The following story was considered for publication in a book but by the time it went through the necessary channels it had been so watered down and expurgated that there was nothing unique about it. I never got paid for the story as the publisher said I would, so I assume that it went into the “no, thank you” pile. The true story is infinitely cooler than their final version, and it should be told. What really happened was this.
One fine day in June I called the local children’s hospital and asked to do a 40-minute hammer dulcimer program for the kids. I didn’t want money and I wasn’t looking for glory. Several years earlier I had been a music teacher in a Catholic school and, since I left that job, I simply missed seeing children. I figured a hospital wasn’t going to say no to me and this would be the least rejection-prone way to satisfy my craving for some young blood. Naturally, the hospital was very gracious and said of course I could come and do a program, after I attended a training session. Hospitals are very cagey about what they do and don’t reveal about their patients and they also need to make sure all their volunteers are aware of possible etiquette pitfalls, such as calling a little girl “young man” or asking a 12-year old if he’s started kindergarten yet.
Once I was appropriately prepped to avoid any possible faux pas, I slathered on the usual three pounds of makeup, trussed myself up in a Slovak outfit, packed the dulcimer and headed for the hospital. This was at the time Chicago was accepting a large contingent of Bosnian war refugees and I wondered if there were any Bosnian children at the hospital because I wanted to try out a Bosnian song. There was only one. A single boy, in the ICU, who was not being treated for a war injury, but for something else. For the sake of privacy, I’ll call him Mujo. After a bit of hemming, hawing, intercom exchanges, and other back-and-forth, I was permitted to go to the ICU to see him. Leaving the dulcimer downstairs, I rushed up to say hello, and I sang him a song in Bosnian. He had an awestruck smile on his face, the kind of look that says, “An American woman who looks like a movie star is singing just for me in my language!”
Having gotten my “kid fix” I went home and resumed my life, but, inspired by that boy's smile, I was now determined to learn to speak Bosnian by hook or by crook.
Towards the end of that summer I had dipped my toe into an illicit relationship with a Bosnian refugee and then abruptly severed the budding liaison when I discovered he had a wife and daughter. Later that fall, I decided to follow a more wholesome path to learning Bosnian and I registered with a local Christian organization that provides English tutors for newly arrived refugees. After taking their training class and passing a background check they set me up with a family to tutor. They lived two miles from me in a rough, gang-infested neighborhood but I was ready to rock and roll. I asked if the family had any children and they said yes, there were two kids. I immediately went out and bought toys for them but then heard the voice of my Spirit say, “Slow down.” Since I had ignored the last warning it had given me – which was to stay away from that married Bosnian refugee – I owed it to my Spirit to listen and obey this time. I got out my cards and did a reading. Surprise, surprise. The cards indicated that “my” family was moving away and that I should not get attached.
The very next day, my supervisor Linda at the agency called to tell me, “I have some bad news for you. The family you were going to tutor is moving to Iowa. They left this morning. But we’ll get you a new family.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
An hour later she called again. “We have a new family for you!” As it turned out, they were not only walking distance from my house, but in a much safer neighborhood. I asked about children and was told there were two. Great, I could give the toys I had bought to those kids. I was set!
That evening Linda picked me up and took me to meet the family. She had spoken – firmly – to me about not using Bosnian with them, only English. It was as if she knew my ulterior motive and was making sure that my volunteering was all about them and not about me. The parents, Amela and Nijaz spoke almost no English. I gave the children the toys. They were thrilled, then shyly tried to give them back. I walked around the cramped but immaculate apartment teaching Amela the English words for common household items. Table. Spoon. Fork. Light. Wall. The dialogue lurched politely and tentatively. I was dying to jumpstart the conversation with a few words in Bosnian but Linda's stern presence put that fire out. No deal. Finally, Amela pulled out family pictures and we were off and running. As it turned out, Amela had learned a couple words in English that she could remember. “My mother.” “Husband.” “Sister.” And then she pulled out another picture. “Other son.”
It was Mujo, in his hospital bed.
“I know him! I know him!” I screamed. Defying the rules I cried out, “Bila sam u njega! Viđela sam ga! Pjevala sam!” “I was there! I saw him! I sang!” It took a few minutes but we sorted out the story and by the time I left two hours later, we weren’t student and tutor anymore, we were friends.
I worked with the family for several years until they bought a condo and moved to an even nicer neighborhood. I still visited occasionally and eventually Amela called to ask me to tutor her so she could pass the citizenship test. I was a hard-nosed teacher and drilled her like a machine. She passed. The family is doing well, their oldest son is married with a condo of his own and they are all American citizens now.
