My Writing Place

2010-06-11T23:24:00.000-05:00

Red Glow
(a work in progress)

The red glow from the neon sign filtered through the slats of the hotel room blinds. She lay awake on crumpled sheets and watched the unsteady illuminations gambol across the ceiling. She was exhausted, yet she could not sleep. Her body hurt, her head throbbed. Was she crazy? Did it really happen? She couldn’t make her mind stop reeling through jumbled scenes of the night before. She had come here to get away – to brace herself for things to come. They would be looking for her by now, but no one would find her here in this part of town. At least not for awhile.

Pulling a sheet around her shoulders, she padded slowly across the threadbare carpet to the window. Staring down to the empty street, she watched the red light turn puddles into crimson pools. What had she done? What would she do now? No undoing it. What’s done is done. In the beginning he said nothing else mattered in his life except her. Liar! She had loved him and he was enough for her, but he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted more. As time went by, her illusions of happiness washed away like a sand castle with the evening tide. Waves rolled in and lapped at it, grain by grain, until the castle crumbled, collapsed, and disappeared. Things were so good in the beginning, and then he had to go and ruin it all.

* * *

It was a rainy November evening when she first met Andrew. Red light from the signs of the corner restaurant shone on the wet street and sidewalk. She raised her arm to hail a cab, but the driver sped past her as if she were invisible. “Asshole!” she yelled even though the driver could not hear her. Huddled under a big black umbrella, and cursing the rain, she started walking angrily toward home. She was almost soaked to the skin when Joe Gibbons pulled up at the curb in his rusted-out BMW and asked if she wanted a lift. He already had a passenger. “Oh thanks so much! Can never get a cab when you need one!” she said as a tall man jumped out and hurried into the back seat so that she could sit up front.

“This is my friend, Andrew, Andrew -- Sienna,“ said Joe. “Andrew’s from Houston and he’s here in town on business for a few days.”

“Nice to meet you,“ she said as she looked over her shoulder at the ruggedly handsome face in the backseat.

“You, too.” He and Sienna eyed each other for several seconds without saying a word.

“Do you have to get home right away, Sien?” asked Joe, breaking the spell. “We were on our way over to Tony’s if you want to come along for a drink.”

“I really need to get home and change out of these wet clothes.”

“I’ll tell you what, we’ll drop you off at home to change and we’ll wait for you if you want to come along. I’ll even drive you back home.”

“I’m pretty tired, but . . . ok. I don’t want to be out late though. I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

“I’ll get you back nice and early.”

She glanced at Andrew again as Joe eased the rumbling BMW up alongside the curb in front of her apartment building. As she jumped out of the car she shouted over her shoulder, “I’ll only be a minute!” and ran through the rain not bothering to open her umbrella.

Twenty minutes passed till she finally came running back to the car wearing a raincoat, the hood pulled far down over her head. “Ahh, that feels better. I was soaked!” she said as she plopped into the ratty-gray passenger seat with a sigh of relief.

“Anyone I know going to be there, Joe?” she asked.

“Only Lou and Alana so far as I know.”

As they headed towards 18^th street, she could feel Andrew staring at the back of her head. She tried to think of something to say to him. Instead, she fiddled with the zipper on her coat as the two men talked about the previous night’s Eagles’ game.

Tony’s was packed, but Joe quickly found Lou Cavallo by following the sound of his laugh. On the telephone, Lou’s voice was deceiving. One expected to meet a burly man, when in fact, he was a short fellow with a large potbelly. Lou loved food, and he loved booze even more. He was already pretty well plastered.

“Well, you finally made it, Joe! Did’ja get lost? We were about to give up on you. You brought Sienna . . . great!” Lou hugged her and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Hi Lou, hi Alana.” Sienna scooted into the red vinyl u-shaped booth next to Lou’s dark-haired wife. She was better looking than he was.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Lou said as he put his hand out to shake Andrew’s. “Lou Cavallo, and this is my wife Alana. And you are?”

“Andrew Bennett, a good friend of Joe’s. Nice to meet you.”

“One of you grab a chair! Sit down, sit down!” ordered Lou. He always played the charming host no matter where the party.

Andrew quickly squeezed in next to Sienna and Joe grabbed a chair from the next table and sat in the aisle. A bedraggled-looking waitress came and took their order for drinks.

“Killian’s” said Andrew.

“‘nother Scotch on the rocks, ok baby?” slurred Lou.

“Don’tcha’ think you’ve had enough?” The waitress said as she shook her head. Lou just grinned at her and raised his eyebrows and looked back at Andrew. Andrew had an amused expression on his face. Everyone else was used to ignoring Lou when he was drunk.

Joe ordered a Michelob Light and Alana declined a refill of her gin and tonic. Sienna ordered a Bloody Mary. The waitress sauntered away.

“So, where you from? What brings you to Philadelphia?” Lou asked Andrew.

“ I’m here on business. I live in Houston.”

“You don’t sound like a Texan. You don’t have the ac-cent.” Lou said in his best cowboy voice. He was always nosing around other people’s business and Sienna was glad for that tonight. She wanted to know more about this handsome friend of a friend.

“I’m originally from Chicago,” Andrew replied. “ After high school, I won a scholarship to Rice. Joe and I were roommates for a year. I was accepted for an internship with a company in Houston while I was still an undergrad. After graduation they hired me for full-time, and I’ve been there ever since.”

“Wife, kids?” You could count on Lou to get the complete nitty-gritty on anyone.

“No, afraid not.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not really.” Andrew squirmed a bit in his seat and changed the subject. “So, Lou, what about that Eagles’ game last night? You think they’ll make the playoffs?”

The waitress brought their drinks and as they talked and laughed, Sienna studied Andrew closely. His hair was sandy, his eyes deep blue. As he talked with the others, she noticed he had a dimple on his right cheek that deepened when he laughed. She was captivated by his every word. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as she listened to his jokes and stories while sipping her Bloody Mary. She was going to marry him someday. He would be hers and only hers! And at that moment, as if reading her mind, he turned and looked into her eyes and smiled.

When the bartender announced the last call for drinks, Joe realized how late it was. “Oh, my! I didn’t realize how late it is getting! Sorry, Sien, better get you home!”

“You don’t have to, Joe. I can call a cab.”

“I promised I would get you home and I will. “

“Sienna and I can share a cab, “ said Andrew. “If you don’t mind, Sienna.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

By the time the taxi arrived, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. A city that never sleeps, Philadelphia was busy with people and traffic in the wee hours. Red taillights flashed on the wet pavement. Horns blared at pedestrians running across the road against the stoplight, or at some other driver for some imagined offense.

“What is it with Philadelphia and horn-blowing?” muttered Andrew.

“It’s tension relief – habit, “ she said.

“I’m glad you decided to come along tonight. I’d like to see you again.”

“I’d like that, too . . .very much.”

The cab pulled up in front of her apartment. Andrew asked the driver to wait for a minute while he walked her to the door.

“Mind if I kiss you goodnight?”

“Not at all.”

He kissed her softly as the drizzle fell around them.

* * *

His company sent him to Philadelphia often during the next several months, and he eventually received a transfer. He moved into Sienna’s tiny apartment at her insistence. Her one-bedroom flat was depressingly dark with the livingroom drapes always drawn closed to keep the neighbors in the next building from seeing in. She demanded they spend every minute together and wanted him all to herself. He hardly saw his friends at all. He would say Joe or Lou wanted them to meet up at Tony’s for a few drinks. The gang was going to be there. She always had a reason not to go. Either she had planned to make him a special dinner, or rented a video he had to see, or she would say she wasn’t feeling very well or simply too tired to go out. If he suggested they have people in, she’d say “It’s much nicer being home alone with you,” and she would distract him with sex to make him forget about everyone else.

The phone rang one evening and Andrew answered. Sienna was taking a bath. Or so he thought. She carefully lifted the receiver of the bedroom phone and put it to her ear. It was Lou wanting to know why Andrew was avoiding his friends.

“You’re pussy-whipped” Lou teased. “She’s got the old ball and chain on you already!”

“I love her.” He said defensively against Lou’s crass remarks. “ I plan to ask her to marry me.”

“Andy, are you sure about this? She seems like a tyrant! Kind of nutty the way she never lets you out of the house!”

“She doesn’t control me, Lou. I can do what I want!”

“When is the last time you’ve been out with friends, or even alone?”

“I told you, I can go out whenever I want. She has no hold on me that way.”

“Then come out with us tomorrow night after work. Come have a few drinks at Tony’s with the gang.”

“Well . . . let me see . . . All right, but just for a couple of drinks.”

