Revisting Woodstock

This piece has been in the works for a while. Please feel free to relive your own Woodstock memories by listening to awesome music. As a prude, I don't recommend some of the other activities rumored to have occurred at the original. Please post feedback below. Thanks.

People swathed in bright tie-dye, cut off shorts, and loose peasant dresses milled around me. I still couldn’t believe where I found myself. My mother’s insistence somehow persuaded me to have my own Woodstock experience, so I drove out to the farm at the edge of town where some local nouveau hippies were holding a celebration of Woodstock. Representatives of local law enforcement watched those in attendance with speculative eyes. I walked toward the entrance slowly, pausing under a canopy that had been set up outside the barn.

“I’m here for the Woodstock experience.” I forced the words out with a smile.

“First we need you to sign in. You can leave your address if you want.”

I couldn’t tell which of three men spoke. Long, shaggy hair poured over two sets of shoulders. Thick dreads somehow accented the high cheekbones and caramel complexion of the third. I took the clipboard he offered me and hastily scribbled my name and address.

“Leave your false self at the door.” The man with the long dreads smiled at me as he pointed to a wall lined with unlabeled bins.

As the scent of patchouli drifted over me and two bodies pressed against me from behind, I frowned at him. He pointed to the bins again. I could feel my face drawing tight in annoyance.

“That is not who you are.”

My eyes followed the trajectory of his gaze. My lips pulled further downward as they rested on the cell phone in my hand. I shook my head.

“You can’t have the real experience if you can’t be yourself.” He flashed me his smile again.

I smiled back. I shook my head, but my cell phone banged against the bottom of one of the bins.

“I hope I can trust the honor system.”

He smiled at my flippant remark and pulled back the strands of shimmering beads that formed a door to what promised to be a historical experience. I stepped through the curtain but stopped as I looked at the people before me. Music from my mother’s childhood reverberated through the cavernous open space.

Right inside the door, an old man with long wisps of gray hair tied back by a thick strip of leather 

recited the mantra, “It’s not the same, man. It’s not the same.”

The younger man at his side shook his head. “You always told me that Woodstock has always been for the young.”

Pondering my own nearing old age, I steeled myself, forcing my trepidation further down into my stomach. Knotted up in those depths, it couldn’t keep me from taking a few more steps into the room. 

As my feet sank into a couple of inches of thick mud, I giggled. Every footstep squeaked and slurped. The mud tried to suck me backward.

“Hey, Joe. Welcome to the new Woodstock.” A man coated in mud exclaimed as he slid into me, pulling me to the ground.

I opened my mouth to inform him my name was not Joe. Mud squished into every opening from my open mouth to the ends of my pants legs. I shivered as the cold mud coated the thin cotton of my shirt. The mud man wrapped his arms around me and pulled me deeper into the mud.

“There you go, sugar. You needed to loosen up a little.” He kissed my cheek before letting me go.

He released me in time to be enveloped in the warm embrace of woman coated in mud except for a few locks of washed-out red hair. “Welcome.”

Another woman joined us, wrapping her arms around my shoulder and swaying with me. Then they were both singing along to the song blaring from the speakers, “Hey, Joe”. I didn’t know the words, but I picked up the tune and hummed along.

The next song made me smile as I remembered a television show I watched when I was younger. I sang along when the chorus came up, singing as loud as my new friends, “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

A feeling of peace washed over me. In that moment, I understood who I was and how I connected to the world around me. The music washed over and through me, carrying me away from my worries and drawing me into a family made of strangers who sang with me, at me, to me.

The man with the dreads spoke the truth. I found myself without my lifeline to the world. It waited for me in a vat of mud and the embraces of strangers. I didn’t bother to claim my cell phone from the bin on the way out. I didn’t need it anymore.

It arrived on my doorstep a week later with a note. “Trust the honor system.”

Remember Me?

Ever wonder what the past would say if it could write you a letter?

