The Barking Dogs

The incessant barking coming from the neighbor’s house located behind the thick snarly woods set Marge’s nerves on edge. She looked down at her mangled arm remembering the day she was attacked by her friend’s pit bull. I hope those dogs are kept in their pen, she thought.

 She had only lived in her house on Cherry Street a month. It was everything she and her husband, Steve, had dreamed about—enough room for children and grandchildren some day, a front porch and a yard. They had just finalized the sell when standing right there in the lawyer’s office Steve gripped his chest and fell to the floor. The paramedics took him directly to Medical Central, but their efforts to revive him failed.

            Now that Marge was alone she toyed with the idea of putting the house back up for sell. What would be the use of having their dream when she would be alone? How could she see herself in a house big enough to raise a family when there would be no family. Speaking to her agent she was told she should hold on to the house for at least a year or she would lose significant money. Steve had advised her many times to be frugal with money so she decided to move into the house at least for awhile until she could decide what her next move would be. The day she moved in her next door neighbor, Liz, came over with a plate of cookies. She liked Liz although Liz seemed to know almost too much about what was going on in the community.

            “Do you hear those dogs?” Liz asked.

            “Yes, where are they?” Marge asked.

            “They belong to the Smiths over across the woods. They have eight Rottweilers, huge and vicious.” Marge shivered and stared at Liz. Failing to notice Marge’s alarm, Liz kept talking, “I haven’t seen them in over a year since they were puppies. I hear they’re as big as ponies. I’m afraid to let the children play in the woods. I can’t imagine what would happen if one of them slipped his collar. They have that invisible fence. How it keeps them in beats me.”

            “I don’t know why anyone would want that many dogs. I can barely tolerate my cat.” Marge said, her hands shaking as she drained her coffee cup and headed to pour Liz another.

            It was time for her children to arrive home from school. They were attending half days- something about teacher training. Liz reluctantly eased up from the table and headed for the door. She would be back tomorrow. Marge could count on it. Her neighbor was a wealth of information. Marge could hardly mind. She didn’t know anyone else in the neighborhood. She felt she was living a lonely and uneventful life. But that was about to change.

            It was well after dark when Marge arrived home from the grocery store. Lines had been long. The weather girl was predicting snow and she like everyone else in Washington state had waited until the last minute to shop. She put the groceries on the table and looked around for Sam. Where was that cat? She hoped he wasn’t on the prowl again. The last time he went  tomcating he came back with a broken front leg.

            “Here Sam, she called, but no Sam.

            That barking! Sure does sound close. She peered out the back window but couldn’t see a thing. The night’s eerie darkness made a cold chill run through her body. She thought she heard a muffled scream. I need a pole light, she thought. Well, if one of those dogs is loose, I’m not going out there to see about it. She went into the den and turned the T.V. up to drawn out the barking. Morning would come soon enough. 

            Liz appeared as on cue in a play for her morning coffee.

            “Did you hear that dog last night?” Marge asked.

            “Yes, he was really close. Have you seen anything of him this morning?”

            “No, I haven’t really taken the time to look out. But, Sam is missing. He didn’t come home last night. He’s done it before. I’m sure he’s o.k.”

            Liz moved to the window. “Oh, no,” she said as she ran toward the back door. A half eaten Sam was laying on the ground at the back of the yard near the woods, still and bloody.

“ He’s dead,” Liz said.

            Marge rushed to her side. “It must’ve been that dog. The Smiths will have to keep those dogs from getting out. I’m calling the authorities.”

The next day when Liz came for her morning coffee she was a walking newspaper. “You can’t believe what happened when the sheriff visited the Smith’s house,” she said.

            “What?” Marge asked.

            “The sheriff ran smack dab into a dope ring. He had to shoot one of the dogs that almost attacked him and the Smiths are in jail this morning. I hear tell that dope dealers were coming and going from there at all hours of the night. No wonder the dogs couldn’t rest.

            “What will happen to the dogs?” Marge asked.

            “They’re in protective custody. I don’t know where. Anyway, we won’t hear them anymore. Are you going to get another cat?”

            “I don’t think so. Maybe, I’ll get a dog,” Marge said.

