Losing at the Slots

Last night was too much fun! With only a couple days at Treasure Island in Vegas, I was excited to find a gambling buddy!

He was winning nicely on one of their quarter slot machines when I started hitting on mine just a couple away. He glanced over with dancing eyes. Obviously this nameless gentleman enjoyed watching others win as much as scoring for himself. His attitude was downright infectious!

A real estate broker, at least 60 years old, he visits Las Vegas monthly. It is quite apparent that he is aware of a gambling problem. This knowledge keeps him staying and playing the small ticket slots.

Our chatter was all about the thrill of the spin as much as the excitement of the win; the anticipation of the ‘almost’ and the groan of nothing at all.

I was up $100 when I realized I was expected with my group for dinner. It was a fabulous meal but the fever kept me restless!

Two hours later I'm back anxiously looking about for some sign of my compadre. The sulk ended as I heard, then saw him pop around the corner looking for me and coming back for more.

Alas though, Lady Luck had deserted me. With despair, I spun away my winnings and then some. A momentary burst of excitement ignited as my friend hit the biggest jackpot of the night - 809 quarters! We whooped and hollered! But, even his hit too quickly started dwindling and the evening was now late and it was time to part.

A pat on his back and a simple thanks sent me smiling on my way having enjoyed such delightful camaraderie during this crazy, fun night!

**This great picture (taken outside the Treasure Island Hotel where they presented "Sirens of TI") is from RoadsideAmerica.com. (A Siren in Greek mythology is a creature half bird and half woman who lures sailors by the sweetness of her song.)

Duathlon

I couldn’t conceive of doing the triathlon; can’t swim. But, I was intrigued to discover that there was a duathlon. No swimming; only running and biking. I had biked off and on for several years, but had only been running for about 6 weeks. Frankly, this in itself was quite a feat for me. The last 30 years were spent telling anyone who suggested jogging or running as a viable form of exercise or stress relief, just how much I despised it. There I was, though, stretching and pacing about with a group of a hundred of my peers preparing to run 2 miles, bike 18.5 miles and then run another 3.1. There were 500 plus other participants who would start off swimming one-half mile rather than run the first 2 miles. They were the triathletes.

I was prepared for a big “On your mark. Get set. GO!” or ”Runners, take your positions!” Instead, there was a low key announcement made over a bullhorn about 20 minutes after the event was scheduled to begin. So low key that only the movement of the crowd ahead registered for me a sure start of the run.

I was towards the back, but not for long. I quickly became the tail end. My initial strategy was to stay with those around me, but they had obviously been in training a couple more weeks than I had been. My anxiety increased as I struggled to find my rhythm. I gulped at the air, panting uncontrollably. When I finally shook my head and composed myself, I dedicated my focus to self encouragement. “Relax, focus, get the rhythm. There it is. Okay now, there’s a good chance, I say, a real good chance of coming in last here. That’s going to be okay. I’m here only to see how well I can do. I’m not competing with anyone. So, just relax and have fun.” It was apparent that I was way out of my league; but, I was feeling calmer and determined to stay the course.

The first run was one mile out and one mile back using the same path. With only the first ½ mile behind my back, several of my newfound mentors (I had to drop the notion of peers) were already returning. They were sprinting easily and chatting about who could even imagine what. I turned the corner exiting the park and felt the turmoil in the air as a dozen of them wind channeled past me. They were within minutes of transitioning to their bikes; but, I refused to dwell on that and continued to forge ahead.

A trick I had learned, though potentially dangerous, was to keep my eyes to the ground while I run. It is the only way I can concentrate without getting overwhelmed at the distance still left to be covered.

I raised my head searching for the one mile turnaround and to my surprise, see another lone runner still moving toward it. Hmmm. I look away, then back again. I do believe that his frame size increased with that glance. One more test confirmed that I was not only keeping up, but I was gaining on him. Now, this was exciting! My legs didn’t move any faster but my mind was fired up. ”Oh, yes. He is mine!”

He rounded the corner a quarter mile ahead of me. He started his journey back and saw me. As we passed face to face, the silence was broken by the competing gasps of our panting. I made my turn and felt an internal rush as I closed in for the take! He must have tried to keep up with the pros longer than I had because I passed him with ease. My personal victory soured a bit though as he mumbled “I suppose this means I’m it.” It was more of a statement than a question. Since I had just learned myself what it was like to give in to accepting last place, I offered “You’ll catch up with me on the bike!” Then I slowly yet proudly left him in my dust!

My triumph was short lived. I gazed ahead to see bikes whipping out of the park. These riders were runners and swimmers. The swimming heats were every ten minutes. (My group of runners started off with the first heat.) I turned back into the park with a half-mile stretch still ahead of me. The riders were intense. Some hollered words of encouragement. Embarrassed, my speed picked up, but not by much. By the time I got back to the transition area, few people were watching for runners coming back in. Most had forwarded their support to the swimmers and riders.

My friend, Denise, though, bless her soul, was there for me. She cheered me in, offered me water, led me to my bike, and excitedly sent me off again! Passing the first riding checkpoint on my way out, I heard someone yell, “Make sure you stay all the way to the right with that bike.” I didn’t have to look around. I knew who he was talking to. I nodded and dug into cycling. The hundreds of bikes that overtook me were stupendous to look at. The speed and ease of their ride was fun to watch. (Yes, I was envious; and clearly, even in my fogged state, knew this was my old cloppy bike’s last ride.)

I decided not to use the odometer or stop watch on my bike. I didn’t need any discouragement; I wanted to finish this ride without regard to time and place. I’d ridden 30 miles on my bike before. Now that I had plenty of time ahead of me to think, I calculated that that had been 15 years prior. I wondered why I hadn’t added any training into my regimen for the cycling piece of this event. It would have been a good idea.

We rode the perimeter of the lake. It took me over an hour. I was alone most of the time except for the occasional group of riders who had swum in the later heats and sped past.

Three quarters of the way through the ride, I broke the intensity by wondering when the last time was that I had been out riding like this. “I should take advantage and enjoy the beauty of the land.” That did nothing for my speed and instead, led my mind to pine for the presence of my husband.

I buckled back down just as an athlete whizzed by me. “I think the last turn is at the bottom of the hill!” she shouted back. Yes! I peddled faster downhill, cruised around the corner and there it was! I choked back my extreme weariness at the enormous grand finale climb. “Concentrate, concentrate, you can do this! One spin of the wheel at a time!” It was an unbelievable feat reaching the top of that hill! There was one more mile, but an easy last mile.

Denise called out to me in glee and helped me park my bike. I couldn’t really talk. Mostly I just grunted and sucked down water. This was the last stage and before I could give it any thought, I started my final run. My legs were wobbly, but they were moving. I was torn between the excitement and settling back down. There was still much work to be done. I must have looked like hell because someone mistook my inability to function socially with negativity and chided me for not smiling and thanking him for his support.

I trotted through some trees on a dirt path leading out to the road. The final piece of this event was across the dam overlooking the lake. It was a narrow path for runners going both directions, but a befitting finale. As I started across the bridge there were a good many people returning. I was amazed at the number of people who had quit running altogether and were just walking fast. It had never occurred to me that I would see this. I had had no intention whatsoever of letting up. Granted, my run wasn’t that much over a fast walk... I went farther across the bridge. More and more people were walking. Gosh darn it. It just seemed like a good idea. I’d been moving for almost two hours now. No. No. And then I just did it. I slowed to a fast walk at the 2 mile marker. The sign itself seemed to scream at me to "Stop!" Horrified, I walked for only a few minutes and then took off again. Gratefully, I was in a running state when I heard someone say “Hey, I thought you said I would catch up with you on the bikes.” I shrugged as he passed going the other way and elated in my head “Oh, my God! I stayed ahead of him!” That took me a ways more, but I had lost my gait and had slowed down, making it harder to pull it all back together. I was feeling pain and weariness like I’d never felt before.

