War Is Declared

 

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Photo by Tembela Bohle on Pexels.com

It was Friday night, the first night of her new job waitressing at Murphy’s Bar and Grille, and Sandy was nervous. Her green eyes darted nervously around the bar, and she raked her fingers through her brown curls. Entering the bar, she quickly joined the staff sitting around a table in the back dining room. Tom, the bartender and manager, introduced her to everyone.
“Sandy’s going to be helping out on weekends as a waitress,” he said, nodding toward her. “So, this is the setup. You and Peggy work the dining room at your assigned tables. Peggy’s going to give you the fifty-cent tour and show you how it’s done. Right, Peggy?”
Peggy looked Sandy up and down. “It ain’t exactly rocket science. You take orders and bring food, and make sure you get the money.”
Sandy had never seen anyone with lipstick quite as pink as Peggy’s. It clashed with the baby blue eye shadow that coated her eyelids.
Ignoring his ace waitress’s cavalier attitude Tom continued, “I’ll show you how to order at the bar. Okay?”
Sandy nodded, wiping her sweaty palms on her pant leg.
“Don’t worry; it doesn’t get too busy until around six. And the rush ends by eight-thirty,” Tom said.
Peggy smiled smugly, “C’mon, greenhorn. Let’s get started.”
The restaurant soon filled up, and Sandy found herself rushing from bar to kitchen to dining room and back again. She thought that she had the routine down, but every time she went to pick up an order, Peggy beat her to the platters of food, insisting they were for one of her tables. Soon Sandy’s customers were complaining that they were waiting too long to be served. She apologized over and over again and finally resorted to offering free desserts and extra refills on the drinks to quiet their complaints of being slighted.
Meanwhile, Peggy sailed around the room like a queen visiting her subjects, flirting with the men, planting a baby pink lip-sticky kiss on the older men’s bald heads.
Tom called from the bar, “Sandy, here’s your order for number five.”
When she started to reach for the drink, Tom leaned forward and narrowing his eyes, said, “You’re embarrassing us, girl. All I hear are complaints. Maybe this job is too hard for the likes of you.”
Sandy’s shoulders slumped. The pace was so hectic; she didn’t have a moment to catch her breath.
“And how many free desserts have you served? You’re paying for them, you know.”
Suddenly Peggy charged up and began to load the beers and soft drinks onto her tray.
“O-h-h-h, no, you don’t,” Sandy said firmly. “This isn’t your order.”
“Try and stop me,” Peggy answered, flipping her straw-like hair.
Sandy elbowed Peggy out of the way, quickly picked up her order, and delivered it to the waiting couple. The wife, a bulky woman in knit pants and a sweatshirt, scowled and said. “Finally! We coulda died of thirst waitin’ for you.”
Sandy wanted to snap at the woman and her husband who was wearing a baseball cap even though he was indoors. Instead she bit her lip.
“Sorry ma’am, I’m new and I’m just learning.”
“Well, next time we’re askin’ for Peggy. At least she can get the food out before midnight.”
The woman shifted her bulk on the chair. Sandy saw Peggy scurry across the room with yet another tray laden with food.
“Oh shit,” she snapped. The woman looked startled.
“What did you say, miss?”
“She’s got my orders again!” Sandy said angrily, as her tray fell to the floor. It clattered. Everyone in the small dining room sat at attention.
“You witch, give me those!” Sandy shouted as she lunged toward Peggy.
“Help! She’s gone crazy!” Peggy screamed frantically.
Sandy grabbed at the tray Peggy held in front of her like a shield. She yanked the tray toward her, and the plates started to slide toward the floor. Peggy righted it and pulled hard in her direction. Sandy countered with a solid tug. The plates clattered and filets of fried fish the size of a baseball mitt became airborne. Both women watched, mouths agape, as the fish spiraled toward them. They ducked, sending the large tray clattering to the floor while Cole slaw, macaroni salad, French fries, rye bread and butter rained down on the nearby tables.
The patrons screamed and covered their heads with their hands. A few of the women held up overstuffed purses like umbrellas.
Tom emerged from the bar, his face scarlet. Sandy thought she saw a pulse throbbing on his temple.
“What the hell are you two doing? Pick up that mess. And serve these customers.” Tom’s voice was filled with rage.
No one breathed in the silent room.
Hours later, after the frenetic rhythm of the dining room calmed down, Tom cornered Sandy and Peggy in the service area of the bar. A few of the regulars were seated on high stools, drinking beers and badgering each other.
“Listen you two. The only reason I didn’t throw your sorry asses out of here earlier is because it’s hard to find help.”
Peggy sneered. “You ever think of paying better?”
Tom glared. “Another night like this and you’re both out on the street. Think about it, ladies—there’s only one other job where you get take-home pay the day you work…is that what you want to do?” He strode away.
Peggy leaned forward and, with her face inches from Sandy’s growled, “I can make your life pretty miserable. And if you think tonight was bad …well, I’ve been known to send other girls home crying for their mommies.”
Sandy wondered if working at Murphy’s would be worth the hand-to-hand combat in the war Peggy had just declared. Fingering the tips she had earned that night in her pocket, she imagined the money piling up, paying her bills, and maybe she could buy a car. She raised her glass of water as if proposing a toast.
“Don’t worry, Peggy. I’ll be back and ready for combat tomorrow. Cheers!”

