Friday, August 31, 2012

Sipping Whiskey



Sipping Whiskey
Revia Perrigin

            Buzzy was my best friend.  He was not only my best friend but my only friend.  He never stayed home.  He said his mother was a painted lady.  I wanted to ask him what he meant but I only knew she had many visitors.

            My name is Ashford Van Cunningham but everyone calls me Ash.  Mama says we’re kin to the rich Cunningham’s in Natchez.  She says that to make herself feel better. Everyone knows ma was raised on Tolliver’s Mountain.  Her pa was a poor coal miner and married her to pa in trade for a mule. I don’t know where pa got a mule. The only work he ever did was making sipping whiskey-the best sipping whiskey that ever came from the hills of Holmes County, Mississippi.

            Buzzy was thirteen.  I was man grown at fourteen.  I had been helping pa make moonshine since I was big enough to hold a scoop.  Pa said everything had to be measured.  Maybe that’s why pa’s white lighting was the best sipping whiskey for miles.  I don’t know why it’s called sipping whiskey.  Most of pa’s customers lapped it like a prairie dog finding an oasis in the desert.  

            Pa’s still was a conglomeration of copper tubes and two old T-model radiators.  The whiskey dipped slowly into a metal barrel.

            Pa didn’t use shine haulers.  Men in beat up cars with souped up engines trying to outrun the law usually ended in jail.   Pa just sold his at the still.   The ones that came to the still brought their own fruit jars, tin cans, coffee pots, molasses buckets or anything they could salvage.

            Buzzy and I sometimes hauled mash and corn to the still behind Jake, mama’s mule.  The corn squeezing mash was in burlap sacks marked seed. Anyone who saw us would think ma was planting a garden.   While pa smoked and drank, we kept the fire going and watched the gauge.  One of pa’s friends let his tank get too hot and parts of him were never found.  

            After getting enough dried wood for the fire, Buzzy and I played in the woods.  Pa’s still was deep in the swamp and a big pipe was used to scatter the smoke.   I didn’t know much but I knew pa had an arrangement with the sheriff.    Several gallons of his best sipping whiskey were sent every month to Sheriff Brady.  Pa always knew when the revenuers came to town hunting bootleggers.  Pa would shut his still down till they left the county.

            There were a lot of gullies and ditches in the woods. Buzzy and I would make hideouts and play pirates, outlaws and army.  Once we put a tin can on top of a stick and pretended we were singing in Nashville, Tennessee.   Running out of games to play, Buzzy said, “Let’s hunt buried treasure.  Huck Finn found treasure.  Remember that story, we read in school. If we don’t find gold we’ll find something.  

            “Let’s go to the shack on Walton’s hill.”

            Ash, I heard ghosts live there.”

            “We’ll take a shovel to conk them with.  I’m not scared of any old ghost.  Let’s go get ma’s shovel.”

The old shack was overgrown with weeds.  The roof had sunk. The old house was scary even in the daytime.  The house was built on the ground.  It was said to have been a hideout for the Beaver gang, bank robbers and murderers.

            Buzzy, let’s go in”.

            “You go.  I’ll start digging near than old gnawed tree stump.  Everyone knows treasure is buried by trees.”  Picking up the shovel, Buzzy headed for the tree.  I went toward the house feeling less courageous.   Creeping slowly in the house, I stopped to listen.  A field mouse came running out of a boot in the corner. All was quiet.  The quietness made the shack even more frightening.  Bottles, old cans and garbage littered the floor. Spying a broken pocket knife, I went toward it.  There was a cracking sound and I was falling.  Dust was saturating the air getting in my nose, throat and eyes.  When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found myself in an alcove under the house.   Boards had fell on the opening-there was no way out. 
            I was scared. I started yelling for Buzzy hoping he was still here.  Realizing no one could hear me, I knew I had to conserve oxygen.  After a long time, I heard voices and scraping noises.  Buzzy running to the still had found several men smoking, drinking and passing the day with daddy.    My heart was pounding out of my chest as one man said, “The whole thing fell in.  Buzzy run get more help. Ash is buried alive.”

