Tango!

I started writing this story years and years ago. The book is complete but wrought with problems that I need to fix before submitting. Here is the beginning. Tell me if you think it's worth the trouble to rewrite. I cannot wait to hear your comments!

Tango

Though a cage may be made of solid gold, it is still a cage...Mexican Proverb

1
Her purse was bubble gum pink. It swung from Thalia Davila’s arm as she walked along the tree-lined streets on her way to meet her fiancé Luis Arroyo. Today was ‘d-day’ in the Big D; detonation day, dumping day, and disposal day in Dallas. Even though she wasn’t all that convinced breaking up with Luis was what she wanted to do, Thalia wasn’t ready for marriage either. Now was the time to put her feelings right out in the open. “It's over,” she’d say. Simple -and with just two words she’d be free.
The pedestrian crossing light at the corner of Ross and Pacific Avenues turned red. She stopped here, and used this moment to help gather her nerve. Of course, Luis would ask why she was breaking their engagement. That was a given. With so many reasons to choose from, which one should she pick? Thalia tapped her foot in thought. Ah-ha, the best answer loomed directly in front of her; it was the loft apartment –Luis’s surprise-wedding gift. The problem was it overlooked the city at the same time the city would be overlooking her. Luis kept making solitary decisions on her behalf and now, she had enough of his controlling nature. Love wasn’t enough. There was no way she could stand in church, before God and man, and say the words …forever, till death do us part. The ring on her finger cinched tighter about her neck.
Now her only dilemma was deciding when to break the news to him… would it be before lunch or after dessert?

What makes You Feel Alive?

Growing up, whatever I wanted, I got, except for one item. A doll house. I begged my parents for one every birthday, every Christmas. It never happened. I played with my sister’s wooden doll house but whenever she got mad at me, which was often, she took it back.


Gift giving. Ugh! We jump through hoops trying to come up with the perfect gift for someone we care about—or at least feel obligated to buy for. Does it hit the mark? Do you care if it hits the mark? Or, maybe you are the recipient of a gift that leaves you wondering if the giver ever met you? I have gotten my share of laundry hampers and ugly furry hats.


The holidays are nearly here. That means soon we’ll be making lists of what to buy for our beloved, our loved ones, family, friends and coworkers. We can be altruistic and talk about the real gift is just being together, or explain how important it is to serve others especially at this time of the year. I totally agree on both accounts.


But I am not talking about that. Today I am blogging about something else entirely. And it’s not just about Christmas gifts, anniversary gifts and birthday gifts. It’s those little in-between gifts throughout the year. Gifts that light the soul and spirit. You have no money? Me either. But do you have time?


Each year my friend Marcy tells her husband and children not to get her anything for her birthday, or Christmas. She means it too, and yet, there is a part of her that yearns for them to disregard her request because she wants something, just for her, placed into her hands. Something that makes her ‘feel alive’ something that is the breath of her life, something that says, “I know you. I am paying attention.”


When Andrea was little, her mother ordered a special chocolate cake decorated with yellow roses for her birthday. Since her death, Andrea never had another. Certain times of the year she’d think about this cake, and missing her mother’s special touch, wanted to have this cake again. One year she requested this cake for her birthday gift. She didn’t get it. She requested it the next year and didn’t get it. Finally, she bought it for herself and on it, she wrote, Happy Birthday to Me. Andrea isn’t selfish. She thinks of others throughout the year and when it’s her turn, people forget. Has that ever happened to you?


Mary’s husband gives her little gifts throughout the year. He wrote a poem and left on the kitchen table this morning because she was sad about the horse they just put down due to illness. The poem meant the world to her.


God bless the husband who took his bride of forty years on a picnic to the Grand Canyon because one day she happened to mention she suddenly developed an inkling to see it?

What about celebrating Sweetest Day by making a card for the person you love? Did you know there was even a day named that?


My mother told me that when she and my dad were first married, he didn’t have a winter coat so they saved for months to buy one. When there was enough money, Dad went out and bought her the coat. The day before, he saw her looking at it in a department store window.


I have another friend who wanted to give her best friend something special for always being there for her. She knew she loved brown bears in the wild, so she bought a hand carved cub bear and placed it in her garden amidst hollyhocks and jonquils. The next time my friend gardened, she discovered the gift.


It’s easy to think of the grand gifts like jewelry or massages or make-overs, but somehow it’s the little more important gifts that matter the most.