“Ok, see you at Tony’s around seven. . . if the little woman will let you!”

“Let me! I told you, she doesn’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I wouldn’t put up with a leech!”

Sienna put the receiver back in the cradle and couldn’t breathe. Leech! Not put up with a leech? What did he mean by that? Would he leave her? After regaining her composure, she put on a blue robe and came out of the bedroom brushing her auburn hair.

“Who was that on the phone just now?”

“Oh, just Lou.”

“What did he want?” She could hardly contain her sarcasm.

“Just wanted to say hello, is all.”

“He never calls just to say hello. He had to have wanted something.”

“He wanted me to come out for a drink, but I told him it was too late.”

She went to the bathroom, seething. How dare he lie to her! She took out the razor to shave her legs, then took the blade out of the shaver and looked at it. So shiny. So sharp. Sitting on the edge of the tub, she began to cry.

After work the next night, he met up with the Lou, Joe and a few other friends. He hadn’t bothered to call her. She would have only given him a hard time or made an excuse for him to come home. He felt good to be out with other people. He was enjoying himself so much, he lost track of time.

She paced back and forth in the livingroom and furiously talked to herself. He was never this late! How dare he! Why hadn’t he called? She could have strangled Lou! He should have been home by now! Home with her! He should have called! Now dinner was ruined! She went to the kitchen and threw the cold pot roast and vegetables into the trashcan. As she was washing the dishes, she picked up the carving knife at the wrong end and felt the blade slice through her skin. Blood oozed into the dishwater in little swirls of red. She picked up the knife and stabbed the counter-top violently. “Son-of-a-bitch, son-of-a-bitch, bastard!” she shrieked as she shrank to the floor. A sick moan came from deep inside her.

It was around midnight when she finally heard the key turn in the lock. He was startled when he saw her standing there in the shadows with arms folded, wild-eyed and accusing. “I was so worried about you! I didn’t know where you were . . . why didn’t you call?” she sobbed.

“I was with Lou, Joe and the gang. We met at Tony’s for a drink. What’s your problem? Can’t I even go out for a drink with the guys?”

“Why didn’t you call and ask me to come along?”

“It was just the guys. And besides, you never want to go anywhere. I needed some time alone with my friends, that’s all.”

“So, I bore you now? I’m not enough for you anymore?” she said as tears ran down her face.

“Sien, we’re here night after night and every weekend together. I miss the guys! I miss my friends!”

“It’s just that I hate sharing you. I love you and want to be with you every minute.”

“We do need a break from each other now and then. You should make some friends. Go out shopping with the girls or something.”

“I don’t need friends, I only need you!”

She hugged him and pushed her wet face into his chest, smelling the barroom smoke that clung to his shirt and jacket. She held onto him as if she would never let go.

“You should have called me, you know?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be out so late. I lost track of time. I promise I will call you from now on if I’m not coming right home.”

“Please, don’t ever leave me.” she begged. “Promise me you will never leave me. Promise me that nothing or no one will ever come between us!”

“I promise . . .now stop crying. Calm down.” He held her tight and was afraid.

* * *

Allowing him a little time with his friends once in awhile made him happier, though she hated it when he went to Tony’s or wherever he went after work. She tried to convince herself that all men weren’t like her father who disappeared without a word one day when she was only ten-years-old. Rumor had it that he had left for California with a woman named Carolyn, but her mother never talked about it. She still didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Her mother died a couple of years after he left. Suicide -- or so the coroner’s office said. Since she had no family to care for her, she was placed in one foster family after another until she was old enough to take care of herself. Then there was that brief stay in the institution after a woman she was living with accused her of injuring one her children. How she still hated that bitch for that! But that was in the past. Over with. Done. She had moved on. She was lonely for so long and then Andrew came into her life. She wanted him so badly and was so afraid of losing him. She felt so crazy-jealous all the time! If only she could trust him.

She didn’t want to drive him away from her, so kept her complaints to herself. Her sacrifice of losing some time with him finally paid off when he proposed to her one sunny afternoon on a bench in Rittenhouse Square, in the midst of blooming flowers and budding leaves. She was then the happiest woman on Earth. ”Nothing else matters in this life as long as I have you” he said as he placed the diamond ring on her finger and kissed her right there in front of the whole world.

The wedding took place a few weeks later at a little chapel on Woodland Avenue. It was a small non-denominational affair, with only close friends and Andrew’s immediate family in attendance. Joe was the best man and Alana was matron of honor. Two enormous arrangements of red roses, white chrysanthemums and baby’s breath decorated the altar, filling the tiny chapel with an overpowering floral scent. Soft piano music drifted in from an unseen source as guests craned their necks, watching for the grand entrance of the bride. Andrew stood at the altar beaming when she finally made her appearance. She was beautiful in her simple, strapless, white satin gown. Carrying a bouquet of long-stemmed, dark red roses, she seemed to float slowly down the aisle. Baby’s breath crowned her upswept hair. She wore pearl earrings and a matching necklace encircled her neck. She looked at the smiling faces and wished her parents were there to see this day. It was bittersweet. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, yet there was no father to give her away, no mother to weep tears of joy. No family members to attend.

Shaking away sad memories, she steadied herself and focused on Andrew as she walked up the red-carpeted aisle. Tears glistened in her eyes as she promised to love, cherish and care for him for all the days of her life, keeping only unto him. He in return promised to forsake all others, cleaving only unto her. The forsaking all others was etched in her memory. She would let no one come between them.

* * *

They moved to a brownstone on Pine Street, which was within walking distance to almost everything. It had three bedrooms, one of which she made into a studio for herself. She quit her job to do freelance work at home so she could be there when he got home. Their first anniversary passed, then the second, then the third. With each passing year, she became more possessive of him, and his job helped to keep him home at night. He was usually too tired from the long hours at work to go out, so they stayed in, night after night, weekend after weekend. Joe and Lou finally gave up trying to convince him that he was hen-pecked. He repeatedly reassured them that was not the case at all, and he insisted he was perfectly happy to stay home with his lovely wife. And she was very happy and satisfied to spend all of her free time with him. Then, out of the blue one day, he upset her state of contentedness and started talking about having a baby.

“I’m not ready for a child yet. I am not ready to share you yet,” she protested.

“You’ll still have me, and a child will be something special between us. A little person that we created out of love.”

She felt panic swell inside her. No! She didn’t want a baby! She wasn’t ready to be a mother, and she might never be ready. But he was persistent in the matter. He brought the subject up every chance he got. “I want to be a father. I want a son to take to baseball games, or a daughter to dote on. I want to be a father before I am too old to enjoy it!”

“We’re not that old yet,” she countered. “Lots of people are having kids later in life. Why can’t we just spend a few years just the two of us. There’s time enough for children.”

“We’re already in our thirties, Sien; we will be giving our kids rides in our Scooties if we wait much longer!”

“People don’t age like they used to. People are staying younger longer,” she argued.

“Please, Sienna . . . this means the world to me. I thought we were in agreement about having children. I thought that is what you wanted too. I want a family with you!”

His pleadings became more intense. He begged, and then during a couple of their arguments about the matter he threatened to leave. She gave in and came off the pill. She became pregnant within a couple of months. She briefly considered getting rid of it, then recalled his saying he would leave her if she ever had an abortion. She was plagued with panic that alternated with overwhelming dread. He was so ecstatic when he found out she was carrying his child that he didn’t even notice her despair. The larger the baby grew inside her, the deeper her anguish became. Soon she would be forced to do what she swore she wouldn’t. She would be compelled to share.

* * *

Though she was told she would have no trouble delivering the child naturally, she wanted a nice, tidy birth with no pain, and no recollection of the blessed event. She found a doctor who agreed to perform a Caesarean section. On a rainy morning in early November, Andrea Rose was born. She had no interest in naming the child, so the matter was left to Andrew. The doctors said she was suffering from severe postpartum depression which would go away as her hormones stabilized. She refused to hold the child, refused to nurse her, and even refused to use the breast pump to provide mother’s nourishment for her. The pediatrician prescribed a formula for the infant and Andrew took charge of feeding his baby girl. She stayed in her robe all day and all night, never bathing or bothering to brush her tangled hair. He hired a middle-aged nanny to take care of Andrea Rose while he was at work and a housekeeper to do the cooking and cleaning. Her condition continued to deteriorate. She didn’t care. She just didn’t care. Finally, exasperated and exhausted, Andrew consulted with doctors who recommended she be sent away to a hospital for treatment. One evening she overheard him telling Joe about it on the telephone. “Yeah, Joe. She’s not getting any better. No, no improvement . . . she’s getting worse. No, there is nothing you can do, but thanks anyway Joe. I know women can get all crazy after being pregnant and giving birth, but I am afraid this isn’t just a common postpartum depression. She’s completely wigged out! I’m going to have to send her to the hospital for help. An ambulance is picking her up in the morning.”

