Thursday, March 26, 2015
Copyright Linda Goodman 2015
A cold, drizzling rain made me decide that I did not want to park in the outer Siberia section of the Chester, Virginia Walmart parking lot on that September day in 1999. Normally I chose the exercise of the walk across the long, deep parking lot to the store, but on this day, I just wanted to keep dry. I began looking for a closer space.
As divine providence (or perhaps luck?) would have it, there was a parking space available beside a van just a few spaces from the store’s front door. In my mind, that parking spot had my name on it. I turned my front wheels to the right to enter the space, but someone else came flying down the parking aisle and skidded into the space before I could get my car into it.
The lady in the other car rolled down her window and yelled, “I saw it first!”
“That’s okay,” I responded. “I’m not emotional about it.” I turned back to outer Siberia, burdened with the promise of a bad hair day looming before me.
Since I was not wearing a coat, the walk to the store was chilly. I needed to shop for only a few things, so I made quick work of it. As I was checking out, I could smell something burning. The front of the store was filled with smoke.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is there a fire.”
“Yeah, but it’s outside. You’re okay in here,” the clerk assured me.
“Do you know what happened?” I wanted more information.
“Well, see, this van out in the parking lot caught fire,” the clerk replied. “The police and the fire department are out there taking care of it.”
“Are the cars around it okay?” I wondered.
“The fire spread to one of the cars next to it,” the clerk told me. “Guess somebody’s having a bad day.”
As I pushed my grocery cart outdoors, I saw the black hole left by the van. I also saw a black hole in the spot to the van’s right, the space where I had tried to park! I asked one of the policemen if he knew what had happened. He told me that the driver of the van had gone for a ride in his all terrain vehicle and, afterwards, had put the ATV into the back of the van without letting the ATV cool down first.
“How about the driver of the car?” I asked him. “Is she okay?”
“Well, she wasn’t in the car when it happened,” he said solemnly. “So she should be okay. That might change when she actually sees her car.”
I continued my march to outer Siberia. It was good exercise, and I still had a car.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
This story was written by my brother Lee, who now lives in Barboursville, WVA. Lee is retired from the Norfolk Naval Shipyard and is also a writer and poet. The caricature at the left was done by one of his former co-workers.
© Lee Wright, 16 Jan, 2002
“Hey Ted,” said Mike as he came into the office. Hearing the Oldie station in the background. Mike knew that Ted was somewhere in the office.
“Hey Michael,” came the answer from Ted’s area. ”Is it 4 PM yet?”
“Almost,” replied Mike, smiling.
That was a running gag around the office. The office contained five employees: Mike, Glynn, Ted, Carolyn, and Steve. Carolyn was the Editor of the Service to the Fleet, the Norfolk Naval Shipyard newspaper. Steve was the supervisor who ran the little “madhouse” of an office. Actually, you could say that Steve was the Head Nut.
“Hey Mike! Hey Ted!” said Glynn as he made his daily appearance.
“Hey guys,” said Carolyn as she followed Glynn inside.
“Hey Carolyn!” came three replies.
“Anyone seen Steve?” asked Carolyn as she pulled off her coat and hung it up.
“We’re home alone, at least for half a day.” replied Ted, “Steve left a message on the answering machine saying that he’d be in around lunch.”
“Did anyone notice that the traffic was backed up more than usual?” asked Carolyn.
“I did,” replied Glynn, “But it wasn’t as bad as last week.”
“I know,” answered Ted, “Last week was a bite.”
“I wonder why it was backed up today?” asked Carolyn, “I thought they had that problem straightened out last week.”
“Guess you can’t expect every day to be perfect.” said Mike, turning towards his computer. Soon you could hear the keyboard clicking as Mike began his work on a story for the paper.
Ted looked over at Glynn and saw that he was checking the Virginian-Pilot for the latest news. The Virginian-Pilot was the local newspaper. Ted got up from his desk and went into the back room. He returned carrying a cup of hot coffee. The back room served as a catchall for storage. Also in the back room were four televisions to keep up with any breaking news. The four TVs were hooked up to four VCRs to tape any of that breaking news.
Ted sat down for a few minutes, got up, and wandered into Carolyn’s cubicle. He watched her as she was getting the shipyard paper ready for distribution. He probably figured that Carolyn needed a break because he interrupted her typing.
“Do I look ok?”
“What?” Carolyn asked, looking up.
“Do I look ok?”
“Depends on what you mean by “ok,” came a reply from Glynn’s cubicle.
Ted ignored the remark and carried on. “I don’t feel all that well. I feel kinda out of sorts and light-headed. You know kinda twilight zoney, like I don’t belong here.”
