Think twice before taking a pill

This blog is a little bit naughty, but I wrote this for my writing class and they thought it was funny. So here goes and I hope no one is distressed by my effort at humor.

The Levitra Commercial

In the Levitra commercial it is afternoon and husband and wife are alone in the living room. No children are in sight, and the wife is reclining in a seductive position on the sofa. She is bragging that her husband has taken a Levitra capsule, and she is looking forward eagerly to what is surely to come.
"He will have a strong and lasting experience," she chortles. "It will last until he is ready."
Indeed. He is waiting beside the bedroom door, a silly grin on his face and a "come-hither" look in his eye. He clearly is ready. She, lusting creature that she is, lunges toward him and they entwine themselves in a passionate embrace. As they slither into the bedroom, she flings a final challenge. "Ask your doctor if Levitra is right for you."

Ha! Let's put the picture into the proper perspective. If it is afternoon, she will be in the kitchen, trying to get dinner together. She seems to be chopping vegetables for a stir fry. The baby is in a playpen, howling, two kids are home from school, and the dog has thrown up on the floor. Someone is ringing the doorbell.

Where is her husband? Is he in the kitchen, helping her to cope with the obvious chaos of a typical afternoon? Is he holding the baby and answering the ringing doorbell? Not on your Nellie. He has taken a Levitra capsule, and he is standing there by the bedroom door with that lecherous leer and a glazed expression in his eyes. He is clearly in the grip of a strong and lasting impression. He is ready. He wants it now.

Well, duh. He may want it but he's not getting it. No lusting female is waiting on the sofa to accommodate his condition. His timing is off and he will have to figure out for himself how to handle the problem. He will be lucky if he doesn't end up with the dreaded four-hour erection. I must say I have little sympathy for his predicament. Maybe next time he will think twice before he pops a pill.

I hope his wife burns the stir-fry.

Where am I going with this?

There is no doubt about it - my subconscious is telling me that it is time for a change. Last night's dream had me frantically cleaning out bureau drawers and closets, throwing things away with abandon. I ripped apart beds, pulled off the sheets and threw them into the washing machine, and piled up the blankets in a big pile. There is no doubt that my closets and bureaus need organizing. I have never been great on filing things away, or remembering where I put things. As long as everything looked neat and tidy, that was good enough for me. In my dream, my daughter helped me and we made great progress in our efforts.
It must mean that I am ready for a change in my life. Do I want to travel, perhaps? I would like to go back to college, but I am afraid that is not an option. I am thinking of finally yielding to my doctor's advice and using insulin for my diabetes. I have always refused it in the past, but I suspect that now is the time to be brave and accept the inevitable. Of my age-related problems that is the most troublesome. It might make it possible for me to reach my goal of living to be a hundred. I have taken the cheerios challenge and am now eating two bowls of cheerios a day. I try to eat an apple a day and some canned fruit, usually orange segments. Other than that, I am pretty passive about my health. With my adorable little great-granddaughter to inspire me, I should be able to stick to the rules and hang in there a lot longer. Time is flying by and she is almost five months old. Soon she will be getting solid food. I wish I lived closer so I could see her more often. I am looking forward to seeing her on Mother's Day.
No more thoughts occur for this blog. Should I perhaps enroll in a class online? We'll see!

To sleep, perchance to dream

Although I am a hard-core insomniac, I do occasionally trick myself into falling asleep, and when I do, I have vivid dreams. My dreams fall into two categories, anxiety dreams and surprise dreams. My anxiety dreams are always the same, with me lost and walking down trolley tracks in the industrial part of some town, in the dark and with rain falling. I never have any money and there are never taxis around. I can see into some of the shops where shadowy figures are working at machines, but no one ever comes out and offers assistance. When I wake up I am shaken with fear and have trouble going back to sleep.
My surprise dreams are happy events, but all have the same theme over and over again. My husband and i are always working at cleaning up and renovating an old house we are living in, and at some point in our labors we discover a door at the end of the kitchen. We go through to either another whole section of the house, or a stairway that leads to the upstairs. These surprise rooms are always beautifully furnished and there are almost always other people living there. In last night's dream we discovered a whole apartment upstairs, with tables holding crispy rolls, finger food and a family sitting around a round table eating. They explained that they came in from the outside by another stairway and had been there for quite a while. No confrontation ever develops and the dream always ends at this point. While I am trying to fall asleep I try to direct my thoughts to this dream but I am not always successful.
What do these dreams mean? Clearly the lost dream is caused by anxiety and fear. But what does the happy dream mean? Am I looking for a new direction in my life? Is it the awakening of another side of my personality? Sometimes the mood of a dream will carry over to my mood of the next day. I suppose dreams are just the random connections of the brain circuits which fire off electrical currents at random. My husband dreams lucid dreams and can change the current of the dream at will. That I cannot do. The best I can do is to remember the dream and hope that the happy one comes more often than the anxiety one.

The Depressed Reindeer

It was two days until Christmas and Santa's big workroom was bustling with activity. The elves were hurrying to finish all of the toys and get them wrapped and loaded on the sleigh. It was warm and cozy in there, and the elves were singing and chattering as they worked. There was a fire in the fireplace and a big kettle of soup was simmering over the flames. It smelled delicious and with the lamps all aglow it was a happy sight. Mrs Santa Claus was rocking in her rocking chair, knitting and keeping her eye on the elves.
Everyone was happy except Santa Claus and he was worried. He had a frown on his face and every now and then he gave a big sigh. He paced back and forth and even walked in a circle.
"Whatever is the matter?" demanded Mrs. Santa Claus. "You have been moaning and groaning all day. Try to be a little more cheerful. What are you worried about?"
Mrs. Santa Claus liked to concentrate when she was knitting but Santa Claus was getting on her nerves. She was waiting for an answer, but she didn't put down her work. Click, clack went her needles and she rocked back and forth slowly, waiting.
Finally Santa spoke. "It's Donder," he said. "He says he is depressed and he doesn't want to go out on Christmas Eve. He says he is too tired and he just can't make it."
Mrs. Santa Claus was so shocked she dropped several stitches and had to rip out the whole row. "That big baby," she said. "Who does he think he is? We all get tired but there are some things a person just has to do."
Mrs. Santa Claus put down her knitting, put on her shawl and walked down the path to the barn. The snow was piled high on each side of the path and it sparkled in the sun. The air was crisp and cold. She went into the barn.
It was warm and cozy in there too. Mrs. Santa Claus looked around and counted the reindeer. All nine were in the barn and some of them were eating and some were sleeping, but Donder stood all alone in a corner. He had his head down and his eyes closed. Mrs. Santa got the bottle of reindeer tonic and tried to give him a tablespoonfull to perk him up but he wouldn't swallow it and let it dribble out of the side of his mouth. She tried giving him some of his favorite food, dried moss, but he just closed his mouth and wouldn't take even a single bite.
Mrs. Santa Claus was so irritated with him that she felt like giving him a good clout or yanking his tail. "I give up," she said. "You just stand there and pout. See if anyone cares. You should be ashamed of yourself."
She told Santa she had tried but it was no use. He wasn't going to go.
"I know," said Santa. "I'll just have to think about it and see what I can do."
That night Santa Claus and Mrs. Santa Claus went to bed in their big feather bed but they couldn't sleep. Mrs. Santa Claus tossed and turned and her hair came out of her bun and got tangled all over the pillow. Santa Claus got back up and paced back and forth. Finally he went back to bed and at last they both fell asleep. And as so often happens, while Santa was sleeping he had an idea. He knew just what to do.
In the morning after they had eaten their breakfast he went out to talk to Donder again. "You won't have to go this year," he said. "Rudolph can take your place. If it is not foggy he can pull the sleigh for you. You can stay home and rest."
Now Donder was depressed but he had a tmper too. And he had always been jealous of Rudolph because he had a red nose and would go down in history. He stamped his feet and tossed his antlers. He snorted and switched his tail. "I have always had the spot right in front of the sleigh," he said. "How will it look if Rudolph is back there with his big red nose glowing all over the place? I don't care how tired I am, I am going to go and no one can stop me!"
Santa Claus smiled under his bushy beard. He turned his head away so Donder couldn't see how relieved he was. "I knew I could count on you," he said. "Get some rest. It is going to be a busy day tomorrow and a long ride tomorrow night."
When Santa Claus and Mrs. Santa Claus went to bed that night they slept soundly. Everything was going to be all right.