He wanted her out of the way! He had his child – her replacement! She couldn’t sleep after hearing that she was being sent away! How could he! How could he just dispose of her just like that! She lay there thinking, thinking, thinking . . .then she got up from where she was lying beside Andrew and went to child’s room and stared at her daughter for a long time. She wished she had secretly aborted her. She began to sob quietly and then was overcome with rage. But why should it be she who was sent away? He was her’s first! Her’s! She spoke evenly: “Now he will be alone with the one who came to take my place!” She walked into the bathroom and took a razor from the medicine chest. She considered its silver edge and how it would feel to slice her wrists open and let the crimson roll down her hands and onto the white tile floor. He would be so sorry to find her in a pool of blood when he awoke. He would be sorry then! No! He would be glad to be rid of her! Get her out of the way! There was only one thing to do to repay him for his betrayal of broken promises and his lies. Only one way to really hurt him. She walked calmly back into the child’s room with the glistening razor in hand.

* * *

Rain drizzled and every now and then a crack of thunder disturbed the silence as lightning briefly revealed hidden things in the darkness. Crimson droplets trickled down the window as the neon light glimmered and danced in everything she saw. She didn’t intend for this to happen. But he gave her no choice, did he? Everything was a blur, surreal. Maybe it hadn’t happened! But there was the evidence piled in the corner of the dreary room.

2010-01-08T05:02:00.000-06:00

A Winter Walk
By D. Bowden

We walked through the park
My love and I
With the snow floating down,
And a hush all around.
The only noise heard,
Was the coo of a bird
As it fluttered down,
Down to the ground,
Into the white,
Then taking flight!
Children gave it a fright
With their laughter and noise,
Expressing their joys
And meaning no harm,
Nor to alarm,
Only wanting to play
On this cold winter's day.
My love and I
Walked through the park
With the snow floating down
And happiness around.

2009-12-10T16:18:00.000-06:00

WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS?
D. Bowden
watercolor pic by D. Bowden

I just LOVE the holiday season with all the colorful lights and decorations. Every year I have to put up my seasonal decorations alone. No one helps me except if I order them to go bring up the boxes from the basement. That is a big help, but it would be nice if some people who live here were a bit more enthusiastic about giving me a hand with things like untangling the several strands of lights that manage to get all jumbled together even though I take great care to place them SEPARATELY in the box so as to be easy the following year. But something happens to them during the year while they are stored away in the closet. It's as if an imp or fairy gets inside the boxes and tangles up the lights to cause me a big pain in the ass each and every year!

I know I am not alone here. There are songs written about the frustration of detangling and stringing holiday lights on tree branches. So, why do I bother? Why do I continue with this tradition even though I am not a religious person? Because, it's PRETTY!

It makes me happy to see all the festive lights and all the colors giving the world a magical look. It's the celebration of the winter season. Everyone is happy (once the shopping is done) and it's a time of warmth and sharing and getting together with those we love. It's pretty songs, and bells and if we are lucky...powdery snow that glistens like diamonds under the streetlights.

While I am struggling with the stupid lights each year, swearing like a sailor stuck in a threatening storm, I have in the back of my mind how wonderful it will all look when everything is decorated, lit and beautiful as winter itself.

2009-10-06T10:54:00.000-05:00

Summer's End
by D. Bowden
All the leaves are falling round
Drifting, piling on the ground.
Red and gold and purple hues,
Hiding any summer clues
That are left from yesterday
When all the children were at play,
Cheering with voices merry
Amongst the strong green willow trees.
Days grow shorter, evenings cool,
The children are all back in school.
With their noses in their books,
Out the windows stealing looks,
Longing for those summer days
And for endless, carefree ways.
They have a long time to await
Till winter winds and snows abate
And springtime flowers bloom anew
A new season starts for me, and you.

2009-09-06T09:59:00.000-05:00

HAIKU by D. Bowden
AUTUMN LEAVES

Autumn leaves drifting down
Floating gently to the ground
Forming pools of gold

Wee hours

2009-04-22T14:00:00.000-05:00

In the darkness of 4 a.m.

I lay awake

My creative mind is stirring

Thoughts come quickly

I have to put them on paper

Before they fade

And the light of daytime melts them

With distractions

That disrupt imagination

And stop the flow

Of my mind's wonderous wanderings

Haunted house

2009-04-22T13:00:00.000-05:00

About a block away from the elementary school I attended from grades kindergarten through eight, still stands an old rickety two-story house that long ago should have been condemned. I don't know how the myth got started, or when, but it had to have begun with a simple rumor based on the neglected appearance of the and bits and pieces were added to the story over time.

Most of us children were terrified to go near the "haunted house" where it was said that ghostly figures peered from behind dirty window panes and ratty lace curtains. Some kids even claimed to have seen an eerie white figure of a man come outside on the dilapidated porch to collect old newspapers that accumulated by the weather-beaten door, although whenever I cautiously walked by on the other side of the street, the newspapers were still there in a rotting heap. But I would have sworn on the grave of my great-grandfather that I saw the ghost of a tall man on two occasions, once on the porch and once watching me from an upstairs window.

Halloween was a particularly popular night for the old house with children double-daring each other to walk past the house on the sidewalk directly in front of it., or for an even braver challenge, to walk right up onto the porch and peer inside, OR for the greatest dare of all, to actually knock on the front door!

One time, as I have been told (for I was not an actual witness to this event), a class big-shot and bully accepted the challenge and in an air of pretending not to be afraid, he knocked boldly on the door with three hard pounds of the tarnishes brass door-knocker. As he turned around to laugh smugly at his friends hiding in the bushes at a safe distance across the street, the paint-peeled door opened with a loud and eerie squeak and out walked an old gray-haired man wearing a tattered, faded bathrobe! He didn't need to say a word or shake an angry fist. What I was told, the boy's feet never touched the ground as he fled, screaming at the top of his lungs and his friends who had been hiding in the bushes were way ahead of him.

Captivity

2009-04-21T14:32:00.000-05:00

Photo art by D. Bowden

At the Lincoln Park Zoo Great Ape House in Chicago, the old gorilla sat calmly in his glass prison, leaning on a log and resolved that he was never going to be free. As the younger gorillas jumped around in their confined space, the old one just watched, and appeared to be deep in thought. Was he thinking about days when he was young? Was he wondering what life would be like without the humans staring and gawking at him day after day? No privacy till the night and darkness came when the zoo is closed and they are all allowed to go about their business unobserved.

As I snapped photos through the window he gazed over his shoulder at me for a few moments before shifting his position and turning his back to me. He wasn't about to pose for a pretty picture. What he wanted was to just be left alone. He wasn't going to pound his great chest with his mighty fists and put on a show. He had done that in his young days, but now he wasn't putting on any more shows.

I feel a sadness for this creature.

Raindrops

2009-04-21T14:18:00.000-05:00

Raindrops falling down

Down to the ground

Like tears from the clouds

Drenching the crowds

As they hustle through the streets

Scurrying to meet

Their trains and taxi cabs

That will take them to

Their peaceful retreats

Where they all can play

And forget about the day

As the rain taps, taps, taps

On the window panes

They are warm and dry

And for awhile, tranquil and secure.

Visions of Sugarplums

2007-12-24T08:49:00.001-06:00

The sisters snuggled down in the double bed they shared, but they couldn't sleep. Cuddling their new stuffed animals given to them by their grandma that evening, they whispered in the light of the glow of the night light that gave the room a magical feeling. In a few short hours, Santa would be there and leave them presents, because they had been good all year. Not perfect, but surely Santa would forgive small grievances once again, like he does every year.

Wearing the pink silky pajamas that were also gifts from the grandparents made them feel special. Pretty. Just like Shirley Temple in the movie "The Little Princess." They felt as if they lived in a mansion instead of the tiny ten-by-fifty-foot trailer that was their home.

"You kids go to sleep now, or Santa isn't going to come!" scolded Mama through the door. "If you don't stop talking I am going to turn out the light." The sisters promised they would be quiet and they closed their eyes and tried their best to comply, but after Mama was in the kitchen, the girls resumed their soft jabbering.

"How do you think he gets in our house when we don't have a chimney?"

"Well, Mama says he has a magic key that works on all houses without chimneys."

"I think he can make himself very, very tiny and come in through the keyhole like Daddy says."

"How do you think he eats all those cookies that all those children leave him without getting a belly ache?"

