Bougainvillea

Hello again! My first contribution to the reboot of Tasty Sauce is a rewrite of a piece of creative nonfiction from about twenty years ago...

                                                                  
                                          Bougainvillea
                                                     by
                                         Susan Cameron

Years ago, ten or fifteen, I brought home lots of little plants from the nursery. One was a white bougainvillea, notoriously fragile and difficult to grow. I carefully planted the little guy and hoped for the best.

All those years gone by and the other little plants are lost to memory, but the white bougainvillea kicked ass. It waited a year, deciding whether or not it wanted to live, made up its mind, and took over the fenceline between Abbey's house and mine.

"Can I drag some of it over here?" she asked. "I like it too." Of course! There was plenty! So she did. The original grapestake fence was lost under a twenty-foot-long, twelve-foot-high white explosion. It flung out new branches that arched like fireworks through the blue sky. It smothered the fence, it climbed the junipers, it headed for the front yard -- go, baby, go! I couldn't see Abbey's yard and she couldn't see mine, which meant we could both stumble out to our respective picnic tables first thing in the morning, bleary-eyed, bathrobed and coffee in hand, and not have to think about how we'd look to the neighbors. (I have cape honeysuckle on the other two sides of my back yard, also about twelve feet tall; her perimeter was totally covered, too.) Then Abbey sold her house.

Vietnamese hate bougainvillea. People who come from countries where there's a lot of jungle tend to hate things that look like they're going to cover the house and devour it. Abbey said her parents (they're Filipino) are the same way. In the Philippines, if you can afford to cut down all the jungle around your house, pour concrete around it, then paint it green, you are truly styling.

I heard the chain saw as I was working in my house. I knew they'd cut down all the bougainvillea on their property; that's their right. I even saw the guy hacking away at it when I left the house. It wasn't until I got back home that I got a good look at the carnage.

They'd chopped my bougainvillea down to a trunk and stubs.

They'd cut almost three feet over on my side of the property line.

I stood by my bougainvillea, looking at it with the same horror I would if a friend had been in a terrible accident and lost both arms below the elbows, and legs below the knees. And I got a really good look at the ancient fence, too -- the four-by-fours rotting away, the bug-eaten slabs of grapestakes toppling over, some on my side, some on theirs. Even before they slaughtered my plant, I could see the fence was falling down, but I didn't have to see enough of it to care.

The next morning I saw the old man, the oldest of my tribe of new neighbors, with the chain-saw-massacre perpetrator they'd hired. I screamed and yelled at the two blank faces until I got disgusted and refueled with more coffee. English-speaking Tiffany came out in her back yard and I called her over. "But we have the right to cut back to the property line, Susan."

"You didn't have the right to do this, Tiffany." She leaned over the rickety fence I'd propped up to see what I was pointing at. "This is my property, not yours, and whether you like my plants or not, you have no right to cut things down on my property."

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! What can we do to make it right?"

"Not a damn thing! What can you do to fix this? It'll take years to come back." I walked away, too choked up to talk.

I've been thinking about it for a week now, and I've decided my new neighbors can pay for a block wall between our homes. They can pool their half-dozen incomes together and handle it. If not, I will find out if I can charge them with criminal trespass. I will take them to small claims court and sue them for destroying my property. I will call Fountain Valley code enforcement and turn in their cousins on the next block for illegally adding onto their home.

I've said for years it's important to pick your fights carefully because there just isn't enough energy to fight them all. I do believe I'm up for this one. I've let a lot of things slide in my life for the following reasons, or excuses: a) I'm not perfect myself and we all make mistakes; b) There are things that just can't be fixed, so I've got to let them go; c) There's no point in getting into a fight if there's nothing to win; and d) Never get suckered into being an unwitting, unwilling actor in somebody else's soap opera.

I don't think any of these four things apply in this situation.

I may not be perfect, but I don't destroy other people's property. They can't fix my plant, but they can fix the fence. There is something to win, or at least something that will partially replace what was taken from me. And I don't smell a whiff of soap opera here, no daytime drama -- just stupidity.

I really like my house. It's a cheerful, inviting place. It's only half a mile away from my business; no commute to speak of, no mad rush to get to work in the morning. Even though Jim and I broke up here, most of my memories are good ones. I've got other nice neighbors, and we look out for each other. I've been here twenty-one years, and I'd like to live here into the indefinite future. I just hope this isn't a nudge from the universe, telling me it's time to think about leaving. My industry is certainly in the doldrums, and my business has been flat for about four years. There's enough to pay the bills, but it's certainly not the glory days of the eighties.

I don't know. I just don't know. This isn't a complaint. I'm just thinking. I've got loads of equity in the house, but I'd have to leave Orange County to use it well. What's the sense of selling one overpriced house if you're just going to buy another overpriced house, with no Prop 13 tax break, and probably new Mello-Roos taxes to boot? I'd have to bail.

