The Wiccan’s Bank

         Our local branch bank office is friendly enough in appearance to those customers who do business there. It sits in a quiet suburban plaza, nestled amidst restaurants and shops. Inside, the tellers and clerks diligently process banking transactions in a fashion that would please even old Ebeneezer Scrooge were it one of his offices. Everything runs at a pitch of high efficiency and at a level of cordiality that would make any manager smile. That is, until my wife and I walk in.

          Then, as if by magic, the clerical personnel all quickly and quietly don those black conical hats that witches wear on Halloween. Their faces take on a crafty look and their eyes reflect the gleam that one would normally see in a great white shark before he bites into you. They eye us hungrily, each hoping to wait on us to see what impish mischief they can carry out and how irritated they can make us feel. The prize goes to the smiling clerk who gets us angry enough to say “close out all of our accounts.” They then all watch with absolute glee as we storm out of the office in a complete teller-induced rage. I know they get extra points if one of us raises our voice or takes on an exasperated and helpless expression.

          On one occasion they ask us to go and get our dentist’s drivers license so we can cash the insurance check he has signed over to us. Another time, they refuse to cash a $70 check for us when our existing cash deposits on hand at the bank total several years of the teller’s salary. Why would they ever trust us for $70? We were obviously but peasants who could be told to “get in another line, please.” This, said with a near high pitched cackle of mirth from the teller. We had just made her day. Normally only government clerks get this kind of benign high from irritating customers while doing their jobs ever so efficiently.

          I know that when we leave the office, the black conical hats will disappear and the charming and pleasant workers will magically reappear. They collectively sigh happily, as we leave in a huff, and settle in to wait for the next cherished appearance of “that couple.”

          We too settle back, reassess our actions and then stop to visit the offices of another bank. They seem happy to see us and I don’t notice a single black, conical hat. We sign our selves up to do business with them, shake hands with the manager and leave for home. Unseen and unheard by us, a soft cackle echoes through that office. Then, a ruffle of black silk haberdashery is passed through the ranks. The staff collectively sighs in delighted anticipation, waiting for our return.

                             Joseph Xavier Martin

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Life Come to Me

By Lenore Farkas

Eyeing the words from several blocks away, I could read the sign clearly as my car stopped at the traffic light, and came face to face with its creator.

“I know what it’s like to be homeless.  I’m going to a shelter myself in a couple of days.  Here’s a little help.”

“Thanks, but you could probably use this dollar more than me.  I already made my forty dollars for the hotel room for tonight.”

“Bless you,” I replied, as I left him with the dollar and drove away.

Two days later, I moved into a facility in Hudson,Florida and then ended up spending eleven weeks at three different shelters.  Several hardships had besieged me in the ten years preceding this:  I lost both my parents, I lost all my belongings when my apartment burned beyond being livable, my thirty year marriage ended in divorce, a stress leave prompted early retirement and the loss of part of my pension, I couldn’t find a job and ended up declaring bankruptcy, an on-again-off-again four year romantic relationship, I had minor surgery, and after trusting someone to pay back a large debt, they never did. I had reached the lowest point in my life.

    
“How would I ever survive living in a shelter like this,” I asked myself.  “Lenore, it’s this or the street.  Remember all of the challenges you have been through in the past ten years….  You can do it; you are Unstoppable!”

Gathering up all of my courage, I began this new adventure.  Although I knew shelter life would present more challenges, I decided to focus on the positive.

A shelter including battered women and their children became my first home.  Many there did not know how to treat others well, because they had been mistreated themselves.  It was a supportive place where we all gave each other plenty of love and hugs; we spent a lot of time together crying on one another’s shoulders.

Cooking, cleaning and organizing the kitchen were the chores I chose.   I enjoyed rearranging the huge refrigerator and freezer weekly, storing all of the food in plain sight for us to choose what we wanted to eat.    Washing dishes made me feel at home in my own place.  Yummy, runny cheese eggs were my cooking specialty enjoyed by many of the women there.  That entree had been a favorite breakfast for my two boys in their early years. 

Thanksgiving in April was a feast we all helped create in giving gratitude for a safe home and food on the table.  Cooking the delicious turkey was my contribution.   Together with savory stuffing, candied marshmallow yams and scrumptious pumpkin pie, a memorable meal was made.  

My sweet angels were the shelter’s counselors and intake workers.  “More-more-more,” they would say as they listened to me sing beautiful Broadway love songs.

Each day we were asked to fill out a goal sheet detailing how we were growing in self sufficiency.  Under the office door I slid my sheet at 7 a.m. detailing things I was doing to prepare for an independent living coach position that was being created for me.     At the top of my sheet, I regularly wrote-“I am Unstoppable.”

