. He’s buried up on boot hill. Folks go up to see his headstone. Your cats are heroes!”

Mom and Dad drove us to the cemetery and found old Joe’s headstone. Poor old guy. I guess The Leger Hotel added a postscript to their brochures about the ghost of the miner who was hanged by mistake at the hotel. I don’t think anybody in the news media paid much attention. Hopefully, someday, the courts will clear his name.

We never heard about old Joe’s ghost again. I think he must have been able to move on. I expect St. Peter gave old Joe a fair trial when he got to Heaven. He sure never got one at the Leger Hotel in Mokelumne Hills!

I’ve been sitting on this cement mall bench for hours, watching the people rush by. Old women carrying shopping bags, young women pushing strollers, and absentee fathers dragging weekend children to the theater. “Excuse me. Have you…?” I reached toward one after another. None glanced my way. Teens dashed back and forth, throwing popcorn at the mall-birds. They travel in packs: the teens…not the birds, thumbing cell phones. They seem unable to be separated from someone on the other end. No one looks my way. Could I be invisible?

I don’t have a cell phone, or for that matter, any friends I could call who would want to talk to me. Here I sit, alone in the midst of a bustling crowd, picking at the peeling paint on the bench. How did this happen? In another lifetime, I had things to do and places to go. In another lifetime, I breathed and ate and slept and played and did all sort of things. What happened?

Maybe I am dead. Is this what it’s like to be dead?

I remember folks saying that when you die, you go to Heaven. Heaven has streets of gold, angels glorying in God’s presence and animals. Lots of animals. There’s supposed to be music, art, nature, and love, all rolled into a package tied with a ribbon. Just pull off the ribbon, open the package, and there you are…Heaven.

If that’s all true and I’m dead, I must have missed the train to Heaven, because I’m sitting on a bench in the mall, alone, and  invisible.

My wife and I used to go to church, at least several times a year. That’s where I learned about Heaven. Yes, I used to have a wife and friends, and we even had a dog. A small spotted dog we called Spot. Go figure. My wife made a pot roast every Sunday night and Spot would dance on his back feet for a bite. Spot died a month after my wife passed away. I haven’t touched a bite of pot roast since then…

Wait. There’s a Marine in a uniform coming toward me. I’ll thank him for his service and maybe we’ll talk for a few minutes. But, what if I speak to him and he walks on by? It will just prove my suspicions that I’m really…dead. Why take the chance? Do I really want to know? He’s probably on his way somewhere important. He wouldn’t have the time for an old guy like me.

My wife always made us shake hands and thank any military person we met. Policemen and firefighters, too. It was important, she said, because they caught a lot of flak from people who took them for granted, or even verbally abused them. Couldn’t figure out why folks would do. They’re just here to help folks.

I said ‘hello’ to a teenage boy a few minutes ago, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even turn his head. Probably too busy–probably has a girlfriend, maybe a job at McDonald’s, and for sure, a cell phone. It was in his ear. Literally, stuck to his ear, like a hearing aid. He was talking to someone. Or maybe not. Maybe he was talking to himself. I do that a lot lately, because if I speak to someone, they don’t hear a word I say. But why should they if I’m invisible…or dead.

Wife always wanted kids, but it never happened for us. Probably for the best. I never had much interest in sports, and teenage boys like sports. I wouldn’t have been a very good father to a boy. Or a girl, for that matter. What do I know about raising a girl? She probably would have run away and got into all sorts of trouble. Now, why would I think such a thing? I was married to a good woman. She would have made sure a girl child would turn out alright. Having kids would have been okay. It would be nice to think someone gave a rip if I died. If you don’t have kids, there’s nothing left on earth to  show you were ever here.

It’s nearly five o’clock. This bench is hard and cold. I’ve been here most of the afternoon. I should walk back to the bus and go home. I should go, but it’s a long way to the bus stop and my feet hurt. I walked too far this morning…all around the mall, past Macy’s, past the shoe store where I bought a pair of shoes once. Brown shoes.

