Moving from the East Coast to the West Coast can create some unexpected language problems. At times, it felt as if I’d entered a foreign land.

 

When you make the move, you have to learn how to adjust. How I attempted to do this is explained in . . .

 

 

Tawk To Me

 

Introduction 

     Earlier this year, March 2, 2020, to be exact, I met a couple, Julia and John, up at the Orchard Creek Lodge in Sun City Lincoln Hills—our active adult community. As we chatted, Julia commented, “It doesn’t sound like you’re from California. Are you from the East Coast?” she asked. “Maybe Boston. Guess you haven’t been here long, since you have such a strong accent.”

     I cringed when she said, “Boston,” and replied, “I’m from New York, born and raised there. I came to California when I was twenty and have lived here for over fifty-five years.”

     “That’s surprising,” she said. “You’d think your accent wouldn’t be as prominent by now.”

     “Well, if you have a few minutes, I can tell you why it is.” She turned and looked at John, who didn’t appear very interested.

     “I’m going to go look at some books in the library area, but you can stay,” he said. “However, make it quick. I don’t want to eat lunch too late.” Then, without acknowledging me, he left.

     “Sometimes I wish he’d take a greater interest in the people we meet,” Julia said. “He’s a good guy, but likes to keep to himself. Enough about him. I want to hear your story.”

     “Okay, let’s sit over there.” We went over to two soft, comfortable chairs and plopped down. She leaned back, and I began . . .

 

My Story

     I was born in the Bronx, New York, and raised on Long Gisland—the “s” is silent and, yes, it starts with a “G.” Since my friends, family, and teachers were all from the same “country,” New York, they understood me when I tawked.

     It was not until age 14 that I realized my perfect diction might not be understood beyond my country’s borders. That summer, my parents sent me to an overnight camp on the New York-Massachusetts state line. Many of the campers came from Massachusetts.

     I decided to try out for a play and was delighted to get a role. To my surprise, I had the opening line in the show. The line was, “Hark! The mail train is on time again.” The audience was composed of campers and their parents from both New York and Massachusetts. I stood erect, at the front of the stage, extended my right arm, pointed up in the air, and shouted, “Hawk! The mail train is on time again.” As far as I know, to this day, many audience members are still looking for that elusive bird.

     Did this experience prepare me for life in California? Not quite. One of the first people I met when I arrived here introduced himself to me as Berry. I looked at him and said, “That’s a strange name for a guy.”

     He seemed confused by my remark. “My mother named me after Berry Goldwater,” he said. “It’s a common name.”

     “Oh, you mean, Barry.”

     “Isn’t that what I said?”

     During my first year in graduate school at UCLA, I worked as a teaching assistant in an Educational Psychology class. I got a call from Dr. Jones early one morning. “Alan, I’m not feeling very well,” she said. “Can you teach the class this afternoon?”

     “Yes, I’d be happy to. However, I’m a little uneasy, since I’ve never done it before,” I responded.

     “You’ll do fine”, she assured me. “The subject is the ‘Hawthorne Effect.’”

     “That afternoon, about 150 students poured into the large lecture hall. I stood before them and smiled. “Please take your seats. The subject of today’s session is the “Horthorne Effect.” Students began to look at one another, somewhat confused.

     So I wrote the words on the blackboard, and a student yelled out, “Oh, you mean the . . . ‘Hawthorne Effect.’” Everything was right with the world.

     After that experience, I thought the appropriate thing to do was to learn how to speak “Californian.” I tried hard, but still would say such things as, “I have an ‘idear’ I’d like to share with you,” and, “My sister’s name is ‘Ritar.'”

     Two years later, I was hired as a Psychology instructor at Moorpark College, a community college in Southern California. My students seemed enthusiastic, but had trouble understanding some of the things I was saying—not the concepts, but how I pronounced my words. And to be honest, I had trouble understanding them.

