PUBLISHED TWICE!

After my mother suffered a heart attack and the consequences of short term memory loss, she couldn’t live alone again.  Instead of going back to her apartment, she was moved to a nursing home in Abbotsford, B.C.  Having been her primary caregiver since my father died eleven years earlier, I was faced with having to empty her apartment and distribute all her possessions.  Luckily for me, I had Jeannette, my precious sister-in-law, to help me.

The following story was published in Today’s Senior Newsmagazine in June, 2005.  For some unknown reason, they again published it in August of 2007.  Somebody must have liked it?

 TWO MARBLES

            I sit on an antique wooden chair that belongs with the antique wooden telephone table in the corner.  Except for a tall dresser, they are the only pieces of furniture left in the bedroom.

            My sister-in-law sits on the floor in front of me.  Between us, open and supported on top of a large cardboard box, is my Mother’s jewelry box.  It is a large, white leather, padded box, yellowed with age, that opens in tiers.  It has a lock and key.

            Together we are going through its contents.  My brother abdicated his role as heir to these items and said his wife should stand in for him.  It should be women dividing up another woman’s jewelry, either for themselves or for their daughters.

            There isn’t a lot of monetary value in what we find.  We have already dispersed the good pieces that were kept in small boxes.  Today we find an antique brooch, trying to sparkle its sequins of blue.  It may have belonged to my Grandmother, but we do not know.  My niece has asked for anything old and funky.  This will go to her.

            We pull out three lockets, two gold and one silver.  The silver one has pictures of my deceased Father and my deceased brother.  I put this locket aside to take to my Mother in the nursing home.  One gold locket has a picture of me.  I decide to keep that one.  The other gold locket has pictures of my maternal grandparents.  I keep that as well.

            Then we pull out a gold compact with an R.C.A.F. emblem on the front, and my Mother’s name inscribed underneath.  My Dad had been in the Air Force when he gave this to her on their engagement during World War II.  I keep it for sentiment, even though the mirror is broken.  The compact is heart shaped, and speaks of his love for her.

            There are sets of chunky clip-on earrings to give to my niece.  A pearl necklace, coming apart but with errant pearls still present, my sister-in-law wants to salvage, in case the pearls are real.

            I retrieve the obituary notices my Mother has saved, token reminders of lives lost.  At some point in her life, though, these people were family members and therefore earned her respect.  Their names she saved with her jewelry.

            We pull out an old Bulova lady’s watch.  It has a small delicate face and a gold expansion bracelet.  I remember my Mother wearing it on fancy dates with my Father.  It was her “dressy” watch.  I wind it and look to see if it works.  There is no second hand, and I can’t hear if it is ticking.  My sister-in-law holds it to her ear and says it’s working.  The bracelet is too small for me.  We decide her daughter, my niece, should have this, too.

            There is a small pill bottle that we open.  She pulls out the contents, but doesn’t know what they are.  She asks if they are roach clips.  I laugh.  I tell her no, they’re men’s tie clips, used to clip a tie to a shirt so it wouldn’t flap around.  They had belonged to my Father.  We decide my brother should have them.

            Next we find two men’s rings, one with my Father’s initials.  Again, these will go to my brother.

            There are a number of old coins, some silver dollars, and one large piece that says “Ontario, 1867, White Trillium”.  I don’t know if it’s a coin or not.  It has no amount on it.  I ask to save the coins for my son.

            We pull out a matching set of necklace, earrings and scarf pin, done in fine petite point, all tiny red roses.  These go to my niece as I have a similar set that will be passed down to my own daughter.

            At the very bottom is a folded, yellow piece of paper.  I open it and read my Father’s handwriting.  It is a promissory note for $7000.00 that he signed in 1959.  It is marked paid in full one year later.  I remember he started his first business at that time, so perhaps that is why he borrowed from a friend.  My Mother saved the paper for over 40 years.  I discard it, even though it’s proof my Father always paid his bills.