One day feeling really sad, I sat outside and cried.  “Lady, Lady, Lady, sing your heart out,” came the words of the maintenance man who had listened to my songs daily.  And he was right, for singing always made me feel better.
Five weeks later, the job I had been working on fell through and my time had expired. Everybody’s Tabernacle in Clearwater had one bed open and I grabbed it.  Life would be different there with a population of men, women and families.

Kitchen greeter was my position, directing residents where to sign in.   “Hey Lou, how are you,” I would say to a lawyer  I met there who had become sick, lost everything and was now doing pro bono work.  The cook, a culinary arts graduate named Jamie, was always glad to share his recipes for my favorite foods, Sloppy Joes and chicken with rice. He nicknamed me “Songstress,” and I would sing “Have a great day, have a great day,” each time I left the lunch room.
Living close to the waters of Dunedin, I visited the Bay daily, walking the winding path, watching the mullets jump and eyeing the playfulness of the dolphins.   Viewing spectacular sunsets most evenings, brought peace and serenity. Working on a home/work project kept me moving forward. 

Five and a half weeks later, my time had again expired and I was transferred to another facility.  One day after moving in, an amazing gift; money to move into an extended stay place for one week until my live in caregiver job opened up.  A New Life Came to Me.

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When traveling, always pack your patience

A three-day visit in Maryland/D.C. ended with a transit exclamation point.
Twenty minutes out of Philly, on the way home on my first-ever Amtrak train trip, the conductor announced that we were coasting. The train engine had lost power; in fact, all electric power to the train was out. The engineer would let the train coast until it stopped and then try to start it up. He did, it did and it wouldn't. The conductor informed us clearly, completely and repeatedly that a solution to the problem would take a while, warning that the train cars would heat up inside. Nobody doubted him, although one lady had a lot to say about the situation, including that she had a doctor's appointment—somewhere between Philly and the end station of Boston—and that this was no way to treat passengers. The rest of us soothed our psyches by cell phoning, reading (in my case, Eudora Welty's "Death of a Traveling Salesman") and going to the restroom; there were two per car.

The conductor made frequent reports, a feather in Amtrak's hat, including that they had decided to either bring an engine from Trenton to pull us into that station or transfer us onto a passing train. Eventually, the latter option was chosen, and we were told to prepare ourselves for moving to train number 108 when it arrived in 25 minutes. We would be told what doors to exit through and we would do well to avoid making contact with both trains at the same time because of the scary amount of electric power pulsing through the lines above the tracks. The conductor was quick to assure us that there would be sufficient moving room for us to accomplish a safe switch and that the result of disregarding his warning would not result in electrocution but only a tingle. Still, the formerly mentioned lady was indeed shocked by what the conductor had said and voiced her continued displeasure while she still could.

About five minutes before engine 108's expected arrival, I rose to go pee and lo, the lights came back on! The conductor declared that power had been restored and that we would be underway shortly. The relief in feeling the forward movement of our train—we had thought of it as "theirs" while it was stalled on the tracks—was sweetened into something like glee on hearing the conductor's next bit of information. The transfer of us and our luggage from their disabled train to our rescue train would have taken an hour.

The whole episode had put us 55 minutes behind their schedule which lost time, the conductor emphasized, would not be made up anywhere between Trenton and Boston. But the a/c was cooling and our train was whisking authoritatively along toward fast-approaching station stops—rather say just stations.
On one of his frequent passes, I asked conductor Mike what had gone wrong, and then right? “The train engine had overheated,” was his reply. I didn't ask for his estimate of the chances of another overheating before we reached Boston. I did think to ask if my rising from my seat with the intent to go pee had anything to do with the surge of power that put us back on the road again. “No,” said the conductor with a small smile. He offered that the engineer had opened the windows in his control compartment so that whatever New Jersey air had wafted against the engine during our forced
55-minute rest stop had cooled the engine just minutes before the arrival of and whoosh past of number 108. We had to slow on the approach to Trenton station to allow train 108 to use the tracks first.

At last, I disembarked at Newark station, probably with a greater feeling of attainment than if I had traveled “non-stop.”

David Hauenstein

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Tornados

Each year, the frequency and ferocity of spring tornados seem to top previous records. These past few weeks have been unmerciful to the area of the country depicted as “tornado alley” and outlying areas as well.

Some time back, during another spring of storms, I received a case study entitled, Tornadoes in Wisconsin; a 1990 paper originating from the State Historical Society, authored by Peter S. Felknor. It goes on to mention that while most residents believe there are only two seasons in their state, winter and road construction, in fact the state is on a north-central fringe of the tornado belt and suffers disasters at “fairly regular intervals.”  Since official documentation began in the late 1865, and up through 1984, the state had experienced sixty-six “killer tornados” ie, those causing death. A total of 424 deaths, not an insignificant number over 119 years.  

