IF WE HAD IT TO DO OVER . . .

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Albert Einstein

   

ENOUGH ALREADY
Carolyn B Healy

I turned on the Today Show this morning for the first time in weeks, and they’re just lucky I was prepared to give them a second chance. I had to put them on probation back on the second day of the Michael Jackson death marathon. If they were going to act like the entire world screeched to a halt just because one exceedingly troubled entertainer died, then they’d have to do it without me. I am not without compassion for M. Jackson, as he was clearly victimized first and repeatedly before he turned his attentions to young boys. I just sought some balance and the slightest recognition that he became a predator himself.


Soon after, I left on a lengthy trip where my morning viewing switched to the cruise director’s daily closed circuit TV show, for which he donned a turban and received a lovely facial from the spa staff, and talked on and on about shopping. I didn’t miss Today at all.


Once back, I needed a week to overcome jet lag, and was finally ready to resume my usual habits. Certainly Today was over the pop star immersion by now and back to actual news. I switched it on. What filled the screen but the entire Duggar family, the reality show crew who unapologetically shows off their incredible flair for reproduction, a 21 person mass seated somehow - they must have bleachers in the living room - around the parents.


“The Duggars are here. And they have an announcement,” the off-screen voiced teased. “We’ll be right back.” MORE . . .


HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Ellie Searl

. . . they lived happily ever after. THE END.

"Night, night, sweetie girl, sleep tight.”

“How do you know?”

“How do I know what?”

“That they liveded happily ever after.”

“Lived, not liveded.


Well, they just did, like in all your other stories.”

“Bambi’s mommy didn’t - she got shotted by a bad hunter.”

“Shot, not got shotted.”

“And the poor little match girl got frozed.”

“Just say froze.” MORE . . .

IF WE DON'T LAUGH, WE'LL CRY

Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. Victor Hugo
 

  


MAMMOMGRAM 2009
Carolyn B Healy

4:23 am
Fear penetrates my dream – trapped in a warehouse with endless stairs and no door. I awake with sweaty palms and dread. Dream fades. Whew. Reality invades. Shit. Mammogram Day.


6:00 am
Shower, no deodorant.


6:25am
Check email. Do not make To Do list for day, just in case.


6:45 am
Take two Extra-Strength Tylenol. Ha! Outwit the flesh-squeezing bastards.


7:00 am
Remove envelope of old films from closet shelf, safer at my house ever since the year they misplaced (and eventually found) them, making it all worse. Do not look at them.


7:05 am
Drive. Park.


7:10 am
Take elevator to 4th floor. Enter office. Go to bathroom. Complete paperwork. Pretend to watch Good Morning America present the various tragedies that occurred overnight while I thought only of myself. Go to bathroom again.


7:25 am
Follow receptionist to changing room. Choose locker # 11. Strip to waist, don enormous pink-flowered flannel gown with many strings. Wrap tight. Sit in waiting room. More Good Morning America. Maintain cocktail party-style chit chat with other patients. Do not mention that we are all in the Diagnostic Mammogram wing for some good reason, not downstairs in Routine Mammogram.


7:35 am
Experience strange calm, proving once again that reality in the moment is easier to handle than the anticipation of it. MORE . . .

JUST A KID
Ellie Searl


He was just a kid, and he used to live in that shack-turned-shrine.


Gaudy bouquets of sagging paper roses fall into the weeds. Wrinkled posters scrawled with “Rest In Peace,” and “I will love you forever,” written in black magic marker above a distorted sketch of his face - the ink, purple from rain and dew, bleeds across the page. Candles, balloons, American flags, and melted candy lump together in piles. Stuffed animals - bears and tigers and dogs - with faded bows and grubby, matted fur, are topsy-turvy, tossed among crumpled sympathy cards and hand-written notes.


Slumped mourners take snapshots of each other, marking history and capturing tears of personal loss in front of the twisted, yellow Do Not Cross police barrier, stretched from the fence and around the stubby tree - jammed with soggy dolls, hand-made gifts, and toys – into the bareness of the backyard. MORE . . .

MOTHERHOOD

Mother's love is peace.  It need not be acquired; it need not be deserved.  ~Erich Fromm

MOTHER OF THE YEAR
Carolyn B Healy

Elizabeth Edwards slogs forward on her book tour, pundits lob shame-bombs at her, and I cultivate a growing resentment about the whole scenario. My friend Kathy and I even had a spat about her the other night. Kathy thinks she should just stop talking and toss her husband to the curb. Kathy thinks she’s pathetic. I think she’s anything but.


I’d like to talk about Elizabeth without wasting too much time on husband John. Kathy and I agree on him. Let’s just stipulate that he’s the guy you hope your daughter won’t meet. Too good-looking to have been required to develop character, although well-trained in creating and cultivating appearances. An overgrown adolescent. If you don’t agree on the last point, watch clips of his coy flirtation with the videographer he took up with. A middle-schooler lusting after the new social studies teacher wouldn’t display such leering desire. Narcissistic, arrogant. The good-guy imposter genus of the liar-cheater species of the human male. Yeah, yeah. He’s also done good works. He should have stuck with those. MORE . . .