     One of the best examples of our inability to communicate was with the words, “Mary, merry, and marry,” which flowed from their mouths as, “Merry, merry, and merry.” I impressed upon them that they better be careful, because in an effort to befriend Mary and make merry, they may end up having to marry her.

     Well, no matter how hard I tried, in their ears, I still spoke a foreign language. And for me, I found it had one great advantage. Since they often didn’t understand me, they had to pay attention and ask me to clarify what I had said. This seemed far better then becoming fluent in their language.

     Today, over fifty years since this incident, I’m much more a Californian than a New Yorker. But when I open my mouth, it’s obvious one thing has never changed.

 

Conclusion

     “Wow! I enjoyed the story. The decision you made to keep your accent makes perfect sense. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

     “No, thank you for listening.”

     She smiled and said, “I better go find John.” As she walked away, she looked back at me and said, “You mentioned you were a writer. Why don’t you write the story? I think others would find it interesting.”

     And so I did.

 

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

What was your life like in high school? Were you a part of the in-crowd?

 

Or did you stand on the sidelines wondering what it would be like to be one of the social elite. Then, after many years, you attend your high school reunion and find that . . .

 

 

 Time Takes Its Revenge

 

     “Hey! You’re choking me. Get your arm off my neck. I can’t breathe.”    

     “Shut your face, dweeb. Give me your lunch money. Now!”

     “No way!” 

     “I said, now!”

      “What are you doing? Those are my glasses. Give them back to me. I can’t see a thing.”

     “Give me the money or I’ll step on them, you little twerp.”

     I wasn’t about to give in. Without my glasses, the world looked like one big fuzz ball. All of a sudden, I spun around two or three times and fell to the ground. I could hear the quarters I had grasped in my hand go plink, plink, plink, plink, as they hit the tile floor. Then the bell sounded ending the lunch hour. My now empty hand rested on my glasses. I grabbed them and pushed them back into place on my face. I looked around and saw nobody. Otto Krenshaw, the jerk who tormented me, had absconded with my lunch money.

     Forty-four years have passed since the incident in the Granite Oaks High School cafeteria. As a fourteen-year-old freshman, a self-identified bookworm, I didn’t possess the ability to fight the bullies who tormented me.

     Why think about this now, while lounging in my living room in the beige recliner, with my computer in my lap, at eight thirty on a Wednesday evening in the middle of March? Well, I received an invitation on my laptop to attend my fortieth high school reunion. Nice? I’m not so sure, given my history at the school.

     I did graduate second in my class. However, the honor didn’t mean I had been the second most popular student in the class. Jocks, like Otto, cheerleaders, and others who thought of themselves as important and popular rejected me. My girlfriend in my senior year came from Valley High, twelve miles from our town, where my reputation didn’t precede me.

     I muttered, “Why would I want to put myself through a hellish reunion with those asses who made a mockery of my high school life?”

     My wife, Michelle, sprawled out on the brown leather couch, immersed in the latest Dean Koontz novel, looked up. “What are you mumbling about?”

     “Oh, I got an invitation to my fortieth class reunion.”

     “So? You never go to those. What’s the problem?”

     “Maybe this time I should. You know, face the demons of my past.”

     “Come on, now. We have a nice life. You make good money as a sales executive. We have a son who’s a lawyer and daughter who’s a chiropractor. You’re on the city council. What do you have to prove to anyone?”

     “Nothing I guess, but . . . ”

     “But what?”

     “That I was as good then as I am now and they should’ve accepted me for being me.”

     “How do you propose to do that, my sweet?”

     “I haven’t a clue.”

     “Well, let’s sleep on it. You don’t need to make a decision tonight.”

     “Guess not. The email gave the date of the reunion dinner—June 8, 2016. It said more details would follow.”

     We closed up the house and made our way down the hall to the master bedroom. Once in bed, I rolled over and gave Michelle a not so passionate kiss.

     “Can’t you do better than that?” she groaned. “Are you still dwelling on the reunion?”

     “Yeah, I can’t get it out of my head. I never told you about the most demeaning thing that happened to me in high school. It was too embarrassing.”

