April the First–known to most of us as “April Fool’s Day”, has always been my favorite make-believe-not-so-real hokey holiday.  

         I come by this naturally, for my mother was the “Queen of April Fool’s Jokes”.  My first recollection of her duplicity was back in the 1930’s when my scrooge of a grandfather came to visit during this particular time.  Grandpa lived with my dad’s older sister and her husband, and every so often, they needed a much-deserved vacation from his miserly ways.

       He didn’t believe in banks, and consequently, when he arrived, he brought with him all of his worldly assets. Possibly. We could only assume that those worn leather bags held thousands of dollars, deeds to his many properties, and who knew what else?  Our imagination knew no bounds!

       My mother didn’t care for him too kindly, for many years before, she and my dad had asked him for a small loan to save their house from foreclosure. He said ‘no’, although he had the means to save them; consequently, they lost that home and had to move to a tiny run-down house with little indoor plumbing, an old coal furnace, and in a poor part of town. That was where I was raised, and that is where Grandpa had come to stay for the week.

       On April Fool’s Day my mother decided to get even. When Gramps shuffled down from his bedroom for dinner, there she was with dollar bills taped to the soles of her shoes.  We hoped he was disturbed enough to wonder if she had rifled through his bags and helped herself to his wealth.  He died unexpectedly a few weeks later, and mama always relished the possibility that she may have contributed to his untimely demise.

       Then, there was the year of the nosy next-door neighbors, who were always prying into our business. On that April 1^st, my mother took clothes pins and pinned an entire can of bean sprouts to the clothesline, hoping the snoops would question what on earth she was hanging there.  They never took the bait, but she delighted in her foolishness nevertheless!

       Over the years, on the first of April, I have treated my children to “Green Eggs and Ham” for breakfast, thrown a dinner party where the menu consisted of a salad composed of egg shells, green Jello and chicken bones, with Moose Poop Pie for dessert.  (It was actually chocolate mousse which had refused to ‘set’, and after the initial shock, I offered a real dinner.)  I have served cupcakes topped with shaving cream to my children’s friends, sending them running to the neaby sink to expectorate.

       Last year, Norm, my good friend in Creative Writing and I, decided we would fool our class by arriving, flowers and all, with the announcement that we had gotten married. Norm played the perfect ’husband’.  He was all “honey” this, and “darling” that.  Kind of sad to deceive them–but hey!

       This brings me to regale you with my favorite April Fool’s Day of all–well, almost:

       It occurred three years ago. My husband had died that September. After the initial grief, I decided it was time to get on with life. When I left for Florida two months later, Anne, my daughter-in-law whispered to me: “Now don’t go down to Florida and find yourself a young stud!”  Then she chuckled ,”Ha-ha!”  (Interpretation: “I doubt we have to worry about that!“)

       The following December, I remembered her words and I planned–no, plotted–better still, schemed with what I thought would be the ultimate April Fool’s Joke of all time. I lay awake nights crafting it–even using a yellow legal pad to carefully construct a time-line.

       This is what eventually occurred:

       In January, I called my son Mark with the following well thought-out narrative: “Mark, I just want to throw this out to you, but tell me if you think it’s improper. There is a man in my building who is a new widower, and he’s asked me to dinner. Do you think I should accept, or would you be offended, feeling I wasn’t being true to your father?”

       Mark said “Mom, I think that’s great. Life, after all, is for the living. It’s perfectly all right, and I couldn’t be happier for you. Go for it!”

       February came and during one of our conversations, my son asked, “Mom, did you and your friend ever go out to dinner?” I responded, “Yes, I took your advice and accepted. We’ve had a few dates and we’re going out again tomorrow night.”  He asked me where we were going, but I said I had no idea.

       Days later, I called Mark and told him that we had the most wonderful evening. “George, (I thought that was a nice generic-sounding name,)  took me to the Ritz Carlton. They had a piano player and George asked him to play ‘Some Enchanted Evening‘”.  Mark was impressed. 

       I didn’t hear from my son for about a week, but when he called, his first question was “Mom, you’ve never really told me much about your friend. What’s he like?”  I had a ready answer. “Oh, it’s so wonderful. He’s not a golfer like your father; rather, he’s a swimmer like me.  George looks fantastic in a Speedo, and he’s got great shoulders!  We spend a good deal of time together at the pool,  I demurred.  ” He even applies sun tan lotion to my back, and  I can tell–the other ladies are green with envy!” 