“You’ve been in the Twilight Zone ever since I’ve known you.” came a
voice from Mike’s cubicle.
Ted ignored that one also.
“Maybe you should sit down and finish your coffee.” said Carolyn, “You’ll feel better shortly.”
“Maybe you’re right, but I felt strange when I came through the door this morning. I just have this odd feeling.” Ted turned away and went back to his cubicle.
Ted was sitting by his computer, still having those odd feelings. He could hear Carolyn banging away on her keyboard, preparing the paper for distribution.
The rest of the morning was uneventful. At 11 AM Ted got up and went into the back room to watch one of the court shows. Carolyn, Glynn, and Mike, went to Roger Brown’s, one of their favorite placers to eat.
Around 12:15 Mike, Carolyn, and Glynn returned from lunch.,
“Hey Ted,” all three said in the direction of the back room. They could hear the TV still going. There was no answer.
“Ted usually tapes Judge Mathis and The People’s Court. Maybe he’s watching People’s Court and didn’t hear us.” said Mike, “His hearing isn’t that good any more.”
“I’ll go back there and get his attention.” said Carolyn. She walked away, but came back soon after. “Hmm,” she sighed, “he wasn’t back there.”
“Probably in the “library.” said Glynn. The “library” was Ted’s word for the restroom. He usually took whatever book he was reading at the with him when he went in there.
Everyone returned to their cubicles. Within a few minutes Steve came in. He wasn’t his usual self. His head was down and he seemed dazed. Steve walked slowly into his office.
“What wrong with Steve?” asked Glynn.
“What’s up, Glynn?” asked Carolyn, “What do you mean, what’s wrong with Steve?” A large partition that surrounded Carolyn’s cubicle prevented her from seeing anyone entering the office.
Before anyone could answer, Steve came out of his office. A few minutes passed before he could speak.
“I’ve got something to tell all of you,” Steve said slowly.
“Shouldn’t we wait until Ted gets here?” asked Mike.
“What do you mean, wait for Ted?” Steve seemed confused. “Where is he?”
“As far as we know, he’s in the restroom.” replied Glynn, “Why?”
“He can’t be in the restroom,” said Steve, “I just came out of there and I was the only one in there… Now, I want you all to sit down. I have some bad news to tell you.”
Mike, Glynn, and Carolyn pulled their chairs out of their cubicles and looked at Steve.
“What’s wrong?” they asked in unison.
“Was th… uh hum,” Steve cleared his throat, “Was the traffic backed up this morning?”
“Yes it was, why? What’s wrong Steve?” asked Carolyn. Now everyone was concerned about Steve.
“Do you know wh..what caused the backup?” Steve was having a hard time talking.
“Just the usual stuff,” replied Mike. “Steve, I think we should wait until Ted
gets here so you won’t have to repeat whatever it is.”
If looks could kill, Mike would’ve been dead right there. Steve continued. “This morning…..on their way to work together, Ted and his wife Marlene, were involved in a very bad car accident.”
“Oh My God!” exclaimed Carolyn, “How’s Marlene? Ted didn’t mention anything about an accident this morning.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Steve gruffly. “Marlene was badly injured and she’s in the hospital. They’re not sure if she’ll make it. Ted was killed instantly.”
Carolyn felt faint. Mike and Glynn couldn’t believe their ears.
“It….it can’t be! Ted was here this morning.” said Mike.
Steve was helping Carolyn to a chair and Glynn was putting some smelling salts under her nose.
“What are you talking about Mike? What’s wrong with Carolyn?”
“Steve,” replied Mike, “Ted was here this morning. We all saw and talked to him.”
“That’s impossible!” exclaimed Steve, “I told you that he was killed instantly.”
“Steve, Mike, Carolyn, come here.” said Glynn, “I’ve got something to show you.”
All four gathered at Ted’s cubicle. On Ted’s computer screen there was a small note, “This workstation is in use and has been locked. The workstation can only be unlocked by Teddy L. Wright.” Glynn then pointed towards Ted’s desk. There, underneath his desk, was Ted’s book bag. And on his desk was his latest book, waiting to be read.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
©Linda Goodman, January 2015
In 1972, after a ridiculously easy three hours of labor, I gave birth to a baby girl. After the anesthesia had worn off, a nurse brought her to me and I got my first good look at her. I gasped and cried, “THIS IS NOT MY BABY!”
“Of course it’s your baby,” insisted the nurse.
“But she has red hair!” I protested. “No one in either my or my husband’s family has red hair!”