My wife saw an ad in the newspaper and insisted we buy a pair. Wonder whatever happened to those shoes? Haven’t seen them for a while. Maybe they’re in the back of the closet where I used to store my golf clubs and fishing poles.

We used to take weekend trips in the motor home. I fished and usually managed to include a game of golf. But that was before my wife died. Before my world turned dark and hopeless. Before I gave away my golf clubs and fishing poles and sold my motor home. I guess that’s when I turned my back on everyone. When I stopped returning friend’s calls and stopped going to church, even several times year. I think that’s when it happened. I guess the truth is, it’s not that I’m really dead. I just chose to become invisible.

****

“What? What did you say?” There’s a man standing in front of me. He’s about my age. Has gray hair and a mustache. He nodded toward the chess tables nearby.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I asked if you played chess. Would you like to play a game?”

I stared at my hands. “I…I used to play when I was younger. Haven’t played for years,” I mumbled. “Are you sure you want to play with me?”

“No mistake,” the man says. “I saw you were alone. But, if you’d rather not, I understand. I’ll ask someone else.” He started to turn away.

“No. No.…” I stumbled to my feet. Surprisingly, they didn’t hurt any more. “Thanks. I mean, yeah, I’d love to play.”

He reached out his hand. “Name’s Walter. What’s yours?”

We shook hands and my fingers tingled at his touch. I wouldn’t have felt that if I was dead, would I? “Mine’s Darwin. Nice to meet you.” We walked to the chess table.

He sat and opened his chessboard and dumped out the pieces. “You come here often, Darwin? My friend and I used to come every afternoon, but he moved to a nursing home across town. Sure do miss him. We spent a lot of afternoons here together.” Walter held out two chess pieces. “Black or white?”

“You choose,” I said. My heart was beating so fast, it was hard to catch my breath. The cement bench didn’t even feel cold or hard at all.

“I’ll take black,” Walter said. “How do you feel about meeting here a couple days a week?”

“That sounds nice. Maybe you’ll think I’m not as good a player as you,” I said.

Walter carefully set up the pieces. “Then, I’ll teach you. You’ll be fine. After a couple games, I like to go over to Denny’s and have a bite to eat. What do ya’ say?” He turned the chessboard so the white pieces faced me.

I felt a crushing sensation in my chest, almost painful, and wonderful, all at the same time. I’m not dead after all, and I must not be totally invisible. Maybe I just felt that way because I turned my back on all that was good in my life. Maybe when my wife died, I just gave up. I thought I had nothing more to live for. I was wrong. It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to keep on living, or choose to become invisible.

“Your move, Darwin. Let’s see if you have game.” Walter grinned at me, like a friend.

The muscles in my jaw twitched. It was a smile. I remember that feeling, though I haven’t felt one for a long time.

All e-book novels are $3.99 at Amazon

Black Cat's Legacy reveals a cat with his ancestors' memories.   When Kimberlee comes to the lake resort, she must solve her father's cold case murder and Thumper realizes his legacy to help her solve the crime. Introducing the characters, part of this series is written from the cat's POV.

Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer. Thumper goes with his family to Grandmother's Texas horse ranch where they encounter wild horses, an embezzling attorney, a foreman with a secret identity, a fake children's society, and a murder plot to do in Grandmother before she can change her will. Thumper meets his soul-mate. Together, they must prevent a murder.

Black Cat and the Accidental Angel. Thumper has lost his memory after an MVA, ends up on an emu ranch in No. CA with a female companion. “Call me Angel. I’m here to take care of your,” she says. They must help this new family resolve issues that put a child at risk. Back in Fern Lake, Kimberlee and family try to find their lost cats. Written about 75% from Thumper's POV, he faces very 'human issues' of love, loss, rejection, jealousy, failure as he regains his memory and learns there are more important things than knowing your own name. A more spiritual story… there MAY be an angel!

