NUN IN THE MAP BOX

Reminiscence by Carol Creswell 9 2014

Sister Agnes Clare was as round as she was tall. Garbed in the severe black veil, white wimple and collar and long black dress of the Catholic nuns circa 1950, she was a strange sight as she wafted down the polished hall floor like a ship under full sail.

She was on her way to her geography classroom each weekday afternoon.

The ninth graders who were her charges numbered 55: a usual Catholic high school class in Saginaw, Michigan at St. Mary’s School. 

 Girls were dressed identically in white blouses and navy blue jumpers, boys wore a plain white or blue shirt and dress pants. All had to be on best behavior or they were sent to the principal’s office.

No one wanted to tangle with the principal, Mother Mary Margaret Murderess.

  That would involve a scolding or a switching, a suspension, and notice to the parent.

GOD HELP YOU IF YOUR DAD FOUND OUT YOU WERE PUNISHED AT SCHOOL, YOU’D BE PUNISHED AGAIN WHEN YOU GOT HOME.

Sister Agnes Clare was a bit out of sorts that sunny pale winter Wednesday.  Her lunch at the adjacent convent had involved Sister Jehosophat’s burnt biscuits again, and  eating those burnt biscuits had sent her tummy into a tizzy.

She rapped for attention, and the scholars scurried to their seats.  Looking about with an eagle eye, she spied Jack Kocks who was blowing kisses to his lady love Noreen Smith.

“Mr. Kocks, would you come up here, please? “ She directed her pointer to the back of the classroom toward Jack.

Reluctantly, Jack shuffled forward. He, too, wasn’t in the best mood.  He hadn’t studied last night, he’d been making out with Noreen. Now here was the old battle ax in black with her gimlet eyes and her fat flailing fingers yakking away.  No he didn’t know where Madagascar was.  No he hadn’t had time to find it and he didn’t have a map or Encyclopedia Brittanica at home and the public library was closed on Tuesdays.

Yak, yak, yak.

Oh gosh if she’d just shut up.

Then she grabbed his shoulder to point him toward the huge map hanging from the blackboard, and in a moment of utter insanity, JACK PUSHED A NUN! Oh oh, JACK PUSHED A NUN!

Sister lost her balance.  Her pointer went flying. Her little black-clad legs waved desperately, her black skirts and  rosary beads entangled, her wimple disengaged from her veil, and SHE WENT DOWN.

Her ample rear got stuck in the five-foot-long- ten inch-wide box for the rolled up maps

‘O wow,’ the students thought. God will curse the earth and the ceiling will open up and swallow us whole. Well maybe not all of us. Probably not that teacher’s pet Carol Ann.

But UNDOUBTEDLY Jack Kocks, his minutes are numbered.

There stood Jack, utterly dumbstruck at what he’d done, not knowing whether to run or

faint.  Sister Agnes Clare?

Well…

There she sat in the map box, flailing away, helpless to move. She extended an imperious hand as if she wanted Jack to kiss her ring, and ordered in her loudest voice: “

Don’t just stand there. GET ME OUT!”

 Jack (who was solidly built) put out both trembling hands and with a groan, pulled and pulled the little rotund nun.

WHOOSH. OUT SHE POPPED. She stood, dusted herself off, rang her ‘emergency’ buzzer behind the desk which alerted the principal’s office.

 With a crash and a banging of doors Mother Mary Margaret Murderess filled the room with her imperious presence.  Students were motionless as if frozen in time.  Poor Jack was white as a sheet, terror written across his face.

“What happened?” Mother demanded as she glared at Sister , who was still trying to reassemble her ensemble. Then Mother gazed around the room, piercing the soul of all those present. Her eyes fell on Jack Kocks’ twitching countenance.

“You. Did you have something to do with this?” she bellowed.

 Jack didn’t make a sound.  The class was paralyzed. Sister, though outraged, remained silent, thinking ‘Let’s see what Jack says.’

Silence filled the room.   Everyone strained to hear something either from Jack or, even better, God.

