1.   A Sister in Trouble

Fort Sill, Oklahoma, July 1949

         It was too hot to play cards, especially if someone was keeping score, and Vera was.

     “Ay, carumba! You can’t stand to go two hours without beating someone at something can you?” Grace Tyler playfully pouted.

       Vera ignored her little sister, and began shuffling cards as she gleefully announced, “Senoras, the game is canasta, and we’re going to play according to Hoyle.” She began to deal the cards like a Las Vegas gambler while Pauline laughed and pointed at her mother, a notorious and frequent card cheater.

          Everyone was hot, but in her long-sleeved shirt and long skirt, Grace was sweltering. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and neck and she kept stretching her legs out because the backs of her knees stuck to her skirt.

             “Gracie, for God’s sake, go put some shorts on,” Vera said.

          Grace ignored her sister, pulled her shirt away from her perspiring chest, and asked, “Anyone want more iced tea before Vera whips the pants off of us?”

             Momma and Pauline both nodded and Grace poured tea over fresh ice cubes while Vera got a tablet and pencil out of her purse.

             The room was almost silent as each woman arranged her hand. Only Momma barely tapped her foot and softly sang a song from her childhood under her breath:

          “The fair senorita with the rose in her hair …

          worked in the cantina but she didn’t care …

         played cards with the men and took all their loot … awh-ha!

        went to the store and bought brand new boots … ”

         “Awh-Haaa!” Grace’s five-year-old daughter Glory joined in.

          Unconsciously, the other two women started to hum along while they looked at their hand. About the second “Awh-Haaa!” Vera abruptly stopped humming and looked at her sisters with a raised eyebrow. Something was fishy; Momma was much too happy. Barely containing their amusement, they watched as she cheerfully arranged her cards.

          Finally, unable to suppress her laughter any longer, Vera jumped up, snatched the cards out of her mother’s hands, and fanned them face-up across the table.

          “Ay, ay, ay!” She cried out, “Momma, tell me how can you have a meld and eleven cards in your hand when we’ve just gotten started?”

          The fun escalated as Vera rushed around the table and ran her hands all around her mother and the chair she sat on to feel for extra cards.

          “Stand up!” Grace and her sisters said as they pulled their mother to her feet. They shook her blue calico dress and screamed with laughter as extra cards fell from every fold.

          “Glory,” Vera told her young niece, “crawl under the table and get those cards for your Auntie Vera, okay?” Grace moved her feet to the side so that Glory could scramble under the table. Her childish giggles danced around the women’s feet as she scrambled for the extra cards that dropped from her grandmother’s dress.

          “Momma,” Vera laughed, “you’re a born cheater. How did you know we were going to play cards today?” she asked.

          “I’m not the only one in this family who’s been caught with a few too many cards,” Momma said in her defense.

          “Yes, but you’re the family matriarch. We expect better of you than we do our good-for-nothing brothers,” Pauline said.

          “Huh! Matriarch, my foot. You girls never listen to a word I say,” Momma grumbled.

          “Maybe that’s because we can’t trust you,” Vera said.

          As another card dropped from Gregoria’s dress and slid across the floor, Vera added, “We’ll strip you down to your rosary before we ever play cards with you again, Momma.”

          “Yeah,” Pauline, chimed in, “the next time you’ll play in nothing but your lace step-ins and a bra made from two tortillas.”

          “Well, at least I’ll be the coolest one at the table,” Momma chirped.

          Vera reached across the table to gather all the cards and reshuffle them. “We’re going to start all over, and we’ll watch you every minute.”

          Grace felt a sharp pain in her stomach when she looked up and saw her husband’s scowling face through the screen door. Why was he home so early? She didn’t have to look at him again to know his normally handsome blond features smoldered with disgust…

See my books and stories here: https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper

Please share this post! My thanks, Janelle
Visiting my mother in Lawton, Oklahoma
A long time ago! A Three-Turtle Summer,
fictional autobiography,
was written about our life with my father.

(link above)

My Mom’s Date With Rod Stewart
Janelle Meraz Hooper

Years ago, I was visiting my mother in Oklahoma. It was too hot to sleep and we were up late flipping through the TV channels looking for something to watch. One of the shows caught my mother’s eyes instantly.
“Who is that?” (My mom didn’t watch much TV.)
I said, “Just some guy called Rod Stewart. You won’t like him.”
“No, stop!” she said as she grabbed my wrist. Instantly, Mom was hooked. The kid with the bleached, spikey hair didn’t put her off a bit. Mom was almost totally deaf in both ears but she often didn’t bother to turn her hearing aids on. That night, she turned both of them on and put her hand on the top of the TV cabinet so she would feel the music vibrating.

Rod must have sung every song he’d ever recorded and I couldn’t believe Mom’s reaction. We stayed up and watched the entire show. My mom, a Rod Stewart fan! She must have been in her early seventies.

Do you think you know your parents? Think again. I learned something about my mom that night…late on a hot summer’s night, with the crickets singing outside the screen door–and Rod Stewart singing inside…

If you like this story, please share! My Thanks, Janelle

New!
&

Fatigues and Fox-Fur Coats at Christmas
A Snowy Day at the Airport

Janelle Meraz Hooper

   I love airports. Years ago, due to a family emergency, I was stuck at a Lawton, Oklahoma airport just before Christmas. Due to a sudden snowstorm, the weather was so bad that none of the commercial flights could get in or out. The airport was near Fort Sill, the Artillery Training Center of the World, and the floor of the terminal was jammed full of weary and worried soldiers hoping—desperately–to get home in time for the holidays.

   Just when chances of a flight were at their bleakest, two Lear jets, smaller than  commercial aircraft, landed on the airstrip. The door opened and two women in full-length white fox coats, and dripping with diamonds, gingerly tiptoed their way through the snow, hopelessly trying to save their high-heeled shoes. The soldiers watched the beautiful women deplane, then, lost in their own problems, turned their attention elsewhere.

   There wasn’t enough seating for the stranded soldiers, so once inside, the women picked a new path through the floor crowded with reclining troops. As they walked, they pointed at each soldier, smiled, and asked, “Where are you going?” When the soldier answered, one of them said, “Go get in that first plane,” or, “Go get in that second plane.” I don’t know why they could fly when the bigger planes couldn’t, but they took two planeloads of grateful soldiers home for Christmas that day.

   Like the rest of the civilians, I was stuck in the airport for another six hours or so before the weather cleared and my commercial flight could land. There was no snack bar there at that time, and I survived on a box of stale Crackerjacks and a half-eaten roll of Lifesavers that I had in my purse. But I had a big smile on my face the whole time. Not only would the soldiers get a free ride home, but they’d get there in a Lear Jet. Most of us would never have that experience!