            There are several tiny padlocks and keys we dispose of.  And at last we have only two marbles left, one large and one small.  My sister-in-law shakes her head and asks why Mom kept marbles in her jewelry box?  I tell her Mom kept them to roll through a vacuum cleaner hose to find where it was plugged.  And if you move house a lot, if you keep your marbles in your jewelry box you’ll never lose them.  She doesn’t believe me.

            I take the marbles and put them in my pocket.  They will go in my own jewelry box, waiting for the day someone else will have to clean out my life.

_________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

FAMILY HEIRLOOM

Sorry to say, but I never thought diamonds were my best friend.

THE RING

Whenever I wore that ring, I was terrified.  Terrified of theft.  Terrified of losing it.  It was a white gold band sporting a floral cluster of twenty six diamonds and screamed of wealth I never possessed.  I felt like such a fraud when I wore it, that someone would question me about where I obtained it.  And yet, it was so very, very beautiful I loved to look at it on my hand.

            But no, I didn’t wear it more than three times in sixteen years.  I had two choices.  Have it assessed regularly and pay for the extra insurance to cover it.  Or stow it away in a safety deposit box.  So that’s where it went, to a box at the bank.  I retrieved it to wear when my son graduated from the Royal Military College, and several years later when he married.  And then again when my daughter married.  But otherwise it stayed safely under lock and key.

            The ring had been a gift from my father to my mother on their fortieth wedding anniversary.  She had wanted a new set of engagement and wedding rings, as hers were almost worn through.  But Dad liked to splurge and demonstrate his success in life.  He needed the bling of ostentation.  So she received this gorgeous, sparkling ring that she seldom wore.  After he died, she gave the ring to me.  I suspect she was tired of being the keeper of Dad’s pride.  She also gave away the mink coat he’d given her, that also needed assessments and storage.

            After my mother died, I started thinking of death and wills and belongings left to children.  I decided to give the ring to my daughter.  But she lives 3,000 kilometres away, and I wasn’t going to mail it.  I waited, and waited, until finally she came for a visit.  I took her to the bank with me and in the secured, dark back room with all the safety deposit boxes, I opened mine and handed her the ring case.  She opened it and I watched as her eyes grew large and a gorgeous smile bloomed across her face as she took out the ring and placed it on her finger.

            “Oh, Mom, I absolutely love it!  You’re really giving this to me?  I can’t believe it.  I’ll never take it off!” she said.

            And I knew that with the third generation, the ring had finally found a home.

           

_______________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

A DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW

This story was published in the Polar Expressions anthology “Below The Canopy” in 2009.  It was my attempt to write from a male point of view, first person.

HIS RANT

            He lives in the apartment over the three-bay carriage house.  Not because he wants to, that’s for sure.  Only because the bitch he’s married to doesn’t want him in the house anymore.  Take your shoes off.  Don’t touch the walls.  Don’t smoke.  Don’t sit here.  Don’t go there.  Don’t let the dog on the furniture. Don’t put your feet on the coffee table.  Don’t walk on the clean floor.  Don’t leave dirty dishes around.  Don’t throw your clothes on the floor.  Don’t leave beer bottles in the den.  And for God’s sake, don’t ever go in the living room with all her fancy furniture. Damn it!  You’d think she was curator of a museum or something.

            Never mind he slaved his ass off to buy the property in the first place.  No way does she acknowledge that. She just acts as if it’s all hers, like it’s her special right.  But at least he was smart enough not to put her name on anything. So if she wants out of the marriage she’ll have to really fight him to get a cent.  He’ll pay the bills to keep the property out of hawk, but anything else she can pay for herself.  See how she likes them apples.

            Dumb bitch. He just got so fed up with all her complaining about what a slob he was, he moved out to the garage.  Piss on her!  He’d live any way he damned well pleased now.  He didn’t have to wash up to sit at any table with her.  And he sure as hell didn’t have to bathe first to get into bed anymore.  So what if the grease on his arms rubbed off on the sheets.  And so what if he liked to eat in bed while he watched T.V.  A few crumbs never hurt anybody.  And he could leave the toilet seat up all the time if it suited him.