The trouble is, I've been here so long I've grown roots as deep as my bougainvillea's. I know the pricey-and-good restaurants, the cheap-and-good restaurants, the restaurants with nice patios and tables where you can write. I know some of the hidden staircases down the cliffs of Laguna and Corona del Mar, the most likely places to find a parking spot at the beaches, even on Balboa Island in summer. I know good thrift stores and bookstores and coffeehouses, and I've walked around marinas and beaches from San Clemente and Dana Point to Seal Beach and over the border into Los Alamitos Bay and Naples Island and Belmont Shores, and I still don't know everything about this place. I'm still not tired of it.

And here's the other thing: I went to five elementary schools by the fifth grade. I got my own place when I was seventeen and moved eleven times in five years before Jim and I moved here from Detroit. Amazing, eleven moves in five years, always looking for nicer places with cheaper rents and better roommates. (It's not quite as tough as it sounds; most of the time, what I owned fit in my car. The first time I had to rent a little U-Haul trailer, I was sort of pleased. I'd finally acquired a piece or two of furniture and was a solid citizen.) On my final visit back to Detroit, so many years ago, I made a pilgrimage to all the places I'd lived. I drove around Coplin, Lakepointe, Evanston, Hampshire, Hazelridge -- a crazy white girl risking her present just to look at her past.

The house in which I spent years nine through seventeen had been painted charcoal gray and looked as grim on the outside as it had been on the inside. Most of the places I'd rented were battered and forlorn, and one of my favorites (the one with beveled glass windows and mahogany woodwork and ivy growing over the kitchen window) had vanished entirely. It seems the City of Detroit had decided it was better to raze the abandoned houses that were being used as crack dens, fill the basements with dirt, and plant grass. Less chance of liability for the city; less crime for the few remaining neighbors to deal with. An untended grassy meadow was growing on the empty lot where that once-beautiful old house had been, and there were three or four more vacant lots just like it scattered down the street between dilapidated ruins that had been somebody's pride and joy, somebody's homes. The block had turned into the architectural equivalent of a meth-head's mouth.

I remember the relief I felt at flying back to Orange County. I love to travel, but I also love coming home. I love to drive up and see my house, my flowers, my trees. I turn the key in the lock and there are my comfortable chairs, and my pretty paintings, and green plants and candles, and I'm home.

Could I make another home someplace else? Of course. Could I be happy living someplace else? I don't doubt it. And perhaps some day I will move, whether obnoxious neighbors prompt it, or economics, or a new love with ideas of his own, or just the wheel of change slowly turning and taking me with it, the way it did twenty-one years ago. But for now, I'm rooted, and this is where I grow.

                                                   * * * * *

Postscript, an additional twenty-one years later: Lots of life changes, but -- still here, still growing. :)

Revival

Revival

Welcome back to Little Bit Everything in Tasty Sauce.  Tasty Sauce for short.  To those who’ve visited our blog before, we’re happy to have you back. We’re happy to be back, too.  To those who are checking Tasty Sauce out for the first time and wonder what the heck it is, we are four writers who take turns with weekly postings of our original short works of fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, commentary, whatever springs to mind.  We hope you enjoy our work.  

It’s been nearly three years since our last post.  We had to step away from it for a while, step away from writing altogether. We all needed some time off, as life intervened and required a different focus.  At least mine did.  I felt my creative well go dry.  I lost my desire for writing.  

            But lately we four have been talking about picking up our pens, dusting off our keyboards, getting back in the writing groove and starting up the blog again.  We’ve been slow to turn talk into action, until a few days ago when we finally agreed to just do it – revive Tasty Sauce.   

            I’m first up in the new era of Tasty Sauce.  With only days to prepare, I’ve decided to go back to my writing beginnings and share the first real story I ever wrote twenty-some years ago.  So, for the revival of Tasty Sauce, I present “Sweeping Time,” a story set in rural Illinois in the time before email, cellphones, Facebook or Instagram.  It’s a story of how everyday life is always presenting us with chances for renewal.

            So, off we go!  Renewal. Rebirth.  Revival.  

Sweeping Time

By

Liz Zuercher

         The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes eight as Gertie Bunn struggles to pull open the heavy oak door.  Broom in hand, she pushes aside the screen and steps onto her front porch.  Eight o’clock is sweeping time, weather permitting, and finally today the sun is shining after three days of off-and-on rain.

            Sunlight filters through the gold and scarlet leaves that still cling to the elms and maples, making a dappled pattern on the sidewalk, and Gertie squints to ward off the morning glare.  Looking out across the yard, she notices the soggy dead leaves littering the walkway and frowns.  Those will be the devil to sweep off,she grouses to herself, her left hand absently massaging her aching hip joint.  Her frown hardens to a scowl as her glance travels to the vacant, unkempt house across the street.  Fanny would never have let those weeds grow up like that,she tells herself.  She’d just be sick if she saw that.  Shivering in the cool shade of the porch, Gertie draws her pink cable knit sweater around her flowered housedress and sighs deeply. Resigned, she goes about her morning task.