           

 

 

Clowning Around

Clowning Around

She said her three year old daughter was frightened to the point of hysteria when her sister appeared in costume on Halloween. Even after she removed the mask the child continued to cry and cling to her mother. The child’s aunt was one of her favorite people. They often spent the night together—sometimes more than one day at a time. In fact there were times when the child preferred her aunt to anyone else in the family. So why was the mask a problem?

            Clowns for the most part are supposed to be happy and comical. Their intended purpose is to entertain. But let’s face the facts, clowns can be scary. Most of us are not afraid when we see a clown in an expected setting such as a circus, a party, or a parade. But what if a clown showed up at your door on a dark rainy night after midnight? What would cause anxiety in you?

            The circus clown usually has a white face and neck, possibly with red ears with red and black features, usually wearing a ruffled collar and a pointed hat—maybe with BIG shoes. He or she plays the part of the ultimate authority figure setting up situations that turn out to be funny.

            The Auguste clown has pink, red or tan makeup with the mouth outlined in white. His or her costume is either too small or too large.  Bold colors, large prints and suspenders often characterize Auguste costumes. He/she plays the part of an anarchist, a joker or a fool. He takes orders from the white faced clown. Another clown called the Contra-Auguste acts as a mediator between the white faced clown and the Auguste clown.

            The Character clown may use anything from glasses, mustaches and beards to freckles, warts and big ears for a costume. Some of the character clowns are hobos, tramps and bums.

            Rodeo clowns work to distract the angry bull after the cowboy has been bucked off. I remember seeing a clown once at a rodeo who acted like a Matador. Just when we expected to see a ferocious bull come charging out of the stall, a bulldog with horns looking like a tiny bull came charging toward his victim. The element of surprise worked well and it was funny.

            However, many people find clowns disturbing rather than amusing. It is common for children to be afraid of disguised, exaggerated or costumed figures—even Santa Claus. The exaggerated features speak of deception and even as adults we can’t be sure of who is behind the mask.

            “In the Space to Care study aimed at improving hospital design for children, researchers from the University of Sheffield polled 250 children regarding their opinions on clowns; all 250 children. . . reported they found clowns frightening. . .”

            The British arts and music festival cancelled its planned clown theme in 2006 after many adult ticketholders contacted the organizers expressing a fear of clowns.

            Freud, the famous psychoanalyst, says anxiety exhibits in children when they find themselves with a stranger instead of the person to whom he/she clings.

            A mask distorts the identity of even the most familiar person. We shouldn’t be surprised when a child expresses his or her honest feelings.   

The Funeral (by Nancy Allen)

THE FUNERAL

Seven days ago I died.  Now, nobody will talk to me.

            The Divine Garden Funeral Home was alive with people talking and laughing in the halls.  But, as they entered the small room where my body lay in the light blue casket their laughter gave way to whispers and solemn rectitude.

            “Doesn’t she look natural?” said Susan.

            “Just like she’s asleep,” said Grace.

            “I’m not asleep!  I promise you, I’m not asleep!  I can hear every word you’re saying.  There’s nothing natural about my body lying there.  They put red lipstick on me! I never wear red lipstick!”

            “Speaking of sleeping, I heard she was sleeping with the minister of the Harmony Fellowship Church,” said Grace.

            “I asked her about that, and she never would say.  There was something fishy about her denial,” said Jill.

            “I was not!  Can’t you ever think about anything but sex?  Hey!  I’m standing right behind your chair. You’d better watch what you say!”

            The funeral had to be delayed until the week-end.  Her brothers lived on the west coast and couldn’t afford to give up their work-week.  It wasn’t as if they knew their sister.  They never talked.

            The tall, dark haired minister walked into the front of the chapel.  He held his Bible in one hand and a rose in the other.  He walked over and placed the rose in the casket.

            He turned to the crowd and said, “good morning.  We are here to pay our respects to our dearly beloved departed sister, Margie Null.                                  The girlfriends were in a huddle. “He’s really a looker.  How did she manage to get her hooks into him,” asked Susan.

            The minister continued, “She lived a full and happy life.  Margie visited the sick and tended the poor.”

            “When was he ever sick or poor?” whispered Jill.  The girlfriends laughed.  Some of the congregation turned to stare.  The girlfriends remained quiet for the remainder of the service.

