Abby sighed at his sincerity, while her own eyes filled. A moment later, the ride operator was lifting the bar from their laps and helping them off the ride. Not yet…please, she thought, but the ride was over—and so was Richard’s hug.
Once Vinny and Tracy climbed out of their car, Richard addressed all of them. “You guys ready?” he asked.
They cringed. A few nods later, they faced south and marched the length of the midway—past Kiddie Land with its WhirlyBird helicopters, Mother Goose ride and boats that went round and round in four inches of murky water. The moment of truth had finally arrived.
The Comet, or giant roller coaster, was a rite of passage and the greatest test of courage for children in southeastern New England. Standing in the middle of the midway, with the kiddie coaster and Mini-Golf course on the right and the giant coaster on the left, the only real decision of the day needed to be made. “I’ll watch the stuffed animals,” Tracy said, and plopped down on a green bench with no intention of going anywhere. The rest of them looked at each other. While little kids chased each other in circles on The Flying Jets—raising and lowering their planes but never getting an inch closer—the decision was made. The time had come to take the risk and overcome their fear. “Let’s do it!”
Abby stepped up to the wooden cutout of a boy who warned that each rider had to be his height to ride. Drats! She’d made it. I’m finally tall enough. As the gang stepped in line, others filled in behind them. More fear took hold. We’re trapped, she thought. With sweaty palms, Abby took a few steps closer. As it shot its latest riders up and down its steep hills, the rickety wooden coaster creaked and complained. Each step took Abby deeper into a war that was being waged between her heart and mind. Everything inside her begged her legs to flee. Her pride, however, held on—though just barely. People screamed on the ride. This is supposed to be fun? she thought.
Before long, she and the boys stepped up to the final platform’s worn boards. Thousands, maybe even millions, have done this and survived, she realized. It was no consolation. Her mind raced, and she recalled her mom and Richard’s dad speak of those who rode the coaster with reverence and respect. She swallowed hard and took another step forward. She wanted that respect.
As they stood before the tracks, the car fired down the home stretch and screeched to a sudden stop. Everyone’s faces were white. The passengers climbed out on unsure legs and Abby swallowed hard again. It was time to get aboard. Richard went first and though she followed, she felt like crying. “Good luck,” she joked.
“Same to you,” he replied and then pulled the safety bar across their laps.
A kind-looking, old gentleman wearing a soft hat and chewing on a cigar approached. As he bent to tug on the safety bar, Abby’s frightened eyes searched his for help. He winked once and offered a grin that said everything was going to be fine. He walked slowly and with purpose to his podium. With one last look at the cars, he pushed a button that caused the train to belch out a steam of air. He then pulled on a long handle and the cars began to coast forward. White knuckles threatened to crush the safety bar. There was time for a brief prayer and then the hyperventilating began.
Through a short patch of forest, the cars rounded the first bend. A huge, steel chain grabbed the front car and jerked it violently into control. There was a brief, merciful pause, and then the cars began to ascend slowly toward heaven, the chain clicking off each final moment of life. The sky was blue, spotted with a few marshmallow clouds. Abby’s body felt numb. Her mind rushed from primitive panic all the way to surreal acceptance. Perhaps shock had already set in. She gave one quick look toward Richard, her riding companion, and fake smiles were exchanged. At the top, the cars paused briefly again. This time it felt cruel.
Abby held her breath. Like a nightmare come true, the car plummeted down the notorious first hill and straight toward the earth. The fall lasted no more than a moment and no less than a lifetime. The hill was longer than expected and lasted well beyond the screams of those who chose to exhale. On empty lungs, they hit bottom and were catapulted back up to an invisible turn. Abby thought they were going right off the track and struggled to roll herself into the fetal position. The bar would not allow it. The turn was just another sick joke from the ride’s sadistic designer.
Gravity took over. While the wood boards swayed and moaned from the weight of the cars and their uncontrolled momentum, premature questions of life and death were considered. The train of cars then rolled home where the old man was waiting to apply the shrieking brake.