   Over the airport’s intercom, I could hear the sound of Christmas music softly playing…God rest ye merry gentlemen…let nothing you dismay…oh, tidings of comfort and joy…

   A true story.

The End

Note: The Lawton Airport has now been renamed The Lawton-Ft. Sill Regional  Airport.

If you liked this story, please share!

Merry Christmas, from my heart to yours, Janelle

 My gramma’s screen door
Janelle Meraz Hooper

  I fondly remember the worn-out screen door at the house my mother shared with my grandmother in Oklahoma. Vulnerable to weather patterns that alternated between scorching Southwest sun and torrential rainstorms, the screen hung on its worn hinges, frame warped and hinges rusty. The old wood frame, warped and in need of repair, hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in—well, never! The only mechanism it had for opening and closing was an old spring so stretched out that it sagged and barely functioned. Sometimes, it needed to be nudged to close. The door never had a latch; it stood unlocked, welcoming all who approached.   

That old door appealed to me because of what it stood for: family. Each time I visited, I heard the bottom of the door scrape on the wooden porch all day long as it opened and closed. Scrape, scrape…no one knocked. If we were at the back of the house in the sunroom, our friends and relatives called out a joyful hello as they came down the hall. During the day, any of number of relatives could come in to visit with us. The dress code was come-as-you-are with the women often wearing the latest casual fashions from the mall, and the men mostly in plaid shirts, jeans, and Western belt buckles.

They stopped by on their way to church.

They stopped by on their way to the store.

They stopped by because they were “in the area” to see if my grandmother needed anything.

Usually, the women brought something with them. In the summer, it could be strawberry ice cream or strawberry pop, both favorites of my grandmother. In the fall, they brought wild pecans or persimmons, harvested on the reservation.

During the week, the men stopped by on their lunch hour and brought their empty stomachs.

Most summer mornings, as a cool breeze danced through the rusty screen, my grandmother put on a big pot of coffee and an even bigger pot of pinto beans. If the screen door opened before the beans were ready, she’d whip up a quick batch of tortilla dough that she cut in strips, twisted, fried, and sprinkled with granulated sugar. Grandmother had made the coffee treats for years and she was so fast they seemed to appear magically on a big platter in the middle of the dining room table.

Once, Uncle Benny came in and found a living room filled with relatives. He quickly looked around and asked, “Where’s Inge?” Inge, the wife of one of my cousins, had terminal cancer. My cousin Hilbert had married her years before during a tour in Germany with the army.  Hilbert replied he had left her at home so she could rest. “Go get her. She should be with us!” my uncle urged.

Off Hilbert went, clear across town to pick up his wife. Inge walked in and my uncle greeted her as if the party was in her honor. He made a space for her to sit next to him in the crowded room and wrapped his arm snugly around her.  Without missing a beat, he reached into his bag of stories and had her laughing so hard she forgot all about her illness.

How I envied Uncle Benny’s and everyone else’s storytelling skills. Once, after one of our Hispanic-style powwows, my Aunt Norah pulled me aside and asked me why I had become a writer. She said we’d never had one in the family before. I told her that everyone in our family was a storyteller and the only difference between them and me was that I wrote my stories down. Laughing, she quipped, “We aren’t a family of storytellers. We’re a family of liars!”

The way I saw it, their tales qualified as an art form. Besides, in each story, at least a smidge of truth could be found—somewhere! And if not, what did it matter? My family loved and cared for each other, especially when things got tough. Who could want anything more?      

Most of them are gone now. Whenever I think of them, I swear I can hear that screen door…scrape-scrape…lazily opening and closing all day…

Please share this story…my thanks, Janelle

My newest novel:

Galoshes and IKE
(A comment about growing up in Oklahoma)
Janelle Meraz Hooper

I woke up this morning thinking about the first election I can remember. I was about twelve and we had moved into a new development outside the gates of Fort Sill, Oklahoma, where there was an Indian reservation. The Kiowas weren’t happy because the developers had cut a road through the new houses that went straight through the middle of the clay deposit they used for their pots. I walked that road to school every morning and didn’t see any difference between that unpaved road than any other except that the clay was a deep red. Then the rains came and I saw that clay with a new perspective. Before I went out the door that morning, my mother made me put on my new red galoshes. She’d bought them several sizes too big so they’d last a long time. Everything I wore was too big, even the hand-me-downs from my cousins. The boots looked dumb and I knew the kids would laugh at me. I was glad I had that I LIKE IKE button someone had given me to balance things out. I was the only one in my class who had one and it made me the subject of envy among all my classmates. I wore it every day. On my way to school the new road looked fine but, when I stepped on it, I sank into thick red clay that was deeper than the tops of my galoshes. About halfway to school I noticed that one of my galoshes was missing and the sock on the bootless foot was as red as the road and was half off. I clomped into school with one cold, wet and muddy bootless foot that stayed that way all day. I was sure glad I hadn’t lost my new sock (not realizing that it would never be white again) and I still had my I LIKE IKE button, so I thought I was in good shape. And I was–until I got home and mom noticed I’d lost a brand new boot and one of my socks. Not even IKE could help me then.

____________________Please share!_______________________

The author, Janelle Meraz Hooper, grew up in Oklahoma and is the author of The Turtle Trilogy (A Three-Turtle Summer, As Brown As I Want, and Custer & His Naked Ladies). See all of my books on Amazon. PB & Kindle.

Note: Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, is a one-man show I wrote for Rudy Ramos (Now on Kevin Costner’s Yellowstone (Paramount Channel).

My Newest novel
Buy now on Amazon

Thanks for stopping by! Janelle

This is the second book inn my Turtle Trilogy, but it stands alone.

As Brown As I Want book trailer

Amazon and others. PB & Kindle
Buy now on Amazon

Back cover:

The summer of 1952, Lawton, Oklahoma… Eight-year-old Glory has a father who has taken out a $50,000 accidental-death insurance policy on her–now he’s spending the summer trying to collect.
In his first attempt, he throws Glory into a snake-infested lake, but a giant snapping turtle that Glory has been feeding scares the snakes away.
Glory writes in her diary: “Well, Powwow Pete drove us home to talk to Mom but we didn’t get very far. Mom thinks I just have a wild imagination. At least Powwow Pete believes me. I think it was the turtle that killed it for Mom.
“How could there be a turtle that big?” she scoffed. They talked some more and Powwow Pete got kind of mad and got up to leave.
This was one of those times when a kid thinks they’re talking about a turtle but the grown-ups are really talking about something else entirely. In this case, I think Pete was accusing Mom of still loving my dad, but he never said that, he just kept talking about the turtle. Mom was doing the same thing: talking about the turtle but meaning she didn’t want to get messed up with some guy who was a pathology liar (Glory can’t spell).

Please share!

