It is Friday again and time to look forward to the weekend. It is also time to say thank you for all the warm wishes my family and I have received as a result of hurricane Harvey making a mess out of our island. Thank you all.
I am happy to report that the damage is all repairable although it looks like the roof and floors will need to be replaced. There still is no electricity but that will improve. Once the electricity is on we will be able to go back. None of the repairs needed make the house uninhabitable so we are very fortunate. Others are not as fortunate. Todays John Ku talks about the importance of good wishes.
It is Wednesday Story Day again, and last week we stood by as Harriet offered to get Lucas, a lawyer. We all thought that was a little odd and asked ourselves the question, “What is on her agenda.” Well, it is hoped that we find out over time. Let’s get back to the hospital since I see Harriet has left Lucas’ room and is heading toward the cafeteria.
“Well, well, well. look who’s here.”
“Hi, Harriet.”
“Hi, Alice. Hello, Seth or should I call you the High Sheriff.”
“Now what’s that supposed to mean.”
“Your ex-husband is harassing my employee.”
“Now Miss Harriet.”
“Don’t Miss Harriet me, Seth Gibson. You know you are way outside your jurisdiction when you are messing around in affairs that are supposed to be handled in Kenosha.”
“I’m a peace officer. As such I can investigate any situation where I believe the law has been broken. Also, as a private citizen, I have a responsibility to uncover any situation where I think the law has been broken.”
“Hog wash, Seth. For some reason, you are putting your big nose into things that don’t concern you. I’m beginning to think you have something against Lucas and you are trying to railroad him into jail.”
“Not true, Harriet.”
“Oh, my. A little close to the bone Sheriff Gibson? You dropped your Miss Harriet mannerism.”
“You know what? I don’t have to sit here and take crap from you. I’m going in there and have a little discussion with Lucas right now.”
“Good luck with that. You are going to have to go through Lucas’ attorney. You want to speak to Lucas you call this number on his card.”
“What’s this now? Jason McDonnell, Attorney at Law.”
“Yup. He’s the one. Give him a call.”
“Why are you doing this, Miss Harriet?”
“Yes, Harriet. Why?”
“Let me tell you two. One. I think ole Seth there has a crush on you Alice and wants Lucas out-of-the-way. Two. I’m not about to see an innocent boy get swept up in the justice system on the whim of a fat, out of his element, overblown, and judgmental sheriff. So, Seth you better make that call or I will be calling the county prosecutor regarding your disregard for legal rights.”
“Boy, Miss Harriet. That sure came from a dark place. Fine, I’ll call then speak to the boy. Good bye ladies.”
Keith’s words. “Using this photo ( Below) as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put it (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at keith@channing.info before 6 pm next Sunday (if you aren’t sure what the time is where I live, this link will tell you). If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here – pingbacks don’t often work.
Go on. You know you want to. Let your creativity and imagination soar. I shall display the entries, with links to your own blog or web site, next Monday.”
10 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not think it would be a good time to surf the storm surge. If you do, at best the authorities will arrest you. At worst, you’ll ride that last big one into the next county. (Now you have to figure a way back huh, Banjo?)
9 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not decide to ride it out at home. If you do, at best you’ll have a flotation device. At worst, you will need to tread water until you find dry land again. (maybe that couch floating by will be of some use, Beauregard.)
8 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not think you can take everything you own with you. If you do, at best you will come to your senses. At worst, once the car is packed you’ll find you have no room for the family. (Now logic says the family is more important than your beer cap collection right, Bently?)
7 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not think you won’t need a plan. If you do, at best the hurricane will go somewhere else. At worst, Tiny the WWF champ who has the lowest seniority on the first responder team will be picking you off your roof. (You are right to wonder if he might drop you before getting into the helicopter, Bertrand.)
6 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not think the Dominos Pizza delivery man will be your back up food plan. If you do, at best your supply of Fritos and dip will last. At worst, you’ll be down to the crumbs in the bread bag and the worm in the bottle. (Guess you should have stocked up on more than party supplies, Bowie.)