       The seed had been planted.  Now all I had to do was wait for germination.

       The plot took little time to sprout, for Mark called the very next day. “Mom, Anne and I would like to know a little more about this George.”  “Well, he’s twelve years younger than I am, ties his hair in a pony tail, and he wears this little diamond stud in his ear lobe. We seem to have a lot in common, and I’ve had him here for dinner a few times. He says he prefers my cooking to eating out.” It was quiet on the other end of the line.

       I allowed an appropriate amount of time to pass, and then called Mark with the following news flash: “Hi honey. Guess what? George has asked me to go on a cruise with him. I’m so excited.  I haven’t bought a bikini in years. We’re going Dutch, but that’s ok. I doubt that he has enough money to pay for the two of us.”

       My strategy was to call Mark on April 1^st and announce that ‘George’ and I had eloped to Las Vegas!  Oh, I was licking my chops over the deliciousness of my deceit!  However–

        A few days later, my daughter-in-law called and said: “Jan, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Mark is checking on airline reservations to come to Naples. He wants to meet George.”

       My cover was blown. I had to come clean. I confessed!  Oh, but it would have been the grandest April Fool’s prank ever. Without a doubt.

                                                                                 Jan Chapman

                                                                                 January, 2013

I am left with pictures in an old photo album. Sepia. Faded. Roughened edges. There she is: A hunter’s cap shrugged close upon her darkened locks. A vest; the pockets filled with shells. Long pants, ballooned around the thighs and then tapered and tucked into leather boots with their eyelets and laces. The boots traveled all the way to her mid calves. And last, the unnerving image–a twelve-gauge shotgun resting against her broad shoulder.

She was a hunter and a gatherer. Stalking small game. Pheasant, squirrel and rabbit were her prey. She gathered berries: blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and black walnuts, toting them home in a knapsack.

My mother was not one who took killing lightly. This was not a game of sport; rather, this would help sustain us through the long winter months.

Memories of our cold cellar haunt me still: A padlocked room in the darkened basement under the low eaves. It couldn’t have been more than a space of ten feet by ten feet, and at eye level, an opening about two inches high running the length of the room revealed a clear view of the outdoors. If I stood on a wooden crate and squinted, there was the front lawn and a scrubby maple tree. I assume that is why it was called a ’cold’ cellar, for in the winter, the blustery winds blew in through this open space and I could see my breath in the frigid air. A hard-packed dirt floor, and overhead. hanging from the rough-hewn timbers, gossamer cobwebs eeerily bobbed and swayed. A dusty, dim light bulb dangled from a short, skinny chain. The room smelled of dead things and must.

There were wooden planks which held row upon row of jars, and bottles of all sizes; and strangely, although the light was subdued,, mama’s canning looked festive. Purple jams and jellies, bright green beans, lush and glorious red tomatoes, bottles of home-made ginger ale, rusty-colored in the darkened glass, and then—the quart containers of pheasant, squirrel and rabbit.

After the plundered game was brought home, very cautiously, a steaming cauldron of boiling water would be dragged into the cold cellar, and the gruesome (but somehow exhilarating,) process of shedding the bounty of their clothing, and de-gorging them of their entrails would begin: The pheasants were plunged into the boiling water, left there to bathe for a few minutes, and then removed to have their feathers plucked. The squirrels were shorn of their fur, (although I would be gifted with the tails for my bicycle’s handlebars.) The rabbits would be stripped as well; however, one excised little foot would become a good luck charm for my well being.

My dad wielded his hunting knife deftly, leaving a deep gash in each body from stem to stern. He would thrust his paw into the cavity, exit with blood and gore dripping from and in between his fingers, fling the putrid mess into a bucket and repeat the process. Then it was time for my mother to take over: sterilizing the jars, cutting the deceased into parts the exact size to fit into their little glass coffins, and lastly, anointing them with her ’embalming fluid’ before she sealed the sarcophagi.