"He probably gives some to his reindeer and takes some back for the elves and Mrs Claus."

As they whispered in the soft, yellow glow of the tiny lamp, their eyes grew heavy. Soon their breathing was steady and rhythmic. Their eyes moved back and forth behind their lids as dreams of sugarplums and fairies, and Santa danced in their heads.

2007-03-10T17:09:00.000-06:00

Albert
by D. Bowden

Albert put the water on the stove to heat for tea. Mr. Tibbs rubbed his charcoal-gray body all around the old man’s ankles. Pulling his worn navy blue sweater around his chest, he leaned down to pet his loyal friend. Wind beat against his shabby house, rattling the tiles on the roof that needed replacing. Fire crackled in the iron pot-bellied stove in the corner, which was all there was to provide warmth for his little cottage. “Gettin’ dark already Tibbs.” He spoke to the cat as if talking to a person, and the feline looked at its master as if it understood. “I hate winter, and the darkness, and the gales.” The kettle whistled announcing that the water was hot and Albert poured some into a waiting cup which held a bag of Earl Grey. He carried his steaming beverage carefully to the worn-out chair that faced the windows and sat down to look out into the twilight. Leaves furiously flew about and sailed hither and tither to the ground only to be blown back up into the air again and spun about. “Alone again, hey Tibbs? Just you an’ me. No one cares about an old man and his ol’ cat.” He sat there sipping his tea, watching dusk turned to darkness, and when the fire in the pot-bellied stove dwindled to a few smoldering embers, he bid Mr. Tibbs goodnight and went to bed.

In the morning, the winds had died down and sunbeams burst through the window panes and shone across the pitted wood planking of the floor. Mr. Tibbs was stretched out in a pool of light, basking in its warmth. Albert bent down and scratched the cat’s soft stomach. “Good mornin’ kitty. You hungry?” This was their daily routine. Following Albert to the kitchen, the cat pranced back and forth and meowed for its breakfast. “There you go lil’ buddy.” He set the dish of tuna and liver on the floor, watching Mr. Tibbs devour it in seconds. Putting an egg in a pan of water, he set it to boil on the stove. Filling the kettle, he started water for his tea, then he walked to the door, opened it and there was his newspaper left on the mat as it always was each morning by six o’clock. Picking it up and shaking it open, he wandered back to the kitchen table and looked at the headlines. Depressing. War. Violence. Murder. “It’s always the same, “ he muttered. Folding the paper he rose from the table. His knees creaked and his joints crackled as he stood up and went to the stove to retrieve his egg and to pour his water for tea. Bringing his meal to the table, he just got comfortable and was about to take his first bite of food when the telephone rang.”Bloody phone! Always when I am about to eat!” Shoving the chair back angrily, he got up and walked to the front room and lifted the receiver. It was his daughter, Ellen. “Hello Dad. How are you? Did I wake you?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I was about to eat my breakfast.”
“I was thinking of coming by today to bring you lunch and have a chat.”
“What in the world about?” He looked longingly at his egg, which was getting cold.
“I found this very nice place for you to live where you won’t have to do a thing. Just enjoy life!
Let other people do the maintenance for you, make your meals . . .”
“Wait a minute! I told you I don’t want to talk about that. I’m done talkin’ about that. I’m not
goin’ anywhere! Now can I get back to my breakfast?”
“But Dad, you are alone there. What if something happens? You need people around. People
your own age. Don’t you get lonely?”
“I like being alone. I don’t like bein’ around old people. All they do is complain!”
“You could make some new friends.”
“That was fine when I was ten, but make a friend at my age and they’ll die on your before you
even get to know them, so what’s the point?”
“You are impossible, Dad! I will be over around noon to show you the brochures. The least you
can do is look at them after all the trouble I’ve gone through!”
She hung up the phone before he had another chance to speak. His egg was inedible.
“Why can’t she just leave me be?” He scraped it into the cat’s bowl while grumbling to himself
and went to his room to dress.

At noon, peering out the window, he watched for Ellen’s Land Rover. “Hope she gets here soon, Tibbs.” A quarter after twelve and she still hadn’t arrived. Twelve-thirty. He sat for awhile on the front porch, waiting with the cat in his lap. At quarter to one he grew angry. “We’re not waitin’ any longer, Tibbs!” and he marched back into his tiny house to make lunch, Mr. Tibbs rushing inside ahead of him, his tail high in the air. The screen door slammed behind them and he heard the sound of gravel crunching under tires. She had finally arrived, but wanting to make a point, he pulled the bread from the breadbox, quickly cut two slices and a hunk of salami from the roll, slapped it all together and was holding his hastily-made sandwich in his hand when he stood in the doorway to greet her. “I thought you weren’t comin’!” Taking a bite of his sandwich, he looked at his watch in an exaggerated manner.
“I’m sorry Dad. I left a little late and was held up in traffic.” She pushed her way in and set bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. “I brought some extra things for you since I was at the store.”
“You don’t have your fancy portable phone with you?”
“Yes, but you knew I was coming. I would have called if I was going to be really late.”
“You are really late! My stomach was growlin’. Young people today are so inconsiderate!"
“I’ll make you something to eat while you look at these.” She laid a handful of pamphlets on the table and started unloading the bags of groceries and putting them away.”The place is really nice, Dad. Brand new.”
“Hmmm. I don’t want to look at them. I like it here.”
“With the roof falling down? And the drafts that make you sick every winter? Be reasonable, Dad.” She lit a fire under a pan and put a little olive oil in the bottom and let it heat up. In
another pan she put rice and water to cook.
“I have my lunch, you don’t have to bother with that.”
“White flour with animal by-products do not make a good lunch.”
“I’ve been eatin’ it for years and it hasn’t hurt me.”
“There are additives and preservatives in that stuff.”
“That’s why I’ve lived this long. I am well-preserved!” He laughed, wheezed, then coughed. She rolled her eyes as she chopped vegetables.
“You’re going through a lot of trouble for nothin’. I just finished my sandwich. I’m full. I won’t be able to eat any of that stuff.”
“Then I will have some and you can have the leftovers for supper.” She tossed the vegetables in
the pan and stirred rapidly.
He stood next to her and watched. “What is that anyway? “
“Stir fry. It’s healthy and good for you.”
When the rice was done, she spooned some onto a plate and put some of the vegetable mixture on top. She took it to the table and started eating.
“Well?” He stood in the middle of the kitchen, pouting.
“Well, what?”
“Well, don’t you care about your father? You just sit down there and eat without me?”
“You ate. You don’t want any of this stuff, remember?”
“Maybe I will try a teensy bit. See if I like it because if I don’t, then you can take it with you when you leave.” He ate two platefuls, complaining the whole time that the vegetables were raw. Afterwards she cleaned up the dishes and finished putting the rest of the groceries away.
“Now Dad, please look at these pamphlets carefully and keep an open mind. Consider all of your cold winters here, all the maintenance you can’t do or afford anymore and try to find the positive
in this place I’ve found.”
“You just want to make it easier for yourself! I am too much bother! It’s easier to put me in an old-blokes’s home than to trouble yourself around here!” Tears of frustration filled his eyes.
“Dad, you know I have to work. I can’t be here all the time and I worry about you. I would be here if I could, but it’s not possible. Please try to understand. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is.” She kissed him on the forehead and said she would call him soon.

He listened to the Land Rover idle away as he looked at the pile of brochures in his hands “Sunnyvale. . . Huh,” he grunted. Scratching his head then smoothing back his gray thinning hair, he looked downward through his bifocals as he read the glossy advertisements. “Vera would have liked this, but it’s not for me! I’m not goin’ anywhere! I’ll be just fine!” He tossed the pamphlets into the trash and went back outside to sit on the porch, Mr. Tibbs following close behind. How he missed Vera! How he longed for days gone by, when he worked loading and unloading the great vessels that docked at the quay. Ipswich had changed so much since those days, and so had he. He had been strong and life was good when he was protector of and provider for his wife and young daughter. He had been a man! Now what was he if he couldn’t even take care of himself?

A chilly breeze snapped him out of his melancholy musings and he found the purple shadows of evening had settled around. Mr. Tibbs had gone off into the garden to hunt for whatever cats hunt for. The sun was nearly gone. He pulled his sweater tightly around him and hugged himself as he thought about Sunnyvale Retirement Home. ‘She just want to make it easier for herself,’ he thought to himself. ‘Put the old man in a home and she don’t have to bother with him anymore.’ He looked at his scraggly garden. Dried stalks that had been green and leafy with flowery crowns of color on top only a few weeks before stood naked in the fading light “This is my home. I built this home with little help from anyone. And now she wants me to leave it. This is my home . . . my home!” Mr Tibbs appeared from the shadows and wound his way in and out between Albert’s feet, purring to be let inside. “Want your dinner, huh Tibbs? Let’s go put the kettle on.”

