EASTER TRADITIONS AND THEIR ORIGINS

Easter as we know it, is actually derived from two ancient traditions, Judeo-Christian and Pagan.  Both have celebrated the resurrection on or after the Spring equinox for thousands of years.  Many of the elements of the Christian observance of Easter were originally derived from the Pagan celebrations.  Yes, really.


The name "Easter" originated with the name of an ancient Goddess. Easter was named after Eostre the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe.  Her name was derived from the ancient word for spring-"eastre." Similar Goddesses were known by other names in ancient cultures around the Mediterranean, and were celebrated in the springtime. An alternate explanation has been suggested-the name given by the Frankish church to Jesus' resurrection festival included the Latin word "alba" which means "white." (This was a reference to the white robes that were worn during the festival.) "Alba" also has a second meaning: "sunrise." When the name of the festival was translated into German, the "sunrise" meaning was chosen in error. This became "ostern" in German. Ostern has been proposed as the origin of the word "Easter". Who really knows?


Oh, and guess what else, Sunday is named after a Pagan sun god-Solis. In Latin “dies solis” means “day of the sun”.  It’s funny, but the Middle English word “sone”, Old English “sunnandoeg”, German “sunnon-dagaz” and Ancient Greek “hemera Heli(o)u” all have the exact same meaning-“day of the sun”. So Sunday -- Sun's day.


Just what is a Pagan?  The term “Eastern religions” refers to Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism, etc. The term “Pagan” or “Neo-Pagan” refers to a collection of separate religions that share many themes.  A Pagan religion is a faith that has been reconstructed from beliefs, deities, symbols and practices of ancient religions.  Druidic is an ancient Celtic religion; followers of Asatru is a pre-Christian Norse religion; and Wiccans trace their roots back to the pre-Celtic era.  Other Pagans follow Roman, Greek, Egyptian or other ancient traditions.  The term “Pagan” should not be confused with Satanism.  I’m sure to many people, any religion other than theirs are all varieties of Satanism. Wrong.  Many of the Christian practices come from PAGANS!


For example, these have been derived primarily from Pagan traditions at Easter time: Hot Cross Buns-At the feast of Eostre, the Saxon fertility Goddess I wrote about earlier, an ox was sacrificed.  The horns became a symbol for the feast and were carved into the ritual bread to be eaten.  How does an ox have anything to do with “Hot Cross Buns?”  Well, “buns” is derived from the Saxon word “boun” which means, you guessed it, “sacred ox”. It was later on that the symbol of a cross was used to decorate the buns.  The cross then represented the moon, (the heavenly body of the Goddess) and its four quarters.


Every Easter people buy Easter Lilies, right?  The Pagans revered this flower as a holy symbol associated with the reproductive organs-it was considered a phallic symbol.  Uh-oh, don’t tell my mom that.


The Easter Sunrise Service can be traced back to the ancient custom of welcoming the Sun God at the equinox-when daytime is about to exceed the length of nighttime.  It was a time to celebrate the return of life to animals and plants alike. 


Now, the Easter Bunny and Easter Eggs-The symbols of the Norse Goddess Ostara were the hare and the egg.  Of course, both represented fertility and the resurgence of life. A pagan god fell for the lovely Ostara. He took the form of a hare and left brightly colored eggs by her door each morning to woo her. Well, who wouldn't fall for a cuddly little bunny?  April, in Anglo Saxon, Old High German, and some modern German dialects, is called "Ostara's month." Dyed eggs were part of the rituals of the Babylonians.  Eggs were sacred to many ancient civilizations and formed an integral part of the ceremonies in both Egypt and the Orient.  Dyed eggs were hung in Egyptian temples and regarded as the regeneration of life.


Easter Sunday falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon after MAR-20, the date of the Spring Equinox. If you don’t believe this, check a calendar.  There will be a full moon on March 28 and Easter Sunday is on March 31. Easter Sunday can fall on any date from March 22 to April 25th. The year-to-year sequence is so complicated that it takes 5.7 million years to repeat.


Of course, pagans did not celebrate the death and resurrection of a sacrificed god in the spring. As Christianity began to replace the Old Religions, old and new customs blended into the modern holiday traditions we know today. All else aside, whether you are a practicing Christian, Wiccan or Neo-Pagan, the Spring Equinox and Easter are a time of renewal and rebirth.  Winter finally releases its hold on the land and Earth awakens once again.

Short Story-Turkey Surprise

Published in The Post-Journal, What's Happening Western New York

                                  

Menu:  Roasted Wild Turkey, Mashed Potatoes & Homemade Gravy, Cornbread & Wild Rice Stuffing, Corn on the Cob.

Ummm...Sounds so good doesn't it? Well, let's "talk turkey".

One year I had the privilege to be involved in a very unique experience.  It was a first for all of us. The first wild turkey my boyfriend, Kevin had shot, a new stuffing recipe, the first crop of corn of the year in the stores. I should have expected...something.

I received the call at work. "Go get Josh," Kevin said excitedly, "I shot a turkey.  He can help me clean it."   I should have known I was in trouble when we first got there.  There lay the poor little gobbler-headless.  While my son and Kevin admired the poor creature and discussed the excellent hunting techniques involved in the kill, I wandered a little ways off.   I'm not a hunter, and even though I have been around hunters most of my life, I still don't feel very comfortable actually "meeting" my next meal.