There was much noise and activity down the street from our house, and so we walked part way down and saw about six huge trucks parked here and there and a flatbed truck containing a septic tank with Van Renner painted on the side. So our neighbor was having a new septic system put in for his vacation cabin. That was interesting because the house next to him got a new septic tank last week. These houses were built about fifty years ago and most of them had what were called redwood boxes for collecting the sewage water, and of course they are failing now and have to be replaced. Luckily we have a modern cement septic tank, probably put in about twenty years ago. This is a quiet neighborhood but there is always something going on.
Now to the leaky water pipe. I confess that we did what I thought we would never do - we called a plumber and he fixed it in about twenty minutes. He had the newest equipment and was able to solder the joint together with no problem and so far so good, it isn't leaking. He said that they come across the mesh that we used frequently and have never found a way to get it back off. They simply cut out the part of the pipe that has it on, and replace it with a new piece.
So here I am, dishes in the dishwasher, husband taking a nap, and I am in the mood for chocolate, chocolate, chocolate. There is no escaping it, I will go out into the kitchen and make a cup of hot chocolate and indulge myself in my craving, and rest in the knowledge that chocolate is good for us. Hope everyone has had a nice day - tomorrow I will write a story about Santa's depressed reindeer. Good-night!

There must be a way

Today was not the usual serene pleasure-filled Thursday with a walk in the morning and a nap in the afternoon. Today was "I have to fix that leak in the pipe" day, and my husband tackled the job with determination. Due to my insistance, I say with a guilty grin, we had applied an epoxy-filled mesh tape to the leaky part, following directions to the letter. The instructions said that it would harden in about a half-hour and it did do that. It also said that it would harden like steel, and it did that too. It said that it would fix the leak, and that it did not do. We put a pan under the pipe where it was dripping down onto the cement under the enclosure, and assured each other that maybe it would cure itself overnight.
I sneaked out early this morning and checked the pipe and guess what? It was leaking worse than before. I scurried back to bed and waited until my husband woke up, not wanting to zap him with the bad news before he had a chance to fully wake up. When I did tell him, he was quite composed and assured me that he had expected that bit of news and would take the tape off and try to solder it himself.
I defy anyone to take that tape off a pipe once it has hardened. My husband is as patient an old dude as I have ever known, and I am not exagerating when I say that he worked for five hours on that thing, and nothing worked. He tried cutting it, chiseling it, sawing it, sandpapering it, and finally, in an act of desperation, setting it on fire. I'm not kidding, we even tried that as a last resort. It neither softened nor released its hold on the pipe. Actually, it didn't burn, and we were lucky we didn't set the house on fire. But as they say, necessity is the mother of invention, and he tried shredding it off with a pliars that had teeth on the grippers, and little by little, he ground it off and got down to the copper pipe again. Since plumbers charge $90.00 an hour, we will try to solder it ourselves if we can, and I don't doubt for a moment that my husband will manage that, too. For a man who put down hardwood floors throughout the house, working on his hands and knees so he could see the nails, this should be a job that he can do. A week from today we will be laughing at ourselves and remembering the event as just another episode in our eventfilled lives.
The water has been turned back on, the pipe has been temporarily patched with duct tape, and we will tackle the job again tomorrow. Wish us luck.

My husband had a medical appointment today, so my daughter took us there, and then we went to Best Buy and I purchased a new microwave which I find quite a convenience. My old microwave lasted about thirty years and still worked except that we couldn't always get the door open. I use it for heating leftovers and baking potatoes and so on, I have never actually learned to cook food in it. This is of stainless steel and quite handsome.
After we visited the store, we stopped for lunch at a little restaurant that has recently opened up, and had a very nice llittle meal. Putting the microwave into place brought to mind a funny experience that we had with our first microwave. This happened early on, so it must have been at least twenty years ago, but I can still remember vividly. I had attempted to cook a chicken, and the thing had come out perfectly rigid and hard as a rock. I put it on a platter, not knowing quite how to serve it. My husband, coming into the kitchen, saw it and cried out in alarm "What is that?" "That," I replied, "Is Old Ginger." Old Ginger is a mummy on display in the museum in San Francisco, and I had indeed mummified that chicken. We kept it for a few days to show off to neighbors and friends, and then I threw it out. I have cooked eggs and vegetables, but now I think I will consult Google for some reciipes and see if I can get a new start.
All in all, it was a very pleasant day, and we saw some lovely scenery on our way there and back. Tomorrow we tackle the leak in the water pipe, and I suppose will solve the problem somehow. Wish us luck!