            It is her habit to start at the north end of the porch and move south until the wide expanse of wood planking is swept clean, then proceed down the stairs and walkway to the sidewalk.  Today she does not stray from the usual.  She doesn’t have the energy to do any more.  Her arthritis is still complaining of the wet weather, and after three days of inactivity, it’s hard to get her old bones moving again.  She figures she’ll just get this job over with and sit down inside with a cup of Lipton’s, a cinnamon roll and the Today Show.

            With meticulous care she places her broom in the corner where house meets porch meets railing, drawing it back to remove any dirt trapped in the corner.  Then her arms begin to move in an arc, the motion becoming more fluid and graceful as she sweeps rhythmically back and forth across the porch, each time propelling the accumulated bits and pieces through the space between the railing and porch into the bushes.  The sweeping becomes easier as she progresses down the length of the porch.  It is hypnotic, a calming repetitive dance, loosening sore muscles and joints, taking her mind on a journey to other days of sweeping.

            Her father built this house the year she was born, and she has never lived anywhere else.  The sweeping was her chore as a child, and she always grabbed any opportunity to avoid it.  Sometimes her friend Fanny Schmidt across the street saw her sweeping and beckoned from the sidewalk.  “Gertie! Let’s go down to Schuler’s and get some penny candy!”  That was all Gertie needed to drop the broom and be down the front steps off to Schuler’s with Fanny.  When she skipped back up the walk much later, sucking on a horehound drop, there was her mother, arms folded across her chest, sitting in the porch swing, glaring. Gertie hung her head, picked up the broom and resumed her work under her mother’s supervising eye.  There was no dessert that night and bedtime came early.

            Her mother insisted on a thorough job and preached the value of tidiness.  “Take care of this house and it will take care of you,” Mama always said.  But Gertie caught her fudging every now and then, too.  Like the time her mother went out to do the gardening, but ended up laughing across the flowerbeds with Mrs. Willhoite next door.  They didn’t have fences.  Everything in Colfax was wide open, one yard opening to another, to another and then to the cornfield beyond.  Or, there were the times her mother was supposed to be cleaning the living room, but Gertie could hear her playing the piano and singing along in her hearty soprano.

            Sometimes they swept together, she and her mother. They finished in half the time, then sat in the swing and enjoyed a cool glass of lemonade.  When her mother got sick, a teenaged Gertie swept while her mother sat wrapped in a shawl alone in the swing.  On good days her mother carried on a conversation and gave occasional directions to Gertie.  On other days, she dozed.

            It has been sixty-eight years since her mother died, almost a lifetime for Gertie, but she can still hear her voice saying, “Gertrude, you missed a spot over there.  And don’t forget the side steps.”  Now, all these years later, she still casts a furtive glance over to the side steps at the memory of her mother’s prodding.  She considers skipping them this morning, but finds herself overcome with guilt at the thought.  She gives the steps a quick swipe with the broom after all.

            There seemed to be so much empty space in the house after Gertie’s mother died.  Her father spent more time at work and ate his meals in silence, except for a “Thank you, Gertrude,” as he pushed his chair away from the table she had set just like her mother would have.  His previously easy, jovial manner gave way to the flatness of a wall he retreated behind, alone with his sorrow, rarely acknowledging hers.  Gertie remembers the fifteen-year-old motherless girl she was, sweeping this porch so hard a person could almost hear it cry out in pain. Then, exhausted, she’d sit in the swing swaying back and forth, staring out at nothing for what seemed like hours.

            Brushing away that memory, her gnarled hands choke up on the broom handle, and she cleans off the railing.  She used to have helpers for this job.  Loren used to sweep with her when they were courting; but after they married and Loren moved in with her and her father, things changed. Loren was busy learning from Gertie’s father how to run the People’s Bank of Colfax and didn’t have time to sweep. Gertie, of course, went about the business of having babies and making a home for them all, filling the house once more with the lively sounds of a growing family.

            Their three children were initiated at an early age into the sweeping ritual.  Gertie smiles, imagining her children as toddlers playing the sweeping game.  She got each one their own little broom and they swept along with her, making more mess than they cleaned up.  Then they all snuggled up in the porch swing to read a story together.  After a while the sweeping became a chore instead of a game.  Oldest to youngest, each one in their turn took over the responsibility for keeping the porch and walk swept clean, passing the broom on to the next one in line until all three were gone from Colfax and out on their own. Then it was back to being Gertie’s job.

            Now there are grandchildren that she hardly ever hears from and great-grandchildren on the way that she’ll probably never see. They all have their own lives to worry about, and they are so far away from Illinois – Caroline in California, George in North Carolina and Steven all the way in Australia.  The nine grandchildren are spread all over kingdom come. Gertie keeps track of them by sticking little colored dots on her father’s old globe at the spots where they live, and every now and then she plays a game with herself to see if she remembers who each dot stands for.  The kids usually call on holidays and her birthday, though she didn’t hear anything from Steven last month when she turned eighty-three.  She figures he’s on one of his treks into the Outback, but she finds herself staring at the phone and checking the mailbox several times a day anyway.