My new fave show is WhiteCollar and is on USA every Friday night. Here is a conversation from episode one which beautifully illustrates what this blog is about today.


Burke is driving Caffrey home, and they are discussing plans for the weekend. Burke tells Caffrey that he's going to fix the sink and watch the Giants, and Caffrey asks, skeptically, "With Elizabeth?" Burke declares that Elizabeth is really into football. Caffrey is still skeptical, and asks Burke about his anniversary. Burke has forgotten, and slams on the brakes in frustration, declaring that he does this every year – thinks about it for six months, and then forgets at the last minute. He confesses that he forgot last year, and promised to make this year extra special, "not just a corner booth at Donnatella's.” Caffrey offers to help, and asks Burke what makes her feel alive?" Burke is clueless, and Caffrey is exasperated: "How could you not know? Chasing me, you knew my shoe size, what time I woke up . . ." Burke protests that it was his job to know, and Caffrey points out that relationships are work, too. Copied from:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Collar_(Pilot)



I still love doll houses, but nowadays antique ones. A few years back I found one I could afford and bought it. Ever since, I have treasured it. One summer several years ago, I went to Wisconsin to visit my college roommate. Every evening, at the close of a fun filled day, we’d sit together in her garden to talk and drink iced tea as birds settled into the nests for the night. A few months later, I received a package in the mail from this friend. The card read, ‘for your dollhouse.’ I opened the box to find a tiny picture of us together in her garden, framed with hand applied gold leaf. The picture still hangs on the living room wall of my antique doll house to this very day.


What makes you come alive?

THE MOVE from West of Lake Michigan

On The Lake—Part One

The summer I was to turn thirteen, my mother and her adult step son Dick, persuaded Dad to retire. No wonder. Mom was tired of his carousing and his drinking. She figured if we moved away from the temptations things might just iron themselves out all right. In the meantime the family business would rest on Dick’s shoulders.

The spot on earth Mom picked was a no brainer since it was our summer home in Delavan, Wisconsin. I loved it there; the lake, the boats, the scenery, and I had a feeling of being reborn. My younger brother felt the same. By that time my older sister Karen was a freshman at the University of Wisconsin, leaving me the oldest of the siblings still at home. I didn’t flaunt my power. I enjoyed the lack of restrictions imposed by someone who thought she was the boss of me.

However, seventh grade was a do-over for me. Back in Chicago I didn’t pass it the first time through the grade. No shame in that, especially since no one at my new school knew about it. (I wasn’t telling) The summer between seventh grade and seventh grade, I suddenly slimmed down even further and grew boobs. The later totally embarrassed me.

My first day back in seventh grade, for the second time, in a new school and location, I found the boys and the girls liked me. Popularity was something new to me but I quickly adapted. I liked all my teachers too. They were non-combative.

For some reason after seven years, my mother finally tired of making those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and allowed me to eat hot lunch. Not only that but I had a great group of friends who actually wanted me to sit with them at lunchtime. We exchanged phone numbers and my social calendar was filled in every weekend. Added to this change of lifestyle, I brought home my first report card that did not have a D or an F on it. My mother was thrilled! “Let the good times roll,” I thought to myself.

Of course I had to block out the fact that dad now had nothing standing in between him and his drinking since he was retired. Alcohol consumption became his fulltime job. That and taking care of his lawn. We had a 24/7 drinking marathon situation on our hands. Mom frantically hid his bottles in my underwear drawer. Each morning I moved aside a bottle of vodka and two bottles of whiskey in order to locate all my undergarments.

By this time I was pretty good at blocking out what wasn’t pleasant and concentrated on the good things, such as popularity and going to school. What a difference a year made. And then I got my first boyfriend who enticed me to walk in the woods with him. I have never been so scared…. And I am not talking wild animals.

Continued next week…..

Family Stories--West of Lake Michigan

The Ivanhoe Restaurant, Chicago, Illinois. The 1950s

I grew up in Chicago on Wellington Ave., just west of Lake Michigan. When I walked out my front door and looked down the street, I'd see two important places. 1. My best friend's home 2. My dad's nightclub, The Ivanhoe Restaurant-which was a speak easy back during prohibition....way-yy before I was born.