While I was browsing through the trees, I spotted something blue lying in the leaves a few feet away.  "Oh good," I thought, "Bluejay feathers."  I walked over, bent down to pick up...the turkey's head.  "EEEyoo", I cried.  Then I looked around to make sure no one had noticed.  I non-chalantly walked back over to the guys and pretended to admire the turkey.

Okay, now came the part where we had to figure out how to clean it.  Well, obviously first we had to get the feathers off.  What  followed next was a 10 minute discussion on how to do just that.  Josh, Kevin and I all had different ideas, so we did the adult thing...called my grandma.  Grandma told us to dunk the turkey in boiling water and the feathers would come right out.  She was right, they did, all over my clothes, the table, Josh, Kevin, the cats...  Then the wind decided to kick up and help us out by blowing the rest of the feathers all over the place. Hopefully the neighbors didn't notice the feathers in their trees.

We got that step done and Kevin had the honor of removing all the lovely things inside a turkey.  No, they aren't in a neat little white bag like the ones in the store.  He was "game" about it and with alot of  "This is disgusting" from Josh, and a few "Don't you ever shoot another turkey!" from me, we cleaned it up, rinsed it off and I took it home to put into my freezer until Sunday.  We planned a real nice dinner with Kevin and I, his son Chalan and my son Josh.

Picture this...a log cabin in the woods on a sunny afternoon. The turkey is cooking.... it smells so-o-o good.  The corn is bubbling away on the stove, the potatoes are mashed and waiting for the gravy. Absolute perfection, right? It should have been....

We finished up the details of the meal and while Kevin carved the turkey, I made the gravy (only a little lumpy) and we sat down to dinner. We all helped ourselves to the food and dug in to eat.

Remember, this was our first taste of wild turkey. It was good, similar to tame turkey, but a little "wilder" tasting. I buttered my corn and took a big bite. I love corn, and we all know how wonderful that first ear of corn tastes.  I looked over at Kevin with a smile in my eyes, the corncob in my mouth and he said with a grin..."You have a worm on your corn."  I suppose Chalan really didn't mind the corn I spit at him. I'm just thankful that it was a whole worm.

Being the good sport I am, I just threw that cob away and bravely took another one.  I checked this one really really well.  With the worm memory still kind of fresh, I took a bite of the mashed potatoes.  Musty.  I had just bought them the day before!  What was this, a jinxed meal??  Well, with all that to contend with, we finished up eating, complimented the cook (which wasn't me) and that should be the end of the story.    Wrong.

Kevin was slicing off some more breast meat to send home with Chalan, when he called me over. "Do you know what this is?" he asked.  It was some dark jelly looking stuff near the breast.  "I have no idea", I said, "just don't cut into it." We didn't know, maybe it was supposed to be there.

The next day I received a phone call at my office from the turkey hunter himself, laughing hysterically.  At first he wouldn't tell me what was so funny. "You know that jelly-looking stuff we found in the turkey?" he asked.  "Yes...." I said hesitantly, with this funny feeling in my stomach.  I should have known I was in trouble by this time, but being the optimist I am, I let him go on.  "It was full of... " more hysterical laughter, "parts of grasshoppers, little red berries and grass." "Oh..." I said, "Grasshoppers???  Parts???"  Flashbacks of the worm danced through my head.

By this point I was laughing.  None of us had thought to remove the gizzard when we cleaned the turkey.  How were we to know???  I suppose my grandma thought one of us dummies would have had sense enough to take it out.

Menu: Roasted Wild Turkey garnished with Grasshoppers and Berries, Cornbread  & Wild Rice Stuffing, Musty Mashed Potatoes with Home-made Lumpy Gravy, Corn on the Cob with Freshly Boiled Worms.

Well, at least the poor turkey had his last meal ...and the last laugh.

Short Story-Facade

          The almost hairless face in the mirror was disconcerting.  Okay, not completely hairless; there were a few hardy stragglers along the eyebrow line.  Tweezers came out and they disappeared.  The black, battered makeup case was open on the counter, harsh fluorescent light on.  All set. Let’s do this. 

No one know, no one suspects.

            Avon mineral foundation was applied with care, and the chore of drawing in believable eyebrows began. Gripping the brown brow stick tightly, feathery strokes were applied.  Bobby took time out to gnaw on a fingernail while gazing in the mirror.  Brown-black eyelashes were glued on next  and the face in the mirror batted the long lashes like a coy little girl. Blush, lipstick, the face is complete. 

“Looks good, looks okay,” Bobby thought.

The wig reflected in the mirror was of fairly good quality.  It was a golden brown with subtle red highlights and sparkled a bit in the light.  It was synthetic, not real hair though.  The synthetic wigs always looked good after a shake, not like the real hair wigs that needed to be washed, curled and sprayed like real women’s hair.  Putting the wig on, Bobby gently adjusted the new bangs on it. The bangs semi hid the eyebrows and made the green eyes stand out. A smile at the face in the mirror-now complete.

Walking into the loft bedroom, Bobby paused a moment to listen to the birds outside the window and sighed at the next task-putting on the artificial breasts.  Getting them on straight always took so much time.  Unzipping the spring green cases, each breast was inspected for tears and cleanliness.  These kind were nice.  You could wear them with regular bras and didn’t have to wear those bras with the sewn in pockets.  The manufacturers tried real hard to make them attractive but they still resembled brassieres from the 50’s in many ways.  It was probably the extra wide straps. Lacy or not, two inch wide straps showing were very telling and people would know right away.