This book is #2 in my Turtle Trilogy. They’re all a good read, I promise!

“This one!”
(blog only)

Janelle Meraz Hooper

When I was a kid in Oklahoma, sometimes summer days were so hot our moms kept us in. When the temperature headed towards 108 degrees before lunch, we’d head over to Hazel’s house and play the catalog game. Her mother kept all of the old Sear’s catalogs just for such days.

We would lie on the cool floor of her family den, reveling in the cool tiles caressing our bare legs. Halfway through the catalog we’d always wiggle over to a fresh, cooler spot. Hazel would pick the latest Sear’s Catalog out of the rack and we would begin. The game went like this: on each page we could pick one item. We’d point to it and say, “This one.” Sometimes we both wanted the same piece of clothing or toy and it was a race to see which one of us could touch it first and win it.

Of course it was just for fun. Neither of us was getting anything we wished for! We played our game page by page until we got to the end of the catalog. At the end of the game, we celebrated our wins with a Popsicle. I hadn’t thought of this since I was eight-years-old.

Why am I telling you this? A few Sundays ago, I was alone, flipping through the Macy’s Sunday flyer with absolutely nothing on my mind. I turned the page and saw the guy at the top of this blog. Totally without thinking, I touched him and called, “This one!” I was amused. And stunned. Where did that come from?

Slowly the memory of the Sear’s Catalog game came to me. Finally, I began to laugh. The game was still the same. I could call “This one!” all I wanted, and all I’d end up with was a grape Popsicle!

See my books and short stories!

Photo courtesy of Macy’s

“What tribe are you?”
Janelle Meraz Hooper

Janelle Meraz Hooper

Mother’s Day is coming up. I’ve been thinking about my mom…we were very close. The kind of close that develops between two people who have survived living with a man who was meaner than a rattlesnake and dumber than adobe (from A Three-Turtle Summer). Living in Oklahoma, my mother and I had a lot of Native American friends who invited us to their powwows. All the time, kids would ask me, “What tribe are you from?” I didn’t know what to say. We were Hispanic! One day I asked my mom about it. She never blinked an eye and said, “We’re from the Aztec tribe.” At 7-years-old it was a good enough explanation for me and I skated by on that answer all summer.

Find my books on Amazon and other Internet bookstores

Paperback and Kindle

(“They’re a good read, I promise!”)

If you like this piece, please share! My thanks, Janelle

CONTACT INFO: Click on About Janelle under the masthead.

Happy Fourth of July!

See the book on Amazon!

“I don’t want to be dead, but what can I do? If Dad wants to kill me, he’ll kill me…after all, I’m just a little kid…” Glory

21. Big Lake, Big Turtle

The Four of July chapter from
As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries-
The Adventures of Little Paintbrush and Snake Belt

Janelle Meraz Hooper

The next morning was the Fourth of July and I woke up at home on the cool oak floor of my bedroom on Parkview. I’d crawled there in the middle of the night because my sheets were too hot. Something was stuck on the side of my face and when I looked in the mirror, I saw it was a dried up spider I’d swatted while I was sleeping that was hanging on by one leg. I sure am glad it wasn’t a scorpion.

Carlos says he slept on the floor, too, and spiders used his face for a shortcut to my room all night. He didn’t kill them, though, because they were just those long-legged spiders that don’t bite. I told him I never woke up to identify mine, I just killed him and left the autopsy for later. I learned that word on the spy TV show I told you about.

Carlos says a first-grader across the alley performed an autopsy on his neighbor’s rooster. He didn’t mean to kill it when he cut out its heart. He just wanted to see how long its heart would beat after he took it out. He meant to put it back in, but the rooster died right after that, so he decided he might as well do the autopsy. Just to make sure what killed him, I guess. We figure that kid will either grow up to be a doctor or a criminal. Maybe both.

Mom had gone out somewhere, and I was about to go look for some breakfast when the phone rang and it was OFB (Old Judge Fart Bucket) again. He said my dad was on his way to pick me up and I should be ready. I’m guessing that Dad had him call so we’d know he had the law on his side. Carlos said that what he really had on his side was the Masonics. They run this town, and anyone who thinks they don’t better not need anything, like a job or a bank loan.

When Mom came in, I was already gone, and I guess she threw a fit. She tried to call Mr. Sparks, but he was in court, probably with the same judge. By then, Dad and I were already on the road to Lake Elmer. I told my dad that Mom would be mad, but he didn’t seem to care.

He said he had a right to see his own kid, “And besides,” he said, “Frieda isn’t even here, she’s gone to see her mother in Texas.”

We made several stops along the way because Dad said he had a special surprise for me. Turns out we were taking the boat out on Lake Elmer to fish at night and watch some Fourth of July fireworks. I asked him if we could go back and get Carlos, but he said no like he always does. Dad always says it’s Carlos’ father’s job to take him fishing. He knows Boyd is in Japan. He just doesn’t want to be bothered with an extra kid. I always tell Carlos what a lousy time I have whenever Dad takes me out in the boat, but I think he cries anyway. He loves to fish. I also think it reminds him that his dad isn’t here to take him places.

I really hated to leave because Carlos and I had been saving ladyfingers to blow off on our front porch. It would’ve been so much fun. We’re only allowed to have the ladyfingers and sparklers, so we shoot off ours early and watch the neighbor’s fireworks for the rest of the night. Lurlene, across the street, isn’t allowed to have the bigger fireworks either, but she has two older brothers and they shoot off so many firecrackers that the whole neighborhood is covered in smoke. Lurlene’s mother says there can’t be a mosquito left breathing by the time they’re through.

Compared to that, Dad wouldn’t be much fun. He’d bought some bologna, bread, and some cheap root beer in rusty cans. He gets the root beer on sale at some government surplus store that’s been going out of business for so long the Buffalo Soldiers were its first customers.

I’ve had that canned pop before, it’s awful. I asked for some chips, but he gave me one of those chickens-clucking-in-the-peach-tree-looks, so I gave up on that. When I went into my room to get my fishing clothes, I sneaked a peek in Dad and Frieda’s room. Frieda’s closet was open, and it was completely empty. Strange, why would she need all of those fancy clothes she’s got just to go to her mother’s? Her mother lives in a little Texas town in the middle of the desert. Nobody there bothers to dress up because there’s no place to go except to church and the Mexican grocery store. They don’t even sit in their yards and visit with their neighbors because there’s no grass. Their front and backyards are filled with sand and cactus. Not the kind of cactuses gardeners plant. I mean the wild kind that has rattlesnakes living in them. Dad told me all about it and showed me pictures. Oh well, she probably wanted to show off what she’s got to her poor relatives. Mom would never do that.