            Hearing a lot of commotion, I knew they would get me out.  Throwing board and debris off the house, they finally reached me.  While several men were pulling me out, one man said, “These old houses had an outside door to the root cellar.   Let’s look.”

            The padlocked door was half buried under pine straw and dirt.   Using Buzzy’s shovel, Sheriff Brady broke the rusty lock and used the shovel to ease the door open.   He was taking no chance on finding a rattler.  Everyone gasped.  We were looking at a skeleton.  Claw marked faintly showed on the inside of the door.   Someone had been locked in to die.  Everyone stared in shock until Sheriff Brady said, “This place can’t be touched.  I’ve got to notify the F.B.I. in Jackson.  Someone stay and watch.”  No one moved.   The corpse had more watchers than an angel coming from heaven.  Darkness fell as several agents arrived and had the skeleton removed to an undisclosed destination.

            An old chest was found in the cellar containing old newspaper of bank robberies.  Was this the hideout of Pretty Boy Floyd or Bonnie and Clyde? The town was buzzing with weird notions of outlaws and criminals who might have stayed in the old shack.
____________________________________________________________________________
            Buzzy and I were at the still helping daddy. Daddy was sitting on a stump drinking out of a tin can.  We heard something.  Walking up on a man’s still will get a person killed.  Sheriff Brady said, “Easy men, I’ve always known where the still was."

            Daddy replied, “Howdy Bob.  What brings you here?”

            I was hunting Buzzy and Ash.  Seems they did find treasure.  The man was identified by his ring.  He was CIA from Washington.  A reward of $5,000 was posted for his whereabouts.”

            “Buzzy, we’re rich.”

            "Not so fast. Neither one of you have dependable guardians.  The money will be put into a trust fund until you are eighteen.  Maybe you both can go to boarding school.  You will be very rich young men.” 

Buzzy and I looked at each other.  We knew if that was what it meant to be rich, we would just make sipping whiskey.  Pa and Sheriff Martin took long swallows out of two fruit jars while Buzzy and I started running through the woods to make another hideout for our make believe robbers, pirates and cowboys.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Farewell, Friend

                  Farewell, Friend
                                                   By Jane-Ann Heitmueller
   

Forever

What lofty, unknown journey is encountered by mans’ soul
When he has trod his path on earth and met the Father’s goal?
The fact is simple in my mind, it nestles in our heart, to
Bring us joy and peace and love and never shall depart.

jah
                                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



  Her amazing courage while facing this final adversity of life bolstered my own bravery. Propped regally in bed and comfortably cushioned by the soft down pillows, on this day, as had been her lifelong practice, she was totally in charge of the present situation. In any relationship or circumstance she was the dominant force. Perhaps this need for control emerged from her youthful struggles as an orphan, or was some genetic trait passed from a parental lineage she never chose to acknowledge.  To know her, and be her friend or enemy, one had to accept this absolute fact and be willing to relinquish the leadership role to her.  It was  for this reason I sat at the foot of her bed that hot  July afternoon, pen and pad in hand, writing furiously as she issued precise orders to me.  She was on her deathbed, yet in full command until that final breath would reluctantly release her to the omnipotent authority of another. The only one whose judgment she trusted implicitly.

  “Go to the closet and get the wedding photo off the top shelf. Take it to town tomorrow and have three copies made.  Then I want you to buy three nice silver frames and wrap them each in white tissue paper. I’ll tell you later what names to put on them,” she said, appearing to be anxious to get on with business.

   “Be sure to pick my daffodils when they bloom and don’t forget to give Ruth a cutting of my pink azalea I promised her last year.”

   She continued with the tone of one routinely making a weekly grocery list, as she randomly  sifted through the small pieces of papers scattered before her on the bed; mumbling under her breath, while reading  the notations on each one.

  “I want you to have the living room painted next year. Make sure Mr. Richter uses sky blue on the walls and ceiling and tell him I want dark green carpet. After all, the Master Artist painted His world in hues of blue and green and we should all follow His example in such matters.”


  Stretching with some difficulty across the pink silk comforter, she retrieved a lacy white handkerchief from the drawer in the table beside her bed.