The Christian organization I tutored for solicited stories from its volunteers to submit for a collection called Chicken Soup for the Volunteer’s Soul and I sent in the above. They said it was the best one they had received but, in accordance with their evangelical agenda, this, that and the other had to go. They stripped the part about me listening to my Spirit. They scotched the card reading. All I was left with was a couple whitewashed coincidences and some bland, fuzzy platitudes. The publisher’s editor sweetened the story up further, and by the time you got done reading the final version, you needed a couple shots of insulin.
Despite the tame spin the kindly but prosaic Evangelicals put on my tale, it was my Spirit, gosh darn it, that led me to the hospital that sunny June day, it was my Spirit that communicated with me through the cards and it was my Spirit that guided me on the path to tutor that particular family. Spirit speaks like opportunity. It taps once, and gently. Whether you follow its advice or not is your call.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The Lost Violin
Being psychic has many advantages, along with the obvious drawbacks, such as knowing which people don’t really like you and foreseeing that you’re going to have a bad experience at a gig but can’t do anything about it because you signed the contract. One advantage of being psychic is it helps you find things. Here is an example so dramatic and stark that it warrants a TV episode.
It was the late spring of 1994 and I was biking with my cousin Kelton in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood. It was hot, at least 88º and I was in an irritable mood. I suggested that we stop in a second hand dump of a thrift store, just to get out of the heat for a few minutes. We dragged ourselves in. Kelton looked at the clothes and shoes, I stared apathetically at the books. There was only one book that I had been keeping an eye out for over the past couple years, a children’s story by Clara Ingram Judson called The Lost Violin about a Czech family in Chicago, circa 1900. It had been published in the 1940’s and was out of print. I was about to turn away and tell Kelton, “Let’s get out of here,” when I heard the voice of my Spirit. It told me to look behind the book in front of me “because The Lost Violin might be there.” I pulled out the book, and staring me in the face was that Lost Violin!
What happened next was one of the most brainless manipulations of reality in my entire psychic repertoire. All I wanted was to go home, take a shower, lie down and read my new book. Kelton and I had discussed going to a neighborhood restaurant, The Daily Bar and Grill, but I didn’t want to. I pulled a dimwitted unconscious psychic trick, thinking vaguely, “If I get hurt, maybe I won’t have to go to the Daily.” On the way back I rode up against a hose and fell off my bike, cutting a huge gash in my shin and badly skinning my knee. A snot-nosed, overweight pre-teen boy was casually slurping water out of the hose. I shoved my injured leg in his face and asked, “Do you mind if I use your hose to wash off my blood?” He blanched and backed away.
The worst part was now I had to prove to myself and my cousin that I didn’t wipe out on purpose so I said to Kelton, “OK, let’s go to the Daily. But you walk in front of me so they won’t see all my blood.” (This was in the days of AIDS hysteria.) So we did indeed go to the Daily. I ordered an artichoke and looked into the heart. The heart looked back and said, “You used your gift twice today. Once wisely, and once un.”
It was the late spring of 1994 and I was biking with my cousin Kelton in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood. It was hot, at least 88º and I was in an irritable mood. I suggested that we stop in a second hand dump of a thrift store, just to get out of the heat for a few minutes. We dragged ourselves in. Kelton looked at the clothes and shoes, I stared apathetically at the books. There was only one book that I had been keeping an eye out for over the past couple years, a children’s story by Clara Ingram Judson called The Lost Violin about a Czech family in Chicago, circa 1900. It had been published in the 1940’s and was out of print. I was about to turn away and tell Kelton, “Let’s get out of here,” when I heard the voice of my Spirit. It told me to look behind the book in front of me “because The Lost Violin might be there.” I pulled out the book, and staring me in the face was that Lost Violin!
What happened next was one of the most brainless manipulations of reality in my entire psychic repertoire. All I wanted was to go home, take a shower, lie down and read my new book. Kelton and I had discussed going to a neighborhood restaurant, The Daily Bar and Grill, but I didn’t want to. I pulled a dimwitted unconscious psychic trick, thinking vaguely, “If I get hurt, maybe I won’t have to go to the Daily.” On the way back I rode up against a hose and fell off my bike, cutting a huge gash in my shin and badly skinning my knee. A snot-nosed, overweight pre-teen boy was casually slurping water out of the hose. I shoved my injured leg in his face and asked, “Do you mind if I use your hose to wash off my blood?” He blanched and backed away.