I went to the bathroom before I climbed into the Jeep and I noticed all of her Pearl of the Prairie makeup was gone too. She must be planning to go to mass while she’s there. I hope all that rouge and eye shadow doesn’t scare the pants off of that desert priest. She’s so darn ugly anyway, even with makeup, she could be someone who somehow slipped out of purgatory after fifty years so she could go to communion.

When we flew past P. Pete’s Place I looked for him so I could wave, but he was nowhere in sight. It would have been nice to see a friendly face. I have to tell you, I was a little uneasy about this fishing trip, even without Frieda, because Dad has never been the type to go out of his way to have fun. Like the time the circus was in town, and I asked him to take me.

“Seen one circus, seen’um all.” he said.
I said I didn’t remember ever seeing a circus, and he said no, but he’d seen one. Now, I’m sure he’s seen fireworks before, so why were we going out in the middle of the lake to watch them now?

When he backed the Jeep up to the lake to launch the boat, we saw a head go across the lake, leaving a thin ribbon of water behind it. “Cottonmouth.” Dad said.
“No, water snake, I think.” I answered, remembering P. Pete’s talk.
Dad shrugged. I got a faint whiff of clucking chickens and peaches, but it went away real fast.

Soon enough, we were in the boat and headed out to the middle of the lake. We passed a bunch of deadwood Dad usually ties up to because fish seem to like places like that, besides, it’s easier to tie up to a branch than sink an anchor. I started to ask him if he’d seen that big dead tree but decided against it. It was clear he had his mind made up to go to the middle of the lake where it was deeper than the Atlantic and blacker than buffalo poop.

When we got to a point that if we went any further we’d actually be getting closer to the other shore, Dad shut off the engine and threw out the anchor. I looked for the lantern, but he hadn’t brought it.

“I thought we were night-fishing?”

“Don’t need no lantern tonight.” Dad mumbled as he lit up a cigarette.

Well, hell, I thought, I might as well fish while there’s a speck of daylight left. I looked in the bottom of the boat, but the poles were gone. Wherever the poles were, the bait must have been with them, ’cause there wasn’t any of that either.

I looked at Dad, but he was already leaning back in the boat with a cigarette in his mouth and that goofy green plaid corduroy hat with the huge bill pulled over his eyes like he was asleep. With nothing else to do, I studied that hat.  Where on earth had he ever found something so ugly?  Who would even think of making such a hat out of green and yellow plaid corduroy with a bill shaped like the beak on a platypus?
What type of man would buy a hat like that and then wear it in the summer when it’s 105 degrees?

The answer was right in front of me. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that my dad was the only man on earth dumb enough to buy one of those hats.

Ohhh well, it takes all kinds. I reached over and helped myself to a rusty can of pop. Way in the distance, I could barely see P. Pete’s Place. The other direction, toward the military side of the lake, I could see the flagpole that flew a red flag whenever the artillery was going to be firing. The flag was down. Well, thank God for little favors. Everyone always says Dad’s going to have a big hole blown in the bottom of his boat someday the way he totally disregards those warning flags. I just hope I’m not with him when it happens.

I sat in that boat watching the sun go down and looked for snakes and turtles and tried to figure out what we were doing out there. I wished I had that Squaw Slave book, but since I didn’t, I thought about it: “You may have what’s on your plate.”

I practiced saying it under my breath. It was really pretty easy to say like a slave might say it, and it was so darn funny.  Further on in the book some Indian men start acting like they’re up to no good, and Maunna says, “I am part Wyandot. I can understand every word you say. Do not think that this slave is afraid to shoot an Indian!”

I hadn’t really gotten that far yet, but I’d flipped around in the book one day looking for more lines about plates. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to talk like a grownup. ’Course, I’ll never be allowed to use swear words. Gramma would skin me alive and call the crows for sure.

Way in the distance, I could see another boat with two men in it. They’d set up their lanterns and I could hear their laughter bouncing across the water. It sounded like they were having so much fun. I tried to think of a joke to tell Dad, but I’ve never been good at remembering funny stories. Well, I do remember the parts of the joke, but not in the right order. I usually get the ending all wrong and Carlos has to fix it for me. By then, it’s no longer funny. I wished he were with me then, joke or not, cause it was weird being there in the middle of the lake with no pole and no lantern. We must have looked really stupid.

Speaking of stupid, my dad was smoking those stupid cigarettes that he makes from those ugly plants in the garden. I sure hope I’m not with him when he gets arrested and thrown in jail.

Soon, it was real dark and the fireworks started but I noticed Dad wasn’t watching them, he just lay back with his hat over his eyes, and smoked. Well, the fireworks were real pretty, but I wished I didn’t have to watch them alone. After the fireworks were long over, he still hadn’t moved, except to fool with that darn cigarette. I’ve never seen anyone so lazy they used a fishhook to hold onto the end of a cigarette so they wouldn’t have to light another one.

He was perfectly comfortable, but all I had on was shorts, and it was getting chilly and a breeze was picking up.

“Dad, come on, we might as well go home.”

“Where’s the fire, Girl?”

Well, it was clear he didn’t care if I were cold, or full of rusty pop and hadn’t peed since we left the house.

I looked over at the other boat and they were hauling in the fish, by the sounds of it. All of a sudden Dad started talking and it was like someone finally got an old Evinrude to run after it had been froze up for years. He kept on rambling about how Frieda had left him and she wouldn’t come back until he did what she wanted him to. Only he wouldn’t say what that was. He kept glancing over at that other boat like he wished they weren’t there. Every so often he’d shake the boat real hard and I told him if he didn’t watch out he’d turn us over.

Dad didn’t listen to me. He kept working at it, first leaning way over one way, then leaning way over in the other direction.

“Dad! Stop! I yelled!” Was he crazy? I looked at him and, in the dark and it seemed like all I could see was his eyes, and they were glowing like the eyes on a dead fish—lifeless—and real scary. I didn’t know what to do, so I yelled, “Dad, stop it! You’re going to turn us over!” at him again, but he kept on shaking the boat, each time it tipped a little more toward the water. I was sure I’d have to try to swim for shore. I was real worried about that because I was just learning to swim and even good swimmers have drowned trying to swim across a lake. It’s always farther than it looks. In the dark, how could I be sure I was even swimming the right way? I remembered hearing from P. Pete that, if I were ever in a boat that turned over, I should not try to swim for the shore. I should hold onto the side of the boat. But what if Dad pushed me off? What if he held my head under water?

Just then, I felt something big and hard rub up against the bottom of our boat. It startled Dad real bad. Maybe he thought it was an alligator. Not me, though. I knew it was a Watchatooka, only I couldn’t tell him because of that promise I’d made to P. Pete. How did it find us way out there? Then I remembered how I’d thrown my sandwiches overboard all night because they were too dry to taste good. At least to me. Apparently, turtles aren’t so fussy.