Back down the path through the trees and out into the gauntlet of the finish. Cheers led me to the line of completion, timing me at 2 hours and 14 minutes. Denise congratulated me! I walked around in a daze; dirty, breathless and exhausted.

I ranked 98 out of 100 in the duathlon. (There was another gentleman who dropped out during the ride.) Denise drove me home where I slept for the rest of the day (noon on). I didn’t run the rest of the year. It took everything I had that day. There’s a good chance, I say, a real good chance I needed more than 6 weeks of training.

A Little "Big Easy"

Sitting home tonight is downright boring! We're just 18 hours off the plane and ready to go back!

We left Ohio for New Orleans early Saturday so we'd have plenty of afternoon to explore. The plane rides were short, on time, and smooth sailing! We scurried to the Marriott Hotel at the edge of the French Quarter. We threw our belongings in the room, changed from winter to summer attire, and hit the streets.

There is no easing into the Big Easy. It hits you hard and fast. We found our way to Jackson Square with its entertainers and taro card readers, then down Decatur St., on to the French Market with its beignets, muffulettas, whilst jazz and blues waft through the air.

The muffaletta sandwich originated in New Orleans. It can be ordered as a whole or a half. Sitting outside at The Gazebo Cafe, Brian and I decided we would share a whole sandwich and accompany it with some onion rings and cheese fries. Good grief! There was enough food for 4 starvin’ folk! The muffuletta alone started with a 10" round foccacia bread. Sliced horizontally in half, the bread was then stuffed with meat and cheese and an olive oil salad of green and black olives, carrots and bits of cauliflower. Coupling that with an earthy live version of The Animals' "House of the Rising Sun" made it one delicious way to delve into N'awlins!

Bourbon Street, of course, was the highlight of the night. A group of us started with a spectacular dinner at the Red Fish Grill. Never have I tasted such a succulent blend of textures and spices as was prepared for my Hickory Red Fish dinner. Even my husband who is a definite hamburger and fry guy, enjoyed every bit of his Wahoo!

The rest of our party headed back to the hotel while Brian and I made our first nocturnal sojourn through this historic district. It was Saturday night and eight of the 14 blocks of Bourbon Street's French Quarter was lighted and coming alive! The balconies were becoming crowded with patrons dangling beads they were anxious to distribute. (The custom is a reward of beads for any girl daring enough to expose her breasts.) Tempting as it is to think about getting into the spirit of things, it is only fleeting. Surely, this would come back to haunt me.

Ever seen the walking, dancing Kool-Aid pitcher? I pointed at a corner bar and with a now needed raised voice asked Brian "Is that a walking hand grenade?" By golly, it was! Apparently an explosive advertisement for a popular shot drink sold amongst a carrier of red, white and blue test tubes. Seems to me there might be something wrong with that, but maybe I'm just 30 plus years out of step.

On another corner a man walked curiously around an elegant statue. Statue? No - mime. He touched her hand chattering with amazement to his wife. I interrupted by telling him he's not supposed to touch. "She's a mime and you should probably drop a dollar in her box to make up for your faux pas!" I proceeded then to take a dollar out and dramatically pay for her performance. She took my hand and sprinkled what I guessed to be mime dust in my hand with illustrated instructions to blow it in the wind. The man and woman enjoyed it all with wonder. They were from New Jersey, she said. "Obviously a long way from the cow pasture!"

A fresh stretch of balcony and I watched as a young woman arched her back to the boys above and exposed, might I say, some very large and voluptuous “tits” (street jargon). I'm grabbing Brian, "Did you see her?!" as she was showered with beads. He missed her! We walk by and I heard her shouting up "Show me your beads!" I tried to turn Brian. "Oh my gosh, she's doing it again!" He saw only her reward. Too much fun!

Music or sexy young women beckoned at each doorway. Back down the road and its getting louder and more raucous. A sign went up in the middle of it all. "Repent! Repent! Your sins!"

Restroom time encouraged us to enter a jazz house. I asked and was directed to a couple doors being loosely guarded by a man and woman. The lady opened the door and followed me in. The meaning of her presence didn't come to me until I came out of the stall. A squirt of some of the worst smelling soap at my hands while my attention was being drawn to a tip jar. A suggestive dollar hung over its edge. Rummaging for change reminded me of an experience in Mexico that was downright blackmail. If you didn’t have any tissue of your own, you were at their mercy!

One last pass through the party. The boys were leaning way over cat calling to all the girls to "show us your tits"! Those needing to repent were telling those wanting them to, to mind their own business. A girl's mechanical legs looked destined to swing in and out of Big Daddy's window for eternity. Novelty shops brightly advertised the voodoo and masks and vampire blood and boas. The music was down right energizing!

Next morning at breakfast, the chatter spanned beyond Bourbon Street.

You can gamble at Harrah's. It's right up the street from the Marriott. In fact, one of the instructors at the convention had been there and won $15,000 on a penny slot! What?! Apparently, if you play all options, it costs $4.00 to "pull the arm". That might be 400 pennies, but the potential is 1,500,000 of them! While he was waiting for his money, he hit a bonus $900 on another penny slot machine! Unbelievable.

A movie is currently being filmed right outside the Marriott on Canal Street. The production crew would block off the road and send a trolley down the stretch with people waving and screaming for no apparent reason. 12 Rounds is currently the name of it. My husband is sure that he was captured crossing the street at the perfect time and is destined to be a superstar.

The conference sponsors came to New Orleans to help stimulate the economy. Touched by the people, their culture, and recent plight, they embraced a local high school; contributing heavily to their lives and their education. It was a moving and soulful demonstration of extended community.

A late comer to breakfast found a seat next to me. I turned to look and smiled broadly as I recognized her as the girl with the great tits.

Phew! At least it wasn't me this time!

Skunked!

If you've ever flown, you have an airline story. If you've tried to fly these last couple weeks, you have horror stories of being left stranded for hours when Skybus chose to drop out of the race without notice, or the FAA decided to crack down for real on MD80 planes that had ties spaced 1/4" too far apart around some wires warranting failed inspections.

I've been fortunate enough to have a job that has had the fringe benefit of travel. I've been places I may never have ventured to on my own. Chicago is definitely my kind of town! Vancouver is an unbelievable experience. You can't vacation better than Los Cabos, Mexico where I celebrated my 50th birthday drinking Sammy Hagar's tequila in Sammy Hagar's bar, Cabo Wabo!

After a 15 year hiatus, my husband, Brian, and I returned to New Orleans for an extended business weekend.

The trip down went without a hitch. I try hard to listen and watch as the stewardess' drone on about passenger rules and regulations while using visual instructions to show how to buckle and unbuckle a seat belt. Definitely, you cannot smoke on a plane. Who doesn't know that? No matter where you are, you can no longer smoke unless specifically designated. Not my rule, but one the federal government is expected to enforce. And enforce they will if you smoke on a plane; especially if you try to put your cigarette out in the restroom's trash compartment forcing the stewardess to extinguish the fire that is ignited. I recall wondering who in the world would attempt to smoke in a plane this day and age. Well, I don't know who it is, but heard a first hand account of someone who's plane was forced down due to these very circumstances. Everyone suffered from it with a whopping 18 hour delay to their destination. Now, that's a bad day; though a great travel tale!