     “Something worse than the lunch money crap you told me a guy named Otto put you through.”

     “Much worse.”

     “Okay, I’m listening. But make it quick. My energy level is falling fast.”

     “Well, almost two years later, during my junior year, at the annual homecoming dance in late October, I fell prey to the very worst trick one could imagine. I didn’t have a date and didn’t plan to go to the dance. I got a call less than a week before the Friday night extravaganza. Can you guess who called?”

     “You don’t mean, Otto?”

     “You’re quite sharp, aren’t you?”

     “Well, you did marry me for my brains, didn’t you? Although, I am very beautiful.”

     “Yes, you are. I’m fortunate you gave me a chance to prove myself to you.”

     “Come on. What’s the rest of the story? What’d Otto say?”

     “He said Ellen, one of the in-group, needed a date for the dance. The college guy she planned to go with had his mid-term rescheduled and he had to study for it. He told me he owed me for the way he treated me over the years. So he suggested to her I take her.”

     “And she jumped at the chance, I suppose.”

     “Not exactly. The word he said she used was . . . ‘whatever.’”

     “So, what did you say?” Michelle asked.

     “Not being the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree with regard to social things, I replied, ‘I’d love to go.’ And then it all went down hill from there.”

     “Okay, keep going. I’m wide awake now.”

     “When I got off the phone, I had to make some quick decisions. I needed to decide what I’d wear and how I’d get us to the dance, since I didn’t have my driver’s license yet.”

     “Wow! This is getting interesting.”

     “We lived in a small town. Had only one tux shop—Krenshaw Formal Wear. Otto, working as his dad’s salesperson, said all they had left was a striped, seersucker tuxedo with a polka dot bow tie and matching cummerbund. I had no choice, so I took it.”

     “You wore it to the dance?” she questioned in utter disbelief.

      “Yes. But an even greater obstacle stood before me—transportation to the affair at the Veteran’s Hall.”

     “Well, how did you get there?”

     “Uh, my mother drove us. Ellen had a weird grin on her face as we began the six-mile drive. But then, without warning, she broke out in uncontrollable laughter. I didn’t think she would ever stop. However, as we rolled up to the hall, she did.”

     “Okay, so what happened at the dance?”

     “The beginning of the evening was uneventful. We had a nice tossed salad and a good tasting steak and rice pilaf entree. Nobody spoke much to me. I ate and listened to the conversation. Ellen and I even danced a couple of fast dances. I sorta asked her for a slow dance, but she ignored me. And then . . .

     “The room became quiet as the class president, Ronald Ball, moved to the microphone on the stage. The band played a crescendo and then the music disappeared behind Ronald. In a strong melodic voice, he announced the selection of the Homecoming King. After the king, Mark Lewis, said a few words, Ronald announced the Homecoming Queen choice. To my surprise, he called Ellen Fortunado, my date, to the stage. Then, my world fell apart.”

     “What do you mean, fell apart?”

     “Ellen thanked the nominating committee for her selection. To my surprise, she asked me to stand. So, being naïve, I did. She pointed to me and introduced me as her date—the guy dressed in the clown suit, whose mother chauffeured us to the dance. Didn’t even mention my name. Hysterical laughter broke out. It became overwhelming. I bowed my head in shame, hoping I would disappear.

     “It could’ve been worse. But the quick-thinking bandleader got the band in motion and blasted out a fast tune. People started to move toward the dance floor and the excruciating moment drifted into the past for those gathered, but not for me.

     “A week later, I found out I’d been set up, not just with the date, but also to be humiliated in a way that still hurts today. And Otto had planned the whole thing.”

     “Then why do you want to go to the reunion?” Michelle murmured.

     “To finally stand up for myself. Maybe get revenge.”

     “But, how?”

     “I need to think about it a couple of days. Let’s get some sleep.”