Dad was acting real desperate. Each time, he’d feel something rubbing on the bottom of the boat, and he’d stop trying to tip us over. It seemed like hours passed and he was real quiet. I thought those cigarettes must be making him sick because he wasn’t acting right.

I’d been so busy looking over the side of the boat to see if I could somehow get a glimpse of Watchatooka I hadn’t noticed the other boat had pulled in their lanterns and started their motor. It was headed in our direction and there we were, sitting in the dark, right in its path—with no lights on!

I kept looking from the oncoming boat to Dad, and waited for him to start the motor so we could get out of there, but he just held onto the side of the boat and braced himself for the collision.

Finally, I started screaming my head off, “Hey, lookout! Don’t hit us!”

I noticed Dad wasn’t making any noise at all. Good grief, was I going to have to do everything? I started to wave my arms and jump up and down, not that they could see me in the dark.

At the last minute, I heard them cut the motor and start to swear in perfect sequence.

“Jesus Christ you dumb son-of-a-bitch.”

The voices were awfully familiarit was Chuck and Mark! Hurray!

“Chuck, Chuck, it’s me, Glory!” I squealed.

Chuck pulled his boat up to ours and looked inside.

“You guys break down? Where’s your lantern?”

Then he shined his flashlight at Dad and let out a low whistle.

“Ou-weee, Sarge. You smoke anymore of that Mary Wanna stuff and we’ll have to put you in the band.”

All the while he talked he was tying our boat up to his.

“Tell you what we’re gonna do, Sarge, just stay put and we’ll tow you in, then I’ll take Glory home, and you can sleep off your party in the boat, safe on shore.”

Dad didn’t have anything to say, which was surprising. Usually he doesn’t take any guff off of guys—especially guys like Chuck that wear funny shirts. He sat real still all the way into the shore and didn’t even look at me or talk to me. Not once. I didn’t try to talk to him either. Maybe that’s because Mom always told me not to talk to strangers, and that’s what he was to me right then. A stranger.

When we left Dad, he was still in the boat. I could tell he was real ashamed and I don’t think it was just because he went night fishing without any lanterns, poles, or bait. There was something else. Maybe he thought that somehow Chuck knew he’d tried to turn us over, but I don’t know how Chuck could have known that. The last thing Chuck did was take the motor off the boat and put it in the back of Dad’s truck. He said it would keep Dad out of trouble.

Chuck and Mark put me in their pickup after I’d made a quick run to the nearest bush. Peeing near an Oklahoma lake isn’t easy. First, I made a lot of noise, and then I squatted and apologized to any snakes that might be living in there, “Sorry snakes, but I gave you fair warning to skedaddle out of there. If you haven’t left yet, just don’t bite me on the butt. I’ve had enough trouble for one day!”

On the way out of the wildlife reserve, Chuck stopped at the resort office to see P. Pete and said a few words while Mark and I stayed in the truck. I noticed Mark was wearing the diamond ring his brother had tried to give to my mom. That ring sparkled so pretty I’m surprised they even needed lanterns to fish. I saw Chuck gesture toward the lake and talk some more. I couldn’t tell what he said, but I could tell he was real mad. P. Pete nodded and I could tell he was mad too.

When P. Pete walked Chuck out to the truck he looked at me long and hard. I got the feeling he wanted to be sure I was all right, even if Chuck had already told him I was. I wanted him to give me a hug so bad but I was in the middle, and Chuck was already getting in, so I was stuck because Mark was on the other side. I don’t cry much. Mom said once that’s because I’m all cried out from my dad being such a stinker—but I started to cry then. Nobody saw it though, because the truck was dark inside. Besides, I’ve had a lot of practice at crying in secret. Before Dad went to Japan, I used to cry in my closet when Dad got mad because seeing me cry just made him madder. Even so, I think P. Pete knew.

“I think Dad tried to drown me.” I blubbered.

Then P. Pete reached across Chuck, squeezed my shoulder, and said, “Don’t worry, Little Paintbrush. Nothing like this will ever happen to you again if I can help it.”

That’s what he said! He did! I started to smile and, when I did, some tears ran into my mouth. They were salty. That’s how I knew I was crying and smiling at the same time.

“Tell your mom I’ll be there for breakfast, early. Tell her to put on her war paint because we’re all going to the courthouse to find that judge who’s always calling your house.”
The last thing he did was bend down and pick up a small, red sandstone and give it to Chuck and say something I couldn’t hear. A part of me knew Dad had tried to drown me, but part of me was still confused about exactly what had happened, or not happened.

“Will my dad be all right sleeping in a boat all night? Why doesn’t he just drive home?” I asked P. Pete.

“Paintbrush, your dad’s in the best place he can be. He doesn’t need to drive after he’s smoked so many cigarettes. I’ll take him down some coffee in the morning, if he’s still here.”

I was too tired to argue and frankly didn’t much care if, while he slept, he got eaten up by snakes so big they wore cowboy hats.

When we got home, Mom was pacing up and down on the front porch with Carlos. Guess Aunt Pauline was out with Mr. Sparks, eating steak somewhere. Gramma was off with Aunt Lilia to some kind of special Fourth of July mass the new priest from Italy was throwing. They heard a rumor he was going to light sparklers instead of candles. I guess he’s really into American history.

Chuck filled Mom in on what happened. Then he gave her the rock and said, “Pete said to tell you there’s strength in this rock, and what he really wanted to send you was a tomahawk.”

While Chuck was still at our house, he got a phone call from P. Pete telling him he went down to the lake to talk to Dad, but he was gone. Oh, the Jeep was there, even the motor, but the boat with Dad in it was nowhere in sight. P. Pete said there were markings in the sand that looked like a turtle, a Watchatooka! He guessed that somehow, for some reason, one of the big turtles had gotten ahold of the rope on the boat and taken Dad out into the middle of the lake somewhere. Unknowingly, that turtle probably saved my dad’s life, because P. Pete went down there to beat the bee-Jesus out of him, Chuck said.

P. Pete told me later he thinks one of the big turtles has some kind of a grudge against Dad. Otherwise, why would he have dragged him out into the middle of the lake? I think the grudge is about the turtle eggs Dad stomped on. I didn’t tell P. Pete that. It would have broken his heart; he loves those turtles so much.

The next morning, The Lawton Bugler had a police report in it that mentioned an unnamed Fort Sill soldier who claimed he was taken to the middle of Lake Elmer and terrorized all night by a huge alligator that repeatedly tried to capsize his boat.
When the police asked P. Pete if he’d ever seen any alligators in the lake, he said, “No, just drunk soldiers.” and that was the end of that.

Read the book- PB & Kindle, ages YA & up. Amazon and other Internet bookstores. Published by iUniverse.