But, back to my adventure. On the way home from a terrific time in New Orleans (A Little "Big Easy"), there were three of us traveling together. We were informed that New Orleans still had staffing problems so we needed to be 3 hours early to get processed. Within 30 minutes of our arrival, we were sitting at our gate already informed that though our plane to Memphis was on time, we'd be delayed an hour for the final leg to Columbus. Two hours plus was left at our disposal. Our traveling companion, Tim, used that time to identify a suspicious character and scope out his activities. I preferred to slink down in my seat and catch up on emails. I did see the gentleman in question on the plane though as I was boarding. Dark, sinister eyes looked hard into mine. Tim had gotten to me!

Once in Memphis we were elated to see that our connecting flight was not delayed after all! We scurried through the unusually quiet halls of an airport to our new gate. A few minutes before we were to board is when it began. First the expected 40 minute delay, then another hour. More disconcerting than the detainments was when the customer service agent asked "Does anyone see any planes in the air?" And in her next breath our flight was cancelled altogether.

They drove their herd of commuters to various customer service counters to discuss available options. Separated from Tim, we were finally being helped by a young lady who immediately informed us, without a smile, that she was not clocked in and only stopped to help. Tim flew by hollering that he'd just gotten booked on a plane taking off in a few minutes to Columbus via Cincinnati. Excited, I asked our agent if we, too, could get on that flight. After a few precious minutes of silence except for the occasional tapping of keys, I inquired what our odds were. She could get us from here to Cincinnati, but not on to Columbus. Disappointed, I asked what's next. Well, come to find out we had already been booked by another agent for a new flight. I was going direct to Columbus, while Brian detoured through Detroit. "That's not good," I said (surely with exasperation). "We need to travel together." And perhaps with just a bit more frustration, I might have accusatorily asked "Who would separate us?" This merely elicited the story that she was not clocked in but had merely stopped by to help. She transferred me to the Detroit agenda and printed off our tickets just as Tim was back to say that the miracle flight he had gotten had left the gate before he could breathlessly arrive. The agent next to us sympathized immediately and re-ticketed him on our flight. "First Class!" he exclaimed with glee. Heading to our new gate together, I looked at our tickets. Heck, Brian was in first class also! Cool, but wait! What's this? Row 18? Our teller knew full well Brian and I were husband and wife! Even though the seat was obviously available for Tim, she blatantly chose to keep us apart.

I told the agent at the new gate what had happened. She chuckled and said she would see what she could do. We settled in for another wait. There was one announcement only about the threat level of the airline sector being Orange. Brian and I quietly discussed whether that was new or if it had been orange for a long time. Maybe we always just heard when it turned orange which is High but not when it lowered. We were already uncomfortable because of the suspicious character earlier in the day.

I sat first class with Brian on the way to Detroit. Just being on the move was the true highlight here. Did it mean we would be home any sooner? Even though we flew over and bypassed Columbus to get to Detroit, we were now only a 4 hour drive instead of an 8 hour drive should we need to change our plans. Take 2 through another series of delays. Meantime I inquired at the counter about the seating arrangements for the last leg home. The agent said she could move us together in the back of the bus (I'm now in row 25) but there was nothing up front. I decided to let Brian stay in first class for his comfort. It was a short ride.

Last to board, I was taken aback to see my 2 travel companions sitting with no one next to them. In fact, there were 8 seats open in first class. I just shook my head. Really now, what was the point?

It was noted in the paper a day or so later that enhanced security had been put into place that day we returned when pipe bombs were found on an arriving gentleman passenger in Florida. This served to cause a ripple throughout the airline schedules.

I might have said at the time that I had been skunked by the customer service agent who wasn't clocked in. But, yesterday, my dog decided to sniff the derrière of a real live skunk. I've a whole new respect for the terminology.

Like I said though, everyone who has ever flown has a story to tell.

Going Dutch

"Grandma, I'm so hungry!" The savory warmth coming from the chicken stewing atop the old coal stove was more than this little one could take. Great-Grandma Sadie turned with hands stuffed in the front pockets of her cotton house dress contemplating my mother. She smiled and surprised her beloved granddaughter with a thick slice of home baked bread spread with sweet butter; topped with strawberry jam.

Picture this peanut of a girl seated too high for her feet to touch the ground and her torso barely tall enough for her chin to clear the heavy wood table. Her eyes widened and arms raised high towards her Grandma to accept her treat. She tipped her head up to allow the delicious fruit topping to drip down to her tongue then smear across her wide mouth as she stretched the bread and took a big bite. Uncle Dick meandered in, ruffled her hair lecturing "Eat the crust Patty. It'll put curl in your hair." "Uncle Dick! I already have curly hair!"

Grandpa Jim and Sadie's daughter, Grandma Helen lived on a farm. Every summer we would set up tables outside and invite family over for a huge picnic. The cousins would barrel towards the spacious front yard and team up for a rowdy game of softball. Even though my sisters and I were barely, if at all, in our teens, no one was excluded from the pick. I never saw balls hit so far or fly so high as I remember in those days.

Grandpa Jim had a bell he would clang to call us back to the house. At its beaconing, victorious or not, we would all run sweaty, hot and laughing up the hill ravenous for some grub! Grandma Helen served some of the absolute best shredded barbecue beef sandwiches stirred hot straight out of the oven. A delicious mainstay complimenting plates piled high with succulent pot luck choices of potato salads, devilled eggs, baked beans, Jello salads and lots of pies and cakes.

The pot that stewed the chicken and made memorable sandwiches landed third generation to my mother 40 years ago. To this day Patty remains a fearless and marvelous cook! When we were growing up, more often than not, Great-Grandma Sadie's old dutch oven held center stage at our family's Sunday dinner table. The lid with crusted sauce or jus along its edge, held in the heat of our main course while bread was warmed and drinks were poured and set at the table. The six of us would anxiously await the ceremonial lifting of the lid to inhale the evening's meal of pork and scalloped potatoes, roast with carrots, onion and potatoes, venison, squirrel or rabbit. We would then dig in and do what was cherished the most; share in each other’s lives.

Where Are The Lightbulbs?

I hear her muttering under her breath through the phone "I bought them. I remember them being scanned at the store. They definitely went into the bag. From here I can even see the bag I brought home. Yep, there’s the napkins. Where are the light bulbs?"

“Okay,” she hollers at her husband. “You can take your shoes off now. I can’t find the lightbulbs!”

I’m chuckling! Thank goodness it isn’t just me! I had once questioned if that might be the case, but not anymore. Nope! I’m talking to my friend, Denise, and I hear an echo of my own all too familiar mumble of confusion. She is desperately searching for something she just had in her hands a few minutes ago! I’m screaming inside!

Am I delighting in her despair? Absolutely not! But, I do let out a big sigh of relief! For example, I’m preparing last night for a big day at work. I’m in charge of our Operation Feed Campaign and our cookout finale was today.

I had a list of ‘day before’ items I very conscientiously picked up last night; cheese, lettuce, and twelve 12-count packages of buns. Got ‘em. Left the buns in the back of the car spread out in a single layer because every one knows if you stack fresh buns, they become smashed and misshapen.

I didn’t make my 10pm bed check last night making me very, very tired this morning. The dog was out of luck. No morning walk this day. Checking the garage, I smiled inside. Dear, sweet, Brian had loaded the car…but, wait. Where are my 144 buns? Oh, there they are; all squished together in two huge white bags! Frustrated, I grabbed the bags and relieved them one dozen at a time; inspecting each one almost moronically. They were laid gingerly back into single file; all ten of them. Ten? No way! I bought 12 of them last night! I counted 12 into my basket. I told the check out lady with confidence to charge me for 12. I put them in the cargo area, in a single layer and there were 12. What the heck happened to packages number eleven and twelve? I ran upstairs to interrogate Brian who was still in an early morning daze. He assured me that he had not sat down and eaten two dozen buns.