Oh yes, in particular I remember the rabbits. Somehow, mother packed them just so in the jars, and I am left with the stark and vivid memory of skinless little bunnies. Glossy, pink, shiny bodies with their amputated arms and legs folded into embryonic positions. They looked like they were sleeping–albeit without their heads.

* * *

The year was nineteen thirty-eight. I was in first grade. My teacher, Mrs Cunningham, was a doleful soul, with a pitiful and sorrowful countenance which was evident even to one as young as I.

In the Fall, I mentioned to Mrs Cunningham that my parents had gone to southern Ohio to hunt for squirrel, rabbit and pheasant. “Oh really,” a bored Mrs. Cunningham replied. “I’ve never eaten pheasant. I can’t imagine how it must taste.”

“I’ll ask my mama if you can have some,” I eagerly replied.

That evening, I approached my mother. “Mama, Mrs. Cunningham said she’s never tasted pheasant. Can we give her some?” Mother mulled over my request for a few moments, and then said to me “Well, tomorrow, you’re going to take a pheasant sandwich to Mrs. Cunningham.”

Early in the morning, my mama brought up one of the jars from the cold cellar. Reluctantly, she opened it, possibly regretting her generosity for this loss of a winter dinner. The pieces of herbed and salted pheasant were tossed into a lightly buttered cast iron skillet, quickly browned and removed to cool.

I watched while she took two slices of home made bread, and although it was in short supply, slathered a generous portion of butter on each. She thinly sliced mounds of the pheasant and piled it high, higher onto the sandwich. A little sprinkle of salt and a dollop of mayonnaise were added. Then, to catapult the creation above and beyond, she went back down to the cold cellar, lifted the lid off the earthen crock, chock-full of pickles, brined in vinegar, spices, sugar, large heads of garlic, and long, stringy vines of dill weed. She fished around and plucked out one fat, juicy pickle, catching the drippings in the palm of her hand as she climbed the steps to the kitchen.

After meticulously slicing the pickle, she artistically arranged it on top of the splendorous sandwich. Mama then topped it with the second piece of bread, folded waxed paper loving around it, wrapped it in yesterday’s newspaper, and tied the package with twine.

I proudly carried the sandwich to school and presented it to my teacher. Later in the afternoon, she gave me a note to take home to my mother.

Mama read it:

Dear Mrs. Stanford:

Thank you for the sandwich. Where did you get the pickle? It was very good.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Cunningham

 

Jan Chapman

March, 2012

          If someone were to ask you “What was the best gift you ever received?” how would you answer? I’m talking about the purchased kind. A gift you remember for simple, sentimental reasons, or just pure, plain, unadulterated greed. You know–Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Birthday.

          I can forgive my husband for the decade of the ‘Appliances’: The four-slice toaster, Vitamix Juicer, Robot Coupe (the predecessor to the Cuisinart;) the Kitchen Aid mixer, Big Daddy Deep Fryer, Air Popcorn Popper, the George Forman Grille, and of course, the Ginsu Knives.

          I’m willing to forget the time he gave my daughter-in-law a check and told her to buy me what she thought I’d like. Turns out, although their intentions were good, she hadn’t the foggiest idea of what I liked.

          Forgiven, but not forgotten were the years that he’d call me up to his study on any given holiday, pull out his checkbook and write me a check. Then in later years, I was given a blank check to fill in the amount I desired. The last gift given me was another blank check, signed with his signature and I filled in the amount for ‘ONE MILLION DOLLARS’ just to tease him. The check is still Scotch-taped to the refrigerator, yellowed with age!

          However, there is one gift from Tom which will remain in my heart forever, and it wasn’t given for Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, or my birthday, yet to me it was priceless. (By the way, each Mother’s Day, I would ask where his gift was, and the stock answer? “You’re not my mother!”)

          It was November, twenty-six years ago. I had stopped to pick up some food at Honey Baked Ham. Next door was Henry B. Ball’s jewelry store. Ball’s was the hoity-toity jewelry store in town. Having a little time to spare, I meandered in for no real reason other than to window shop.

          Suddenly, my eyes were drawn to the most beautiful ring I had ever seen. An extremely wide gold-fluted band with eight small diamonds set laterally across the top. The clerk asked if there was anything she could show me, and on a whim, I pointed to the ring. She removed it, I tried it on, and it fit me perfectly. I turned my hand this way and that, as my mind’s eye pictured me wearing it out to dinner, a fancy party, but most especially on an every-day basis, rather than my plain wedding band.