“Well,” said the nurse, “that can’t be true. Red hair is a recessive gene. Red hair has to be in both the mother’s and the father’s families for a redheaded baby to be born.”
After asking family members a lot of questions, I learned that my mother’s twin brother had red hair before he went gray. I also learned that several of my husband’s aunts had red hair.
So in addition to a new baby, I also got a new story that I could use to entertain friends and family. Every time that someone asked me where my daughter Melanie’s red hair came from, I told that person the story of the day she was born, and how I had insisted that she could not possibly be my baby.
When Melanie was eight years old and in the second grade, I went to an open house at her school. Each student in the school had been instructed to make from construction paper an art piece that would tell people something the student. I walked around the room and looked at the different projects. Roller derbies were quite popular at the time, so many of the students had made construction paper skating rinks and named the rinks after themselves. Two students built churches. Another built a Tastee Freeze ice cream stand. Melanie had constructed a large paper house and had written across the front The Melanie Adams Orphanage.
I was curious. “Why did you decide to build an orphanage?” I asked Melanie.
“Because I’m an orphan,” she replied.
Curiosity turned into confusion. “Why do you think you are an orphan, Melanie?”
“Because you said so,” she sweetly told me. Then, with an innocence that only a child can muster, she added, “I am glad they gave me to you. I hope they don’t take me back some day.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. “When did I tell you that you were an orphan?”
“Oh, you didn’t tell me,” she said. “But I heard you tell Mrs. Michaels. And Mr. Hamby. And that old woman who asked you where I got my red hair.”
I had never even realized that she was listening when I told that story to others. Melanie had thought she was an orphan for eight years, and I had never even suspected that.
Of course, I set her straight. She seemed rather disappointed when I told her I was only telling a funny story to all those people; that she really was my child by birth. “I guess I won’t be as interesting now,” she sighed,” and some poor parents out there are going to be so sad when they find out that I am not their child.”
That’s my girl!
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
© 2010 Linda Goodman
(This is part 2 of my story. Part 1 posted on December 8.)
What could I do but play along? And I must admit that when I awakened on the Christmas day that Morgan was three years old, the first year she was aware of all the hoopla, I was thrilled to hear her sit up and bed and loudly call out, “Did he come?”
Then I watched in awe as she walked downstairs and entered the wonderland of toys that her pawpaw and her daddy had assembled for her. She went from one to the other, hugging her new doll, playing her new keyboard, unpacking her tea set….. Finally laughing in delight as she spotted the empty plate and glass that had held cookies and milk for Santa.
She was in awe when she found the letter that Santa had left for her. She was smiling and crying at the same time as her mother read the letter to her. I must admit that I shed a few tears of my own as I watched her big blue eyes widen with wonder.
And now this same child was asking me, “Mawmaw, is Santa Claus pretend?”
I decided to answer her question with a question. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” she replied, “a boy in my class is telling everybody that Santa Claus is pretend.”
I asked another question. “What do you think?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, Mawmaw, he is awful fat. How can somebody that fat fit down a chimbley?”
This was going to be tough, but I was up for it. “Morgan, remember when we found that mouse in my house, and you asked me how it got in? Remember I told you that mice could collapse their bodies to a quarter of an inch and slip in through a heating grate?”
I continued. “Well, Santa is magic! Just like a mouse, he can collapse his body so that it’s small enough to slide down any chimney.”
“But, Mawmaw, sometimes I’m at my house on Christmas, and sometimes I’m at your house, and sometimes I’m at Granny Annie’s. How does Santa always know where to bring my toys?”
“I write him a letter every November to let him know where you will be.”
“But your fireplace has glass in the front of it. How does Santa get through that without breaking it or cutting himself?”
“Your Pawpaw is very handy. He takes the glass out of the fireplace after you go to bed, and he puts it back after Santa leaves.”
“How does Santa get into houses that don’t have chimbleys?
“For those houses, Santa has a magic key that opens any door.”
Now she really looked confused. “If Santa has a key that opens any door, why does he bother with chimbleys at all?”
I was running out of answers. “Have you asked your mom about this?”
She looked up at me with trusting blue eyes. “Yes, I did ask Mommy, but I know that you will tell me the truth.”
I was in a quandary. I did not want to be the one to tell her that Santa Claus was not real; yet, if I withheld the truth now, she might never trust me again. How could I extricate myself from this dilemma?
Suddenly, out of nowhere, an image of an 8 x 10 black and white photo, lying underneath a row of hanging file folders in a drawer of the cabinet in my office, filled my head.
“Just a minute, honey,” I told her as I ran from the room. “I’ll be right back!”
