Joy

What’s on my mind?

My aunt’s Swiss cousin stopped writing. That was it - no letters, ever again. My aunt chewed on this like a dog chews on a bone. It bothered her that she didn’t know what had happened. 

Was Susie ill? Was she on vacation? Had her letter been lost in the mail? It never once occurred to my aunt that Susie might have died. Susie was too young! Too vivacious! She skied! As though that might shield Susie from what happens to us all.

Neither Susie nor my aunt used email. They relied on letters slid through a slot in the door. 

I didn’t know Susie, but my aunt was my favorite of many aunts. She died 10 years ago, never knowing what had happened to Susie. It must have been hard, not knowing.

Unlike my aunt’s predicament, I know exactly what happened to Joy. Who thought I’d remember her, some 40 years after we first met? The truth is, I’ve thought of Joy often. We first met to discuss a subject close to her heart - a topic that could have changed children’s lives for the better - but the government turned away. 

What it was doesn’t matter now, but Joy’s efforts eventually drew 100,000 letters of public support. The lobbyists were too powerful; Joy’s campaign did not prevail.

After I retired, Joy and I talked every couple of years. Once, we had lunch at her place. I loved her intelligent, rat-a-tat, no-nonsense voice. Her husband of 66 years had been a banker. She seemed quieter after Reg died. And then I stopped hearing from her altogether. 

Joy and Reg’s wedding anniversary would have been March 5; her birthday, a week later.

I never met Garry, her son, or Donna, her daughter-in-law, but I know how much she loved them. Joy would have been 90 in March.

Joy lived well, but not extravagantly. In that practical way of hers, she’d say: “No one ever saw an armored car drive up to the cemetery.” Joy said that often.

I should have guessed what happened to Joy when I looked her up and couldn’t find her. The wonders of the Internet! Today, I stumbled across her obit. Joy was a nice woman; a good woman; a smart woman.  

People usually leave a mark, for good or for bad. Joy left hers. I won’t easily forget her.

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Two Neurons Bouncing

What’s on my mind? A thousand things.

We visited a craft fair two weeks ago - by far the biggest event of its kind in our village. Somewhere - in some newspaper, on some radio show, in some program of events - I’d read or heard that the craft fair had thousands of different items for sale. Or was it prizes? Or was it prize money? I really couldn’t remember, but the word “thousands” lodged in my brain the way a grain of rice sticks to the bottom of the bag and won’t come loose.

I never win prizes, mostly because I never enter contests. No lucky-number lottery tickets, no draw prizes, no beauty prizes (Du-u-h! That’s a given) … No worries!

You know where this is going, of course. I won the door prize.

I was about to give a crafter $15 for something I couldn’t live without when I heard my name boom from the stage. As the two or three neurons in my brain bounced around like ping-pong balls, I instantly deduced I’d won. A sound I’d never heard before escaped my wide-open mouth:

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!! EEEEK! EEEEK! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!”  

“Nicole Parton appears to be in the room,” came the blasé voice over the mic.

Running toward the stage like a linebacker, I was unable to control myself: “EEEEK! EEEEK! EEEEK! I’ve won! I’ve won! I’ve won a thousand dollars!!!” 

A puzzled look passed over the face of the woman with the mic. 

Instead of a demure and modest “Thank you …”  my first words were: “Where’s my thousand dollars?” Puzzlement passed over the faces of everyone in the auditorium. A mental case had won the draw.

“There is no thousand dollars,” the woman with the mic whispered into my ear.

The faces of the other two winners (the other two winners???) were stamped with annoyance. Their names had been called before mine; they’d been patiently waiting as I clambered onto the stage.

I hit that stage with such loud enthusiasm that the woman holding the mic lied: “Because Nicole Parton reached the stage first (the other women’s faces twitched with rage), Nicole will have the first pick of the prizes!” (They hated me; I knew it; I didn’t care).

“What’s it going to be, Nicole? Something from the knitting table, or the jewelry table, or the mmfff-mmfff table (I had no idea which table that was; I wasn’t interested and had blanked it out).

