Monthly Archives: January 2012

Time’s A Funny Thing by Jeff Turner

Time’s A Funny Thing
This  will be the final chapter in my third book “Notes To My Kids”. It closes the story and repeats some of the themes I write about in the book. I did something similar in “Days Remembered” with “Do You Remember?”. The notes in this book are written to my kids “Roger” and “Jane” – I use these names for them in my other books.

Photo courtesy of http://www.imdb.com/.

To Roger and Jane…
When you two were small children the movie “Always” came out. It still is one of my personal favorites. In it Pete, an air tanker pilot, played by Richard Dreyfus , gets killed in an accident. In the afterlife the guardian angel “Hap”, played by Audrey Hepburn, tries to guide him to final peace and acceptance of his fate.
In one scene he and Hap travel back and forth in time where he sees his past. While they sit in a forest Hap tells the temporally confused Pete “…time’s a funny thing…”.

Indeed it is. I think you’ll see.

Jane, Roger came over to see me the day you went back to Galveston. On New Year’s Eve day we went to eat at a Russian restaurant in Arlington. On the way we went through east Fort Worth where we used to live. And in a short time we went back and forth in time like Pete did in the movie.

After going down Loop 820, we exited at Brentwood Stair Road and drove down  past the Kolache Shop, Little Tykes day care, and the bank building where your mom once worked. As we moved down Brentwood, we talked about Best Mart, the convenience store. We always stopped there for gas, beer, and snacks before we went to the New Park a little north of there. We spent a lot of time at the playground or looking at the horses in the pasture next to it. The horses are no longer there; the pasture that they once grazed in is now a field of houses.

We turned down Sandy Lane and around us were 1960’s era brick veneer homes surrounded by oak trees which looked much like they did when we lived there. We took a left onto Monterrey Drive. Similar to what we saw on Sandy, the houses seemed to be the same. Memories surfaced as we drove past the homes of our former neighbors like the Simpsons, the Jeffries – whose kids you played with, or Mrs. Shaw who was always in a bad mood.

 Then we were in front of our old home. The big trees were still there, bigger than before, but the house was mostly the same. . The dormers still faced the front yard from your old rooms upstairs and the big tree in the middle of the back yard still cast its branches over the yard. The big bay window by the front door also looked the same. How many times did we peer through its glass to see what was outside? The owners had painted the red brick a medium gray but that was the only obvious change. And next to it there was Jess and Madge’s old house which really did look unchanged. At that moment I could see us there with Jess on a warm summer day. A grandfather, he would smile at you two and ask what you had been doing at school. While these things happened over 20 years ago  it seemed we were still there, as if time had stood still.

Coming back to the present we turned around and drove further down Sandy finding the Old Park. The playground   equipment that you two once scurried over was new.  The trees remained along with the ball field and at the north end of the park was our old backyard fence. The second story of the house and the big tree on the back property line still looked above its top. The year could have been 1985 or 1995 and it would have looked the same.

Next, we continued south on Sandy and drove past the cemetery, where Lee Harvey Oswald lies in his unmarked grave. Nothing much had changed, the same houses, buildings, and trees still stood guard along the street where they had always been.

We drove on to Arlington and turned on to Lancaster to the east beside the railroad tracks, past unchanged areas of trees and pastures.. About the only new things were the gas wells in the fields. The leafless but timeless post oaks were still there, reaching quietly upward around the new well heads and tanks.

When we arrived in Arlington we drove past the Campo Verde restaurant where we used to eat. I wondered if the food was as good as it was in the past. On the outside it looked the same as if nearly twenty years hadn’t passed. And as we neared the Russian place I saw another restaurant we’d frequented: Jo-Ed’s Bomber which made northeastern style sub sandwiches. It, too, was seemingly unchanged. All enhanced our love of togetherness and good food. We laughed a lot back then.

After we ate at the Russian place, we went by a house on Bowen Road that your mom and I considered buying. We didn’t because it had a foundation leak in the garage. The neighborhood around it, like the old east side, hadn’t changed much. Time had passed but you could not tell that just by driving through the area. That day was a trip down the Memory Lane seeing what once was the fabric of our lives. On the way to eat lunch we saw a big slice of our past in a couple of hours. Just as Pete saw his life go back and forth before his eyes in that short scene in “Always”, we saw a big part of our lives go by as we drove down those once frequently travelled roads.

So Hap was right you see, time is a funny thing. Things and places change and sometimes they don’t, even though decades have flown past. Though the world and time has moved on, at least it still is in our memories. Hence, they should not be forgotten, but should be tucked away in our hearts and minds to be revisited from time to time. When we go back to see our old haunts, we see where we came from and recall important events from our lives one more time.

Maybe that is why I write my books. Recording the past helps me make drives like we did that day. In that way, the memory of our time together as a family will go down time’s own long road and be remembered by you, and hopefully one day by your own family and kids. Then you can tell them time’s a funny thing just like Hap told Pete.
 