     Three days passed. I received a follow-up email about the reunion. “Oh my, it’s going to be a ‘sock hop’ and we’re encouraged to come in costume,” I muttered. My eyes opened wide as I realized what I had to do. I began to develop a plan for my ultimate revenge. I sat at my desk in my home office, with a large grin on my face, when Michelle entered.

     “Why do you look so pleased?” she asked.

     I smiled. “We’re going to the reunion.”

     “How did you come to that conclusion?”

     “The reunion has a theme. It’s going to be a ‘sock hop’ . . . a costume affair. You’ll wear a poodle skirt, a white blouse, and a scarf around your neck. You’ll look great.”

     “And you? What are you going to wear?”

     “Not wear . . . be.”

     “Okay, be. What are you going to be?”

     “A nerd.”

     “That’s absurd!” she screamed.

     “Why?”

     “It sounds ridiculous. Why recreate the painful time you had in high school? You’re not a nerdy kid anymore. You don’t even wear glasses. You got contacts years ago. You’re a successful businessman. Pretty good-looking, too. Why not show the creeps they’re no better than you are?”

     “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” But, to be honest, I had no idea why I decided to reinvent the nerd I used to be. Over the next couple of weeks, this plagued me.

     Then one night, it dawned on me. At a convenient point in the evening, I would disappear into the restroom, take off my nerd attire and return dressed as the handsome, savvy man of fifty-eight I am today. I would then strut and flaunt my greatness in front of those who had gotten enjoyment at my expense in high school. They would applaud what I’d become.

     This all seemed so right. I sent my RSVP to the reunion coordinator, a pretty high school cheerleader, as I recall. Then, I began to surf the net for “sock hop nerd” photos.

     My costume began to come together. Attired in black, horn-rimmed glasses with tape on the bridge over my nose; hair parted in the middle and slicked down; a black bowtie affixed to a white, striped shirt; and plaid pants rolled high to expose my white sox and black shoes, I would look like a geek to the nth degree. Just call me “super nerd.” I’d be every girl’s nightmare.

     I didn’t share my attire with Michelle until the night of the reunion. I dressed in the guest bedroom, strolled down the hall to the living room, and stood in front of Michelle, who sat on the couch. She was speechless. “Are you ready to go?” I asked.

     “I see you are,” she replied. “And you look amazing. So take my arm and escort me to our chariot. This is going to be quite an evening.”

     Michelle and I took the one and a half hour trip down Lakeshore Highway to the Lakeport Inn, the site of my “coming back party.” The Lakeport Inn, an exclusive country club in the plush community of Lakeport, sat at the base of a lush green hillside. We pulled our late-model, silver Subaru up to the valet parking area in front of the hotel. A polite attendant, dressed in a red plaid vest and matching red tie, sporting a picture of the inn, opened the door and directed us to the ballroom for the reunion event. We arrived right on time for my grand entrance.

     I didn’t know what to expect, as we made our way through the beautiful lobby, with its elegant carpeting and pricy artwork, down a long hallway toward the ballroom. We approached the reception table in front of the tall, gold ballroom doors. The sign posted beside the table read, “Welcome to the Granite Oaks High School, Class of 1976, 40^th Reunion.”

     The woman sitting behind the reception table was “well rounded,” to say the least. She wore cheerleading garb and Sarah Palin-like glasses. Her nametag read, “Marci Garber, Cheerleading Captain.”   

     “I’m Rob Tucker and this is my wife Michelle,” I stated with conviction. Super nerd checked in, dressed to the hilt. To my surprise, she gave me a wonderful welcome.

     “Rob, thank you for coming. You look great. You’re at Table Two. By the way, there is someone who is very anxious to reunite with you.”

     I looked puzzled. Who did she think she was kidding when she said I looked great?

     “Who wants to see me?” I asked.

     “Otto Krenshaw,” she replied.

     “Otto Krenshaw wants to see me?” Unbelievable, I thought.

     “He asked to sit at your table.”