Peace and Quiet

Tonight is a time for reflection for my husband and myself. A gentle rain is falling and we have the electric heaters on and the cat is sprawled out on the rug, resting. The little boxer dog went home with my granddaughter two days ago, but I still forget that she is gone and go to the door to see if she is all right. What a pleasure it was to have her visit us! Since my husband is almost blind, we have been thinking of applying for a seeing eye dog, but haven't quite made that decision yet. It will probably have to come sometime, as his vision will never improve. He can do the most amazing things just by feel alone and I am always astonished. We discovered a small leak in a copper water pipe a few days ago, and he is planning to solder it back together again, and I know he will do it, too. I am usually called upon to help him, so I become his eyes and some pretty amusing things often happen. A week or so ago, we did some repair work on our dishwasher, and not knowing that we should put the dishwasher on its back, we attempted to do the job from underneath. We both lay down on the floor, peering up into the innards of the thing, and the close proximity of our squirming bodies got us to thinking of romantic interludes in our past. Since we are both well into our eighties, those moments of desire are fairly rare, but I still think he was the most attractive man I ever met. In all of the 62 years we were married I was never once attracted to any other man. I had teachers I admired, but that was purely an intellectual interest. I can honestly say I was faithful, even when my husband was stationed thousands of miles away.
But that was then and this is now, and we are in a very contented place in our lives. We have to look out for each other, but that is no big thing. I sometimes fall and have to be pulled to my feet, and my husband is having some health problems that require frequent visits to his doctor, but our daughter very kindly takes him. I honestly can't think of a single thing we desire, except maybe a democratic president. I will vote for Barack Obama if he gets the nomination. I'm glad we are going to see the conclusion of this election. Thanks for the comments, I look forward to them every day.

What's Wrong With this Picture?

I wrote this essay for my writing class and they got quite a bit of amusement from it. I will now copy it down for today.

What's Wrong With This Picture?
I surfed the channels of my television set, and chanced upon "Sesame Street", that long-time favorite of children everywhere. I watched for a few minutes, but something intruded upon my meditations. Something was wrong. These characters badly need psychiatric profiling.
What, you exclaim. How dare you assail these wholesome little characters? How unAmerican can you be?
But think for a moment. How about the Count? He counts everything. He can't stop. He is an obsessive-compulsive counter. It dominates his every moment. Paxl might help him, but there is no one on the program to prescribe it.
Let us take a closer look at each of the puppeta. Cookie Monster eats every cookie he can get his hands on. He never gets enough. Clearly he is addicted to cookies. Grouch hides from the world and is so irritable and mean-spirited that no one will have anything to do with him. He is an agoraphobic with violent tendencies, perhaps schizophrenic as well. Maybe prozac would help, but maybe not. Poor little Big Bird is amply endowed physically but he is quite retarded and there is really nothing that can be done with him.
I come now to a character that defies description, namely Snuffaluffagus! What is he? He is harmless enough, being sweet-tembered and friendly. He seems to be a leftover byproduct of some gene-altering experiment.
I hesitate to bring up Bert and Ernie, lest I be judged to be homophobic. But the evidence is quite clear. They live together, sharing the same bed, and Bert dominates Ernie and makes him do the housework. I will leave it to the reader to draw his or her owe conclusion. Jerry Falwell might have a few words to say on the subject. He certainly had an opinion on the poor little purple teletubby with the purse.
Are we going to let this disgraceful display continue? Are we going to let these retards, psychos, freaks and homos continue to pollute the minds and hearts of our innocent little children, not to mention the adults who watch with them? Let us join with Jerry Falwell and save the children all over the world by putting this show off the channel and closing it down forever.
I wrote this with tongue in cheek, of course. I dearly love Sesame Street. Where would we be without it?

What's Wrong With this picture?

The Storyteller

For some years I attended a writing class composed of seniors who wrote autobiographical essays and poems, mostly for the enjoyment of other members of the class. When a criticism was raised that the writers were not progressing in the quality of their writing, I wrote the follow essay in their defense.

The Storyteller

When I was a small child I used to love lying on my Grandma's daybed in her dining room, listening to the tales told by the old pioneers gathered around the wood stove. I llistened, thrilled with their tales of derring-do and watching the warm, flickering flames shining through the isinglass windows of the big stove. They told men's stories, of the old Indian wars, when the pioneers captured the Chippewa chief in the battle of Bad Ax. They told of how the Americans had dragged him through the streets of Prairie Du Chien on a rope behind a horse. They told of hunting bears and rogue wolves, and deadly blizzards and finding our great-grandmother frozen to death in her bed when the fire went out. Warm under my blankets, I listened in fascination until I fell asleep.
The women told their stories, too. At sewing circles and quilting bees, they would tell stories of joy and sadness, marriages and births and deaths. Their stories were about family and friends, about wayward daughters and rebellious sons.They wove the threads of their lives into a rich tapestry of history for the children sprawled on the rug listening.
There have always been storytellers. Primitilve societies have some old person who has learned the stories of the tribe and will train someone to carry on afterward. Usually it is some old crone telling the stories beside the fire , but it could be an old man, squatting in his loincloth before his circle of listeners.
We in our writing class are storytellers as well. Each of our stories is uniquely the story of the writer, and is a little piece of the writer's soul. The contents are richly varied, from hauntingly beautiful poems to wry humor and inspirational essays. Some of us are not above being a bit naughty and once in a while a risque little note will creep in. Joy, sorrow, happy events of everyday life and even now and then the cry of a wounded heart. By reading them to each other, we are bonding just as our other storytellers did. The writing is important but even more important is the sharing of the wonderfully rich experiences we have had over our many years of life.
I hope that someday, after I have passed from this world, my little great-granddaughter April will be sorting through my things and come upon a dusty cardboard box, and opening it, will find my collection of stories. When she begins to read them, she will reflect that once, a long time ago, I too was young. And as she reads, my voice will once again be heard, and I won't be forgotten.

The Best is yet to be

Yesterday's blog was on a somber note, but today I will expound on a more optimistic viewpoint. I quote Robert Browning who wrote "Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be, the last of life for which the first was made."
Really? How can that be? Aches and pains, irregular heart beats, falls and fractures, failing memory?
And yet, in many ways it is better now. My husband and I used to argue energetically and acrimoniously over every little and big decision. Did the children really need braces on their teeth? Should our daughter take ballet lessons? Could we afford to take the dog to the veterinarian? How about new drapes for the living room?
Things are easier now. We eliminated the arguments by a simple strategy. I now get my own way in everything. Not fair, you cry. That leaves your husband out of all of the decisions. But consider our circumstances. We used to argue about money. Ninety-nine percent of our arguments concerned how to spend our joint income. Naturally, since my husband is of a frugal disposition, he never wanted to spend any. Since I am of a generous and adventurous disposition, I naturally wanted to spend it all and let the future take care of itself. Now there is no reason for arguments, since we have no disposable income to argue about - it all goes where it goes and we pay no attention to it. The dogs, which used to be the subject of many opposing views, have died and all we have left is a very old and feeble cat. Nothing to argue about there. We are left with a paucity of arguable subjects, the main one being communication. We simply cannot communicate with each other. We can't hear one another.
A recent conversation went like this:
Husband, looking out window, says "Is there someone at the gate?"
Wife, not wearing her hearing aid, replies, "Summer can't be late. It's fall now."
Husband, peering out of window again: "Did someone fall? I can't see anyone now."
We each insert into the thought process whatever we think we hear. It makes for some pretty funny conversation. The other day my husband asked me if I thought he had a cancer on his nose. I replied that I didn't see anything wrong with the rose. One day I thought he told me that there was a hanger on the stove. We substitute one word for another, and forget everything that isn't written down.
But believe it or not, things have never been better. We are secure in our little house, we have a fixed but adequate income and we never have to worry about unplanned pregnancies or wayward teenagers. We let the parents worry about their own children and we take care of the cat. This is indeed the best of life for which the first was made.