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Living in a Gray World

I have to go on the record and admit that I hate gray. I think it’s dull, sad and depressing.
Now I know that interior designers are in love with gray—it’s the “it” color. Apparently, it’s the new neutral. Gray reminds me of the heavy, leaden winter skies in the Northeast where days dragged on and on, and seeing the sun was a treat.
So why would we recreate that bland, depressing environment in our homes? Gray—everywhere I look, people are painting their homes gray. Not just on the outside, but on the inside, too. Living room walls, bathrooms, bedrooms—everywhere there is gray.

I wish I knew who decreed that gray is hip and sophisticated so we could stage an intervention and release the American people from the tyranny of this despondent color.
In the community where I live, a designer decided to paint a large, cavernous restaurant gray, which she then accented with other shades of gray—a yellowish gray, a greenish gray and a darker gray. The effect is dreadful —eating in the restaurant reminds me of being in a cafeteria for depressed people—or an institution. I live in an “active adult” community where older people ride bikes, play baseball, workout in a gym and pursue many interesting activities. But when I go to our restaurant, I feel like I should be wearing a bib, and someone should be feeding me soft foods. The same designer has renovated other buildings in the community—and yes, they are all painted various shades of gray. I long for color—a wall of bright blue, a lovely sunny yellow or a soothing green would appease my despondent eye and soothe my psyche.
I wonder if I am a voice crying out in the depth of the great gray fog that has enveloped the environment. I can’t wait for the next “it” color to come along—and I pray that it is NOT gray, but rather an uplifting soothing color that pleases the eye and creates a happier atmosphere.

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The Stuck Door

                                                           

She was beautiful the way career women are: great figure, smartly styled hair, and expensive clothes, which she wore with ease and grace. He stood in front of her desk holding the files in his hand. It always annoyed Frank that Miss Bailey’s secretary allowed him to enter her office and then he ended up waiting like a schoolboy who had been sent to the principal after one too many pranks.

Amy Bailey looked up at Frank.  “Yes,” she said in her well modulated voice.  Sometimes Amy felt exhausted from how hard it was for her to play this role. When she made the decision to pursue a career in business, she knew that she had to abide by the rules. But there were times she wished she had the freedom to grab lunch with the girls from the office.

Frank discreetly handed her the bulging file folder. She set it on her desk and thanked him. Taking that for a dismissal, Frank headed toward the paneled oak doors that isolated Amy in her coveted corner office from the warren of cubicles where the workers toiled. Amy swiveled around on her cushy leather chair and drank in the panoramic view of Lake Erie. A kaleidoscope of sailboats skimmed over the green-blue water.  The dome of the lighthouse peeked out from the treetops.  It was summer in Buffalo—a short season of warm days followed by cool nights, perfect for afternoon picnics or evening campfires on the beach.