MY MOMMY IS BETTER THAN YOURS
Ellie Searl



I knew my daughter, Katie, would be a far more charitable parent than I when she was twelve. It was while she was babysitting our four-year old neighbor, Laurie, an outspoken, precocious child. You know the type. The over-indulged genius-spawns who are taught that adult conversation is of minimal significance and interrupting a discussion about mortgage meltdowns or the President meeting with dignitaries in the Middle East with such earth-shattering news as, Mommy, see? I made the letter L, is a far more critical issue in the scheme of world events.


Such children are encouraged to speak their minds – no matter what. They’ll stare into a poor soul’s face and say, That fat man looks like a gorilla – when he unfortunately does – and the mother, in her need to take every opportunity to reinforce her child’s powers of perception and add yet another word to the child’s burgeoning, somewhat annoying, vocabulary, responds with, Yes, Honey-Bunch, aren’t you the observant one! Observant means you see things very accurately, “accurately” having been taught the day before during dinner while the family contrasted the various green shades of arugula, pesto, and blanched broccoli. MORE . . .

RIDING THE WAVES

I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving: To reach the port  . . ., we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it - but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor. ~Oliver Wendel Holmes

THE DUNKING POOL
Ellie Searl

Love, sex, and religion were not discussed in my household when I was a kid. Each brought embarrassment, awkward stammering, and red faces. Kissing relatives or saying “I love you” was out of the question. My mother once said, “Nobody in my family ever talked about love.” Well, neither did she until she got old and we forced it on her.


And sex? That was just a distinction between male and female. When I was sixteen, my mom and I had our one-and-only sex talk. She squinched her forehead, “You know, don’t you?” I said, “Yes,” and left the room.
It was the same with religion. No questions. No answers. No discussion. Church was just something I did once a week unless I had junior choir rehearsal or youth group later on in high school. The whole system was a big interference in my life. I had better things to do.


If my parents wanted me to believe in a traditional religious doctrine, other than a fundamental, all-encompassing fear of the Almighty, somebody missed the boat. My Federated Church experiences as a kid left me melancholy on Sundays, guilt-ridden all the time, and scared of God. The only thing I liked about church was Communion Sunday when everybody received fresh bread chunks and tiny glasses of Concord grape juice served in silver trays. Other than that, church was a place I suffered through if I wanted to see the light of day for the next 24 hours. MORE . . .

PADDLING TOWARD TODAY
Carolyn B Healy

I know two people who have been on the Today Show, for very different reasons. The first is Wendy Goldman Rohm, a Chicago area writer and teacher who wrote books on Bill Gates and on Rupert Murdoch and rode her book tour right in there to appear with Katie and Matt.

A book tour sounds glamorous to me who has never been on one. I imagine I’d love the attention and all the stimulating questions, but Wendy says a book tour is a pain. Apparently answering the same questions all day for weeks gets a little grating. On the plus side, they can never take the Today Show away from her. MORE . . .

BE AFRAID - BE VERY AFRAID

Fear is one thing. To let fear grab you and swing you around by the tail is another.  ~

Katherine Paterson

FROM THE FRYING PAN TO THE FIRE
Ellie Searl



I went to school early to become familiar with the layout of the building and to put my lesson plans and activities in order. The classroom looked like those in the states: rows of flip-top desks with attached swivel chairs; counters strewn with spiral notebooks, teacher’s manuals, and paint tins; hanging cupboards stacked with yellowed bank boxes; bulletin boards covered with faded construction paper; dusty green chalk boards; and a stopped-up sink. It even smelled the same - sour milk, musty gym shoes, and bologna. The odors hovered in the stale air, trapped by painted-shut, screenless windows.


At one time, schools were built for function, not comfort. A couple of doors, a principal’s office, classrooms along a bleak hallway, a windowless multi-purpose room in the basement, which served as a gym, auditorium, and lunchroom, and open-stalled bathrooms, made an adequate facility to hold children captive while they learned the basics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, or until they turned sixteen. It didn’t matter if kids were hot, cold, bored, or constipated.


I placed a red welcome sign on the bulletin board and a curly ivy on my desk to brighten up the institutional appearance. MORE . . .




FREEFALL
Carolyn B Healy


I was the only kid in Chicago who had never been to Riverview. It wasn’t for lack of interest, as I’d been to Kiddieland over and over and was a real fan. It was a matter of logistics. In that era before expressways, when we’d set out for the occasional visit to the relatives in Oak Park, it took forever. And forever in a 1949 Ford, with no air conditioning of course, was no picnic. And Riverview was all the way on the North Side. For all I knew that would take more than forever.


