Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

  “Right! We don’t need that anymore,” Mark said. He pulled it up and handed it to Barf. “Take it to the trash.” Barf dragged it to the back of the house.

  “Will you miss having a big wedding with all the frills?” Mark asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t like all the fuss, but I’d like to be married in a church with my family there. My mother is a widow and lives in Texas near my two brothers and their families.” She smirked. “Now they’ll have to stop nagging me to get married. What day and time is the wedding?”

  “The wedding has to be on Thursday. You pick the time. I belong to the Presbyterian Church. Will that work?”

  “Sure. Let’s have a candlelight wedding, followed by a dinner reception.”

  “Great! I’ll make reservations at The Breakers hotel.”

  She grabbed his arm. “Wait! I don’t have the proper attire for any of this.”

  “Don’t worry.” He patted her hand. “After we sign the agreement, we’ll go shopping. I’ll pay for everything—rings, wardrobe, and wedding gown.”

  She sighed with relief. “Thank you. I don’t know if my brothers will be able to attend the wedding, but my mom can be my matron of honor. She isn’t tied down with a job.”

  “Good!” Mark leaned down and hugged Barf. “He’s my best friend, so he’ll be my best man. I think he’ll look great wearing a black bow tie.”

  It wasn’t long before their business relationship blossomed into love. Over time, her romance novels became bestsellers, and the couple remains happily married to this day.

  Semper Fi

  S.L. Menear

  Author’s Note: I wrote this eulogy for the funeral of a dear friend who loved flying. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank every person who has ever served in the U.S. military.

  He was a true American hero

  Who served his country well

  He fought bravely through Satan’s jungle

  In a Vietnamese Hell

  His fellow soldiers called him Old Man

  Though he was just twenty-three

  Naïve new recruits faced a fate

  Only Bill could possibly foresee

  When offered an honorable discharge

  And a ticket to fly home across the sky

  He signed up for another tour of duty

  So new recruits wouldn’t die—Semper fi

  On his last day in Vietnam

  Bill stepped on a land mine

  He awoke three months later

  Saved by a force divine

  Over the years, civilian Bill volunteered

  With Marine Corps instructors at a base nearby

  He taught left-handed soldiers how to shoot

  Guns designed for right-handed men—Semper fi

  His humor and kindness

  Endeared him to everyone

  His extraordinary talents

  Were second to none

  He transformed a pan-head Harley

  Into a fire-breathing work of art

  He was a loving father to his son

  And daughters right from the start

  Bill could always be counted on

  To help a friend in need

  He was a truly honorable man

  In both word and deed

  A Citation X Captain, he was happiest

  Jetting through the sky

  Until that sad and fateful day

  When cancer made him die

  Fly high forevermore, brave Marine

  And friend. I miss you—Semper fi.

  The Rattled Hunter

  D.M. Littlefield

  A HUNTER GETS BIT BY A RATTLER—that was the headline in our town’s newspaper, but the paper didn’t git the whole story. My older brother, Clem, told me how it really happened.

  Well, sir, Clem and Bubba, I mean Buford—we called my cousin Bubba ’til my kinfolks moved ta town—went huntin’. Aunt Jess, I mean, Aunt Jessica, got all uppity and gave us a long lecture about usin’ their proper names.

  Buford’s pa was a good hunter and wanted his son ta be too, but Buford couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. So his pa bought him a shiny new shotgun, hopin’ ta improve his skill an’ git his nose out of the library books he was always readin’. Buford’s pa asked big Clem ta teach Buford how ta hunt cuz he wasn’t havin’ any luck with him. So Clem took him huntin’ in the forest next to our farm.

  Buford brought along Snuffy, his ol hound dawg, who loved ta hunt and had a nose that jus wouldn’t quit. Well, sir, after they was in the forest followin’ Snuffy, Buford doubled over, grabbed his fat gut, and made a face like he was in awful pain. He yelled he needed a place to poop and ran in circles, like a chicken with his head cut off, afore he saw a fallen tree with a limb strong enough ta drape his butt over and unload.