It was cold in the cottage. “Better get the fire going. It’s getting a bit nippy in here.” Picking up two pieces of wood from the pile, Albert opened the door of the pot-bellied stove and shoved them in. He struck a match and as he leaned over to light the wood, the match fell from his shaking hand, landing on the floor and immediately igniting the fringe of the old Persian carpet. “Oh no! Oh! Help! Help!” he yelled, frantically stomping at the burning rug. But no one heard his cries. Running to the kitchen, he grabbed some towels, ran back and began swatting at the flames. Mr. Tibbs ran off to hide underneath the bed. Grabbing the entire rug and flipping it upside down onto the blaze, he stomped and stomped until the flames were extinguished. Breathing heavily, collapsing into his ratty, old chair, Albert put his face into his hands and wept.

2007-02-23T22:59:00.000-06:00

Rug Shopping
D. Bowden
July 25, 2005

The old salesman hovered around the middle-aged couple expectantly. “I think this is a fine rug here. Fine quality,” he offered.
“I don’t really like that one,”the middle-aged man snapped. “I don’t even want a rug.”
“But we need one, dear,” said the wife without looking at him. “You don’t want the wood floor you just put in to be ruined by the wheels of the office chair. I like this one, it’s sort of artsy.”
“It’s dull. I don’t like it,” he countered.
“So, what kind of wood floor did you install in your home? Laminated? Hardwood?” inquired the salesman.
“Brazilian maple” barked the middle-aged man. He wished the salesman would just leave them to look in peace.
“Oh, that’s a soft wood, “ said the salesman shaking his head.
“No, it’s hard, “ argued the middle-aged man.
The woman was ignoring them both as she browsed through the racks of area rugs.
“Now oak, cherry . . . those are hard woods. Maple is a soft wood, “ insisted the salesman, confident in his knowledge of flooring.
“I have maple in my diningroom and after eighteen years it looks like new,” said the middle-aged man.
“No it doesn’t,” said the woman without looking at either man.
“Well, Brazilian maple is probably harder than regular maple, I suppose, “ offered the salesman as if trying to build a rapport with the younger man.
“It’s not Brazilian maple in the dining room, just regular maple, “ he snapped.
“I like this one. Do you like this one? It’s a good deal too,” she said.
“Not really. It’s too, well . . . fuzzy. The design isn’t clear,” he criticized.
“You never like anything I pick out, “ complained the woman.
“Well, since I make the money, I want to make sure my money is spent on something that I like,” snarled the middle-aged man.
The salesman backed away and said, “I’ll be over here if you need me.”
“Thank you, “ said the woman to the salesman. She glared at the middle-aged man. “Do you always have to do that?” she said in a stern whisper.
“I don’t even want a rug,” reiterated the middle-aged man.
They both left the store, he first and her following behind.
The bell clanged on the door as it closed behind them.

Wedding vows

2007-01-20T13:22:00.000-06:00

I said "I do" and so did he
So long ago when we were young.
Drenched in sweat from humidity
Of a steamy hot August day.
The minister droned on and on.
A big fly landed on his nose,
Making us laugh uncontrollably,
And we could think of nothing else.
We heard not our "holy" promises
As we recited rehearsed words
Memorized for the occasion.
They were not words written by us,
But expected by tradition;
Expected by church and family.
Voiced vows were unnecessary,
For we were already one.
Our hearts were bound together
Without the need for public display.
If we could live the day again,
We would go to a private place
In a quiet, cool, green forest
And confirm our promise of love
By looking in each other's eyes
Our arms holding each other close,
With sounds of Nature all around.

Insomnia

2007-01-18T12:46:00.000-06:00

In the middle of the night
Voices 'rouse me
From my peaceful slumber.
I resist.
But can't ignore them.
They scream loudly,
Keeping at me
Til I respond.
Please show yourself
If so rude to wake me,
Or let me linger
In sweet repose!
No amount of pleading
Will make them leave me
With dreams surrendered
Til morning comes.

My Forever Friend and Love

2007-01-09T00:23:00.000-06:00

Every morning before the light of dawn
He rises without complaint,
Quielty so as not to disturb
Those nestled in the cozy beds
While he goes out into the wee hours
In all kinds of weather,
Day after day, week after week,
Ungrudgingly,
To provide for his family.
No matter what life deals him,
He plods along relentlessly.
When people ask him "How are you?"
"Better and better!" is his reply!
He is like a rottweiler, I like to say;
Loyal, protective, and strong.
Loving and funny and brilliantly smart.
His sense of humor makes his green eyes shine
With mischief and affection
He is my lover, my soul mate,
my forever friend.

2007-01-04T13:26:00.000-06:00

stop and smell the rose
contemplate the velvetness
of its fragrant red

2007-01-01T18:53:00.000-06:00

"Jason at Hay Butte Overlook - Badlands, S.D."

Blown Away by the Badlands

By D Bowden

Barren landscape stretches farther than the eye can see. Winds are blowing, a howl resounds, and one can almost hear the spirits of the Ghost Dancers as they chant and pray to invisible gods of nature. For more than eleven thousand years Native Americans once roamed this harsh land of deeply eroded buttes, and wide, rugged prairies of stone and little grass. This is a desolate land with few signs of life. No insects. Few animals. The wind chases itself through the shadows like a tired and desperate soul in search of a place to rest. Frank Lloyd Wright once said, "I was totally unprepared for that revelation called the Dakota Bad Lands." My family and I were also unprepared. Although a friend had informed us about the ferocious winds of this mean land, we didn’t heed her warning.

We had never seen anything like it before. Huge emptiness of prehistoric rock hollowed out by the elements over time. No trees, some weeds, little water. When we arrived at mid-afternoon there wasn’t even the slightest breeze. As we drove into a private campground at Wall, South Dakota, we immediately noticed the odd-looking picnic “shelters.“ They were funny-looking tables with attached half-domes to create a partial roof and back wall Since there were no trees around, my husband and I figured these picnic shelters were built that way to provide protection from the sun in the hot summer months. Shaped like a cart on an amusement park tilt-a-whirl ride, these tables with attached seats were made of heavy iron with wood planking covered in parched and peeling white. Each tilt-a-whirl shelter was fastened to the ground with heavy-duty bolts and screws. ‘The owners probably don’t want anyone to steal them,” I rationalized, “but who would want one of those ugly things?”

After getting over our curiosity and amazement about the dining facilities, there was something very important I needed to do before we committed ourselves for the night. I had to inspect the restrooms and showers to make sure they were up to my standards of cleanliness. If they aren’t, we do not stay! I cannot have an enjoyable time if I am not able to take a shower and wash my hair! Our daughter would not use a pit toilet if her life depended on it. Having flush toilets and the hot water is a must! My husband doesn’t understand this requirement. Men are different though; they don’t care about getting clean while camping. It’s a manly activity. Roughing it gives them a sense of adventure -- a chance to be macho. For most women, camping is far from being a vacation and is merely a continuation of what we do at home, only without the luxuries of sink, stove and washing machine.

Having given the restroom and shower facilities my seal of approval, we were all set to drive around the campground several times and argue about which site was best. Looking back, this deliberation was pretty ridiculous considering that one campsite looked as barren, dry, hard and dirty as the next. Finally agreeing on a place to pitch our tent, we went to work setting up our temporary canvas and nylon abode. Hammering the stakes into the hardened earth was like trying to drive straw through a concrete wall. The thin, aluminum spikes bent like blades of grass and had to be straightened repeatedly. This took considerable time and made my husband very cranky. It was late afternoon when he finally succeeded in getting the stakes into the ground. We raised the wrinkled, mildew-smelling sleeping quarters and breathed a sigh of relief. After unloading the van and unrolling sleeping bags to prepare our beds for sleep, we just wanted to crawl inside our down cocoons and pass out, however, sleep was not yet to be. Children’s whiny voices reminded us that we must feed them. “We’re huuuuggggrrrryyy!” the small ones bellowed. Several yards from our campground stood the famous Wall Drug. The rustic strip mall of connected yellow and brown ramshackle buildings looked like an old western town seen in old-time cowboy movies. Remembering the billboard sign on the highway advertising a cafeteria at Wall Drug, we headed over there on foot in search of food.