5 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not underestimate its strength. If you do, at best that patio furniture will blow out to sea instead of into your living room. At worst, that refrigerator on your porch that you insisted would stay put has been responsible for repeated entrances and exits from your house. (Never thought that thing could make so many holes did you, Bruno?)
4 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not wait until the last-minute to leave. If you do, at best you will have to wait in traffic. At worst, you will be riding out the hurricane on the side of the road. (Yes your car will float for a while, Barnard, but then sinking is inevitable.)
3 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not think you will be allowed back to your house quickly after it is over. If you do, at best you will be very frustrated. At worst, those temporary arrangements you made look to be more permanent than the patience of your host. (Maybe time to find some temporary housing, Benny. Your host has a funny look while sharpening those knives.)
2 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not think your WiFi and cell service will continue throughout the storm. If you do, at best you will recapture what life was like before these services were invented. At worst, your advanced case of Fear of Missing Out will cause you to require medical attention. ( At least that injection the nurse just gave you has a calming effect, Benson)
1 When a hurricane is headed your way, do not worry about things that can be replaced. If you do, at best your priorities will probably need to change. At worst, you will spend worry time on things that in reality don’t mean a thing. (I guess you’ve been told huh, Buford.)
Odd Jobs and Characters – The Steak House by Sally Cronin
I am so pleased to have Sally Cronin visit and talk about her odd jobs and the characters she has met. The blog is yours, Sally.
Thank you so much, John, for hosting my Odd Jobs and Characters post and I hope that you and your readers enjoy the story.
I began my training as an assistant manager in a steak house in Kent in 1974. For the six months, I would rotate around through the two bars and two restaurants that served a simple menu of steak, chicken, and fish. Most dishes came with either French fries (chips) and peas. For the more health conscious there was a jacket potato option, but by the time several pats of butter had been added, it was as fattening as the fries. Dessert options were ice cream with chocolate sauce and sprinkled nuts, or apple pie and cream. The wine menu was short and featured the German white wines so popular at the time, with much touting of the young French red wines with alleged body and clarity.
However, despite not being a Michelin starred establishment, the training was considered to be one of the best in that particular area of the hospitality industry. It was certainly intensive, and when you consider the hours we worked daily, six days a week, the six months training was actually something you would normally complete in twelve months.
The building itself had been built in 1812 and sported the red flocked wallpaper so fashionable in the 1960s and 1970s. Smoking was still in its hey day and the ceiling was a curious shade of tobacco after 150 years of nicotine exhalation. The smell that greeted you in the morning was ‘eau de tabac’ laced with beer overtones. When you had been working until after midnight, had barely six hours sleep, you found yourself declining anything but black coffee until lunchtime.
I have to say that I loved it, despite the hard work and long hours. We had some very interesting regulars, and the locals embraced the concept of the steak house with gusto. It was cheap and cheerful, and as music blared out on a Friday and Saturday night, both downstairs and upstairs bars and restaurants were packed. The waiting list for a table could be an hour or more, but beer and schooners of sherry (lethal), dulled the senses sufficiently for the wait to be quite jovial.
During the day, only the downstairs restaurant was in use and was consistently busy. This offered the assistant managers time to do the usual administrative work needed to run the steak house, such as ordering food and spirits and cleaning the bars after the night before.
In the evenings it was my job to run the upstairs restaurant, with a team of waitresses waiting on the tables, and two bar staff, who alternated between serving pre-dinner drinks and after dinner liqueur coffees with assorted spirits (this is pre-drink-driving laws!).
The waitresses were rushed off their feet as they juggled three or four large plates laden with steak, chicken, and sides. My job to help in reducing the waiting list was to clear the tables as soon as the diners had paid, and re-equip with cutlery, glasses, and napkins as rapidly as possible. I would then dash back to the bar and announce the name of the lucky party over the tannoy system, who could now stagger after me into the restaurant.
One Saturday night in the middle of a very busy service, I had to handle a potentially difficult situation that could have ended up in the papers (thank goodness there were no mobile phones in those days). As you will remember this building was old, and there were dark recesses within the walls and ceilings, that you would have been wise to avoid for what might reside there.