“If only,” Amy whispered.  It had been two years since there had been anyone in her life.  The last romance had ended, as they all had, with recriminations and hard feelings.  Her career was ramping into high gear while his had stalled.  After that last breakup, Amy had allowed her work days to become never-ending and to spill over into her weekends.  Even her girlfriends had stopped calling, tired of her excuses for why she couldn’t join them for drinks and a chick flick.  Her work engaged her, and to Amy it was like nurturing a child.  Her service on several boards of directors earned her accolades for community service.  And the annual charity ball that she organized gave her a certain celebrity in the community.  Photographs of her, dressed in designer gowns and escorted by strikingly handsome men, appeared regularly in the newspaper.

Yes, she had come a long way for a girl from gritty, blue-collar South Buffalo.

As Frank went back to his desk, he wondered about Miss Bailey’s life outside work, although the office rumor mill claimed that work was her life.  He imagined her going home to a fashionable condo with a stunning lake view and savoring the dinner her housekeeper had cooked, or dining at a trendy restaurant with her model- handsome boyfriend.  Frank had seen the pictures of her at the Charity Gala, dressed to the nines—as Frank’s father would say—with a guy that  the office gossips called eye-candy.  Frank looked at the clock, another hour to go and then the usual Friday afternoon fish fry with his parents at Ryan’s in the South Buffalo neighborhood where they still lived. Later his friends from the office were headed out for a pub crawl on Chippewa Street which would end with breakfast at the all-night Greek restaurant.  Frank was finishing last minute phone calls when his email alert dinged.  He was half tempted to ignore it—after all it was 4:57—but instead he clicked the message open.  Miss Bailey needed him for “just a minute.”  He shrugged back into his jacket and knocked diplomatically on her office door.

She had her back to him.  Her shoulders were squared and her auburn hair was pulled back into an intricate French braid.  For a moment Frank wondered what she would look like with her hair freed from the tight weaving and discreet clip that held it in place.

“Beautiful view, Miss Bailey,” Frank said to interrupt her reverie.  He had plans and he wanted to be on his way.  She turned and smile, a really engaging smile, Frank noticed.

“Yes, it is lovely.  But sometimes I envy those people out on their boats.”  Her voice had an almost nostalgic quality to it.  Frank nodded and looked at her expectantly.

“Okay, listen, I hate to do this, but I’m really stuck.  Corporate wants figures on projected costs for the Henderson account updated right now.  I know you have a handle on things—could you stay a few more minutes and run the numbers again?” she asked.

Frank dashed back to his cubical and logged onto his computer.  He really wanted to impress Miss Bailey. Rumor had it that a managerial position was opening. Frank had his eye on that job, and he knew that she would be making recommendations to fill it.  He had just looked at the file earlier today; it shouldn’t take more than a half hour to update that information. As he scanned his computer screen, he called his Mom and apologized for missing their traditional Friday dinner.

Two hours later, his eyes crossed from looking at numbers and a calculator tape that wound its way like a garden snake to the wall, Frank had completed the task.  He sent Miss Bailey the file, but in his desire to be thorough, he ran a single copy and then decided to use the copier to make a few extra copies.  Forty five minutes later, his shirt smeared with toner, he had the copies, which he now realized would have been a cinch to run on the computer printer.

Meanwhile, Amy Bailey wandered out of her office to find Frank.  He was in the copier work room, his coat and tie had been abandoned on a nearby chair while he tried to coax a paper jam into submission.  Hurrying back to her office, she waited for Frank. She wondered if he had any idea that he was her first choice for the position that was coming up.  She felt herself blush when she thought about how much she would enjoy working more closely with him.  Get a grip woman, she though. I’m sure that he has a real life—and a girl friend to go with it.  She shook her shoulders as if to let go of any thoughts about Frank other than what a dedicated worker he was.

A moment later, he was at her office door, his hair a little disheveled, his tie and jacket missing.  Amy had to look away to keep from blushing.  She took a deep breath and accepted the collated and bound copies he presented.  Man, he did good work, she thought.  She started to thank him, but he had left.

Suddenly her office felt like a cage. Deciding to call it a day, she quickly packed her briefcase.  The sun wouldn’t set for at least another hour, and maybe she could enjoy what was left of a picture perfect summer evening.