          Summoning up courage that evening, I casually mentioned to Tom that Christmas was coming shortly, and I found something I’d really like to have; and then, proceeded to describe it in great detail. Twenty-six years ago, gold wasn’t as precious as it is today, nor were diamonds, and the cost was a fairly modest twelve hundred dollars.

          “Jan, I’m glad you found something you like, but financially, I’m just kind of strapped right now. We’ve finally finished paying for the dental braces for the kids, and the expensive catholic educations. We’ve put all four through college and Mark is still in medical school. We also have the ski trip coming up.” Although disappointed, I agreed and the subject was forgotten. I really can’t remember what I was given that Christmas, but obviously it was forgettable.

          That March, we flew to Colorado with two other couples to ski Snowmass. Close friends we were–the other two men were doctors, their wives were my good friends, and in the summer we six played a lot of golf together as well. We were all fairly decent skiers.

          It was the first run of the first morning of a seven-day trip. I had forgotten to have the bindings on my skis checked and as I was shushing down the mountain, the tip of one ski caught a rough patch, the binding didn’t release, and my boot did a one-eighty around the ski. I will never forget the ripping sound of my knee–I can only liken it to a gear stripped in an automobile.

          Tom and the doctors helped me as I struggled to stand. I did, and with that, my knee collapsed completely. I was carried down the mountain by the ski patrol where there was a small hospital at the base. They wanted to operate on me there, however our friends called an orthopedic surgeon in Akron, whom they knew, and they said he was the best. He agreed to operate on me, and before the day was over, I was on a plane back to Ohio.

          The next day, I was anesthetized and underwent a five hour operation. It had been a total ‘blow out’ of the knee. They stripped the fascia down the leg and fashioned artificial ligaments for me, stapling them where needed. Four eight-inch scars still attest to that fact.

          When I awoke from the anesthesia, Tom was by my side. He took my hand in his, placed the coveted ring on my finger and said to me “Jan, this is your ‘bravery’ ring. Every time you feel down, I want you to look at this ring and promise me you’ll be brave. Oh, and by the way–if you stop being courageous, Ball’s said I could return the ring.”

          I will always hold dear the fact that he left the hospital, drove to the jewelry store and described the ring. It was still there, and although we couldn’t afford it, he wanted to do this for me. That act of sacrifice meant more to me than the ring itself. I have never felt more loved.

          I did indeed need to be brave, for the year brought three separate casts, two months in bed, six months on crutches, followed by a year in physical therapy–all the while in an incredible amount of pain.

          The orthopedic surgeon made a plaster cast of my leg, which was sent to New York. From that, a brace was made, and the day after I graduated from physical therapy, Tom and I flew out to Colorado to ski one last time. I was determined to end my love of skiing on a positive note.

          Recently, I gave my daughter, Megan, the ‘bravery’ ring. She had seen it on my hand for most of her life, but I had never told her the story. Hopefully, now that she knows the significance of it, and how much it has meant to me, it will never be auctioned on EBay!

                                                                        Jan Chapman

                                                                        January, 2013　

          “Chimmie, will you play a game of Candy Land with me?”

          “Yes, honey–just let me finish up a few things here in the kitchen. You set up the board and I’ll be there in a few moments.”

           With that, Patty scampered to the toy room, returned with the boxed game and proceeded to spread out the board.

            Under the assumption that there just might be one lonely person in our universe who has never had the fortuitous experience of playing a game of Candy Land with his or her grandchild, I’d like to take a few moments to explain the game:

           The board is laid out on a kitchen table, (or equivalent.) Imprinted on its surface is a circuitous snake-like route consisting of colorful squares which often have pictures of lollipops, hot-fudge sundaes, candy canes, and chocolate bars. Occasionally, there are haunting images of witches and all things evil.

           Throughout the route, there are many instructions such as: “go forward three spaces to the maple syrup fountain”, or “go back five spaces to the crone with the wart on her nose.”