The worst part was now I had to prove to myself and my cousin that I didn’t wipe out on purpose so I said to Kelton, “OK, let’s go to the Daily. But you walk in front of me so they won’t see all my blood.” (This was in the days of AIDS hysteria.) So we did indeed go to the Daily. I ordered an artichoke and looked into the heart. The heart looked back and said, “You used your gift twice today. Once wisely, and once un.”
Rat Alley Redux
When I was in kindergarten my family, which was on the poor side, lived in the attic of my grandma’s house at 2238 N. Orchard St., Chicago. Don’t look for it. The house burned down and it’s condos now. Although I didn’t realize it, being poor had advantages, such as you could get away with picking garbage, you got free shots at the Welfare clinic and you were never required to go to those boring country club dinners. Since I didn’t know what a country club was and I didn’t like getting shots it was the easy accessibility to garbage that I appreciated, and it provided me with hours of fun and games.
One fine day I spied a handbag in the alley. This was the “Rat Alley” called Pearl Court, described in a previous post. I grabbed that handbag and took off down Pearl Court, looking for more treasure. To my surprise and excitement, this was the weekend that all the neighborhood dames had conspired to toss their purses. There was a bag at nearly every garbage station! I took only the ones with jewels, sequins and other crud attached. Plain brown bags and staid totes languished, unloved and unwanted. I returned to Grandma’s house will a haul of about 10 handbags, all fancy and dressed up for the ball.
It took me a while to decide what to do with them, but I eventually had a brainstorm. I got a big jar, filled it with water and proceeded to hack off all the jewels on each handbag. I put them into the jar with the water. Imagine, if you will, a tiny 5-year-old imp with black hair and blue eyes sitting alone at a huge dining room table, staring at all that junk floating in the jar and thinking, “This is the happiest day of my life!”
One fine day I spied a handbag in the alley. This was the “Rat Alley” called Pearl Court, described in a previous post. I grabbed that handbag and took off down Pearl Court, looking for more treasure. To my surprise and excitement, this was the weekend that all the neighborhood dames had conspired to toss their purses. There was a bag at nearly every garbage station! I took only the ones with jewels, sequins and other crud attached. Plain brown bags and staid totes languished, unloved and unwanted. I returned to Grandma’s house will a haul of about 10 handbags, all fancy and dressed up for the ball.
It took me a while to decide what to do with them, but I eventually had a brainstorm. I got a big jar, filled it with water and proceeded to hack off all the jewels on each handbag. I put them into the jar with the water. Imagine, if you will, a tiny 5-year-old imp with black hair and blue eyes sitting alone at a huge dining room table, staring at all that junk floating in the jar and thinking, “This is the happiest day of my life!”
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Blagojevich Resigns!
What if…
Rod Blagojevich had been caught with his pants down in a compromising position with another member of homo sapiens…or a sheep?
How fast could you say "Governor Pat Quinn"?
Rod Blagojevich had been caught with his pants down in a compromising position with another member of homo sapiens…or a sheep?
How fast could you say "Governor Pat Quinn"?
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Rat
When I was growing up in the Lincoln Park neighborhood in Chicago, some of my favorite activities were breaking into private garages and just looking around, riding my bike “all the way” to Damen Avenue, two whole miles from home, and prowling the neighborhood searching for discarded treasures left in the alleys.
One of my favorite alleys was behind a doctor’s office on Fullerton Parkway, just west of Clark Street. My brothers and I would go there to find used hypodermic needles, medical supplies and, occasionally, dental samples. Once we found a whole box of false teeth. But my best discovery was in the alley that ran between Orchard and Burling Streets in the 2200 block. That alley was called, pretentiously, Pearl Court. And it was filthy.
When I was in 4th grade, I was in a split classroom. Most of the kids were 5th graders, and they had put the five highest achieving 4th graders, of which I was one, in that class. We 4th graders sat in the far row on the left side of the room. I liked the 5th graders. Some of the older girls and I hung out together. I wasn’t interested in boys yet, but there was one 5th grade boy who I thought was the cleverest guy in the whole school, and it annoyed me that he didn’t acknowledge my existence.
Our teacher, Miss O, had a game she would play with us, whereby one student would throw out a noun and the next one in line had to come up with a word beginning with the last letter of that noun. So, if you said glass, the next kid would say shin, then net, then something starting with “t”, etc. Not exactly rocket science, but it passed the time. This kid Robin always picked a noun with a silent letter at the end. Thumb. Comb. Face. He was insolent and slick and I wanted him to notice me.