     As we proceeded into the ballroom, I thought this must be another set-up, a scheme to embarrass the campus geek one more time—a plan forty years in the making. Michelle grabbed my arm as we walked toward our table. My eyes scanned the group gathered in the room—many of them out of shape, overweight, bespectacled, middle-aged men and women. They all looked like me, but I dressed in costume. They tried to look “sock hop cool.”

     When I arrived at the table, a man, about six feet tall, balding, and at least one hundred pounds overweight, wearing black horn-rimmed glasses and a blue letterman’s sweater, stood before me. This wasn’t the same buff jock who bullied me in high school. I began to make a sarcastic comment, but had second thoughts and held my tongue.

     Smiling, he exclaimed, “Rob, it’s me, Otto. It’s so great to see you.”

     Any thought of payback disappeared from my mind. Time had taken its revenge. I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Hello, Otto. It’s so nice to see you, too, after all these years.”

 

 

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Have you ever found yourself in a predicament you couldn’t get out of? In trying to extricate yourself, you made all the wrong assumptions and blamed the wrong people.

 

The more you tried to find an explanation for what was happening, the more confusing it got. This is what occurred in the . . .

 

 

Jewel In The Crown

 

     “It’s missing,” I screamed, my face showing signs of pain and confusion. “It’s nowhere to be found, nowhere.”

     “What are you talking about?” Crystal asked.

     “My mother’s beautiful ring, the one with the irreplaceable stone. It’s missing. Gone!”

     “What do you mean, gone? I saw you put it in the top drawer of the dresser in our bedroom.” 

     “No, not the ring. It’s the stone I’m talking about. It’s missing. The setting is in the dresser, but the space that held the jewel is empty.”

     “Josh, that stone is so small. For a few dollars, we can replace it.”

     “You don’t understand. That stone may be small, but it’s quite rare. As far as I know, there are only three of its size and kind in the world. Collectors would do anything to get their hands on it.”

     “And you, you dolt, kept such a valuable gem in the top drawer of our dresser. What kind of an idiot are you? We have a safe deposit box at the bank. Why didn’t you use it?”

     “My mother’s been gone about a month. You know my sister and I just finished settling her estate last week. I didn’t think much about the stone. It’s tiny. I didn’t think anybody would believe it had any value. And now it’s gone.”

     Crystal gasped, “Well, call the police.”

     “And say what?” I groaned. “Tell them I have this inexpensive ring setting that had a precious gem in it? They’d think I’d gone mad.”

     “And they’d be right. If not the police, then what is your plan?”

     “I don’t know. Who could’ve taken it? Who had the opportunity? And when did they do it?”

     Crystal spoke in a somewhat condescending manner, “Maybe it fell out in the drawer. It must be mixed in with your underwear.”

     “No, it’s not there. I turned the drawer upside down. I checked under and all around the dresser. I found nothing.”

     “Josh, calm down. Did you check other places in the house where you had the ring? Remember, you showed it to me in the kitchen when I was preparing the finger food and apple pie for my Mahjong group.”

     “Yeah, I did. I looked everywhere, but there was no sign of it.”

     “Could it have fallen into the food, when you reached in to get a bite?”

     “No way, Crystal. You’re grasping at straws. The next thing you’re going to tell me is somebody must have eaten it.”

     “Oh, come on now. Don’t be foolish.”

     “All right. What do you suggest?”

     “Uh, Josh,” she stammered.

     “Yes.”

     “Saturday, when you attended our grandson’s ballgame, I did have seven women over to play Mahjong.”

     “So, what does that have to do with what we’re talking about?”

     “Well, two of them, I didn’t know—Irena’s friends. And they had free run of the house. Maybe . . .”

     “Maybe what?” She seemed deep in thought. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? One of them took the stone. But, why would they want to rip us off? And how would they have known about the ring and that I’d put it in the chest of drawers in our bedroom?”

     “I don’t know. But one, I think her name was Kieran, asked many questions about the kinds of jewelry we women had and if any of it was of significant value. She pointed out her husband was in the business.”