Finally, early in high school came my big chance. My best friend Leslie and I got to go. I remember that. Whether it was it a school trip, or a YMCA outing, or somebody’s brave mom who drove us there and then disappeared for a few hours I can’t tell you.


We entered the gate and trailed from ride to ride, from The Bobs to Aladdin’s Castle, doing whatever we wanted. I felt liberated, grown up, finally part of the larger world. It was delicious. MORE . . .

JOURNEY

To finish the moment, to find the journey's end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom.  ~

Ralph Waldo Emerson

A CHILL IN CUBA
Carolyn B Healy

The scene -
Hotel lobby, Havana

• A polished wooden bar ringed with rattan stools, bathed in soft light
• Polished mosaic tables arranged at the base of a spectacular marble staircase; a wide balcony overlooks the entire lobby
• Potted tropical plants sit everywhere
• A guitar player roams from table to table

The main characters:

• Five American travelers:
• My husband David and me who can best be described as touristy looking Midwesterners
• Our two new trip friends, Sue, a gentle 70 year-old former bank CFO who looks about 45 and her wisecracking friend Linda, who could also pass for 10 or 20 years younger than she is
• Matt, late 20’s, the baby of our humanitarian tour group, as all the other travelers are 30 to 50 years his senior. His gelled hair and dark blue eyes make him stand out from the other young people in the lobby, as does his formal Southern gentleman manner.

The supporting cast:

• An amiable bartender who shows off a bit in the production of his drinks and engages customers in pleasant banter, just like your local bartender at home
• A cranky expressionless waitress upon whom it seems lost that she has one of the best jobs in Cuba, in that she works in a ritzy spot where she can receive tips in CUC’s, the dollar-like currency usually reserved for foreigners
• A fluid assortment of other patrons, all Europeans and Canadians, sampling cigars and local drinks MORE . . .

CRAYON CIGARETTES
Ellie Searl

Wild-eyed Sally waved the serrated bread knife in front of Ed’s face. I could see her through the crack in the kitchen d oor. Her untamed hair flew around and she spat venom. “If she comes in here, I’ll kill her. I hate her guts, and she better watch out!”


Ed knew how to handle Sally. He remained calm. “Sally, give me the knife. . .”


She made small jabbing motions toward his throat. “I hate her! She’s a pig! How can you stand her?”


“Sally, you don’t mean that.” His voice softened. “Do you really want to hurt Ellie?”


Sally was secretly in love with Ed, so she backed off, heaving the knife to the floor. It clatter-bounced on the tile and skittered under the stove.


Sally was part Cree, part French Canadian, part Scottish, and part unknown. I’m not sure which part of her wanted to kill me – probably all of it. She was thirteen, tall, skinny, abandoned by her family, and mad. She was mad at me because I wouldn’t let her go out. It was a weekday – a school night. The girls weren’t allowed out after supper on school nights. Not Cindy, not Carol, not Ellen, not Leez, not Tony, not Lauren, and not Sally - especially not Sally, who didn’t understand her emotions and couldn’t control an ounce of them. MORE . . .
(Drawing by Katie Searl Bodnar - Age Five)

IN BETWEEN

The search for a new personality is futile; what is fruitful is the human interest the old personality can take in new activities. ~ Cesare Pavese

   


SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL
Ellie Searl


The older couple sat beside me in Row Three - wife in the middle; husband at the window.


The lady’s head looked like a camel molting in late spring. Sparse patches of short, reddish-brown dyed hair with muddy, grey roots stuck out of her head in clumps; a bald spot highlighted her crown. She wore a rayon turquoise outfit, sensible brown shoes with Velcro straps, and lots of costume jewelry.


The husband matched his wife’s lackluster style with his tousled grey hair and lumpy beige suit. He slumped so far into his seat I could barely see his face. He mumbled something to his wife.


“They’re down there.” She pointed to a pink, quilted bag under the seat in front of her.


“Huh?”


“They’re there . . . in that bag . . . down there . . . !”


“WHAT?”


He reminded me of my father – asking a question but oblivious to it when it was answered.
I could hear them shout at each other over the roar of the JetBlue engine and my headphones, which were already turned up several notches so I could watch “Real Housewives of Orange County” on the little TV above my tray table. MORE . . .


______________________________________________________________________


YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT
Carolyn B Healy







My high school was one of the best in the Chicago Public School system – academically superior, racially stable, with a host of after-school activities. A substantial percentage of students went on to college and success. It had the customary social divisions for the time: the cool kids, the hoody kids and the nerds, even though that word was not in use yet. Everyone pretty much knew where they belonged, but our school had a particularly vivid way of drawing the distinctions, at least for the white kids.


The black kids must have had their own stratification, but in our self-involvement, we got only a glimpse. Within our honors classes, there was a bit of a range from the ultrastudious twins, to the hardworking activity jock who ran the yearbook, to the glamorous girl who belted out the theme from Goldfinger at the talent show. We were school-friends, but never met outside of school, and never wondered why. MORE . . .