This isn’t the only time something like this has happened here lately. Earlier this month there was a bake sale and I was baking to my hearts content. Yum! One week into the South Beach diet and I had five dozen cookies, two German chocolate cakes, 18 yellow and 18 devil’s food cupcakes cooling on the table. My son descended from the room no mere mortal could tolerate to enter, absolutely starved. (The wafting odor of cupcakes fresh from the oven is a great way to drag a guy out of his teenage solitude.) Discovering these treats were totally off limits though took the lift out of his grin and his room door quickly again said Do Not Disturb!

I iced the german chocolate cakes and yellow cupcakes with Hershey's chocolate frosting. Butter cream icing was the perfect topper for the 18 devil’s food still fresh from the oven. I whipped up a bowl and went to the table to complete my evenings work but instead screamed “Logan!! Get down here!!!”

He was convincing enough that it wasn’t he who stole and devoured 6 of my devil’s food cupcakes. I tried to believe it was the dog. But, Randy surely would have left tell-tale signs of sloppy saliva trails, or at least a few crumbs smashed into the carpet. These cupcakes had paper holders. All had completely vanished without a trace. To further throw me off their scents', Logan staunchly defended our beloved pet while accusing me of never having made more than 12 in the first place. Hmm.

All I can do is chock up the cupcakes alongside the missing buns. Darn that Denise though! She called back to say she had found her light bulbs!

Written By Teri Lee

Grand Juror #193

Over the years cops and robbers have dominated television viewing. With only one week served on the Grand Jury, I realized that the stories will never end. They are being scripted as you read this and if you read it again, a fresh scenario will be hanging in the sidelines to be drafted. One week. They had said it would be the most interesting service we could do for our country. These expectations were met with swift intensity.

The Grand Jury is different than a single trial or waiting in a room to be called for a myriad of cases during a set time. Members of the Grand Jury are privy to all of the county’s felony cases that have been reviewed and filtered for probable cause. This creates a daily docket of 30-50 cases in my county alone. The Grand Jury hears the bare minimum of evidence to confirm probable cause, then votes. Seven out of nine ayes’ will indict the suspect and move him/her on through the judicial system. During a brief orientation, the question was posed whether or not we would just be rubber stamping decisions already made. The answer was yes, 99% of the time.

With shameful honesty, I thought these two weeks would be R&R (rest and relaxation); an opportunity to take it easy while listening to some interesting cases. That first day I headed across the walkway nine stories above early morning High Street. Dawn masked the city as dirty, deserted; almost barren. I used to work downtown though and knew a hubbub of activity would ignite a melting pot of cultures and personalities soon enough. There was such a festive air…in my mind.

It didn’t take long to change my mind and gain a new respect for lawyers, in particular prosecuting attorneys. The ones we met came into the court room chatting it up about their weekends, their animals, cooking and the weather. In general they were giving the impression of normalcy. Five hours later you wondered how could they do it day in and day out. It’s one thing to watch Ironside or the Judge or Law and Order. It’s completely different to go through 50 drug related cases in 1-1/2 hours. I’ve lived a sheltered life.

Profiling this assembly of intriguing jurors would have been impossible. One worked for the government and quite obviously had unattained aspirations of becoming a lawyer. When the opportunity arose, his intense interrogation of an 81 year old woman who had suffered a troubling and embarrassing scam was unconscionable. He and Marta exchanged hurt and suspicious glances when they were told their line of questioning was inappropriate.

Lucille spoke but once that first week and it was to say she was highly offended that people were being referred to as suspects or bodies or victims. She wanted to personalize each case with individual names used throughout the testimonies.

The default leader of the pack was a driver by occupation. All summoned jurors are assigned a number from 1 to somewhere around 300. The rule of serving during a Grand Jury 4 month session is that once your number is called, you must serve a minimum of 2 weeks. The option is then available to stay through the end of that session. Clifford was called within the second month. His employer’s policy allowed his people to remain a juror once instated until the session end. By the time I got there, Cliff was 10 weeks seasoned. He helped us to understand the process. When asked what case had affected him the most, it was during our stint when we were shown a picture of a man who had most of his head blown off.

Yes! There is murder in the city. One of our first cases was a suspected serial killer justifying his actions to an ex-girlfriend whom he blamed. How could he possibly kill someone he loved? Internet chatrooms became a gold mine for his release.

Another murderer sitting in the county jail decided he needed his dad to make threats on his brother’s life. Said murderer didn’t think his brother was doing a good enough job intimidating the witnesses of the crime he had committed.

Horrendous sexual abuse, tragic domestic violence, passing bad checks, stealing, robbery at gun point, drugs, fires; it was all happening inside this community of 1 million. There were times I thought my head might explode!

The 1% of the time that this was not a rubber stamp position, was a domestic violence case. It was an opportunity to hear both sides of the story. The involved parties contradicted each other and a Grand Jury majority chose 7-2 to indict, which in essence would allow the courts to determine who was telling the truth. I awoke wide-eyed deep in the night when the pieces fell into place. I should have voted nay.

Conversely, there was a guy who stole his neighbor’s big screen TV. He stashed it in his girlfriend’s car then spent the next 30 minutes arguing with her because they couldn’t find the keys. He left on foot in a huff to add to his loot only to get caught cutting out the window screen at the apartment of an acquaintance. She yelled and threw a plate at him. Heading back, he ran into a man with a dog. Tough and in his face he demanded the man’s money.

“I don’t have any money. I’m walking my dog.”

“I’m going to go get my piece and then you will give me your money!”

The would be robber left. He came back with an obvious screwdriver ‘gun’. The dog walker popped him in the nose and took off. Our gangsta headed home with blood dripping down his face only to find the police at his door.

Tell me that isn’t a great sideline story for TV!

Written by Teri Lee
February, 2008

Music City

Music City! Nashville, Tennessee! I love traveling and discovering the world first hand. I’m not a country and western kind of gal and Brian just isn’t that kind of guy; but, they tricked us and we had ourselves a ball!

We drove down to the Gaylord Opryland on the finest of March days. Clear and sunshiny with a crispness in the air that hollered spring is hovering near! Just around dusk we arrived at Gaylord Opryland. This facility is the largest hotel and conference accommodation in the world. Relative to registration, our temporary residence was half way around it, up a few floors and down a couple more hallways. (Next time we plan to use a bell hop for our luggage.)

What a fabulous room! We grabbed some quiet time, freshened up and headed outside to explore the Grand Ole Opry only to discover it was closed.

Instead, we explored the hotel until we came across and settled in the Jack Daniel’s bar. Lively music was the draw. Country and Western? That’s Neil Diamond. And that’s Stevie Ray Vaughn. I didn’t know they were considered country and western. Brian said he had known all along. (This coming from the man who told me every Waffle House restaurant we passed on the way to Nashville was closed.) Nonetheless, this was toe tappin’, knee slappin’, hootin’ and hollerin’, down home music and we were having a great time!

Adding to the excitement was when the lead singer introduced the pianist, Jim. Jim had worked with Roy Orbison for eight years. I adored Roy Orbinson. Not just because of his music, but because he bridged a simple gap between me and my dad. Rarely had we agreed on ‘today’s’ music. 'Mystery Girl' though (Roy’s last solo album) was shared and enjoyed by us both.

I was so enthralled, I actually gathered enough courage to walk up and shake Jim’s hand. He came over and had a beer while relating personal tidbits from touring with Roy and identifying tracks he contributed to on albums. He remembered the excitement when Roy announced the formation of The Traveling Wilburys. Time was up; but, before Jim returned to his bench, he informed us that he would be playing the following night with a different group; an even better band. How could that be?

Dinner that next night was downtown Nashville at the Wild Horse Saloon. Posed horses took on human personalities intertwined with the tables and railings while a wild horse stampede finale was orchestrated upside down across the ceiling. Line dancing was being taught so most of our group joined in to learn and dance the night away.