  He leaned his shotgun against the branch and almost ripped his britches in his rush ta pull ’em down as he backed up ta the fallen limb. Then he exploded and let out a loud sigh of relief.

  When he caught the scent, Snuffy raised his nose and raced back ta investigate.

  Buford was bent over and wiping himself with a handful of leaves when Snuffy’s cold wet nose poked his behind. He yelped and leaped forward. His britches were still down around his ankles, so he grabbed onto his shotgun ta keep from fallin’. He accidentally jerked the trigger and shot a big limb he was standin’ under. The heavy branch knocked him ta the ground.

  As he tried ta crawl out from under it, he heard a rattlin’ sound. He looked over his shoulder and saw a rattlesnake all riled up by the loud commotion. Buford clawed the ground, desperate ta git away, but his britches were tangled around his ankles, and his suspenders were caught on a branch.

  Afore Clem could shoot the snake, it bit Buford on his bare behind, and he shrieked and fainted. Clem killed the snake and dragged Buford out. Big Clem heaved him over his shoulder and ran as fast as he could on home for our ma ta save him.

  She took one look at his swellin’ behind and said, “I ain’t suckin’ the poison out of there, but I’ll deal with it.”

  Ma put kerosene on the snakebite cuz, you know, it’s the wonder cure-all for us country folks. Buford swelled up a whole lot and got real sick, but he lived ta tell the tale. He found out the itchy rash on his hands and behind wasn’t from the snakebite; it was from the poison ivy leaves he’d used to wipe himself.

  With all the readin’ he’d done, I’d a thought he’d of read up some on poison plants.

  Monsters

  Author’s Note: A dear friend gave me permission to write her true story as long as I omitted names and places to preserve her privacy.

  I was alone in bed, the room in pitch-black darkness, when I rolled onto my stomach and felt a jolt of fear.

  I sensed someone in the room.

  My irrational hope was the intruder wouldn’t notice me if I froze and held my breath. Fear spiraled to panic when the bed gave way as a heavy weight crushed me into the mattress. Terror paralyzed me. I couldn’t even scream.

  Later, my mother found me whimpering inside a closet. She assumed I’d been sleep walking. I was three years old, and that was my first encounter with a monster.

  Now an adult, nightmares had tortured me as long as I could remember. I also suffered night terrors—detailed, repetitive, and realistic enough to flood me with adrenaline.

  As a child, I tried to fight it by planning my dreams before I fell asleep. My vivid imagination would conjure storylines of adventure, romance, humor, and the requisite happy ending. I desperately hoped my subconscious would harness the pleasant images in a dream sequence.

  Sometimes it prevented nightmares, although sleep usually arrested my imaginary stories.

  Unfortunately, the night terrors haunted me into my early fifties. The monsters attacked under the cover of darkness when I was alone. They were so terrifying my subconscious blocked their faces from my conscious memory.

  I was thirty-six, married, and snuggling in bed early one morning when the UPS man knocked on our front door.
I rolled onto my stomach as my husband trotted downstairs.

  That’s when one of the monsters sneaked into the darkened room.

  I felt his eyes on me. My husband’s muffled conversation with the UPS guy drifted in. A scream would summon him. Yet again, the familiar terror paralyzed me as the monster’s weight smothered me. Then, the blessed blackness, like so many times past.

  Why did this keep happening to me? Why did no one protect me? Why couldn’t I protect myself? Had I done something to deserve this?

  My self-esteem had become a victim.

  The next year, I was alone in bed late at night, after the divorce. As usual, I was restless, often surfacing from sleep. I rolled onto my stomach and froze. Did I hear someone?

  I stole a glace. A dark shadow loomed. I prayed I was dreaming as I reached for the pistol under my other pillow.

  Too late.