            Finished with the porch, Gertie brings the broom handle to rest under her chin and glances again across Center Street to the big brick house now overgrown with weeds.  Fanny’s house.  At least it used to be.  Fanny swept her porch every morning, too.  Then they’d stop and visit, each in her housedress, each leaning on her broom. She still expects Fanny to come out the door any minute.

            “How’s the arthritis treating you this morning, Gertie?”

            “Not so good, Fanny.  Glad that rain is over with.”

            “Did you hear about Vern Lowmiller finding a bunch of high school kids smoking marijuana in his corn field and chasing after them with the combine?”

            “Like to scared them to death, I suppose.  I guess one of them was Jake Mitchell’s oldest boy, Carl.”

            “Mavis Purdy said Jake was so mad at Carl he dragged him right over to the parsonage to pray over it all with Reverent Jenkins.”

            “Fat lotta good that’ll do.  That kid’s been asking for it for a long time.”

            “Say, did you hear anything from Steven?”

            “Not yet, but he’s always the last one I hear from.  I suppose he’s out chasing kangaroos and snakes someplace.”

            She and Fanny had always shared the highs, lows and in-betweens of their lives with each other.  More lows that anything else in recent years.  Fanny was the one who held her hand while Loren had the cancer surgery fifteen years ago.  And the one who sat with Loren to give Gertie a breather once in a while, when the cancer came back and there was nothing more to be done but say goodbye.  The one who went to the grocery store for her when she was afraid to leave Loren’s bedside right before he died.  The one who kept her company at the funeral home before the kids could get there.

            For years they had been there every morning, sweeping and filling each other in on their aches and pains, their kids and grandkids, swapping opinions on whatever was in the news and comparing note on whose turn it was to bring the cranberry fluff to missionary meeting this time.  But last summer Gertie began to notice a change in her friend.  Fanny was late getting out to sweep every so often, and sometimes she was dressed a little funny – still in her robe with knee high stockings and no shoes, or dressed up in her Sunday best on Tuesday with her Reeboks on.  One time she swept her whole porch with a rag mop.  The day that Fanny looked her straight in the eye and said, “Who the hell are you?” was the day that Gertie called Fanny’s son, David, in Chicago and told him he’d better come check on his mother.

            David had gathered up his mother and whisked her off to a board and care home near Chicago a few months ago.  No sooner than you could say Jack Robinson he had put Fanny’s house up for sale and found a buyer.  She’s heard some people from Bloomington will be moving in soon.  She swallows a big lump in her throat and stares hard at Fanny’s empty house, tears welling up in her eyes. 

            Silly old fool,she scolds.  Enough of that feeling sorry for yourself. She pulls a Kleenex from her sweater pocket, wipes her eyes and admonishes herself to count her blessings and get back to the sweeping.  She is, after all, pretty healthy, except for this darned arthritis, and she’s still in her own home and able to manage.  She has her Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers videos for company at night, and she can still drive her Buick into town or over to Bloomington without getting too many other drivers mad at her.  And she can still darned well sweep this porch and sidewalk.

            Resolutely, she reaches the broom down the steps, cleaning each one before stepping onto it.  Sweep, step, sweep, step.  She has the rhythm going again.  Now the walkway – side to side.  She has to push hard with the broom to dislodge the damp leaves from the concrete. She’ll have to get the rake out soon to clear the leaves off the grass.  Now, there’s a job for the young,she thinks.  She used to love to rake the leaves into a huge pile, then run headlong toward the pile and dive in.  Or sometimes, before getting started, she would stomp around the yard reveling in the crunch of the dry leaves.  These wet ones, though, are no fun.  No crackle and crunch.  Maybe she’ll hire Tommy Oswald to do it for her.  Then when he’s done, she’ll make him some hot chocolate and they’ll have some cookies.  That sounds pleasant.  Yes, she’ll do that.  It will be something to look forward to.

            Where the walkway meets the sidewalk, she turns left and starts working.  Swish, swish. It is harder to sweep here, because the tree roots have pushed the concrete squares into hills and valleys, and you have to watch your step.  The town council wanted to take the trees out and fix the sidewalk, but when it came right down to it no one much cared about the sidewalk.  They liked the trees better and voted to keep them.  So everyone just walks down the street and lets the trees have their way with the sidewalk.  Gertie is all in favor of that, except at sweeping time.  Her father planted these trees, and she feels like his spirit camps up there in the boughs and watches over things.

            “There,” she says out loud.  “That’s done.”

            “Hi Mrs. B.  Talking to yourself again?” a voice behind her yells.