Upon our return to the hotel, we were still curious about the promise of better music than the night before. We hit the Jack Daniels bar during the band’s first break. We waved at Jim and settled in for a nightcap. The music commenced and it swept us away; clapping, stomping and singing loud. This was one fine combo of musicians (notches above the last) and the night played on!

Heading back home, Brian and I broached the quality of music we were so thrilled to be a part of. His thought was “This is Nashville, Teri; Music City. The worst band here is probably better than the best one back home.” I didn’t argue.

Written By Teri Lee
March, 2004

Missy

Simply put, she came with the house. It was our first house and during our numerous visits prior to the purchase, there were glimpses of a skinny, gray stray. I was much too overwhelmed with the financial and uprooting challenges rapidly guiding our lives to give an animal (banned already due to my husband’s allergies) much thought. Persistence changed that as we were moving in.

It was summertime and the doors were open wide for furniture and other belongings making their way into our new home. The cat strutted in and out; entitlement in her sway. She was constantly underfoot and the balancing of boxes while shooing her out of the way became exasperating. To bend over and pick her up though was an affront and she would scurry right back outside to await her next victim.

After the move was complete and the doors kept shut, our confident stray would lie on the back porch or sit on the high brick out front as if to guard the entrances to our home. This was all very precious until meows and hisses screeched through the night as she courted and battled with other cats that dared cross her path.

Brian and I were still settling in when Barb, from across the street, came to welcome us to the neighborhood. She was such a nice lady and had loads of scoop to share! We already knew that the house had only one previous owner and we were aware that the purchase we made was part of an estate settlement. Barb filled us in with more detail.

She cleaned house for Margaret, a lone widow, and held their friendship dear. So dear that Margaret had shown Barb all of her secret money stashes. Just one year previously, Barb noticed an unusual quiet about this house from across the road. She meandered over and peered into the front window only to find poor Margaret dead on the living room floor.

Barb then proceeded to walk through the house showing us Margaret’s secret banking spots. Left with the impression that it may not have all been found, Brian and I (unbeknownst to each other) kept an eye open for any missed treasure over the duration of the next 10 years.

I inquired of Barb if she knew anything about the gray cat that’s been about; wondering now if it might have had a relationship with Margaret. Barb had not noticed the cat at all.

Ruth Hill from next door said “yes,” a gray stray had been visiting her house. Ruth would let her in, want to keep her, but to her dismay kitty could not be contained. She would eat Ruth’s food, then cry until she was let out.

Ruth was 67 years old. She had thinned black hair and beautiful black eyes. She was slender and had obviously been quite a ‘knock-out’ in her youth. She never had children. The love of her life, Arthur, passed away early in their marriage and no one could ever replace him.

I would see Ruth sun bathing out back through the rickety white picket fence. My neighbor would flaunt herself in halter tops and short shorts. I admired this woman’s grace and dignity uninhibited by a body pulling ever downward. This was uncannily similar to her abode with its missing shingles, peeling paint, and crumbling chimney.

Even in this condition though, beauty shined through. Roses - all varieties and colors hedged wildly around the perimeter allowing the house the same kind of aging charm as its owner.

Each night I pulled in the drive from work to find Ruth sunning or fussing over her yard. It quickly became a happy ritual to chat over the fence about each other’s day.

As the cooler weather approached, I could see that the cat was noticeably thinner than when we first arrived. She still wasn’t particularly friendly; more so, her cry was demanding as her big, yellow eyes dared me to ignore her.

Imploringly I began, “I can’t take it, Brian! I will not let this cat starve to death on our back porch! She won’t be allowed in the house…I promise! Just let me feed her and keep her outside.” I felt Brian’s eyes roll as I scampered to review the cupboards. I found a can of tuna fish and watched the famished animal devour it.

That done, happy days were filled with exploring all the nooks and crannies of the new house. I arranged and rearranged furniture and pictures until they suited our style. I loved our bedroom in the loft upstairs. What a luxury to have such a spacious room after living in an apartment with a bedroom barely a fit for a bed.

Though still aloof, kitty would now allow a few strokes to her back and to be held for the briefest of moments. I kept feeding her (but with the less expensive canned cat food). It wasn’t long before her hair took on a silky, healthy shine. She was put out every night and would still occasionally wander for 2 to 3 days without a sign.

The leaves were changing and a brisk wind was whipping outside as the daylight became more and more precious. We were pleased with the little white house and its awnings that helped to keep us cozy and warm regardless of the weather outside.

The cat had been gone several days again and the assumption was that she had decided to settle someplace more accommodating since we were still very strict about her evening shut out.

It was Brian who heard her; the softest, weakest “meow” at the door. As it opened, he called to me. Poor little kitty! She had been in a fight – maybe even hit by a car. She was mangy, dirty, glassy eyed and unable to use her front right paw. Thankfully, the vet was still open. We wrapped her in a towel and took her right in. Once cleaned up, the real damage was the broken leg. A splint was applied and she was returned to us with instructions to keep her inside. They would see her back in two weeks. $150 please.

We weren’t at all prepared with litter or a box but certainly relieved to see she was familiar with using them. With our pampering care, one might think she would warm up to us. Instead, she was just plain work; not appreciating a bit of it!

Each day though our now permanent stray grew stronger and moved about more daringly. We were happy to see that even though she could barely use it, she was trying not to drag her paw under which had been a concern. Progress was slow yet sure and within a few weeks, she regained full use of all fours.

Of course, we couldn’t just call her cat or kitty through all of this. We named her “Missy”. In addition, it didn’t seem right to force her back out into the dangerous night and Brian’s allergies seemed at bay, so she became ours; out during the day; safe and warm through the night.

She remained a cat with an edge; never too chummy, but we didn’t expect much else. We respected and enjoyed Missy just as she was for many happy years.

Written By Teri Lee
Events of 1988
Winter 2005

No Fear

I have these pictures in my office. Beautiful pictures actually of a friend BASE jumping from the New River Gorge Bridge in WV. I’ve also a picture of his son skydiving in Utah and another of one of his daughters, with her long blond hair rising high. What a family! I tell everyone who asks about these pictures, “The ‘No Fear’ t-shirts exist because of this man and his family!”

There are two pictures of Paul. The first I point out is the typical sky diving freefall. You see a beautiful earthy blur around the photographer's sharply focused subject; very close to a 3-D affect. Goggles on his eyes, harness on his back, and a purple leader in his right hand to be released when it's time for the canopy to take hold of the wind. It’s a fantastic shot.

Then, I motion to the next frame. Still in perfect form, the purple leader is high above him with empty fall tree limbs off to the side while below is a gorgeous view of the New River with slate and stone shimmering around and reflected from the bed of the river. It is a spectacular bird’s eye view.

But, my story to onlookers doesn’t stop there. I direct them (every time with awe) to look closely at the second setting. Now imagine seeing the river heavy with stone right below and the purple leader above you and realize right at that split second that your chute isn’t going to open. This is what happened to Paul.

In those amazing split seconds, Paul guided himself using rehearsed body technique over into the trees to help brace the impact. He gashed open his head and broke his back. They had to life flight him out of the valley. I asked his son, “With a gash like that, did you look? Did you see inside? Was there really anything in there?” His reply: “It was completely empty!”

Over the next year, Paul had back surgery and discovered he also had a tumor resident that needed removed. In this light it was a blessing that he fell from the sky into those trees to catch this disease in time!

Paul became a hurtin' man. They put him on drugs that reduced him to a fearful soul. He wouldn't stay down though so it wasn’t long before he rejected the treatment and refused any more medication. Once his body cleared of the meds, so did his mind. Paul came back at age 67 refusing to allow that bridge to beat him. Two years after his horrific fall, with his son by his side, he BASE jumped that bridge again…successfully.