Black Cat and the Secret in Dewey’s Diary.  While Black Cat and Angel face challenges in Fern Lake, Kimberly has found a diary with clues to a missing WWII fortune in gold coins. The clues take her to Austria where she races the clock against a stalker determined to find the gold first. 50% is told by Black Cat and 50% from Kimberlee’s POV.

All Things Cat

An anthology of 21 short stories all about cats, written by cats, and stories including a cat from every walk of life, time frame and social environment. Some excerpts from the previous published cat novels. (Amazon e-book $2.99)

Another Series set during WWII in No. California. Mrs. Odboddy adventures:

Mrs. Odboddy - Hometown Patriot. Elderly eccentric Agnes Agatha Odboddy has issues of distrust and suspicion as she fights the war from the home front, believing conspiracies and spies abound in her small town. Filled with hysterical scenes, it includes much of 'life' as lived by citizens during an era of rationing and deprivation during WWII. When Mrs. Roosevelt visits, Agnes's suspicions become reality and she must prove she is, indeed, a hometown warrior. (First place Fiction Award- NCPA 2017)

Mrs. Odboddy Undercover Courier.  Asked to hand carry a ‘package’ to President Roosevelt in Washington, Mrs. O is sure NAZI spies will join her cross country train from CA to Washington, D.C. A laugh on every page guaranteed as this eccentric elderly WWI retired spy faces challenges in every state across the USA. (Third Place Cover and Design Award - NCPA 2018)

Mrs. Odboddy And Then There was a Tiger.  As the tiger of war crosses the globe, Mrs. O is challenged by the woes of a displaced carnival tiger. Carelessly, she loses the War Bond money and must redeem her good name, find the money while defeating crime. Add a bit of elderly romance and you have the recipe for humor on every page. (Second Place Gen Fiction Award - NCPA 2019)

Mrs. Odboddy’s Desperate Doings

Agnes faces agonizing challenges, as she continues to seek a permanent home for the displaced tiger. To add to her dismay, she is convinced the beloved local doctor is heading an art theft ring and is determined to expose him. The onset of mysterious headaches, hallucinations and fainting spells places a toll on all of her efforts.

The Spirit Woman of Lockleer Mountain

While the small-town reels at the announcement of an unexplained government facility to be built in their community, a mysterious woman is sighted in the woods. Is she the woman who disappeared after a recent MVA, or is she the embodiment of a Native American Spirit Woman said to appear when the town is in trouble? Strange gifts left on Judy’s doorstep further complicate the situation.

Readers seem to visit my posts about "cats' more than any other, so  I'll post a few short stories I've written about cats. Feel free to comment about your cat if you wish or send my story to a friend who might enjoy reading it.

DEAD BUSH POKER

Elaine Faber

I live in Dead Bush, a small town in Texas. I’m a fine figure of a feline, though some would say, somewhat on the portly side. It must be true, as there is a tomcat that returns to town every spring with a glint in his eye. I haven’t given him a tumble yet, but next spring might be a fine time to consider the offer. I’ve heard that a bit of romance can be revitalizing to one’s health.

Dead Bush sports three saloons, a general store, the bank, a church, a blacksmith shop and a hotel such as nice folks don’t mention in front of the kids. Modern slat sidewalks were added this spring at the suggestion of those specific ladies who live in the aforementioned establishment.

Today, being Founder’s Day, farmer’s wives prepare pies and BBQ sides of beef for a giant banquet and sponsor a square dance out behind the blacksmith’s shop. Bright and early, neighboring farmers trickled into town with planks and sawhorses for the long tables needed to feed the attendees.

Long about 10:00 AM this morning, several raggedy ex-Civil War soldiers rode into Dead Bush on horses that looked like they was rode hard and put away wet. They congregated at the Dry Spell Saloon where they acquired liquid libation and a commenced a serious poker game.

The regulars at the Dry Spell saloon have considered me their personal mascot, ever since the town sheriff found me, the lone survivor of a wagon train massacred by a tribe of renegade Indians. Shorty, the barkeep saves me left-overs from the day’s leavings. This, added to my hunting prowess, leads to my aforementioned portliness.