“I certainly don’t want anyone to find out about this.” Bobby contemplated.

“Crap! Damn!”  Fifteen minutes and three tries later, Bobby finally got them positioned evenly-sort of.  Ah well, the new pink chemise would correct any unevenness.  It was a color called “Shag Pink” and had thin spaghetti straps and a fitted, lacey bodice.  Bobby pulled the chemise on carefully and shimmied it down over the breasts slowly so as not to dislodge them.  Another glance in the mirror and a small twitch straightened the wig.  Bobby’s shaky hands smoothed the chemise over bony, thin hips.

The dress laid out was a deep sea green color and had an almost medieval style to it.  The sleeves were long and flared at the end and the cut was somewhat form fitting.  Well, should have been form fitting.  The big oval mirror in the corner of the loft told the story. “They say you can never be too thin or too rich,” Bobby said to the mirror.  “Well, I still have the too rich part to hope for.”    Dr. Levine  was not going to be happy about this at all.   “Listen, Bobby” he had earnestly said, “you have to eat more protein; this is tough on your body.  I know you’re strong but you aren’t that strong.”

Bobby picked through the jewelry box on the old dresser to find the turquoise nugget necklace and slipped it on.  Turquoise was the healing gem and it simply made Bobby feel better to wear it.

Bobby knew it was vitally important to keep up the image people needed to see.  The façade was working well too.  Bobby smiled at the memory of the wink from the guy at the Kwik Fill yesterday.  Maybe all this time and effort to “keep up appearances” was really worth it.  It’s nice to be desired even if you couldn’t follow through with it. 

“I wonder how that guy’d feel if he knew the real me?” Bobby mused. “Probably break his neck backing away.” 

            Bobby stood in front of the mirror and took inventory from head to toe.  Bright pink polish peeped out of the open toed high heels. “Not bad at all,” Bobby said to the mirror, “considering what I have to work with.”

            Clip-clopping down the loft stairs, Bobby rubbed noses with the cat on the way out the door.  Ebenezer sneezed in indignation and stalked off into the kitchen to see what the dogs had left in their bowls.  Not that he’d deign to eat dog food, he just seemed to like sitting in front of their bowls to freak them out.  Bobby imagined the scene being played out behind the closed door.  Two Golden Retrievers laying side by side staring at the black cat staring at them, not daring to go any closer.  Eb would keep this up until he got bored and moved on to other cat duties, like sleeping in the hamper or laying in the sun that streamed through the skylight at mid day.

Bobby carefully climbed into the battered black pickup truck, perusing the seat for stray dog hairs and backed out the driveway.

The doctor’s office wasn’t busy that morning so Bobby got right in.  Gazing up at the water stained ceiling, Bobby wondered why all these places looked so much alike.  Pale green walls, tiny windows and claustrophobic.  Shifting nervously on the paper covered bench, Bobby waited for Dr. Levine to come in. 

Bobby liked Dr. Levine because he was different from the rest of the doctors.  He understood the need to try to appear as normal as possible during the entire process.  Levine didn’t make Bobby feel freakish or strange like so many others did.

No one did it on purpose, that was the sad part.  How could Sandra know that all that cleavage she showed made Bobby feel so jealous? Alicia couldn’t know how her pretty real hair and eyelashes made Bobby cringe and cry inside. Rose couldn’t understand that the normalcy of her life was like a dagger in the heart. They couldn’t know, and no one knew how angry at life Bobby felt at times. The anger was always a surprise because it was so irrational.  Dr. Levine said it was the hormones making Bobby act so crazy and say and do stupid, hurtful things to people, but Bobby knew that the hormone therapy wasn’t the real reason.

No one knew what it felt like to have everything change, literally over night. Seeing other people so happy and well, normal was so very difficult when you feel like your life has been taken away. It wasn’t something one could prepare for mentally either. This had brought out the nasty side we all have but can most of the time hide. Bobby’s head dropped in shame remembering how horribly people had been treated through this. Would it ever be the same again?

The door opened.

Dr. Levine came quickly in the door, long gray pony tail bouncing on his back.  He smiled a bright smile and said “All of it went very well, Bobby. It all came together this time. We’re done!” 

He walked over to the bench and bent down to say teasingly, “Miss Roberta, we can schedule your breast reconstruction in about 6 weeks! The eight rounds of chemotherapy, the radiation and the surgery did it! The cancer is gone! You can have, as you call it, your real life back.”

Yes, but is there anything left?, she wondered.

Short Story-Forget Me Not (light hearted)

Forget-Me-Nots are my grandmother’s favorite flower. She planted a wonderful bright garden of the blue blossoms in a quiet secluded area not far from her lakeside cottage. The flowers naturalized and spread over the knoll and into the wooded area not far away. As soon as I was old enough to venture out alone, I began the regular custom of gathering the blooms for her every spring and through the early summer months. It was not a chore I minded. Each spring I waited in anticipation of seeing those cheerful little blossoms for the first time and the smile on my grandmother’s face as she arranged them in old brass teapots, canning jars and small glass vases all over her house.