  “This is the handkerchief I want folded under my watch band. Reach in and get it just before they close my casket. It belonged to a mother I never knew and I don’t see any reason to take it with me. It’s yours, so don’t forget it,” she firmly reminded me.

  “I don’t want any flowers at my funeral. If anyone asks, tell people I’ve already had a lifetime filled with their beauty, and besides, I won’t be able to enjoy them anyway. They’ll just wilt and die in the hot sunshine over at the cemetery.  You be sure to write that down,” she said, “so you’ll remember.”

  Even in the seriousness of the situation I had to restrain my chuckles at such blunt, matter of fact remarks. Apparently, the nucleus of her spunk and vinegar had not diminished in the least. Death’s arrival had not altered her personality one iota.

  I faced her in quiet disbelief and I continued to obediently record her detailed directives. There had been no hint of the unusual task ahead when she had summoned me by phone only an hour ago.

 “Yes, I’ll be right there,” instantly responding when she demanded my  immediate  presence . I knew she was ill, but had no idea how grave the circumstances had become. Her weakened tone revealed an urgency I had not detected in previous weeks.  I had sadly observed her steady decline in health, but naively let myself believe that surely death would forever bypass this staunch paragon of knowledge and authority.

   What had begun as a friendship between two families had grown through many years into the closeness and respect of a young girl for a family acquaintance, then teacher, mentor, co-worker, personal friend and eventual confidant.  It is only now, reflecting on the past, that I can begin to clearly envision the influential role this opinionated, flamboyant, intelligent woman had played in my life.  Her wisdom, effervescence and determination had guided my life in numerous ways, yet to this very day I am puzzled by her true motive for assuming this self imposed authority over me.

 At the age of ten I was privileged to be one of her fourth grade students. Her teaching techniques, self titled “Organized Chaos”, poured a rich abundance of jewels into my treasure chest of learning. A love for reading was one of the seeds she planted and nourished in those early years, all the while her wisdom realizing that the growth of this product would be mine to reap and feast upon for a lifetime. Unorthodox, yet fascinating methods of   imprinting music, science and even physical education upon the bourgeoning minds of her students was a gift unknown to us at the time, as we gleefully absorbed and blossomed under her provocative tutelage. The students in her classroom were a world unto themselves, joyfully following a radiant beacon of leadership jealously envied by others who were not as fortunate to be guided by her daily presence in their lives.

  It was she who dared speak up with authority on my behalf to the powers that be when I was seeking my first teaching position. She, who seemed only a few classrooms and steps  away when my immaturity and lack of experience as a fellow instructor needed a nudge or suggestion to help my own eager students reach their maximum potential. She, who dared buck the reigning leadership and fought for advancements others had not even dreamed could be implemented, much less achieved. Once again, standing strong and steady, she was my lighthouse on the turbulent and precarious seas of life.

  A lingering cloud of sadness as suffocating as the humid southern heat shrouded my entire being that somber August evening as I slowly gathered the clothing I would wear to her burial the next morning. The reality of never seeing or interacting with her again was unimaginable.  The influence she had so diligently bestowed on others, particularly her students, would continue to flow like the predictable ocean tides to shores far and wide. A plethora of lessons learned, integrated and freely bestowed by the many her life had touched.  She had shared herself unselfishly and honestly, simply seeking to fill a void where darkness and ignorance would have otherwise resided.

  As dawn gently nudged me awake from a restless night, I instantly felt the comforting buoyancy saturating my soul as a sign that I had indeed made the correct decision in the  unexpected calmness of this emerging day. My choice to remain at home retaining a heart overflowing with an abundance of memories overtook that final deathbed directive. I shall not attend her funeral, nor pluck the folded handkerchief from under her watch band, or gaze transfixed upon a stillness where once there dwelt such radiant ebullience; choosing instead to immerse myself in a spirit of private, tranquil solitude, quietly reflecting and shedding my own personal tears, both sad and happy, for the transformation of my dear friend, Evelyn.
                                