I hurried to the filing cabinet in my office and searched as fast as my fingers would sift. In the third drawer down, I found what I wanted, just as my unexpected image had shown me.
Quickly I ran back to Morgan. “Here!” I gushed as I handed her the photo. “This is a picture signed by the man himself!”
She stared at the black and white photo. “What did he sign his name Sergeant Santa?”
“Uhm….that’s what the elves call him,” I improvised. “It’s like a boot camp in the North Pole around Christmas time!”
She traced his beard with her index finger. She ran her fingers across his signature. “I knew he was real,” she whispered.
The following Monday, Morgan took that photo to school with her and showed it to all her friends who had been told that Santa was just pretend. Together they confronted the bully who had tried to shake their faith, showing him proof that Santa was real. My daughter told me that Morgan became a heroine to her classmates.
A few years later, my daughter called to tell me that Morgan had found out that Santa was a myth.
“Who told her?” I asked.
“Nobody told her,” I was informed. “Her class was studying aerodynamics and she figured it out all by herself.”
I asked to speak to Morgan. When she came to the phone, I asked her if she was okay.
“Sure, Mawmaw,” she replied. “It’s just Santa. It’s not like it was God or anything. But, you know, it was fun to believe for a while. I think I will probably pretend that I still believe. You know, for my baby sister.” She paused before adding, “It’s like that storytelling thing you always say – Just because it can’t happen doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
Morgan still has the picture I gave her, and I’m sure that Sergeant Santa would be happy to know that one of his autographed black and white photos is tacked to the bulletin board in the room of a fourteen year old girl in Fort Mill, South Carolina.
As for myself, I still have mixed feelings about Santa Claus. I still cringe when I see parents spend enough money to buy a full month’s food supply on toys that lose their luster after a few weeks, while so many others struggle just to put food on the table and a roof over their heads. There is something tragically wrong with that scenario.
And yet, I cannot help but fondly remember the thrill of that magic Christmas long ago, when I heard a three-year-old girl calling, “Did he come?”
Monday, December 8, 2014
© 2010 Linda Goodman
(This is part 1 of my story. Part 2 will be posted next week.)
(This is part 1 of my story. Part 2 will be posted next week.)
On August 21, 2010, Dalton Duling died. Duling’s alter ego, Sergeant Santa, was a legend in the greater Richmond area. A former police sergeant, he spent the last thirty-seven years of his life bringing Christmas to children who would not otherwise have had much to celebrate.
As I read his obituary, I remembered that my husband, Phil, had once worked with Duling’s wife, Dale. She had given Phil an 8 by 10 autographed glossy black and white photo of Sergeant Santa for our granddaughter Morgan. Phil asked me to put the photo in a safe place until we saw Morgan again. I put it in a place that was so safe, I forgot where it was.
During a visit when Morgan was five years old, she asked me, “Mawmaw, is Santa Claus pretend?”
I was not quite sure how to answer that question. I myself had a checkered past with Santa. In the mountains, where I was born, Santa did not come to our small, one-room house. Daddy said that our roof would not support a sleigh with eight reindeer, no matter how tiny they were.
Santa did, however, come through the area on a train, which stopped at various stations along its route so that presents could be dropped off for children in the region. Several books have been written about the Santa Train. Most of these books tell joy-filled stories. Daddy did not allow me or my siblings to go to the Santa Train. That would have been accepting charity, which my father frowned upon. We did, however, hear the stories told by friends who had gone to meet the train. Many of those stories were completely devoid of joy. A small child could get a decent present only if he was accompanied by an older sibling. Otherwise, the big kids overran the smaller ones in a winner take all scenario. Most of the stories that I heard were heartbreaking.
Santa did come to our house once we moved to the city (for some reason, it was not charity if Santa came to our apartment). For Christmas in the city, I usually got an orange, a couple of walnuts, and some paper dolls that looked like something my father would have made. Meanwhile, the rich kids (to me, a rich kid was any kid who lived in a home that wasn’t missing shingles) got Betsy Wetsy dolls and cap guns. Clearly, Santa liked rich kids better.
My best friend, Carole Ann, spent one Christmas with a foster family. She told me that the real kids got great gifts. The boy got a set of GI Joe figurines, and the girl got a Candy Fashion doll with three evening gowns (not dresses – evening gowns!). Carole Ann said all she got was some underwear and a knock-off Barbie doll whose clothes fell apart when she changed them. I was incensed! How could Santa show such favoritism when rich and poor were in the same house? He was downright mean!
When I found out that Santa was not real, I was relieved. I found it comforting to know that there was no cosmic master of the toy universe who denied poor kids their due at Christmas time.