I was checking the state of play on progress at a number of tables where the patrons were wiping away the evidence of their chocolate sundae. I noticed a man at a table with a party of six, bend down to retrieve his napkin. Instead, he came up with something smaller and definitely furrier than the paper serviette. I suspect that as a natural reflex, he stood with his arm held straight out from his body, clearly amazed at his catch. From my vantage point at the entrance to the restaurant, I identified the rotating body of a dead mouse.
There is a split second between shocked discovery and the public announcement of the find. Although never great at school at the 100 metre dash, I now excelled myself. Dropping the waiting list on the bar, I rushed through the restaurant and snatched the unfortunate deceased rodent from its captor, continuing on to the kitchen at warp speed. I deposited the mouse in the bin and turned and raced back the other way to find the patron staring at his hand and looking around in confusion.
Lighting in the restaurants was provided by dim wall lights in order to provide a romantic and intimate feel to the experience. It also served to conceal the tobacco infused ceiling and rather dodgy carpet. It also thankfully managed to befuddle the diner, who thankfully had not only consumed four pints of beer in the bar beforehand, but also a bottle of our best Liebfraumilch. I added to the befuddlement, by handing him his fallen napkin, and asking if the party would be interested in some liqueur coffees on the house, to compensate them for their long wait before dining.
An exterminator was called the next day and traps were hidden in all the usual haunts. But there was a postscript to this story.
One of the waitresses was a bit of a madam and was always giving the chef grief. As part of the staff’s pay, supper was included before the restaurants opened in the evening. The day after the incident, this particular waitress retrieved her indicated supper from the hot plate, and on sitting down, removed the cover. She issued a piercing scream that probably cleared the rodents from the building far more effectively than the traps. I came over to find out what the problem was, to discover her staring at her plate of battered mouse, French fries, and peas.
My name is Sally Cronin and after working in a number of industries for over 25 years, I decided that I wanted to pursue a completely different career, one that I had always been fascinated with. I began studying Nutrition and the human body twenty years ago and I opened my first diet advisory centre in Ireland in 1998. Over the last 18 years I have practiced in Ireland and the UK as well as written columns, articles and radio programmes on health and nutrition.
I published my first book with a Canadian self-publisher in the late 90s and since then have republished that book and released ten others as part of our own self-publishing company. Apart from health I also enjoy writing fiction in the form of novels and short stories.
My latest book – What’s in a Name? – Volume Two.
Our legacy is not always about money or fame, but rather in the way that people remember our name after we have gone. In these sixteen short stories we discover the reasons why special men and women will stay in the hearts and minds of those who have met them. Romance, revenge and sacrifice all play their part in the lives of these characters.Kenneth watches the love of his life dance on New Year’s Eve while Lily plants very special flowers every spring for her father. Martha helps out a work colleague as Norman steps back out into the world to make a difference. Owen brings light into a house and Patrick risks his life in the skies over Britain and holds back from telling a beautiful redhead that he loves her.
This post normally has views of Port Aransas, but in case you don’t know we have evacuated from there to Austin. We still do not have information on the condition of our home, but we are all safe. I had intended to take photos of the state capital and other sights, but the rain has been quite heavy making it difficult to get around. I hope you like the tour of our current neighborhood.
This is the apartment building of our youngest. (Yes, we Bogarted our way in.)
I thought this was an interesting window. It is in the AT&T store window, advertising that they support the University of Texas.
Austin is a pet-friendly city. Most stores have water bowls for thirsty dogs.. You can see how the wind is shaking the glass behind.
Of course, Bailey only drinks Perrier.
Where we live on the island the West Elm store is 180 miles away. This West Elm was 180 steps.
As I mentioned pet-friendly. Bailey said she was busy on Saturday
This will give you an idea of the buildings downtown. The Whole Foods store is to the left and not pictured.
I couldn’t help thinking of Dan Antion. City equals graffiti.
Here is a real work of art. Um well, it is a work anyway. This is an old building on some pretty expensive real estate. Lucy and Bailey love to go under that tree in the rain.
Here is the Austin train station. (Doesn’t look like much does it?)
Yes, Dan. That is the Amtrak locomotive with sleeper and baggage car.