            Now he could drink beer all day on a Saturday.  He could twist a top off at eight in the morning and there wouldn’t be anything she could say or do about it.  Hell, she wouldn’t even know about it.  And he could have himself a feed of fried pyrogies and garlic sausage every night for supper, too.  No more effin’ rabbit food.  So what if it was Sunday and she’d always cooked a roast and yorkshire pudding.  He could feed himself.  He didn’t need to put up with any more of her crap in order to eat something, that’s for sure.

            And there wouldn’t be any more visiting with her family.  He wouldn’t have to be pleasant to her mother and he wouldn’t have to act like her kids were his own, either.  They could all go plumb to hell.  His own kids didn’t bother with him anymore, so why should he have to put up with hers?

 

This bitch just kept saying she was tired of being blamed for what the first wife did, especially since he still had the first wife listed as beneficiary on everything.  Should never have married a second time.  The first time was bad enough.  That one had taken everything.  But he’d been able to live with that ‘cause she got custody of the kids, first one did.  Had to take care of his own kids, never mind they never had any time for him.  Truth be told, both women had just been out to get whatever they could from him.  No, he wasn’t going to write a will.  He wasn’t going to make it easier for anybody.  Nobody ever helped him.

            Setting the tenth empty beer bottle on the table beside his old and torn recliner, he takes the last puff of his cigarette and puts it out in the overfilled ashtray.  He does an unsteady sideways shuffle to the bathroom and fumbles with the fly on his jeans before he’s able to relieve himself.  He absently gazes at the empty paper towel holder and remembers he still has to buy toilet paper, too.  He would brush his teeth, but he doesn’t have any toothpaste.  The towel is so filthy, he decides not to shave.  He hasn’t gone out anywhere today because he doesn’t know which clothes on the floor are clean or dirty.

            Stupid bitch.  It was all her fault.

            He flops on his badly rumpled bed that smells as rank as he feels.  He passes out wondering what she’s cooking for dinner.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

REUBEN, REUBEN I'VE BEEN THINKING.......?

There is a children's song with the lyrics:

Reuben, Reuben I've been thinking
What a fine world this would be
If the men were all transported
Far beyond the northern sea!

I was ten years old when I first heard the song, and the lyrics would always reassure me that I could respond to misogyny whenever it raised its ugly head.  The following story I wrote in response to "The Stepford Wives", a novel by Ira Levin.  His story, later a movie, depicted a town where the wives had mysteriously become robotic submissives.  Having grown up during the women's liberation movement in the 1960s, I just had to write my own antidote to male chauvinism.

My story was published in the former "Eclectica Magazine" in May of 2010.

FINE PRINT

            Angela clutched the contract in her shaking hands as she approached the customer service counter when the number 58 was called, the number she was assigned when she arrived at 9:00 a.m.  It was now 1:15 in the afternoon.  She stood rigidly in front of the representative on the other side of the counter, and glared at her.

            “It’s bloody well about time, young lady.  The shoddy service in this business can only be surpassed by the uselessness of your product.  Here is my receipt for this defective model and I expect a full refund immediately,” she demanded as she plopped her papers in front of the twenty-something young woman who towered over her in a navy blue business suit.

            She forced herself to take a deep breath and silently counted to ten, trying to calm the rage inside as she watched the agent slowly unfurl her rolled up contract and then look at it page by page.

            “You’re Angela Lawson?” she asked.

            Angela nodded.

            “And you reside at 1046 Minton Boulevard?”

            Again she nodded.

            “And you purchased this model 11/13/1955/1305Hrs, slightly used but with full life-time warranty?”

            “I did.  Last year, at an exorbitant cost, more than my house.  But it is totally defective.  And I’m afraid it has become toxic, as well.  I’m certainly disappointed you would foist this type of danger on the unsuspecting public.”