  The monster’s heavy weight imprisoned me as he breathed on my neck. The terror, overwhelming. This time I managed to squeeze out a squeak.

  Paralysis.

  Blackness.

  By age fifty, I had lost hope for any refuge from my night terrors. I didn’t know why the monsters were so relentless or how to stop them.

  Five decades of this.

  I tried not to think about it and never told anyone because I didn’t know who the monsters were or how to explain it.

  My secret horror. My secret shame.

  In my mid-fifties, I embarked on a rejuvenating journey that began with a three-week stay at a spa clinic where I cleansed my body with wheat-grass juice, vegetarian meals, enemas, salt-water pools, ice-water pools, infra-red heat, and yoga.

  The program included health classes and one session with a world-renowned psychiatrist. I made an appointment with the doctor mostly out of curiosity. I didn’t expect him to accomplish anything useful in one hour.

  “How may I help you?” he asked.

  For the first time, I divulged the monsters, the night terrors.

  “I’ll put you in a state of deep relaxation,” he said. “We’ll discover the identities of your monsters, and we’ll stop them forever. No worries, you’re safe here.”

  I didn’t believe him for a second, but I decided to try it. After all, what did I have to lose? I invested my trust in him.

  The psychiatrist transported me back to age three and asked me for details on what I saw. We progressed in age until all five monsters’ identities had been exposed. Finally, the truth too terrible to face.

  The monsters were real men—relatives—all dead now. The attacks had stopped four decades ago, but my night terrors made it seem as though they were still happening. Half asleep, half awake, my subconscious reproduced the monsters in such vivid details, I believed they were really there. I could hear real sounds, like my husband chatting with the UPS guy, while also feeling the monster on top of me, his breath on my neck. Terror.

  The doctor helped me confront my attackers and express my hurt and anger over their evil abuse.

  How could they?

  The very men who should’ve been my protectors had betrayed me. Why had my female relatives done nothing to protect me? Apparently to conceal the family’s disgrace.

  The doctor explained the women in my extended family were trapped in shame and denial because they had been victimized too. Through understanding, I was able to forgive them.

  My hour with the psychiatrist proved to be the most valuable of my life. It gave me the closure I needed to end my suffering.

  Good-bye, monsters.

  Good riddance, night terrors.

  Thank you, Doctor!

  My Unconscious Muse

  D.M. Littlefield

  My brain cells weren’t percolating sufficiently for an assignment from my writers’ group on my greatest disappointment. Only childhood downers lingered ... not getting the doll I wanted for Christmas ... unrequited love for movie star Cary Grant.

  To spark my imagination, I perused some magazines. An article in Poets & Writers magazine recommended meditation to quiet the mind from distractions and facilitate communication between your muse and subconscious. The author suggested sitting cross-legged on a floor pillow and counting to ten to clear the mind and connect.

  I decided to try it, even though my subconscious was unconscious most of the time. So I grabbed the blue throw pillow off the couch and tossed it on the white tile floor in my living room. Crossing my legs Buddha style was difficult to accomplish at eighty-six, but groaning and grunting inched me into it. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and softly counted. When I reached seven, I shrieked from leg cramps.

  When I grabbed my legs, I fell backward and rolled over to the couch. After pulling myself up, I stomped, hopped, and jumped all around the room while reaching down to rub out the cramps.

  Thank goodness no one saw my impromptu version of a rodeo bronco buster. I couldn’t stop the spastic contortions. It must’ve shaken some brain cells loose and short-circuited my brain, making me think of Dancing with the Stars, one of my favorite TV programs.

  I knew how the three original judges would’ve scored my dance of pain.

  Judge Carrie Ann Inaba would’ve said, “I realize you put a lot of effort into this performance, but you need to concentrate more on your upper body movements. Don’t keep bending your head and grabbing your legs. Look up. Smile. Keep your shoulders back, and move your arms gracefully. I’m giving you a five.”