In Fear and trembling

Last night I awoke, as Kierkegaard wrote. "In Fear and Trembling." Since I have lived a long and interesting life, and have no plans for further adventures, I should be content now to let the spirit fly free and answer the age-old question, "Is there life after death?" For many years, I have denied the existence of the soul. It seemed but a form of superstition to believe that sometime God would call all of his faithful forth and reunite soul and body, to live forever. It is part of the Apostle's Creed which all Catholics memorize and recite as part of their reportoir of prayers. "I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen." I can recite the act of contrition at the drop of a hat, and my last moments will probably find me muttering the words and crying for a priest. Still, no one has been able to absolutely prove the existence of the soul, even experimenting with the dying by weighing just before death and just after, to see if there has been a reduction in weight. When i searched Google for some insight into the subject, it was portrayed as the consciousness of the intellect.
I rather believe that when we slip from this world into the unknown, it will be like blowing out a candle. The human mind has difficulty envisioning nothingness - we have no experience to draw upon. A few years ago I spent a few days in a coma and when I awoke, it was as though those days had never been. I had no memory whatsoever of the time lost. I slipped easily back into consciousness. Perhaps that is what death is like, only the darkness lasts forever. If that is the case, I will never know. I will no longer exist.
On the other hand, if indeed there is life after death, I will be pleasantly surprised. Maybe I will see my beloved Grandmother again, running down the path to meet me. She died far too young, and we missed her ever after.
Have I shocked my readers by revealing my lack of faith? Or have I struck a chord of understanding in what I have written? Please let me know what you think.

Memories, memories

At my age, one is always apprehensive about mental disintegration, fearful that one will lose precious memories or become confused about everyday activities. Today I heard a snatch of song on the radio, and a memory leaped out at me as fresh and clear as though it had happened yesterday. The song was "When you come to San Francisco, be sure to wear a flower in your hair." Forty-five years ago, and I was back in time in an instant, wandering down the sidewalk in Madrone Canyon, down past the house where the Jefferson Airplane musical group lived. There were hippies camping out down in that canyon, and Janis Joplin lived just above on a dead-end street that verged on a hiking trail that led up to the top of the mountain. Those were magical days, with young people experimenting with new lifestyles, and grownups like me protesting the Viet Nam War. There were peace marches from Market Street to Golden Gate Park, and streakers appearing from nowhere just for the shock they gave onlookers. Streakers were a phenomenon that I never quite unraveled. One day I was riding the bus home from work and as we went across the Golden Gate Bridge, the passengers all began looking out the windows in delight. There, in full view of the riders, was a line of about twenty people, all stark naked, jogging along at the side of the bridge. It was cold out there and some of them looked as though they were on the verge of a heart attack. Some even appeared to be staggering. The bridge is fairly long, and I assume that someone was meeting them at the other end with warm clothing. There were both young ladies and young men, and I'll bet they never tried that again! I had walked across that bridge myself, fully clothed, and almost froze to death.
My husband was a mail carrier in those days and he delivered mail to Janis Joplin's house. She was a delightful little character, always with a cup of coffee for him and a cheery greeting. She had purchased a rambling, redwood -shingled house and lived there with a large retinue of followers and musicians. She was generous and good-hearted and we used to go hear her sing in San Francisco. I could never understand the lyrics, and thought she could have done better, but she was very popular as a singer and people flocker to hear her. When she died at twenty-nine it was a tragic loss.
For many years I tried not to go back into the past, feeling that the future held more for me than just my memories. But sometimes a memory will pop up, and I guess I might as well let it linger a while. Tomorrow it may be gone.

Myself and my husband.

This is a picture of me and my husband down at the beach at Goat Rock. I am such an amateur with my computer that I had to get my daughter to help get this picture on the screen for me. I used to play chess on the internet but I hardly ever won and went on to other interests. I think I will stick with blogging, though, as it lifts up my spirits when I am down, and brings back memories that may one day be gone.

I learn a lesson (continued)

It was a little warmer there on the bench, and after a few minutes, I calmed down and considered my predicament. I was alone and lost, but most of all, I was hungry. How I wished I had a White Castle hamburger, like the ones we got at the hamburger stand near our apartment! I thought longingly of the burgers we had eaten only last night, and wished fervently that I was there right now.
Just then a light bulb turned on in my brain. What was the matter with me? The trolley ran right past the White Castle! My problem was solved. All I had to do was board the trolley, ride till we came to the hamburger stand, and get off. The apartment was less than a block away.
In a few minutes a trolley pulled up at the stop and a few passengers debarked. I called in to the conductor, enquiring if the trolley indeed passed the White Castle. "Sure," he said. "Hop on."
It was warm in there, and the conductor carried on a running repartee with the passengers, most of which passed over my head. Not being sophisticated, I missed most of the double entendre being bandied back and forth. In retrospect, I have to wonder if this was the infamous Ding Dong Daddy of the D Line, made famous in a loval ditty. But never mind. He was taking me back home.
What lesson did I learn? First, never to go off by myself to strange places. If I coudn't drag one of my cousins along, stay home. Second, always take a sweater or jacket along. And third, jot down the address and phone number so you know where you live and where to call for help. It was a lesson well learned.