I lift the lid of the mailbox, peering inside to find the standard array of bills and junk mail. Nestled among the long envelopes demanding money, a square envelope draws my eye. A childish hand penned my address in large block letters and addressed it to a nickname I thought was forgotten but didn’t give a return address. The rest of the envelopes slide onto the table just inside the door as I gently tear open the envelope. A few pieces of yellowed stationery slide out into my hand. As I begin to read, my brow furrows in confusion and tears form in the corners of my eyes.

Dear Bella,

I hear that is what everyone calls you now. I remember when your brothers used to call you Belly as they tickled you until you cried. Do you remember being that young? Have you forgotten me? Or do you remember how often I was the one to dry your tears?

You used to love me. You loved the feel of my soft fur on your face as you snuggled into sleep. You even loved my rich, deep voice. You loved when I sang “Proud Mary” because I sounded just like John Fogerty. I loved when you would sing along even though you were always out of tune.

In fact, there wasn’t anything about you I didn’t love. I loved the way you always smelled of sugar and dirt. I miss the mud pies you made for me even though I never ate them. I long for our adventures in the woods and quiet nights when you struggled to stay awake a little longer to watch the moon come up with me.

I remember everything. I even remember the night you went away with your mother and your brothers. You left so quickly, leaving me behind. By the time you came back, I was nowhere to be found. I like to believe you looked for me before being distracted by some new toy that your father bought out of guilt.

You thought they gave me away to another child who needed to be loved, didn’t you? Parents lie. They claim they are protecting you, but sometimes they just want to protect themselves from their own mistakes. I hope your forgive them. They love you as much as I do.

Where have I been? I’ve been gathering dust in the attic of your old house. I could have stayed here forever. I would have waited for you to come back, no matter how long it took. But they have discovered me. My fur is matted and covered in dust and mold. My once shiny, black eyes are now pitted and dull. They don’t want me. I don’t blame. I’ll go back to the trashcan after I mail this letter, but I had to write to you.

I know even you couldn’t love me now, but I still love you. Take care of yourself. You will always be my little girl, who wrapped her arms around me and dragged me along the grass because she wasn’t tall enough to keep my feet off the ground. I hope you had other friends to comfort you. I hope you still do. Just think of me from time to time, your first love, your first stuffed animal.

Love always,

Brown Dog

I read through the letter another time. Tears pour down my cheeks.

“Oh, Brown Dog, I do remember you.”

I place the letter on the table next to the unopened mail and step over to the stereo. I close my eyes and remember being young as Brown Dog sings “Proud Mary” for me one more time.

Good Eye

“It’s time to go back in.” Tracey mumbles as she rises from her uncomfortable seat in the waiting room.

I pretend not to hear her, allowing my head to rest on my hands as I stare at the white linoleum tiles under my feet. Silence doesn’t fool her. She wraps slender fingers around my arm, pulls me from my chair, and guides me toward the long hallway.

“Stop that.” I pull free, ignoring the scratches her nails leave on my arm as I step back toward the waiting room.

“You have to come say goodbye to her, Viv. She’s our grandmother.”

“But…” My lips purse as I try to sort through my thoughts.

She reaches for me again, placing her hands gently on shoulders. “Just look at her hands. That is what I always do.”

“I can’t. I always look up.”

She offers me a reassuring smile. “…and then you look away and she laughs.”

One hand slides down my arm to take my hand. This time, I don’t resist as she pulls me along the corridor. I try not to focus on the sounds of labored breathing coming from most of the rooms we pass. I focus on the tiles underfoot, hoping they will help me forget where we are. My nostrils flare as the aroma of disinfectant grows stronger. I raise my free hand to diffuse the smell. I allow my hand to fall at my side as I follow my sister into an open door to our left.

“My girls.” A hoarse whisper greets us.

“Hello, grandma.” We answer in unison as our hands clutch each other more tightly.

My eyes wander along the pink fleece blanket that covers her emaciated legs. Equally thin arms rest on the outside of the blanket. Fingers twisted by arthritis into claws tremble as she beckons us closer.

“I love my girls.” Her thin, pale lips stumble over the words before forming a smile.