We hope to be able to go back to Port Aransas soon.
Rave Reviews Book Club. One of the objectives of the club is to recognize outstanding talent in its membership. A literary group has been established within RRBC named Rave Writers – International Society of Authors (RWISA). This month the club is featuring these authors on tour. I will be hosting them throughout the month, and I hope you enjoy being introduced to some excellent writing.
Stephanie Collins
Guilt, Shame & Fear
By Stephanie Collins
“I can’t stand the feeling of being out of control, so I’ve never had any interest in trying drugs or alcohol,” I mused.
“You sure seemed to have an interest when you were younger,” Dad informed me. He responded to my perplexed look before I had a chance to deny his claim. “What? You don’t remember trying pot? Let’s see. It was about 1975. That would have made you five, right? I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a summer afternoon. I walked into the living room and found you with a bong in one hand and a beer in the other. You just looked up at me, glassy-eyed, with a smile on your face and said, ‘Hi, Dad.’ You don’t remember that?”
“Uh…no!”
“Ha! Do you remember the massive headache you had the next day? You hated life that day! I told you not ever to do it again…and you never did,” he reminisced in a tone laced with humor and pride.
It was after that conversation when I really began to question my apparent lack of childhood memories. I have next to no memory of life before the divorce of my parents (when I was eight) and precious few afterward.
My parental split also marks the onset of memories of the “secret playtime” I shared with Dad. I remember realizing that what was happening to me was wrong (to a certain extent, anyway), but Dad really missed Mom. I felt proud to be there for him in his time of grief and loneliness. I had many roles as the oldest daughter. I got my toddler sister to bed on time, scolded her when I found her drinking a beer (that one I do have a vague memory of), and I cleaned the house. Those “more intimate interactions” with Dad were just another in my list of responsibilities as I saw it.
But if Dad remembered the timeline correctly, Mom and Dad were still together when I was five. Where was Mom when her Kindergartener daughter was experimenting with drugs? Could this mean I should add neglect as a descriptor of my “chaotic” upbringing? Could it mean the molestation began earlier than I have any memory of? Does it even matter at this point?
For a time, I was skeptical if someone told me she/he didn’t have sexual abuse in their background. It seemed it was everywhere. I ran a support group in a junior high school when getting my psychology degree. It was for eighth-grade girls, and the only qualifier for an invitation to the group was poor school attendance. After a few weeks of meetings, I opened a session with – innocently enough – “So, how was everyone’s weekend?” One girl immediately began to cry. She explained she had confronted her parents over the weekend with the news that her brother had sexually abused her for years. She had come forward out of fear for the niece her brother’s girlfriend had just given birth to. That student’s admission led to the revelation that six of the seven of us in our circle that day had a history of sexual abuse.
My best friend in college was gang-raped in high school. My college boyfriend was [brutally] raped by a neighbor as a child. Maybe the most disturbing situation I heard about was when I was a senior in high school. I had befriended a freshman. She came to me one day, inconsolable. She was petrified, as she was positive she was pregnant. I tried to calm her with reassuring words, then asked, “Have you told [your boyfriend] yet?” She burst into a fresh bout of tears. When she was finally able to speak again, she confessed in an agonized whisper, “I can’t! It’s not his. It’s…it’s my uncle’s, or my father’s.”
I don’t know how I thought sexual abuse was rampant all around me but had somehow left the rest of my family untouched. Soon after my first daughter was born, I learned that Dad had attempted to molest my younger sister when I was about 12 (my sister would have been 7 or 8 then). As it turns out, I disrupted the attempt when I went to inform them I had just finished making breakfast. I learned of that incident because our [even younger] step sister had just pressed charges against Dad for her sexual abuse from years earlier. He served four years.
Incidentally, that family drama enlightened me to the fact that my grandmother had been abused by a neighbor. My aunt had been abused by her uncle. I wonder if Dad had been sexually abused, too (in addition to the daily, brutal physical abuse I know he suffered at the hands of my grandfather).