            “Hi, Tommy,” she answers, as he brings his bike to a stop next to her.  “Late again for school, are you?”

            “Yep,” he laughs, seemingly in no hurry to get to school.

            “Well, you’d better get crackin’” she says. “Come see me after school.  I’ve got a bit of work for you, if you want it.”

            “Okay.  Will there be snickerdoodles?” He looks at her with that goofy grin of his.

            “You bet,” she says.  

            “Great!  See ya later!”  And he’s off in a flash.

            Watching Tommy’s retreating figure, Gertie catches sight of an orange truck coming her way.  Allied Van Lines.  It’s move-in day for Fanny’s house.  Her shoulders tense and she tightens her grip on the broom handle, cringing at the flash of pain in her knuckles.  Even though her work is done, she pretends to sweep the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the truck and the car behind it as they make their way up the street and stop at Fanny’s house.  Her stomach does a little flip flop.  She sucks in her breath and holds it.

            The back car doors fly open and two little girls race up to the house, chattering to each other, the laces on their sneakers flapping, auburn curls bouncing.  Everything about them is in motion.  They scramble up the stairs to the porch and turn to see if their mother is following them.

            “Hurry, Mom, hurry.  We gotta pick out our rooms,” the taller one yells.

            “Hurry, Mom,” the little one echoes.  She is jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box, unable to contain her excitement, when she spies Gertie and waves. “Hi!  We got a new house, and I get to have my own room now!”

            Now, don’t those two look like a couple of live wires,Gertie thinks, letting out the stale air in her lungs and loosening her hold on the broom to wave back to her new neighbor.  What do you think of those little pistols, Fanny? After a moment she decides Fanny might like it that a nice young family is moving in.

            When she turns back toward her own house, Gertie is surprised by what she sees, as if she is seeing it for the first time.  A large white house with gray shutters gleams in the morning sun.  A broad covered porch stretches from one side of the house to the other, surrounded by a balustrade that gives the appearance of teeth in a wide grin.  Six steps lead from the center of the porch to a neatly swept walkway that traverses a generous rolling yard, the grass holding onto its summer green in a last effort to ward off the winter heralded by splashes of colorful leaves.  Completing the picture, the trees frame the house with an inviting softness, enveloping it in their protective branches.  Everything sparkles with dew and promise, and the house stands proud, cared for, welcoming a cherished friend.

            “Well, don’t you look pleased with yourself?” she chides the house.  “I suppose now you’ll want some Halloween decorations.”  She decides it would be fun to put up some decorations this year. She’ll have to check the attic later, but now she thinks she’ll go make some nice snickerdoodles for Tommy. Maybe those fireballs across the street would like some, too.  She’ll take some over this afternoon.

            She feels a hint of a breeze on her cheeks and lifts her face to the warm sun and crisp, fresh air.  What a glorious day, she says to herself, smiling broadly.  For good measure she takes a final swipe at the sidewalk with her broom and heads into the house to make cookies.

            

            

Michelle Obama is a What?

by Nancy Grossman-Samuel

“Do you think that Michelle Obama is really a man?” She asked as if she really wanted to know, as if this were a burning desire of hers to understand.

“What” I asked? Incredulous at best, completely floored at most and wondering If I turned on Fox News would I find out what this incredible story was about? But I have no desire to do that or google it (I'm not fond of google right now so I'm not capitalizing their name) because the question in and of itself is absurd.

I wonder if someone out there is trying to get Malia and Sasha’s birth records right now. Of course "they" wouldn't believe whatever "they" found if it didn't concur with what "they" wanted to see.

The girls WERE delivered by a family friend of the Obamas who could have lied and said that these children were birthed from the body of Michelle Obama, but who could know if she was really telling the truth? If it were a lie, the Obamas probably paid off a lot of people to make sure the story stuck.

President 45 and his minions are making me feel as if there is nothing at all I can rely on. There is nothing that is factual. Everything can and should be questioned, except for 45 and his family and his friends and his decisions and his statements and his tweets and his actions and and and and… (actually, if you listen to all of 45s proclamations, they almost all contradict each other so....).

I think I feel a little like I’m on a continual bad acid trip.

Are we living the prequel to 1984 or Brave New World or the Giver or Farenheit 451, or some other dystopian novel with a vision of a future run by someone who feels that only he has the absolute right to determine what alternate facts we MUST believe since he is the smartest, most brilliant, most capable, most competent and only authority for truth, justice, and the American Way (Superman where are you when we need you?)?

OR could there be another way to look at this? Could this even be a very very good thing, perhaps ushering in a period of time where each individual must figure out for him or herself what is true and real and important? It won't happen with anger and vitriol. It is going to have to come from a new and different place. A place where loving is the primary directive and not hating and WINNING. Winning is not really such a good thing if there are few winners and many many many many... losers - especially when the "winners" are also intense and insecure haters.