I lived in a lovely English Tutor. My bedroom was on the second floor located at the front of the house where I watched the neighborhood. My bedroom walls were pink* and so was everything else in there. On the oppiste side of the house was the backyard. It was large with a sidewalk threading through it, starting at the back door leading to the alleyway. Thank goodness for that because if there wasnt a sidewalk, I never would have been allowed out there. Not ever. Let me explain. Dad loved his lawn. I mean, LOVED his lawn. We kids were not allowed to lay a single toe, much less a foot, on it. I can still hear him yell, "Stay off the grass!" Therefore we played on the sidewalk. If a ball rolled over the lawn, we stood in horror praying it hadn't flattened down the blades of grass too much.


I will never forget when Mom bought us a swing set. It was set up in our recreation room in the basement. An entire playground swing set, with three swings and a slide and monkey bars was down there. I thought nothing about the strange location. It made sesne. It was just how things were done.


For dinner, we'd either go to the nightclub and eat, which required wearing a fancy dress with crinolin slips, or we'd eat at home in pajamas and order from The Ivanhoe. Mom would go around the house and ask everyone what they wanted for dinner that night. She'd write it on her paper and then call it in. Within a half an hour it was delivered on a silver tray to our front doorstep. Princess or not, this was really cool. Only I didnt know it was cool because this is the way our family worked.


Satruday nights were always special. We didn't eat at The Ivanhoe, neither did we order from there. Mom ordered pizza from a real neighborhodd pizzeria! What a treat! We ate the pizza kneeling at the living room coffee table while watching TV. We were allowed one small bottled Coke, only first we had to drink a glass of milk. I think that was to balance out the bad effects of drinking the Coke.


I'd love to hear about your family quirkinesses.

West of Lake Michigan—Part VI

The hands of the clock keep right on moving across the face of time. Honesty has at last arrived to our house on Wellington Ave.—West of Lake Michigan. The whole concept of truthfulness was a kicker since every word that ever fell from my dad’s lips I considered golden. The thought of a lie was unfathomable. Dads don’t lie. Moms don’t lie either, and yet, I heard her lie when she talked to Monica’s mom, saying I made the story up about Dad paying a ransom. But I heard him say it. I didn’t lie. Why did she? This was most confusing in my eight-year-old brain.

And now for the big reveal. The kidnapping, the ransom, the escape to Arizona to get away from The Chicago Tribune headlines and the police—least they learn the real truth resulting in fines and a family embarrassment that the entire city of Chicago would be privy. Mom sat me down. “Dad has a drinking a problem,” she said.

Okay, I knew this already. Just last summer I had to get behind him and push him up a hill he couldn’t navigate by himself on his unsteady, drunken feet. Most of the time when he drank he would disappear from us for weeks. It was a part of life. My life. I thought all Dads’ did this. In between the drunk spree and coming home, he’d enter into a detox program. It’s just how our family worked.

During those times, Mom distracted us by signing us up for ballet lessons, horseback riding lessons, and visiting museums and The Art Institute. Then when Dad was BETTER and back home, life was on an even keel for a bit, until the next time, which meant another flurry of increased activity for us kids. And long nights for Mom as she gazed out the window, finger pressed down on the Venetian shades, checking the street for Dad. Wondering if this was the night he’d come home.
But that was just a part of the bigger, ugly truth. Dad also had womanizing problems. That was news to me. I didn’t understand womanizing but I did know what it meant when Mom said, “Dad has several girlfriends. He was on a date, in a bar, the night he got hurt.”

Whoa! Reel that thought in and take a good look at the horror dangling at the end of my imaginary fishing pole. He can’t date, he is married, right? I felt shame. I felt dirty. I wanted to go knock on those dating women’s doors to tell them he was my daddy and to back off.
“Why didn’t Dad drink at The Ivanhoe?” Was there no end to his cheating and betrayal? The only restaurant I had ever been to up to that time had been at The Ivanhoe—except for the time we had lunch near the giant Christmas tree at Marshal Fields. Not only was Dad unfaithful to Mom, Karen, my brother and me, but he was also unfaithful to his establishment.