My eyes wander from her lips to her eyes for only a second. The left eye focuses on my face, clear and blue, while the right floats in a milky cloud. Though I know I should be used to seeing this blind orb, my stomach clenches and twists within me. She doesn’t notice or ignores my reaction, patting the edge of the bed.

“Come closer.” As we obey she continues to whisper. “I’m glad you love me. I’m glad you have each other.”

“We do love you.” My sister speaks for both of us as tears choke back my own words.

“I will always love you, my girls. You must always love each other.” Her voice tapers off at the end of her plea and my eyes seek out her face.

My grandmother’s eyes close one last time. With parchment eyelids between me and the windows to her soul, I am finally able to look directly at her serene face. A single tear slips from my eye as my sister enfolds me in her arms.

Tooth Thief

I apologize again for last week's neglect. Hopefully, today's submission inspires you to forgive me and helps you welcome the upcoming holiday weekend.

A clatter interrupts the stillness of night. I roll toward my husband to find that his wall of sleep is too thick to breach. No matter how much I shake him, he doesn’t even moan an acknowledgement. As another clatter echoes up the stairwell, I slip out from under the covers. I pause with my hand reaching toward the door.

Shaking my head, I turn back to survey the bedroom in the dim glow of moonlight. My eyes rest on the Maglite that always sits on my end table. Quickly crossing the distance between us, I pick up the Maglite and start toward the door again. The weight of the long handle gives me courage to walk toward the noise.

Stepping into the hall, I hear a slight buzzing sound accompanied by the rustle of paper. Tentative steps bring me to the top of the stairwell. Looking over the banister, I see a soft blue glow emanating from the living room. Careful to avoid the squeaky second step, I wend my way down the staircase until I can press myself up against the wall to the living room. Inching forward, I am finally able to peek into the room. I stifle a gasp of surprise.

A tiny woman with long, delicate wings floats three feet above the floor in my living room. Blond curls cascade down her back, tied away from her face with a thick pink ribbon. A white pinafore with pockets that look like huge molars covers a dress of pale blue. She holds a scepter with a large smiling tooth atop it in one hand. The other hand busily searches through the Easter baskets that await my children and the morning. She picks up and quickly drops the small toys and books that nestle amongst the colorful grasses without showing any interest, but pockets all of the chocolate. As I inhale sharply in disapproval, she notices she is no longer alone.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Her voice sounds like a song.

“What are you doing here?” I counter.

“Visiting.”

“But my children haven’t lost any teeth in months.”

The tooth fairy snorts derisively. “Yes, dental hygiene is putting me out of business.”

“So you’re stealing their candy?” Bewilderment sets in.

“They don’t deserve it if they won’t let their teeth rot out of their heads.” She fires back as she points her wand at me.

The smiling molar vibrates and a blue bolt of electricity leaps out at me. I duck reflexively, turning in time to see the painting behind me burst into flames. I turn back toward the tooth fairy. She has raised her wand again.

As she sends another bolt of electricity toward me, I press the button on the Maglite. Startled by the beam of light, she poofs out of existence. The bolt of electricity sails over my shoulder to set a second painting on fire. The fire alarm goes off. My husband and children stumble down the stairs in a sleep-induced stupor as I smother the last flickering flame and move to silence the smoke detector. The children find distraction in their baskets of goodies, but my husband looks as if he wants an explanation. I return his stunned gaze, searching for the correct one.

Cancelled...

Today's impending post has been cancelled due to an unnecessary and unwelcome illness. Forgive me?

After much thought and worry, I have crafted a story to fill this gap. Enjoy and feel free to comment. I have reworked this story a couple of times and am curious to get reactions from people who aren't me. Yes, that's you. *applause*

C-A-N-C-E-L-L-E-D

Bold letters painted in red implied the permanence of the crisscrossed boards bearing this message. Imogene’s feet stopped though her hand continued reaching for the door handle. She reserved this time and this place for her communes with God. How could anyone deny her these few moments with her father in Heaven?