I’ve heard that cats are almighty scarce and considerable valuable these days. In fact, a number of local farmers have offered Shorty big bucks for me, beings as cats don’t eat much and can keep a barnyard free of rodents and such vermin.

Well, seems these aforementioned soldiers what came to town with their long rifles and powder horns sat and drank well past noon. It caused quite a stir amongst the gamblers when I chanced to wander through the saloon. There commenced talk of some cowpoke that had hauled a cat in burlap sack to a farm in the middle of nowhere, and sold it for a $20 gold piece. One of the soldiers reported big money being paid for cats further out west, and he sudden-like, took a notion to buy me. Shorty declined, saying I couldn’t be bought since I didn’t belong to nobody.

As the drinking commenced, the soldier cajoled Shorty into a poker game with me as the stakes! I sat near the potbelly stove, preening my whiskers, somewhat amused by the stupidity of those soldiers what thought they could buy and sell another living creature. Didn’t the Civil War, just fought, disprove the nation of that opinion?

The scent of barbequed chicken wafting through the open door caught my attention, and I left the fools to their folly. I ambled down the sidewalk, past the wooden cigar Indian in front of the general store, and rounded the nearest banquet table laden with food. The oldest six of Mrs. Barnwhistle’s nine children cornered me straight away and near strangled the life out of me with their stroking and clutching, chucking under my chin, and shifting me from child to child. I’ve learned to put up with such nonsense as long as they don’t pull my tail. It puts their mothers in a fair mood when you allow such nonsense and they get such a kick out of seeing their child all jollified, they’ll offer me a pinch of chicken or a slice of bread and butter. If things get too rowdy after such juvenile mauling, I can easily get away and lick off the sticky jam or mud clinging to my furs.

Raucous laughter from inside the saloon caught my attention. I felt it prudent to check on the doings, as my future as mascot at the Dry Spell Saloon seemed dependent on the turn of their cards.

Empty glasses were lined up in front of the four players hunched over the poker table, and splashes of liquor pooled on the table. Shorty’s chips were considerably fewer than the other three players. My whiskers drooped as chances of remaining the Dry Spell Saloon mascot began to wane.

Shorty’s chips rose and fell as the afternoon wore on. I sat on a nearby table, commiserating with Mr. Casper, a grey-haired old codger who operated a small gold claim in a nearby river. Whenever he came to town, he usually exchanged most of his gold for Shorty’s liquor. The old man was a fool, but he didn’t smell quite as bad as most miners, as being tipsy, Mr. Casper fell in the river more often than most, washing away some of his natural man-stink.

In the late afternoon, the ladies announced that supper was served for any who cared to partake. The saloon emptied except for the four poker players, who found it harder and harder to sit upright in their chairs. Heads lolled and cards tumbled from their hands. More whiskey ended up on the floor than in their glasses. Never in the history of Dead Bush had such a game been played or the stakes so coveted.

Eventually, Smitty Rosenblatt passed out. George Waddlebaker went broke. Shorty hung in there, though blurry-eyed and slump-shouldered, as he continued to fight for his meezer. Poor Shorty looked ready to throw in the towel. Seeing the inevitable handwriting on the wall, I slipped through the front door and headed out onto the prairie, intending on a stay of four or five days, considering how revitalizing was an extended trip also to one’s health.

Besides, there was no sense watching Shorty go broke and the winner attempting to claim his prize. Mostly, I had no intention of being strung to the back of a saddle in a burlap sack until the old soldier found a farmer with a rat-filled barn and a $20 gold piece.

Someday, when folks sit around spinning yarns, they’ll tell the tale of a Founder’s Day when a cat was the prize in the highest stakes ever passed hands in a poker game in Dead Bush. As for me, I’ll continuing as the Dry Spell Saloon mascot, and when I retire to the back room on my burlap sack, I’ll think about next spring when old Tom comes ’acallin.’