            I had waited impatiently for the rain to cease that day, and at the first sign of clearing, I grabbed the basket and lightly tripped up the muddy path to the wild little garden. I tried to dodge the puddles but sometimes I just couldn’t resist jumping into the middle of one.    Quite a few people just might question the fact that I am 53 and still splashing in puddles, but I doubted my grandmother would.  Hadn’t I seen a tell tale pair of wet sneakers on the back porch just last week? No, Grandma wouldn’t mind the wet feet at all. She and I had often come back together soaking wet and laughing. I hadn’t heard her laughter for awhile.

            “Your aunt Faye says I’m getting wacky,” she told me with a sigh as we had a cup of coffee together later that morning.  “I suppose she’ll be wanting to put me in of those old fart homes soon.” I could see the worry in her blue eyes at the thought. 

“You aren’t wacky, Gran, you’re 94.” I reassured her. “At 94 you can do just about anything and get away with it.  Tell her you’re just getting eccentric in your old age.”

She snorted and said, “What do you know about it anyway?”

“What I know is that I talk to frogs so I’m certainly not going to call you wacky.” I countered. “No one else is going to make you feel that way either if I can help it.”

“You still going to those wicker meetings “ she asked. “at that convent over in Sherman?” I choked back a laugh and delicately wiped the coffee off that had squirted out of my nose.

“It’s Wiccan, Grandma and it’s a coven not a convent. And, no I haven’t been there for awhile.”

“Well, good” she said. “Those nuns can be nasty creatures. Always got their panties in a knot about something.” Gran leaned in close to me and whispered, “Watch out for those priests too. That celebracy thing they do just isn’t natural.  Men need sex, it’s that simple. Just ask your grandfather.”

Oh dear. My 94 year old grandmother was talking about sex. My 94 year old grandmother was talking about sex with my grandfather who had been dead for two years.

I worded my next question carefully, not really knowing what the answer might be or if I really wanted an answer. “Have you had sex lately, Gran?”

 She turned her gray head towards me in amazement. “What’s wrong with you? Of course I haven’t! Your grandfather’s been gone for two years!” she replied indignantly. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” She stood up and walked over to the sink with her cup and saucer.  Staring out the window, I saw her shoulders droop a bit. “I do miss him so, Beth.”  I glanced over at the picture she carried from room to room.  It was a close up of my grandfather on his 95^th birthday, a couple of years ago. I knew she missed him; we all did.

Staring out the window, she touched the small vase of flowers on the sill, stroking the little blue faces, deep in thought. I waited and watched, wondering what to expect next. Was she truly losing it? Suddenly she turned and resolutely said, “I need a man and you’re going to find me one.”

My 94 year old grandmother wanted a boyfriend.

I panicked, I’ll admit it. I would do anything to make my grandmother happy but a boyfriend? “Uh, uh…Gran…ummm,” I stammered.

 “What?” she cried, hands on her hips. “You think I can’t still keep a man happy?” She leaned over me, nose to nose. “I could teach you a few things there little girl.” Wide eyed, I gulped and sat back in the chair.

“Yes, ma’am.” was all I could manage.

Then I realized what she had said. My 94 year old grandmother had still had a sex life at 92!  I didn’t even have a sex life at 53!

A light I hadn’t seen in a long time came back into her eyes and she seemed to sparkle. 

“We can do that thing-a-ma-gig I saw on TV.  Eat Hominy, or something like that,” she stated excitedly. “You can bring that suitcase computer you have over so we can be profilers. We could put an ad in the paper, too.”  I closed my eyes, rubbing my now throbbing temple.  My grandmother had had sex more recently than I had.

“It’s EHarmony, a laptop computer and a profile. We absolutely can not put an ad in the paper for a man!” I told her wearily.

 I wasn’t sure what to do at this point. Humor her, calm her down, I told myself.  “Why don’t I take you over to the Senior Citizen center next week? You haven’t been there in a long time.” 

“Oh, piddle,” she said. “Those old crones are boring and the men walk around with their diapers hanging out of their pants half the time.” She looked me straight in the eye. “No men with diapers, you understand? No droolers either. Nothing worse than kissing a man who drools.”

Oh no. Now kissing!

Great. I had to figure out a delicate way of asking an old man if he peed his pants. I had to make sure he didn’t drizzle, too.  I shaded my eyes and sighed.  Why hadn’t I stayed home this morning?

“It isn’t just for the sex thing you know,” she told me.  “I miss having a man around the house.”

At this point I wasn’t so sure my aunt wasn’t right.  I had the feeling though, that the wacky one was me because I was actually going to help my grandmother find a man.

I arrived early the next morning with the computer and we commenced filling out the questionnaire after I set up an email account for Grandma. What should have taken 25 minutes took over 2 hours since Grandma wanted to make sure she got all the answers “right”. 

“Okay, Gran. Listen.” I said. “It says ‘We tend to focus on what we most want in a partner. However, it may even be more important to know what we want to avoid! Examine the list of items below and select Ten qualities that you can’t stand to have in a potential mate.’” I read from the website.  “Number one: Vanity… I can’t stand someone who is overly interested in their physical appearance. Two: Dependence… I can’t stand someone who bases their happiness on me. Three: Depressed… I can’t stand someone who is …”

            “Does it say anything about snuff?” Gran interrupted.  “I don’t mind chewing snuff but he has to spit outside like your grandfather did.” I scanned down the list.  Nothing about…

“Oh, and he’s got to take his muddy boots off on the back porch. I won’t spend my time mopping the kitchen floor and cleaning up after him.” She stated emphatically.  Boots, mud…

“What about coffee? Does it say anywhere that he has to know how to perk coffee? I miss having coffee in the morning with a man.”