     “Yeah, that’s interesting. But you didn’t even know the ring contained an expensive stone. Why would you even mention it?”

     “I didn’t. But, you know how I like to come across as having money so I’m accepted as part of the social elite. It’s possible I led them to believe we had stuff that was worth something, ah . . . well, worth more than something. I believe Kieran’s ears perked up at the time. The other woman, Kieran’s sister-in-law, Angela, also seemed very interested. Both left the Mahjong tables a couple of times for potty breaks, so they did have time to search the house.”

     “Is Angela or her husband in the jewelry business?”

     “I don’t believe so. I think she said her husband, Kieran’s brother, was a dentist.”

     “If they took the stone, they’ve had it two days now. Assuming Kieran’s jeweler husband knows its worth and is aware of the collectors who would like to get their hands on it, he would have to hide it until he could put a possible deal together. And that may take some time.”

     Crystal sighed, “Hiding it wouldn’t be hard. It’s so small. You could hide it anywhere.”

     “Maybe not. It would have to be easy to access so potential buyers could see it on demand.”

     “Couldn’t we find out who the buyers are and call and ask if they’ve been approached?”

     “No, that’s not the way it’s done in the high end, quite secret, stolen jewelry business.”

     “Then, how?” she asked, somewhat frustrated.

     “By placing an obscure ad in the newspapers where these dealers live. This is the only way they trust. They don’t want to do it by phone or the Internet. These ways can be tapped into.”

     “How do you know all this?”

     “I saw a documentary on it a couple of months ago.”

     “Wow! A documentary. No wonder you’re so smart and don’t want to bring the police into it.”

     “Crystal, cut the sarcastic crap. The police wouldn’t know where to start.”

     “And you do?” she questioned, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

     “Well, I might.”

     “Okay, spill it.”

     “Let’s reconstruct the scene on Saturday. Seven women played Mahjong at our house. Five of these women you know very well. Therefore, we can rule them out as suspects. Right?”

     “Yes, that’s right.”

     “Two of the women you didn’t know. Both of these women seemed very interested in our jewelry and they did leave the game tables on a few occasions. Therefore, they had the opportunity to find and pocket the jewel.”

     “Yeah, you could say that.”

     “There, you have it.”

     “Have what?” she screamed, quite exasperated.

     “Both motive and opportunity,” I replied, my eyes gleaming in delight over my discovery.

      “So we know one or both women played a part in stealing the stone. But where is it now?” she queried.

     “Hmm. Let’s see,” I pondered. “The two women stole the stone. However, while they are the thieves, they are not the ones with the contacts or the know-how to dispose of the gem and reap the profits. Aha, that’s the role their husbands play.”

     “So what do they do with the jewel until they can secure a buyer?”

     “Well. Hmm. We have two men, one a jeweler, the other a dentist.” I became silent, as I thought this through.

     “Josh, did you fall asleep?” More silence and then . . .

     “Oh my! It all makes sense now.”

     “Huh, what makes sense? You’ve lost me.”

     “Don’t you see, it’s the old ‘Jewel in the Crown’ caper.”

     “What crown? What are you talking about, Josh?”

     “See, Crystal, the jeweler knows the value of the gemstone. However, he needs to keep it hidden until a buy can be arranged. That’s where the dentist comes in.”

     “Comes in?  Comes in from where?”

     “No, you’re not following me. Dentists repair teeth. They put crowns on very bad teeth. They shave the underlying tooth down to a nub and glue the crown to it. Since the crown is hollow, the jewel can be kept hidden within it until it needs to be removed for sale.”

     “Okay, that’s where the stone is. But in whose mouth?”

     “Well, it can’t be the dentist’s, so it must be the jeweler’s.”

     “Josh, you’ve got to call the police.”

     “All in good time, Crystal. All in good time.”

     “What do we do now?”

     “Do you still have some of the wonderful apple pie you served the women Saturday afternoon?”

     “Why, yes, but how can you think about pie at a time like this?”

     “Because I’m hungry. Why must you ask all these questions?”