“Knitting!” I yelled. I’d been lusting after one of those fancy ponchos at the knitting table. The other two winners glared at me.

The woman with the mic lead me to the knitting table, at which point the knitter lead me to a small table at the rear. She said I could have “one knitted item from this table.” Everything there was five bucks. 

There were no ponchos on that table. There was nothing worth a thousand dollars. I fingered something I liked on a different table, but it was $15.

With my disappointment palpable, the knitter said of the $15 item: “Do you want it, dear? Do you really, really want it?” No, dammit, I wanted the poncho, but instead sniffed: “Yeth.” 

“Then go ahead and (sigh) have it. It’s yours.”

I’d prefer not to tell you what “it” was, because I immediately regifted it to a friend who just might read this - even though what she probably wanted was an expensive knitted poncho. 

She’d better like it. As everyone knows, a woman can never have too many knitted toilet-paper cover-ups.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

A Mile - Give or Take - Down the Road

What’s on my mind? A shoe. And then another shoe, a mile - give or take - down the road. Sneakers, to be precise. Sneakers sneaking around in plain sight, on the road.

“Why?” I wondered. 

There’s no telling. My first guess was that these shoes belonged to some reckless teenager who threw them onto the road as he raced around by car or on foot. 

A dare, perhaps? Why throw away one shoe at a time when perfectly good utility wires span the road? Tie them together and throw them up and over the power lines or telephone wires until they catch and hang there? Isn’t that the usual way young people abandon their sneakers? 

Ha-ha, very funny. Ha-ha. Not funny at all. And not a casual gesture, as it turns out.

I recently read that looped shoes on a wire can signal a drug dealer’s nearby, or that a gang hit took place in the area. And here I thought these were just shoes, dangling in the sun and the rain and the wind until someone, sometime, climbs into a bucket lift to take them down. Who knew? 

Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, as Freud so famously said. Shoes looped over a wire mean the expected - that some idiot did this to another idiot drunker than the first.  

The laces of these shoes weren’t tied and looped. They were just shoes, left in different places along the road. There was nothing fancy about these shoes - no recognizable swoop or color pairing or elevated sole to signify some upscale brand. If I were going to abandon a pair of sneakers, or fling them over a wire, that’s the kind I’d throw. The nondescript kind. 

I wouldn’t be tossing any leather sneakers with custom insoles, no-siree! First, they’d be too expensive to replace. Second (especially if I suddenly took to wearing stilettos, and wore a guilty smirk), everyone would know I’d done it. Third, I don’t know any drug dealers, unless you count “Mmff-mmff” in the neighboring village who bakes and sells dope-laced brownies “for medical purposes.” I’m sure “Mmff-mmff” isn’t about to fling her shoes over the power lines to broadcast each fresh batch. 

But these particular shoes … These! Shoes thrown on a road. Not fancy shoes. Just everyday sneakers. A signal, perhaps? (“Da guy’s stashed in da freezer. Make it snappy, Guido.”) A kidnapping? A heist? A worn-out pair? A pair that didn’t fit? A way to make a statement? 

Wartime drawings once said “Kilroy was here.” With nothing that dramatic happening in these parts, flung shoes say “I was here.” (Everyone’s on to you, Guido!) 

But these shoes were separated - not flung. A shoe. And then another shoe, a mile - give or take - down the road.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Dear Ms. Parton: Hat Hair

What’s on my mind? Hair. Not mine. Hoo-hoo! Never-ever-ever mine. 

So here are my Weekly Words of Wisdom: Head hair does not necessarily mean hat hair. Hat hair is what happens to head hair when you stick a hat on your head. Thank you. 

Questions? Does anyone have questions?

Dear Ms. Parton: I don’t own any hats. My hair still looks like hat hair - Curious in Cleveland

Dear Curious: Obviously, you borrow hats. Next question?

Dear Ms. Parton: I don’t own any hats, either. In fact, I never wear them, but my hair still looks like hat hair - Hopeless in Hartford

Dear Hopeless: Try a little shampoo. I hear it works wonders.