On rubbery knees, they climbed out. Abby was breathing again and smiling to be a survivor. Yes! She screamed in her head. She’d conquered the giant, they all had, and so much more than that. The entire experience was exhilarating, filled with equal amounts of fear and excitement.
Richard turned to Abby and grinned. “Go again?”
She nodded. “Oh yeah!”
They went four more times.
~~~
It was dusk, almost six o’clock, when Lincoln Park lit up with neon. It’s already time to go, Abby realized.
As they waited for Mr. Giles to pick them up, Abby grabbed Richard’s arm. “Let’s go see the ballroom before your dad gets here.” She smiled wide. “Please?”
He followed her.
Every time the ballroom door opened, the magical sounds of Big Band music leaked out. Abby watched the dancing couples hold each other close and looked at Richard. I hope we’ll dance this same way one day when we’re grown.
Richard smiled at her before punching her in the arm—and making her chase him all the way back to the awaiting station wagon.
Twelve Months
I had just finished the first draft of a novel entitled The Rockin’ Chair and was happy to take some time off. Two days later, I was in the shower thinking, There’s never enough time to do everything we want to do. Then another thought hit me. What if I only had twelve months left? And the decision was made right then and there. I need to write this book!
So I created Don DiMarco, an ordinary man faced with extraordinary circumstances—having to face his death long before he thought he would have to. He is madly in love with his wife, adores his daughter, and spoils his two grandchildren. Don is a good man; the salt of the earth, but he must find the courage to truly live.
The cliché is true: we can only write about who we know and what we know. Although I consider Twelve Months a fictional work, the content all felt very real to me—so the emotions were also very real.
In the end, the novel’s message is simple but very powerful: as far as we know, we only get one shot at this thing called life—so we each need to make it a great one. Stop wasting time drifting along. Take complete responsibility for your life and live each moment with real intention. In essence, have a love affair with your own life.
This excerpt depicts Don preparing dinner for his wife, Bella, for the first time in thirty years. Although it’s a touching gesture, it’s actually just a diversion from his real plan—to propose marriage once again and ask the woman of his dreams to spend the final days of his life with him.
Although spring was upon us, my poor lawn, which I’d slaved over for years to get just right, was abandoned. The smell of fresh-cut grass, the pride of reaching perfection – it no longer meant as much as it once did. Even my weekly car waxing had come to an end. Instead, if I could have, I would have taken every class available to man. As my appetite for food decreased, my hunger for knowledge became voracious. But there was so little time left. In my sudden quest to learn as much as I could, I picked up a South Coast Learning Network catalog.
According to SCLN’s diverse catalog, all courses were short-term and non-credit, held in local libraries, workplaces, churches, museums, schools, public buildings and even private homes. Instructors were experts in their fields; artists, business people, cooks, computer specialists, craftsmen, health experts, historians, scientists, woodworkers and writers. “Real learning for real life,” they called it. “Besides being f
un, every new learning experience improves the quality of life, while helping you to succeed in a world of constant change.”
From Food & Wine and Home & Garden to Liberal Arts and Nature & Science, there was something to spark the interest of those who had not stopped learning – the curious, the adventurous; people who were still looking to stretch their personal horizons – me. Yoga and meditation; American Sign Language; Acting 101; it was an inexpensive invitation to become a more cultured and well-rounded human being; to become a true Renaissance person. Like a fat man reading through a Chinese menu, I flipped through its pages.
There were classes on painting, pottery and photography. One could learn Tai Chi and how to invest money one term, and then take classes on stained glass and scrapbooking the next. There were belly dancing lessons, or beginner guitar. Languages such as Japanese, Spanish and Scottish Gaelic were offered, as were courses on fencing, kickboxing and chess. For the aspiring writers, SCLN hosted several classes from creative writing to a popular workshop on how to get published.