Wall Drug is a fairly good-sized tourist trap in the midst of the huge expanse of rocky wasteland. One can find an array of attached mini-stores all filled with tourist bait. Having to walk through a maze of wooden booths and bins of miscellaneous junk, while saying “no” to our begging children along the way, we eventually located the cafeteria-style eatery. Each item was listed and priced individually. We each took a tray and went walking down the serving line, choosing various items. The kids wanted to try everything on the menu and I pointed out that their eyes were bigger than their stomachs because they were hungry. I was tired and my patience was wearing thin. My husband paid for the food while the kids and I went to find a place to sit that would fit all five of us. We all piled into a leather-upholstered booth and waited for my husband to deliver the grub. As we ate our supper, the sun was going down on the western horizon and a strong breeze began to blow.

After eating we browsed through the shops for items we did not need. Tables carved out of tree trunks, stuffed buffalo heads, dark-colored Indian dolls with eyes that opened and closed, the annoying mini-tom-toms that I would never allow our kids to buy and torture us with. Amazing -- all the junk for sale that people are stupid enough to buy like “authentic” Indian dream catchers, feathered tambourines, t-shirts that say “I’ve Been to Wall Drug” across the front in bright-colored letters! How could people waste their money on that crap? We left the shops with a large stuffed toy buffalo for our middle son, and miscellaneous souvenirs for the other two kids, a small dream-catcher for myself, and headed back toward “home.”

The winds were gusting quite a bit and I became concerned that our friend might have been right. I remember her words “don’t stay there unless you are in something hard-sided or permanently affixed to the ground – like a concrete building.“ Upon arriving back to our campsite, we found that a fancy sort of camping tour bus had parked a couple of campsites over from ours. Nighttime was upon us and still there were many empty lots left. Only two families tent camping-- one of them being us. People began to disembark from the shining hotel on wheels and walk towards Wall Drug. We said ‘hello’ to them and they smiled, nodded and answered us in a language foreign to our own, something that sounded like German. “What nice people” we thought. I looked enviously at their sleeping quarters as we went off to take showers. As my daughter, and I prepared to take our showers, we could hear the wind squealing though the cracked windows of the small, cinderblock shower building.

Walking back to our campsite, we all crawled inside our flimsy shelter and snuggled down inside our sleeping bags for a good night’s rest. My husband told the kids their usual camping bedtime story and after that they were all sleeping quietly. I always have a hard time falling asleep while camping. I am afraid that wild animals might come around and attack us, or that a murderer may come and kill all of us while we sleep. As I laid there, counting sheep for what felt like hours, I watched the tent expand—contract – expand -- contract -- in -– out — in — out. I felt like we were inside a giant cloth lung! How could they all sleep through this wild huffing and puffing? The winds grew stronger causing the “breathing” of the tent to intensify, like an old man with emphysema getting ready to cough us out! Then the canvas sides began to shake violently! The roof of the tent rose up and came down, over and over again as if a huge vacuum cleaner was trying to suck us up from above. We were all awake now, except for our oldest son, then about eight-years-old, who was sleeping peacefully through the commotion. The stakes started pulling up from the ground one by one, and the sides of the tent sagged around us. As my husband was going out the door to check out the “damage” the poles supporting the center of the tent came down and the canvas and nylon collapsed on top of us. He yelled “Wake up! Get out! Get out!” as if we were about to be buried in rubble of stone instead of lightweight fabric. Our daughter and middle son and I clamored out and stood there in the tempestuous winds and waited for direction from my husband as to what we were supposed to do next. Our neighbor’s tent, a modern dome-style type, was also “uprooted” and rolling away, chased by mischievous winds and tumbleweeds. My husband looked at us and realized there was one family member still buried in the debris! Our oldest was still inside, sleeping as if he were home in his own comfy bed. My husband was becoming quite frustrated, probed the heap of fallen canvas and felt our son’s body, then shoved him with his foot and shouted for him to wake up and get out! Still nothing. My husband then had to climb inside and drag the boy out like a sack of potatoes. He carried the still-sleeping boy to the van and threw him inside. I don’t think he woke up during the entire ordeal.

Though this trial seemed like an eternity when it was happening, all of this occurred in a fairly short amount of time. We were struggling to roll up the remnants of our fallen sleeping quarters as the German people were coming back to their bus, laughing and having a great time. As they walked past, they gawked and laughed at our predicament! How dare they laugh at us! ”What are you looking at?” my husband growled at them as the wind blew his hair back and whipped his clothes. He looked like a ship captain on the deck of a great vessel during a raging storm at sea. The German people snickered as they clamored up the steps and into the protection of their sturdy dormer bus and closed the door. We wedged the tent underneath the van, climbed inside our trusty, 1984 Dodge van and scrunched together for the night. My six-foot, three-inch tall husband slept sitting up in the driver’s seat. I lay on the bench seat in the middle of the van and the kids, being small, were quite comfortable on the floor in the back. Our van rocked and shook as the wind roared mercilessly. I worried at times that it might tip over on its side! It was hotter than Hades inside the vehicle. My daughter sleeps like a fish out of water and was thrashing about as if in response to the turbulence, but it’s how she always sleeps. We were all sweating, and our breath mingled together to form moisture that resembled saliva and it clung to the walls of the van. In the morning the interior reeked like serious halitosis. I lay there, uncomfortable and hot, and I watched the darkness turn to the pinkish light of dawn. The winds were still howling when we got up and went to the shower building to freshen up, change clothes and get ready for the day.

Cooking was still out of the question since the winds would not allow us to make a fire, though mu hubby wanted to attempt it anyway. We couldn’t get a match to stay lit. Deciding to serve cereal, I searched through our food boxes and found the Cheerios. My husband walked over to Wall Drug and brought back a half-gallon of milk. The only dishes I had brought from home were Styrofoam bowls and plastic spoons. Not good. I could not set a table, so each person had to hold onto his or her own bowl. I made the mistake of trying to pour the little round circles of oats into the bowls while standing outdoors under the shelter table. The Cheerios were immediately carried off to the next state. Using a van door as a shield, I managed to pour everyone some cereal and added milk. I told the kids to go sit at the funny table and eat. That was also a mistake. The cereal AND milk both blew out and away to the great beyond. We started discussing the design of the tables again, which we now believed was a feeble attempt to block the wind, not the sun. The designer failed miserably. We now realized the huge bolts, which fastened the tables to the ground, were to keep them blowing away to Timbuktu! Hungry, we resolved to go eat at the cafeteria at Wall Drug, where we found they have the best pecan rolls in the entire world.

As we packed up and got ready to move on to the Black Hills, the winds died down. We loaded the van and a loud stillness filled the air. We vowed if we were ever through the Badlands again, we would not camp there overnight. Had we learned our lesson? Of course we hadn’t. A few years later, on our way to the state of Washington, we rolled into the Badlands once again, with a pop-up camper in tow.

* * *

I had said that my days of tent camping were over. If the rest of the family loved it, I wasn’t stopping them, but I would let them go by themselves. So, after some debate and discussion we purchased a used 1988 Flagstaff pop-up camper. The interior of this tiny recreational home was quite comfortable. There was a queen-sized bed on one side, a full-sized bed on the other and the dinette table folded down to make a child-sized bed. Screened windows with zippered plastic flaps were all around, providing air, and protection from the elements. There were also curtains to provide privacy. A removable cooking stove could be used indoors or out and there was a sink with water hookup hoses. A small refrigerator kept food cold, and there was a gas heater if nights became too chilly. Our little travel home also had electric lights, cabinets for storage and stereo.

The only things missing were a shower and a toilet.

Since the campground we stayed at before was the only one in Wall, we had no trouble finding it again. We felt experienced and prepared. Invincible! Ah-ha! We had outsmarted the Badland spirits! We didn’t have to worry about driving spikes into the hard earth; we were ready for the winds and whatever the Badlands would dish out. We had a camper!

We found a place to spend the night, parked our little R.V. with no problem, put down the jacks, cranked it up and were all set. We went off to explore some of the sights that hadn’t changed any in the past few years. Rocks are rocks. We went to Wall Drug again for a look around. They still had FREE ice water. The junk was still the same and less interesting to our now teenaged children. Things become less exciting to kids the older they get. When the winds started picking up toward evening, we knew what was coming. But we were ready for it this time.

While we took our showers before bed, the wind whistled through the cinderblocks of the shower house just as it had before. I wasn’t worried. Things were going to be just fine. We sat at the table in our little home away from home, and played cards. The roof began to sway back and forth. “Is the roof okay with it moving back and forth like that? “ I asked my husband. “Yeah, it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” I tried to ignore it. I worried that the heavy roof might fall down on our heads and wondered if we would survive something like that. “You sure it’s going to be all right?” I nagged.