                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Monday, August 27, 2012

Hazel McCreary



Hazel McCreary
We were lost again. We had a roadmap but didn’t seem to know how to use it. I had been driving earlier but now Drusus was driving. His wife, Pearline, sat between us, and I sat next to the window. Mama and Adele were in the back.
The seat wasn’t long enough for mama to stretch out all the way so when she needed to lie down she used Adele’s lap as a pillow. We were all a little worried about mama. We had to stop every now and then for her to get out and walk around. She was carsick and sometimes she vomited. I couldn’t help but notice one time that there was some blood coming up.
            “Sing to me, honey,” mama said.
            “Oh, mama, I’m too hot to sing,” Adele said. “And I need to rest my voice anyhow.”
            “I know you’re going to win that radio contest,” Pearline said. “With your lovely voice, you just have to win.”
            “I wouldn’t be so sure of it,” Drusus said. “There’s hundreds of other people that think they’re going to win it too.”
            “I have as much chance as anybody,” Adele said.
            The old woman giving Adele singing lessons had taught her some opera, but she was best at popular tunes like “Makin’ Faces at the Man in the Moon” and “Love, You Funny Thing.” She could sing anything, though, even church music; that’s the kind of voice she had. 
            “We need to be realistic about our chances but also hopeful,” mama said. “We do our best and leave it in the hands of the Lord.”
            “And I know that new specialist in the city is going to do wonders for your condition, Mrs. McCreary,” Pearline said. She and Drusus were so newly married that she still couldn’t bring herself to call her mother-in-law by her first name, which was Hazel.
            “Well, we’ll see,” mama said. “There’s no guarantee that I’ll even be able to get in to see him. City doctors are not like the doctors we’re used to. They take care of hundreds of patients.” She had a coughing fit and when she stopped coughing she said to Adele, “You still got the name and telephone number of that doctor at that clinic in the city, don’t you, honey?”
            “It’s in my bag,” Adele said. “You saw me put it in there.”
            “Dr. Searle says he’s probably my best and only hope.”   
            “Don’t worry, mama,” Drusus said. “We’ll get that doctor to see you even if we have to hogtie him and kidnap him.”
            We all laughed but mama groaned.
            We came to a tiny town with a cutoff to a different highway. Drusus took the cutoff going a little too fast. Mama almost fell onto the floor and let out a little yelp. Pearline fell over against me and righted herself as if I was poison to the touch.
            “Be careful, honey!” Pearline said.
            “Well, this is it!” Drusus said. “This is the right way now. I just know it. We are officially not lost anymore.”
            Happy days are here again,” sang Adele. “The skies above are clear again. So, let us sing a song of cheer again. Happy days are here again!”
As if to confirm that we were finally going in the right direction, we passed a sign that you couldn’t miss if you were alive. “Only two hundred and thirty-seven more miles,” I said.
“Seems like we already came about a thousand miles,” Adele said.
“How about you, Wynn?” Drusus asked me. “Do you want to drive for a while?”
“No thanks,” I said. “You’re doing fine.”  
I went to sleep with my head against the door and woke up when we had a blowout and Drusus pulled off the highway to change the tire.
We all got out of the car, including mama. She took a few steps and smoked a cigarette and said she was feeling a little better. She wanted to know what state we were in. When we told her, she laughed for some reason.
We took advantage of the unscheduled stop to have a drink of water and a bite to eat. We still had some bread left over, Vienna sausages, fruit, and other stuff. Mama didn’t want anything to eat but she drank a little bit of water and some coffee. Pearline spread a blanket on the ground for her and Adele to sit on. Mama sat for a while and then lay down and looked up into the trees.
“This is nice,” she said, “lying still on the ground and not having tires turning underneath me.” 
“I think mama’s sicker than she lets on,” I said to Drusus when we were changing the tire.  
“That doctor in the city will fix her up,” he said.
“She’s trying to put a good face on it for Adele’s sake. She doesn’t want to spoil her chance of singing on the radio.”
“Everything will be all right,” he said, as if trying to convince himself as much as me.
Mama went to sleep on the blanket and we had to wake her up to get her back in the car. I took over driving from there, even though I liked it better when Drusus drove and I could just sit and think.
We were all tired and we knew we were going to have to stop someplace for the night. We hadn’t made very good time, what with our getting lost and mama being sick and all.  
At dusk we stopped at an auto court where, according to their sign, they had clean cabins and cheap. I went inside and engaged the room and then we drove around to our cabin, which was cabin number twelve in the back. With the shade trees, the two rows of trim white cabins, and the azalea bushes everywhere, it was a pretty place and plenty inviting.
We tried to get mama to eat something, but she just wanted to go to bed. Pearline and Adele helped to get her out of her clothes and into bed while Drusus and I sat on the front step and smoked.
“If Adele wins that prize money,” he said, “we can pay back Uncle Beezer the money he advanced us for this trip.”
“We can’t expect her to give up the prize money for that,” I said. “If she wins, the money is hers to do with as she pleases.”
“And what would she do with it, anyhow?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it would be her one chance to get away from home, out into the real world. She might get a real singing career going for herself.”