Nearing the elevator, she saw Frank standing there punching buttons. He turned and smiled as she approached, “I think the elevator is on the fritz,” he said.  She found it curious that he used such old fashioned expressions.  Sometimes he talked like her father, even though she knew that Frank was about her age.

“Again,” Amy said in an exasperated voice.  “This is the third time this week.  It looks like we’re going to have to walk down,” she added.

They clambered down to the first floor landing.  It was like a monk’s cell, and sweltering.  Frank went over to the red steel door that was clearly marked, EXIT.  He pushed and then he pulled.  Nothing happened.  Then they both tried together.  The door would not budge.  Finally Amy used her cell phone to call the building superintendent, and after three tries, got his voice mail.  Tension showed on her face as she left an urgent message.  Then both Amy and Frank slumped on the bottom step of the stair well.

“Should I try to go back to the office?” Frank asked.

 Amy shrugged her shoulders. “Thanks for offering. But I think we just have to sit tight and wait.”  With that she reached up and freed her hair.  Then she kicked off her high heels and began to rub her feet. “These shoes are not meant for anything practical,” she said, looking up at Frank.  He felt a little off kilter, sitting in this tiny space with Amy.  The atmosphere was charged, much like the moments before a first kiss.

They sat there awkwardly.  Amy made another call to the building superintendent, and then in a frustrated voice asked, “Is there anyone you need to call? Is your girlfriend waiting for you?”

He shook his head, “No, no such luck.”  He wondered if he could ask her a similar question.  After all, weren’t they like two survivors who had to bond to live to tell their tale?

An hour later they had shared the granola bar Amy had in her brief case and split Frank’s emergency can of Coke.  Soon they were talking about their lives outside of work.  She laughed a surprisingly hearty laugh when he related tales of the mischief he and his brothers managed to get into as kids.  And he nodded sympathetically as she explained that her mother had died when she was a baby, and that she wanted to impress her demanding father, a noted lawyer.  For a moment, Frank sensed that Amy’s no-nonsense exterior hid a woman who felt vulnerable.  He wondered what would happen if he reached over and took her hand.  Geez man, this isn’t a rom-com, he thought. This is your workplace and she’s your boss!

Then they heard the welcome sound of someone unlocking an outside door and the distinctly gravelly voice of Hank, the building superintendent. Amy looked at Frank with an unguarded look in her eyes.

“Well, your company has made this little ordeal a lot more pleasant,” she said, her gaze steady and unnerving.  By now they both had removed their business -correct jackets and had rolled their sleeves up to the elbows.  Both were glowing with perspiration that beaded on their lips and brows.  Then the exterior door opened, bringing a welcome surge of cooler, fresher air.

“Hey, Miss Bailey, I’m so sorry for the delay. I was out with my wife—fish fry night, you know,” Hank explained.  “Just checked my voice mail and I got here as quick as possible.”  Hank watched as they headed out to the parking lot.  From his vantage point, they looked like a nice young couple.  He smiled when he noticed Miss Bailey reach out and touch her companion’s arm.  He could tell by the tilt of their heads that they were lost in conversation.  Then both cars sped away, heading in the direction of the new lake front restaurant.

                                                               ******

It was a mild winter day, the sun brilliant on the newly fallen snow, when an email was sent instructing the office staff to assemble in the conference room ASAP.  Everyone knew what the announcement would be: Frank was being promoted to the new managerial position.  Upon entering the room the staff saw Frank and Amy standing close together, smiling and chatting.  To the casual observer, they might look like a young couple who were in love.  But the office gossips knew better— Amy and Frank in love? That was impossible!

Frank beamed as he announced his new job at the law firm on the second floor.  Then he took Amy’s hand as she announced their engagement.  Later champagne was poured and a toast was made to the couple.

Hank smiled as he raised his glass to celebrate the joyful news.  Too bad that neither of them had known enough to jiggle the door handle that Friday evening six months ago he thought—the door would have opened and they could have left right away.  Funny what a stuck door can do.

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She Who Must be Obeyed

Dear Reader.