“Yes, I said it will be fine!” replied my irritated husband.

“Think maybe we need some extra support or something?”

“No”

“Well, it looks like it may fall down, or we might tip over or something.”

“I said don’t worry about it!” He said as he crawled into bed and turned away from the light. The kids and I stayed up a while longer playing card games and then when it got dark we decided to turn in.

Four of us were safely in our beds on the outer parts of the camper, not under the roof. Only our daughter was on the little bed, but she was lying down so if the roof did fall, she wouldn’t be hurt. Hopefully. I laid there watching the roof sway and listened to the creaking noise the posts made as it moved to and fro. The winds grew stronger; the swaying grew wider! Back and forth, back and forth and then the wind because mostly one-sided with great force. The posts strained under the pressure. Everyone else was sleeping like babies, but I was awake all night long watching and waiting for something to happen. I lay there bleary-eyed as the light of sunrise grew brighter. When we got up for breakfast, we found that the posts had bent into a curve and the roof would not crank down! It was stuck. I gave my husband an I-told-you-so look and went off to the bathroom to get washed and dressed.

When I came back he was still working on it. Always ready for anything, he carries his tools everywhere he goes. He eventually got the roof to crank down and we went to get our caramel pecan rolls. After that we headed to the nearest hardware store to buy metal posts as back-up, just in case. We haven’t been back to the Badlands since 1995. If we go back, we will not be spending the night. We will pass on through like the wind.

Thanksgiving

2006-11-14T20:02:00.000-06:00

Day of Appreciation and Love
D. Bowden

Although I have no religious beliefs, I still am very thankful for the many good things in my life. Who am I thankful to? My thanks and appreciation goes to my dear husband for getting up at 4 a.m. every day to drive over an hour to a job where he works hard all day long to provide for his family. I am thankful to him for his love and committment for thirty years of marriage. I thank him for being a loving and helpful father to his three children. I am thankful to my children for their love and the joy they bring into my life. I am thankful to my parents for giving me life. I am thankful to them for raising me and loving me even when I was not very loveable. I am thankful to my doctors for taking care of my health and doing all they can to cure my illnesses, and keep me and my family healthy. I am thankful to the truck driver who hauls my food to the stores where I shop, I am thankful to the farmer who grows and harvests the food. I am thankful to the inventors of all of our modern technology that makes my life so comfortable and convenient. I am thankful to our police officers and soldiers for protecting us. I am thankful to NASA to take us to worlds we cannot see from where we are. I am thankful to the teachers, the explorers, researchers, scientists and others who provide us with information we need to enhance our lives. I am thankful for the entertainers, writers, film makers, artists, musicians, actors, etc. who bring some joy and imagination to our lives. These are the ones to who I owe my thanks.

Thanksgiving is a day to get together with those we appreciate and love and to celebrate that love and appreciation we have for each other. I wish everyone, no matter what your beliefs are, a very happy Thanksgiving Day with all of those who matter most to you, whether there in person or far away but close in heart.

2006-10-31T08:29:00.000-06:00

I'm a Halloween Scrooge!
D. Bowden Oct 2005

It’s that time of year again for the little candy beggars to come knocking at the door. How I cringe when I hear their squeaky little voices scream “CHICK ER CHEET” as they hold up their bags greedily while Mom or Dad watch from the sidewalk hoping their little ones get chocolate or some other really good kind of candy that they can sneak out of their child’s bag later when they are fast asleep.

I admit I am a Halloween “scrooge.” This is one of the most disturbing holidays ever invented. My opinion is not based on any religious beliefs, since I have none of those. My opinions are based on how I hate having my dinner disrupted over and over again by the constant "ding-dong" of the doorbell and then demand to hand over my candy OR ELSE! When little ones, and nowadays big ones, knock at the door and demand a trick or a treat, do they realize what they are really asking? Trick...or a treat? When they do get little “tricks” instead of treats, someone gets arrested! When you stop to think about it, they are giving people a choice with that statement! Trick? Or Treat? Hmmmm, let me think about that . . .

The common belief is that “trick or treat” means “gimme candy mister or you are going to be sorry!” It’s an evil threat that is sometimes carried out by the egging of property, soaping of windows, toilet-papering of trees and shrubs, paint-balling of cars, or dog-pooping the front stairs if an undeserved treat is not forked over on demand. Kids nowadays even have the nerve to be picky and you could even find yourself a victim of some sort of minor and irritating vandalism for not producing the RIGHT KIND of treat and some have the nerve to openly blast anyone who would give them a piece of taffy instead of a full-sized Hershey Bar.

When our kids were little, we reluctantly allowed them to join in this trick-or-treat stuff because all of their little friends went, but we set limits to a few streets in the neighborhood. In turn, we felt obliged to pass out candy to the little ghouls and goblins since our kids were out doing the same thing. I am not a total scrooge about Halloween. I know kids love to dress up and pretend, and they love parties. So, why don't parents and caretakers just have little costume parties with treats and games and then we can all be happy?

Now that my husband and I are older and our children are grown and moved out on their own, we refuse to participate in this hoodlum-encouraging activity of candy extortion. We leave the lights off and hide, or we go out for the evening and the greedy ones run past us in a furious sweat to make their piggy demands at the next house.

Nighttime Snack

2006-09-08T13:11:00.000-05:00

In the misty light
Of a moonlit night
A spotted owl takes flight.
On a branch it lights,
Watches with eyes bright
A mouse he invites
To a midnight meal.

2006-07-20T12:59:00.000-05:00

Excerpt from :
"A Week in Las Vegas"
D Bowden

After a leisurely dinner at a nearby buffet we went back to our hotel room to get ready for bed. We were still weary from our three-day drive to get to Vegas. Our second-floor room at the Tropicana was nice enough, done in a tropical motif of turquoise, green, orange-red and yellow. Prints of beach scenes and palm trees decorated the walls. I turned the air conditioning on high and crawled between the crisp white sheets. After hubby was tired of flipping through the television channels, we settled into bed for the night. It usually takes me a long time to fall asleep when on vacation, but I fell asleep right away. Suddenly, only an hour later shouts and noise of slamming around came from the next room. “Gimme my money Mutha fuckaaaaa!” someone screamed and there was the sound of thumping and crashing. More yelling: “I want my goddam money, Mutha fucka! Gimme my goddam money or I’m gonna kill you!” I thought to myself, ‘holy shit! This is what happens in movies like Scarface and Casino!’ We were afraid to get up from our bed. I reached over for the phone and it didn’t work! My imagination ran wild! Had someone cut the phone lines? We lay flat, not moving. Listening. My husband said not to get up. What if they started shooting? The cheap walls were paper-thin. I wanted to just leave and go home! Go camping, anything! After several minutes of the “war” going on next door, the Las Vegas police and hotel security showed up. “Open up, Vegas police, open the door!” Things suddenly stopped and got very, very quiet. Again, the policeman banged on the door next door and shouted “Police, open up!” Then there was the sound of a door opening and loud talking in the hallway. "What’s going on in there?” we heard another voice ask. “Nothing officer,” I heard a voice reply nervously. Then there was thumping around again and then the sound of feet traipsing in and out of the room. Then silence. We heard nothing more. I was too wound up to sleep the rest of the night.

Waves at Sunset

2006-07-03T15:27:00.000-05:00

Waves roll in
Waves roll out
In the golden glow
Of sunset on a summer's eve

Waves roll in
Waves roll out
Over rocky shores
And back out again to the deep

Waves roll in
Waves roll out
Lapping at my feet
Calming all my anxieties

Waves roll in
Waves roll out . . .

Canton, North Carolina in the 50s - My Grandparents' Farm

2006-06-15T12:41:00.001-05:00

My grandparents' (father's parents) farm in North Carolina was located in the same town as the Champion Paper Mills. When we visited when I was a child I thought the pungent odor of boiled wood pulp coming from the mills was the smell of the huge white blossoms of my grandmother's snowball bushes that grew in the front yard. I'd shove my face into the lacy balls and breathe deeply, taking in the scent. But the flowers smelled of paper mill pollution and it was impossible to differentiate one scent from another -- except for the barnyard which had its own distinct smell. My grandparents had lots of farm animals. They had milk cows, pigs, chickens and goats. My grandfather would find joy in pretending that he was going to throw me into the raunchy pig pen just to hear me scream my head off. All of Haywood County probably heard me yelling!