My head hurt.

            We struggled through the rest of the questionnaire and finally I hit submit with a prayer of thanks and a sense of sadness for her.  After all, what were the chances she would find any matches? I truly didn’t think there would be many nonagenarians joining a match making website.

            I poured another cup of coffee as Grandma went into the other room to find a photograph for her profile page. She knew just the right one she wanted.  “I don’t look so old in that picture.” Gran said.  “Your grandpa said it was a sexy picture, too.” 

I sighed and opened the newspaper laying on the table.  I perused the headlines.  Nothing much happened around here of any interest.  Turning the page I saw it. A quarter page ad that read:  

WANTED!   MAN FOR COMPANIONSHIP!  94 year old widowed female looking for a new friend. I am a looker!  Must be clean and neat in appearance.  Sean Connery types preferred.   Extra bonus if you have a grandson for my divorced granddaughter. She is pretty good for 53.  Sex is possible if I like you and you still can. I don’t know about my granddaughter.  Come to 4662 Lakeside Drive to see me! Bring flowers.

“Grandmother!” I shrieked, “what have you done?”

“What?” she innocently asked from the other room.       Picking up the newspaper I rushed into the living room to shake it in her face. “You actually put an ad in the paper??” I shrieked, chest heaving in indignation. “How, how…uh…you don’t even drive! How’d you pay for it?” I managed to gasp out. 

            Gran continued to casually leaf through the photographs in her aproned lap.

“Oh, this nice young woman at the paper helped me out with it,” she said. “She said she’d be happy to drive over and pick up a check. I think her name was Eileen.  She giggled a lot.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet she did.” I replied.  I could just imagine the hilarity going on down at the newspaper right now.  That little witch Eileen knew exactly what she was starting. We had been nemesis since our high school days and Sam Benson had taken me to the prom instead of her.  Neither of us had seen him in 35 years but she never forgave me that slight. Seething inside, I tried to think of something, anything that I could do to fix this.  Nothing came to mind short of suicide or murder.

            I spent the next few days feeling like Marlene Dietrich, hiding my face all over town.  It’s a small town and I knew everyone had read the advertisement.  No one actually said anything to me, but I heard many muffled laughs and snickers as I passed by. My grandmother had always been somewhat of a character but she had really done it this time!

            Saturday afternoon I took a drive over to talk to her about her EHarmony listing.  Just as I had expected, no one had responded to her profile.

“Why can’t we change it?’ she plaintively asked. “Maybe you put something in wrong.” 

            “No, Gran,” I softly stated. “I think it’s just that you’re very special and there aren’t many men out there that can meet your needs.” 

It broke my heart to see the dejected look in her eyes again.  She had been so excited and hopeful the last few days when I talked to her on the phone. She had even put a blue rinse in her hair.

            “Well, hell’s bells,” she huffed. “Guess that’s that, isn’t it.”  Gran sat down at the table and fiddled with the teapot full of drooping blossoms. “I thought the ad might work,” she sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said I’d have sex.”

That was still a visual I preferred not to think about. 

“Come on, Gran, let’s walk up and get you some new flowers.” I said, patting her shoulder. “That’ll make you feel better, won’t it?” 

Suddenly, she looked old and frail as she said, “You go ahead.  I think I’ll take a nap.” She walked slowly out of the kitchen towards the darkened hallway that led back to her bedroom.  That proud blue head hung down on her chest as she shuffled away.

            There was a knock at the back door.

            In a flash, my grandma primped in front of the hallway mirror, and raced to the door. Swinging it open with a wide toothed smile, I heard her gasp “Oh, my goodness.” 

Peeking around the door frame I saw him.  He wasn’t Sean Connery by any means but he was very handsome and dapper.  Standing on the back steps was a tall, thin gray haired old man, dressed in an antique tux holding the biggest bouquet of Forget-Me-Nots I had ever seen. 

“As I recall, Miss Myrtle, these are your favorite flowers.” he growled in a husky voice.
“Oh, my.”Gran said again.  I had not seen her at a loss for words ever in my entire life. “Frank?” she squeaked out.

            “Frank?” I squealed.

Oh no. It can’t be. Frank had dated my grandmother before she met my grandfather.  Gran always said she broke his heart when she started dating my grandfather 77 years ago. 

“I was only 17 and I couldn’t help myself.” She had told me once.  “I liked Frank a lot, but when I saw your grandfather…well there was no one else for me after that.”

            Uh-oh. My brain suddenly made a connection through time.  Frank…Benson.

It really wasn’t possible, was it? I heard a car door slam, footsteps coming up the sidewalk.  I closed my eyes.

No, no, please, let it not…oh please let it be…Oh crap, what do I have on??

 My eyes popped open at the words, “Grandpa, you didn’t tell me you knew Beth’s grandmother.”  Sam smiled and held out nosegay of violets towards me.

 “Your favorite flowers, I believe?”

            

           

Short Story-Stella Pt. 3

My family and their friends played along with me in their adult wisdom. I was teased about her and asked all kinds of questions. “I’ll bet she looks just like you doesn’t she Jessie?” my mom would say. “No!” I would cry in frustration, “I’m me, not her! Her hairs are red and she’s big.” I was a very small child for my age with golden brown hair, nothing like her at all.