Dear Ms. Parton: My hair usta be short? En-it was easy to wear? En-I looked good in hats? En-no-one ever knew I-da worn one because my hair still looked great? E-nother women have prollems en I don’t? Em-I weird or what? - Wondering in Wyoming

Dear Wondering: Yes.

Dear Ms. Parton: My boyfriend asked me to grow my hair because he loved the long, luxurious locks that once rested on his shoulder as I read Nietzsche and he read the Kama Sutra. It wasn’t long before I was resting my hair on his shoulder, again. All he wants to do is run his fingers through that long, lovely hair and he’s satisfied. Now he’s reading Nietzsche and I’m reading the Kama Sutra - Desperate in Detroit

Dear Desperate: Wear a hat.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

We All Scream for Ice Cream

What’s on my mind? On this bleak winter’s day, a summer recollection, embarrassingly true.

In the summer of 2017, Himself and I were lolling around scratching our privates, as married people do, when a Dairy Queen ad came on TV. We like Dairy Queen, and have the love handles to prove it.

The ad said seniors could get a free, small-size Dairy Queen cone on such-and-such a date, the word FREE prompting my heart to thump even louder and faster than a hypothetical 30 minutes on the treadmill - hypothetical, because I’ve never actually done it. 

I haven’t had anything free since I steamed the uncanceled stamps from the birthday card my sister sent me in 2016, so I was pretty excited, and Himself  even more so. Himself’s crazy about ice cream.

On the day we’d marked on our calendars (did I say we were excited?), we hied on down to Dairy Queen and stood in a long lineup of (we presumed) freebie-seekers. When Himself made it to the head of the line, he grinned and said: “We’re here for our free ice cream cones!”

The young lady behind the counter looked at him with one of those vacant stares that says: “I don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you’re doing in my line-up, but get the hell out of here.” 

What she actually said was: “Huh?”

So Himself, still grinning, repeated what he’d said: “We’re here for our free ice cream cones!”

“We don’t have any free ice cream cones,”she said.

“You may think you don’t, but we saw it on TV!” Himself said.

“There are people in line behind you, sir.”

“B-b-but … We saw it on TV…” 

 “I’ll have to call my supervisor.”

“For seniors!” I yelled. “Free for seniors!”

The young lady was fast morphing into a - I don’t normally use this word, but it rhymes with “itch.”

“Psst-psst-psst-psst-psst-psst-psst …” Itch to Supervisor, who turned to us and said: “Step out of the line, sir. STEP OUT OF THE LINE!”

Himself went into shock. I’d retreated to my happy place, which is whiny and red-eyed. If at first you don’t succeed, cry, cry again.

“But we’re seniors,” I whispered.

With a look that said: “You’re idiots and I really don’t give a fig,” the supervisor addressed us in loud, slow words, so that as elderly folk, we might grasp it: “The ad was on American TV. It was for American Dairy Queens. Not Canadian Dairy Queens. There are no free ice cream cones in Canada.”

Himself went further into shock. Perhaps not wanting to look like the cheapskate he is, he said: “Well, then … We’ll have two medium-sized cones.”

They were massive. We felt sick, eating all that ice cream. We haven’t visited the Dairy Queen since, and probably never will. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Problem with Pigeons

What’s on my mind? In this pigeon-hating world, it seems appropriate to draw attention to the curious story of the little pigeon that could - and in so doing, found a nest to call his own. With a tip of the toque to Canada’s CTV News, the link’s below.

Why are pigeons reviled? 

Because they’re “rats with wings.” Because they’re “dirty.” Because they multiply and “take over.”  Because they’re “stupid.” 

Really? I was about to write a few snappy rebuttals when I recognized an uncomfortable truth. Aren’t some of these comments similar to what the ignorant and the fearful say of asylum seekers? I’m not for a moment drawing a parallel between pigeons and asylum seekers. That would be deeply offensive.

Reports Google: “Although the pigeon is one of the most intelligent of all the bird species, man has found limited uses for the birds other than for the purposes of sport, food and as a message carrier. A team of navy researchers, however, has found that pigeons can be trained to save human lives at sea with high success rates.” 