“Do you really think she has a chance?”
“You’ve heard her sing,” I said. “Isn’t she as good as anybody you’ve ever heard?”
“Yeah, she’s good,” he said.
“If she wins the money, it’s hers. We can’t touch it.”
“Maybe she’ll offer it. At least part of it.”
“We can’t ask her for it, though.”
After a couple of minutes in which neither of us spoke, Drusus said, “Pearline thinks she’s going to have a baby.”
“A baby!” I said. “That was fast work. You’ve only been married a month.”
“The curse of the married man,” he said.
“What do you mean? Don’t you want it?”
“We’re poor,” he said. “We don’t have anything. Even the car I’m driving belongs to somebody else.”
I laughed. “How do you think other people manage?” I asked. “How do you think mama and daddy managed? They were dirt poor and they had eight kids.”
“The poorer they are the more kids they have, and the more kids they have the poorer they are.”
“You’re not sorry you married Pearline, are you?” I asked.
“Well, no. Not exactly. I probably wouldn’t do it again, though, if I had it to do over.”
“I’ll be sure and tell Pearline you said that.”
“Don’t tell anybody any of this,” he said. “She doesn’t want anybody to know about the baby just yet, because it makes it look like we had a shotgun wedding. I swear the baby wasn’t on the way yet when we got married.”
“You don’t have to convince me of anything,” I said.
“Not a word to mama or Adele yet. Pearline wants to make sure about the baby before she tells anybody.”
“Mum’s the word,” I said.
Drusus and I had to sleep on the floor in the cabin but I didn’t mind. I was just glad to be able to stretch out and rest my weary bones. I laid down near the screen door where I could feel a cool breeze and hear the trees rustling. After being on the dusty road all day, it felt like heaven.
As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear Adele softly singing mama’s favorite song: Deep night, stars in the sky above. Moonlight, lighting our place of love. Night winds seem to have gone to rest. Two eyes, brightly with love are gleaming. Come to my arms, my darling, my sweetheart, my own. Vow that you'll love me always, be mine alone. Deep night, whispering trees above. Kind night, bringing you nearer, dearer and dearer. Deep night, deep in the arms of love...”
I woke up in the morning to the sound of the birds singing. I stood up to slip into my shirt and pants and that’s when I saw Adele and Pearline sitting quietly in chairs at the foot of the bed. Pearline was smoking a cigarette.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“We can’t wake mama,” Adele said.
“Is she breathing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’d better get a doctor,” I said.
Pearline looked at me and shook her head and that’s when I knew that mama was dead.
I shook Drusus gently by the shoulder to wake him up. When I told him what had happened, he, of course, had to see for himself. He went over to the bed and put his ear to mama’s chest. Hearing nothing but silence, he then held a mirror to her nose. He looked at the mirror and threw it down on the bed like a little boy with a toy gun that no longer works.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“I don’t want to go another mile farther from home,” Adele said.
“We’d better call somebody and tell them what happened,” Pearline said.
“No,” Drusus said. “We’re not calling anybody. They’ll ask us a lot of questions. They’ll hold us here until they know what happened. They’ll make Adele miss her chance to sing on the radio.”
“We can’t go off and leave mama here,” I said.
“Of course not,” he said. “We’re taking her with us.”
After Adele and Pearline got mama into her clothes, Drusus carried her out to the car in his arms. I opened the door for him and he slid mama into the corner of the back seat where she was propped up and her head was not lolling to the side. He then took a length of rope and tied it around mama’s chest so she would stay upright and not fall over from the movement of the car. Adele gave mama’s dark glasses to Drusus to put on her and we found a straw hat that belonged to Uncle Beezer in the trunk and put it on her head. With the hat and the glasses and in her regular clothes, she didn’t look like a dead person.      
“I’m glad she died in a pretty place like this instead of on the road,” I said.
“We’ve come this far,” Drusus said. “She would want us to keep going as far as we can. She wouldn’t want Adele to miss her chance to sing on the radio because of her.”
We all got into the car and Drusus started her up. As we were pulling out of the place, the manager stopped us and leaned into the window and looked at all of us, including mama. He smiled in a friendly way and said he hoped we enjoyed our stay and God grant that we should come back that way again.
               When we were on the highway again and going at full speed, 
Adele began singing mama’s favorite hymn: 
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine! 
Heir of salvation, purchase of God, born of His Spirit, washed in His blood. 
This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long; 
this is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long. 
Perfect submission, perfect delight, visions of rapture now burst on my sight; 
angels descending bring from above echoes of mercy, whispers of love…”
        Nobody said anything for a long time after she finished singing. 
We all had the feeling, though, that nothing was going to stop us now. 
That old car of ours was sure burning up the miles.     
 _____________________________________
 Allen Kopp lives in St. Louis, Missouri, USA, with his two cats. He has had over seventy stories appearing in such diverse publications as Santa Fe Writers’ Project Journal, Danse Macabre, A Twist of Noir, Skive Magazine, Midwest Literary Magazine, Short Story America, Midwestern Gothic Literary Journal, Planetary Stories, Best Genre Short Stories Anthology #1, ISFN Anthology #1,Superstition Review, Quail Bell Magazine, State of Imagination, and many others. He welcomes visitors to his website at: www.literaryfictions.com 

