The Real Thing

Here is an excerpt from my novel, Big House Dreams, and below that is an old photo of the real place, the lunch counter at a J. J. Newberry store in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. A former classmate of mine has been posting “ancient” photographs of random places in the town where I was born. The one beneath the passage I wrote caught my eye for obvious reasons.

Sara Jenkins was a hard worker. She had a good job at the J. J. Newberry store managing all the girls who ran the cash registers or served up lunch plates piled full at the sit-down counter. And she ran the boys too, making sure they combed their hair, tucked in their shirts, wore their belts, and stocked the shelves with care. She couldn’t stand to see a messy shelf when she perused her tiny domain. She had worked her way up from a luncheonette waitress to assistant manager because she was sharp as a tack and good with people. She could tell a shoplifter off with her eyes and was quick to establish a reputation for perfection. The J. J. Newberry store was stocked to the brim with all the items a person could want, from wooden spools of colorful, cotton and silk thread and countless swatches of bright, gaudy material, to nail polish and make-up. Along the back wall were shovels, rakes, hammers, and other tools that would make a man’s heart sing. And the modern woman of the day could find mops, brooms, and cleaning supplies galore. There was an ample assortment of fishing equipment and sporting goods, as well as stacks and racks of cheap clothing that sold quickly to families who were watching their pennies.

On Trust

Why is it that some people are so trustworthy and others not? And how does one judge? Is it a gut feeling? Is it experience that makes a person know the difference?

A man I know recently entrusted a “friend” with some valuable belongings. “I’ll take care of them. Don’t worry,” the friend said. “I’ll give them right back whenever you’re ready for them.”

He lied. Instead of making sure the belongings were safe, he squandered them or used them for his own profit. The man I know cannot be sure about that; all he knows is that when he attempted to retrieve his valuables, to possess them again, they were gone. Losing what he treasured was bad enough, but the betrayal of trust was worse. The man I know is heartsick, and I feel sad for him.

I understand that empty feeling and sense of despondency that comes with the realization that someone’s duplicitous behavior has been laid bare. It hurts. It is quite likely that every single one of us has experienced some semblance of betrayal whether it be stealing, infidelity, conniving, misrepresentation, or just plain lying. “That’s just life,” some would say, and I suppose they’d be correct. It’s a shame though that trust can be such an elusive notion. I’ve always wrangled with the issue. Reliable, dependable, honest folks exist, however. I’ve found a few and I don’t intend to let them go. I trust they feel the same. I hope the man I know has had the same experience.

 

Trusting may mean taking a chance.

Stop!

I live on I Street, thus the name of my blog, I Street Imaginings. I took a photo of this street sign the other day because I simply liked the look of it. I’ve walked by that sign countless times, but for some reason it caught my eye as never before. Maybe it’s the message below it. Stop!

What would I like to stop? I’d like to stop cancer. I’d like to stop the progressive destruction of the environment. I’d like to stop inequality. I’d like to stop bullying. I’d like to stop sexism, racism, ageism, and any number of other “isms” that cause folks to feel inferior. I would like to stop war, political standoffs, and the proliferation of half-truths, misinformation, and plain old lies that turn our society inside out with distrust, misunderstanding, and downright hate.

Sometimes I would simply like to stop listening. Perhaps it would be practical to take a break from all the chatter, the media hype, and ideas or opinions that muddy the profound issues that affect our world. Yet, I know that listening leads to thinking, to discovering, to deciphering, and to deciding. Listening helps one understand. I guess I simply cannot stop then. To stop would mean closing the door to choice and change. To stop would mean to acquiesce and lose my own voice. To stop would mean to give up, and that is just not an option.

Something On Thanks

“Thanks” is a small word. Some people say it often; others don’t seem to have it in their vocabulary. When November arrives, I always think about being thankful, not just on Thanksgiving Day, but all month. I don’t know why that happens, but it does. I guess that’s not a bad thing.

I cried and cried last night. It was one of those waves of grief that surprises me when I least expect it. I was thinking of my son, Alex, who died in May 2013. So, why include that in a passage about thanks? Because I am thankful to have been able to love another human being as much as I did him. He always was able to turn a negative into a positive, and he was a good teacher. I learned from him. So though I miss him terribly, I rejoice in the fact that I could love that much and it leads me to think of saying thanks for other people in my life, for the positives in my life.

I am thankful for many people: my incredibly wonderful son, Justin, his family – Amy, Alyssa, Cameron, Gracyn – all who hold a special place in my heart; for my loving husband, Rick, who is my friend and my support; for my closest friends – Corinna, Susan, Becky, Lisa, Hilda, Elena, Deb, Shirley, Louise; for old acquaintances who still come in and out of my life; and for newly acquired friends – Alicia, Tim, Pete, Kaaren, Melodie, Davina, Bob, Tina, Jesse and so many more I can’t name them all here, for Alex left his CAL Fire family behind and I’ve latched on to them. I’m thankful for my talented, caring brother, Jay, for Heather, his amazing wife, and for his children, Cherette, Jaleh, and Scott who still pop into my life from time to time though they live far away. I am thankful for my remarkable Dad, who is still active and cranky at 102 and for my dogs and cat, Hallie, Rudy, and Poncho, who fill my life with fuzzy love. I am blessed to have former students who still stay in touch; every one has contributed to my life.

I give thanks for good health, financial stability, time to pursue my passion for writing, and the determination to reach new goals. I am thankful for a sense of purpose, for tenacity, for compassion, for the ability to love, to think, and to be kind. I am thankful to be able to see the beauty in this world, and for that gift I remember my mother, Honey, who though gone now, lives on in sweet memories. Yes, I am thankful. I need not say more.

The view from my family room window.