Twenty-seven years have passed since the June 8, 1984 storm at Barneveld. As a southwestern Wisconsinite, the Barneveld tornado was too close to home; too close for comfort. It was to close to the memory of all those many nights when our dad would wake the family and hustle us down to the first floor to wait out a violent thunder storm hitting Fennimore. To him the first floor was safer than our upstairs bedrooms; when in fact we should have been sheltered in the corner of the basement, behind the washing machine, if a really violent one was bearing down. But thankfully, we survived in the living room until another night and another storm. Back then there were no warning sirens; each family was on its own, depending on parent’s experiences or intuitions.

I believe the last twister to hit Fennimore proper was one that damaged store fronts on the lower end of Lincoln Avenue in 1904. Since then, others have skipped around town and accomplished their share of damage; such as one in 1956 that took out the poplar trees along Highway 18 west of town.  None with loss of life.

But Barneveld was different. Sitting atop military ridge, west of the Blue Mound, its quaint business district straddled old Highway 18 and the abandoned rail road bed as they snaked the mile through the quaint business district. Home locations of the 500 or so citizens fell off the ridge down various side streets. The Barneveld State Bank, village water tower, an implement dealer, town fire station, St. Mary’s Catholic Church and the Barneveld Lutheran Church were familiar landmarks on that main street. By the morning of June 8, 1984, this scene would never be the same.

It had been a typical Wisconsin June day, most remembering it as being “warm and muggy.” Meanwhile, the state of Iowa had been assaulted by an all day siege of violent weather with over twenty-six tornadoes tearing up towns and countryside in the northeastern part of that state.

Before midnight the line of storms had passed over the Mississippi. They were skipping their way across Grant and Lafayette counties, briefly touching down at Belmont and Mineral Point and heading for Barneveld.  It was a little past midnight and the tornado hit with a ferocity classified as F-5. Setting down at the intersection of the new and old Highways 18, it consumed the business district and then bore down on the Toni subdivision on the northeastern end of town.  In a matter of sixty seconds, nine Barnevelders lost their lives, most in the Toni subdivision. The bell tower of the Lutheran Church and one partially spared home was all that remained in that end of town. Another 200 citizens were injured.  A total of ninety-three homes; damaged or demolished. The town was, for all general purposes, gone.

Not many tornados are recorded F-5 and Barneveld’s record is not to be envied. An F-5 is described as “an incredible tornado” with winds from 261 to 318 mph.

That morning of June 8th the image of the battle scarred water tower, standing tall, surrounded by devastation, became a rallying point for the town’s rebuilding in the months and years ahead. A sign in a shop window became their maxim; We’re not giving up––We’re going on!!

Today Barneveld stands proud, as well they should.

Yes, The Barneveld Tornado… too close to home, too close for comfort.

Tom Nelson.  

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                                            Gracie, The baby Sitter                             
By Russ Miller

I had a baby sitter, boy what a baby sitter I had.  My Mother knew that little boys, left alone could get into all kinds of trouble, Soooo, I had a baby sitter. I was 5, she was 14. She was a most beautiful and exciting lady to me, quite mature and fully blossomed, just like my Mom but wore boys clothes, sometimes, overalls. Her name was Gracie but she did all the boy things, like play baseball, hockey and shooting marbles.  It was depression time, 1931.  Mom had to work and left 7:00 in the morning. Gracie was on summer vacation from school.  She would come to our house and sometimes help me get washed and dressed.  She liked this and if she got there a little bit early, she could do this and help my Mother even more.  We lived 3 blocks from the rail road in a little town of Prospect Park, Pennsylvania. During the day Grace would take me for a walk around town and to the school yard where she played baseball and really gave the boys tough competition.  They all wanted her on their team.  One day we walked along the rail road track, Grace said, “let’s get into one of these empty box cars and see what they are like. She boosted me up through the partially open door and then jumped in herself. The doors on other side were closed and it was really dark in there. Gracie took my hand and led me towards the corner where there was a big box.  As we approached the box, a scrawny, scraggly tramp jumped out and screamed, “what are you doing here?” I screamed, but Gracie faced him down and said something like, “none of your business.” He demanded that we empty our pockets to see if we had anything he wanted. Gracie refused at which he pulled a knife, held it to her throat which convinced her to comply.  She had small change like a few pennies and a nickel, I had one penny.  Gimme’ that he demanded. He grabbed the change and ushered us to the back of the freight car.  Stay here, face the wall and don’t move for ten minutes he said, or I’ll cut your throat.  We were scared to death and didn’t move.  I was crying and Gracie was cursing the tramp.  We heard the door on the car, slide shut with a bang and then silence.  All of a sudden the boxcar violently lurched with a crash and started to move.  The door was closed, the train was moving, we were locked inside. The tramp was gone. Now Gracie was starting to cry.  It was pitch black inside and we were going away, somewhere but where.  How will we get home.  My Mother will be worried I thought.
In less than a minute however, all of a sudden the train stopped with a violent crashing bang, probably coupling with another box car just a few feet away. We ran to the doors where a little light shone through the cracks and tried to open them. They were locked.  We both banged on the doors, and in a few minutes, one door opened.  A man with a club stood outside the door and said, how did you kids get in there?  Get out.  We jumped down and ran as fast as we could towards home.  Grace made me promise to never tell what happened to us.  I promised.  We went home and put the checker board on the floor to play, just in time for my Mother to come in and see us.  Mom said, well what have you two been up to today.  Oh nothing special, Gracie replied, just took a walk and played some games.  That’s nice Mom said to Gracie.  It is so good when I know that you take such good care of  Russell. He is such a good little boy, but a bit adventuresome and needs someone like you to keep him safe.  Be sure to come back tomorrow, same time.  Gracie taught me many things especially as she bloomed into a woman, that were very exciting for a 5 year old.  She became a star pitcher on the local men’s baseball team, but that’s another story for another time. 