I learn a lesson

For several years I attended a writing class in which we were enjoined to write about life experiences we remembered, and so on one occasion I uncovered an experience I had had when I was twenty. I read it again today and decided to share it with my readers.
Prologue: It was l943 and I was down in Milwaukee with my two cousins waiting to obtain security clearance for our soon-to-be defense jobs. I was twenty and the world was my oyster. I feared nothing and no one. and was about to learn a lesson I never forgot.
I had taken the trolley down to the waterfront and was getting my first look at Lake Michigan. And what an eye-opener that was. I was used to the crystal clear, dazzlingly blue lakes of Wisconsin and Minnesota. I stood on the pier, looking at the dirty, gray, polluted water lapping at the pilings, and wondered why no one had warned me. An oily, scummy film covered the surface and here and there floated orange peels and bits of decaying wood and objects too disgusting to describe. I was deeply disappointed.
It was big, all right, and from far away I heard the mournful moan of a foghorn, and above me, all alone, flew a seagull, shrieking into the wind. The fog had settled in, making it hard to see and I felt all alone out there on the swaying, decrepit old pier. A cold wind was blowing in from the lake, and I shivered in my thin summer outfit. I hadn't even brought a sweater.
To add to my discomfort, there was the unmistakeable odor of decay emanating from the regions around the pier. It smelled of garbage and things long dead. Mixed in was the distinct odor of coal oil and industrial fumes. I was down in the industrial area, and the air was thick with pollution.
Looking out over the vast expanse of water, I could see the dim outline of a freighter, lights muted, slipping away from the shore, heading for who knows where. I thought of my boyfriend who was in the navy and was perhaps out on the ocean at that very moment. Like all young ladies I fancied myself in love and yearned for my beloved. The fact that we had grown up together and had fought like cats and dogs most of our lives didn't ease the pangs of separation. It was wartime and I was supposed to be in love.
I realized that it was getting darker, and turned to go back to solid ground, when I saw that the street lights had come on, and that here and there were hurrying figures on their way to work. They paid no attention to me, and one man, approaching the edge of the water, paused to add his contribution to the murky water below. Standing in the warm glow of the street lamp, and ignoring all rules of modesty, he calmly completed his mission and tucked everything back in place. Then he walked away, buttoning his buttons as he went.
I began to be afraid, and shivered as I carefully found my way back down the center of the old, decaying walkway, I stepped over and around bits of garbage, and prayed that there were no loose boards, or worse yet, no rats to scurry over my feet. With a great sigh of relief, I stepped onto solid ground and ctossed the trolley tracks to a boarding platform and a wooden bench. I sat down and rummaged around in my purse for trolley tokens.
At that moment I was paralyzed with fear. I began to shake and almost cried out. I had forgotten the address of the apartment! I had no idea how to get back or even what direction to take. I was cold, tired, hungry, afraid and all alone. I was alone and lost in Milwaukee!
To Be Continued

A day of joy

Today was a woderful day, as we got to play with my greatgranddaughter who is four months old and learning to communicate with us and play simple little games. She especially likes "Peek-a-boo" and grasping for whatever she can reach. The purpose of the visit was to leave the little boxer "Kaya" with us for a few days and we will be busy indeed with her. She patrols the area of our property, which is all fenced in and covers a half acre all the way down to the street below. Up and down she runs, along the path or straight through the ivy and periwinkle vines. She doesn't seem to mind at all that she is to be separated from her family, and greets us with great joy when she comes. Of course we spoil her, having only an old, old cat to keep us company. The cat is 24 years old, but still holds her own with little Kaya.
I made a Rachael Ray thirty-minute meal for us all, and although it took me about an hour, it did taste good. My husband made a killer salad and we ate in the family room, with a pleasant view of the redwood trees tossing in the wind that blew in from the canyon. Then we had peanutbutter cookies and everyone left and we got the dishes in the dishwasher and now we are ready for some quiet time.
We were awakened this morning by the sound of our neighbor's motorcycles starting up and we could only pull up our electric blanket and thank all the powers that be that it was someone other than ourselves who was riding out into the cold to go to work. My husband and I used to ride a Honda motorcycle and I have some very pleasant memories of our sojourn over the mountain and down the other side, but it was purely for pleasure. Then we got brushed off the road by a car, and the motorcycle went down into a ditch and we picked ourselves up and had to walk home. That was my last ride sitting behind my husband, feeling the wind in my face. He continued to ride, but I took it as a sign that my riding days were over.
Coast-to-Coast radio calls to me. Goodnight, all.

A warm day

Today the weather made a giant leap into spring, with a jump in temperature of almost twenty degrees. We had been having unusually cold weather, until now. Today it was about 65, and even warmer down at the bottom of the hill where my daughter lives. It is great treat to walk down and stroll in their back lot, full of blooming flowers and shrubs, with a huge plum tree covered with blossoms. We are seeing blossoms on our old apple tree, which we had cut back quite severely last year, but it seems to be coming back nicely. We try to walk some every day, just to keep active. Tomorrow we are going to have a visit from my granddaughter's little boxer dog Kaya, and we are looking forward with pleasure to seeing them all again. Believe me, she will keep us active. That little dog tears up and down the hill and seems never to get tired. We find it amusing to see how she and my old cat get along - like two old friends.
Someone asked me how my mother managed to bathe her children in just an old round tin tub, without running water or even much of a way to heat it. The fact is, she had an old wood-burning stove with a reservoir at the side, and the water kept hot there all the time. She simply dragged out the tub, set it up between two chairs, and filled it up about half full and started with the youngest and worked her way up. I don't remember the water being emptied and refilled, until all the children had been soaped and rinsed. My older brother and sister must have bathed another day, because I was always the last one in. Of course, there were four years between my younger brother and myself, and three more before the next baby appeared. The last baby came along when I was fifteen years old, truly a surprise baby.
That old tin tub served many purposes in those days, as a laungry tub and a container for potatoes and a means of carrying produce in from the garden. I don't remember that it was particularly big, just that it was always in use.
My husband is waiting for me to make up the shopping list for tomorrow. So bye for now.

A lovely day

Today was the first really pleasant day we have had for months. Since November we have had unusually cold, gray days with some freezing at night. Most of our rose buds got frostbitten, and it looks as though we will have no hydrangea blossoms at all this year. I took a short walk in the sun, and the birds were everywhere, singing and twittering. In spite of the lovely day, for some reason I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. I think it was because my husband has been having some health problems and I am fearing the approaching time when we will have to sell our little house here on the hill, and move into an assisted living facility. We are managing very well, with my kind daughter taking us to our medical appointments and our son-in-law helping with the food shopping. But one by one, the retired people here in our neighborhood have had to sell their houses and move into facilities closer to medical care and shopping centers. Sometimes they put the house on the market and simply move out. There are three houses on our street that are just sitting empty, the real estate agents having given up on selling them. We had thought they would sell when the weather got warmer, but so far, no offers at all.
Now would be a good time to buy a house, actually, There are several in the neighborhood that have been for sale for over a year, and all of them have been lowered in price. But that is a project that my husband and I are not quite up to tackling. We used to remodel old, rundown houses and then rent them out, but as my mother-in-law used to say, "Used To is gone. That was then and this is now." She was so right.
Anyway, what I need is a treat of chocolate to cheer myself up. Since there is no candy in the house, I will make do with a cup of hot chocolate and a couple of ritz crackers. I am usually able to shake myself out of the blues with thoughts of my dear little great-granddaughter and my two wonderful grandchildren, so while I am indulging myself with chocolate I shall conjur up pictures of my family, and soon be myself again!