1999- 1st place fiction Surrey Writer’s Conference

2004- Oklahoma Book Award Finalist

  My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper

If you like this chapter, please share!

Sleeping on Peanuts
Janelle Meraz Hooper
My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper

This hasn’t been published yet. I wrote it just for this blog.

Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths…

Oklahoma, 1950…The old converted green garden shed at the back of Hal’s lot looked like most of the others in the neighborhood except that his was the only one that had a big picture window on the front. Inside, the unfinished walls exposed two by four framing. The floor was cement. A fine coating of sawdust from the artisan’s fiddle-making settled on the glass and sparkled in the sun. Dust motes suspended in the air moved softly with the air currents; they seemed to dance to the country music from Hal’s old radio with a vintage wood casing. Other than a little sawdust on the window and work bench, the inside of the workspace was clean and uncluttered.

Hal’s masterpieces started out as fine spruce and maple woods that had been aged for ten years. Fiddles in various stages of completion were hung, clothesline fashion, across the width of the glass window. Each section of the instruments was carved and sanded on a workbench underneath the window and assembled with the love and care of a master.

The rest of the shop was equally as simple as the workbench. There were a few tools on a shelf, a stool, and a big burlap sack of green peanuts sat on the floor in the corner of the room. Hal kept the peanuts for the grandchildren and their friends to snack on during their regular visits to his shop. On their way out to feed the ducks in the pond, they filled their pockets with the goober peas to eat on their way.

On school days, Hal filled his coffee cup and walked across the yard to his little workshop by six o’clock each morning in case the troubled teenager in the neighborhood had spent the night in his shed. This morning was like too many others. The fiddle-maker found the boy sound asleep, curled up on top of the peanut sack, covered with an old afghan.

Hal gently shook the young man to wake him. “Time to get up, Tom,” he said softly. Take Whistle and go on up to the house and get a hot waffle, clean up, and do your homework. When you’re ready, I’ll drop you off at school.”

“Thanks, Mr. Phillips.”

Tom turned to go out the door, carrying the cat over his shoulder. Hal noticed Tom’s face and said, “Looks like you might be getting a shiner on that eye. Ask Mrs. P. if she has some ice to put on it. Might help some.”

Tom nodded. He knew Mrs. P would also have a clean change of clothes for him to put on after his shower. His alcoholic father kept his own family in such an uproar no one even noticed Tom seldom dressed at home. They didn’t even notice he didn’t sleep there many nights. He didn’t know why his father was always so angry with him but he was grateful that his anger never spilled onto his little sisters. Clueless in their little beds, they slept soundly through their dad’s drunken rages. He never knew where his mother was during those nights. He only knew she wasn’t there protecting him. He guessed she was cowering in his sisters’ room.

Taking refuge with the Phillips wasn’t the best solution to Tom’s problem but it was his choice to avoid a legal confrontation that could end up separating him from his lifelong friends and insert him into a strange family where he might not fit in. Worse, he might have to change schools.

Most nights, Tom slept on the Phillip’s couch. But if his father became abusive late at night he didn’t wake them; he went to the shed and crawled on top of the peanuts to sleep next to Whistle. The night’s sleep he sometimes got on top of the bag of peanuts wasn’t fancy, but it was safe. No one in his family seemed to care or wonder where he went.

Just a few more months. Then he’d graduate and be on his way. He didn’t know exactly where yet, but he and Mr. P had been talking about it in the afternoons after school. His grades were good and Mr. P. had promised to help him get started. The only thing they’d decided for sure was that—as long as his father was around—he needed to go far, far away from his hometown. Wherever he went, it would be better than where he was now. And once he left home for good, he’d never go back. But for now he wouldn’t think about it…he had homework to do…and he and Whistle had waffles waiting for them in Mrs. Phillip’s kitchen…

Several years later, Tom, his school’s valedictorian, would stand in front of his college graduation class and explain how he was standing where he was because of a fiddle, a cat named Whistle, and a burlap sack full of green peanuts. Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were in the front row.

The end

If you like this story, please share!

Note: All of the characters in this story are fictional. The fiddles and green peanuts (goober peas) were real. I grew up near peanut farms and many of us had a taste for green peanuts. I admit it’s a developed taste, but they are healthy: no oil, no salt! (Please be aware that some people are allergic to peanuts in any form.) JMH

#1 in my Turtle Trilogy
suitable for most NA and adults
Amazon and others, PB & Kindle.
Published by iUniverse.

See this book on Amazon

See all of my books and stories: Janelle Meraz Hooper

Read the book- Amazon and other Internet bookstores. Published by iUniverse. 

Reviews:
Janelle Meraz Hooper gives us more than a story. She gives us a cast of hilarious and memorable characters in a vividly drawn scene. Libroseninguana.com

 Light-hearted writing, deep and disturbing content, October 31, 2013 by James R. Muri
This review is from: A Three-Turtle Summer (Paperback) 4 stars
Janelle – our author – has written a novel that disguises years of horror and despair behind cozy country anecdotes, dialogue, and situations. To me, this reads like a psychological thriller / chiller, made all the more so by the calm and carefree rhetorical style used throughout.

To some this would be disconcerting; to me, Janelle has produced a piece of genuine art. If you’re looking for warm fuzzies in a story, the only warm fuzzy you’ll find in this one is basic survival and triumph. I found it impossible to put down. I was struck – to keep hammering on this – by how deeply contrasted the prose and peril were. Excellent read, excellent work, Janelle.

By Marmalade on May 3, 2014 5 stars
This is a gripping story of domestic abuse fueled by the high level of racism existing in Oklahoma in the late forties. It documents the cruelties suffered by the Hispanic, Japanese and African American of that era.

Grace, the youngest daughter of a close-knit Hispanic family, lives in constant terror of being assaulted by her bigoted, mean-spirited husband, Dwayne. She suffers her beatings in silence fearing he will take her daughter, Glory, away from her. Grace is a talented seamstress and with the help of her family devises a plan to be free of her abuser while he is away on military leave.

The characters are fleshed out and the action is fast paced and full of suspense. This is a terrific read that offers hope to the victims of abuse and racism. Well done.

2002 Bold Media 1st place fiction award

Next: As Brown AS I Want: The Indianhead Diaries

Custer & His Naked Ladies

(All books stand alone)

Please share if you like this post.

Link to story

My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper

It’s spring! and I thought my readers who garden would like to see a few lines from my new short story. It isn’t on my website yet, but it is available on Amazon.

Harpy and Julianne’s Tomato War
Janelle Meraz Hooper

AN EXCERPT- 1970, Lawton, Oklahoma…On a street in the older part of town, Harpy & Julianne, two gardening senior citizens, wage war over seemingly little things like roses and tomatoes. The trouble began with nineteen cats and prize roses and culminated with a dog named Killer, a racehorse named Moon Dancer, tomatoes, and lemon cake.