            It had been raining all morning.  Most of the people who attended the service decided to skip the burial.  But, the girlfriends decided to go.  If they didn’t go, it would look like they didn’t care.  The last thing they wanted        was to start a rumor.  With umbrellas in hand, Jill, Susan, and Grace made their way to the burial tent.  They stood next to the family near the casket.

            “That’s a cheap casket,” whispered Susan

            “Fitting, she always was kinda cheap,” said Grace.

            “That does it!  You’re going to pay!” I tripped Grace. She fell headlong in the mud, into the grave.  I guess she broke her neck.  Nobody talks to her now either.  I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t respond.  I think she’s mad.   

**********

            While many of us go about creating mischief celebrating Allhallows Eve (Halloween), we forget about All Saints’ Day.  The day was first set aside by the Roman Catholic Church and the Church of England to remember martyrs; but, gradually came to include others.

            Don’t get tripped up! On November first, set aside some time to remember the good things about family and friends who have gone before you and how they may have influenced your life.  We would not be who we are today without them! 

Red Hands (by Nancy Allen)

Red Hands

It was a week before Valentine’s Day. The road was packed with vehicles like hearts in a box waiting to spread their love.  Everyone was in a hurry—I know I was. I managed to edge my way into the passing lane and there she was. A woman had pulled her car across my lane and her car was moving at a snail’s pace. There was no place to go. I hit her broadside.

            “I was thinking about shopping,” she said. “I don’t know why I pulled out into all this traffic.”

            I was so thankful she was not killed. The jolt threw her under the dashboard on the passenger side of her car. The car in front of me was demolished. I had my seat belt on so I didn’t go through the windshield, but my head hit the steering wheel and I had a huge “goose egg” on my forehead that made me groggy and reduced to unintelligible jabber. When the ambulance arrived the EMT noticed my hands.

            “Her hands are red. There must be something wrong to make them red,” I heard him say.

            “No,” I tried to tell him.

            “There is something wrong with her hands,” I heard him tell the doctor he was talking to on the phone.

            “Paint,” I mumbled.

            You see, I had been having fun finger painting with a group of preschoolers. We were making heart pictures.

            Finger painting is messy and sometimes the stains stay with you, but the rewards are many:

            Spread newspaper on a hard-surface floor. Wear an old shirt to protect your clothes. Use a white shiny paper for your canvas. Dip your fingers in water and let them drip on the paper making it slightly wet, then dip your fingers in the paint and begin shaping your design. When finished place your artwork on a newspaper to dry.

            Finger paint was first used by the American educator Ruth Faison Shaw in Rome, Italy in 1931.  She found finger painting to have therapeutic and emotional healing value for people of all ages and abilities.

            Tyler Ramsey began a new technique called “Reckless Art” in 2002. He vowed never to touch a brush again and finger paints with oils. He paints in surgical gloves—not a bad idea. However, for the younger set I believe gloves would eliminate the therapeutic value of feeling the paint and getting the hands messy. Finger painting artist Nick Benjamin claims he prefers getting the fingers in the paint bonding with the artwork and achieving a blending of the paints that can’t be done with brushes. Jimmy Lee Sudduth said he likes finger painting because his fingers don’t wear out the way brushes do.

            Finger paint is non-toxic and especially good for preschoolers. If they eat some of it, there shouldn’t be a problem.         

            You can make your own paint with the following recipe:

            4 tablespoons sugar

            ½ cup cornstarch

            2 cups cold water

            food coloring

            After painting if you get into an accident remember to tell the people at the scene that you’ve been finger painting. Otherwise they may think you’re turning red or maybe even blue.

The One Legged Man (by Nancy Allen)

The One Legged Man

Our family was on our way to the lake for an afternoon of fishing when we noticed a man hobbling down the road.

        “Look, mama! That man’s walking with a crutch,” said Cliff

        As we drew closer, Chris said, “he’s only got one leg!”                                   

        I turned to my husband, “Joe, we ought to help him,” The man seemed to be struggling, but with determination and courage he plodded along. Our hearts melted.

       “He probably doesn’t live far,” said Joe, “we can take him home and still go fishing.” The boys sat in the back seat of the old brown Rambler station wagon with downcast faces.

        Joe pulled the car up beside the one legged man, stuck his head out the window and asked, “Would you like a ride?”