As admirable as that is, this appears to say that Pigeons = Useful = Good. 

Not everyone must be Useful to be Good. Nor am I suggesting any identifiable group is “intrinsically good” or “intrinsically bad.” Most are just people - with faces, families, names, and histories. People are people are people - each of us in some ways different, each of us in some ways the same. 

All people deserve respect, dignity, fairness, and courtesy. All people deserve a chance. All people deserve a nest to call their own, no matter how modest.

But in this pigeon-hating world, the short story below may surprise and delight you, as it did me. Yes, it’s about a pigeon. But it’s also about reciprocated kindness, and that’s what really counts. 

https://edmonton.ctvnews.ca/video?clipId=1592251

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Rock Solid, Full Cup

What’s on my mind?

Have you ever made a triple batch of peanut butter cookies in your GREAT, BIG, SEXY, HEA-VY, DU-TY electric mixer, belatedly realizing you’ve forgotten to soften the solid-as-a-rock FULL CUP OF FROZEN BUTTER you’ve just added to the bowl? Have you? Have you?

And then shrugged and said to yourself: “Meh!” 

And then thought: “This 325-watt baby can handle anything!” 

And then turned the mixer to its highest setting? 

If you haven’t, don’t.

If you have, enjoy the butter and brown sugar in your hair! As well as this oldie ... 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amcH5gBQEzM

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Gimme Some Skin - NOT!

What’s on my mind? Peeling.

And wedging your foot so far into your mouth that extracting it is impossible. So here’s my short, sad story.

Last week, we vacationed with another couple. We all brought so much food in bags and coolers that someone suggested it might have been simpler to tie a rope around our fridges and drag them behind the car. 

As we unpacked, I saw that they’d brought four bananas and we’d brought four bananas. 

“We can have a foursome!” I chirped - and then, realizing how deeply inappropriate that comment was - tried to “fix” it by adding: “With bananas.”

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Bridge to Nuevo Progreso

What’s on my mind? The bridge to Nuevo Progreso. My late mother-in-law and I walked across it one very hot day - but then, it’s usually hot where Progreso, TX, meets Nuevo Progreso along the Texas/Mexican border.

I sometimes think of that bridge when I join the Costco Shuffle - that slow dance known to Costco shoppers whose buttocks are spongy from too much eating and too little walking; shoppers whose hands reach deep into frozen tombs of breaded chicken, petrified prawns, and (yes, amazingly!) ready-made burgers; shoppers whose eyes flick-flick down aisles laden with food; shoppers whose minds try to assess the inventory already spilling from their kitchen cupboards, but who “just in case,” buy two more of whatever it might be.

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. What a place Nuevo Progreso was! Mariachis wandering through the cantinas … Giant sombreros and striped serapes heaped in market stalls … A bone-thin goat tethered to a post, its fate intertwined with that of the dressed, sun-dried cabrilo hanging in the sun. I hear some things have changed: No more terrified goats tethered to posts, an explosion that took out a quarter of the town, a gun fight here or there ... Other than that, Nuevo Progreso is more or less the same.

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. Have you seen it? Have you walked it? The bridge has changed, too, blocking out what visitors don’t want to see. If you saw the bridge as it was then, more than 20 years ago, you wouldn’t forget what you’d seen. You surely wouldn’t forget.

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. Adult Mexicans stood on flatbed pickups at the base of the bridge’s concrete footings. Sometimes with adult balanced on their shoulders, together hoisting five- and six-year-olds onto the tops of footings so high the kids would plunge to their deaths if the adults missed the catch. Maybe some kids have already died. Maybe … I don’t know.

In those days, the sides of the bridge were reinforced with heavy mesh. Today, steel shutters block the view of those kids hoisted high on those footings. Back then, you could see the kids as they wailed and begged, hoping someone might drop a coin or a folded American dollar through the mesh and into the plastic pails hooked to the broomsticks they held high. 