I had not yet figured out that boys like girls to be pretty and nice rather than smart. If I had known that, I would have combed my hair every day instead of once a week, wore nice clothes, boned up on manners and this incident never would have occurred. It was the spring of 1967 when I came up with a plan. Spring was when they baited Pearl Court with Red Squill and Warfarin, and every few days you’d see a dead rat lying there. Many of them were decomposing and maggot-eaten but one day I found one in perfect condition. I picked up that rat by the tail and put it in a shoebox. I took it to my grandmother’s house, the back yard of which adjoined Pearl Court, wrapped the box with brightly colored paper and tied it with a shiny ribbon. I then took it over to Robin’s house a block away. He wasn’t home, but his older sister was outside with some of her friends.
“Hi, Debbie,” I said in as casual a tone as I could muster, “I have a present for Robin. Please give it to him and make sure you tell him it’s from me.”
The next day in school he approached me, grinning like a jackal, and spoke his first, but not last words to me.
“Thanks for the present!”
One of my favorite alleys was behind a doctor’s office on Fullerton Parkway, just west of Clark Street. My brothers and I would go there to find used hypodermic needles, medical supplies and, occasionally, dental samples. Once we found a whole box of false teeth. But my best discovery was in the alley that ran between Orchard and Burling Streets in the 2200 block. That alley was called, pretentiously, Pearl Court. And it was filthy.
When I was in 4th grade, I was in a split classroom. Most of the kids were 5th graders, and they had put the five highest achieving 4th graders, of which I was one, in that class. We 4th graders sat in the far row on the left side of the room. I liked the 5th graders. Some of the older girls and I hung out together. I wasn’t interested in boys yet, but there was one 5th grade boy who I thought was the cleverest guy in the whole school, and it annoyed me that he didn’t acknowledge my existence.
Our teacher, Miss O, had a game she would play with us, whereby one student would throw out a noun and the next one in line had to come up with a word beginning with the last letter of that noun. So, if you said glass, the next kid would say shin, then net, then something starting with “t”, etc. Not exactly rocket science, but it passed the time. This kid Robin always picked a noun with a silent letter at the end. Thumb. Comb. Face. He was insolent and slick and I wanted him to notice me.
I had not yet figured out that boys like girls to be pretty and nice rather than smart. If I had known that, I would have combed my hair every day instead of once a week, wore nice clothes, boned up on manners and this incident never would have occurred. It was the spring of 1967 when I came up with a plan. Spring was when they baited Pearl Court with Red Squill and Warfarin, and every few days you’d see a dead rat lying there. Many of them were decomposing and maggot-eaten but one day I found one in perfect condition. I picked up that rat by the tail and put it in a shoebox. I took it to my grandmother’s house, the back yard of which adjoined Pearl Court, wrapped the box with brightly colored paper and tied it with a shiny ribbon. I then took it over to Robin’s house a block away. He wasn’t home, but his older sister was outside with some of her friends.
“Hi, Debbie,” I said in as casual a tone as I could muster, “I have a present for Robin. Please give it to him and make sure you tell him it’s from me.”
The next day in school he approached me, grinning like a jackal, and spoke his first, but not last words to me.
“Thanks for the present!”
Friday, November 28, 2008
Drugs and Death
Just about everybody I know has attempted suicide at least once. But few attempts have been more pathetic than mine. Here’s the story.
In February, 1997 I went for a dental checkup and even though it was normal I had a bad feeling about it. Later on that night one of my molars started hurting. I tried to ignore it but it got progressively worse. I took some aspirin and that helped. I kept taking aspirin, even after the dentist told me to take Aleve, which did no good, then Tylenol, which also was no help. It got to the point that I was taking 12 aspirins a day. I told my friend Peter and he told me to stop it, because too much aspirin would make me bleed internally and die.
Great.
I went back to the dentist twice and he couldn’t find any reason why my tooth hurt. No infection, no cavity, no nothing. I decided to kill myself because I just couldn’t stand it. I figured either I would die now in horrible pain or die later in horrible pain from the overdose of aspirin, so I might as well get it over with.
My plan was to stand outside in nothing but a night shirt and freeze myself to death. March in Chicago is one cold, nasty month and so I had my pick of days to do the deed. One evening I waited until it was dark enough so that I wouldn’t be noticed and went outside wearing the night shirt and waited to die. However, I only lasted about 5 minutes. I had to go back inside…because I was too cold!!!
The next day, having run out of bright ideas on how to kill myself, I called my dentist and demanded morphine. He said no.
However, the story has a happy ending. My dentist figured out what the problem was and, upon realizing I was seriously in pain, prescribed Tylenol with codeine. That kept me in a good mood until he could do a root canal.