A long time ago

The next morning I hurried over to the mess hall to report for duty, hoping to get an easy assignment, like peeling potatoes or setting up the tables. No such luck! I was assigned to pots and pans, the least desirable duty of all, except for cleaning out the grease trap. The pots and pans were great, heavy things and to my dismay I saw that they had been left over from the night before and were greasy and crusted with food. Luckily, they had been dragged out to the side of the mess hall, and laid on their sides on a wooden table. The only way I could clean the insides was to crawl into them and scrub them out with a stiff brush. I was wearing my fatigues and field cap, with my hair shoved up out of the way and no makeup on. In short order my uniform was wet with suds and water, and I was looking like something the cat dragged in. And that was when I heard a teasing voice just outside the fence. "You'll have to scrub harder than that," a voice said. "Don't forget we have a date tonight."
Wonder of wonders, it was he, even more handsome in the sunlight than he had been in the gloom of the evening before. He shoved a mounds candy bar in to me through the fence, and strolled in the direction of the day room. I vigorously applied myself to the task at hand and finished the job in the early afternoon. To say I moved with the speed of light to shampoo my hair and take a shower, would be an understatement. Dressing in my starched and pressed khaki uniform, I brushed out my wet hair and applied makeup, trusting the ourside air to dry my hair soon. And headed for the day room.
Outside the door, I hesitated , opened the door a crack and peered in. My love was there, tinkering with the coke machine and surrounded by what looked like a bevy of females in uniform. The machine hadn't worked for weeks, but as he fiddled with it, it suddenly went into action, spewing out coke bottles in a stream. As fast as he could, he caught them and handed them out to the squealing women. Then, with a clunk, it stopped and yielded no more. He turned to me, and with a lift of his eyebrow and a mischievous wink, he handed me the last bottle. We turned and went out into the warm soft air and fading light of an evening in Dallas.
That was almost sixty-three years ago. I still don't know what he saw in me.

How I met my husband.

My husband and I were lounging around this afternoon and I decided to test his memory. "Honey," I said, "Do you remember how we met?" He answered promptly and firmly. "Of course. We met in Dallas." "Was it in the daytime or in the evening?" I prompted him. "What were we doing when we met?" He remembered, all right. "It was in the evening, because the street lights were on, You and Beverly were walking down the sidewalk and Chester and I hurried up and caught up with you."
He was entirely right. We were not exactly walking, but more correctly strolling along wishing that we hadn't worn our high heels and nylon hose that was required of all properly dressed young ladies. We were in our summer dress uniforms and grateful for the cool breeze that had come up a little while ago. We paid no attention to the fact that we were being followed until two uniformed figures showed up beside us, walking in the street. i feigned scornful indifference to the tall young man walking beside me, but couldn't resist sneaking a quick glance at him. Ye Gads, he was tall! At least six feet two inches, and gorgeous. Tan, with green eyes fringed with black lashes and arched eyebrows, he looked like a movie star. I moved over and he stepped onto the sidewalk beside me and offered me his arm. Oh Lord, be still my beating heart! Like a newly hatched duckling that bonds to the first object it sees, I fell hopelessly in love. I was a gonner. As I was trying to pull myself together, he casually reached over and handed me an ice cream cone. "Take a bite," he invited me. We shared that cone all the way to the barracks and paused at the gate to say good night. He was dressed in his first class summer uniform, wearing the coveted (and hard to get) Eisenhauer battle jacket, and sporting five stripes on his arm. A non-commissioned officer. And a good-looking one.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" he asked. I hated to actually say it, but I was scheduled for KP duty and it was too late now to try to get someone to substitute for me. So I told the truth. "I'll be on KP duty until about four o'clock. Maybe a little earlier than that, but probably not." There, I thought, now I will never see him again. "Well, I'll wait for you in the day room."
he promised and without trying to kiss me, he and his buddy left and walked away. Goodbye, I thought, I'll never see you again. My heart was broken.

I try something new

I completed my first plumbing job today, and I was quite proud of myself. It was a simple job - we replaced the flexible water pipe on the dishwasher. Because my husband is more knowledgeable than I am in matters of plumbing, I always had the task of assisting him by fetching tools for him, and holding the light and reading the instructions on the product. Today, however, he was having trouble seeing and so I applied the teflon tape and tightened up the connection to the water pipe. Then I connected up the other end, turned on the water, and all seems to be well under there. It was much easier than I had expected and I sincerely hope there will be no leaking. I do enjoy having a dishwasher working once again.
In days gone by, I was always right beside my husband when he did the many remodeling jobs that he attempted. Crawling under the house, tearing out sheet rock and putting in a concrete foundation, I was right there as his assistant. I was the "go for" person and since I could drive a car then, I got to go to hardware stores and paint stores very often. I used to joke that when I am laid out for the hereafter, I want to be presented with a paint brush in one hand and a piece of sandpaper in the other. A screwdrivr and wrench would do as well. When my husband suffered the loss of most of his vision, he never hesitated for a moment but went right on working as before. With my help in measuring, he put down a beautiful hardwood floor in our house, mostly by feel alone. He can still do electrical wiring and was able to repair the dishwasher with a little help from me. We joke that I am his eyes and he is my brain. He has a phenomenal memory, especially where money is concerned.
I suppose the accident that caused his vision loss was the defining moment of our lives. He had been retired less than a year and of course we were planning on traveling and having the usual freedom that comes with not having to work anymore. We tried a few trips where I did the driving, but it made him so nervous that we soon gave it up. He has made quite a good adjustment but I am sure he feels his disability keenly. It happened twenty years ago in October. If only we could turn back the clock!

a regular day

When I first starting blogging, I wondered if I would have enough to write about in my quiet and uneventful life. but something happens every day here that is interesting or amusing. Today it was the arrival of a refund check from PG@E for the munificent sum of $50.00. When I saw that check I was reminded of the scholarship fund I received from my High School, rewarding me for being class valedictorian. It was for the grand sum of $50.00! I had worked hard for four years for that scholarship, and don't even remember getting it, anyway. I did go to college, though, and enjoyed my short time there greatly. It was a one-building affair, now a large university, and the classes were small enough that I soon knew everyone there and managed to get on the newspaper and yearbook staff. Being on the newspaper was wonderful, as I got to go to the football games and met all of the football players, a thrill for a shy country girl like me. As I wrote in an earlier blog, I was drafted out of college in my second year and sent out to teach, due to the teacher shortage. While I was in college I worked for the art teacher and met Thomas Hart Benton and Marian Anderson, as well as some singers whose names have now fled my memory.
But back to the refund check from PG@E. My neighbor across the street still hasn't gotten hers, and every day comes over asking anxiously, "Did it come yet?" Of all of the people in our little enclave, she is the one who most needs the money. She lives alone on a very limited income and I almost hated to tell her today that my check had come. I suppose it will go as fast as it came. Frugal we are not. Our motto has always been "Easy come, easy go." But that is what money is for, and we enjoy spending it as much now as we did years ago. I love comments, keep in touch.