There’d be no scrolled diploma, or cap and gown received at the end of the class. Instead, I’d get a fresh perspective and some valuable knowledge to carry with me for the rest of my days. I circled the one that interested me most.
~
Though I believe it was only one of two things she’d always wished for and never received from me, I’d never cooked dinner for Bella. So, as the first half of my ingenious plan, it was time to do just that. And if I was going to successfully turn my grand idea into action, I needed a diversion.
~
After coming to the United States from Portugal, Master Chef Antone Carvalho worked in New York as a chef and magazine food editor. He apprenticed at several New York institutions, including the Waldorf Astoria, before being appointed Executive Chef at Bittersweet Farm in Westport, Massachusetts. Teaching was a lifelong dream that became a reality in 1999 when he joined forces with SCLN.
For four hundred dollars, his class looked great. I had a few questions, though, so I called him. “I’d like to learn how to cook dinner for my wife…for the first time in thirty years,” I told him, “and I have some specific dishes in mind.”
“And what are those?”
I read from the paper in front of me. “For the hors d’ouvres, I’d like to serve coconut crusted shrimp with a soy dipping sauce. We’d start with a traditional minestrone soup and tomato & mozzarella salad with an olive oil drizzle.” I waited for a reaction. He was still listening. “Just in case, I’d like to serve two entrees; chicken stuffed with spinach and feta cheese, as well as tenderloin of beef in herb garlic butter. For dessert…chocolate cake.”
“Plain, old chocolate cake, huh?”
“Yup. That’s what she loves. How much will it cost me to learn all this?”
“I’m impressed,” he said. “You’ve done your homework.” He paused. “Let’s just say it’ll cost you more time than money,” he finally answered, clearly moved by my gesture.
“How much time?” I asked, brutally aware that I had much less time than money.
“I can teach you what you need to know in three weeks, two nights a week, two hours each night.”
I was thrilled. “When do we begin?”
“Tomorrow night, six o’clock sharp.”
“Perfect! I’ll see you then.”
I hung up the phone and called Riley. “I’m planning to take a culinary class and cook dinner for your mother, but…”
“Oh, Daddy…”
“Yeah, I know. It’s long overdue. Anyway, I need your help to throw her off. When she asks, tell her that I told you I’m taking some writing class for a few weeks.”
“I will,” Riley promised.
“That’s my girl.”
~
I had no choice. Though I didn’t like it, I had to fib to Bella. “I’d like to be able to capture a few of my stories on paper, so I’m taking a class.”
The next time they spoke, Riley corroborated the story. The heat was off for a while.
~
By the second week of fumbling around in Chef Carvalho’s kitchen, he pulled me aside and reluctantly told me, “Some people have a knack for cooking and some people… well…some people don’t.”
“And I’d be in the second group, right?”
With a gentle grin, he nodded.
“Be honest…do I have any chance of pulling off this dinner for my wife?”
“Sure, if you can smuggle me into your house and hide me in your kitchen for a few hours,” he joked.
I laughed. “Although that sounds tempting,” I told him, “I need to do this one by myself.”
“Then follow each recipe to the letter and take your time!” he said, stressing the last few words with the same effort that a father instructs his six-year old son.
I didn’t take offense, though. I completely understood where he was coming from. “I will,” I promised, thinking, I wonder if he makes emergency house calls.
~
It was a Friday morning when I sent Bella shopping. She knew something was up, but humored me and didn’t ask. No sooner had she pulled out of the driveway than I began cleaning the house, top to bottom. I spent hours cleaning. Once I finished, I dragged myself to the market for all the ingredients I needed to make dinner. Two pain pills later, I started cooking. Each tiring step was a lesson in appreciation for all that my wife had done for me through the years. I tried to follow Chef Carvalho’s instructions and take my time, but my nerves were driving me and I knew it. A few times, I looked at the telephone and considered calling him. Pride stopped me.
Severe fatigue had me by the throat and was choking the life out of me. But if there was ever a rainy day to spend my energy on, it was today. Bella deserved at least that much.