When I had a child of my own, I decided that she would not be tortured, as I had been, by the Santa myth. As soon as Melanie was old enough to speak, I taught her to say “No Santa!” The first time she saw Santa at a shopping mall, though, she pointed at him and insisted, “See, Mommy, he is real!”
I told her to go ahead and sit on his lap, but to be sure to feel the backs of his ears for the hooks that held his beard in place. She did just that, later admitting, somewhat reluctantly,” It’s true, Mommy. He’s not real.”
“That right,” I affirmed. “There is no man in a red suit flying through the air in a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer. Your single mother buys what she can afford for your Christmas. That’s what all parents do.”
Of course, the next school day she told all her classmates that Santa was a fake. Her shocked and disapproving teacher gave her detention for the next three days, leaving her traumatized for some time to come. In fact, eighteen years later, when I walked into her hospital room, my arms reaching for my new granddaughter, Morgan, Melanie held her baby close and growled, “This child will believe in Santa Claus!”
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Speak Up Spoken Word Open Mike for the Arts is coming to Union County. It will be hosted by Faye Fulton and Linda Goodman, both of whom are professional storytellers. Beginning January 8, 2015, the event will be held on the second Thursday of each month in the community room at the UCCAC building, 120 N. Main Street in historic downtown Monroe. We will start at 7:00 PM and go until 9:00 PM. Each person who wants to speak will get 10 minutes (max). Faye and Linda will use the sound of a whistle to signal the end of your 10 minute time limit.
Storytellers, poets, comedians, singers, writers, and musicians are all welcome. Each week we will have a Featured Performer who goes on at 8:30 PM for half an hour. Our first three speakers will be musician and storyteller Ken Halstead, of Waxhaw, NC (January 8), storyteller Martha Reed Johnson, of Florence SC (February 12), and Lona Bartlett, of Charlotte, NC (March 12). A hat will be passed to get gas money so the feature can get home.
Speak Up is the brain child of Tony Toledo, a professional storyteller who resides in Beverly, Massachusetts. Tony has been successfully hosting Speak Up Spoken Word Open Mic in Lynn, MA for almost a decade. Although the Lynn, MA group started small, in 2010 they had to move to a larger venue due to its popularity. We expect Union County to have the same success. Linda sought Tony’s permission to use the Speak Up name in Union County, and he said, “Go for it!”
Faye Fulton and Linda Goodman are both on UCCAC’s Artist Directory. They both share a love for storytelling and the spoken word, and they are excited about bringing Speak Up Spoken Word to Union County.
Anyone seeking more information, or would like to be considered as a future feature, should call Faye Fulton at 704-421-3220 or email her at email@example.com.
See you at Speak Up Union County!
Monday, November 24, 2014
by Linda Goodman
©Linda Goodman 1996
When my family lived in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, the food that we ate at our Thanksgiving Day meal was the same as what we ate on any other day: soup beans and cornbread. Occasionally, there would be meat, if Daddy had been out hunting.
What made the meal different was a ritual that my Daddy insisted upon observing on Thanksgiving. Before eating, each of us sitting around the table would, one by one, give thanks for that for which he or she was most grateful. Not having much in the way of material possessions, our thanks usually were given for treasured relationships. One year, after I had recovered from a severe bout with pneumonia, I was surprised to hear my brothers give thanks for my survival. It changed the way I felt about them, and their constant teasing was easier to take after that. I gave thanks for my new baby sister. Mama was thankful for well-behaved children, and Daddy was thankful that he had been blessed with children who were thinkers. If you use your head, you will come out ahead, he always said.
When we moved to the city, Thanksgiving remained the same. My parents refused to assimilate into the city culture, and so our meals and rituals never changed. We children eventually adopted city ways, but Mama and Daddy held to the old ways until their deaths.
The Thanksgiving after they passed away, my sister and her family came to spend the holiday with me in Connecticut. I fixed a traditional meal of turkey, dressing, and various side dishes. Before eating, my sister and I decided to reinstate the old ritual that we had taken part in so often. One by one our children gave thanks. My daughter was thankful for the new dress she had gotten for the Christmas dance at school. My nephew was thankful for his Nintendo. My niece was glad that her allowance had been increased. No one mentioned family or friends.
I abandoned the ritual after that. It just was not the same with its new emphasis on material possessions. On Thanksgiving day, we have a bountiful meal and good companionship. Everyone seems happy. But I always make sure to take a few minutes alone to give thanks for the wonderful man who taught me that it is not who you are, but how you live, that matters most; and that anyone who has a loving family is rich indeed.