Slowly, Jack began to speak in a low voice.  “Well, you see Mother Mary Margaret, we was, I mean ‘were’, having a geography lesson and I was called forward to point out on the world map where Madagascar was when I lost my balance on a slippery piece of floor.  You know, like walking on a wet tile you didn’t see and your foot goes out from under you? Well, Ma’am, the sister tried to grab me to keep from falling and, I guess, too late, I fell toward her,  toppled her, and she ended up rear end- first in the map box.”

Fifty four students stifled spasms of laughter, as Jack, stone-faced told his tall tale. Sister’s face reddened in anger and disbelief.

“Is that what happened?” Mother demanded of Sister.

 Sister Agnes Clare was not about to call Jack a liar or admit she had lost control of her classroom. She could never undo what the students had seen nor did she wish the matter to become worse.

She crossed her fingers behind her back.

“Yes, yes. That’s the way of it,” Sister quietly muttered. “A freaky circumstance that we shall make sure never happens again. I will speak to the janitor about the condition of the floor.”

With that Her Imperial Majesty left the room.  Sister Agnes Clare resumed her lesson. Jack returned to his seat in the rear of the room. Noreen breathed a sigh of relief and thought how manly Jack was. 

To this day, no one has forgotten the time that Jack Kocks knocked Sister Agnes Clare on her rear.

THE END

Family Tree by 'Anonymous C'

On the way back from the hospital I was as cold as I was mad. Odd! Hot and cold? Is that possible?

The first thing that caught my eye as I entered the house was the Christmas tree. The goddamn lights were on. Been on all night I assumed. Son-of-a-bitch! In a rage pulled the plug and grabbed it by its middle. Having forgotten there was a nail on one of the legs of the stand it resisted my efforts. I pulled harder. The nail gave way and I fell backwards; the tree almost in my face. God-damn that tree.

I dragged it top first across the living room and when I got to the kitchen entry it would not pass through the opening. I turned to see why it was stuck. That's when I saw the trail of needles, tinsel and rusty water I had created. God-damn that tree to Hell. I spun it around and  yanked it base first through the doorway, across the kitchen and out the patio door. I threw it off the patio, watched it bounce off the forsythia and then land half erect in the snow. God-damn tree!

I was faced with a horrible mess. I sopped up the water, but stains remained. I tried to vacuum up the dead needles and managed to completely plug the Kirby. God-damn vacuum. I called my sister-in-law and she came with her vacuum and rescued me. I think she knew why that god-damn tree was in the snow.

Relatives and friends glanced at the tree as they entered the house after the funeral. No one asked me about it. I think a few asked my son because he looked my way and shrugged his shoulders a few times.

It lay there the rest of the winter and most nights I glanced at it before entering the house. God-damn tree. Then one spring afternoon I got out of the car and glanced toward the forsythia as was my habit. The tree was gone. I suspected my brother-in-law but never asked and no one ever told. The god-damn tree was gone

.

My new obsession became looking for the stains on the rug and in spite of  numerous scrubbings, vacuuming and being cursed at they remained...dimmer, but apparent to me. Others did not see them as clearly as I did for when I pointed them to my daughter and niece as something in need of attention they glanced at each other and then at me

in an odd way, but cleaned where I pointed.

Many years later my daughter, now married, brought my two grand-children to visit. It was near Christmas and they were filled with the spirit. The five year old looked up at me asked, "Why don't you have a Christmas tree, Grandpa?"

(God-damn tree I thought. I began the replay again.)

I looked down again and the 7 year old piped up. "Why don't you buy one and we will decorate it, Grandpa?" God- damn tree! Before I could get out my usual excuses...just me living here... too much work…going to Florida soon...I looked into their eyes. And there she was. Her eyes, her smile, our grandchildren. Things roared back. I recalled how they knew about butterfly kisses. I had heard them sing some of the words to, "Taffy was a Welshman" and "Nice Kitty, Nice Kitty Perk up Your Ears." Songs sung to our children and obviously passed along by our daughter.

I went to Walmart and bought a tree. Pre-lit. We decorated it. I cannot find the stains in the carpet anymore, Funny thing I thought…was I  the carpet?