Jeff has published two books, the story of a marriage before divorce and another after divorce, Notes To Stephanie: Middle Aged Love Letters and life Stories and Notes To Stephanie, Days Remembered. His current WIP is titled Notes To My Kids: Little Stories About Grown Up Kids. When he is not writing he is involved in I-T Projects and loves cooking.

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Filed under Audrey Hepburn, Jeff Turner, movie Always, Richard Dreyfus, time memories, yesterdays memoirs

Garage Sale Find-A Short Story by J.A. Bennett



JA Bennett



Please welcome JA Bennett to our blog. JA is a member of GFW Writers, studies creative writing  at UNT and is a full time mom of four. After spending 15 years in the Human Resources field she realized that life was too short to ignore what she’d always wanted to do, so after finishing school for the second time around she hopes to teach English as well as pursue a home for her own stories and novels. She enjoys spending time with her family, reading and, of course, writing. If you like her story, please let her know by leaving a comment and sharing the post with your friends.

“Oh!”
Mother twisted in her seat and pressed her fingertips against the passenger side window like a child ogling the passing primary colors of an amusement park roller coaster.  All I could see of her was the cap of coppery hair teased to a transparent pouf that sprouted from the back of her head, sticky with hair spray and the scent of Chanel. The ideal trap for catching things like tiny fluttering leaves, amorous insects, and truths.
“Mom, I’m exhausted.  Let’s just go and eat.”
“Oh, come on Katie, just one more. That looked like a good street. Come on now, turn around.”
I sighed and gave in.  Pulling into some poor soul’s conveniently located driveway, I winced my apology at the house’s lifeless windows and headed back the other way.  Back towards the unimposing side street sporting a hastily scrawled “Garage Sale” sign on its corner.

Someone had stuck a ragged piece of cardboard on a wooden spike then impaled the result firmly into a clump of thick summer grass. It certainly didn’t look promising, but Mother clapped gleefully as we crawled into the cul-de-sac and parked.

“Look at all that,” she gushed.

 If the act of salivation were audible I would have reached out to turn down her volume. I rolled my eyes.

“It must be a moving sale. I see Christmas decorations too.” She kicked open the door and let in a wave of stifling air.
“It’s August. And you don’t need more Christmas decorations, the attic’s already overflowing.”
“You can never have enough Christmas decorations. Besides, you’ll need your own collection soon.”
“You’re picking again, Mom. I told you. I’m never getting married. I refuse to give any man that kind of control over my life.”
“Don’t spout feminist propaganda to me, chickie. I was burning my bras before you were even a gleam in your father’s horny eye.”
“Too much information, Mom. Highly inappropriate.”
“Oh lighten up.”
The house was set close to the road, one of a series of identical boxes distinguishable only by variation of colored brick and landscaping.  The subdivision was fairly new, planted over what was probably used a few years prior as a cattle grazing field.  Last night’s rain had coaxed a few brave, pale pink primroses to bloom; they drooped over the curb, eying us as we strolled up the driveway and into the maze of makeshift tables covered in, well, everything imaginable.
“Hey there!”
A bouncy blond skipped out of the shade of the open garage to greet us.  She looked like she was nearing 30, but she dressed more like an unfettered college student, with short denim cut-offs, a hot-pink Dallas Cowboys t-shirt that showed more than it covered and a pair of bedazzeled flip flops.
“Take a look around,” she encouraged.  “Everything’s gotta go-I’m leavin’ town in the morning and I can’t take all this crap with me.”
Mother gave her a distracted wave and dove on in.
“I’m Tracy,” the woman called after her.  “Let me know if you have any questions!”
“Don’t mind her,” I explained. “She’s a garage sale addict.  She’s lost in the rush, but she’ll surface eventually, after she finds her quota of treasures.”
“What? In all that trash?” Tracy giggled.  “But whatever, right?  It’s all gotta go-I need the cash.”
We stood for an awkward moment, watching as my mother swam circuitous laps through the heap, searching for her starting point.
“Whew, it’s hot out today,” Tracy fanned her face with one acrylic nail tipped hand.  Little beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.  She wiggled inside her clingy t-shirt and shifted her weight from hip to hip, looking for a non-existent breeze.
“So you’re moving?” I asked.
“That’s right.  To Florida.  I’m driving first thing in the morning.  I recently reconnected with my first love on Facebook.  Can you believe that?  The internet is an amazing thing, don’t you think? We decided to get back together and so I’m moving to be with him. Romantic, right?”
She beamed and fanned herself some more, frantically trying to force air across the exposed expanse of flesh along her neckline. “Good Lord, its hot out. I’m gonna go grab a beer.”  She bounced off, a child housed in the shell of a womanly body.
Truthfully, I was a little jealous.  Girls like this Tracy had always made me feel inferior and dull in comparison, like a dusty moth next to a vibrant butterfly.  I spent my high school and college years glaring at them disdainfully from behind my hardback copy of Jane Eyre and thick lensed glasses.  It wasn’t that I wanted to be exactly like them, I’d rather die than be forced to go through life with a personality as deep as a watermark, but I couldn’t help but be envious of the comfort Tracy seemed to have with herself, with her body.  She flaunted her skin proudly and shamelessly, while I kept my starched white polo buttoned up to the top.  Consciously, I was proud of the woman I’d become, successful, independent…respected.  But despite all of that, I still felt out of place in my own skin, compelled to cover up, to be safe beneath the armor of my clothing.
 