            “It’s defective ?  You mean it doesn’t perform in any mode at all?  That would be highly unusual, Ms. Lawson.  Our products are totally tested after being refurbished.  And you say it’s toxic?  I don’t see how that could be.  We pride ourselves that our factory is both ISO 9000 and WHMIS compliant as well.  It is impossible for this product to be toxic to your work environment, Ms. Lawson.”

            “I don’t care what you pride yourself on, young lady.  This model has not functioned efficiently since it was delivered.  And whenever I try to make it work, it smokes.  If that’s not toxic, I don’t know what is!” she fumed, as she pounded the counter with a balled fist.

            “I see, Ms. Lawson.  That is a concern.  Can you explain to me what happens when you try to make this product work?  What specific procedure do you use?”

            “Oh, for heaven’s sake.  Well, if you insist.  Let’s see……. First I position the model where I want it to function.  Then I disengage the brake cuff.  Then I aim the remote at the machine.”

            “Excuse me, Ms. Lawson.  You use the remote?  You don’t use the controls on board the machine itself?”

            “Well, no.  What difference would that make?”

            “Maybe the remote needs new batteries, Ms. Lawson,” the blue suit explained.

            “I just installed new batteries, young woman.  I’m not an imbecile!”

            “I see.  What about the audio function then?  Does that work?  It should be able to inform you which parts have mal-functioned.”

            “Well.  The audio plays non-stop, but totally without relevance to any pre-programming.  And on top of that, the bloody “MUTE” button doesn’t work.  The only way I can get it to be silent is to bang it with a frying pan.”

            “Oh.  That’s not good, Ms. Lawson.  Explain to me what other problems you’ve had with this model,” she invited sympathetically.

            “Mmm.  When I use the menu to program a daily schedule, the “Enter” button won’t depress so, of course, nothing gets scheduled.  Consequently assignments are not completed and my whole life has become a mess.  You’ve no idea how disturbing that is.”

            “I can imagine.  What else, Ms. Lawson?”

            “The “Fast Forward” doesn’t work at all.  Nor does “Reverse”.  Several functions are pre-programmed into the model, as you know, but the clock won’t advance in time, so then those functions don’t work.”

            “Oh no.  That’s terrible the clock doesn’t work.  Mind you, that means the warranty should still be valid, as the meter can’t have progressed beyond the “Best Before” date,” the clerk assured Angela.

            “And the “Play” button.  Well, forget that.  Hopeless.  Just hopeless.  I derive no satisfaction whatsoever from this machine.  It doesn’t pleasure me at all,” Angela bemoaned sadly.  Then her initial anger resurfaced, “And it smokes.  Every time I try to get it to work, it smokes and that is polluting my environment.  Which is why I’m here.  I want a refund.  I can’t live with this machine anymore,” she admitted with tears in her eyes.

            “I can certainly understand you have a relevant claim, Ms. Lawson.  But let me explain to you the fine print on your contract.

……………

            Two hours later Angela arrived home, exhausted over her battle for her consumer’s rights.  As she entered the front door, tobacco smoke irritated her nostrils and itched at her eyes.

            “Yo.  Angela.  Did you get your refund?” asked Model 11/13/1955/1305Hrs. as it blew a smoke ring in front of her face.

            She looked at the model she had nicknamed Scorpion and wondered why she had invested so heavily in a model that was never designed to be user friendly.

            “No.  I didn’t get a refund.”

            “That’s great.  I won’t be moving then,” Scorpion grinned, puffing more smoke at her.

            “I didn’t say that.  You will be leaving in the morning.  Customer Service explained the fine print to me.  Since more than ninety days have expired on the warranty, I’m only entitled to an exchange, not a refund.  The company’s shipping department will drop off your replacement in the morning and take you in for re-furbishing.”

