Fresh Fudge

My sister was running late.
She called my son's cell phone to say she was stuck on the two-lane part of the trip, driving behind a mowing crew.
"She says we have plenty of time to get a burger or something," my son, Jack, says after hanging up and slipping his phone in his pocket.
We have been making this trip for years, meeting my sister or parents at the state park rest area halfway between our house in the city and their house in the woods. It's a little over an hour drive each way.
Since the boys were very small, we have met at this same spot. When they were little, it was a longer hand-off, transferring car seats, then booster seats from our car to theirs. This year, Jack complained that he could have driven the entire way himself, now that he has his license. He could have saved Aunt Sissy the trip, he says, if only we would break down and buy a new car.
"I know. I know," I say; but secretly, I am happy for the hour's drive with Jack. Next time, he probably will drive the whole way himself. He is spending the week with my parents. His younger brother will have a turn later in the summer. My mother will fix their favorite foods, my sister will play cards with them, and my dad will make jokes and ride around with them in his four-wheel drive mule. Each boy will have another summer week to remember.
We drive down the curvy road that leads away from the rest area and the interstate and back toward the park area.
"Look," Jack says, pointing to a wood-framed souvenir shop on the side of the road, "fresh fudge. When I'm a grown-up, I'm going to eat fudge everyday."
I was still feeling a little fuzzy from the pancakes and syrup we had for breakfast.
"We do NOT need fudge," I say. "Besides...it's not really fresh in these little shops. I'm sure they ship it in from somewhere." I actually have no idea; but it seems unlikely that someone is in there making fudge.
We stop anyway.
Jack nearly laughs out loud when we walk in and see an elderly woman making fresh fudge; but before he can say, 'told you so,' the two of us are captivated by the store's inventory. The entire store is decorated with dozens of tiny Christmas villages. It's as if Jack, and I, and the little woman making fudge are giants in this tiny world of mitten-clad miniature figurines. Most of the people who populate the village scenes are only as tall as my pinky finger. Some are poised to throw snowballs, others are walking on icy streets made of glass, some diminutive children decorate a Christmas tree, a pink-cheeked couple sits on an elfin bench beneath the glow of a miniature working street light.
Each separate village boasts dozens of figurines and porcelain cars and intricately detailed houses and churches and shops. We tiptoe, trying to quiet the shuffling of our giant feet, past Dickens Village, A Christmas Story Village, Christmas in the City, Alpine Village, Holiday in the Woods, New England Village, Winter's Frost, Original Snow Village, the North Pole...
Each village's name is typed on a yellowed piece of card stock, propped in the frayed cotton snow in front of each scene.
It's mesmerizing and magical...the squeak of our shoes against the thickly-waxed wood floors, the hum of the air conditioning, the buttery smell of fudge, and these tiny scenes set up with such meticulous care.
After circling the entire shop, I feel as if I am losing track of time. My sister will be waiting, I think; but I can't help revisiting some of my favorite villages for one last peek. We exchange a few friendly words with the shopkeeper who talks to us while swirling a spatula over the thick rectangle of fudge she has poured on a block of marble.
She asks where we are from; and we tell her, but strangely we don't ask her the same question.
She says the store is open year-round, except for January and February. Her eyes twinkle from behind round, wire-rimmed glasses.
We leave the store, and trudge silently back into the heat of summer.
"I feel like we just passed up some excellent fudge," Jack says, once we are both in the car. I start to give in and go back to buy the fudge; but some part of me is afraid if I open that heavy wooden door again, we will find a typical souvenir shop...t-shirts and mugs and key chains; but no fudge, no Christmas village, no jolly Mrs. Claus.
I decide to drive away, preserving that magical place, choosing to remember my son and me, careful giants allowed a glimpse into the magical worlds of someone else's dreams.

Souvenirs

We returned home from our beach vacation yesterday. Today, our house, cleaned so carefully for the dog sitter a week ago, is cluttered with half-emptied luggage, assorted piles of laundry, souvenir t-shirts, and a crumpled rainbow of beach towels.

I shake out shorts and bathing suit cover-ups, leaving a fine layer of sand in front of the washing machine. The dog sniffs the dirty clothes bag. She does not recognize the smell of the sea.

Sand followed us home, clinging to the mesh in the pockets of my husband's swim trunks, wedged in the soles of my flip flops, caked inside broken fragments of pearly shells tossed into the beach bag, swirled in a thin, muddy paste in the bottom of the cooler.

I don't mind the sand; but I wish, along with it, I could have carried home the calming shush of waves, scalloping against the shore. I wish I could unpack the warmth of the Florida sun and drape it, like a shawl, around my shoulders. I wish we were closer than a long-day's drive...close enough to make temporary footprints on our morning walks and catch glimpses of dolphins, dancing just past the sandbar.  

I miss the beach.