~
As quickly as it had started, it was over. “Oh, my God!” she gasped. Through her look of astonishment, I served dinner and even threw on an old Sinatra album for us to dance afterward.
If it weren’t for healthy, active taste buds, the meal would have been delicious. Bella tried her best to conceal it, but by her second bite, her face contorted. The dinner was nearly inedible. By my third bite, I threw my fork into the plate and shook my frustrated head. Bella smiled at me from across the table – and kept smiling. Eventually, I joined her until we both began to laugh. “I’m so sorry,” I said, thinking, I should have called Chef Carvalho.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” she said, her face growing serious. “This is the sweetest thing you’ve ever done for me.” Her smile returned. “The thought means everything.”
It took a moment before I surrendered to her wisdom. I guess she’s right, I pondered. Results mean so much less than effort. I stood to clear the plates. “So what’ll you have on your pizza?” I asked.
“Mushrooms and onions, please,” she answered with a beaming smile.
I nodded and, as I walked past her to grab the telephone, she grabbed my arm and pulled me to her.
“I love you so much,” she whispered into my ear. “And I loved your surprise. Thank you!”
I hid my smile in her shoulder. The first part of my plan was complete; my wife’s curiosity to uncover my secret had been quenched. I now had a decent shot at surprising her for the first time in my life. I struggled not to giggle.
~
From the moment I’d met Bella, I loved her and she knew it. But life – work, a child, bills, and a thousand responsibilities – all jockeyed for priority and fought for our attention. We did all we could to keep the romance alive, but both of us wished there were more.
I decided that she’d waited long enough to be properly courted. It was time to guarantee the rest of our precious days together by returning to where it all began. For me, the joy was all in the planning. While Madison and Pudge helped me by pretending to be working on the puzzle, I schemed and planned and had the time of my life.
~
I secretly met with Vic at Sagres Restaurant on a random Monday
night, exactly one week before the big night was to take place. Sagres sat on the very location where Bella and I had our first date; the same spot I’d proposed to her thirty-one years before.
“The most important thing is that the timing be right on,” I told Vic.
My friend winked. “I’ll make sure the entire night goes off like clockwork.”
On Tuesday morning, I called nearly a dozen acoustic guitarists before I found one who would also sing. “To play for three hours?” the musician confirmed.
“Or until she runs out the door, crying.”
The man laughed and promised he’d be there, awaiting our arrival.
That afternoon, Riley and I stepped into a jewelry store on Washington Street in Boston. “What exactly are we looking for?” the stuffy clerk asked.
“A diamond engagement ring,” I answered. “Princess cut…something around a carat.”
With a wave of the hand, we were escorted into a locked room where the clerk poured out a velvet satchel of glittering rocks and then began a brief class on the four C’s of the diamond world – cut, color, clarity and carat. By the third diamond he touched, I’d discovered the one. “She’ll love it!” I said and handed him my credit card.
On Wednesday, I contacted Bella’s favorite flower shop and ordered a dozen long stem red roses with baby’s breath and greens, boxed and scheduled for delivery to Vic at Sagres for Monday afternoon.
Thursday had me on the phone again, confirming a white stretch limo for Monday night, as well as ordering a half dozen of Bella’s favorite chocolate covered strawberries from a gourmet sweet shop. “At three bucks a pop,” I told Riley, “she’d better love them.”
The entire day Friday was spent finishing up the poem, Moments of Destiny, which had taken me weeks to craft. It had to be just right.
But the toughest days of all proved to be Saturday and Sunday. I thought I was going to burst. Instead, I reserved my fleeting energy and acted like nothing was going on. I spent my time eating wholesome foods, getting plenty of rest and taking a walk each evening.
On Monday afternoon, I rushed to Sagres Restaurant with a half dozen chocolate-covered strawberries and a scrolled sheet of tan parchment tied in red ribbon. “The flowers should be here in an hour or so,” I told Vic, “and the guitarist says he’ll be here by six o’clock.”
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