Mom repeated; Dad was on a date with his girlfriend, they got drunk and into a brawl. The result was a bashed in head and multiple broken ribs. He was robbed of two thousand dollars that he had in his wallet for our family vacation, along with a diamond pinkie finger ring. On his way home in a cab, alone, he came up with a super duper lie to explain where the money went as well as why he was so badly injured.
At two a.m. one morning, he told this lie to his wife, never suspecting his eight-year-old daughter sat in the dark at the top of the stairs listening to the whole thing. That same daughter spread the news far and wide from show-and-tell, to the daughter of a police captain. From that moment it took on a life of its own.
Rather than to fess up to the police and the Tribune and suffer public humiliation, it was easier for my parents to leave Chicago, hoping during the month away, the attention would blow over. It had but it left its toll on me and the most precious friendship I had. Mom saw me. My tears. She had a broken-hearted daughter on her hands, who had lost her best friend in all the world. Mom called Monica’s mom and they made a lunch date where she finally told the truth. Once that situation was cleared up, Monica and I went returned to the Catacomb craziness and our Barbie doll playing. My world slowly healed.

Only there was a new problem, I looked at Dad differently. My hero, along with my princesshood, was gone.


To this day, fifty years later, my show-and-tell is still logged as an unsolved Chicago crime. See? I knew I had the best story in the third grade classroom.

*** be sure to come back next week for another slice of life.

West of Lake Michigan—Part V

Wedding Day. My older brother Dick with his bride Joan.


My sister Karen, who once thanked me for shining the media spotlight on her, the one who had a handsome police escort to and from school every day, now turned against me because Mom and Dad had to leave Chicago and seek privacy in Arizona. For meals, in place of the usual juicy meat, clouds of mashed potatoes, and pea mounds, followed by some kindof a yummy dessert that involved chocolate, we now sat over mystery food drenched in a layer of wheat germ. Our sister-in-law, Joan, was a health nut way before it was fasionable. Added to this horror, the candy basket Mom kept in a cupboard near the fridge was suddenly empty. We had our suspicions no matter many times Joan shrugged her shoulders saying she had no idea what we were talking about.



The first rule breaking took place 'day one' after the initial wheat germ incident. Karen wanted to exact revenge on me and my big mouth. She ordered me to do something forbidden by both Mom and Joan. Karen was five years older than me and towered above my head. What choice did I have? In the basement laundry room, right above the wash machine, there was a small door that opened up to the crawl space under the porch. It was filled with dirt; a really cool hiding place. But we didn’t hide. Karen had me sit in the door opening and said, "Don’t move, I will be right back." In a moment Joan was there. Karen beamed during my spanking.


At night I was sent up the steps to do my own bathing, dressing for bed and praying. All clean and jammied up, I started my run from the hall and then took a leap into bed, hoping to dodge the boogie man's spindly fingers from under my bed. Having safely made it, my heart still raced. I pulled the sheet and blankets up over my head. However, sleep only brought nightmares about witches coming in through the backdoor of the house. They all looked exactly like the Wicked Witch of the West. Of course, it didn’t help Mom made me watch Wizard of Oz right the night she packed to leave.



Finally the month was over, and it was time for Mom and Dad's return. They came home all sun-tanned and smiling, with suitcases filled with presents for us. Just putting my arms around Mom and smelling her sweetness was present enough for me. And again she heard my nighttime prayers, chased away the boogie man from under the bed, and made meals free of wheat germ. Even the basket in the cupboard next to the fridge was once again filled with candy bars. My world was back to being normal. Well, almost, there was still the matter across the street that needed to be cleared up. That one about Monica, my very best friend in all the world. She still wasn’t talking to me. Rightly so because the family thought I made this whole story up about what happened that night when Dad paid a kidnapping ransom.

I cried mournful tears, wanting to hear Monica's voice on the other side of my phone line. I couldn't wait to hide in the nightclub's Catacombs and listen to people scream when Monica and I touched their arms in the darkness. Mom was moved. She said she would set things right with Monica's mom but first she had a confession to make to me. After hearing what she had to say, I wasn’t so sure that the story Dad told Mom the night I overheard them wasn’t the preferable one to the real truth. That one was so terrible that I never would have told anyone. And if The Chicago Tribune or the police found this truth out, there would be real trouble for us all.


PART VI next week. In the meantime please check out my newest release, PASSAGES, now a Kindle book on Amazon (see the link). Or, if you don't have one but don't mind reading the eBook on a computer, follow the other link in the left hand column on this page to purchase it from me. Just be patient if it takes a few hours until I send it. Thank you so much. You are the reason I keep writing. Well, that and because I love to do it.

who are you, little i

While waiting for Part V to be written and posted, enjoy this poem by E.E. Cummings. A big time fave of mine.



who are you, little i


(five or six years old)
peering from some high


window; at the gold


of november sunset


(and feeling: that if day
has to become night


this is a beautiful way)