          There is a stack of little cardboard squares with similar colors and images from which you ‘draw’, and then move your ‘trinket’ to the corresponding space. The object of the game, of course, is to see who crosses the finish line first. Because of the pitfalls and rewards, a game can sometimes end in a few minutes; however, I once played a game that lasted so long, my underarm deodorant needed refreshing.

          “Chimmie, I’m going to let you go first.”

          The next few minutes were an eye-opening, mind-blowing observation. My angelic toddler who could do no wrong in this grandmother’s eyes, had overnight become a four-year old embezzling, corrupt, dishonest cheat!

          I watched her manipulate those cards like she was an experienced Black Jack dealer in Vegas. A bag of candy for her, a swamp for me, a sweet treat for her, the black forest and snakes for me. I waited an agonizing amount of time and then STRUCK!

          “You know, Patty, you are so dear to me, I think I’d really, really like you to go first. Your generosity in asking me to go first is sweet, but you’re younger, and so it’s only fitting that you draw before me. I’ll be ready in a few minutes. I just want to put some dishes in the dishwasher.”

          “Oh, Chimmie, I really think you should go first.”

          “No, babe, I INSIST!”

          “Well, (dejectedly,) all right.”

          I watched as she maneuvered the cards once more with unbelievable dexterity for such pint-sized fingers. The exacting procedure took another ten minutes.

          I STRUCK AGAIN! “You know, Patty, perhaps I should go first after all, since you were so kind to think of me, and so unselfish.”

          With that, she flung the cards across the room, slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand–THWACK–flopped her head onto the table, and in utter exasperation sighed,   “OH MAN!”                     

　                                                                                        Jan Chapman

                                                                                            November, 2012　

     The year was 1986. My first born grandchild, Mark Jr., was almost two and beginning to talk–although we were barely able to understand him. His father, mother, grandfather and I were seated in Chi Chi’s Mexican Restaurant, when he looked up at me and said “is plce loks gd,” which I interpreted as “this place looks good.” Then he spoke these unforgettable words: “Me ungry, GRANDMA”.

     With steely eyes I glared at him, and through clenched teeth whispered the following:“Honey, my name is NOT “Grandma”; then glancing down at the menu I noticed an item called “Chimmichonga”.  Smiling demurely, I chuckled and in a quiet voice suggested: “Honey,why don’t you call me ‘Chimmichonga”’?

     A hush swept over the table, then little Mark  stammered : “Chi Chi mee Chongie?”   And since that fateful night, all twelve of my grandchildren, and my children, call me “Chimmie”.

     Fast forward to the year 1994. My first born granddaughter, Paige, was three, and ‘into’ “Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs”. Having watched the movie fourscore and then some, she had memorized all the words and songs. One day as I was babysitting, she opened the refrigerator door, plucked out a “poisonous” apple, sang the song “Some Day My Prince Will Come”, took a bite of the Red Delicious, swooned onto the kitchen floor in a state of apoplexy, and passed out appropriately.

     I took the little drama queen into my arms (as per the script.) When she ‘awakened’, there I was, her ‘bested audience’, reviving her. She looked at me, grabbed my hands, and breathlessly uttered the following words which will remain forever in my stockpile of ‘famous grandchild quotes’:

     “Oh, Chimmie, you have WICKED WITCH FINGERS–I LOVE THEM!”

                                                                                                                    Jan Chapman

                                                                                                                    November, 2012

          Over the years, Tom and I palled around with three other couples.  We all lived within a few houses of one another.  After the first five years of camaraderie, albeit a few small arguments over our political leanings, it was voted unanimously that we should no longer speak of politics if we wished to maintain our friendship.

          Another five years came and went, and religion became such a hot topic that we added “we’ll never discuss our faith,” to the list.

          Around the fifteenth year of our closely knit group, we’d listened to enough of our children’s accomplishments; because collectively, we now had a total of twenty-three offspring–and that was one hell of a lot of accomplishments. The subject of our kids was now off the table.

          The twentieth year brought new headaches.  Our youth’s glowing accolades, which none of us were allowed to mention, were now outweighed by the degree of mischief they got themselves into.  Suffice it to say there were episodes which involved tobacco, a nun’s umder drawers strung  up the school flagpole, some smelly stuff we were told was merely ‘ground oregano’, and a few misplaced youngsters deciding that it would be adventuresome to run away from home–if even for a night or two.  Thankfully, law enforcement in the neighborhood was fairly lenient; however we swore in blood to no longer bring up the woeful tales of our adolescent miscreants when we were gathered together for an evening of alcoholic reprieve.