Perhaps with all of this doubt and craziness and upheaval, or what I perceive as doubt, craziness, and upheaval flying around, it will be up to me, up to each of us to determine the rightness or wrongness of EVERYTHING we see, hear, and experience and determine what feels right. I say FEELS right because in my belief system, and I don't really care if anyone else buys into this, but in my belief system, I think the most accurate judge of what is true and what is not true is our gut, and that is where I fall into another camp of crazies. So we all have our own crazinesses (for more on my own craziness - check out this blog... http://whentheydonotoccur.blogspot.com/ - nothing new since April of 2015, but I'm feeling the urge to write again!).

There are those who will say “No, we have to research everything and find out the truth about everything and only then can we believe anything.”

That's all well and good except that there are books and TV shows and NEWS shows and a gazillion web pages that will prove I am right no matter what I believe. Many of them proclaim some of the most irrational, or what I have determined for me is irrational bull shit – excuse my English - there is, but there are others who hold those “facts” as Gospel Truth. Who's right?

I wish I had asked the person who asked me that crazy question about the veracity of Michelle Obama’s gender how she felt about it. What her gut told her. My gut says that she would have had a lot of doubts, or why would she even have asked me?

Michelle Obama is one of the most beautiful WOMEN I have ever encountered both outside and inside (not knowing her personally, I am totally basing this on what I've heard and seen... so how reliable is that? Just my opinion and that is all). She is amazing in so many ways, but I HAVE seen Transsexuals and Female Impersonators who are also quite stunning. But my gut tells me Michelle is a woman, has always been a woman, and will always be a woman, unless, of course, she chooses, for whatever reason, to become a man. But if Barack were my husband… well, I doubt that would even ever cross her mind.

Cassie and Garrett - Part 2

By Liz Zuercher

            After that first real date, Garrett and I slipped seamlessly into a committed relationship. We spent almost all our spare time together, as much as a couple could when one had weekends off like a normal person and the other was off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.  He traveled all around the world for his job, so I ended up still having lots of time for myself.  I liked that.  I didn’t feel claustrophobic in a relationship like this.  The other bonus of dating Garrett was getting to know his mother.  She was indeed, as he’d said the first day I met her, a lovable piece of work, emphasis on the lovable part.

            When Garrett traveled, Barbara and I spent time together, filling my days off with more activity and fun than I’d ever had before.  She didn’t smother me, which easily could have been the case.  Instead, she woke me up to a life outside of work.  She expanded my horizons, taking me to art galleries and museums, as well as plays and movies.  We went shopping at out of the way boutiques with funky clothes that she knew how to put together in a way that made them look more stylish than foolish.  We walked on the beach at low tide looking for sea glass.  We lunched at little hole-in-the-wall restaurants she called hidden treasures.  We laughed and talked and laughed and talked some more.  If you didn’t know better, you’d think we were mother and daughter.

            In fact, I came to feel closer to Barbara than I’d ever felt to my own mother.  I admired Barbara, because she did what my mother was never able or willing to do: she got herself out of an unhealthy relationship with an alcoholic.  That took spunk my mother would never have.  Barbara became a confidant, a friend, a sounding board for all my aggravations, large and small.  The only thing I couldn’t talk to Barbara about was Garrett, and that was the very thing I needed advice on most.

            Just once I’d like to find a man who wasn’t fatally flawed or boring.  Garrett ended up being both.  The fatal flaw was that he was an alcoholic like his dad and mine.  I was afraid of taking that on, even though he’d gone through rehab and had been sober for ten years.  That was so commendable.  I felt small for still being wary of him.  But Garrett had said himself, it was day by day.  Like with injured athletes – “He’s day-to-day,” the coach says when pressed by the media to comment on the condition of his star player.  Garrett was day-to-day for me.  Deep down, I didn’t feel completely sure of him.

            What was worse, I felt like a heartless chump to doubt him.  I really did care about him.  I felt sad when he drove off after a date.  I felt lonely when he traveled for his job.  But was that enough to base a lifetime on?  What about the times we were together?        Ah, there was the other shoe.  Garrett was comfortable.  He was kind and considerate and he loved me.  He said so over and over.  I hadn’t been able to say those words yet.  Maybe I loved him, too, but if I did, it was a quiet sort of love.  I didn’t feel the physical rush I had when I looked into Billy’s eyes or heard Patrick’s rich voice.  Maybe, though, that was a good thing.  Maybe those feelings were for teenagers and early twenties girls.  I was in my late thirties.  I was grown up now.  Maybe grownups didn’t get the tingles up their spines.  If that’s what I was waiting for with Garrett, I knew I’d be waiting a long time.

            Still, he was so solid.  Or was he?  If we were married, would he stop being solid?  Would he let down his defenses against alcohol once I let down mine? When push came to shove, what I finally realized was that I might love Garrett’s mother more than I loved him.