Wherever Little Boys Go

The dog interrupts my writing.
She needs to go outside.
We stand at the top of the hill,
behind our house,
overlooking Cave Creek.

A little boy runs along the opposite bank,
a net in his hand,
his eyes downcast,
following the minnows
that dart, and weave, and tease.

I remember my son, now 15,
years ago on his birthday,
a net in one hand, a bucket in the other.
New rubber boots calf deep in clear water,
creating a detour for Cave Creek's minnows.

A crow brags from the tree behind me,
interrupting my remembering.
Some shiny treasure in his beak glitters in the sun.
The dog barks, and I turn back.
The boy is gone, already around the bend...

or lost; wherever little boys go
when they outgrow their fishing nets
and rubber boots.
When splashing through the silver ripples
is no longer their favorite way to spend a summer day.

Lunch at Don's

Don's Restaurant was always dark and cool and noisy. Sometimes, in the summer, my mom and sister and I would meet Grandpa at Don's for lunch. Grandpa had been retired from the coal mines for a while; so he spent his days visiting with his friends on Main Street.
Back then, Main Street had a movie theater that showed Jaws and Star Wars and Kramer vs. Kramer. It also had a Baptist church, a bank, a clothing store called Watson's, two dime stores (T,G, & Y and Newberry's), a soda fountain called Rexall's, a jewelry store called Stiles's, and, of course, the Courthouse. Grandpa and his friends gathered to talk and chew gum in front of the Courthouse. Some of them smoked cigarettes or chewed tobacco, but not Grandpa. Grandpa chewed cinnamon Dentyne and would only give me "half a cake" if I asked for a piece.
Because he never learned to drive, he took a taxi downtown every morning. When I asked my mom what Grandpa did all day downtown, she said he "loafed around." Sometimes, he took care of business at the bank. Sometimes he sat at the counter in Don's Restaurant and talked with whomever sat at the stool beside him. I wondered what they talked about.
On days we met Grandpa at Don's, he was already there, holding a table for us. It was usually a corner booth, the vinyl seat cold against the backs of my legs. Don's was so noisy, with clattering silverware and clinking ceramic plates. We could barely hear each other talk. Grandpa didn't talk much anyway.
He ordered Cokes all around, while I took my time looking over the menu. Chicken fried steak, macaroni and cheese, breakfast served all day, tuna salad... I thoroughly read the neatly typed descriptions of each entree; but I always ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with a side of steak fries. The plates were white with a green ribbon of paint circling the rim. I squirted a pool of vinegary ketchup between my fries and sandwich, scooting the pickles out of the way to save them for last. I savored the perfectly grilled sandwich, thick with melted cheese; and I ate every last one of my fat, flat fries. Grandpa cleaned his plate, too; and my sister used a waxy red crayon to trace letters on the paper kids' menu. We never said much. Mom ate her tuna salad with a fork in one hand and a Saltine cracker in the other. Her packages from Newberry's leaned against her hip on one side. Her wicker purse stood open on the seat beside her; but she didn't need to pay. Grandpa always took care of the check.
I wish we'd taken a picture there, something to look at and remember. Three generations gathered around a wobbly Formica table in a dimly-lit diner, Grandpa wiped the corners of his mouth with his paper napkin, mom asked about his day, my sister sat on her knees, and I made a face when I bit into a sour pickle.
My Grandpa died when I was in my early 20s. By that time, Don's Restaurant had been closed for years. Most of downtown died store by store before Grandpa passed away; but he still took a cab downtown everyday as long as he was able.
I wish I had a picture to remember us at Don's Restaurant just exactly like it was, just exactly as we were...a moment in time that seemed so ordinary then and so memorable today.