  Judge Len Goodman, a stickler for perfection, would’ve shaken his head and said, “I couldn’t figure out if you were dancing the quickstep, the jitterbug, or the bunny hop. This was your worst dance. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I hope I never do again. I’m giving you a three.”

  Judge Bruno Tonioli would’ve stood up, waved his arms, and said, “You were very entertaining, my darling. I didn’t realize someone your age could have so much energy. Your choreography was beyond description. You need to stop grimacing, though. Smile. Show us some sexy moves. Give me a sultry look. Shake your booty. I’m giving you a four.”

  I exhaled a deep sigh and rode off into the sunset on my charley horse.

  Stressed Out

  D.M. Littlefield

  I mentally crossed off my list of the morning’s to-dos. First, I left Muffy with the groomer. I gave Amy a new coloring book and crayons to keep her busy while waiting at the dentist to get Billy’s tooth extracted. Then I picked up the dry cleaning, bought groceries, and picked up Muffy.

  I sighed as I drove into our driveway in Palm Beach Gardens.

  My three-year-old daughter’s allergies had made her cranky all morning, so I would put her down for a nap right after lunch. But first, I had to rush to put the groceries away, make lunch, throw a roast in the oven, bake a cake, tidy the house, and set the dining room table. Dave forgot to tell me until this morning that he was bringing home the new district manager for dinner. I wished he wasn’t so forgetful.

  I popped the trunk and turned to Billy and Amy buckled in the backseat. I handed Billy the leash. “Billy, don’t let Muffy out of the car until you put the leash on her. You know she likes to run away. I’ll start unloading the trunk. After you walk Muffy, you can help me carry in the groceries. We have to hurry. I don’t want the ice cream to melt.”

  I grabbed the bags with perishables and hurried to the house. When I got to the front door, I realized I left my purse in the car with the house keys in it.

  “Billy, please bring me my purse!”

  Billy slammed his car door shut and stomped toward me. “Mom, Muffy won’t hold still for me to put the leash on her. She’s so excited, she keeps jumping from the front to the back.” I set the groceries by the front door, marched to the car with the leash Billy had handed me, and yanked on the front-door handle. It wouldn’t open. The dog had pushed the driver’s master lock button in her excitement to get out. Muffy’s cute black-button eyes peered at me as she pressed her wet, black nose on the window. An adorable, empty-headed toy poodle, she was the canine version of a d
umb blonde. All show and no know.

  Tired, I slowly pieced together the calamity: My cranky daughter and our slap-happy poodle were locked in the car with the keys to the car and house. I blew out a sigh and tapped on the window at Amy, who was coloring away in her book. She finally looked at me and pouted as my tapping intensified.

  “Amy, Mommy needs you to pull up on the little silver knob that’s sticking up on the door so we can all have lunch.” Amy shook her blond head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Amy, Mommy has a lot of work to do. We’re having company for dinner, and we’re going to have ice cream for dessert. If you open the door, I’ll let you have some now.”

  “What kind?”

  “Vanilla.”

  “I want chocolate.” She bent her head and continued coloring.

  I thrust my hands on my hips and leaned my forehead on the car above the window. “Ouch!” I hope that hot metal won’t leave a mark. I kicked the tire in frustration. Another mistake. Never kick anything in toeless shoes. I tried to rub my toe while hopping on one foot.

  “Amy Miller, do you hear me? Open the door!”

  She sniffled and wiped her hand across her runny nose without looking at me.

  “I know you can hear me! The next block can hear me! Open the door!”

  Billy tugged my arm. “Mom, my tooth aches.”

  “How can your tooth ache? It’s not in your mouth. It’s in your pocket to put under your pillow tonight.”

  Billy shrugged. “I don’t know, but my friend Jimmy said you should eat ice cream after you have a tooth pulled. It makes you feel better.”

  I shook my head. “You eat ice cream after you have your tonsils removed, not your teeth.”