I’ve been away for a while–and I hope you enjoy this oldie but goodie post. I will be posting much more often going forward.

Thanks,

Kathy

I’ve being subjugated , put down and ordered about—by my 15 pound dog, Sparkle. Perhaps it’s the name. If I had called her Wendy or Cutie or Moxie or, well, just about anything else, perhaps she would not have assumed the role of the Queen of the Household.

I think her power has increased dramatically since my husband passed away. After all, she had him well trained and then she was left with just me—the one who thought that she was in charge. So now Sparkle has a real challenge on her paws. How to get “mommy” (yes, I answer to that) to do the Queen’s bidding.

It started out slowly. First it was demands to be petted for long periods of time. Okay, I could do that once or twice a day. Now, I get a few minutes off each hour from the petting duties.

I used to like to sit on a recliner to read. I can’t do that anymore. Why not, you ask.

Well, it’s because Sparkle wants me to sit on the end of the couch with her while she lolls around so I can pet her and give her tummy rubs. If I don’t—she sits at my feet and whines in a tiny, annoying voice. (Thank God I never let my daughter whine like that! H-m-m. Do you think I’m onto something?)

Of course there are also the required walks—I do try to exert some control over that—until she comes up and bends her expressive ears back and cries and vocalizes her approximation of “out.”

Off we go for our half hour to 40 minute jaunts while she does all the regular doggie stuff and sniffs every square inch of the route.

A few times I’ve tried to encourage her to try to wait a while. Do not do this at home if you have a dog!

There’s an emergency doggie “pee-pee” pad in the utility room. For a while, it seemed like there were a lot of emergencies—at least according to Sparkle.

When Sparkle would see the tell tale evidence, she would  look up at me with her big innocent eyes , cock her teddy bear face my way as if to say, “Who did THAT?”

We usually top the day off with a very active play session which consists of me cheering her as she catches various toys mid –air, runs around—and get treats. Many, many treats.

I’ve thought of getting her one of those cute little doggie shirts and having “She Who Must Be Obeyed” emblazoned on it. But I think she would fight wearing it and then chew it up. Just like the adorable red dress I got her for her first Christmas and all the bows and scarves the groomers put on her. Sigh.

But, when we finally turn in for the night, she cuddles next to me, gives me doggie kisses –and I’m happy to know that I have her with me.

Of course, I curtsy before I get into bed—royalty you know.

 

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The Text Message Was Cryptic

 

Ding, ding. Where is that damned phone? I dig through my overloaded purse, pulling out tissues, a too large wallet, five pens, two old lipsticks, and loose change. Getting a smaller purse seemed like a great idea when I bought it, I thought, as I cursed and tore my way through the purse. Finally, I located the phone which I find to be both a blessing and a burden.

Ding, ding. I really have to change the sound settings. It drives me nuts to have all those beeps, dings, and trills emanating from this technological anchor.

I access the message and scowl at the screen. My husband’s text message was strange, cryptic actually: CU L8R, grrll. Larry, my husband, never used that texting shorthand like our teenage kids. In fact, he was careful to punctuate properly and even signed his texts ‘Have a nice day! From Larry’. This was strange. Why would he call me girl? At least that’s what I think he meant by grrll otherwise, he’s growling at me which is even stranger.

And the rest of the message—CU L8TR—well, of course he would! I’m his wife, the one who cooks dinner and stocks the fridge with Stella Artois.  Was the message meant for me—or did he have some extracurricular activities with someone new? I laughed out loud. Hell, who’d want a slightly pudgy, balding guy whose new best friend was Viagra? Then I remembered how much he enjoyed flirting with the cute waitress who winked at him at the diner where we get that fantastic souvlaki. And what about the bank teller who has known him for years and calls him Lar?

I quickly called Larry.

“What the hell does this inane text mean?” I sputtered. “Are you getting senile?”

He chuckled. “I knew you’d get a kick out of it.”

Finally breaking the uneasy silence between us, Larry said, “At least I thought it’d, you know, spice things up a bit.”

 

 

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Finally–an Updated Blog Page!

I said I was going to do it, and I did! I gave my blog page a new look. It took a one -on-one tutoring session with a wonderfully patient and competent consultant, Cath Larsen, and some time, but now I have a bright, new, blog page.