          As we approached our fifties and sixties, something happened that none of us had banked on:  We eight became grandparents to any of the following:  the future president of the United States; maybe  a famous astronaut; perhaps a medical genius, or possibly, a professional athlete.  After a few years of trying to out-brag the others, we agreed that any talk of our expanding grand-progeny, or the passing around of their Sears’ photos, would not be tolerated under any circumstance.

          Now it seems, as we approach the ‘other side of the grass’, we are left with only one topic:  THE ORGAN RECITAL.  That’s correct–Pills and Ills, Diarrhea and Constipation, Surgeries and Replacements, Graying Hair or Lack Thereof.  Once again, it’s a gigantic case of each trying his or her best to outdo the rest.

          Last evening, I suggested to the remaining few that we skip complaining about our failing health, and concentrate on the up and coming election.  Perhaps it would be interesting to discuss just whom our future president will be.

          I’m just sayin’—life as I know it, has indeed come full circle:  What ensued was a highly raucous and spirited debate.  Some left earlier than others.

                                                                                      Jan Chapman

                                                                                      April, 2012

        I should have known while still in my mother’s womb that I was not destined for greatness.  Emerging, misshapen feet first, all knobby-kneed, with cowlicks that would have done Alfalfa justice, and a nose too big for the face it sat upon–I was less than ordinary.  If I am to blame anyone for what were to be my eventual shortcomings, it should be Shirley Temple.  What you say?  The adorable curly-headed tot, and the idol of all parents back in the 1930’s and 40’s?

        My parents ignored the obvious however, and after watching every Shirley Temple movie thrust upon an innocent American public, they enrolled me in tap, acrobatics, ballet and adagio.  Weekly lessons were consummated with an intimate, every Friday night recital in our home, where my adoring mother and father would invite all the friends and relatives they could muster, ply them with cheap booze, then plant them on our worn-out couch with its concave cushions clutching them captive, to watch this six year old dance and prance across the living room floor.  Shirley Temple, I was not.

        When the roster of unwary acquaintances was fairly exhausted, I was promoted to piano lessons.  The seven foot behemoth of a teacher arrived, shuffling in old felt slippers and dressed in a long, flowing skirt with a tattered black sweater, from which emanated the fragrances of body odor and Lucky Strikes.  She glowered with a withering look so evil, I knew immediately I was doomed for disaster.  Positioned, back straight at our old spinet, she proceeded to drill scales into me.  My knuckles were rapped repeatedly if not held in an upright position–all ten digits meant to stand at full dress attention.

        Her name escapes me, and I’m sure there is a subsconscious reason why, but I do remember my first and only recital.  It was a simple piece titled “March of the Wee Folk”.  I fretted for weeks.  When the evening arrived, not only my parents and my scowling older brother who hated me under normal circumstances, but the few stalwart friends still hoodwinked by my parents were perched reluctantly in the front row.  I walked to the stage, all pink, frilly and Mary Jane’d, adjusted the piano bench and proceeded to play.

        And play, and play.  I COULD NOT REMEMBER THE ENDING!  The same chords were struck again and again.  After many agonizing moments, and a final ‘pling’, I slunk from the stage with the Wee Folk never destined to march across the finish line.  Shirley would have remembered the entire piece, ended it with a resounding crescendo, and then for good measure, perform the song and dance routine of  “The Good Ship Lollipop”, whilst skipping across the top of the piano.  Thus ended my musical career.

        Summers were spent at Girl Scout and YWCA camps where I was skill-less to grasp the simplicity of braiding a lanyard, kindling a fire from twigs, or assembling the perfect s’more.  I do recall a grand case of poison ivy, a painful bee sting, and a savage bite from a frightened little mole which required a series of weekly tetanus shots.