What If

My head felt empty. For several hours yesterday, I had forced every question right out of it. I, who love knowing things, mentally took each "what if" captive and wrestled it somewhere below my brain stem. I could not afford to stop and think. I had to act and act fast.
We thought it was food poisoning...when my 17-year-old began to feel ill Sunday night. He and his dad and grandmother had been to a soccer tournament in Indianapolis. Prior to his game, they ate a mother's day brunch at a local restaurant. Jack had sausage gravy and biscuits.
When he got home, he said, "I don't feel so good."
"It must be the brunch," he said. "My stomach hurts. I took some Rolaids; but it didn't help."
By 9:00 PM, he was sitting on the floor, hunched over the toilet in his downstairs bathroom.
"Where does your stomach hurt?" I asked. He said it hurt right in the middle, around his navel.
He couldn't stop throwing up. I sat up with him all night. He would doze for an hour and then be up again, nauseated, vomiting. I kept checking his temp...not high at all; but he felt clammy.
The next morning, I went to work for half a day. The vomiting had slowed down; and he was sleeping. My mother-in-law said she would stay with him.
It was our first day of state assessment. I decided to administer the test and then leave my students with a sub for the afternoon. I could barely concentrate, handing out test booklets, reading the instructions, sharpening pencils, monitoring students. When my sub arrived, I hit the door running. Something nagged at the back of my mind. "What if..." I shut it down. The appointment with our family physician was at 1:00. I made my way across town. My son, still nauseated, sat in the passenger seat, a plastic garbage can between his knees.
The doctor also suspected food poisoning. He ordered a shot to help with the nausea. He pressed Jack's stomach. He didn't like Jack's reaction.
"I think we should do a CT scan," he said.
Insurance didn't agree.
I said, "Do it anyway." The what ifs were scratching at my brain, clawing their way in.
Jack drank the contrast; and we waited. The radiology tech performed the scan.
"Do you live near the hospital?" she asked.
The what ifs were screaming in my ears.
I did not need the tech to explain. I knew she could tell me very little until the doctor read the scan. I made eye contact with her. She held out a piece of paper and asked me to write my cell phone number down...again.
Jack and I got into the car.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"To the hospital," I said.
"But the doctor hasn't called yet," he said.
"Just to be safe," I said. The what ifs were so loud, my voice sounded muffled in my own ears.
The doctor called as I was pulling into the hospital parking lot.
"It's a hot appendix," he said. "They're waiting for him in surgery."
The what ifs drowned out the directions the registrar gave me.
"Can you just walk us there?" I asked. I must have looked desperate. I could see her mouth moving, telling me how to get around the hospital; but I could not understand.
She walked us to surgery.
Hours and prayers later, we are home again...just released from the hospital. The emergency appendectomy was a success. The surgeon removed Jack's appendix before it ruptured. Jack feels so much better. He says he feels like he could take off running...
"Not for three weeks," the doctor says.
I thank God for the power of prayer and the power to stifle those crippling what ifs. I thank God my son is okay.

Snow Cones

Everyone gets one snow cone.
They choose the flavor.
We pay.
"Don't we get to play?"
Michael asks.
He has a football
tucked under his arm.
"Just snow cones today,"
I say.
He grumbles
under his breath.
He forgets
that I have teacher ears.
"Be grateful,"
I remind him.
My eyebrows
make an exclamation point.
My face is
an emoji with gritted teeth.
I'm tired.
It's been a long week.
110 seventh graders
make a loud, crooked line.
The snow cone truck
is parked behind the football field.
Two college students
scoop the ice.
"No seconds," I say.
Funds are limited.
The girls order mango.
The boys, blueberry.
One girl orders lemon.
"I thought it would be yellow,"
she complains.
It's clear instead.
And sour.
Someone nudges Luke's elbow.
His cherry snow cone stains the grass.
My face
is an emoji
with a sideways frown.
Luke twists his mouth,
worried.
His elbows bow out,
surprised.
He holds his empty spoon
in one hand.
His empty cone
in the other.
He glances at me
over the top of his thick glasses.
A heavy sigh
freezes in the roof of my mouth.
"Get back in line,"
I say.
I motion to him.
I nod encouragingly.
My face
is a smiling emoji
with red cheeks.
I remember.
Today is supposed to be fun.
"Add one more to the purchase order," I say.
Funds aren't that limited.

Doctor's Orders

I sit very still on the examination table. The sound of the crinkly paper under my thighs is distracting. I want to listen, very carefully, to the doctor's advice.
"Anxiety is the body's natural response to danger," he says. "Many years ago, if a person was being chased by a bear, for instance, the person would experience anxiety. It's called the fight or flight instinct. The person's blood pressure would rise; and the person would be ready to run from the bear. Now, not too many people find themselves up against a bear; but the human body is still hard-wired for fight or flight. You seem to be experiencing fight or flight in situations that don't require fight or flight. Something stressful happens. Your blood pressure rises; and then something else stressful happens, and it goes up again."
"What should I do?" I ask. "I do feel stressed."
"Do you like to do anything that relaxes you?" he asks.
I think about it. I really don't like massages or running or napping or manicures.
"I like to soak in the tub and read books," I say. I would shrug; but I remember the crinkly paper. I raise my eyebrows like question marks instead.
"Do that," he tells me. "Soak for hours if that's what it takes. Read lots of books."
Doctor's orders.
And so, when I feel like fighting or fleeing, I turn on the faucet in my little tub. I don't have a fancy soaking tub. I pour bubble bath that smells like pomegranate or lemon or lavender vanilla. I pour the bubble bath directly under the hot water that streams from the faucet. I swirl my hand under the surface and lean back in the bubbles. I wear a claw clip to keep my hair dry.
I dry my hands on a towel so I don't get the pages of the book wet.
I soak until my skin is as wrinkled as the skin of a prune.
I soak until a little jagged piece of my toenail polish peels off and floats like a miniature pink island.
I soak until I read to page 100; then I read at least two more chapters.

* * *

"The good news," the doctor says, on the day he gives me a prescription for bubble bath, "is that your ancestors were probably very good at running from bears. The calm people were eaten."