“…Everyone had a hustle in their bustle and the air pulsed with excitement when it was Tomato Festival time in Julianne’s hometown of Lawton, Oklahoma. A parade began the festivities that was followed with a tomato-growing competition, and canning competition. Vendors of every sort lined both sides of the streets and artists set up white tents for their art show in the park under the leafy trees. Near the picnic tables, all of the different organizations sold food to raise money for their clubs. The polka club sold sausages and sauerkraut; the Flamenco Club sold a Mexican plate with beans, rice, and enchiladas; The Mahjong Club sold a stir-fry dish served over white rice; and the Comanches sold fry bread. Live music ranging from classical to blue grass floated over the excitement, each style melding into the next.
On the outdoor stage, music teachers held their students’ yearly recitals in music, voice, and dance. Next, children would line up on the same stage to show off their skills in the Asian martial arts, wrestling, and baton twirling. The fun would culminate in a barbecue and a street dance when the sun went down and it cooled off. While the adults danced, a big movie screen showed cartoons for the kiddies, most of whom fell asleep with homemade ice cream all over their faces before Tom caught Jerry or the Roadrunner outwitted the Coyote.
Julianne especially liked the parade. Luckily, the floats and marching bands always lined up on “A” Avenue, right in front of her house, so she had a front row seat without leaving her porch. It seemed that every year at least one of the floats had some sort of mechanical crisis—usually a flat tire—or a decoration that failed to stay put—or a sound system that didn’t work. Each time, the men on the parade committee would descend upon the float that threatened to hold up the start of the parade in an old pickup. Its back was filled with all kinds of quick-fix items known to be useful from years of experience: hammers, saws, staplers, rope, wire, two by fours, and especially duct tape. As soon as the crew would fix one problem, another distress call would come in from another float. Every crisis and its resolution made for great entertainment for Julianne and the friends she invited to share her front porch.
They were a happy bunch and they’d all been friends for years. Belle had been one of Julianne’s bridesmaids. Trude and Vera were sisters who each brought their husbands every year. And, of course, there was always Joe. Joe had gone to high school with Julianne and they’d both gone on to graduate from Cameron University together. Of course, it was just Cameron College back then. The guest list was the same every year and every year Julianne sent out handwritten invitations to Potluck on the Porch! BYOP (Bring your own pot!)
Harpy, Julianne’s cranky next door neighbor, never joined Julianne and her friends even though he was always invited. He stayed inside his house with the windows and doors closed saying that all the racket the kids made interfered with his baseball game. The stubborn man didn’t have air conditioning, and Julianne wondered how he could stand the heat in his little house with the doors and windows shut tight. It had to be sweltering in there. Maybe he filled his bathtub with ice cubes from his fancy refrigerator and listened to the baseball game on the radio in his bathroom. But it didn’t really matter to Julianne what he did…or why. Harpy was just like that. He didn’t like kids. He didn’t like her friends. He didn’t like Julianne. He especially didn’t like her cats! Other than not liking Julianne because of her cats, the only other reason she could figure out for his hostility toward her was he didn’t like it when she wore her nightgown and robe on her back porch when she fed her cats in the morning. “You’re dragging your robe through the cats’ water!” he was known to shout from his back porch. Why did he care? Why on earth he went into such a tailspin over a little wet lace around the bottom of her robe she’d never understand…”

Available on Amazon Kindle. Suitable for all ages.

If you like this, please share!

Visit me on the web to see my other books, short stories:

Facebook, Twitter, WordPress, Pinterest

cover by author.

Amazon

My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper

Dear Readers,

I’ve expanded my short story, Old Joe’s Pink Cadillac, and made it available on Amazon. Note: This is one of the back stories for my Turtle Trilogy (A Three-Turtle Summer, As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries, and Custer & His Naked Ladies).

A few lines from Old Joe’s Pink Cadillac, expanded version…

“…Ben’s effort to see that Joe was well and had everything he needed was always appreciated by the old guy. He didn’t have a phone, so on hot nights, Ben would walk across the alley to say hello and make sure the old man had ice for his icebox. During the summer, ice and water could be lifesavers when temperatures in the Oklahoma town could be over a hundred or more in the daytime during the summer, and the town’s senior citizens were sometimes known to suffer from dehydration.
Most of the time, Ben’s offer to bring Joe some ice wasn’t needed because Joe had bought a block of ice after work and had hand-carried it all the way home. Upon Ben’s arrival, Joe would pull two bottles of beer out of his icebox, and he and Ben would go outside and sit on Elizabeth’s hood to cool off. There, in the dark, they’d listen to the crickets chirp, and the cats fight and hiss at each other on the Victorian’s porch. Sometimes, houses away, they’d hear a couple squabbling until they both decided it was too hot to fight.
Too hot to love.
Too hot to sleep.
Eventually, cats and people would quiet down for the night, and Ben and Joe would be left under a star-filled sky with only the crickets, lightning bugs, and a few mosquitoes for company…”

Amazon Kindle, suitable for NA (New Adult) & up.

Author’s note: I drew on my memories of growing up in an Oklahoma town for this story. About 35,000 people without the army at the time, and less than 8 miles from Fort Sill.

Also new on Amazon: Harpy & Julianne’s Tomato War, Kindle. Suitable for all ages.

Visit me! Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and more!

If you like this story, please share!

My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper

See the book on Amazon

A Three-Turtle Summer

The first book in my Turtle Trilogy

…Grace has to dump a man who is meaner than a rattlesnake and dumber than adobe…

Fort Sill, Oklahoma, July, 1949
It was too hot to play cards, especially if someone were keeping score, and Vera was.
“Ay, carumba! You can’t stand to go two hours without beating someone at something can you?” Grace Tyler playfully pouted.

Vera ignored her little sister, and began shuffling cards as she gleefully announced, “Senoras, the game is canasta, and we’re going to play according to Hoyle.” She began to deal the cards like a Las Vegas gambler while Pauline laughed and pointed at her mother, a notorious and frequent card-cheater.

Everyone was hot, but in her long-sleeved shirt and long skirt, Grace was sweltering. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and neck and she kept stretching her legs out because the backs of her knees stuck to her skirt.

“Gracie, for God’s sake, go put some shorts on,” Vera said.

Grace ignored her sister, pulled her shirt away from her perspiring chest and asked,

“Anyone want more iced tea before Vera whips the pants off of us?”

Momma and Pauline both nodded and Grace poured tea over fresh ice cubes while Vera got a tablet and pencil out of her purse.