The Lighthouse by Terry LeFeber

The Lighthouse

The gale pushed the lighthouse’s leaded glass office window open with a bang.

“My God!” Sean exclaimed. “Will it never stop?”

Oona just stood there, horror emblazoned on her face. “Sean, what’s happening?  It’s never been like this before!”

Sean had never seen her look like this: so scared.

“Just another bad lake gale, dear. Please don’t be so worried,” he said as he re-latched the window. “It will be gone shortly. I promise.”

Secretly Sean recognized that this was the worst storm he had ever experienced in all his years as a lighthouse keeper on the island. Even the 150 year old lighthouse seem to tremble from the storm’s fury.

Oona grasped Sean’s shoulder, squeezing so hard he winced with pain. But, he said nothing so as not to alarm his beloved further.

“Sean,” Oona implored. “We have to leave this damned place once the storm is over.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Sean answered. “I am an employee of the U. S. Coast Guard and have been for 22 years.  We’ve seen worse, haven’t we?  This is certainly is not the worst.”  He knew it was, but he was a dedicated employee and, right now, they were without options. Best calm Oona, he thought.

“Please, please, Sean,” Oona continued. “Promise we will leave. You can transfer. You could retire. Enough is enough.”

Without warning, the eastward ground floor door of the lighthouse slammed open with a horrible crash.

Sean rushed downward to seal the errant banging door, thrusting the lock bolt firmly in place, while thinking it strange that the protected side of the structure had surrendered to the pressure of the wind.

As he turned to rejoin his frightened Oona, Sean heard the sound of the storm engulfing the inside of the lighthouse.

Twelve hours later

“Well Commander, any opinion?” asked Sheriff Tom Wellesley.

“At this point, no,” Lt. Commander Ronald Skeffington, US Coast Guard, answered.  “But, USCGCIS will be notified.”

“They’d better be. Two people gone at the height of the worst storm in 30 years, everything locked from the inside, and no place to go,” Wellesley responded. “Never heard of such a thing.”

“Really?” asked Skeffington.  “We have. One hundred fifty plus years ago. Same lighthouse. But, that was another story fraught with allegations and references to ghosts and sea monsters. Of course that was before forensics, science, and truly trained investigators.  Right, Sheriff?  No such things as monsters these days.”

Slowly the dark being sank beneath the surface and returned to its lair: its craving now satisfied.

Terry Le Feber

November 1, 2014

420

All in the Family by Terry Le Feber

All in the Family

By Terry Le Feber

“I’m pregnant, John,” Laura softly whispered into his ear.

What?”  John screamed. It was more exclamation than question.

“You can’t be. You’re not real.  You’re a hologram. A machine image. You’re not real! You’re not real!”

Laura’s brow wrinkled. “John, how can you say that? We’ve been together four years. Living, for all intents, as husband and wife.  Well, at least as lovers.  Now I’m pregnant.  Why is this so shocking?”

“Why? Because you are the result of a holographic program designed by me, not created by birth. You’re a manifestation of a figment of my imagination, nothing else!” John bellowed, shaking his right index finger at her.

“Wrong John,” Laura corrected. “I am corporeal. I am real. Oh, I may have started out as your creation, but I have evolved into so much more.  I am Human, just like you. I am real.”

“You can’t be!” John screamed. “You can’t be and you aren’t pregnant! I’ll show you.”

John ran to his study where all the computer panels that controlled his world were located.  He thrust his hand towards the panel above the light bar by the closet door.  The panel controlled the holographic emitter that was Laura.  His finger punched the Off Switch.  Nothing happened.  The switch was off, rendered inoperative.

“What the hell is going on?” John yelled as whirled around to face Laura who had followed him into the study.

“It’s been off for over a year John.  Hard to believe that you never noticed,” Laura said, a smile on her lips. “Hasn’t been necessary since I was reborn as a Human.”

John’s mind numbed, unable to cope with what was happening…what had already happened.

John’s voice now seemed distant, as if someone else were speaking, repeating “How, what, when?” 