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Love Comes In Many Ways



Audrey Frank                                    
                                             Love Comes In Many Ways


      To some kids, growing up means a loving family and a happy childhood. I wasn't one of those kids.
      I have to admit I came from a dysfunctional family. My mother and father had an unhappy marriage and their discontent somehow included me. It wasn't that they didn't love each other in some strange sort of way.
      My father just couldn't control his lusting for female companions. He was a handsome man with a bulging wallet and a quick wit. Women flocked to him like monkeys to a banana, He simply couldn't resist the temptation. He worked hard and played hard. Mother wasn't interested in playing with him. She was a neat freak who preferred an immaculate house to just having fun. I seemed to be caught in the middle. I certainly wasn't neat and I loved playing.
     I remember one afternoon when I got home from school, Mother sat me down and looked me in the eye.
      “If,” she mused, “I ever decided to divorce your father, you'd want to be with me, wouldn't you?”
      In a pig's eye, I thought. I'd run fast to my father. Instead I just nodded. That seemed to satisfy her and we never talked about it again.                                                                                                        I was the eldest of five children. Unfortunately, I was also the only one to survive the trauma of birth. My unknown brothers and sisters died while still in our mother's womb. I have often wondered why me? Why did I survive while four, who may have made a significant contribution to the world, never breathed at all?
      Mother had been in labor over twenty-four hours. Complications set in and between pain and fear, she had reached the point of exhaustion. I finally struggled and pushed myself into this world early in the morning of May 22, 1928.
      While holding me, the nurse asked, “Well, lady, what do you want?”
      “A glass of water, please.” Later Mother laughed about her answer. “The nurse had meant did I want a boy or a girl. At that point I didn't care. It was finally over and I was so thirsty.”
      My father was ecstatic.
      “Helen, did you see her? She's beautiful, with thick black hair and laughing blue eyes.”
      “Don't be ridiculous,Bill. All babies are born bald”
      “Not ours,” Bill insisted. “Come on, I'll show you.”
      He helped her walk slowly to the hospital nursery. For the first time she really looked at me. I did have a head full of black hair.
      “We created her, Helen. Isn't she a wonder?”
      I don't know how much of a wonder I was, but born under the sign of Gemini I think I've had a split personality all my life. Gemini is the sign of twins. I have always felt there were two sides to me, the obedient don't- make-waves self, and the devil-may-care adventurous me.
Once the joy of my birth was over, my father went back to his philandering ways and I was at home with an unhappy mother. Whatever went wrong, I was blamed. Nothing I did pleased her. Where were those other brothers and sisters when I needed them? An only child has a tough time  growing up. I would dream that when I got married I'd have lots of children. My reasoning? That way one wouldn't always have to take the blame.
      As soon as I was old enough to take my bicycle off our block, I'd whiz the six streets to my mother's sister's house. Aunt Mary was the complete opposite of my mother. I used to wonder if   
one of them had been brought home from the hospital by mistake.   How could two sisters be so different? Mother was always so pessimistic about life. Aunt Mary embraced it. She had been widowed at thirty, but managed to pull her life together. She was one of the happiest people I had ever met.