As with most survivors of abuse from a family member, I am full of ambiguity and conflict. I am glad Dad was educated to the error of his ways. I’m satisfied he paid for his crimes. I’m relieved the truth came out. I hate that the truth came out. I mourn for the shell of a man who returned from prison. I weep for a family that was blown apart by the scandal. I am heartbroken for my grandmother, who was devastated by the whole ordeal. I am thankful I live 3000 miles away from my family, so I don’t have to face the daily small-town shame they all do, now that Dad is a registered sex offender. I am proud of my step sister for speaking up. I am woefully ashamed for not having the courage to do it myself, which possibly would have prevented the abuse of others after me. I love my father. I am thankful for the [many] great things he has done for me over the years. I hate the effect his molestation had on me, including the role it likely played in my high school rape by another student, and my first [abusive, dysfunctional] marriage.
As I’ve clearly demonstrated, my story is far from unique. Heck, it’s not even remotely severe or traumatic when compared to what others have survived. Still, here I am – 40 years after my first memories of molestation – and I’m still suffering the consequences. Along with my disgrace for allowing others to be abused after me, I carry incredible shame for my involvement in the acts (regardless of the decades of therapy that advise me I had no real power or choice in the matter). I carry unbelievable guilt for the strain my history places on my relationship with my husband. He’s an amazing, wonderful, loving man, who deserves nothing less than a robust, vigorous, fulfilling sex life, but gets – to the best of my ability – a [hopefully] somewhat satisfying one. I carry secret embarrassment over the only real sexual fantasy I have – that of reliving my rape and [this time] taking great pleasure in castrating the bastard in the slowest, most brutally savage way imaginable.
Heaviest of all, I carry fear. There’s nothing I can do to change my past. All I can do is work toward preventing the continued cycle of abuse. I may have a warped view of personal boundaries, I may struggle with my sexuality, and I may be somewhat unfamiliar with healthy family dynamics, but I can do all in my power to ensure my kids fare far better than me. I fear failure.
My eldest daughter has mild to moderate developmental delay. While statistics for sexual abuse in the general population is scary enough, the likelihood of abuse when a cognitive disability is involved is all but a certainty. My second daughter is non-verbal, non-ambulatory, and severely mentally delayed. She’s a prime candidate for abuse. What if my efforts to protect them fall short?
My [teenaged] son and my youngest [“tween”] daughter both have ADHD. Impulse control is a constant struggle for them both. What if the education, counseling, advice, and coaching I offer them about healthy relationships, sexuality, safety and personal responsibility aren’t enough?
I try to counteract these lingering after effects of abuse by remaining ever thankful for the love, good fortune, and beautiful life I share with my husband and children today, but my guilt, shame, and fear cling to me with tenacious persistence.
I am just finishing “It Begins And Ends With Family” by Jo Ann Wentzel. I highly recommend the read. The subject is foster care, but no conversation about foster children is complete without a discussion of child abuse and neglect. While we can debate the best course of action in helping abused children, the top priority must be to work toward a goal of prevention; to break the cycle of abuse. I am hopeful that – as a society – we can work together to empathize, educate, support, counsel, and care enough to stop the cycle of all abuse. If sharing my truth will help toward that goal, well…Here I am. This is my truth.
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA”WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
When it is Stream of Consciousness Saturday time you know, I’m going to participate. This weeks prompt is “When.” One little twist of today’s prompt is that Linda Hill has asked that those participating begin their post with the word “when.” Now you know why I started this post the way I did. If you would like to join in on this fun, please visit Linda Hill’s blog. Here is the link.
Well, It is Friday. I have left my home as ordered by the Port Aransas Police. Yes, we have had a compulsory evacuation due to the severity of Hurricane Harvey. The storm is expected to hit Port Aransas at 1:00 am Saturday morning. The winds are expected to sustain at 110 miles per hour. So we followed orders and joined the thousands who crowded the highway. We are now in Austin with our youngest and will ride out the storm here.
I have to apologize to all of you since I have unable to get on-line prior to leaving Port Aransas. The drive to Austin took an extra two hours due to traffic. (Some guy in a truck took down a major utility pole.) I’m not sure how attentive I will be, but will give it my best shot. Today’s JohnKu talks about what is important in these kinds of situations.