The cow barn was pretty smelly, too. Cow piles were everywhere and even right there where my grandmother did the milking! She would sit on a stool right there under the cow's belly and yank on those nasty udders, shooting hot milk into a semi-clean silver bucket. Then afterwards she would pour the milk through a strainer that caught most of the hair and she would serve the milk directly from udder to table. My mother found this to be quite disgusting, especially when the occasional fly had to be picked out before drinking.

My grandmother also churned her own butter. They grew their own vegetables and slaughtered a hog or chicken now and then. They had an outhouse at the back of their property and no indoor plumbing. My mom also hated that, though I don't remember the outhouse myself.

One day I wandered into the big old barn with its peeling red paint and found my grandmother milking a big rust and white-colored cow. As I watched, the cow turned its big head towards me and bellowed "MOOOOOOOOO!" at me and I turned and ran like the wind back to the house, yelling like a banshee the whole way!

At Grandma's Place

2006-06-15T12:28:00.004-05:00

My grandma’s place on Chicago's East Side was my favorite place to be as a child. It was a place where I felt special. Fat pink and vanilla -colored Christmas tree lights at Christmastime. Space heater in the livingroom. Rough dark green upholstered sofa bed with a multi-colored crocheted afghan thrown over the back of it. Leaf-patterned carpet over brown linoleum floors. Big back porch with its peeling gray paint where we watched thunderstorms while eating ice cream slices from Walgreen’s pint-sized containers. Bright yellow kitchen walls with a chrome-trimmed kitchen table with its swirly-gray and white formica top. The refrigerator was called the “ice box” and there was a white and chrome convection oven that I never saw my grandma use, with it’s big red dial sticking out of the side of it like clown’s fake nose. It was a warm and friendly place, a place where I could relax and be free to do what I liked to do, which was to draw and make things with construction paper and sticky paste from a jar. I lay at night on what Grandma called "the davenport" and watched the lights from passing cars filter through the Venetian blinds and slide across the ceiling over and over until I fell sound asleep. I miss my Grandma so much.

2006-04-26T23:45:00.000-05:00

Water is always moving. Air currents, wind, lunar effects, Earth’s motion, gravity and an
occasional undersea tremor all contribute to the movement that occurs constantly in large bodies
of water. Frozen water of blue-algae glaciers trickle down from the mountains and fall from
mighty waterfalls, and cascade through river rapids on their way to the great seas. Wind blows
across large bodies of water, forcing the water to move in one direction and then another.
Waves roll up onto the beaches of lake shores and seashores. Droplets evaporate to form clouds
which travel in fat clouds. Rain and mist fall across the thirsty land. The whole process is a
never ending cycle with no beginning and no end.

2006-04-26T23:42:00.000-05:00

Pink cherry blossoms
fall like feathers upon me
as I rest beneath

2006-04-11T20:32:00.000-05:00

Marney
A Work in Progress)
By D. Bowden Photo by: D. Bowden

As she walked up the wooden steps of the renovated Victorian mansion, she straightened the belt of her light blue jacket, smoothed her mousy-brown hair then hesitantly turned the brass doorknob. A wealthy family had once owned the house for several generations, but the last surviving heir hadn’t wanted the old place and sold the property to developers who transformed the three-story dwelling into an office building. It was now home to an insurance agent, a couple of attorneys-at-law, an accountant on the upper floors, and an M.D. and a psychiatrist on the first.

The door creaked as she pushed it open. Poking her head in first before going inside, she first noticed the large window with sliding glass panels on her right. She approached the counter where a silver name-plate displayed the name, Lukas Nussbaum, Ph.D.. “What am I doing here?” she muttered to herself. She wanted to turn around and run out the door. Carl would be furious with her. As far as he was concerned, people shouldn’t go around airing their problems to family and friends, much less total strangers. Just as she turned to make her escape, a spectacled woman behind the counter slid back the glass window and demanded: “Name?”
“Uh. . . Marney . . . I mean, Marilyn Ackerman. I have an eleven-thirty appointment with Dr. Nussbaum.” She glanced nervously over her shoulder as if someone might have overheard.
“Please have a seat. Doctor will see you shortly.” The gray-haired receptionist slid the window closed with a bang.

The waiting room was dreary. Sunshine forced itself between the slats of the wood Venetian blinds and left lines of light across the maroon leather chairs which were lined up in rows along the walls. On a mahogany coffee table in the center of the room lay old issues of Better Homes and Gardens, Good Housekeeping, TIME and Field & Stream. Choosing a Good Housekeeping magazine with a picture of Julia Roberts on the front, Marney settled into a chair in the far corner even though no one else was in the room. Pshhhhhh . . . went the chair as she sank into it. She no sooner had opened the magazine when an over-cheery petite woman in blue holding a manill folder opened the door and shouted “Marilyn Ackermann?” Laying the magazine on the chair next to hers, Marney picked up her purse and walked toward the woman who was smiling sympathetically.

2006-03-20T20:04:00.000-06:00

Solitude
D. Bowden
Photo by D Bowden: "Pink Reflections"
Taken at Daytona Beach, Florida 2005

It’s the silence I like
while the world sleeps
no rude interruptions
no disruptions

2006-03-20T19:28:00.000-06:00

Lobster Dinner in Maine
by D. Bowden Oct 2005
Ink Drawing by: D Bowden 1983
While vacationing in Maine many years ago in early summer when our children were small, one of the things my husband wanted was a lobster dinner fresh from the coastal waters. We knew from past travels that the small, privately-owned crabshacks serve the best seafood, even better than the fancy restaurants. The place where we chose to stop was right on the shores of the Atlantic. It was a place with peeling yellow paint with white trim on the windows. Inside we found large tanks that contained live lobsters with plastic clamps on their claws. The kids were fascinated, for this is the first time they had seen live lobsters. The man behind the counter took a few out and let them crawl around the slippery, metal countertop. This proved to delight the children even further, and they laughed and clapped their hands with glee. The man then asked my husband, "Which one?" My husband hesitated, for he was not used to choosing his food while it was still walking around. Randomly, he pointed at one of them, since he didn't know what constituted a "better" lobster. The man dropped all but one back into the holding tanks and then took the one my husband condemned to death and much to our children's dismay, plopped the wriggling creature into a waiting pot of boiling water. What sounded like squeals came from the bubbling water, (which is really the sound of air escaping the shell, but try explaining that to three children under age six) and sounded to the kids as if Mr. Lobster were in sheer agony. That's when we realized we had made a terrible mistake by allowing the kids to witness this execution no matter if it was a mere crustacean. To a child, life is life, killing is killing, and killing is BAD. My husband sat there alone eating his twelve dollar lobster while I consoled three sobbing children.

2006-03-16T23:30:00.001-06:00

You Make Your Own Luck
D. Bowden

When I was a little girl, I asked my father if he believed in good luck or bad luck. The answer he gave me at the time was confusing then, but later was a life changing memory. I have come to understand completely what my father meant when he said to me, “There is no such thing as good luck or bad luck, – you make your own luck.” As time went by and I grew older, I began to experience the hardships and struggles of a more complex life. I tried to find ways to cope with problems. However, when things did not go my way I resorted to whining, complaining and crying. Then when that didn’t work I would try praying to God, and that was about as useful as waiting for a genie to take my troubles away. It took awhile to realize that whining, complaining, crying, wishing and praying were not going to help me. Several years ago, I reached a point in my life when I was at wit’s end. Considering all of the things I had tried in the past to cope with the difficulties of living, which did not do any good, I was at a loss of what else to do. All I could do is sit there and brood about all the “unlucky” things that have happened to me. I was seriously afflicted with the “poor me” syndrome. Suddenly it was as if out of the blue the word I was focusing on– “unlucky”– stirred up memories from my childhood and the long ignored advice of my father. “You make your own luck.” I was at once enlightened! I realized after all the years that had gone by that I had the power all along to make things better. Instead of sitting around whining, complaining, crying and praying, I decided to pull myself up by the bootstraps and make my own luck! I had to do something positive instead of sitting around waiting for others to “rescue” me. I have passed on my father’s words of wisdom to my own children. When they complain when things are not going their way and how unlucky they are, I tell them, “There is no such thing as good luck or bad luck, -- you make your own luck.”

2006-03-08T16:33:00.000-06:00

Mechanical Beast
D. Bowden 2005

Looming, mechanical thunder,
Blaring horns screaming in the dark,
Disturbing those who slumber
Along its clickity-clack path.

From some far off destination
The metal dragon slithers in
With its long rattling tail
Swaying disjointedly behind.

The beast rolls closer towards the town,
Wailing, billowing steam,
As if in a jealous rage –
All are asleep, and it cannot!

Churning off into the darkness,
Its distant bleating can be heard
As it grumbles and complains,
Toward its own somnolent place.