* * * * *

            On our one-year-since-we-met anniversary, Garrett took me to dinner at a restaurant overlooking the ocean to celebrate.  He knew I loved watching the sunsets and timed the reservations so we’d get the whole sunset experience.  Just as the most glorious colors filled the sky, Garrett dropped to one knee, his back to the sunset, and produced a ring.

            “Cassie, I love you,” he said, his face beaming, his voice full and confident.  “Will you marry me?”

            I was caught completely off guard.  Garrett had hinted at marriage before, but we hadn’t really discussed it.  I was so flustered I didn’t know what to say.  I looked at his expectant face, his eyes filled with love, his dark brown hair rustling slightly in the ocean breeze.  Then terror gripped me when I realized I didn’t want to be his wife.  How could I tell him that in front of a restaurant full of onlookers waiting for my reply, anxious to share our joyous moment?

            I was angry with him for putting me in that position.  At the same time I admired his courage to lay himself on the line so publicly.  It was so out of character for him that it underscored for me how much he must love me to risk his feelings like that.  He was such a good man, I thought.  He would take care of me and we could have babies together, something I wanted more than anything else.  I might never have another chance at this, I thought.

            I don’t know how long I left him there on his knee waiting for my answer.  It seemed like my inner battle went on for hours. I felt a stoppage of time, like everyone there was holding their collective breath, waiting for my answer. Finally, the restaurant crowd got restless.  Someone started a slow clap and everyone joined in.

            “What’ll it be, honey?” a man’s voice in the distance cried out.  

            What it came down to was the children we could have – that and the fact that Barbara would become my mother if I married Garrett.

            “Yes,” I said, feeling resignation and regret the moment I said it.

            The crowd cheered as Garrett placed a one carat solitaire diamond on my finger and gave me a long kiss.  As we hugged after the kiss, I watched the last of the color leave the sky over Garrett’s shoulder.  What had I done?

* * * * *

           

            The cold white tile of the restaurant bathroom reflected the bright ceiling lights, blinding me briefly as I dried my hands in the hot air dryer.  I watched the folds of skin on my hands ripple like ocean waves, as I moved my hands back and forth under the contraption.  My new engagement ring rode with my left hand, glinting at me as my hands dried.

            Everything in the bathroom was automatic.  The light went on automatically when you entered.  The toilet flushed all by itself. A big dab of foamy soap poofed out into your hand and the water flowed into the trough-like sink when you put your hand in front of the sensors.  You didn’t have to think about any part of it except placing your hands in the right place.  Unfortunately, that left all too much time for me to stare into the mirror at my face, which was twisted into a state of shock.

            The diamond on my finger gleamed brightly and caught my eye no matter where I looked.  If I truly loved Garrett, this would be a glorious surreal moment, here in a restaurant bathroom looking at my brand new engagement ring.  Instead, it was just plain surreal, as I tried to figure out how I was going to get out of this engagement.  Fifteen minutes in and I wanted out.  But I couldn’t do it here. It would have to wait until we were alone.

            The blower finished drying my hands and I removed them from under it.  There were no more automatic steps to take in the bathroom, so I took a deep breath and went back to the table with the ocean view and my new fiance.  If only there was a machine to undo this engagement for me.

* * * * *

            Barbara was first to be told and she, of course, was delighted.  Her warmth and joy made me think marrying Garrett would be okay after all.  But once I was alone in my own home the next day, I put the ring in its box on the dresser and ignored it.  I didn’t call Sarah and tell her the news. I didn’t call Gail or Trish or Melinda.  I didn’t tell anyone.

            It was a Tuesday morning, so thankfully I didn’t have to go to work and be excited in front of anyone.  I could hole up for the next two days and mull this all over, get used to the idea of being engaged.

            All the years of wanting someone in my life, of wanting a family, came rushing up at me.  Here it was, what I’d wished for, and I didn’t want it.  Yes, I wanted the family.  I longed for the family.  But I didn’t long for Garrett.  Was that fair to him?

            I was deep into these thoughts when he called.

            “Is this my future wife?” he said with a happy lilt in his voice I’d never heard before.  I was lured in by that.  It suddenly sounded good to me.  Why was I fighting it?

            “Yes,” I said to him for the second time in twenty-four hours, and I felt a little closer to really meaning it.

            We talked for a while until Garrett had to get back to work.

            “Are you wearing your ring?” he asked before hanging up.

            I looked down at my bare finger and lied to him again.

            “Yes,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

            “Just like you,” he said.

            When he hung up I crawled into bed and curled into the fetal position.  Why couldn’t I be happy with him? For Barbara.  For the babies.

            I closed my eyes and envisioned the three children Garrett and I would have.  They would be loved unconditionally by both of us.  And spoiled rotten by Barbara.  We would have a comfortable home and a good solid life.  That was something wasn’t it?  It was more than I grew up with, and that for me at that moment was reason enough.  I deserved that.

            I got out of bed and walked over to the dresser, where the ring box sat.  I picked it up, enclosed it with both my hands and held it for a moment before opening it up.  I took the ring from its perch and slipped it on my finger.