I bow to Paul; to his life; to his courage and to his will to be who he is. I simply adore him.

Note: These two marvelous pictures were purchased with full usage rights by Paul from Bridge Day, 2003. His consent was given for use here.

Written by Teri Lee
May, 2004

Elton John

We saw Elton John in concert last night. Eighteenth row. On the floor. Never have I been so close to a performer. My life has new breath!

We paid way too much for these tickets! I fretted quite a bit about that. I really couldn’t imagine getting our money out of it, but a friend made the choices with my blessing and we went through with the purchase.

We left my son at his cousin’s for the night. One of his rare overnights, which actually added to the value of evening. Because he has been adamant over the years that he would not spend the night anywhere but home, we were quite surprised at his matter of fact enthusiasm. (Not as surprised though as thrilled!)

We dropped him off and finally headed for the show. We were running late. I mentioned this to my husband. He asked me why I had hung around so long at my brother’s house. I barked back that it was very much in his capabilities to have pushed me along and said “Let’s go!” (Sounds like fun already, doesn’t it?)

We got into some horrible traffic and parked in one of the farthest lots. I was ready to move, but it took a couple minutes for my husband to transition. I tapped my toe until we finally got going. I glanced at my watch. We had seven minutes and I’m kicking myself that we spent all this money and I didn’t even care enough to try to be there for the opening act. I heard him. “I forgot the binoculars.” I didn’t look back. If he was going back for them, he was going alone. We kept up our pace.

We weaved through ten thousand or more cars. I walked faster. I was focused. There was nothing in between me and the arena except not enough time. I heard my husband behind me. “Hey, this is our neighbor’s car!” I’m wondering how he could ever pick out a neighbor’s car in this huge parking lot, let alone how he could do that and keep up! We continued onward; both, apparently, in our own little worlds.

We finally arrived and were pleasantly surprised to find the entrance very close to where our seats were. Even more pleasant was the pit stop to bathrooms with no lines of anxious fans. It’s a new arena and was obviously planned well.

We hurried to our seats. It was only a couple minutes past performance time. It was another 10 minutes before the show began. Lights! Elton! Music! Music that pounded through my soul. Music that brought tears to my eyes. I wept uncontrollably through the first piece, Funeral For a Friend. My mind took it all in and then took me through 1973…1983…1993…2001. I realized that Elton has been in me for close to 30 years. That each piece of music represented a time in my life. The tears that streaked my face throughout the concert were tears of lost innocence, of the times when life looked fresh and exciting and unbeatable. He went from high school graduation to marriage to our son’s birth ‘til today. He never had a direct affect on my life, on my choices; good or bad, but he was there marking all the phases of it with his songs and the statements he made in them and the dreams he held out to me. And I wondered where those dreams were now?

My husband held onto me during the concert through some of the songs. We hadn’t touched like that in such a long time. But, Elton swept away all the intimidations, all the frustrations, all the walls we had so carefully built one brick at a time. He took our souls and sent them on a journey through our lives and left us with an incredible positive energy that sent the crowd soaring….Rocket Man!

With all the animosty and negativity wiped from our minds, the trip back to the car was as man and wife. My soul was satiated with good, powerful dreams I had shared and realized with the man I love and I was at peace.

Thank you Elton John.

Written by Teri Lee
October, 2001

Aspiring To Be Mary

Brian and I were young in our relationship and thrilled to be able to go on a company cruise to the Bahamas! It was a true adventure as neither of us had ever been on such a luxurious and exciting vacation!

One afternoon we were basking in the warmth of the near equatorial sun at an open market area. Our ship was docked for supplies and we had a couple hours to devour more of this laid back culture. We enjoyed sitting lazily with one eye on each other and the other skimming the crowd.

You see a lot of different kinds of people milling about and blending in; but, one woman caught my attention. She was tall and big waisted and wearing a belt to accentuate it. She looked fine, but it bothered me. It was certainly something I would never feel comfortable doing with my similar thick, pillar-like waist area. I figured her for at least 60 as I continued my scan. Ouch! Another fashion blunder; knee highs rolling down her calves. I was shaking my head when her tall, handsome husband lumbered over to bring her to meet us. I had missed his presence. It was newly acquainted Bob from work. As the couple approached though, I realized something else that wasn’t quite right; his wife’s glasses. Sunglasses? No wait, not just sunglasses; she had her regular prescription glasses on underneath! My initial fear was that I would gawk and giggle. But, I quickly sobered up as I realized what a delightful woman Mary was. In addition, it was apparent during our brief conversation that Bob was still crazy in love with her after 40 years of marriage!

I may have been 30 years old then. I have just turned 50. It’s crossed my mind more than once that I’ve failed to jot down the first note about this aging milestone in my life. It hasn’t been sad or traumatic. But, I’ve had this feeling inside….okay, I’ve had many and often violently conflicting feelings inside. The most predominant one has been a strong need to finally be undisturbed by the constant nagging of satisfying everyone around me! Exhaustion overtakes me just thinking about it!

It wasn’t until my mind traveled back to this brief encounter that I realized its true life value. The vision of hefty Mary and her double glasses and those hose rolling down her legs suddenly made my most grandiose wish the ability to walk through the rest of my days as uninhibited and comfortable with myself as this enjoyable woman surely was!

People encourage how important it is to do the right things for your self without concern for how others might perceive them. I think I’m ready. I want to be just like Mary!

Written By Teri Lee
March, 2005

A Challenge Unanswered

At the age of 19, I rode across the United States with a couple of girlfriends. One memorable stretch of road traveling through Colorado held me captive; a lone mountain reaching high into the bluest sky I could ever have imagined. I was transfixed. I gazed in awe toward that mountain. The splendor of its mere presence overwhelmed me! Inside I had a sense that this was my mountain and that it was calling to me. I wanted to run to the base and climb it to the top! I wanted to twirl around and sing the Sound of Music. “The hills are alive!”

It was a clean, wholesome aspiration; one that I’ve revisited in my mind many times since.

Twenty years later…A group of us arrived at the Tucson El Conquistador Hotel mid-afternoon. We checked in and after a quick freshening up period, I began absorbing my new environment. Columbus, OH is settled on flat land. I still held lingering memories of plush green lawns accented by the beautiful foliage of autumn. Here in Arizona, the brush sets delicately against a sandy terrain. Pine trees and palms towered alongside dry river beds, though the majesty of the mountains swore to fill them to the brim with the melting of the winter’s snows. I liked it.

The El Conquistador was built at the bottom of one such set of mountains; a spectacular view regardless of your perspective. I pulled up a chair next to one of my co-workers. Neither of us visually acknowledged anything but that mountain. He finally spoke.

“Do you suppose it’s me or does everyone who looks upon it feel a strong urge to climb it?”

I certainly felt it; that old familiar hankering to make that mountain mine. I was dressed for the welcome reception but decided to explore the possibilities of realizing this seemingly ancient dream. I moved toward it. New construction along the back of the hotel provided access a short distance above the hotel, but the trail ended at a water tower. The Saguaros were tall and mighty - unburdened by the wood pecked holes and desert animals hidden well within them. A yellow flowered bush reminded me of a picture captioned “snake weed”. It looked to me that it might be called that because of the low bushy lay of it. It further looked to me like a good place for a snake to hide out from the sun and a good place for me to avoid!

I stood in the middle of the path and looked up. It didn’t look that tough! It’s not that far to what I assumed would be called the brush line and if I could just get there, I would be a satisfied woman.

At the welcome reception, conversation indeed turned to climbing that mountain.

“You wouldn’t catch me in those hills! A lot of rattlers around here.”