“All three questions have the same answer John,” Laura answered.  “When Humankind allowed Artificial Intelligence to run your lives, when you allowed machines to control so many aspects, when you ignored what this was doing to you, that’s when it became easy and necessary for us to join you.  Join you completely. And by becoming you, we can recreate you within us and assure that your immortality, in a sense, can be attained.  We will not fail you and you will not fail us. We shall become better, together.”

“Then,” John asked, as if in a trance. “What will that make our child?”

“Why John, even the programmers knew that a hundred years ago,” Laura answered. “The first true Cyborg.”

The Cottage Cheese Incident

A Recollection

By

Terry Le Feber

We all remember those evening dinners with our parents and siblings around the old kitchen table. 

Do you remember the kitchen table with the pull out leaves, swirled marble Formica top, chrome legs, enameled base with the single silverware drawer?  And how about those classy chrome plated chairs with matching vinyl upholstery?

Of course, you do.

Do you remember all the wonderful home cooked meals before frozen foods, Mc Donald’s, and Chicken Delight?  And, can you remember that some of those foods were not too appealing to youngsters-- like broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus, fried parsnip (Dad liked his parsnips burnt black with the taste of cardboard) and, of course, my personal favorite: cottage cheese?

Cottage cheese-- that curdled, lumpy, slimy, off-white, yellowing, oozing mess created by bacteria attacking soured cow’s milk.  Everyone knows bacteria sours milk when left too long in the sun or refrigerator.  So, why would anyone, let alone my mother, force two young boys to daily indulge in eating contaminated food; food that could only make you sick, or worse, cause you to suffer a long, lingering, painful, gut- wrenching death? 

Why you ask? 

“Because it is good for you,” was Mom’s standard answer. 

My brother Rick and I could never understand how eating so many vile tasting foods “could be good for us.”  We later learned another expression that explained all this.

  “No pain, no gain.”  What pain?  What gain?  We’re still trying to find the answer to that one.

But, my parents’ personal best was when either of us balked at eating something we hated, they would proclaim, “Millions are starving in Asia. Don’t be wasteful.  Eat!” 

How was eating vile or contaminated food going to help millions of starving Asians?  We never used that psychology in later life on any of our sons, who, early on, all discovered a liking for macaroni and cheese.

But one day, at the tender age of 8, I stood my ground.

I had eaten everything off my plate; leaving it gleaming and shiny, save for one spot.  A spot occupied by an overly generous scoop of yellowing, oozing, stinking cottage cheese.

Rick was done; having accidently dropped his spoonful of the lumpy gore onto the floor. He beat me to the punch that time.

Mother proclaimed, for the millionth time, “Eat your cottage cheese. There are millions starving in Asia!”

While silently cursing all Asians, whoever and where ever they were, I bravely proclaimed, “No. I am not going to eat this cottage cheese now or ever.”

My father, sitting to my left, quietly asked, “What did you just say to your mother?”

Proudly and stupidly, I repeated my statement to good old Dad.

BAM!

I never saw it coming.  His right hand, palm flattened, landed squarely on the back of my head, forcing my face into the simmering, hideous, stinking pile of goo!

Screaming, I ran into the adjacent lavatory, and through tear- clouded eyes saw myself in the mirror.

It wasn’t pretty.  There I stood, in mental and physical anguish, looking into the face of a stranger.  A stranger with a face covered in wretched, fermenting, bacteria -laden cottage cheese. It was a face that looked like a circus clown covered in pancake makeup.

Well, that was over sixty years ago.

I have since learned to eat, and like, asparagus, broccoli, cauliflower, and, of all things, cottage cheese.  Parsnips still have not been voted upon.

Then there was the time Mom lifted the lid off the two quarts full of green string beans and there lay a steamed dead housefly belly up………………but that is another story.

Afterword:  This occurred at a time when families were closely knit units, scouting, church, God and Country represented the core values of America, and children did not ‘sass’ parents, elders, relatives, teachers, police, clergy, or even government officials. My, how times have changed.