* * * * *

            Once I left the safety of my condo wearing the ring, all bets were off.  I was swept along on the wave of enthusiasm everyone felt for my engagement.  Sarah, especially, was ecstatic.  Melinda Casey was beside herself to think she had finally been the one to find me a husband.  I began to wonder if all my friends, co-workers and buyers had thought I was a lost cause, a sad, unmarried, childless woman who put on a brave happy face.  Did they whisper behind my back about poor Cassie?  Now were they saying how relieved they were Cassie had a man?  How Cassie wouldn’t be so alone anymore?  My hackles went up when I imagined people feeling sorry for me, and it bugged me even more that they’d think only a man would be a cure-all for my sad life.  How did they know I wasn’t happy just the way I was, before Garrett?

            I hedged on setting a wedding date.  I had a boatload of excuses:  I’d just opened a new neighborhood and couldn’t take time off until it was nearly finished; I couldn’t do it around the holidays, because of year-end closings;  I couldn’t do it in the spring, because I had phase releases;  June wouldn’t do, because everyone would be on vacation.  If anything could set Garrett drinking again, it was my indecision.  But he was a prince, so understanding and patient.  I didn’t deserve him.

            Barbara was eager to help me plan the wedding, and she wanted to pay for everything.  I wasn’t comfortable with that, especially since I was uncomfortable with the whole idea of getting married.  In the back of my head I held onto the niggling idea that I wasn’t going to go through with it.  I’d hate it if Barbara had spent a lot of money to put on a wedding and I didn’t show up.  So I put her off.  I was happy with a long engagement, I said.  Don’t wait too long, she replied.

            After six months of engagement and no set wedding date, Garrett finally lost his patience.  We were at his place curled up on the sofa together watching an “ER” episode where a whole wedding party ended up in the hospital.

            “Why don’t we have a date set yet?” Garrett said, a tinge of pain in his voice.  He held my left hand in his and stroked the solitaire diamond with his thumb.

            I started in on all my excuses, but he stopped me.

            “No,” he said.  “None of that should matter.  What’s the real reason?”

            I couldn’t look at him.  A giant lump sat in my throat and I couldn’t talk around it.

            “I don’t know,” I said in a whisper.

            “Don’t you want to get married?” he asked, his voice unsteady, serious.

            My eyes welled up.  Here it was, my opportunity to tell him the truth, but I couldn’t quite muster the words.

            “I don’t know,” I said again, even softer than before.

            “Don’t you love me?” he asked, choking back his own tears.

            That was the question, wasn’t it?  The heart of the matter.  I did love him, I really did, but not enough to commit my whole life to him.  And I didn’t want to give up my freedom, my independence.  Even for children.

            “I don’t know,” I said with great sadness.

* * * * *

            We talked and talked that night, all my doubts spilling out into the open.  The more I talked, the more Garrett withdrew into himself.  He didn’t get angry.  I could have coped with angry.  Instead he became sullen, and I saw a glimpse of the kind of drunk he would be, if he still drank.  All I could think of was what a bad person I was to bring this pain to him.  It wasn’t fair to him, this marriage.  I couldn’t be the wife he needed, and he couldn’t be the husband I wanted.  I certainly didn’t want to bring children into a relationship like that.

            When we were talked out, we sat there looking at each other, neither one able to take the next inevitable step.  Finally, Garrett spoke.

            “What now?” he said, the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes.

            “I can’t do this to you,” I said, slipping the ring off my finger and placing it gently on the glass coffee table in front of us.  It sat there, light still reflecting off its facets as if it were alive.  “You deserve better than what I can give you.”

            His eyes searched mine.

            “Couldn’t we just think about it for a while before we make a decision?” he said, picking up the ring and holding it out to me.  “I’ll be in Dubai for a month.  We could leave things as they are and see how we feel when I get back.  Couldn’t we?”

            I almost reached for the ring, but I stopped myself.  I couldn’t make the promise the ring signified.  I shook my head sadly.

            “I’m so sorry,” I managed to say before gathering my things and bolting for the door.

            Outside, I sat in my car and cried for a good fifteen minutes before I finally turned the key in the ignition and drove to my empty home.

* * * * *

            Sarah tried to talk me out of it.  Melinda Casey called to plead Garrett’s case.  They didn’t sway me.  The only one who came close to changing my mind was Barbara, who called in tears to beg me to reconsider.  I couldn’t tell her I regretted losing her more than her son, so I only told her one side of it.  I told her I wasn’t good enough for Garrett, that I didn’t share the same kind of love for him that he had for me.  I told her he should have someone who could love him that way.  Only when Barbara gave up trying to convince me to stay did I feel like I could put it behind me and move on.  I wasn’t sure there would be anything to move on to.  I wasn’t sure I’d ever find a man to love the way Garrett loved me, but I knew I couldn’t live the lie of marrying someone I wasn’t crazy about.