I tried to ignore her but she was strong.

I’m sure it was considered quite cute and sweet by the adults in my family to set an extra place at the dinner table for my friend. How come I couldn’t see her, could they? But how was it possible to feel something that you couldn’t see? It confused me.

I didn’t want her beside me, I made them put her next to my father. Maybe he could control her because I sure couldn’t. Naturally, she did as she pleased anyway, and I would get blamed for the beets on the floor or the finger prints in the cake icing. No one ever saw her when she was bad, not even me.

But I paid for it every time and I knew she was there.

My grandmother stopped over for a visit one day and found my mother in tears. I was, at the time, standing in the corner because I had been a “very, very bad girl”. My mom had seen a nasty, mean drawing in my book of a kitty with blood all over it and had caught me breaking all of my crayons. I was crying because I had snapped all of my crayons on purpose and it broke my heart to do it. I was crying because I didn’t do that drawing or any of the rest of those nasty ones in my book! She had!

I was crying because my mom was mad at me and I had made her cry again.

When I tried to explain that day, my mom yanked me to the corner and said “You stay right there until I tell you that you can move you bad girl! Don’t lie to me! You did this and I will not put up with this kind of behavior!” I was scared. I couldn’t make her go away and she was getting stronger.

“Maybe this invisible friend thing has gone too far, Jill.” my grandmother said that day to my mother. “Jessie is such a good girl. I don’t understand this willfulness and temper all of a sudden. It just isn’t like her.” My heart soared! My grandmother knew! She knew it wasn’t me!

“She’s just being a mean, nasty brat!” my mother cried angrily, “She’s not your daughter to coddle, and she needs to stop this! Don’t you go making excuses for her again!”

My shoulders sagged. Even Gramma couldn’t help me now. I was alone with her.

The years passed, my brother arrived and family focus was on the new baby. He was cute, happy and always had a smile for everyone. I loved him with all my heart but I would not stay alone in any room with him. My parents consulted Dr. Spock who said that jealousy of a new sibling was perfectly normal and that the older child would come to terms with it on their own if given time.

I wasn’t jealous of the baby, I was protecting him from her. She didn’t like him being there. I knew… I knew she wanted him gone! She wanted to hurt him and make him cry! I had found the drawings in my sketch book that told me how she felt about him. I shuddered as I remembered what she had done to that cute little face. He was safe though, because I had figured it out.

You see, as the years had passed, I had come to realize that the horrible drawings that appeared on the table in my room during the night weren’t what had happened, but what she wanted to happen, what she wanted to do. I had also discovered quite by accident, that if I erased some of what she had drawn or changed it, things didn’t happen at all. I had to check though, every day to make sure I didn’t miss one.

Sometimes I did.

One time she put my cat in the dryer and just as I opened the door to get him out, my dad caught me and smacked me hard on the butt. “I thought you loved Frisky!” my dad yelled at me. “Don’t you know you could kill him doing this? What is wrong with you sometimes?” I found the drawing of a cat strangled by my blue and green striped knee-sock under my bed later that afternoon.

So I learned to be vigilant. I learned to be quiet, to listen for her, to feel her coming. Already a contemplative child, I became more so. I locked myself in my room when I felt her coming and fought her as best I could. I found that reading kept her occupied and kept me out of trouble, so we read. We read constantly, because she was always so hungry.

When reading began to bore her, I made up stories and wrote them down in the set of bound blank journals my grandmother had given me. “Perhaps if you write down your bad dreams and do some drawings of what you remember from them,” she had said, “maybe they will go away.” They didn’t go away, but I did figure out a way to keep some sense of control. She would read the stories I came up with, draw wonderful images to go along with them if she was feeling kind and if she liked them.

When she didn’t, well, that was another matter.

My sketch pads and journals are numerous and kept hidden away from prying eyes. I rarely share “my” drawings with anyone. I don’t think I would be able to explain or even be believed if I tried to say why some of the drawings are signed like they are. In what looks remarkably like blood, they are signed simply

Short Story- "Stella" Pt. 2

Oh, but you’re probably wondering how it all started. It was innocent and simple at first. I was an only child until I was 11 years old. I had a good life and a great upbringing. My mom didn’t work and I had three sets of adoring grandparents. Yes, three. My mother’s parents had divorced and remarried, so lucky for me-grandparents were everywhere! I always had lots of pets like white mice, hamsters, a turtle, a dog and a cat. I was a quiet, solitary child happiest when I was alone with my imagination. I liked to draw and color and would spend much of my time on the living room floor on my stomach, propped up on elbows in a patch of sunshine that came through the window. Everyday it was in the same place and it felt so nice on my hair. My crayons were always spread out around me like a rainbow because I wanted to see all of them at one time.

Jiminy Cricket became part of my life when I was around 4 years old. My aunt Betty took me to see Pinnochio at the local theater in Jamestown and he came home with us. Jiminy Cricket was a character that accompanied Pinnochi on his adventures in his quest to become a “real boy”. The Blue Fairy was the one who made him Pinnocio’s conscience, to guide him and teach him right from wrong. I find it odd now that I did not develop an affection for the Blue Fairy, or Pinnochio, but with a cricket. I was a strange child.