I remember their big eyes and tiny hands; I remember their bravery and their terror, balanced as they were on the footings of the bridge to Nuevo Progreso, some 20 feet above the pickup trucks. 

You can’t see the children through the metal shutters, but I’ve heard some kids pry open the shutters just enough to wiggle their fingers, hoping for compassion. They risk their lives to stand on the footings of the bridge because they are desperate. 

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. No Costco Shufflers, here. These children are hungry. So are their families. Some say giving them anything encourages a dangerous situation. Others say anyone who would hoist a small child onto the footings of the Progreso Nuevo-Progreso International Bridge must be crazed by desperation. Both views are correct.

US president Donald Trump wants to turn back asylum-seekers without due process, in violation of US law. He believes “a great, beautiful wall” along the southern border will keep asylum-seekers out. He says the Mexicans will pay for the wall. Yeah, right. 

I remember the bridge to Nuevo Progreso. Perhaps Donald Trump has also seen it. If so, did it give him pause? I suspect not. The dogs may bark, but the caravan moves on.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Don’t Fence Me In

What’s on my mind? The fence. We needed one to keep rabbits and deer out of the back garden.

So we talked to a fence guy who said: “I will build a great fence - and nobody builds fences better than me, believe me - and I’ll build it very inexpensively. I will build a great, great fence on your southern property line, and I will make your neighbors pay for that fence. Mark my words.”

To which the fence guy’s son, Eric, added: “My father will build the fence so fast, people’s heads will spin.”

“But how are we going to get our neighbors to pay for it?” we asked. To which the fence guy said: “It’s an easy decision for your neighbors.” And walked away, not really answering our question. When we tried to get specifics, he said: “We don’t know where the rabbits and deer are coming from. We don’t know who they are. They could be ISIS.”

We thought that was scary, so we got another quote from another fence guy. He said we needed to “patrol and secure neighborhoods before the rabbits become radicalized.” 

“What does that mean?” we whispered. “They’ll eat your tulips,” he said. Our hands flew to our mouths in horror.

The first fence guy said he’d keep an eye on the rabbits. It was only fair to hear what he had to say. “I saw the migration and it looks like mostly strong males. There aren’t that many females or bunnies. I understand the whole thing with migration. It’s a horrible thing. It should never have happened in the first place.”

“We’ve heard that the scent of human hair can keep deer from entering a garden,” we said.

“Let me tell you, I’m a really smart guy,” said the fence guy. “Sorry, losers and haters, but my IQ is one of the highest - and you all know it. Please don’t feel stupid or insecure, it’s not your fault.”

We tried to steer the conversation back to the effect human hair might have on deer. 

“I do not wear a rug,” said the fence guy. “My hair is 100% mine. I get up, take a shower and wash my hair. Then I read the newspapers and watch the news on television, and slowly the hair dries. It takes about an hour. I don’t use the blow dryer. Once it’s dry, I comb it. Once I have it the way I like it - even though nobody else likes it - I spray it and it’s good for the day.”

We looked at one another in confusion. “How much will our fence cost?” we asked.

“Eight billion bucks.”

“What???”

The fence guy shrugged. “The neighbors are gonna pay for it.” 

When we looked doubtful, he added: “Part of the beauty of me is that I am very rich. When I build something for somebody, I always add $50 or $60 million onto the price. My guys come in, they say it’s gonna cost $75 million. I say it’s gonna cost $125 million, and I build it for $100 million. Basically, I do a lousy job. But they think I did a great job.”

“And no one complains?” we asked.

“The neighbors are gonna pay for it,” he repeated.

Changing the subject, he said: “Black guys counting my money! I hate it! The only kinda people I want counting my money are little short guys that wear yarmulkes every day.” 

Disgusted, we said we’d talked to a second fence guy.

“I think the only difference between me and the other fence guys is that I’m more honest and my women are more beautiful,” he said. “You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass.”

Emotionally exhausted, we agreed to let him build the fence. And it was high, and the deer couldn’t jump it - but the rabbits still sneaked through and our neighbors didn’t pay.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019