        Then came my early teens.  perhaps I might become an Olympic champion of sorts, my parents reasoned.  I was enrolled in horseback riding (never could mount the horse by myself,) archery, with weeks of missing not only the target, but the bale of straw upon which it was tacked; and ice skating, only to discover than my ankles could barely support penny loafers, let alone skates.  Gratefully, those same two people who had conceived me, birthed me, nurtured me, threw in the towel.  Well, not quite–almost…

        For Miss Dimples had now become the darling of teenage flics.

        The Olympics became emblazoned in the minds of all true Americans, and my dad, never one to admit failure, took me to Harry Minto, who had coached the Army Olympic Swim Team.  He now headed the Firestone Tire and Rubber Company swim team, and I competed with them for four years.  When it came time for the 1948 Olympic tryouts in Detroit, I was there!  Many others on my team were there also–they as participants; I, a lonely spectator, whose sole purpose was to spur my compatriots onward and upward!

        College arrived and I became a bridge player and chess player–forget about classes.  Barely making a two-point my first semester, I could be found ‘bridging’ and ‘chessing’ on a daily basis until one of the professors check-mated me in five moves, which resulted in a photo and a fairly unflattering by-line in the local newspaper.

        Miss Temple had now married a wealthy, successful California business man, and her wedding made national headlines.  I married my jobless, broke college sweetheart, and we honeymooned in a seedy Cleveland motel for three days.

        After marriage, I thought perhaps there might be an artistic bent.  I enrolled in art classes, but within a few weeks, it was suggest that my stick figures didn’t measure up to the rest of the class, who by then were painting fairly credible copies of the Great Masters.  It mattered not.  Like Don Quixote, I was quest-driven!

        I pressed on relentlessly  to needlepoint, cross-stitch, Tole painting, decoupage, quilting and Eggery.  Gorged boxes of only partially completed needlepoint, enough embroidery floss to span the globe, mounds of cut-out bunny rabbits waiting for their innards to be stitched and stuffed, jars and tubes of paint, brushes by the score, and an entire storage bin of quail eggs, chicken eggs, double-yolk goose eggs, ostrich and emu eggs; not to mention jewels, glues, hinges, music boxes, and an expensive Dremel Drill.

        When my daughter was born, I was inspired to build a doll house befitting a princess.  An unfinished three-story doll house was ordered, with siding, roof and stairs to be built and stained, bags of unassembled furniture, wallpaper not yet pasted, and electric wiring to be installed.  Alas, it sits in an obscure recess of my basement–still in its virgin state.  It’s been that way for forty-eight years.  My princess is now a grandmother.

        In my forties, I took a course in Glass Blowing at Akron University with the hope that there might be a small smattering of untapped fluid long lain dormant in my dehydrated creative juices.  By the fourth week, others in the class were blowing objects so awesome a master glass blower would recognize their worth.  I, on the other hand, (and this might have been the nadir of my ambitions,) had reduced my skills to blowing safe, insignificant generic fish; for who among us knows just what lies beneath the sea?  I could fashion them with ten gills, three tails, no scales, or hands and legs for that matter.  I still have one lonely fish ensconced in a California type-case to remind me of one jaunty evening at a country club:

        In a gathering of swanky clubbers who were bragging of their varied accomplishments, I boldly cleared my throat and heralded:  “I’ve been taking Glass Blowing at Akron U.”  One inebriated gentleman wrapped his arm around me, and with a lascivious grin breathed into my ear, “How do you do?  My name is Mr. Glass.”

        Mrs. Temple Black was now an important stateswoman, working for The United Nations, had become  Ambassador to Ghana and more recently, Czechoslovakia.

        I signed up for a class in stained glass cutting.  It took months–and again a costly amount, but I did manage to create a rather impressive window with three candles of assorted sizes in a myriad of colors, and underneath, painstakingly crafted, the words ‘Joyeux Noel’.  Proudly carrying it home, I opened the door with one hand, as the heavy window slipped from my other hand.  There, covering the garage floor were hundreds of shards of colored glass.  The Noel was not so joyous, and I never returned to class.

        The mid-years came.  It crossed my mind that perchance there still might be an untapped muscle or two.  I took up tennis, bowling, and golf–just so-so, and skiing.  Skiing–ah, yes.  This would be my niche.  I could feel it.  All the accoutrements were purchased: the latest in ski wear, the clearest of goggles, the warmest of gloves, and the costliest of skis.  The thought of lounging around an immense stone fireplace in some exotic location, apres ski, chatting up expats and quaffing grog, smacked of derring-do!