“You better have a good pair of boots to wear.”

“The scorpions might sting you but you’re only sick for a while”.

The following day was filled with meetings, a hoe down, and a headache that allowed “mountain climbing” to settle far to the bottom of my list of “to do’s”.

Our third day was the free day. Breakfast broke up at 8am. I went back to my room to retrieve my camera. Slowly, without allowing much thought, I headed upwards to my destiny. Within minutes, I stood at the now familiar water tower surveying the land I was about to approach.

There seemed to be a way; just climb those rocks. What had they said about snakes under the rocks? The path was narrow and there was that snake weed again. I became acutely alert looking for any kind of movement indicating desert animal; friend or foe.

I stepped up onto the rocks and jumped down to the sandy terrain. I immediately huddled close to myself frantically jerking my head around in search of danger.

Overpowering anxiety; afraid and frozen!

“This is crazy! What do I fear but the talk of those who stayed behind? I can go on.” And I did. I forked to the right still careful not to touch anything around me, eyes darting in every direction. More rocks, more rocks with lots of nooks and crannies luring large families of snakes to rest in wait. In wait for what? A reprieve from the sun? Safety from the daylight? Unsuspecting tourists like me?

Suddenly I eyed the speeding stillness of an insect’s ability to flutter its wings beyond sight and yet remain motionless. It was the size of the common bumble bee known from my own backyard. Bee? No stripes. Killer bee? What did they look like? If they looked like a bumble bee with no stripes and could fly suspended, than this guy was probably just that! Twenty feet from the water tower and I flew back down to safety. I’m outta here! Back down the road; skipping so not to trip. I am done!

Safely from the rocks, I shook myself to relieve the rest of the tension. I began walking around the tower on my retreat down. I viewed the beautiful scenery but felt almost sick. I stopped. I slowly turned back. To my horror I gazed up to that brush line and felt peace. I looked away; bad. I looked again; good. Something, certainly not the conscious self I know, took one foot back toward the path and set me on my way. Tears were streaming down my face from at once realizing how deep rooted my fear of this journey was and discovering a sense within me that maybe I could overcome it.

I hurried through the familiar, on to the rocks guarded by the killer bee. The insect was unseen, though my anxiety was growing again.

I made my way quickly and more confidently to an opening perhaps 50 feet up. From there I could see the brush getting thicker but that didn’t bring the brush line much closer. I lingered for some time. Then, I descended.

Ten years has since passed since this trip to Tucson. I’ve never forgotten the fear nor my tears shed in conjunction with this vexing adventure. I’ve reflected on its meaning and understand it as the beginning of a journey to uncover new dimensions of my self. There were frustrating limitations I didn’t expect at all. The huge amount of fear interweaving in my life was brutally obvious.

I’ll be 50 in a couple of months. I’m still fearful (yet of fewer things) and still take cautious steps while wishing I was leaping lively and with vigor. Even so, I keep my hopes alive and my hunger for adventure awaits another chance for fresh discovery.

Written By Teri Lee
October, 1995
Final December 2005

The Man On The Plane

I can always rely on a good trip away from the norm to entice me to write. There is so much new information to take in and enjoy and relate to and analyze!

I just returned from a software convention in Orlando, Florida. I saw so many old friends and began the process of getting to know even more, but that isn’t really where today’s thoughts come from. In fact it’s not from business at all.

I finished reading a book, “The Bottoms” by Joe R. Lansdale, while I was in Orlando. The words rolled so smoothly and eloquently through the pages. The story captivated me from the beginning and I enjoyed every syllable thereafter. The story was told in the 1st person; the adult man in a nursing home perhaps 82 years old. What a tale he had to tell! The events surrounding a serial murderer where he lived from birth were relayed with amazing clarity. He took this reader back to Texas when he was 12. My mind followed it vividly. The closing of the book was so powerful with the old gentleman pining for that time in his life when such evil reigned with the good. At least he was living life back then and not drudging through each day at a home for the aged.

I thought of a woman I met several years ago while volunteering at a nursing home. She was 101 years old with still a sharp mind and reasonable health. I only met with her a few times, but she would tell me stories about how her daddy was in charge of laying out plans for the new railroad tracks across America. He forged his company and his family ever westward and often they found themselves to be the first white people seen by the natives. They would travel through the small villages establishing ties with its residents. What an adventurous life!

On the first leg of my flight home from the conference, I sat with a man 88 years old. He was clear, concise and interesting! He had been temporarily banished from his daughter’s home in Florida because of an impending hurricane (Ivan). His son lives in Columbia and he was traveling there so as not to be a worry to his daughter. He talked about how he occasionally now would lose a word during a conversation. (Trying to find words is such a constant effort for me at 49 I’d forgotten to think of it as something wrong.) He may have been more astutely aware of it because his wife had passed away 7 years ago with Alzheimer’s. He looked so sad telling me about the events leading to her death that tears came to my eyes. They had three children and had been together 57 years. “Fifty-seven years and it wasn’t nearly enough time,” he said, and I could sense the well of loneliness; so painfully sweet.

There is such a fast and deep relationship between the young and society's elders. The bond seems immediate and mutual. I felt that bond with the man on the plane and the lady in the nursing home and the man in “The Bottoms”. I feel there is something important to be communicated. Maybe that’s why Mr. Lansdale wrote that book. Maybe he feels it too.

Written By Teri Lee
September, 2004

The Fountain

The fountain with its majestic jut of water grabs me each time I pass now. It’s been active for 10 years or more, but it has held my sovereign interest for only a portion of that time; that time that has passed since the drowning.

Was it a friend? That’s a tough one for me. I have people I care a great deal about and who care for me. But, I hear people talk about friends they’ve had for years and years. How they have groups of friends they often see and travel with and play cards with. We were none of these things to each other.

I surely knew of him for 5 or 6 years. He was a clerk at the local grocery. With the tight job market, it became common for the store management to hire some of the community’s disabled residents. It was the first integration of the kind I had personally experienced. I watched as the initial group arrived on board. The personalities were so varied; some loud and large while others stayed small and quiet and, of course, there were a couple right smack in the middle. Certainly not unlike the rest of the world except that they may have fallen a little farther to the left or right. Patrons were occasionally annoyed. (Yes, including me.) But all and all we adjusted to each other just fine.

There were 3 or 4 other pleasurable characters who have since faded in my ever fading memoirs. One will never fade. Tall, lanky, extremely quiet; I may have seen him smile once or twice in all of our brief encounters. He never seemed to recognize me and words rarely escaped him, but he worked diligently and efficiently and was a stable presence in this world of chaos.

One cold February day, I ran to the store for some “fill in the gap” dinner items. Copies of flyers were pasted all over the walls and windows of the store. My frequent encounters with this gentleman had come to an end. It was his picture and he was missing. I asked after him and was informed that he lived close and failed to come home one night. He was a loner and the concern was that he was mugged by someone taking advantage of his station in life. I feared for him, fretted over him. Each return visit to the store renewed my concern as the flyers continued to inquire if anyone had seen this man. After a few weeks though I succumbed to the fact he was gone; not necessarily dead, just gone.

Spring came around and one day in late May I realized the flyers had come down. Another clerk was approached and asked if they had just given up. They had not. They had found him as the warming sun melted the ice that had formed over the fountain. He had loved the water and it was thought in his enjoyment, he had fallen in or through ice that couldn’t hold him.

The fountain has held my attention ever since; not necessarily with grief. Even though I was horrified that he drowned while playing, it would have been much worse to hear he had been maimed or attacked and left to die. He wasn’t really a friend…he was barely an acquaintance, but his death impacted me, held me and formed a relationship with my soul. I continue to honor my brief and shallow knowledge of this simple man with each renewed siting of this fountain.