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Gifts from Snowbirds

Why do I appreciate snowbirds? It’s certainly not because they clog our highways (although we permanent residents cut over to secret escape routes). For sure, lines at restaurants don’t endear them to us, or the need to hit the beach before 9:00 a.m. to avoid morning bumper to bumper traffic.

The benefit of living near snowbirds pops up with spring packing. Soon empty driveways will be my guest parking pad. When our vehicle is shop-bound for repairs, we will be given permission to borrow their left-behind car, and a few thoughtfully loan us their golf-carts.

This year, although Geri insists, “I planned better than last year,” she shows up with three bags of groceries. Since last year’s largess contained several steaks, high-end ice-cream, foreign cheeses and my hubby’s favorite beer, I’m anticipating more of the same. However, this spring’s bags contain ten double packages of Thomas English Muffins, which will take up way-to-much room in my freezer. Fudge!

I sound ungrateful, but some of the items are, literally, a mixed blessing. I figure I’ll regard the half-bottles of unfamiliar salad dressings as a tasting experiment. A vegetable-parmesan cheese confuses me. Is it cheese or is it vegetable? Upon spotting a peach-mango salsa jar, my eyes light up, but further inspection reveals it’s jam-packed with Cheerios. I would have preferred the salsa, but Cheerios are OK, too.

It’s Geri’s one and one-half pounds of sun-flower seeds and an additional one pound from Sharon that present a cooking challenge. Did I miss a food column featuring sunflower seeds? I hate to waste them – would squirrels eat the unsalted ones? I’ll probably resort to chucking them into the freezer where they’ll nestle until fall cleaning…and then toss them out.

However, as much as I chuckle over, but appreciate, the diverse food that arrives on my doorstep, it’s the snowbird’s plants that become problematic.

Maxine donates a huge fern and apologizes, “It likes to be misted every other day, and maybe keep it fairly wet.” Well aware we are notorious plant killers, she adds, “It’s OK if it doesn’t survive. Just keep the pot for me.”

“Plant mister” is not in my vocabulary. I am a plant terrorist. They shudder when handed over. Or, perhaps, those are my trembling hands. The fern and I both know TLC ain’t going to happen. Maxine’s plant doesn’t stand a chance of surviving until her return. In one day, tiny, brown leaves litter the lanai and I discover the fern requires, not only daily misting, but also sweeping up its droppings.

Geri’s sister phones, “Say, Jan, would you like two bamboo plants?”

“Aren’t those the ones that grow an inch a day?” I ask, visualizing shoots ramming the lanai ceiling.

“Gee, I’m not sure. I just know they won’t survive up north.”

They won’t survive me either. I decline.

Sharon gifts a hot pepper plant. “Give it a little water a couple times a week.”

Hubby, after observing fifty-two years of plant homicide, takes pity on it and places it and the tomato plant (a sneaky middle-of-the-night contribution) near a sprinkler.

So here’s the thing: If a four-foot fern interests you, the screen door will be unlatched. Follow the brown leaf trail to the lanai’s corner; the mister is in the white cabinet. Don’t worry about the pot. I’ll be overjoyed to replace it.

Maxine’s fern and I both thank you.

Jan Nieman, author of Going to the Dog: Confessions of a Mobile Pet Groomer 

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