The end of the war

We returned to the base, chastened and sobered by the events of the day. We knew of course that the vice-president, a modest and little-known fellow named Harry Truman, had been sworn in. What we didn't know was that he would prove to be a fearless and far-seeing leader, destined by fate to make one of the most difficult decisions ever to fall to the lot of a president. He decided to drop the atom bomb and forever changed the world.
Back at the base, things went on pretty much as before, except that now and then we were given leave to go to Washington, D.C. and go we did. I remember the many monuments, museums, parks and especially the cherry trees in blossom. I wandered down the aisles of trees, enjoying the aroma of the blossoms, and felt that I was in another world. The air was warm and balmy, and except for the swarms of pigeons flying around and threatening to bombard us, all was peaceful and serene. Of course we could only get a few hours of leave and had to be back promptly but we appreciated every moment of freedom.
Until the actual moment when the atom bomb was dropped, no one at Arlington Hall knew of its existence. Nicknamed "Little Boy", even Harry Truman was kept in the dark until he assumed the office of president. On August 6, l945, the bomb was dropped, the world changed forever, and the war was over. By the end of August I was in Dallas, Texas and another adventure loomed before me. But that is another story.

What a relief

I must insert here the happy news that our little cat has returned safely at last. I let her out this morning and she went happily off, headed for her usual hangout in the rose bushes. She never stays out there very long, and I expected her in again in an hour or so. All morning went by and no sign of her anywhere. The afternoon dragged by and though we called and searched up and down the hill, we found no trace of her. We began to be anxious as other cats in the neighborhood have vanished without a trace, and this little cat is twenty-four years old and slow and walks only at a very slow pace. She could never outrun a predator.
As dusk was setting in, we were out in our coats with flashlingts in hand, calling her name and causing neighbors to peer out their windows to see what the ruckus was about.
It got dark.
It got cold.
I sent my husband all the way down the hill to see if she had gotten onto the road and been hit by a car.
Finally we ate our dinner of soup and sandwiches, and I flopped down on the sofa with a blanket and a clear view of the door where we hoped she would appear.
At 8:30 the porch lights came on and there she was at the door, looking unconcerned and not at all contrite. Where she had been all day I will never know, but we were glad indeed to see her again. She has been with us since she was born, and though we know that time is against us, we hope to keep her a good while longer.

A sad day

The barracks were partitioned off into cubicles, each cubicle containing two beds and facilities for hanging our uniforms and personal items. At the foot of the bed was a foot locker, with certain specified items packed just so accordings to regulations. These were opened during inspection, and if we were found to be derelict in our presentation, we were given a demerit and made to do some extra duty around the base. One time my bed wasn't made tight enough and I was given the task of washing the windows of the library. It was the only demerit I remember getting and I can't remember actually doing it.
The assignment of cubicle mates was of vital importance. We had no choice in the matter, and I was lucky enough to have one with whom I was fairly compatible. She was a brash, sophisticated woman from Brooklyn, and at about thirty-two or thirty-three seemed quite old to me. Sensing my naive approach to life, she attempted to indoctrinate me into the basics of living in which she felt I was deficient. She had a tattoo on her thigh, and dyed her hair jet black. She made no claim to high moral standards, but since there was little opportunity for misbehaviour, her influence was fairly benign. We had no privacy whatever, and if someone wanted to set up a liaison with someone of the opposite sex, they would have beeen immediately discovered and routed out. The men were vastly outnumbered by the women, anyway. There wouldn't have been enough of them to go around.
I got down to Arlington Hall in July of 1944 and had served there for almost ten months, never having gotten off the base. Then, on April 12, 1945, our president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, suffered a brain hemorrhage and died a short time later. His body was shiipped by train to Washgton, D. C. and our unit was allowed to go to the Capitol to see the funeral parade.
I will never forget that day. It was a fairly warm day, but a slow and steady drizzle fell, and the funeral procession moved slowly past the spectators, most of whom were in tears. Eleanor Roosevelt rode in an open vehicle with no veil, her face composed and sad. She looked to neither left or right, and sat alone in quiet dignity.
I remember the crushing sadness of the spectators. There is nothing so solemn as a funeral procession, with its muffled drums and slow cadence. There was no music, and the muted footsteps of the marchers was the only sound heard as the slow procession passed by. For once I recognized the unfolding of an historic event. An era had passed by, and such a one as our dead president would never come again.

After we wre assigned our quarters in one of the three or four barracks lined up on the road, we quickly settled into the routine of the base. I was disappointed that our little quartet was separated and sent to different barracks, but we saw each other in training and there were plenty of opportunities to socialize in the theatre, library or recreational hall. We started our training immediately, and I remember developoing a certain fondness for the big IBM machines, each with a placard attached which admonished us to THINK. With the exception of the sorter, the guiding force of each machine was a wiring board. A large, heavy frame with various wires plugged into a grid, the wiring board could be altered to conform to whatever direction the operator wished to follow.
To my vast surprise, i actually learned to wire the board. I had expected to be somewhat retarded since I had done so poorly in the mechanics aptitude test, but I think I only trained for a couple of weeks before i got my own unit and went to work.
It was none too soon. The training was done in the daytime, and I had been assigned to a barracks where everyone worked from midnight to eight in the morning. The "Graveyard" shift. It didn't lend itself to any kind of restful sleep. But as soon as I started to work, I fit right in.
In some convoluted twist of judgment from the powers that be, we worked rotating shifts, one week to a shift. We never got used to any one sleeping pattern, and wandered through the days half asleep and out of sync. The machines were kept going twenty-four hours a day and were only shut down when the punch cards jammed up and the reproducer or collator had to be dismantled and the damaged cards removed. No one needed to worry about any hanky-panky going on. We were so tired we couldn't have hanky-panked if we had wanted to.
From the point of view of the men, this was an ideal assignment. From the vantage point of our guarded and secure position, they could follow the progress of the war, safe from combat on the beaches of Iwo Jima and the hedges of Normandy and Germany. Everything was provided for us, from food, shelter and clothing, to recreation and stimulation. There was a theater, mess hall, recreation room, base exchange - we never felt the need to go off base, which of course we couldn't do, anyway. Periodically, we were called to assembly and told how important we were to the war effort. As I said, this was an ideal assignment.

