of Writers, people of like-mind. A gift and a chance to re-energize. Having just been a part of such a community, my writing and commitment to get the words on paper has been re-booted, again.
What does writing and sharing thoughts mean to me. Everything! Having left a lucrative law practice to follow my desire to write and to have ideas out in the world, this is an attempt to do it well. This is the push to move it forward. This is the opportunity to share the experiences, to give the 'word' to others, to move it forward...nice & easy or with expletives. Either way, I'm here & you're here. Let's commit to work toward the better and to be enlightened about what that is. Let's find joy and love!
Peace...love & light! jk
Monday, July 6, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Epitaphio
April 17, 1971 – Epitaphio – Cambridge, Massachusetts
Deep blue robes with dark folds,
Dark black hair—curling round his neck.
Penetrating blue eyes—absorbing all,
Alone—the only person in focus
As all the masses fade out in a blur.
The heavy Christ-tomb on his broad back,
His hunched shoulders bearing His burden,
The others hardly grasping on, as
He leads them forward-progressing onward.
The ceremony, gold-robes-candles glowing-
Ornaments – incense-jewels-chanting-
trivia!
Stepping off the curb, with nine young girls
Nearby-sirens sounded-
Trucks screeched by- as I held on to
Three crying, frightened children-
Girls in white-angels-pure and mild and lonely
Crying children….
My candle out- and up to look and see with
Tears in my eyes his shoulders
Bearing the entire tomb of Christ, as
It tipped- and surely Christ held on
With one gentle nudge – as the masses
Swelled and children cried and the
Engines roared—unnoticed he balanced
The tomb – directed the youth and
The ceremonies continued with the chanting
Of the dignitaries; the bishop and priest –
How everyone repeats them –
He does – I do, too, for Him.
Deep blue robes with dark folds,
Dark black hair—curling round his neck.
Penetrating blue eyes—absorbing all,
Alone—the only person in focus
As all the masses fade out in a blur.
The heavy Christ-tomb on his broad back,
His hunched shoulders bearing His burden,
The others hardly grasping on, as
He leads them forward-progressing onward.
The ceremony, gold-robes-candles glowing-
Ornaments – incense-jewels-chanting-
trivia!
Stepping off the curb, with nine young girls
Nearby-sirens sounded-
Trucks screeched by- as I held on to
Three crying, frightened children-
Girls in white-angels-pure and mild and lonely
Crying children….
My candle out- and up to look and see with
Tears in my eyes his shoulders
Bearing the entire tomb of Christ, as
It tipped- and surely Christ held on
With one gentle nudge – as the masses
Swelled and children cried and the
Engines roared—unnoticed he balanced
The tomb – directed the youth and
The ceremonies continued with the chanting
Of the dignitaries; the bishop and priest –
How everyone repeats them –
He does – I do, too, for Him.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Spring...is Coming! 2009
The term spins by and the writing and reading has a beat of its own. Students' concerns and worries over grades, exit exams and reviews, all signs of spring. The routine of winter wonder and snow, ice and the crisp air that has a feel of cold, of coldness and of stark grey-ness...melting.
The assist at theater productions and concerts, all fun and easy-breezy. The connections with old friends and new, bring a renewed sense of purpose, if only to lighten the load of another.
Waiting on the buds on the trees and the flowers peeking through the sod and greening and colouring the small garden near the kitchen window.
Renewal and joy! Spring and Easter Season...the Aha moments!
The assist at theater productions and concerts, all fun and easy-breezy. The connections with old friends and new, bring a renewed sense of purpose, if only to lighten the load of another.
Waiting on the buds on the trees and the flowers peeking through the sod and greening and colouring the small garden near the kitchen window.
Renewal and joy! Spring and Easter Season...the Aha moments!
Friday, January 2, 2009
The Bride (Fiction Piece) Ongoing Project
Fear, she wouldn’t have imagined the coldness and immobility of being fearful. How could the love turn around so quickly with such violence?
The courting and romancing ended at the wedding ceremony. Her husband was rude and curt at the reception with her and the guests. His only focus was getting high with a few of his friends. Her groom was handsome, blonde, blue eyes and tall. He was so perfect on paper.
Moving around the ballroom the bride greets their guests, alone. She is alone, again despite the marrying part. She is holding up the beautiful satin train of her gown, and stepping lightly in the most elegant heeled close-toed shoes, the step with the shoes feeling like royalty and changing the walk to more of a glide. How lovely the movement in the gown and with the shoes.
The music played a soft jazz selection and the wait-staff moved through the ballroom, giving a tone of a lifetime movie feature. And yet, she knew in her heart that the trimmings and the planning for the wedding wouldn’t make it all wonderful. The Groom remains a nasty person, someone without dignity and certainly someone without any respect or love for her.
He prefers to do lines of coke with his buddies in the adjoining room, rather than be by her side and dance and talk with family. He has made it clear that he has distain for the family that has come to share in their wedding day.
The childish dreams of her wedding day crushed in a moment. His spin remained that the drugs and the coke up his nose so much more important than making a commitment to each other. So, why would she continue with this farce? And, why would she cover up his bad behavior at the wedding and reception with their friends. She continues to think that she can make it better. She knows that she can help him be the best person possible. She is so naïve and she continues to believe that she can get him into recovery and back to the loving person that he seems to want to be.
The reality, as she now knows, is that a person delving into the drug scene is not going to work to get away from the ‘high’. The person drugging and partying is committed to a lifestyle and not going to leave it behind to be ‘straight’.
She dreams of an alternative life, one of love and joy! She realizes that her reality is one of fear, drugs, waste and anger. Her husband works when it suits him for money for his habit, not for them. She work to pay the bills and to keep the household going. She resents him.
The resentment turns to pure hatred. She wishes that he would not come home. She wishes so hard that he will stay away from her. He is a lousy, selfish lover. He is a childish husband. He is not a friend. In fact, as the days wear on, he is her enemy. He is pure evil.
Where does he go, when he leaves home in the morning and doesn’t return until the early hours of the following day? Who are the people that hang on his every word and cater to his whims?
Her wandering thoughts meander to other women’s marriages. How many young women are covering up for the bad behavior of their handsome and childish husbands? She keeps wondering about other women’s lives and she thinks that perhaps there are many that suffer. Suffering in silence was not part of the bargain. She would never imagine becoming ‘that suffering, victimized woman’.
One night she asks him something about what he’d like for dinner. He lashes out at her and throws a glass piggy bank, her childhood trinket, across the room directly at her. It misses her head. She flinches and it hits the wall, breaking.
Her childhood bank is shattered against the wall and onto the kitchen floor. Perhaps, she should have stayed at work. Perhaps, she should stay away to avoid these confrontations. She begins to cry and then louder. She must leave the room, so not to be in his way. She leaves the room, but not the house to stay out of danger’s way. Her husband is the danger. Why didn’t she know?
That night, as she lay in bed, her husband comes into the room and turns on the overhead light. Then he turns on the bed lamp and finds his pistol in his night stand. He loads the pistol and tells her to get up out of the bed. He says that he wants to show her how to use the gun so that she can defend herself, just in case someone breaks into the house. He takes the gun and pulls her out of the bed. She refuses and tells him that they can look at the gun tomorrow. He insists. He is holding her under her arms and lifts her up and out of the bed. She is out of the bed and standing in a swoop of his effort to get her out of that bed.
She is standing next to the bed in her nightgown, naked underneath and vulnerable. She is so vulnerable that it feels like a dream. Her husband pulls her around so that her back is against his chest. He holds that gun in one hand over her shoulder. He is showing her the open gun so that she can see the bullets, up close.
She thinks that she should be shaking, but she is resigned to having a crazy, drug-ridden husband. He keeps saying that he just wants to show her. He presses her fingers around the butt of the gun. Actually, it’s a pistol, he corrects her misinformation. He tells her in her ear, slow and hushed that he found the gun and rubbed off the numbers of this pistol, just for her. He tells her that it’s called a ‘throw-away’. It is an untraceable weapon.
A ‘throw-away’ pistol in their bedroom and he has her around the neck. He has her in a position where only her fingerprints are on the gun. If she is shot, he will tell the police that she shot herself, that she was depressed. This is not far from the truth, a half-truth, as she is depressed having married this horrid man. He has manipulated the facts, but then again, the truth may be that he has manipulated her. She is the successful lawyer with the beautiful home, and he is not. She is the person with the skill and the reputation in the profession, and he has nothing. He is a joke and not skilled at all.
She does not have the will to live, let alone to love anyone. She is not able to think clearly and she has no reason to get through her day. She is lonely and alone. She is sick and bone-weary and tired of living.
Fear, the fear becomes a reality later in the marriage. The fear and aloneness is something that builds up over time and once in her life settles in so that she feels that she can never survive. If she survives, will she ever feel joy? If she survives, will she wish that she didn’t and wish that the gun did go off that night? Will she be the one that is resilient and tells this story? Or, will she be the one that ends up a murder victim? Or, will she be the one that is the perpetrator of a murder?
The courting and romancing ended at the wedding ceremony. Her husband was rude and curt at the reception with her and the guests. His only focus was getting high with a few of his friends. Her groom was handsome, blonde, blue eyes and tall. He was so perfect on paper.
Moving around the ballroom the bride greets their guests, alone. She is alone, again despite the marrying part. She is holding up the beautiful satin train of her gown, and stepping lightly in the most elegant heeled close-toed shoes, the step with the shoes feeling like royalty and changing the walk to more of a glide. How lovely the movement in the gown and with the shoes.
The music played a soft jazz selection and the wait-staff moved through the ballroom, giving a tone of a lifetime movie feature. And yet, she knew in her heart that the trimmings and the planning for the wedding wouldn’t make it all wonderful. The Groom remains a nasty person, someone without dignity and certainly someone without any respect or love for her.
He prefers to do lines of coke with his buddies in the adjoining room, rather than be by her side and dance and talk with family. He has made it clear that he has distain for the family that has come to share in their wedding day.
The childish dreams of her wedding day crushed in a moment. His spin remained that the drugs and the coke up his nose so much more important than making a commitment to each other. So, why would she continue with this farce? And, why would she cover up his bad behavior at the wedding and reception with their friends. She continues to think that she can make it better. She knows that she can help him be the best person possible. She is so naïve and she continues to believe that she can get him into recovery and back to the loving person that he seems to want to be.
The reality, as she now knows, is that a person delving into the drug scene is not going to work to get away from the ‘high’. The person drugging and partying is committed to a lifestyle and not going to leave it behind to be ‘straight’.
She dreams of an alternative life, one of love and joy! She realizes that her reality is one of fear, drugs, waste and anger. Her husband works when it suits him for money for his habit, not for them. She work to pay the bills and to keep the household going. She resents him.
The resentment turns to pure hatred. She wishes that he would not come home. She wishes so hard that he will stay away from her. He is a lousy, selfish lover. He is a childish husband. He is not a friend. In fact, as the days wear on, he is her enemy. He is pure evil.
Where does he go, when he leaves home in the morning and doesn’t return until the early hours of the following day? Who are the people that hang on his every word and cater to his whims?
Her wandering thoughts meander to other women’s marriages. How many young women are covering up for the bad behavior of their handsome and childish husbands? She keeps wondering about other women’s lives and she thinks that perhaps there are many that suffer. Suffering in silence was not part of the bargain. She would never imagine becoming ‘that suffering, victimized woman’.
One night she asks him something about what he’d like for dinner. He lashes out at her and throws a glass piggy bank, her childhood trinket, across the room directly at her. It misses her head. She flinches and it hits the wall, breaking.
Her childhood bank is shattered against the wall and onto the kitchen floor. Perhaps, she should have stayed at work. Perhaps, she should stay away to avoid these confrontations. She begins to cry and then louder. She must leave the room, so not to be in his way. She leaves the room, but not the house to stay out of danger’s way. Her husband is the danger. Why didn’t she know?
That night, as she lay in bed, her husband comes into the room and turns on the overhead light. Then he turns on the bed lamp and finds his pistol in his night stand. He loads the pistol and tells her to get up out of the bed. He says that he wants to show her how to use the gun so that she can defend herself, just in case someone breaks into the house. He takes the gun and pulls her out of the bed. She refuses and tells him that they can look at the gun tomorrow. He insists. He is holding her under her arms and lifts her up and out of the bed. She is out of the bed and standing in a swoop of his effort to get her out of that bed.
She is standing next to the bed in her nightgown, naked underneath and vulnerable. She is so vulnerable that it feels like a dream. Her husband pulls her around so that her back is against his chest. He holds that gun in one hand over her shoulder. He is showing her the open gun so that she can see the bullets, up close.
She thinks that she should be shaking, but she is resigned to having a crazy, drug-ridden husband. He keeps saying that he just wants to show her. He presses her fingers around the butt of the gun. Actually, it’s a pistol, he corrects her misinformation. He tells her in her ear, slow and hushed that he found the gun and rubbed off the numbers of this pistol, just for her. He tells her that it’s called a ‘throw-away’. It is an untraceable weapon.
A ‘throw-away’ pistol in their bedroom and he has her around the neck. He has her in a position where only her fingerprints are on the gun. If she is shot, he will tell the police that she shot herself, that she was depressed. This is not far from the truth, a half-truth, as she is depressed having married this horrid man. He has manipulated the facts, but then again, the truth may be that he has manipulated her. She is the successful lawyer with the beautiful home, and he is not. She is the person with the skill and the reputation in the profession, and he has nothing. He is a joke and not skilled at all.
She does not have the will to live, let alone to love anyone. She is not able to think clearly and she has no reason to get through her day. She is lonely and alone. She is sick and bone-weary and tired of living.
Fear, the fear becomes a reality later in the marriage. The fear and aloneness is something that builds up over time and once in her life settles in so that she feels that she can never survive. If she survives, will she ever feel joy? If she survives, will she wish that she didn’t and wish that the gun did go off that night? Will she be the one that is resilient and tells this story? Or, will she be the one that ends up a murder victim? Or, will she be the one that is the perpetrator of a murder?
Performing Arts & Nostalgia..
December 31, 2008
Beyonce singing 'The Way We Were' for Barbara Streisand at the NY Performing Arts Center had me sobbing so hard that I could barely hear the song. Close up on 'Barbara' and not a tear! How stoic of her to listen and have her neutral face on national television -- a face without emotion.
For me, sitting on my quilt, the pillows propped on the bed--I gasped and cried aloud, without shame.
Hubbell-that beautiful Robert Redford, gently leading his lady to a life of ease, of love. She wouldn't have any of it and moved forward for social justice and for her own independence, self-reliance and meaningful support of those unable to speak for themselves. The way we were...I couldn't breath..I recognized Barbara's character and the pathos of the her choices, love and life--changing society and helping others.
So crying hard for the film and for myself, I tried to hear the words as Beyonce belted it out with renewed vigor and youth. Youth and idealism and years passing life to what significant goal. Study and discussions, talking and listening to what end? A lifetime of ideals and hopes to make a change for naught?
My teary eyes filled up again, as I realized the film and my life choices overlapped, parallel story-lines.
Robert Frost's poetry on choices and the path not taken, making all the difference. What difference? And to whom? Does the effort and painful choices really matter? Would a position as a CPA be just as meaningful, helping clients with taxes?
Did my parents and professors lead me to a path of ever-circular challenges and never-ending struggles? They did and I cannot decide whether to thank or curse them.
Beyonce singing 'The Way We Were' for Barbara Streisand at the NY Performing Arts Center had me sobbing so hard that I could barely hear the song. Close up on 'Barbara' and not a tear! How stoic of her to listen and have her neutral face on national television -- a face without emotion.
For me, sitting on my quilt, the pillows propped on the bed--I gasped and cried aloud, without shame.
Hubbell-that beautiful Robert Redford, gently leading his lady to a life of ease, of love. She wouldn't have any of it and moved forward for social justice and for her own independence, self-reliance and meaningful support of those unable to speak for themselves. The way we were...I couldn't breath..I recognized Barbara's character and the pathos of the her choices, love and life--changing society and helping others.
So crying hard for the film and for myself, I tried to hear the words as Beyonce belted it out with renewed vigor and youth. Youth and idealism and years passing life to what significant goal. Study and discussions, talking and listening to what end? A lifetime of ideals and hopes to make a change for naught?
My teary eyes filled up again, as I realized the film and my life choices overlapped, parallel story-lines.
Robert Frost's poetry on choices and the path not taken, making all the difference. What difference? And to whom? Does the effort and painful choices really matter? Would a position as a CPA be just as meaningful, helping clients with taxes?
Did my parents and professors lead me to a path of ever-circular challenges and never-ending struggles? They did and I cannot decide whether to thank or curse them.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
A Dream Begins...
A dream begins
with a voice within
that is calling you forth to a goal
When you answer that voice
you engage in the start
of a wonderful dance of the soul.
As you follow your dreams,
may you find that they lead
to a new place that's only the start
Of a whole way of living
each day to the fullest
with passion and joy in the heart.
with a voice within
that is calling you forth to a goal
When you answer that voice
you engage in the start
of a wonderful dance of the soul.
As you follow your dreams,
may you find that they lead
to a new place that's only the start
Of a whole way of living
each day to the fullest
with passion and joy in the heart.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Fighter Pilot
Fighter Pilot
Thinking about the War, Vietnam that is.. doesn’t always suggest one of terror and fighting. Sometimes it is about the comradie and the pure joy of flying, which resonates for some. I knew a fighter pilot and he told me his story. He fought in Vietnam, and he flew his fighter planes in Vietnam. He felt most alive in his fighter jet; his very being intertwined with that of flying and maneuvering that plane.
He thought about the times of flights for strategy; flights on Orders. How time blurs the lines of recollection, he thought. Youth and idealism lead him to join the military. The skills required to fly the fighter planes was natural for him; having been a child and teenager with energy to spare, with curiosity and with a love of life.
Tall, glib and dimpled, Pete was just the guy for action. Civilian life was a long thud; nothing. A 9 to 5 job would have killed him; the flying gave him a life. Reeling from the action, the adrenaline pumping and the energy optimum; he returned home. Home where only a mother and sister could give some sense of comfort and relief. Pete knew he was so ready for the r& r in the States. He packed his belongs & stored them; threw the duffle bag over his broad shoulder and went home.
His mother was a simple woman, always dependent on her husband, who had passed a year ago. She depended now on her daughter. ‘Ma, I’m home.’ ‘Wipe your feet, Peter.’ She answered. ‘You look sweaty and your messing up the entry.’ ‘Come in and put the stuff somewhere out of sight.’
After 18 months of combat, his mother’s statements were true to form. Cold, distant and judgmental. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘nothing’s changed. Even fighting a war; flying combat. Mother just doesn’t ‘get it’.
Disappointing, yes. Unexpected; no.
Peter took his things up to his childhood room, but found it was now a den. He left his duffle and thought he’d try again with mother.
Attempting conversation, Peter thought he could at least have a civil conversation with her. He was going to look pleasant and try again. In the kitchen, for good measure, his sister was sitting on the counter; feet dangling, scowling at him. Twenty-two and she still stays on with mother, and she remains child-like and needy. Her greeting was short; not so sweet. ‘How long are you planning to stay?
Will you be going back on assignment soon?’ Pamela said.
‘Should be going tomorrow, so don’t sweat it, Pam.’
Peter decided at that moment that he would go stay with his grandmother. He called her that evening; and was welcome. An old woman would be the one that would give him the respite and comfort he so longed for on this homecoming.
He settled in the third floor attic room and although small and musty; it was just fine. Pete was satisfied.
Sunshine and blue skies; crisp air and the noises of a neighborhood, the USA..Welcome home. He thought he’d rest and talk with his grandmother; only to receive a message to call the base. He was needed at Camp Edwards, and off again to ‘serve’, after less than 48 hours home.
Arriving at the Camp on old Cape Cod, he thought about a girl he knew; a girl with eyes and a smile to last a lifetime. He had flown over the beach that she sunned on, having told her the night before that he would be doing maneuvers in the area. He knew that she’d be squinting upward and giving a wave to her ‘fly-boy’. Later, when the made love at a small cottage nearby, she confirmed that ‘yes’ she knew it was his plane and waved upward under the high noon sun. That knowledge of the bikini clad girl on the beach and the jet-power flying overhead…lead them to renewed and passionate lovemaking.
Now, driving down the Cape, crossing the bridge..the air changed, the smell of pine and sand and surf; the ocean…all exuberating. He thought of the girl, his mother, sister and grandmother; all the women in his life. He tried not to think about Vietnam, the male-dominated world of sheer force, violence and death.
The mission was significant. He was ready for the task; if the Soviets moved forward in Vietnam, he would fly from Kiev and drop a bomb on Moscow. Suicide-mission? Not necessarily. Pete was the best; still the best. He could fly in drop the bomb & be back with his team.
Driving homeward, he thought again about young love and possibilities.
Letting himself in to Grandmother’s he noticed the kitchen in disarray and the silence was noticeably not the norm. Entering quickly, Pete saw her knocked down to the floor and blood oozing from the back of her head. He felt her pulse & called for emergency.
This didn’t appear to be a fall and blow to the head. It looked like someone was with her and decided to knock her out; perhaps kill her. She was struggling to hang on to life. Peter thought this incident was too close to his new Orders to fly over Moscow. It seemed too close to his coming home and he thought he should ask some questions on his own; beyond what the police may or may not do. An investigation was warranted. Peter knew that he had to find out the source of this attack in his family.
Peter called one of his Pilot friends, also in the area. ‘Let’s meet over at the Plough & Stars..Yeah, on Mass Ave; near Central Square.’ Yes, Lenny. Meet you at 9:00. Fine.’ Peter thought setting up a meet for a drink was awfully difficult; what’s going on. Why would Lenny hesitate to come along to meet for a drink.
Plough & Stars, a Pub of some ill-repute, on a major drag, but still known for the hard-drinking beyond the state’s 1:00AM close-time. Going there after hours wouldn’t be for the poetry-readings or philosophizing; it would be for the hard & meaningful drink and entry into oblivion, at least for a night. Students, professors, and townies coexisted there. Peter noticed Lenny at the entry and waved him over.
‘Hey, so how’s the family? So, how are you doing.’ Lenny started with empty words.
‘Never-mind, that bull. What’s going on with my Orders? Who, exactly, knows about my meeting at Camp Edwards, today?’
‘What Orders? I just settled in and have been with my wife and kid. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Lenny protested. He tried to be a buddy; Peter knew him too well and knew he’d be the weak link, if anything was going on that lead to his grandmother’s attack.
‘Com’on let’s order a drink.’ The beer on the counter, they settled in to talk.
Thinking about the War, Vietnam that is.. doesn’t always suggest one of terror and fighting. Sometimes it is about the comradie and the pure joy of flying, which resonates for some. I knew a fighter pilot and he told me his story. He fought in Vietnam, and he flew his fighter planes in Vietnam. He felt most alive in his fighter jet; his very being intertwined with that of flying and maneuvering that plane.
He thought about the times of flights for strategy; flights on Orders. How time blurs the lines of recollection, he thought. Youth and idealism lead him to join the military. The skills required to fly the fighter planes was natural for him; having been a child and teenager with energy to spare, with curiosity and with a love of life.
Tall, glib and dimpled, Pete was just the guy for action. Civilian life was a long thud; nothing. A 9 to 5 job would have killed him; the flying gave him a life. Reeling from the action, the adrenaline pumping and the energy optimum; he returned home. Home where only a mother and sister could give some sense of comfort and relief. Pete knew he was so ready for the r& r in the States. He packed his belongs & stored them; threw the duffle bag over his broad shoulder and went home.
His mother was a simple woman, always dependent on her husband, who had passed a year ago. She depended now on her daughter. ‘Ma, I’m home.’ ‘Wipe your feet, Peter.’ She answered. ‘You look sweaty and your messing up the entry.’ ‘Come in and put the stuff somewhere out of sight.’
After 18 months of combat, his mother’s statements were true to form. Cold, distant and judgmental. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘nothing’s changed. Even fighting a war; flying combat. Mother just doesn’t ‘get it’.