It features an easy to access menu with tabs to click on across the top–so you can see what books I’ve published and even read the first chapter by clicking on a link to the Amazon website! And if you were wondering about me, I have an About the Author page with a photo.

Another feature I love–and I hope you will too, is the slide show in the picture on the home page. As the various pictures I’ve used with different blog posts appear, you can click on the picture and it will take you to the blog post!

There’s a nifty calendar at the bottom, so you can find dates when I posted something new. Even more importantly, you can subscribe to the blog much more easily now–just sign up at the bottom of the page for automatic updates about new blogs.

I plan to feature short, short stories on the Blog page along with some of my slice-of-life observations.

Let me know what you think–I hope the new format will be easier to use and will please you as much as it does me.

 

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I Am a Bookaholic

It’s true.

I looked it up on the internet, and I present these typical symptoms:

§  I will sit and read for hours at a time, sometimes until my eyes are so tired I can hardly focus on the words on the page.

§  There are stacks of books everywhere in my house—on tables, on chairs and footstools and, of course, in bookcases.

§  I have been known to not answer the phone if I am in the middle of a chapter that I find fascinating.

§  When I finish a book, I am anxious and at loose ends until I start the next one.

§  I think about the characters even when I’m not reading the book.

§  I have a Kindle and an I Pad with books loaded on them.

§  When I read a book for my book club, I can’t wait to discuss it.

§  I find it hard to give books away—even ones that I know I will never read again.

§  I love libraries and bookstores.

I’ve been like this since I was a child, so I think that my case may be hopeless.

When I was a kid, my sister complained that I read too much and wouldn’t put my book down to play. And one of my teachers thought that I might have read every book in our local library.

Friends have suggested a support group to help me deal with this addiction…but I’d have to tear myself away from what I’m reading to go… and I can’t do that until I’ve finished the book.

 

 

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FSS–Florida Snowman Syndrome

 

I wasn’t aware of FSS until very recently. But, after reviewing the symptoms, I am sure that I’m a victim of this dreaded condition.

 

 

Here are a few of the symptoms of FSS.

  • Opening your front door to what feels like a blast from a furnace.sun-151763__480 sunglasses
  • Sweating so much when you walk from your car to an air-conditioned store that you feel the need to shower as soon as you go home.
  • Racing home with groceries so you can get the perishables in the house before they spoil.
  • Feeling like the air is too thick to breathe—at 7 a.m.
  • Being grateful that the evening temperatures are only in the mid 70’s.
  • Buying ice cream at the drive-through window and sitting in your car with the air-conditioning running so it doesn’t melt before you lift it to your mouth.
  • Refusing to go to the beach (even though it’s one of your favorite places) because it will be too hot and sunny to enjoy it.
  • Having feverish heat-dreams even though the air conditioning is on.
  • Or having to burrow under blankets in bed because you have to lower the A/C to “frigid” in order to sleep.

If you suffer from any of these symptoms, you probably have FSS—Florida Snowman Syndrome which causes you to melt like a snowman when you attempt to emerge from an air-conditioned space in July, August or September ( one of the worst months) while living in Florida.

There is no known cure except to escape to a cooler northern city during these months.

 

( Thanks to Sue Kuchler, a native Floridian, for naming this syndrome.)

 

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The Beatles

beatles-2395311_1280“An oldie but a goodie,” I hope you enjoy reading this blog post again!

Kathy

 

The Beatles were the first wave of what was to become a virtual tsunami of British rock and roll bands to capture the imagination of American teenagers in the 1960’s.

Like most people of a “certain age,” I clearly remember their appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show—the appearance that fanned the fires of the phenomena called Beatlemania.

The shaggy (by 1960’s standards) hair, the fitted, collarless suit jackets and the songs—“I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, “I Saw Her Standing There,” all were different and exciting. Even then, I knew that something amazing was happening. Their music was energetic and artistic at the same time. It was fascinating watching girls in the TV audience swoon and faint because they were seeing The Beatles in person—and wishing I was there, too.