            “I’ll miss you, Angela.  It was such a pleasure unmanaging your management.  I hope your new model is more to your liking.  You still have my original packaging?  I’ve been through this before, you know.”

            “Yes, Scorpion.  Here is the tuxedo you wore when I signed for proprietary rights.  I should never have bought a used model with faults imbedded.  Although I’m sure I could have overlooked a few things if intercourse between us had improved.”

            “I’m afraid your skillful use of the frying pan precluded that eventuality.  You know, Angela, you’ll miss having me to complain about.  You won’t like always being on top of things with a newer, less aggressive model.  At least I’ve been reliably unreliable.”

            “Scorpion, don’t even go there.  I’ve made up my mind.  For the money I’ve paid, I deserve proper servicing.  And I will no longer have to tolerate your smoke or your corrupt programming.  That’s it.  Done!  Fini!”

            Angela took the batteries out of the remote control.  As Scorpion froze in place watching her, she walked over to the unmoving body and removed its memory chip from just behind the ear.  She approached her computer and plugged the chip into the USB port.  Without any hesitation, she deleted all of Scorpion’s memory from her life.

            Tomorrow she would start over with a newer model, one that could interface with all of the appliances in the house.  And it also came with attachments, including the upgraded vibrating phallic prosthesis.  The fine print on her contract hadn’t done her any harm, after all.

            Now what to call the new model?  Adonis, maybe?

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By Lisa A. Hattonng hands as she approached the

FOR ALL THE VALENTINES

Here are two of my poems I thought I would post for Valentine’s Day.  The first, “Will You?” I wrote to my husband, Bryon, when we first started dating back in 1994.  He is still my Valentine.  The second poem, “The Question Of Love” came from all my own observations of relationships.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

WILL YOU?

Will you be my Valentine

Today and tomorrow

Just because?

Will you be my Valentine

And light my life

With your loving laugh

Melting my cares away?

Will you be my Valentine

My bestest friend

Who holds my hand

In sunlight and in shadow?

Will you be my Valentine

Heart to heart

Soul to soul

And walk with me today, into tomorrow?

Will you, Bryon

Will you be my Valentine?

__________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

THE QUESTION OF LOVE

Love’s twisted way has led me here

Through convoluted passages

Some dark as night

Some flights of light

Some love is painful past endurance

Some as sweet as baby’s breath

Some is strong like faithful weeds

Some love as gone as yesteryear

Some love is maybe

Some forever

Some love is from the Soul

Some is from the heart

Some love is only in the mind

Some love’s a dream of what might be

Some a despair

For what isn’t there

Some love is knowing two are One

Some is watching that undone

Some love whispers gentle thoughts

Some love screams the pain that’s wrought

Some love is all consuming

And some is barely felt

Some love is give

Some love is take

Some is only action

Some is only words

Some love is past

Some will be tomorrow

Some love is unrevealed

Some love grows from where it starts

Some love dries and dies

Some love has been divinely planned

Awaiting my embrace

Love’s winding path

Has led me on

Ever changing

Undefined

Yet always new

Now that we’ve met

Just you and I

What new kind of love

Would you like to try?

____________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

MAKING CHOICES

In 2006, my writing won 2^nd place in 2 categories in the contest at the Wired Monk Bistro, in Murrayville, Langley, B.C., Canada.   “Tread Softly” won for Poetry, and my short-short “Haunted” won for Non-fiction.  I thought each of them had something to say about the choices we make in life.

TREAD SOFTLY

Tread softly through your thoughts

Your garden of tomorrow

Trample not with heavy Soul

The seeds you will to blossom forth

The tiny thoughts that need your care

In one small seed of thought

Each morning grows

Have mercy not upon the weeds

The tangled web inside your mind

A ravenous horde

That would destroy

Each tender trace

Of living grace

That reaches for the light

Be sure to guide and water

Your garden as it grows

A thought-full garden

Takes time to harvest, too

And then, alas, your thoughts bear fruit

The harvest of your life

Each fruit akin to long forgotten seed

So did you plant a rose

Or harvest you the weed?