The room was almost silent as each woman arranged her hand. Only Momma barely tapped her foot and softly sang a song from her childhood under her breath:

“The fair senorita with the rose in her hair …
worked in the cantina but she didn’t care …
played cards with the men and took all their loot … awh-ha!
went to the store and bought brand new boots … ”

“Awh-Haaa!” Grace’s five-year-old daughter Glory joined in.

Paperback, Kindle (etc.) Suitable for adults. Bold Media 1st place award winner, novel category. iUniverse.

Book 2 of the Turtle Trilogy: As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries. iUniverse.

Book 3 of the Turtle Trilogy: Custer & His Naked Ladies. iUniverse. 

Please share this post!

]]> https://janellemerazhooperauthor.com/a-three-turtle-summer/a-three-turtle-summer-a-few-lines/feed 0 https://janellemerazhooperauthor.com/custer-his-naked-ladies/custer-and-his-naked-ladies-excerpt https://janellemerazhooperauthor.com/custer-his-naked-ladies/custer-and-his-naked-ladies-excerpt#respond Wed, 18 Dec 2013 21:25:50 +0000 https://janellemerazhooperauthor.com/?p=738 Continue reading →]]> Custer and His Naked Ladies

A modern-day Western

Amazon and other Internet bookstores

Paperback and Kindle

an excerpt

Janelle Meraz Hooper

1.      Dumped 

      Glory was on her way to join her husband on a NOAA research vessel when she tried to call him to say she was running late. That was when she discovered he wasn’t on the ship; without telling her, he’d pulled out of the offshore project days before. With that failed phone call, all of her recent, uncomfortable inklings fell into place. Her marriage was over. He just hadn’t gotten around to telling her yet.

That was how she ended up at Sea-Tac Airport, halfway between Seattle and Tacoma, with her hair in braids, wearing a pink Where’s the Powwow? sweatshirt. She carried only her wallet, a camera, and a faded blue gym bag. The bag was filled with the same kinds of clothes she was wearing, a few books, and a photo of her husband. The photo—frame and all—she chucked into a trash barrel outside the airport. She would have liked to toss it out of the airplane, but she was pretty sure it would make the stewards cranky if she opened the emergency exit at 35,000 feet.   

            Her original destination, the research vessel, was scheduled to drop anchor over the undersea volcanoes off the coast of Washington State. The scientists on the ship were to study the marine life that thrived in the hot water that spewed out of the craters.

            After the research trip, she and her husband, Rick, were to take a much-needed vacation to Mexico and reconnect. They hadn’t had any identifiable problems, but her husband had been moody and refused to talk about it. Glory had hoped he would open up after a few days rest on a hot sandy beach with a Margarita in his hand. Rick hadn’t been in favor of the vacation, but Glory had insisted. Finally, he had thrown up his hands and given up.

Before the research trip, he had convinced her to put all of their things in storage because they didn’t know if they’d be back in Seattle when the project was over. There was no use, he’d said, in paying rent while they were gone.

It made sense.

Sort of.  

But why hadn’t she been suspicious when he’d insisted on putting all of his things into separate marked boxes? How dumb was she? The dirty rat! And what would she have done on the research ship without him for three weeks? Her specialty was in freshwater turtles; there would be no real work for her there. No paycheck. He was the specialist in coastal underwater volcanoes. He belonged there. She would have been nothing more than a guest with no way off the boat. Her cheeks burned at the embarrassment she felt. What was he thinking?

Her new destination was her mother’s in Oklahoma. Getting a last minute ticket was expensive, and Glory was thankful for her credit cards. No one ever went to Oklahoma unless they had to, and airline tickets to the Sooner State were never a bargain. Glory handed the woman at the check-in counter her credit card and mumbled a quote from a rich friend, “All it takes is money.” The woman briefly looked up, then, expressionless, continued adding up the full fare charges on her keyboard.

On her way to the airplane boarding area, over and over, Glory thought, this isn’t the way normal, educated people get divorced.

I’ve been dumped!

With no explanation.

No discussion.

 www.JanelleMerazHooper.com

Facebook, Twitter (@JanelleMHooper)

My Uncle Emmett

I love you, Porgy, don’t ever leave me!
Janelle Meraz Hooper
www.JanelleMerazHooper.com

The only thing that prevented my mom and I from being homeless when I was in the third grade was the house my Uncle Emmett had purchased for my grandmother. I’m sure he never thought that his gift to his mother would result in her throwing open the doors to the whole family. But that’s just what she did. Anyone who needed a place to stay for a few days crashed at my grandmother’s. My mom and I stayed the longest. Nowadays, I read in the newspaper about families living in their cars. My mom didn’t  have a car. I don’t know what would have become of us if my grandmother hadn’t let us move in.

I didn’t have much in those days. Mom had been forced to throw away my rock and seashell collections. I had some dolls in a cardboard box at the bottom of my closet. I was up to ninety-nine of them before we had to get rid of them. Most of them were very small, not much bigger than my little finger. But one day, they were gone. I can’t remember ever asking why.

That left me with my clothes that hung in a small closet, a toothbrush in the bathroom, and a stack of library books that I was allowed to keep on the floor in the living room. That was it. And I was glad for it; I can’t remember ever complaining.

Anyway, I didn’t need toys. I lived mostly in my head: I was going to go to Broadway and become a star. I had few talents to achieve my goal; I was a so-so actress and a worse than that dancer (much worse!). When I wasn’t planning my big career, I sat on the floor and read my library books.

My uncle Emmett, who was dean of men and a math teacher at the local college, lived with us. I never saw a lot of him; he was very busy! One day, after school, the door to his bedroom was closed but he wasn’t home. I didn’t think anything about it. I quietly went into the kitchen and grabbed a cold tortilla and settled down on the floor in the living room with my books.

That evening, my Uncle called me into his bedroom—I couldn’t remember ever being invited there before. The first thing I saw was a brand-new, shiny stereo cabinet against the wall. It was one of those that had stereo and radio in a wooden box almost the size of a coffin. That’s why my grandmother had closed his door, to protect the stereo! I stared at it with my mouth open, I’m sure. I had never been so close to something so beautiful!

But wait, there was more! My uncle picked up a stack of albums and handed them to me. I was afraid to touch them but he assured me that I was welcome to come into his room when he was gone and listen to his records whenever I wanted. I looked through the stack of albums in a daze: Porgy & Bess, South Pacific, Annie Get Your Gun, Flower Drum Song, The King and I!

I took very good care of that stereo and the albums. I always sat on the floor—never on my uncle’s furniture—and never, ever took food into his room. Not even a peeled carrot. If anyone would have asked me where heaven was, I wouldn’t have hesitated before pointing toward my uncle’s room.

I’ll never forget what he did for me. “Got no mansion, got no yacht. Still I’m happy for what I’ve got. I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night…” (from Annie Get Your Gun)

Thanks, Uncle Emmett.
Janelle