A Childhood "Haunted" House

 Some years ago, my husband was back in Cleveland, OH. He decided to visit his childhood home. He was born in that house in 1939 and it was home to him and his siblings until he left for college in 1957. After his father retired in the mid-60's, his parents sold the house and moved to the old farmhouse they owned in Knox County, OH.

The house was in Garfield Heights, a Cleveland suburb. While he was growing up, P's neighbors were all White people, largely of Irish and eastern European origin. His parents had a party line, so P often picked up the phone to hear his next-door neighbor talking in Czech. One day, thinking she might suspect he was eavesdropping, he quickly hung up when he heard her say the word, "telephone".

P knew that the neighborhood had changed and that the house now belonged to a Black family, so he wasn't sure how welcome he'd be if he approached the owner. Noticing that the yard looked better than it had back in his day, he knocked on the front door. A middle-aged woman answered the door. From upstairs, what sounded to P like "a crabby old lady"--her mother?--called down to her: "Who's at the door?"

"It's OK," the woman replied to the old lady. P explained that he had grown up in the house. The woman was very friendly. She asked him to step inside. They chatted a bit, and then she asked, "While you're here, there's something I've always wondered about. There's a bump on the floor in the basement that looks like it's been covered over with cement. Do you know anything about that?"

Always quick on the draw, P replied, in an ominous tone, "Don't dig there!"

"What???" The woman was clearly horrified.

"Just kidding," he said, reassuringly. "Actually, I have no idea. That must have happened after we moved out."

Blustery Day

This past Thursday morning I went out on an errand.  It was an extremely blustery day,  probably an effect of the nor'easter blasting New England. Driving up a nearby street, I saw an older gentleman setting out on a walk, with two walking sticks. He was dressed in a kilt.  You just don't expect to see something like that in our neighborhood, at least so early on a weekday morning. I wonder how he and his kilt fared in the high winds. 

At the Doctor's Office

I was reading the Washington Post in the waiting room when an extroverted oldster came in, pushing a walker. He more or less collapsed into a nearby chair. "How are you, Little Lady?" he boomed. "Just fine, thanks," I replied, turning my attention back to the paper.

 As soon as he was settled, he pushed a small, brown book my way. "Here's a free bible." 

 "No, thanks," I said. "I have one at home."

 "Well, this one you can take with you wherever you go."

 I came up with a lame excuse. "I have trouble with small print." 

 "Looks like you're having no trouble reading the small print in that newspaper," he cackled. He had me there. I returned to my reading. Picking up a copy of Travel and Leisure Magazine, he announced to everyone, "I got plenty of leisure, but I can't travel."

Waiter

Yesterday I met my friend for lunch at one of Laurel's finest restaurants:  good food, fine wine, ice water in goblets, wait staff dressed like penguins, white table cloths, napkins, etc. After our waiter brought our salad, Carol, who lives in Florida, said she'd been following the Penn State story with great interest since coming up to Maryland this week. The coverage in their paper at home had been sketchy.

Carol was saying, "Joe Paterno liked to say he was just an ordinary guy living in a little brick house, but actually he had ---" 

"Yes, that's right," chimed in our waiter who was passing by at that moment. "The ones who get the big pay at these schools are the athletic coaches, but it's another story for the professors . . ."  He continued on in that vein for a moment, then remembered he had salads for another table. He moved on, but stopped on his way past us again to pick up the thread. A few more remarks and he was off again to the kitchen. But he wasn't finished. At the doorway, he wheeled and returned to our table to deliver his concluding statement. 

After he left, we could only look at each other and grin in amazement.  When it was time to get the bill, we had trouble attracting his attention. "Try mentioning Joe Paterno again," I suggested to Carol. 

Heavy Metal

Last night I visited my psychiatrist to get my prescription renewed. She's in a group practice. At 5 PM, the waiting room was jammed.

I saw a woman wearing a bib comprising as many as 35 necklaces of varying lengths and metals over a pastel T shirt. She had at least three rings on each finger, including her thumbs. She was one of the receptionists.

Election Day 2008

Arriving at 6:30 AM, I saw
a lady in MY place,
up smack-dab
against the schoolhouse door,
camped out on a folding chair, no less.
The line stretched round the school to the dumpster.
When the millipede finally lurched forward,
I lost my balance for a moment.
"Steady, there," said a neighbor.
By 7:15, we were halfway to the door.
Helicopters clattered overhead,
while birds on wires
observed our strange, flightless flock.
Inside the schoolhouse gym, long lines
wound back and forth.
Signs in English and Spanish
advised and admonished.
I voted at 8 AM.
I have a sticker to prove it.
"I voted, Yo Vote," it says.

Creep-o-maniac!!

This morning I drove our grandson to kindergarten at his new school for the first time. I was in a sea of rush-hour traffic, trying to keep the car in one piece as I weasled my way from the far left lane on Maryland 198 to the far right in order to turn onto northbound U.S. Route 1. Once on Route 1, I moved quickly, with traffic roaring up behind me, to secure a place in the left lane to make another turn.

Suddenly I was confronted with a guy traveling south in MY lane on roller skates!! He popped up out of nowhere, cruising along as casually as you please, VERY close to my left fender. This, despite the presence of a side walk to his right. He's lucky HE'S still in one piece. I honked and yelled, "Don't DO that!" In my rear-view mirror, I saw him clamber up onto the sidewalk, the turkey.

Then I muttered, "Creep-o-maniac!" I don't know where that came from, but my grandson thought it was a cool new word.

Bird at the Beach

Last week, Phil and I each spent half the week at the beach with our daughter, son-in-law, and 5-year-old grandson. I went from Saturday until Tuesday, while Phil stayed home with Mom, and then we switched.

One evening, at the picnic tables outside the Dairy Queen in Lewes, DE., they met up with a biker wearing a blue-and-yellow macaw on his shoulder, just like a pirate. Our grandson was thrilled. Our son-in-law asked, "Does she wear a helmet too?"

The biker, who was feeding the parrot sips of his "Blizzard" with a straw, replied, "If you can get her to wear a helmet, I'll shake your hand." He said his parrot rides with him to motorcycle rallies, perched on the handlebar behind the windscreen.

Suburban Silliness

Used to be, when you approached the white-spired Mormon Temple on the outer loop of the Washington Beltway, you could see a message spray-painted on a railroad overpass: " Surrender, Dorothy!" Too bad it got painted over.

What's My Name?

It was the annual holiday party for some families served by Laurel Advocacy and Referral Services (LARS), a local non-profit that works with the poor in our community. The party is given by the staff of PNC Bank. So there we were--well-meaning middle-class white and African-American men and women with a roomful of kids and their parents. The kids were mostly African-American, plus a smattering of whites and Hispanics.

Santa, a late-middle-aged white male recently retired from the bank, was making his way to his chair to give out the gifts, already worried about messing up the pronunciation of some of the wildly unfamiliar names. He was cornered by a lively seven-year-old boy who asked, "Who am I?" Santa blanched a bit beneath his beard and then boomed out, "Oh, I know who you are!" The kid persisted, "Yeah, but what's my NAME?" Santa scanned the room in a panic. Someone silently mouthed the kid's name. Fortunately for Santa, it was an easy one. "Quan!" said Santa. The kid beamed. "Yes!" He high-fived Santa.