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By Lisa A. Hatton

HAUNTED

               The memory of her haunts me as glaring proof that I am a coward.  I will never see her again so I cannot even ask her to forgive me.

         I did not seek her out, and I don’t think she deliberately sought me either.  Our passing in the rain that cold November day was only an encounter born of circumstance.

         My circumstance was a hurried drive-thru lunch at a fast food restaurant between my medical appointment and a visit to my mother in her nursing home.  As I drove out of the parking lot, she stepped in front of my car and raised her hand to stop me.

         Of course I stopped and rolled down my window.  She stood beside my car, finding it hard to look at me or to use her voice.  She stood alone in the cold rain, no hat, long dark hair plastered to her head.  She wore a long skirt, and boots.  Her hip length jacket only had the top two buttons done up above her protruding belly.  She could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five years old.

         Gathering her courage, she looked at me from desolate eyes and asked if I had any money to spare.  “I’m six months pregnant and I haven’t eaten in three days,” she said.

         I moved as if to reach for my purse but remembered I only had a twenty dollar bill left.  If I’d had a five, or even a ten, I would have given it to her.  But not a twenty.  What if she only wanted it for drugs?

         As the car behind me honked to prod me forward, I told her I didn’t have any money for her.  The dejection in her eyes made me think I had pronounced a death sentence.  As she turned and walked away, I knew for certain she had told me one truth.  She was most assuredly six months pregnant.

         Driving away, her desolation became my own.  I could have afforded twenty dollars, but I had become the uncaring and judgmental person I myself reviled years ago when I was a single mother on welfare.

         Now each November, when the cold and the rain return, I will always be haunted by her memory.

___________________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

WINTER BLUES

With the forecast of snow and colder temperatures on the way, I'm getting ready to hibernate for a day or two.  The following piece of non-fiction was a second place winner in a writing contest at the former Wired Monk Bistro in Murrayville, Langley, B.C., Canada in 2005.  It reminds me how much I need colour in winter.

WHAT MATTERS?

               What matters today, here and now, at this hour of 10:20 on an evening in September?  I really don’t know.  I’ve wasted this day, accomplishing so little.  I feel as though I have to force my energies into something productive.  I haven’t even been meditating, so that’s no excuse.  Hour after hour, I’ve just been hiding in my chair that swallows me in folds of sleep and lethargy.  And, of course, I numb my brain, allowing the television to program my thinking for me.  At 5:00 p.m. I’ll think of news.  At 7:00 it’s a game show.  At 8:00 I watch a decorating show, and at 9:00, a drama.  It’s been a good variety of someone else’s thinking, I suppose.  Mine is on hiatus.

               Do I want to write?  I don’t know.  I want to create something, but something more vibrant than black and white on a page.  I really feel the pull of fabrics and colours.  Tablecloths, slipcovers, cushions, quilts are endless possibilities, all in colour and texture.  My senses of sight and touch want to play, too.

               First day of autumn tomorrow and I gather colour around me to stave off the grey of west coast winter.  I’ve seen it advancing this past week, that inescapable wash of grey that shrouds reality dawn to dusk.  Clouds, fog, rain, showers, mist.  They are different shades of grey, but still blur the landscape and barricade all light and colour.  The gunmetal cast of winter is so pervasive, overshadowing everything.  Even the pine and fir and cedar mute to grey when autumn fades.

               In years past I would fight the slate of winter with the arrogance of youth.  Thumbing my nose at the eternal seasons, I would go out and buy a new car, or find a new lover, both guaranteed to shine the sun briefly through the dismal charcoal daytime.  Now knowing the relentless repetition of the seasons, I gather my colours for winter’s hibernation.  I have fabric, and paint, and embroidery floss, and thread, and yarn.  So when the grey descends, I will pull out my colours to light my way until spring.

_________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton