Dawn Byrne

Your responses to my post from last year on allergy issues has inspired me to share my doctor's recent findings. I'm trying to piece together exactly why I struggle with sinus and ear issues and how best to cope with them.

After a year of weekly allergy shots, my ENT required me to make an office visit for a procedure. He numbed my sinuses and inserted a super skinny tube with a light in search of polyps. While investigating, he told me I still had adenoids, or some remains of them. Apparently, most people's adenoids are gone by adolescence even if they aren't removed in childhood.

"Could this be why I get so many ear infections?" I asked.

"Possibly," he answered.

Finally, a clue as to why I've suffered beyond childhood with ear infections. Human ears, nose and throat surely are a strongly trinity.

My history includes nose bleeds as a child. Allergies became an issue during my teens. But the ear infections never stopped. My mother wanted the doctor to take out my tonsils. Those were the days when surgeons started to pull back from performing this minor operation. Mom never heard of adenoids.

Was Mom on the right trail? One of my doctors told her I had smaller than average ear tubes (not sure what it's called), keeping my ears from properly drying. This can cause bacteria to build up and breed infection. In spite of drying my ears after showering and avoiding swimming, infections persisted. In summer heat, moisture from perspiration may also be a culprit for those infections that frustrate me.

Now I instill a drop of alcohol in each ear after showering to dry up water and moisture. This may also keep infection down by killing bacteria. I believe using a neti pot to flush my sinuses, when allergy season is bad, helps reduce ear infections as well as sinus infections.

Last year, when I posted about beginning allergy shots, I had gum pain that turned out to be a badly infected tooth that needed root canal. That's how painful sinus can be. As I write this, my gum is throbbing. Another tooth infection? Or sinus pain?

I receive allergy shots every other week now. This is the second phase of a three year possible treatment for allergies that may also be a factor in my ear issues. Small improvement may be the result of the shots, along with my alcohol regiment and neti pot. I'm experiencing less body moisture due to natural aging. My guess is, this also helps with my nose running less.

I'm no doctor and am grateful to those who have aided me in pain relief. I'm just trying to figure out what the whole story is with my sinuses and ears. Allergens surely have been my silent enemy, but winter ear infections always boggled me.

Sinus issues and ear infections may not be deadly, but the pain and recovery can significantly dim quality of life. My wise ENT said that frequent and extended bouts of pain and discomfort can slip one into depression, which can be deadly. So many people suffer from these health issues. Thank you again for the information you included in your comments to my last post on this topic. I look forward to others.

Squirrel's NOT Gone

My husband doesn't need a wild animal skittering through our house causing disasters like in the movie, “National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.” Joe alone wreaks havoc. But I'm the squirrely one, agreeing to live in another Handyman's Special; skunked again.

Our single dwelling stood out amongst neighbors' properties: no gutters, crumbling front steps and muddy driveway. But we were two poor city kids, grown, and had made it out of the neighborhood, and into the suburbs.

If you buy a not-quite-perfect house to live in with your children, you likely can't afford a new roof. Investigate for past water damage under the lid of your house. One absolute with a fix-me-upper is that even if the roof doesn't leak when you move in, that's where its incontinence will resume. So what you do is pray. Not that it won't leak, that's a miracle the most devout laugh at. But that when it does, your kids don't need braces on their teeth. Three of our four children needed to be wired, with accessories. Braces and a leaky roof just go together.

The gutters, driveway, steps and, yes, roof have been replaced, along with the heating system. Paneling ripped down and siding put up. Gallons of applied joint compound and paint have aged and need revitalizing. Wall-to-wall carpeting disappeared, revealing hard wood flooring ready to be refinished. And, besides a new roof, an old house requires an updated electrical system...

Our granddaughter ran through our empty living room on the gouged, paint-splotched wood floors. Although I had cleaned, it appeared she visited a third world home. Her petite stamping and voice resounded off exposed beams overhead where the ceiling used to hang.

On the second story, a gap in the bathroom floor limited privacy from below. Split boards exposed someone in the front bedroom when the bedroom light was on. But because of this, we did have decent visibility at night in the living room when the electric was off on the first floor.

Joe's eternal efforts to revamp our needy home single-handed, made some days inconvenient. I sat at my vanity one morning and the lights blinked off. Without blinking myself, I picked up a hand mirror and finished my toilet in light coming through the bedroom window. Mostly bind without my glasses anyway, I'm used to farding with help from the Force for cosmetic accuracy.

Once downstairs, breakfast had its quirks too. Lifting a loaf of bread from the open bread basket, I found pieces of the kitchen ceiling. I thought the white and off-white chunks of various size were large crumbs of stale bread that had fallen out of the bread bag. But the weight of them, as I picked them out of the basket, tipped me off to what they really were. Then I became a bird in Hansel and Gretel picking up ceiling rubble that marked the path of Joe's progress with the electrical work.

After the kitchen demolition, our cat puzzled me with an odd stare while standing at his food bowl. “You have food,” I said to him. His answered look of, “Hell-oo” caused me to inspect his meal more closely. I fingered the altered colored pieces of kibble. Ceiling debris lay amongst the remnants of food at the bottom of his bowl.

“I hung up a drop cloth,” Joe replied when I relayed the cat's complaint. “Some must've fallen out of it when I took it down.”

Then our granddaughter frolicked into the kitchen. She froze in the middle of the room, gazing upwards. Not yet two-years-old, her curly head moved as if in wonder at a rainbow. A colorless strip in the ceiling with wires licking through it ran from wall to wall. Starting in the middle of the room, her upturned face rotated in slow motion to the left, to the right, then back to the middle where a light and fan hung last time she visited. After repeating her inspection, she faced me and asked, “Fan?”

On her next visit, she toddled to the kitchen and tilted her face upwards, observing the replaced light and fan. She nodded and said, “Light” then went about her business of scampering through the echoing house.

My neighbor admired our seashore-blue dining room. She looked concerned when I told her about the walls now also disappearing throughout the house. My only solace to her was: “Joe hasn't started the dining room yet. So far he only disabled the electricity.”

Later, he worked in the basement feeding an exploring wire throughout the house. On my way into the dining room, the wire snake struck at me from between a remaining wall and its molding. It caught on my blouse and, as more slithered out from the wall, I fumble to stop it from entwining me. For two seconds I was the fourth stooge wrestling with a fish.

I chuckled, then retrieved my new book and blew dust from it. Residue from a fresh hole in the dining room ceiling, where a light had hung before lunchtime, blanketed the few objects around me. Nothing in the classic I held could be more novel than life with a wild, do-it-yourselfer.

Marie Gilbert, my friend, fellow writer and cohort chats with me about everything. She agreed to a blog interview so I can share her amazing personality and interests with you. Oh, and she's also just published a book.

Dawn: You've enlightened me about zombies in that the idea of the undead symbolize something possible in reality. Could you explain a little about this?

Marie: I love writing about zombies because I believe they represent us for several reasons. I sometimes feel that people believe what they read or hear in the news without checking out the facts. We are letting other people do our thinking for us. Just because it’s on the internet doesn’t make it true. Anyone can put a spin on a story to make it look interesting, but we should check it out and when we don’t, we’re no better than a mindless zombie.

We are what we eat. We are eating food that is bad for us. There is no getting around this. It was proven that the tobacco companies put addictive chemicals into cigarettes to get people hooked, and now, companies are doing this with our food, especially with processed food. I have an overly active imagination and I asked myself, “What if the government could control our minds via chemicals added to our food?” Is it possible? The meats we buy already have hormones and antibiotics added; the next step would be so easy. This was one of the ways that ‘The Leader’ in my book, Roof Oasis, created his army of mindless slaves.

I do a lot of research before writing a story. I’ve become very involved with organizations that are trying to make people aware of the consequences of pollution, fracking, GMO’s and how these things have an effect on living organisms. I’m a big fan of NASA and Space X and believe that life does exist on other worlds. In my book, I use a wormhole for Razhep to travel to our world. Is this possible? Why not? NASA is already planning for ‘faster than light’ space travel. I think we will see this sometime in the future.

Dawn: When is the second book in your trilogy due out? Your final book in this series?

Marie: I’m hoping to get the second book of the series, Saving Solanda, out by next summer and then jump into the third and maybe fourth book of the series. I’m also hoping to get my Life with Fred and Lucy stories published within the next two years. I’ve accumulated a lot of fans from South Philadelphia, and surprisingly, from around the world that not only love reading the adventures of my dysfunctional family, but also tell me that my stories remind them of their childhood. I’m also working on a ghost story based on one of my investigations and a story about vampires.

Dawn: You're the South Jersey's Writers' Group's promotional person organizing book signings for the groups' anthologies, "Tall Tales and Short Stories from South Jersey" and "Reading Glasses." You also promote other authors' works from this group. How does it feel to have a book of your own to promote after two years of promoting the group and others works?

Forgot to post this:
Sunday Marie Gilbert, Ava Jordanna Easterby and I were at Rosemont College for their book festival. Lovely day and beautiful grounds. Only sold one book, but met plenty other writers and small business owners. Thanks to Ava for driving. Marie, you're the best.

Marie: This past year has been one hell of an adventure that I wouldn’t trade for anything. I’ve had so much fun promoting via blogs and book signings. Dawn Byrne and I travel all over the place doing book signings, and because of these trips, we have met some amazing people; some alive some not. Poor Dawn has had to suffer through my impromptu investigation on several of our outings, but that’s okay, Dawn still likes me and we haven’t taken home any unwanted guests.

I’ve done several interviews for the South Jersey Writers Blog on the members of our group and also on the coffee shops and book stores that allowed us to do a book signing. People began to hear about our group and the group has grown since our anthologies were published.

Through my connections with Steampunk and ghost investigations, I’ve made many friends and have done many interviews, some for my blog http://gilbertcuriosities.blogspot.com and some for Biff Bam Pop, a pop culture website extraordinaire www.biffbampop.com I love writing for Biff Bam Pop and working for Andy Burns was instrumental in my growth as a writer.

This past year, I had the pleasure of interviewing Film Director, Chris Eilenstine for the independent film, The Soulless. We became friends and I was invited to the private screening and the premier of the film, which I wrote about for Biff Bam Pop. Chris had ordered Roof Oasis from Amazon and was so pleased with my book, that he asked me to be part of his writing team that will be writing the bible for the television series. I am so excited.

I love interviewing people. I want to learn about them and their work, and I want to know what inspires them to reach for the stars. But, when it comes to me being asked the questions, I freeze. I’m fine talking about me in the Fred and Lucy Episodes, or when I’m explaining what goes on during an investigation, but to be out in the open for an interview feels strange. I’ll have to get used to this.

Thank you Dawn for taking the time to interview me and asking where I got my inspiration for Roof Oasis, my apocalyptic tale with a twist. Dawn and I will be out and about promoting the South Jersey Writers’ Group, Tall Tales and Short Stories from South Jersey, Reading Glasses and Roof Oasis. Come up and say hello to us.

Dawn: Thank you, Marie, for sharing your fun and informative self with us. I love going on the road with you and meeting more people than meets my eyes.

For more interviews of Marie, see: www.kevinstephany.wordpress.com, and www.lorettasisco.com.

Minutes after 4, I rushed through the front door. I started dinner, added fresh water to the dog's bowl and threw laundry into the washer. My three youngest children set out their homework on our dining room table. I bounced from food preparation to assignment monitor.

Playing this crazy game of back and forth got old, as old as I felt that day. Priscilla, my pre-teen, walked into the kitchen from her after-school activity. The dog greeted her by tripping me on one of my returns to the stove.

"Get this dog from under my feet. She's gonna kill me yet. Her hair's everywhere, and I'm sick of her smelling up the yard."

The reverberation of my voice stopped, and the house's stillness shocked me. Priscilla stared wide-eyed, still wearing her jacket. Seeing her frightened face, I knew she wanted to say something, but couldn't. Coming home after her extended day to a ranting mother had stunned her.

Thinking this could scar her for life, I broke down crying. "I'm sorry. You just came through the door. I shouldn't have jumped on you. Who would want to come home to that?"

We hugged, and I refocused. It wasn't just the dog. Working in a preschool classroom all day and trying to keep things from falling apart at home had frazzled me. I needed to make a change, so I started with the dog.

Priscilla had come to the age where being the mommy of a dog had lost its glamour. Other things had taken her attention from Sprinkles. But the hyper springer spaniel was a part of our family and giving her away could cause emotional damage to the children and, I had to admit, me.

My outburst had humbled me enough to see that troubleshooting this problem wasn't as difficult as I had expected. Back in tune with reality, I noticed our son had slipped into the role my daughter had as Sprinkles' closest buddy.

Once our family officially acknowledged my son as doggie's daddy, he took pride in feeding and walking Sprinkles without reminders. The walks also helped with both their extra energies.

I worried that Priscilla would be hurt or jealous of this change in family status. She seemed relieved though, watching Sprinkles leap with excitement as Forest jiggled her leash. Priscilla's furry friendship had transformed to pet. Just pet. A hint that she was growing up.

Me too. I admitted to myself that a mature mother didn't have to function alone with household duties. I can look for growth in myself to accept help from a capable child. Part of my job as a parent is to look for progress in my children and tap new abilities as they develop before my eyes. My hope for them is to realize how important their efforts are in our shared life.

So when issues arise, and I sense discord in myself, I see my daughter's fearful face that day in the kitchen. This reminds me to step back and explore why I'm feeling so overwhelmed. Usually it's a need for new rotation of chores, growth that needs more inclusion, or maybe just fatigue. Even supermoms who love dogs can accept help from children.

Half a century of life must be celebrated big. So, reaching this ancient of days, I cautioned my husband: No Party. Selfishly, I wanted all Joe's money and time spent on me, even refusing to travel; that would take his time and resources from this birthday girl too. So we drove over the Betsy Ross Bridge and twenty minutes to a swanky hotel in Center City Philadelphia.

“Is this your first time in Philadelphia?” the woman at the check-in desk inquired.

“We were born and raised here. This is our first time in a five star hotel,” I aswered. She smiled and gave us the lowdown about a breakfast package that included wifi accessability. Turns out, breakfast was the most enjoyable and impressive part of the hotel.

Disappointment set in when I saw how compact our room was, with no double shower or heart-shaped bathtub like in the motels and travel lodges I was used to. Peering back at New Jersey from our panoramic 20^th floor window, I wished we had booked over there at the Inn of the Dove.

The portable closet with a safe, full-sized iron and ironing board, wooden coat hangers and dry cleaning bags made it clear the room was for a high-end business person who traveled. I'm still curious why the monstrous closet smelled like cherry candy. A draft bolster hung from one of the coat hangers. With our room so high in the building, this didn't make sense. Until we found in the desk, ear plugs and instructions for light sleepers on how to block out the light under the door and sound.

With all the accommodations for a peaceful night's sleep, I wondered what was in the closet or drawer to help when our headboard began bumping from the other side. This transported me back to when we lived in a thin-walled rowhouse. I didn't mind the disturbance so much after dinner the night before, but at 3:20am I just had to ride it out, remembering it wouldn't continue for long before the shower on the opposite side of ours started running.

On my first trip to our bathroom, I had found banding around the bathroom mat hanging off and the rubber underneath it with chunks missing. Nit-picking began: a hand towel sported a wear spot; the refrigerator couldn't have been smaller; I doubted the bed we slept in was king-sized. We were used to a full-size, but enjoyed king-size when away from home. I asked the friendly housekeeper about the bed but she didn't know for sure since they used only flat sheets to make the beds. A tag on the mattress said it was manufactured on April 10, 2006.

Big city parking naturally has challenges. One upside of staying at a luxury hotel is its parking garage. We paid $30.00 a day to self-park because no one drives my husband's truck. He made the parking attendant promise that we could come and go throughout our stay. Of course. That's how it works for guests like us, business guests, the two brides we saw posing for photos that weekend, and their individual guests.

After a tour of the city's awesome outside murals, a visit to the Rosenbach Museum, and a stroll on the famous South Street, we wandered the cozy side streets and wondered at the imposing two and three-story row houses.

Ready to rest, we pulled up to the hotel's garage. A standing board obstructed the entrance. It said: “Valet Parking Only.” This was the only entrance to the garage. A museum parking lot across from the hotel's was barred with a notice saying it was full.

We enquired about this to the valet director in tails, a flat hat and a whistle, standing at the entrance to the hotel. He apologized and told us to drive back around to the garage, and that he'd radio for the attendant to allow us in. So we did, but found a different board that said: “Parking Lot Full.” The attendant there said, “The only thing I can tell you is to have them valet park your truck. You'll need a large space for it.”

“But we already paid to self-park. We're guests at the hotel.” I waved the ticket Joe paid $60.00 for to park in the garage for the weekend.

The attendant said, “Have them valet park your vehicle. Sorry, that's all I can tell you.”

Once again, we drove to the entrance of the hotel and explained to the whistle and tails guy. He said, “Park in the museum lot.”

“It's full,” my husband and I said in unison.

I added, “We're guests here and have been out all day. I just want to get back to our room. The attendant at the garage suggested we valet park our truck, but I don't want to pay the extra $10.00 since we already paid to self-park.”

The valet couldn't promise we'd be spared the extra expense. He told us to pull up and leave the key in the truck. Joe grumbled, pulling off his truck key from among the rest on his ring. “They better know how to drive this truck.” I think he expected the hotel to contact us and say something happened while parking his vehicle. After a brisk night walk, he calmed down. Until we checked out.

“Hi. We're checking out, but had to have our truck valet parked because there wasn't room in the garage. I don't want to pay the extra fee.” I spoke pleasantly with a tinge of no-nonsense.

It was a different woman at check-out than from check-in. “We're aware of the problem. Please give me your ticket and I'll have them pull your car around.”

Lugging luggage, we waited outside for our truck to drive around the circular driveway in which only two vehicles could pass abreast. One of the brides, now in white ballet shoes and jeans, leaned on a baggage cart draped with a wedding gown and stacked with gifts. Other exiting guests joined us as car after cab circled the drive slowly in single file around two cars and the hotel bus partially blocking one lane.

Then came the longest limousine that Joe, who works in the fair city, and I had ever seen. Our crowd on the sidewalk outside the hotel gasped as the thing's turn signal blinked and its nose began turning into the crowded circle. It braked and the signal stopped flicking, but the guy in tails stopped the limo from leaving.

“Come on, come on, bring it in.” He whistled and waved. Tension built as the long, white monster car backed up, turned, pulled forward, backed up, pulled forward, following the whistler's instructions around the parked cars and curb of the circle. Everyone sighed with relief as it made the turn unscratched.

Joe spied his truck and fidgeted faster than the previous forty minutes. The circling vehicles sludged along. A red car blocked one exit lane now. The hat and whistle guy said he didn't have the key to it in response to a valet driver running back and forth from the hotel garage.

A young attendant yelled instructions from Joe's truck window to the hotel bus driver to move the bus forward. He signaled other valets, attempting to get thing moving. My husband grabbed our laundry bag from me and stepped towards his stuck truck. I refused to go, worried that his impatience in that line of cars would cause damage. He stopped and growled.

Then the lily white limo parked next to the red car, totally cutting off exiting vehicles. Our crowd on the sidewalk gasped again, wondering how our vehicles were going to reach us.

The young attendant finally got out of the truck and held up the keys. I hailed him and Joe took the laundry and his key. Then the circle cleared, starting with the red car. I think my husband was so glad to get his truck back, that he passed the smaller vehicles and great white limo without incident.

“Do you want to go to the shore?” he asked.

I didn't. “Sure.”

Royal blue sculptured wall-to-wall carpet. This fantastic tint is better fit for play than décor, with surrounding golden walls our undying sun. The carpet's visible texture is little rippling waves. We sail along. Our vessel is Grandma’s Early American seaworthy sofa. When our baby brother climbs aboard, we spring a leak and all five of us abandon ship.

A fog rises outside our front door from our car that’s under the weather. Grandma teeters through the smoke that mixes with real rain. It’s slippery for Grandma to get up the slick front steps. But a dark cloud in our living room ceiling finally got too heavy from the bathtub leaking, so she had to go to the hardware store for an elbow pipe that doesn’t bend.

Grandma comes into the house limping over the carpet leaving damp footprints that don’t match; one print is wider than the other because her real foot got bigger but the artificial one didn’t.

My sister struts from side to side carrying the elbow, mimicking Grandma behind her wide back. I never tried crossing the ocean like that before. My sister walks a gait of faith; if Grandma sees her she’ll be damned. I’ll try my strut after Grandma swims upstairs along the continuous blue carpet that flows upstream.

My sister gives me the elbow and disappears. Grandma’s now swimming her special stroke, bobbing to catch a breath every few feet. Our grandma is like God. She’s huge and strong and old and alive. Dad’s not. He’s in a silk box with his head shaved, sleeping from cancer. I remember him lying there so still. I don’t remember him walking on the water much when he wasn’t sleeping.

I feel bad for Rosa. She’s my friend who sits next to me in class. Her dad didn’t get sick; he got mean. He doesn’t live with her anymore. He’s not in Heaven though. Rosa and her mom moved into her grandma’s house. If Rosa’s dad moves into her grandma’s house too, maybe he will be in Heaven.

Grandma just swam over the horizon. I’ll try to do it. Back up against the far wall, between the two front windows with my heels touching the baseboards. Take a deep breath. Maybe I’ll close my eyes.

Uh-oh, Grandma’s calling me. I’ll have to paddle upstream fast.

“Go downstairs and get the wrench from my pocketbook. It’s beside my chair,” Grandma calls from under the bathtub when I hand her the elbow. The front of her dress is wet and her artificial leg is standing beside the toilet. The leg’s metal like the pipe, but it does bend and if it gets wet, it’ll rust. I go downstairs and look for the wrench.

Back upstairs, I pant, “Grandma, it’s not in your pocketbook.”

“It has to be. Look again.”

I look again.

“Grandma, I looked real hard and it’s not there. Just the hammer.” Now I’m breathing hard.

“Well then it has to be in the tool box in the cellar.”

After swimming downstream again and hopping down rocks that are the cellar steps, I look for the wrench, praying it’s there. Yep!

“Here you go Grandma.” I beam, dripping like I really did go swimming.

She curses. “The spigot’s leaking back here too.” Grandma takes the wrench. “Go down in the cellar, on the shelf, under the stairs. There’s a small baby food jar with washers in it. Bring me up one.”

The ocean is now a football field. Furniture and toys crowd along one side of the living and dining room thoroughfare. The TV and more toys cheer us on along the opposite side. Our team runs from the kitchen's back door straight through the house to the front door and greets visiting players. The fifty-yard line is marked by a fraying hole. No one knows who made it. Or who dropped the gum that’s now a flat black circle on our thirty-yard line.

Many long, hard games are played here. Grandma referees in her striped dress that looks like the rest of her wardrobe; H-line (I don’t know why they call dresses A-line) with no sleeves. She made them all herself. She has the patience of a saint.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Stop running in the house. And close the god damn door. You weren’t born in a barn,” Grandma yells to my brother Dan. She stops him at the sixty-yard line.

“But Grandma there’s still more wood at the curb that Joe from the shop next-door said I can have,” says Dan.

Grandma fouls his hoarding. “There’s enough wood in that yard as it is. We’ll have a firetrap back there soon.”

“Please Grandma, the trash truck’s comin’?”

She shakes her head. Dan breaks away and makes it to the twenty-yard line as the truck roars up our block.

Grandma forgot the leg upstairs so she uses a crutch to penalize our offending player. In mid-air the yellow flag crutch becomes a harpoon and we are back on a calm ocean.

The stairs are a pier now. We dangle Grandma’s crocheting yarn from it. We have fun casting it from her crocheting hook and pretending to reel in a big catch.

We’re fine sports, but Grandma isn’t because the store doesn’t sell that color yarn anymore.

The pier disappears and we’re rowing upstream, dodging harpoons and One-legged Pete. Tonight we also sport tanned hides. Onto The Old West.

In the morning we’re herded from our corrals beyond the stairs’ horizon, through the blue grass carpet to where we’re fed. Grandma nips at our heels so we’ll hurry. She growls when my sister reaches for the TV. Those pastures are forbidden; it’s a school day. But Grandma has a date with John Wayne at 1pm. I watched him last week when I was home from school sick. He walks funny as he approaches his horse, like he used Grandma’s yarn for a lasso. He’ll just be riding into the sunset when we come home.

We learned in Sunday School that God has different names; Jehovah, Yahweh, Alpha and Omega. Grandma does too. She gave my mom a different last name than she has, and my uncle an even different one than those. Goodness knows how many others she has. Could Wayne be one? When I ask her about them, Grandma always needs me to do something for her, so I stopped asking.

I don’t know why Grandma gets upset when the neighbors ask questions about our family. I like our neighbors. They’re so friendly and concerned about us.

From our kitchen snack bar I see Mrs. Rudner looking at me. She’s peeping out her sun porch window which is across our street. I don’t wave to her because she may think I’m staring at her and that’s rude.

The other day she asked me if our dryer was broken because she saw Grandma hanging laundry in our back yard (I hope Grandma remembered not to wave). When I told her we didn’t have a dryer, she made that tsk-tsk sound with her tongue and mumbled, “...with five children in that house.”

I assured her that we had a washing machine, but that I’m not allowed to help with the laundry because my mom got her finger stuck in the rollers when she was my age. Mrs. Rudner just stared at me with her mouth open.

I heard our next-door neighbor say to her neighbor how awful it is when Ms. Gimpy says “gd” all the time right in front of her grandkids. From the way they whispered, that must be worse than a four-letter word. When I asked Grandma who Ms. Gimpy is, she says, “Those god damned gossips should mind their own business.”

“Grandma, can I play with this?” my brother asks.

“Where’d you get that from?” Grandma barks.

“He was rooting around behind your chair,” my sister tattles.

“What is it?” I ask.

“That’s my Bingo dabber,” Grandma says.

“Can I see it?” my sister dares.

“No, put it back in my Bingo bag right now.”

“Are you going to Bingo at OLPH, Grandma?” I ask.

“Yeah. Now get that from your brother before he gets it all over...Jesus Christ!”

We tease my brother about being the Blue Boy, like the picture hanging in our hallway upstairs. He snickers as we watch Grandma lug her Bingo bag and huge pocketbook into her friend’s car. Her blue eye shadow almost matches my brother’s hands.

Grandma has lots of friends at Bingo, including the priest. They’re glad to see her come, and even pick her up when our car isn’t running. I don’t know why she can’t take communion on Sunday mornings at OLPH. I guess because we’re Protestant. That means you go to a smaller church when your car is running and drink watery grape juice.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!.............Ass...Sh...” Grandma’s talking to the nativity again. As I walk into our house after school, I hear her voice coming from the open cellar door. Tip-toeing to the TV set, I turn on Speed Racer.

“Dawn Marie! Get your nose out of that TV and do your homework.” Grandma’s no longer talking to clay figures.

My stomach hurts and the back of my neck feels funny when I hear the muffled thud of Grandma’s artificial leg on the bottom step. My body jumps and I grab my school bag. I’m sure she’s coming because of more thuds. Time is running out. The thuds are louder, closer. I scramble to get out my loose leaf book and flip to spelling. The thuds stop. I hear breathing. I feel her standing there but can’t look up from my list of words. She coughs her familiar cigarette cough and says, “Hand me your spelling words.”

I hate spelling. I hate Thursdays because every Friday my teacher gives us a spelling test. Grandma makes me study right after school. She says to just do it and get it over with.

“Spell ‘receive’.”

“R-E-C-I-E-V-E.”

“Try it again.”

“R-E-C…E-I-V-E.”

“Spell ‘conquest’.”

“C-O-N-Q-U-I-S-T.”

“No.”

“I studied. Honest, but I can’t get ‘em right.”

“You got most of ‘em. Conquest.”

“I can’t get them last ones.”

“Yes you can. Medicine.”

“M-E-D-I-C-I-N.”

Grandma stares at the list. “Am I right?” I ask, but Grandma’s still quiet, leaning her ear at me. “E.”

“Good. Now listen, conqu..e...st.”

“C-O-N-Q-U-E-S-T.”

Grandma gives me back the list and says, “You got ‘em all.”

“Shouldn’t I try it one more time just to make sure? I don’t wanna get one of those hard ones wrong.”

“You’re done. Go play.”

We’re on vacation at the real ocean. Grandma teases us about sharks so we don’t go out too far: “Damn things swim faster'n a man. Can swallow ‘em whole too.”

We meet a kid who plays in our half of the beach house the whole week we’re here. We don't know his name. He just shows up, even when we don’t want him to. Grandma serves us Kool-Aide. She drinks iced tea with no sugar, and has to take off her artificial leg when it gets too hot for her to wear it.

The day we go home, we say good-bye to the kid we’re hoping came with the house we’re now leaving. He takes a good, long look at Grandma and says, “Hey! You ain’t got no teeth.” Grandma laughs her hardy laugh that comes from deep down in her big belly and struts into the bedroom to check for stuff we forgot. She has us each grab a bag or box to take to the car.

I feel bad for the kid because he isn’t one of us. He’s different, like one of those kids who have their own bedroom. I bet he’s scared at night all by himself.

I think he’s gonna cry standing in the corner of the living room watching us. You can tell he wants to come along because his body leans side-to-side as we come back for more stuff and go out again.

The car’s packed and Dan whispers, “Hey Grandma, that boy’s still here. Is he comin’ with us?”

The kid’s feet don’t move until Grandma says, “You’re gonna have to go home now.”

He looks at Grandma and the rest of us like our dog looks at my brother when he’s leaving to go to school in the morning. That’s how I’d look if I were him. He doesn’t say anything and runs away fast.

###

Grandma, grandma sick in bed.

Called the doctor and the doctor said,

“Grandma, grandma you’re not sick,

All you need is a peppermint stick.”

I don’t know about peppermint sticks, but Grandma really likes those cancer sticks. That’s what my sister calls them.

I don’t like peppermint. It burns and takes forever to dissolve. But Grandma’s cigarette's gone in a few minutes. It gets short faster when she puffs on it. That's how the glow gets brighter and makes the white paper disappear. I watch as she talks and puffs and squints one eye to let the smoke go by. Her friends do too as they laugh and cough together.

“Go get me a pack of Marlboro 100s,” Grandma yells from our front porch, and I drop my jump rope onto the concrete. The other adults smile at me from our rusty metal chairs, holding their sticks, when Grandma hands over the money to me. “Bring me back the change, you hear?”

I hold it tight. Grandma thinks I’ll loose the money. But I won’t. She’ll see, just like a big kid. I don’t know why my sister doesn’t like to go to the store for Grandma anymore.

I run up the street to the corner store, and listen for the little bell to jangle again when I close the greasy door. Dust and that old wood floor smell dance in my nose with the nasty salami that's being sliced.

On one side is the refrigerator with butter, milk, eggs, and orange juice in it. A freezer next to this has ice cream and Popsicles packed into it. On the other side is the high counter with the huge slicer on top. I see luncheon meats and cheeses through the glass. It’s late Sunday morning and Bill’s & Joe’s isn’t too crowded.

There’s a lot of stuff on the shelves that reach the ceiling: tea, coffee, jars of baby food, bread crumbs, flour, sugar, Crisco, mayonnaise; cans of baked beans, vegetables, fruits, soups, condensed milk, Spaghetti Os, Beef-a-roni, chili; boxes of cereal, macaroni and cheese, baking soda and spaghetti noodles. There are even things hanging from the ceiling, like stuff you’d find on your dad’s work bench – if you still had a dad. Sometimes Grandma pulls stuff like this out of her big black pocketbook, like electrical tape, a screwdriver or pliers.

Next to the first counter is a smaller counter and behind it on the wall are the cigarettes. I can peek over this counter to see the smudgy apron of Joe. Or Bill. I never knew who was who. I always thought they were brothers, so it didn’t matter if you called them by the wrong name. Grandma does that to us kids, and we just answer. No one ever corrects Grandma. You just figure out who she means.

I guess the sticks are behind the candy counter because there's no room around the store to put them. The candy is inside a see-through belly like the meats and cheeses. While I wait to be served, I peek at Mallo Cups and Pixy Stixs. Wax soda bottles and Smarties.

“Yes?” Bill or Joe says stepping down from the cold cut area. I swallow and check to see if I still have Grandma’s money.

“A pack of Marlboro 100s, please,” I say, letting the coins peel themselves from my palm onto the counter.

“Soft or hard?”

“Hard pack, please.” I remember that from before, when Grandma got mad because I had brought home the wrong one.

I see Swedish Fish and Wax Lips.

Bill or Joe turns around and slaps a hand on the counter. “This is for your grandma, right?” His eyebrows were scary but his eyes aren't.

I nod, careful not to hit my face on the counter like last time, when the other Bill or Joe asked me and my sister this.

“Here you go.” He tosses the box onto the counter. “Matches?”

“Yes please,” I reply. Grandma always wants the matches.

“Wait for your change.” But I remembered and would have turned back even if he didn’t say something. “Here you go,” he adds, handing me different coins over that worn counter with its scratches and faded white streaks.

My hand is sweaty as I sprint home. But I won’t loose Grandma’s change. I squeeze tight until my nails dig into my palm and make a row of commas. The sticks I hold in my other hand tight, but not too tight; they'd be no good if I squished them. I run up the cement steps that still smell friendly from the rain last night. The black wrought iron gate complains as I swing it on its whiny hinges. Everybody must be inside getting something to drink.

“That you Elizabeth?” Grandma yells as I enter the vestibule.

“Yes Grandma,” I call back. Elizabeth’s my sister, but I know Grandma means me. Grandma must have been so busy talking that she didn’t see me come down the street. She usually is looking out one of the front windows – the one next to her chair. Grandma likes greeting people before they appear from the vestibule. Her voice booms greetings to friends and family. I'm proud to be one of them as I appear and hand over the things to Grandma. Her friends smile and say what a big help I am.

I sit on the floor near my grandma’s only leg. The warm breeze from the fan makes Grandma’s dress wave at me. This and the rubber smell from her crutches help me daydream so that I don’t eavesdrop on the adult conversation. I'm happy.

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