We didn't go very far. In probably a quarter of an hour, the truck turned off the main thoroughfare and headed down a narrower street, past an imposing brick building with a sign in front that said "Arlington Hall." I felt a jolt of hope, thinking that perhaps we were going to be stationed here, in some sort of college or training institution. Of all the possibilities open to us, this would have been my choice. I hadn't enjoyed teaching school for the two years I had been in practice but this wouldn't be bad! I could get used to this.
But we didn't stop there either. Down we went, the street getting narrower and dustier, down into a forest of pines at the bottom of a shallow hill. And there, in front of a high security fence, guarded by a soldier in full regalia, the truck stopped and our rumpled and exhausted group scrambled out. My thoughts were not of the most logical - all I could think of was prison. We were going to be incarcerated. What in God's name had we done?
The sergeant presented our papers, and we were waved into the inner sanctum of an army base, spread out before our amazed eyes, neat and tidy.
From our vantage point, it looked like a model of an army base, with barracks arrayed on each side of the street, with a church and library down at the end. The buildings were of wood, unpainted, but looking quite new. There were little lawns of green grass out in the front, and numbers of soldiers going to and fro from the various buildings, all in summer fatigues and all seemingly in a hurry.
The sergeant ushered us into a small building off to one side of the street and we were once more lined up in a row. A stern-looking captain sat behind a desk and wasted no time on us. "You are in the 2nd Signal Service Battalion," he began. "It is a unit of the Signals Intelligence Service, and you are in the United States Army codebreaking division. It is so secret that outside the office of the Chief Signal Officer, it does not exist."
He paused a moment to let this sink in. Then, speaking slowly and clearly, he continued. "The work you will be doing is of the most vital importance to the war effort. You were hand-picked for this assignment. You are the best of the best."
We listened open-mouthed while he instructed us to raise our right hands and swear ourselves to eternal secrecy. The penalty for discussing the work ourside of approved channels could be death, as it was considered an act of treason during a time of war. The watchword was "Don't Talk." We were informed that no one was to know of our work. Anyone caught discussing it would be treated as a spy and shot.
We saluted, turned and walked out the door into the sunshine and soft summer breezes. We were so astonished that we were almost in a state of shock. Between relief that we had escaped a fate worse than death, and surprise that we had been picked for this important work, we were almost catatonic. We picked up our duffel bags and headed for the barracks.

The jeep rattled along, stirring up dust and making a good bit of noise. Sad Sack, in the front seat, was buffeted about by the wind we were riding into, and began to come undone. First her hat fell off, luckily caught by the private just behind her. Her bright red hair, always hard to contain, simply fell out of its bun and dangled down to her collar. Her tie came out of her shirt and dangled down her chest. Only a few minutes out of the compound and she was already out of uniform!
Prima Donna, on the other hand, was the picture of perfection. Not a hair was out of place. Her makeup was perfectly applied and she rode with a scented handkerchief to her face, to screen out any unpleasant odors or dust. How she did it I will never know.
As for me, I began to enjoy the ride. We were getting dusty, to be sure, and my allergies were going full blast, but we were clearly going toward some town somewhere, and I hoped we would have the pleasure of an overnight trip on a train. I hadn't yet learned that riding a train during wartime was an ordeal, rather than an adventure. But where were we going? What would be our assignment? Oh, well, time would tell. Maybe more than we wanted to know. But as they say in novels, the die was cast! No turning back now, we were on our way.
It wasn't long beore we reached the train station, and were hustled onto a clanking old passenger train, what was known in those days as a "milk train." It stopped at all whistle-stop stations and waited there, belching black smoke and cinders, and then with a whistle, chugged forward once again. We did not get sleepers. We were squeezed into hard, crowded seats where we sat all through the long night, now and then dozing where we sat. Most of the other passengers were civilians, who cast suspicious glances our way, obviously thinking the worst. We were escorted by another sergeant, as before, and got bologna sandwiches for dinner. Stale and dry, they were harly gourmet fare. But if you are hungry, just about anything tastes good. Or so they say.
I should pause here briefly to comment on the fact that it was widely believed that women in uniform, in our case WACs, were recruited for the sole purpose of servicing the men in uniform as prostitutes. It was a rumor that was even spread around basic training, as a sort of practical joke, I suppose. Being an independent thinker, I didn't really fall for that trick, but many of the recruits shed tears night after night over the mistake they thought they had made.
Still, there was always that nagging little fear in the back of my mind. I don't think I slept at all, Morning finally came and we at last found out where we were. The sign in the station said "Washington D.C." and to our delight, we realized we were to debark. Stumbling down the little steps to the platform, we were a bedraggled and grimy sight. Being herded onto a covered troop truck, along with our duffel bags and once again escorted by a sergeant, didn't help a bit. Even Prima Donna had slipped from her usual standards and though she had managed to put on fresh lipstick, her usually immaculate hair-do was lacking its usual array. But she didn't seem to care, probably too tired to rally. Sad Sack had of course come completely apart and I wasn't much better. We slumped down on the wooden benches arrayed at the sides of the truck, and rattled off once again.

My well-kept secret

A few years ago, probably in 2004, I went on Google and researched Arlington Hall, and discovered that my life-long secret was no longer necessary. The freedom of information act had released the data on Arlington Hall and we could now tell of our experiences there during the war. I wish it had happened earlier, so I could have assured my mother that I had served honorably in the Army, and had not compromised myself in any way. Actually, I got a presidential citation for my work there. But it is too late for that now, unless she is looking over my shoulder, as I sometimes suspect, and now she will never know.
Only four of us went up to Arlington Hall from basic training in Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, and we were the last in the barracks to get an assignment. We were gathered together and told that we had been assigned but that we would be getting no orders. We stared at each in wonder. I must say a more motley crew could hardly be imagined. First and foremost, there was a recruit I have always thought of as Prima Donna, so perfect was she in all ways. Perfectly coiffed, perfectly groomed, makeup expertly applied, she was a picture of soldierly presentation. She went all through basic training without one demerit and we in the barracks got sick of the inspectors praising her area. Then there was poor Sad Sack, who could get nothing right. Plump, even lumpy, her hair was always escaping its untidy bun, she couldn't tie her tie right or even tie her own shoes. She got innumerable demerits and was always pulling extra duty for some infringement of the rules. Then there was me, a scrawny 106 pounds, uniform always too big, and with curly bright red hair. The fourth recruit was a pleasant little extrovert who loved life and lived it to the fullest. I at once felt that we would be friends. But we all had one thing in common- we were all redheads. I will admit that that gave me pause, once I realized it to be the case.
But there we were, gathered together and told to pack our duffel bags and assemble out side the barracks in thirty minutes. I will admit that we all felt apprehensive. Why didn't we have orders? What was our destination? Were we going to be sex slaves as my mother always said of women in uniform?
We stood outside and waited. After what seemed a long time, a jeep pulled up in front of us, with a stern sergeant behind the wheel, and we scrambled in, Sad Sack in the front with the driver. With our duffel bags under our feet, we rattled off to our unknown destination. More tomorrow