      “Yes, thank you,” said the man. Joe jumped out of the car and helped the man into the back seat beside the boys. There was a slight unfamiliar odor. His hands were rough, but his face was kind. Joe bounced back into the driver’s seat and turned facing the man.

        “Where to sir?” Well, my mouth flew open and you should have seen the look on Joe’s face— the man said, “Johnson City.” Johnson City was 150 miles away!

            The man introduced himself as Sam and described himself as a railroad bum who had lost his leg several years back while trying to catch a train. He was accustomed to living outside.

            I wondered why he had chosen to live always on the move, always outside and always alone. I imagined his wife had left him, or a child had died or perhaps he had done something in his earlier days that made him want to escape.                                                          We learned that Sam had walked about 300 miles from Memphis, Tennessee. He apologized for his dirty clothes and talked about how he had been attacked by dogs that didn’t understand his crutch. He left Memphis with $3.27 which was used for bus fare and had hitched or walked the remainder of the way, resting and sleeping on the roadside. Sam had not eaten in two days, but he didn’t complain. He was determined to get to Johnson City because once he had been a soldier and the Veterans Hospital there had promised to fit him with a prosthesis.

            After hearing Sam’s story, Joe was determined not to put him out to walk again.

             “We want to help you,” I said.                                                                                                                    “You have obligations to your children,” said Sam, “maybe you can help me with bus fare?”

                      “I only have $8.00,” said Joe, “we don’t have a bus station, but there is one in Crossville.” Crossville was 30 miles away, but seeing as how 150 miles was the other option, it appeared to be the better choice. When we arrived in Crossville, Tennessee it was about 3:00 p.m. The bus station was closed on Sunday afternoon, but there was a sign on the door:

                                    Bus Schedule

                                    Crossville to Johnson City

                                    with layover in Knoxville

                                    departure 4:00 p.m.

                                    Pay the bus driver.

                Joe drove over to a restaurant and spent $3.00 of his $8.00 on a hamburger for Sam. He gave Sam the remaining $5.00 for bus fare. At 4:00 p.m. Sam boarded the bus and we headed home. But on the way I began to wonder if $5.00 would be enough to get Sam to Johnson City. What if they put him off the bus?

         “We’d better do something to make sure he gets there,” I said.                 

         “What do you want me to do?” asked Joe, “I think we’ve already gone the second mile.”

        “Call the bus line.”

        “Do what?” said Joe, “you call them.”                                                           

        “Yes, we just gave a one legged man $5.00 and put him on a bus headed toward Johnson City. I'm afraid he doesn’t have enough money to get him there.”             

         “What do you want me to do? I can’t help you,” said the clerk.                                                     “Do you have a supervisor?” I asked.                                                                                    After listening to my story the supervisor hesitated.

            “I’m desperate, please do something,” I said. “He doesn’t deserve to be put off the bus.

            The supervisor said, “We’ll make sure he gets there!”

            Needless to say, Cliff and Chris didn’t get to go fishing that day and to this day we still wonder about the fate of the one legged man.                                            

Four-leafed Clover (by Nancy Allen)

Four-leafed Clover

Elizabeth pulled the massive volume off the shelf and sat down in a nearby chair. Dust particles floated in the air as she thumbed through the pages. She had awakened with an eerie feeling and a word echoing in her mind—“gluck.” She stared out the window at the grassy knoll beyond the Crape Myrtle bushes .Had she ever heard that word before? Why was it in her head? What did it mean? Turning to the gs, Elizabeth saw something tucked in the fold of the book—pressed, crisp, green. She held the pages down and opened the book wide. It was a four-leafed clover. Someone had placed it there years before—but who?

            As she examined the clover, Elizabeth began singing the song she’d been practicing for her high school choir. She wasn’t sure if she would take choir next semester. Somehow, she felt her voice was not good enough. Reaching the high notes had been a stretch and practice was a bore. As she sat thinking, her grandfather walked into the room.

            “Grandpa, look what I found,” she said bringing the clover on her palm for him to examine.

            “Yah, yah, you’re a lucky girl,” he said.

            “Why? How can a clover make you lucky?” Elizabeth asked. 

            “I’m not all that sure it does make you lucky, but my mother swore by them. She said my grandmother collected them and this dictionary was hers. I’ll just bet she saved that clover. She died in 1930—had a voice like a Nightingale—sang opera and made records too.”