After seeing the movie, I spent my time talking about Jiminy Cricket, who sat on my shoulder. I knew really, that he wasn’t there but I pretended. I suppose I was lonely in some ways.

For weeks I walked around with shoulders straight and stiff so he didn’t fall off.. Jiminy had to be consulted about everything-from what to eat for dinner (do we really want to eat those beets?) to the color of the rubberbands on my braids (one blue and one green is good, right?). Whispering in my ear, Jiminy was friend, confidant and advisor. Like Pinnochio, Jiminy steered me in many directions, sometimes not very good ones,but nothing all that bad. My parents and grandparents played along with this. After all, imagination is good in a child, right? Oh, if only the cricket had stayed.

I don’t remember when Jiminy Cricket left my life or why, but it was around the same time that the nightmares started. The dreams always had a common theme: being bound, held too tight or wrapped up in something so that I couldn’t move. I had lost total control in these dreams: of my body and of my mind.

The dreams were always dark and shadowy, eerily quiet and very scary. I had these dreams quiet often and it didn’t matter if it was at night when I was alseep, or if it was nap time during the day. They still came. Time after time, I would wake up with tears streaming down my face, heart racing and my hair sticking to my face.

I never could explain them to anyone with my limited 4 year old vocabulary.

How do you express feeling stifled and smothered when you don’t even know the words yet? I could not verbalize the fear or what was causing this fear to anyone. I couldn’t explain the blood to them, or the pain.. It was there, it just was and it scared me because the dream, or something in it, had total control. It was around this time that my invisible “friend” made her appearance.

Short Story-"Stella" Pt. 1

I couldn’t get warm. Huddled on the sofa wrapped in blankets, I still shivered. I am sure if I had looked into a mirror, even I would have seen the desperation and fear in my eyes. I did not want to know. Knowing always hurt too much. Who ever said, “knowledge is power” was not in my situation. The question, “Where were you last night?” would open up wounds that had just started to heal over. I didn’t want to ask her. I knew that the blood on the sketchbook gave me the answer anyway. She could be very bad.

I loved her and I hated her.

I should call Dr. Franklin.  He had been a part of my life as long as I could remember.  I knew he would rush over here and try to talk to Stella. He knew about her; had in fact helped me meet her so many years ago. Only Dr. Franklin can get away with calling her “Estelle”. I have always thought she was just humoring him. She knows why he calls her that and secretly is amused by it.

Stella is everything I’m not. She is confident, bold and brassy. She’s an artist and fits the stereotype to a tee: talented, eccentric and temperamental. Me, little mousy Jessie…well, I am happiest with my cat and my books. I’m an author; children’s books mostly. Stella helps me out by illustrating them with bold and vivid drawings that children love.

Most of the time, Stella and I deal exceptionally well together. I normally don’t even know she’s been here until I wake up and find a stack of finished drawings in the studio we share. Sometimes I can faintly hear the music she plays while she works, but it’s usually very muted and I drowsily go back to sleep. Stella understands my fears and protects me as best she can.  Stella is kind but can also be very cruel when the mood strikes her.

The blood on the sketchbook proved that.

I shivered again as I gazed at the bloodied book. Should I open it? Should I put it in the studio and just walk away from what was inside? The last time I ignored Stella’s offerings I paid for it dearly. Tears welled as I remembered the heartbreak.  My shoulders tightened, as if someone was standing behind me, glaring at the back of my head. Even though I knew I was alone, I could still feel Stella’s fury simmering.

Sighing, I stood up and walked over to the sketchbook. Heart pounding and with shaking hands, I slowly opened it.  Stella is always so proud of her work and never understands my horror.

You see, Stella does not know that we share the same body.

Short Story-The Run

The Run

They ringed the clearing that crisp autumn day in November 2006, waiting for him to come out of the trees. The clearing was large and sunny, near a ravine. It was quiet that morning; the only sounds were the birds chirping and the faint echo of water tumbling over rocks in the stream that ran into the gully. There were four of them, three eager to take him down, one undecided about it. “Like three damn hounds with guns,” he thought. The tracker, leaning against a silver birch with rifle cradled in his arms, had a sick feeling in his gut about the whole thing. Ben Swanson had led the other three straight to this site early that morning in the crackling dawn. Quiet, confident and in control, Ben now wanted to turn tail and run like a scared puppy and didn’t know why.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done this before. He had many “trophies”, so to speak. Years of this had earned him some respect, but today the whole situation seemed different. The other three guys he’d known and worked with for years. He was confident of their abilities. Okay, Bruce was a bit iffy on trigger control, Ted couldn’t see all that good anymore and Jack…well, Jack followed along just to be part of something. Overall though, the four made a capable team.


So why this gnawing…whatever the hell it was? It pissed him off. Maybe it was time for a new…new anything. Just not this anymore. He just didn’t feel the fire anymore inside him.
The odd part was that this quarry wasn’t any different than the others, really. He was older definitely, and a bit bigger than average. Ben could tell that by the depths of his tracks and the length of his stride.
He was a wily one, too. He’d been eluding the others for weeks now and they were feeling and looking like damn fools. Ben had gotten so tired of hearing exaggerated stories about “Bucky” as he had been dubbed. He’d be seen 25 miles north of here in the morning and then back by nightfall. Not even remotely possible with the terrain in the area, not to mention the time involved following those deer trails. Deer didn’t walk in a straight line so Bucky would have meandered all over the hills if he kept to trail. The name irritated Ben too, for some reason. Disrespectful.