        Aunt Mary's house was a place of refuge for me. Her house was always warm and welcoming. From the minute I entered her back door and climbed the three steps up to her kitchen, I knew I was with someone who loved me. She didn't expect anything from me. I just felt secure.
     There was always a tender hug and a kiss, and an offer of something to eat. A pot of some sort of soup or stew forever bubbled on the stove. Her kitchen smelled like love should smell – delicious and comforting.
     If nothing else, Aunt Mary was predictable. Her kitchen was the heart of her home. Sunny, yellow polka dot curtains hung at spotlessly clean windows. A large breakfast nook was the place to sit and munch fresh baked cookies with frosty milk in oversized glasses. From the comfort of padded wooden chairs you looked out on a small but well kept garden. Aunt Mary loved flowers and there was always something in bloom. From the first spring crocus, through summer geraniums and iris, into the autumn chrysanthemums, her garden was a myriad of color.
     I remember I was nine years old and had just seen Shirley Temple in the movie “Heidi”. I had raced over to Aunt Mary's to tell her about the wondrous chunk of yellow cheese that Heidi had toasted golden brown over an open fire.
     “It was hard and crusty on the outside, but inside it was all soft and warm,” I explained.
      A twinkle lit Aunt Mary's eyes.
     “Really? I just happen to have a chunk of cheddar cheese and some fresh baked bread.”
     Did she mean what I thought and hoped? Could we really melt cheese right there in the kitchen? As though in answer to my unasked question, Aunt Mary produced a large, two-pronged fork and a brick of hard, yellow cheese. I could feel my mouth watering. I licked my lips in eager anticipation.
     Aunt Mary jammed the cheese on the fork, lit the front gas burner on her immaculate stove, and handed me the fork.
     “You heat this while I put out the bread and butter.”
     Maybe I wasn't at an open campfire in the middle of a green forest, But Heidi had nothing on me. I held the cheese over the flame. I could already taste its warm, soft goodness.
     The cheese started to char and little yellow bubbles exploded to the surface. I could even smell them. I turned to let Aunt Mary know it was almost ready. Suddenly there was a thud and sparks flew from the burner. I stared in horror as my beautiful chunk of golden cheese splattered all over the immaculate stove top.
     Quickly, Aunt Mary was by my side. She shut off the burner and shook her head. Gooey melted cheese had oozed over the burner and white porcelain stove top. It was a yukky mess, and I held my breath waiting for her to yell at me. I peeked at her out of the corner of my eye. She was laughing.
     “Audrey, love,” she chuckled, still shaking her head. “From now on you'd better leave this kind of cheese melting to Heidi.”
     I helped her clean up the mess, totally disillusioned with movie magic. Heidi's cheese must have been phony not to fall apart.                                                                                        
      When I got home that evening Mother was in the kitchen.
      “What did you do at my sister's today?” she asked, neatly folding a towel at the same time. “She said something about you having cheese.”
       Had Aunt Mary told her what had happened? I took a deep breath... 
      “Oh, she said to tell you she had a fun afternoon.” Mother cocked an eyebrow.  “At least you didn't get into any trouble.”                                                                                                                                                        
      I slowly breathed out. Aunt Mary had kept our disaster a secret.
      I was suddenly overwhelmed with love for this lady who took it all in stride with never a harsh word.