        Unfortunately, I forgot how essential it is to check one’s bindings.  On the first run of the first day of a seven-day ski trip, shushing down the mountain at daybreak, (and breakneck speed,) the tip of my right ski caught the snow, the binding never released, and my leg did a one-eighty around my boot.  I was flown back to Ohio, and after a five-hour operation, four eight-inch scars, three casts, two months in bed, six months on crutches, and a year in physical therapy, I packed away the gear and one last dream of glory.

        So there you have it.  I tell you this, for thanks to Miss Temple, my life has been a graveyard of mediocrity.  Even now she has bested me once again, for at age eighty-four, she is raking in big bucks from her collection of Technicolor enhanced, digitally upgraded, beautifully packaged, and commercially hawked boxed sets of her films to seduce yet another generation of unsuspecting parents;  while here I am–two hip replacements and a bum knee.  Shirley is penning the second volume of her autobiography.

        These five pages pretty much sum up mine.

        I turn eighty in July.  On Friday the Thirteenth.

        Figures!

                                                                           Jan Chapman

                                                                           December, 2011

          Do you remember the first time you viewed the crevices on the moon’s surface thru a telescope?   Or the presentation when served a decadent souffle with it’s concave indentation right smack in the middle–the one in which the waiter pours the sweet cream?  Or the time you blew a perfect gum-bubble, and it imploded within itself?  Those best describe her dimples. Eye-catching, mind boggling, forever memorable—

          They were on her chubby knees.

*     *     *

          The houselights softened in the Palace theater.  The tape-recorded music of Chopin began and then, as the anxious crowd silenced itself, the brocade curtains parted, and twenty-four identically dressed little tots pranced onto the stage.  Blue gauzy tutus, pink ballet slippers, tiaras with their fake jewels twinkling as luminous as the Milky Way. Forty-eight mascaraed eyes looked like frightened little fawns staring into the headlights of oncoming cars. Forty-eight tiny feet occasionally tripped over themselves with their plie’s and jete’s.

          I’m fairly certain there were twenty-four dancers; however I only had eyes for the one who hadn’t shed her baby fat as yet. The one with the dimpled knees.

          She had a quiet cheering section of six: Her proud papa, her harried mama, the tolerant older sister who had been through this before, the fidgety younger brother, her grandfather and I.  I say ‘harried’, for her working mother stopped at the florist on her lunch hour, selected a bouquet to present to the wee one; hurried back to work, and at the end of the day, driving through heavy traffic, she arrived out of breath with the all important flowers, just as the houselights dimmed.

          At the conclusion of the less than noteworthy, but highly amusing, evening’s entertainment, twenty-four eager mothers pushed their way down the aisles to the footlights to present their solitary prima ballerina with her bouquet. My daughter was no exception, and having been through this before, she knew the strategy.  Bolting out of her seat as the four and five year olds were still taking their rehearsed bows, she was the first to present her cellophaned mixture of roses, daisies and baby’s breath to the future Maria Tallchief.

*     *     *

          Making our way out of the theater on that sultry July evening, we paraded down the street two by two to the parking lot. The star of the night’s performance proffered her flowers to her mother and said, “Here, these are for you.”

          “Oh, no, sweetheart—they’re for you.”

          Looking up to her father, she asked, “Daddy, wouldn’t you like the flowers?”

          “No kiddo, that bouquet is because you did such an outstanding job this evening.  It’s your reward.”

          Ignoring her brother and sister, she lingered a bit, and as her grandfather and I were bringing up the rear, she fell in step with the two of us. Again, she extended the mix of posies to her grandfather and pleaded, “Please,Grandpa Tom, I want you to have these.”

          “No, honey, I wouln’t dream of it.  Your mother picked these out especially.  Just for you.”  My husband winked at me, and our hearts overflowed with joy for this young child, who even at her tender age was filled with such an abundance of generosity.

         She paused mid-step, turned to me, and clutched my sleeve.  Letting out an exasperated sigh, she thrust the bouquet into my arms and in a low and plaintive voice whispered:

          “They’re dead, you know!”

　                                                            Jan Chapman

                                                                 March, 2012