The following year I taught myself to play the accordion and my suicidal days were over.
In February, 1997 I went for a dental checkup and even though it was normal I had a bad feeling about it. Later on that night one of my molars started hurting. I tried to ignore it but it got progressively worse. I took some aspirin and that helped. I kept taking aspirin, even after the dentist told me to take Aleve, which did no good, then Tylenol, which also was no help. It got to the point that I was taking 12 aspirins a day. I told my friend Peter and he told me to stop it, because too much aspirin would make me bleed internally and die.
Great.
I went back to the dentist twice and he couldn’t find any reason why my tooth hurt. No infection, no cavity, no nothing. I decided to kill myself because I just couldn’t stand it. I figured either I would die now in horrible pain or die later in horrible pain from the overdose of aspirin, so I might as well get it over with.
My plan was to stand outside in nothing but a night shirt and freeze myself to death. March in Chicago is one cold, nasty month and so I had my pick of days to do the deed. One evening I waited until it was dark enough so that I wouldn’t be noticed and went outside wearing the night shirt and waited to die. However, I only lasted about 5 minutes. I had to go back inside…because I was too cold!!!
The next day, having run out of bright ideas on how to kill myself, I called my dentist and demanded morphine. He said no.
However, the story has a happy ending. My dentist figured out what the problem was and, upon realizing I was seriously in pain, prescribed Tylenol with codeine. That kept me in a good mood until he could do a root canal.
The following year I taught myself to play the accordion and my suicidal days were over.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Hot Dog
The year: 1966. The crime: Attempted waste with an edible weapon.
When I was a kid I hated all food except candy and fish. One of my least favorite foods was hot dogs. They tasted icky and they were rubbery. The only way my poor mom could get me to eat hot dogs without whining was to cut them into “pennies” and serve them in Campbell’s Bean With Bacon Soup. Calling a hot dog a penny gave it a grace it could never achieve on its own. Those guts and eyeballs masquerading as food became legal tender. My instincts of greed trumped the disgust of the taste buds: yum!
When my mom served hot dogs on a chilly fall night in 1966 I had a brain flash. During the usual distracting family conversation and arguments I surreptitiously I wrapped that offensive cylinder in a napkin, then lodged it in the narrow ledge that ran along the underside of the kitchen table. After everyone had retired for the night, I transferred the offending sausage to the bowels of the pantry, still wrapped in the napkin. Game over, I was out of there.
Fast forward to a chilly spring mid-day in 1967.
Like all 4th graders, I considered myself one of the “cool” kids, despite the fact that I was obviously a nerd. The “cool” kids walked to school, the “pathetic” ones got driven. The “losers” ate lunch at school. We “cool” kids got to go home for lunch. One day I was enjoying lunch at home and Mom asked me what I was eating. I looked at her as if she had asked me if I would like a cigarette with my lunch and said, “It’s Bean With Bacon Soup with hot dog pennies!” She countered, through her clenched teeth,
“GUESS WHERE I GOT THE HOT DOG.”
Game over. Mom: One. Daughter: Zero.
When I was a kid I hated all food except candy and fish. One of my least favorite foods was hot dogs. They tasted icky and they were rubbery. The only way my poor mom could get me to eat hot dogs without whining was to cut them into “pennies” and serve them in Campbell’s Bean With Bacon Soup. Calling a hot dog a penny gave it a grace it could never achieve on its own. Those guts and eyeballs masquerading as food became legal tender. My instincts of greed trumped the disgust of the taste buds: yum!
When my mom served hot dogs on a chilly fall night in 1966 I had a brain flash. During the usual distracting family conversation and arguments I surreptitiously I wrapped that offensive cylinder in a napkin, then lodged it in the narrow ledge that ran along the underside of the kitchen table. After everyone had retired for the night, I transferred the offending sausage to the bowels of the pantry, still wrapped in the napkin. Game over, I was out of there.
Fast forward to a chilly spring mid-day in 1967.
Like all 4th graders, I considered myself one of the “cool” kids, despite the fact that I was obviously a nerd. The “cool” kids walked to school, the “pathetic” ones got driven. The “losers” ate lunch at school. We “cool” kids got to go home for lunch. One day I was enjoying lunch at home and Mom asked me what I was eating. I looked at her as if she had asked me if I would like a cigarette with my lunch and said, “It’s Bean With Bacon Soup with hot dog pennies!” She countered, through her clenched teeth,
“GUESS WHERE I GOT THE HOT DOG.”
Game over. Mom: One. Daughter: Zero.
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