Despite the gray hair piled high on her head, she showed surprising strength. As slender fingers wrapped around the doorknob and the muscles in an equally slender arm tightened, the double doors creaked and pulled apart. She peered through the crack into the dim interior of the church.

“Pastor Johnson, are you in there?” Her voice dripped honey as she leaned across the rough boards to call through the opening.

Receiving no response, she released the doorknob. As the door snapped closed, footsteps approached on the loose gravel of the parking lot. Imogene turned to face the tall man walking toward her. He showed two rows of slightly yellow teeth as he removed a wide-brimmed hat.

“Imogene, I thought that was you.”

“I always come to the church on Sunday afternoon, Pastor Johnson. You know that.”

“Yes, well...” He cleared his throat. “I did tell you it wouldn’t be open today.”

“Excuse me.” Imogene placed a hand on each hip and tapped one foot rhythmically.

“I announced last week that we didn’t have the funds to keep the church open.”

“I am sure the tithes cover…”

“Are you?” The pastor placed his hat back on his head, shielding his eyes from the sun and his bare 

head from the old woman’s displeasure.

“They always have in the past.” She crossed her arms.

“Sadly, this is a new time.” The pastor shook his head and turned to walk away.

Short, quick steps carried her to the edge of the porch. “Wait, pastor.”

“Yes?”

“Maybe we could do something since…”

The pastor gazed up at her expectantly.

“…I need my weekly time with God.”

“We all do.” He nodded in agreement, tipping the brim of his hat up to see her face better. “What do 

you propose we do?”

“A bake sale?”

He shook his head.

“A raffle?”

“What would we raffle?”

“Good point.” She stared off into the horizon. “I think I know what to do.”

“Yes?”

“Pray.”

The pastor laughed. “That will help, but I think we need to do some of the work as well. Consider that 

your sermon for today.”

This time when he walked away, he didn’t turn back. Imogene stood staring up at the peeling paint on the church steeple for a while before shuffling home.

After a long night pacing the floors, thumbing through dusty old volumes, and sorting yellowed documents, she finally found the solution. Careful steps brought her back to the closed doors. She leaned against them, ignoring the rough surface of the wood digging into her back.

She didn’t wait long. The pastor’s long legs brought him quickly from his house beside the church. A satisfied smile brightened his face as he almost marched up the steps to tower over her.

“Dear Imogene, have you found a way to save our church?”

“I have, pastor.” The flint of her voice caused the pastor’s smile to waver.

“That’s wonderful.” Though he tried to sound confident, the pastor’s voice wavered under her gaze.

“It is indeed.” Imogene reached into the large pocket of her loose smock dress and pulled out a thin pile of papers, folded in half and yellowed by time. “It is all right here in the charter for the church that my dear husband drew up.”

“Charter?” The smile completely vanished at this revelation.

“Yes. My late husband established this church.” As the pastor continued to regard her disbelievingly, Imogene unfolded the pages, scanning them quickly before continuing. “If the tithes and offerings provided by those who worship in the Farthing Church of Christ fail to provide for the needs of the church, the pastor will open his home as a boarding house to defray costs.”

“That can’t be right.” The pastor reached for the document.

Imogene pulled the papers away from his outstretched hand, scanning the contents again before continuing. “You must realize that the house doesn’t belong to you and the tithes and offerings should go to paying the debts of the church. Any excess funds are intended to help the poor not buy luxuries. I do know about the investment account that my husband set up when he was the pastor.”

The pastor’s eyes darted to the shiny, red Audi parked outside his house as he raised his hand to stop the flow of her words. “I believe I understand.”

“I hope you do. I expect to see these doors open and welcoming next Sunday morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Imogene nodded slightly. “Have a good day, Pastor Johnson.

Tongue-tied, the pastor watched her go.

Shaking her head, Imogene muttered to herself. “That fool thought I’d give him money out of my own pocket. I’ll give him the opportunity to seek new employment at the next board meeting.”

The pastor didn’t hear any of this. While his mind raced through schemes to make this all better, his long strides carried him to the garage.

