writing doodle - it was a dark and stormy night - chiromancer continued

Tuesday nights, I like to catch up on ironing and mending of laundry.  Yes, it speaks of the old poems of my grandmother and great grandmother's generations, each day of the week had its own chores.  But systems make getting things accomplished more efficient.  Besides, very little of my laundry needs to be ironed, but I like looking things over to make sure the seams are in good shape.  I can resew a button or clip the odd thread and I don't like going to put something on and realizing one of the seams has either just given up or is about to.  Sure, if I had a drycleaner, they might handle some of this for me, since most of my wardrobe could be considered to be disposable, it is a moot point.

The last of the pile to be put away was my lingerie, not that most people think of passion killers as lingerie.  I keep a few sentimental things in the bottom of that drawer, I don't display everything I own in the living room.  When I was a girl, it was where I hid my diaries, Christmas presents I was going to give my friends.  Nothing exciting, but private things.  Now the bottom of the drawer contains a couple of bridal magazines and an old cash ledger from the 1940s.  It wasn't like Grady (note to self, change name of Jacob to Grady - overuse of Jacob in a lot of fiction right now) ever opened any of the dresser drawers to do anything except extract his own clean clothes.  Left to his own devices, nothing would ever be put away; I, on the other hand, lived with my grandmother's white glove inspections from the time I was six or seven.  After I moved out, I read a book on Feng Shui, it was so much like living with my grandmother: everything has a place and everything to be in place.

Basically, if I couldn't put it away, I didn't keep it, and this was something I wanted to keep.  

I sniffed the book; it smelled of the lavender sachets I made during a crafty phase.  The olive drab volume was one of the few relics of my great-grandfather's Navy career.  He used ledgers instead of scrapbooks because they were cheaper, slimmer, portable, and wouldn't stand out in his trunk.  He was one of the few married guys who had actually known his wife for more than twenty minutes before the war; most of the other guys married the first girl who said yes after they got drafted.  

This was my favorite of the three ledgers.  This one had pictures from their second honeymoon; the trip resulted in the birth of my grandmother.  It also had pictures he'd sketched of the dream he had for the life they'd make when he finally left military service.

They looked young, happy, and vibrant.  The worst of the wars privations were over and so was the worst of the fear.

I looked into the mirror to see the differences between them then and me now; I looked younger and more naive, they looked wiser.  I credit cosmetics, hair dye, and better lighting.  Despite working two jobs and wondering when Grady would finally commit to a date to marry me, I still didn't feel ready to be in charge of my own destiny.

Would he ever?

A long time ago, Grady's mother, Sylvia, told me that he was someone who wanted everything in his life to be perfect before he got married.

What more did he want?  We carried virtually no debt except for the lease on his car.  He had health insurance through my job.  We already had stuff to more or less furnish a cottage.  I didn't want a big wedding, just one that was legal and wasn't presided over by an Elvis imitator   Well, maybe I'd cave on the Elvis thing if it was young, hot Elvis in black leather.