     “All right, I’ll get it. Go sit at the table.”

     “Okay, give me a big piece.”

     “Yes, yes. Your wish is my command, your majesty.”

     “That looks so good.”

     “Eat slow. Your acid reflux will act up, if you eat too fast.”

     “Yum. Ow! Ow! Ptooey. Oh, God, I need a dentist.”

     “What are you talking about? I didn’t think we were going after the dentist right now.”

     “No, no, I bit into something hard. I think I broke my tooth.”

     “You what?” she asked in amazement. Staring at me, she blurted, “Josh, what did you spit out of your mouth? Is that the missing jewel on your plate?”

     “Oh, Crystal, stop it. My tooth hurts like hell. I’m probably going to need a crown.”

     Now quite perturbed with all I had put her through, she quipped, “You do deserve one, honey. And by the way, why don’t you stick the jewel in it.”

 

 

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Gifting is a significant part of our lives. We give gifts to and receive them from individuals who play an important role in our life.

 

Often, the act of giving becomes a gift, in and of itself. Such can be the case on . . .

 

 

Your First Day

 

You are enthusiastic

and anxious,

like an actor

behind the curtain

waiting for it

to rise,

or a general

leading troops

Into the throes

of battle.

In your heart

burns the desire

of expected victory.

The hope churning

in your gut

is strong

and driving,

like the fury

of bulls

charging into the arena.

The goal

of success

captivates you.

You grow stronger

with the anticipation

of the accolades following

a remarkable performance.

 

They stare

at you

in awe,

awaiting what you

have to say.

Embrace the sparkle

in their eyes,

on this

your first day

of teaching.

 

 

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Growing up our mother plays a major role in our lives. Sometimes, however, she can be overbearing.

 

How do you handle a mother who is ever-present? You’ll soon find out in . . .

 

 

A Story To Tell

Now Dominic Pittori had a story, a story he needed to tell.

So he called the local paper to talk to a reporter, a man he knew quite well.

 

As they engaged in conversation, one thing led to another.

They talked about their kids, their wives, and then his mother.

 

To some this may seem strange, but to others, it was quite apparent.

For Dominic’s mother played a significant role in his life, as a rather overbearing    

     parent.

 

His mother, a combination of Lucille Ball and Sarah Palin, could drive you to 

     distraction.

Her crazy, over-the-top manner, and controlling presence could be compared to 

     a nuclear reaction.

 

She ranted and raved and butted into his affairs, turning his life askew.

He tried as he might to do what was right, but nothing he did would do.

 

In high school, he remembered a time he wanted to date a girl older than he.

Well, his mother found out about his intentions and told him this could not be.

 

Then at his college frat party, as a redheaded clown, she appeared from behind a 

     screen.

Dancing and prancing and showing her behind, a sight to behold, she caused 

     quite a scene.

 

He urged her to desist from her embarrassing ways, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Although he knew her intentions were good, her rude and annoying actions       

     brought out his worst fears.

 

His wedding to the girl of his dreams made him cringe, as his mother insisted on 

     walking him down the aisle.

As such, she stood between him and his bride-to-be, becoming the center of 

     attention, which was her style.

 

When her grandchildren came into the world, she demanded she name them, 

     an honor reserved for a husband and wife.

As much as he protested, his pleading went unheard, as she made him feel 

      selfish for denying her this pleasure in life.

 

Dominic wanted to become an artist of note and showed his portraits and  

     scenes with pride.

But praise did not come from the mother he loved, so he sat in her shadow       

     and cried.

 

Levi, the reporter, his friend, asked what he could do, as he did not understand 

      the purpose of the call.

Tears welled up in Dominic’s eyes as he muttered, “My mother has had a 

      terrible accident and has died from the fall.”

 

“I am sorry to hear of her demise, but what do you want me to do, for I did not      

      know her well.”

Shaking, the words slowly emerged from his mouth, “I called you my friend, 

      because I have a story to tell.”

 

 

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.