As she disappeared inside the house, I reached up and popped open the top two buttons of my shirt, baring a hint of pale cleavage to the raging summer sun.  What the heck, maybe I needed to learn something from Tracy and, as Mother said, “loosen up.”  Besides, it was August after all.  And August in Texas is, frankly, hell.
My mother was elbow deep in empty picture frames.  I wandered, perusing the things a person collects over the years, collects then discards when new and better things come along.  Paperback sci-fi novels, power cords, a leather recliner, stacks of DVDs and CDs, an unused camping tent, a rotary saw and ancient ratchet set.
On a table set off to one side, Tracy had laid out a collection of elaborate Victorian dollhouses. Their miniature pieces of perfect furniture had been moved out and strewn across the table’s surface, as if the dollhouse’s porcelain inhabitants were also vacating the premises. The tiny inside walls were barren, unfinished. The lady of the dollhouses hadn’t bothered to hang wallpaper or curtains and the rough wooden floors were badly in need of a bit of carpet. I picked up a carefully carved wooden spindle chair.  It was handmade, lovingly sanded and stained by some unknown craftsman.  I realized then that all of it had been handmade. The outer walls were painted in beautiful soft pastels, the window shutters fixed with tiny perfect hinges, and the pitched roofs were sturdy shields of miniature wooden shingles ready to weather the elements. Each was a home fit for a queen and her family. It was a shame Tracy was selling it all.  Wasn’t this the kind of thing people kept?
A sharp clucking sound came from across the table.  I glanced up to meet the bitter scowl of an elderly woman, a neighbor, who stood with her arms crossed like an angry sergeant as she eyed the open garage.“That girl is something else,” she tisked.  “Selling all this stuff like that.  It’s shameful!”
“What?”
“That Tracy is selling all this so she can run off and leave her husband.  Why he’s letting her get away with it is beyond me.  If it was me, I’d just tell her to go on and go, but she’d not get one nickel, not one stick of furniture from me.”
“Huh?”
“Look there, you see him standing there in the garage?  Poor man.  Poor Jason.  It’s shameful. So shameful.”
I turned to look.It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but eventually I made out the dim outline of a figure leaning against the garage wall.  A stocky figure dressed in loose khaki shorts and a navy city fire department t-shirt.  He held a beer bottle in one hand, bringing it up periodically to his lips as he stared out across the driveway, watching it all with a sad stillness.
“Poor man.  So shameful,” the neighbor repeated before turning and making her way back into her house.
Tracy came bouncing back outside.  A minivan had pulled up, and an eager looking family poured out.  She hurried to greet them.
I’m not sure why I approached.  It definitely wasn’t in my nature to be nosey.  But something about that man compelled me and I moved forward, stepping across the line of harsh summer light and into the shadowy cavern of that garage.
“Hello,” I said to him.He nodded but didn’t look at me.
“The dollhouse and the furniture.  Did you make that?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t understand.  It must have taken you ages.  Why are you selling it?”
He paused, then drew a deep breath as if gathering the clarity to respond.
“She’s selling it all.  Everything. It’s all gone.  Nothing left.”  He replied, puzzled by the words, unable to make sense of what was happening.
I stood and waited, an eager tension slowly building somewhere in the center of my chest
.
“She told me last night.” His voice was a low rumble, a roll of distant thunder.  “She told me she was leaving me to go back to that guy.  Her high school gym coach.  They had an affair when she was sixteen.  He was married.  Now he’s divorced and wants to be with her.  She says she still loves him and wants to be with him too.”
I watched him raise the beer bottle to his lips and drink.  It was the only part of him that moved, but my eyes had adjusted to the dimness and I could make him out more clearly now.  His ashy blond hair was clipped short, military style, and his grey-blue eyes were framed by dark circles, like he hadn’t slept the night before.  He wasn’t exactly tall, but his shoulder was exactly the same height as my cheek.  His waist, the perfect width for wrapping my arms around …
I wrote Tracy a $1,000 check.  She was ecstatic as she helped me load the dollhouses onto the backseat of my car.
“Are you sure you won’t regret it?” I asked her.
She laughed. I buttoned up my top.

Two days later I went back with a pan of homemade lasagna and a plate of cookies.  Tracy was long gone.Jason was still drinking, alone in the empty house.  He was drunk enough to let it happen. For the first time in my life, wide-eyed and shockingly sober, I started things. I peelied off his clothes like I was unwrapping the most important gift I’d ever received and loved him.

Our first child was born the following summer.  And, thanks to my Mother’s uncanny foresight, my precious budding family has its very own collection of Christmas decorations.

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Thanks for stopping by. Have you ever discovered a valuable garage sale find?

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Filed under As We Were Saying, garage sale finds, garage sale sale addicts, J.A. Bennett, love story, meets