About six months a month ago, I thought I might go off the pill. An accidental pregnancy might have moved things forward, except Grady periodically monitors the pills left in the pack and when the count was two days off, he flew off the handle.  It wasn't even like we'd had sex more than once or twice a month in the last year.  Like the lottery phrases say:  you can't win if you don't play.  Well, you can't get pregnant if you don't have sex, much.

~~~ insert back story dialog with massive fight ~~~

** author's note ... images are from my FIL's military career ... WWII vet who survived the bombing attack on Pearl Harbor ...

writing doodle - chiromancer's new beginnings

"No." My father's answer was short, sweet, to the point, and his favorite word.  Matthew Doyle was convinced that God only blessed him with 436,000 words to use with adult women and he'd used most of those before my mother left us.  Evidently when he used his quota, he was going to die.  Since he was only 52, the words he allowed himself declined each year.  As a result, he didn't mince words, engage in arguments, or even engage in conversations.  I think he got a special dispensation when he was at work, I heard a rumor once that he held conversations with co-workers and clients, but it was just a rumor.  He usually pointed at things he wanted me to do and tilted his head.

"You don't even know what I want to ask you," I said.  I put my hand on the center of his newspaper and  pushed down.  Looking him in the eyes seldom if ever made an impact, but where there's life, there's hope.

A lesser mortal would have been fatally wounded by the glare I received.  As a child, I developed armor that repelled his laser of potential destruction, now they glanced off and were absorbed by the potted herbs he kept in the kitchen.

Then again, I'm not fully realized and sometimes the looks caused more consternation than I'd like to admit.  If it hadn't been before seven o'clock, I would have inserted emergency chocolate.  You know the kind, it placates the nerves, calms the emotions, and should simply be adhered to the hips since it would be faster.

"It's not like I'm asking you to do any of the work or put up any money," I said. "I just want-"

He flicked his newspaper back into shape, turned the page, and said, "No.  Now's not a good time, Bernie."

At least it was Bernie this morning and not Bernadette; he only called me that when he was either introduced me to someone or he was really steamed at me.

This was day thirty-seven on my campaign to talk to him about rehabbing my grandmother's bungalow.  She'd been renting it out since I was a kid, my mom left, and she came to stay with us and provide a stable influence over my life.  The bungalow would have been perfect for Jacob and me to live in after he finished law school in three more months.  In six years there had been too many small, cramped, apartments with paper thin walls; I wanted to put down roots and live somewhere solid.  Not next door to the law library or the campus stadium.  Time had come to start to live like grownups and have a semblance of a real life.

All I wanted was him to talk to her about it, help me develop a punch list, and pass on his contractor's discount with some of his suppliers.  I got my first bubble level, hammer, and toolbelt when I was seven and my dad and I built the first of a housing development of birdhouses.  My first electrical drill was for my thirteenth birthday.  My own chop saw when I was eighteen.  Every summer, I worked side by side with him.  In the beginning, we were thrown together since after school programs were expensive and summer camps were prohibitive.

I knew the place was empty right now, the last tenant moved out two weeks ago and no one had been inside to do any prep work for new renters.  She hadn't done any advertising, talked to the property management company, or even seemed interested that the place was sitting empty.

"I really want to talk to her about letting me rent the house, update it just a little.  I'm not asking you or any of your crew to do any of the work, I just want your opinion on the punch list."  I took a deep breath and used the words that always reengaged eye contact, "Please, Daddy."

He folded the newspaper, took a sip of his coffee, and gave me a tight nod.  "Do you want to do this  for you or for Jacob?"

The real answer was both, but Dad never did like Jacob, neither did his dog.  I wanted to finally be more than spitting distance away from campus.  I worked two jobs since graduating college so that we wouldn't have to carry any student loan debt from law school.  I had enough of a nest egg that could be used to buy furniture that didn't come in flat boxes, scatter rugs, and matching dishes.  Or I could use all of that money and take him on a celebration vacation before his job started at the firm.  Of the two choices, I really wanted furniture that was made from wood and didn't have a picture of woodgrain stamped on it.  A vacation can be fleeting, but a real wood headboard could last for years. In one more year of renting, we'd have money and stability enough to finally marry.

"Me.  I want this for me."

"You know she doesn't like to do business with family."

My great-grandfather had been horribly taken advantage of in the first third of the last century by his own family members. Joseph O'Brien had a small farm and saved his pennies.  His brothers speculated on small retail stores that hadn't fared well.  Rather than see his own nieces and nephews go hungry, he lent money to his brothers.  Money borrowed was never repaid and when he needed the money, each had declared it to have been a gift.  He would have been better off giving them produce from the farm, the children would have had full stomachs and he wouldn't have lost the farm due to tax burdens years later.  That lesson had been hard learned and subsequently taught to all of his children.

I nodded.  I knew the chances weren't great, but I had hoped.

"I'll talk to her tonight, pumpkin.  Don't be late for work."

I leaned over the kitchen table, kissed my father on the cheek, darted out the door for the bus stop. Maybe things would go smoothly with Grandma.  Maybe the punch list wouldn't be too long.  Maybe I'd be home tonight before eleven o'clock and actually see Jacob before I went to bed.

Maybe this was a new page in a new chapter in my life.