“I’ll make this right. I should have put the car in here.” He grumbled to himself as he reached for the hammer. “I’ll just open the church and give a moving sermon and all will be forgotten.”

He smiled reassuringly into the side mirror of his car but doubt looked back at him.

Guilt

Today's offering was inspired by one of my dear readers. I saw a couple of ways I could go with this topic, but I decided on this one for personal reasons. Enjoy and keep commenting.

“I can’t believe it is for sale.” My voice filled the car with sound.

I blushed to realize I had spoken aloud in my excitement. From the first day I drove past the rambling old house on Chesapeake Avenue, this house called to me. Every daydream of my perfect adult life had featured a house like this with a dozen bedrooms for as many children or more. As I slowed down a little to commit the number to memory, I noticed a flash of brown racing toward my car. I focused on the moving shape long enough to see the soft grey fur bristling on a fluffy tail and a bit of red string trailing out from its neck.

THUD!

My foot instinctively sought my brake. The following car honked, delaying my remorse. My heart still slipped south into my stomach. I pushed down on the gas reluctantly fighting back tears. By the time I got home, the lump in my throat melted away. When dinner passed without a recurrence of my guilt, I believed I would be fine.

I woke up in the middle of the night. Tears moistened my cheeks. My stomach felt hollow. Guilt gnawed at my mind.

“It was just a squirrel.”

My outcry didn’t assuage my guilt. Tossing and turning stole away any chance of sleep. The alarm barely had a chance to sound before I forced myself out of bed. The rest of the day passed in a blur. As soon as work ended, I climbed into my car, unsure how I would make it home without guilt creeping in on me again.

As I neared the house, I noticed multi-colored balloons floating up from the for sale sign. Pastel streamers flow out from them to announce an open house. Without thinking, I pulled over to the side of the street, squeezing my car in among the others that have come to take a peek at the interior. I was more interested in a small, dark lump lying in the middle of the road.

I looked for oncoming cars before stepping into the street. I didn’t want to share the squirrel’s fate. As I drew closer, I could see that the lump consisted of a wadded up pair of panties with ruffles of lace, dyed a dark, sullen grey by time. My eyes scanned the asphalt in search of any sign of the squirrel I had hit the previous day.

Slightly reassured, I turned back toward the house. A movement caught my eyes. As I focused on the moving form, I saw a grey squirrel pause as if to look at me. It quickly launched itself again, scurrying across the close-cropped grass with a red ribbon streaming out behind it. With that sight, the weight on my heart seemed to fade away. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, little squirrel.” I whispered at the disappearing fluff of tail in the branches above my head.

Room For Rent

(Through years of extensive research with roommates who annoyed me or were annoyed by me, I feel I have a real grasp of the subject of what can ruin a roommate relationsip. A random thought tied with that one brought forth this tale. Sadly, I couldn’t decide exactly how it should end. Three options presented themselves, so I decided to treat this like the Choose Your Own Adventure books I enjoyed as a child. Which ending is your favorite?)

A soft knock on the door interrupts my train of thought. I close my notebook, sliding it underneath the couch. I glance around the room one last time before stepping toward the door. Reassured, I step toward the door as another impatient knock resounds through the room. Taking one last deep breath, I swing the door open to reveal my potential roommate.

Tight-fitting black jeans hug her hips. Her babydoll t-shirt, which barely meets the top of her jeans, features a silhouette of a woman frozen in a graceful dance pose. Long blond hair hangs in soft waves on either side of her slender face. Her grey-blue eyes return my inquisitive look. Finally, she offers a nervous smile and an extended hand.

“Hello. My name is Janice. I’m here about the room.” Her voice sweetens the air between us.

I feel my own anxiety begin to fade away. “I’m Ellen. Please come in.”

As I step back, she breezes past me into the room. Her eyes rove over the tiny living room, taking in the couch and television stand. She shrugs her shoulders a little and sits on the couch, bouncing once before settling in and kicking off her shimmering, silver ballet flats. She pats the seat beside her and I sit stiffly beside her.

I open my mouth to speak, but she gets her question out first. “Is it okay if I ask about a few things?”