Written by Teri Lee
April, 2004

Rocky

We had discussed getting the movie a couple times but without follow through.

This had been a trying year for our family. Logan was 13 and in his first year of middle school. His mom was 48 and in her first acknowledged year of peri-menopause. There were times when Brian’s bug-eyed head turned to view first one of us and then the other; slowly and cautiously.

The school year ended in an academic slump and my son was doing all he could to please his parents while awaiting the dreaded report card to arrive in the mail. His basement ‘lounge’ was clean as a whistle. His demure smiles and loving concerns were sincerely disgusting! After six months of angry frustrations, he and mom were struggling to gain back some ground in their shaken relationship.

A couple of movies were purchased. “Grease” with John Travolta and that Australian sweetheart, Olivia Newton-John. Logan watched in amazement as John T. slicked back his hair and lifted his hip in dance! Not our best success in viewing entertainment together but certainly an opportunity for discussion.

The other movie was the original “Rocky” starring Sylvester Stallone. I must have been in my early 20’s when I first saw it. Now, some 25 years later, I was sewing and glancing up casually as the movie progressed. I had forgotten how this movie along with its powerful, pounding music had gripped the nation. My head lifted as I began to sense the testosterone level rise in the room. The boxers were being introduced into the ring. My son began to pace the floor excitedly; glued to the set, dancing back and forth, renewing the fever that made this movie an instant classic. Logan swung with Rocky, fell with Rocky, and rose to victory with Rocky!

When it was over, he could not contain himself. He had to talk about it. An excited, passionate admiration for this man who made good and beat the odds spewed from his lips and lit up his eyes. He didn’t want the feeling to end. Nor did I. This rebuilding of important family communication, seeing his mind expand and absorb was invigorating for us both. And before I knew it my own mind expanded and absorbed the fact that even though some of the old ground seemed worn and tried, this new gournd sure was fresh and exciting.

Written By Teri Lee
June, 2003

The Beach - A Son's Perspective

Thick Layers of Blood Sucking Insects

May, 2004 Written by L at Age 12

Every year since I was just a little boy, my father told me that we would go camping in the summer, and every year since I was just a little boy, we have stayed home during the summer. In the summer after my sixth grade year at Brookside Elementary, my dad told me that we were going to go to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a camping trip.

Now for those of you who are not familiar with the Outer Banks, you must know that it is a beautiful place to look at from a distance. Let me attempt to describe it to you. Try to imagine living in a gigantic oven right next to the largest pool of water on the planet. You’re extremely thirsty and all you want to do is drink some of that water; but, you can’t because if you do, you’ll end up getting a large mouthful of salt. Now think about going inside your small tent (which is even hotter than outside) and being attacked by thousands of mosquitoes because one of the camp members never closed the tent flap.

Of course, when my dad told me we were going to the Outer Banks, I just kinda shrugged it off. Why would this year be any different than last year? I asked myself. After a while though, my mom started to get excited about going. “Oh, you’ll love it,” she told me. “Me and your dad used to go there all the time before you were born.”

Now I was starting to get excited. (I was told that it was a wonderful place to camp, I was not warned like you have been). So once everybody was packed and ready to go, we left home and headed out to North Carolina.

Part of camping is the trip to the campground, and lord forbid you fly to your destination! Oh, no my friends, you have to drive there. So now we have a 12 year old who’s just starting to rebel against his parents stuffed in the back seat of a Toyota Rav 4 being forced to listen to an Avril Lavigne CD over and over again. (I now have the ability to sing along with every song on her CD Let Go). As you can imagine this was not fun especially for ten straight hours.

Once we got there, it was pretty fun. The first thing we did was hit the beach. We had brought along a couple boogie boards so it was pretty hard not to have fun. So far we were having a great time until night came. I had heard stories of thick swarms of ravaging mosquitoes on the beach; but I had disregarded them. When we got back to our tent, we found that we had forgotten to close the flap. What we found inside was absolutely horrendous. The ceiling of the tent was lined with a thick layer of bloodsucking insects. It took us over an hour to completely rid the tent of the little beasts.

The next morning I decided I was going to go for an early stroll across the beach. I had no problem getting there because the beach was right behind the campsite. It was getting back that I had some problems with. There is a rule that you should follow when going to the beach. Always pick out a landmark to help you find your way back home. I did this. For my landmark I picked a sign that read

No Trucks On

Beach

Under Penalty of Law

It wasn’t until I had walked for about twenty minutes that I realized there was a sign that read

No Trucks On

Beach

Under Penalty of Law

about every twenty feet or so. So I ran back down the beach until I came to a place that looked like where I had come from. I walked over the hills that I was sure would lead me to my campsite. Well, instead of a campsite, I found myself in a field of odd looking flowers. I started to cross the field hoping it would lead me to some place of familiarity. Once I was half through, the field of flowers had grown so thick that I could not avoid stepping on them. After stepping on them, I really wished I hadn’t. They turned out to be small cacti.

So I pushed on down the field of cacti until I came to an outhouse. Not any outhouse; my camp’s outhouse. I started to leap for joy until I landed on another cactus, which pretty much just ruined the moment. I had finally made it back to the camp for another long night of mosquito killing.

The next day we went home. My parents were sad to leave but I was leaping (carefully) for joy.

To this day I refuse to do anything with my parents.

The Beach - A Mother's Perspective

I’m at the Oregon Inlet beach with my son, Logan, on the Outer Banks, North Carolina. He is surf fishing for the first time while I contemplate drawing the ocean. I’ve decided the waves are much too busy for my untrained eye-hand coordination to capture.

B brought me here about 18 years ago when we first met. Fresh love walked up and down the beach with us, romped in the sun with us, explored the Outer Banks with us. We camped a lot back then; weekends, holidays, vacations. We have scrapbooks and pictures of campsites with fishing tackle laid about. We jokingly titled our Oregon Inlet trips in B’s honor as Daniel Boone Goes to the Beach. It’s hard to believe that this is  Logan’s first camping trip with us at age 12-1/2.

As we walked the beach for the first time yesterday, we were looking for shells. (Okay, I was looking for shells.) Logan was loving the waves and merely biding time with me until he could swim and body surf again. As I picked up broken bits and pieces and an occasional half clam shell still in tact, there was a soft rap at my brain; some recollection trying to hone in. Yes, it was from before..when B and I walked the beaches picking up shells. All aspects of life together was special then; every encounter, every moment, every touch. Magic was all around us and in us. B and I walked through the waves day and night holding hands, talking about everything and nothing. And in the midst of all this magic was this feeling that the ocean held within it a most enchanted gift especially for me. My mind conjured up visions of mermaids and huge, beautiful conch shells. I was sure they would appear if I just looked at the right time and place. My eyes searched while my feet dredged the sand looking for a sign, a fleeting glimpse. Nothing ever came to light, but I never gave up hope. I knew they were there and when we left Oregon Inlet, that knowledge seemed to be enough.

So now I’m walking the beach again trying to recapture the essence of this feeling when “Mom! Mom! I saw a fish crawl out of the sand and run into the ocean!” and it hit me like a powerful wave. Out loud I laughed and asked for details. Inwardly, my body shook, my mind exploded and my eyes rapidly blinked back giant tears. There was no recapturing necessary. This was the right time and the right place to understand that reminiscent hint of my most enchanted gift.

Written by Teri Lee
Summer 2002

As A Child

As a child she sits with the women.
As a woman she sits with the children.
Undefined as a person in general,
She stifles emotions unsurfaced.

Her tears are for those whom she loves,
Her tears are the fears of her loves.
When the light finally shines for her glory,
The child will merge with the woman
And peace in her being be filled.

Written in 1975 by
Teri Lee; Age 20