Full blown Beatlemania took over the lives of most teenage girls (and many boys) of the time.

I remember going to the Friday night dances at a local Catholic High School, which cost fifty cents to get in. Whenever a Beatles record would be played, the girls would scream and run onto the dance floor as if possessed. You would’ve thought the four lads from Liverpool were there at the Bishop Timon High School Auditorium by the way we acted!

Then there was the day one of my classmates brought a three foot long poster of John, Paul, George and Ringo into Latin class, and laid it on the floor like a red carpet. Luckily, I sat in the same row as she, so I got to gaze upon the adorable countenance of Paul McCartney during class—which was a lot more fun than declining Latin verbs.

Who can forget choosing their favorite Beatle? Mine was Paul, because he was so cute, played guitar left-handed, and looked like an extremely good-looking boy next door.

My parents, who were pretty laid back about most stuff, decided to ban us from listening to Beatles music in the living room.  We had to go to either the basement or one of our bedrooms to play our newly acquired Beatles records. This ban lasted until my Mom began to sing along with the records…suddenly, the Beatles were, once again, welcome in the living room.

When their first movie, “A Hard Day’s Night” was released, my Dad loaded me, two of my sisters and a bunch of our friends into the station wagon and took us to the Drive –In to see it. I overheard him tell my Mom when we got home that, “The movie was pretty good, and the music wasn’t too bad.”

Beatlemania took on many forms—collecting Beatles cards in bubble gum, buying John Lennon’s book of poetry as well as all sorts of memorabilia,  and of course, reading about The Fab Four in fan magazines. We poured over articles about their home lives, and how they got started.

The fact that John Lennon was married and had a child, and that Paul McCartney had a serious girlfriend was downplayed at first. I suspect that was in order to support fan’s fantasies about that chance meeting that would turn into a romantic encounter.

Perhaps the strangest Beatles fan at that time was my Grandfather, who lived with us.

When my parents got weird about us watching the Beatles in the living room, we would go to Grandpa’s room and watch The Ed Sullivan Show with him. Later, after the Beatle ban was lifted, Grandpa would call downstairs, “Hey Kids, them Beagles is on!” That was our cue to hurry up to his room to watch the Liverpool Four with him. The only problem with this scheme was that Grandpa thought that any rock and roll group that remotely resembled our heroes were “them Beagles.” So, we got to watch the Dave Clark 5, Gerry and the Pacemakers and many other British Invasion groups with Grandpa.

I have so many memories of The Beatles, ranging from loving their music, feeling saddened by their breakup (and knowing it Yoko Ono’s fault), the shock of John Lennon’s murder, the genuine grief when George Harrison died…

I still love hearing their music and remembering the happiness of those more innocent days.

 

 

Image: courtesy of Pixabay

Statue of the Beatles in Liverpool, England

 

 

 

 

 

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Drum Roll, Please

 

 

I’m back! And I have an exciting announcement—my third book, Widow’s Weeds—The Note is going “live” on Amazon.com. The print version is available right now, and the Kindle version should be up in the next day or two.

This book is the first in a trilogy about widowhood. I know there are books about loss and grieving—some are serious books that help the reader to cope with loss, while others are fiction. I’ve read two books about widowhood—one that had a wry humor to it ( Good Grief) and another by Elizabeth Berg (The Year of Pleasure) that glossed over many of the roiling emotions I felt trying to cope with my loss. After reading both of these books, I came to realize that the death of a spouse is heartbreaking and life-changing and can only truly be understood by experiencing it.cover for Widow's Weeds

I wrote this story in part  to share my personal experience and to help me to make sense of the last five years since my husband Dan died.  I found this book liberating to write.

I added a twist to the story. In Widow’s Weeds—The Note, Lori, the protagonist, finds a mysterious note that makes her question her relationship with her husband. So while Lori reflects the emotions my many widow friends and I felt, it isn’t completely autobiographical.

The next two installments will explore Lori’s journey as she finds her way to healing and acceptance.

 

You can easily find the book on Amazon.com by typing my name into the search box: Kathy Joyce Glascott. I hope you’ll download Widow’s Weeds—or even buy the print copy.

 

 

 

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