I nod my head, and she begins addressing shared concerns. I answer most of her questions with very little thought. One does leave me stymied. I continue to gaze at her in confusion as she awaits an answer.

With a sigh, she repeats it. “Do you prefer over or under?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I wet my lips worriedly as a couple of possible meanings involving bets and bunk beds cross my mind.

“Your toilet paper? Does the loose end go over or under the roll when you put it back on the holder?” 

She says each word slowly and clearly, explaining to a child.

My face scrunches up as I try to remember. “Over?”

***Choose how the story ends.***

A. Over? Read the underlined text below.

B. Says over but means under and Janice checks. Read the italicized text below.

C. Says over but means under but Janice believes her. Read the bold text below.

POSSIBLE ENDING A

“Good.” She flashes me her winning smile again. “When can I move in?”

“The new lease is effective tomorrow, so…”

“Excellent. Thank you so much.” She envelopes me in a hug and leaves, closing the door softly.

I stare after her in surprise. With a shrug, I walk toward the bedroom that will be hers. Opening the door, I realize she didn’t see either bedroom or the bathroom. I hope that doesn’t prove to be a problem.

The next day finds me helping her and a few of her friends lug boxes up the two flights of stairs to our apartment. Realizing that the over under question could influence our life as roommates, I always remember to make sure the end of the toilet paper always flows over the top.

POSSIBLE ENDING B

She shakes her head, obviously recognizing the uncertainty in my voice. “Let’s go see.”

Janice stands up, slipping her shoes back onto her feet before taking a few steps toward the narrow hallway. With a glance back at me, she enters the open door to the right. I step toward her as she flips on the light and makes a quick assessment of the room. The frown on her face reveals that I answered incorrectly.

“This won’t do. Thank you for your time.”

She pushes past me, denying me the right to respond. I still stand in the doorway with my eyes riveted to the offending roll of toilet paper as the door slams behind her. I shake my head at the tail poking out from under the roll.

“Guess I still have interviews to make.” I sigh.

POSSIBLE ENDING C

“Good.” She flashes me her winning smile again. “When can I move in?”

“The new lease is effective tomorrow, so…”

“Excellent. Thank you so much.” She envelopes me in a hug and leaves, closing the door softly.

I gaze after her in surprise. With a shrug, I walk toward the bedroom that will be hers. Opening the door, I realize she didn’t see either bedroom or the bathroom. I hope that doesn’t prove to be a problem.

The next day finds me helping her and a few of her friends lug boxes up the two flights of stairs to our apartment. She bubbles over with excitement at the light pouring through the window and the size of the closet. When she has everything set up to her liking, she takes me out to dinner to celebrate. By the time we get home, yawns break up our conversation until we slip into our bedrooms to seek sleep.

Something pulls me roughly from sleep. The bathroom door slams and mine opens. A blurred silhouette crosses the room. A harsh voice breaks through the nighttime peace, pulling me further into the waking world.

“You lied to me.”

I try to wipe the sleep from my eyes as I look up at Janice’s distorted face. Surely, her lips could not contort in such rage. As I blink away the last remnants of sleep, she joins me on the bed, straddling me so that I can’t move.

“What’s wrong?” My question comes out in a hoarse, breathless whisper.

“I was just in the bathroom, and you know what I saw?”

I shake my head as she leans closer, forcing the rest of the air from my lungs. “It was under. You said over, but it was under.”

“I…” Words fail me.

She growls deep in her throat, releasing me from the death grip of her legs. As she storms out of the room, the door slams closed. I lie transfixed in my bed, afraid to move. My own breathing seems too loud in the darkness of my room. I don’t remember falling asleep.

I wake up to the same heart hammering fear that preceded my second attempt at sleep. I listen for sounds of an impending attack. After a couple of minutes of silence, I slowly creep out of bed. I sneak across the room to press my ear to the door until I am satisfied that no one stirs on the other side. I shudder as the door squeals.

The door to the other bedroom stands ajar. Relief washes over me as I push the door open and step into an empty room.