            “What did she sing?”

            “She sang professionally for awhile. My mother said she earned a hundred thousand dollars in royalties one year.

            “That’s a lot of money. Why haven’t I ever heard of her?” Elizabeth asked.

            “I don’t know. We don’t talk much about our ancestors. I just never thought to tell you about her, but you do remind me of her. You have her eyes. Mother used to have some of her old records,” he said as he began fumbling with the hasp on the trunk.

            “Here, let me help,” Elizabeth said.

            Lucky for them the old Victrolla still stood in a prominent place in grandpa’s living room. Soon they were listening to a voice from their past.

            Elizabeth began to read the label—Renate Gluck.

            “That’s the name I heard in my head this morning,” she said.

            “Heard in your head? What kind of nonsense is that?

“I can’t explain it. I just woke up thinking “Gluck.” That’s why I was looking up the word and that’s when I found the four-leafed clover.”

“Renate Gluck was my grandmother’s stage name. Her parents brought her to America from Germany to escape the war. Gluck means luck and she was blessed.”

            “Well, it’s my good luck today,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe some of her luck will spill over onto me and I’ll get the solo part for the spring concert.

            “You’re not as good as she was yet, but keep practicing. You’ll get there,” her grandpa said.

            “Is it all right for me to keep this four-leafed clover?” Elizabeth asked.

            “Yes, yes, kept it. Put it in your music book to remind you of your heritage. I’m sure she’d want you to have it.”

            “Thanks, grandpa. This is my luckiest day ever,” said Elizabeth as she gave her grandfather a hug.  

Expectations (by Nancy Allen)

Expectations

She expected to have her husband home for dinner where he would play with their one and a half and three year old boys before helping tuck them into bed. But night after night he drug in after the boys were in bed. His excuse was he needed to check on the ‘after hours’ activities of his men. He, after all, was their company commander.                                                                                                                                                She expected Saturday would be a time for family fun, but he and a friend went fishing. As night closed in and he was not home, her blood began to boil.  She decided to take the children and go to a movie. This time she would not be there when he came home.  She called the wife of her husband’s  fishing buddy. “Do you want to go to a movie with me?” she asked.                                                                                               “No, I can’t go. Pete just arrived home with a string of fish and he’s cleaning them now. I’m cooking the fish for dinner.”                                                                                                                                                                 “Pete’s home?”                                                                                                                                                                                “Yes, he’s been home for half an hour, isn’t your husband home?                                                                            “No, I don’t know where he is. I’m going to take the boys and go to the drive-in. For once when he gets home, I won’t be here.”                                                                                                                                                                     “No, that’s a bad idea. It’s beginning to rain and I don’t think it’s safe for you and the boys to be out there alone.”                                                                                                                                                                                     “I have to do something. I can’t stay here.”                                                                                                                         “Come over here. If you have to be gone when he gets home, you can call and when he answers you can hang up. Then you’ll know he’s home and you can go home.”                                                                                       “Well, ok, that sounds like a plan.”                                                                                                                                           She bundled up the boys and went to her friend’s house. Phone call after phone call, ring after ring—no answer.                                                                                                                                                                                                “It’s eleven o’clock. I can’t keep you up any longer and no matter what he does, I’m the adult here. I have to take my children home and get them into bed,” she said.                                                                                         By then the rain was coming down sideways, in sheets. It was hard to see the road but as she pulled into the driveway the headlights caught the form of a muddy, drenched man holding the hill of his boot in one hand and an iron bar in the other. He was set to break the bedroom window.  He looked up, staring into the headlights, laid the bar down and with water dripping off his face  walked over to the car. She lowered the window and looked up at him.                                                                                                           “Where have you been?” he said, “I’ve been worried. I didn’t know what had happened. The phone has been ringing off the hook. ”                                                                                                                                         “Why didn’t you go inside? Why are you out here in the rain?“ she asked.                                                 “I forgot my key,” he said. “What’s wrong? Did one of the boys get sick?”                                             “No, I just went over to a friend’s house,” she said.                                                                                                   “Hand me the key,” he said.                                                                                                                                                                 She handed him the key without saying word.  She said she could hear the water slushing in his boots as he stormed into the house.