Ben knew that a folk lore was in the making and that Bucky would get bigger and smarter with each telling. He really didn’t want to bring this one down. It was amusing watching people run in circles and he’d developed a sort of respect for Buck. Wishing he’d put his bourbon flask in his pocket that morning, he mentally and physically prepared himself for what would happen and sighed.

It took quite awhile, waiting in the morning shadows. The prey knew something was going on that wasn’t normal. He watched the clearing, scanning the edges but could detect no movement. Rubbing his shoulder lightly against the silver birch he stood under, he eased an itch.
Immediately, another materialized on his left leg. Rubbing one leg against the other, he leaned forward from the birch to crane his head out a bit further. Nothing. Looking up at the sun sparkling through the trees, he made his decision and gingerly stepped a few feet out. Turning his big head, brown eyes scanned left, right, left again. He stopped, and listened.

Startled, they saw him materialize out of the shadows as if an apparition. For a few seconds, he was admired. Tall, muscular and handsome even with the gray on his face. Ben straightened up, heart pounding with a rush of adrenaline. Shaky fingers thumbed off the safety, then put it back on. He could almost hear Bruce’s fingers jittering on the trigger, eager to fire. They knew to wait though, until he cleared the trees. If one of them missed, back into the shadows he’d go and be lost again for days. Ted probably hadn’t even spotted him yet, not through those dirty pop bottle glasses of his. Jack was waiting to see what everyone else would do.


Buck walked close to the edge of the trees, knowing instinctively that his coat blended in with the sun stippled dimness and made him difficult to see. He moved smoothly and stealthily, a practiced veteran. He walked a few paces, stopped. Head up and alert, he listened, then moved on. The sun glinted off of the gray on his face as he wove in and out of the dappled shadows. He was thirsty and the water in the gully wasn’t very far. He lifted his shaggy head and with a long perusal of the clearing, stepped completely out into the sunlight.


The first shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around. Blood streaming, he kept his feet and made a break towards the ravine, knowing he could find cover there. He could hear them burst out of the trees across the clearing. He knew he was faster and was sure he could make it.


Running full out, chest heaving with exertion, he felt his left leg disappear under him. He went down but scrambled back up within seconds, eyes wild, heart pounding, and breath whistling in and out of his open mouth. Turning in the other direction, he limped-ran-stumbled back towards the cover of the trees.


He heard more shots, someone yelling, and felt the bullets smack into his back and the side of his face. He fell but somehow struggled to his feet again. He couldn’t see much, not with the blood running in his eyes. Everything was viewed through a fiery red haze as he turned again and pushed his tired damaged body towards his only hope at this point-the water and the ravine.


He could taste the memory of it on the back of his throat, sweet and cold.


Ben couldn’t believe what he was seeing! Running out of the cover of tree line, he saw Bruce firing his gun like it was an SKS. Bruce ran, stopped, aimed and fired, ran a few more feet, stopped, fired again and again, not even aiming anymore. He had a dazed, drooling look on his face as he shot. Ted was there as well, off to the left and back a bit. He too was pumping out bullets like a crazed man. Jack was firing into the air wreaking havoc with everyone’s nerves, screaming nonsense at no one and nothing in particular.

“Stop! Stop you assholes! Let him get to the water, to cover!” Ben yelled at the top of his lungs as he ran towards the carnage going on in front of him. “Stop shooting! He’ll have to lie down there to rest!” No one listened. They just kept shooting and shooting manically.


Buck valiantly pushed himself across the ground on his chest, towards safety and the gully. Blood streamed from his wounds. Half his face was gone in a mess of bone and tissue. His left leg hung by a few tendons and the right was useless at this point, broken by someone’s bullet. He could hear the water gurgling.


Ben kept running, knowing Buck couldn’t possibly see anymore and that it was pure adrenaline and the will to live keeping him going. He left a trail of blood and gore as he inched his way to the stream, the three men walking behind and now simply shooting the ground around him in glee.


By the time Ben got to the scene, the shooting had stopped. Buck was still alive, but barely. The other three were huddled together, staring at what they had done.

“Shit!” said Jack, “Ain’t a whole lot left to him is there?”


Ted shook his head and turned away, with a strange look on his face.


Bruce was the scary one. He had a look of something wild in his eyes, finger still on the trigger of the rifle. Ben had the distinct feeling that if any of them moved too quickly, Bruce would instinctively fire.


Walking slowly over, Ben looked down and blue eyes met brown. No words were spoken; none were needed. The man and the deer that lay dying at his feet understood what had happened.


The man had seen it in other men in his past; the deer had seen it in the coyote and wolf. Bloodlust did not differentiate between animals. Ben knelt down and put his hand on the buck’s heaving side and said hoarsely, “It was not a just contest, my brother. We both know that.”


He turned and scowled at the men behind him as he drew his hunting knife. They stepped back quickly, not understanding what was happening but instinctively knowing Ben was now dangerous.


Ben looked up at the sun coming through the trees for a moment, then gently bent the buck’s noble head back and finished what had been started. Blood gushed and the two great heads went down. Ben bent his head and drew in the last breath of the deer. As the other three watched, blood slowed and the fire in the eyes of both animals-one human, one not-faded, then winked out.