Disappointing, yes. Unexpected; no.
Peter took his things up to his childhood room, but found it was now a den. He left his duffle and thought he’d try again with mother.
Attempting conversation, Peter thought he could at least have a civil conversation with her. He was going to look pleasant and try again. In the kitchen, for good measure, his sister was sitting on the counter; feet dangling, scowling at him. Twenty-two and she still stays on with mother, and she remains child-like and needy. Her greeting was short; not so sweet. ‘How long are you planning to stay?
Will you be going back on assignment soon?’ Pamela said.
‘Should be going tomorrow, so don’t sweat it, Pam.’
Peter decided at that moment that he would go stay with his grandmother. He called her that evening; and was welcome. An old woman would be the one that would give him the respite and comfort he so longed for on this homecoming.
He settled in the third floor attic room and although small and musty; it was just fine. Pete was satisfied.
Sunshine and blue skies; crisp air and the noises of a neighborhood, the USA..Welcome home. He thought he’d rest and talk with his grandmother; only to receive a message to call the base. He was needed at Camp Edwards, and off again to ‘serve’, after less than 48 hours home.
Arriving at the Camp on old Cape Cod, he thought about a girl he knew; a girl with eyes and a smile to last a lifetime. He had flown over the beach that she sunned on, having told her the night before that he would be doing maneuvers in the area. He knew that she’d be squinting upward and giving a wave to her ‘fly-boy’. Later, when the made love at a small cottage nearby, she confirmed that ‘yes’ she knew it was his plane and waved upward under the high noon sun. That knowledge of the bikini clad girl on the beach and the jet-power flying overhead…lead them to renewed and passionate lovemaking.
Now, driving down the Cape, crossing the bridge..the air changed, the smell of pine and sand and surf; the ocean…all exuberating. He thought of the girl, his mother, sister and grandmother; all the women in his life. He tried not to think about Vietnam, the male-dominated world of sheer force, violence and death.
The mission was significant. He was ready for the task; if the Soviets moved forward in Vietnam, he would fly from Kiev and drop a bomb on Moscow. Suicide-mission? Not necessarily. Pete was the best; still the best. He could fly in drop the bomb & be back with his team.
Driving homeward, he thought again about young love and possibilities.
Letting himself in to Grandmother’s he noticed the kitchen in disarray and the silence was noticeably not the norm. Entering quickly, Pete saw her knocked down to the floor and blood oozing from the back of her head. He felt her pulse & called for emergency.
This didn’t appear to be a fall and blow to the head. It looked like someone was with her and decided to knock her out; perhaps kill her. She was struggling to hang on to life. Peter thought this incident was too close to his new Orders to fly over Moscow. It seemed too close to his coming home and he thought he should ask some questions on his own; beyond what the police may or may not do. An investigation was warranted. Peter knew that he had to find out the source of this attack in his family.
Peter called one of his Pilot friends, also in the area. ‘Let’s meet over at the Plough & Stars..Yeah, on Mass Ave; near Central Square.’ Yes, Lenny. Meet you at 9:00. Fine.’ Peter thought setting up a meet for a drink was awfully difficult; what’s going on. Why would Lenny hesitate to come along to meet for a drink.
Plough & Stars, a Pub of some ill-repute, on a major drag, but still known for the hard-drinking beyond the state’s 1:00AM close-time. Going there after hours wouldn’t be for the poetry-readings or philosophizing; it would be for the hard & meaningful drink and entry into oblivion, at least for a night. Students, professors, and townies coexisted there. Peter noticed Lenny at the entry and waved him over.
‘Hey, so how’s the family? So, how are you doing.’ Lenny started with empty words.
‘Never-mind, that bull. What’s going on with my Orders? Who, exactly, knows about my meeting at Camp Edwards, today?’
‘What Orders? I just settled in and have been with my wife and kid. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Lenny protested. He tried to be a buddy; Peter knew him too well and knew he’d be the weak link, if anything was going on that lead to his grandmother’s attack.
‘Com’on let’s order a drink.’ The beer on the counter, they settled in to talk.
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