A collection of Short Stories for you to Enjoy.
Written by Marilyn Anne Pate.
::Finding Emma Lucille ::On Being Fifty ::The Green Gecko ::Waiting for the Monsoon
::First You Roast The Bones ::Buddy, The Family Therapist
Finding Emma Lucille *** Dear Mama, *** This year, as always, I began to dread Christmas. Everyone else was happy and excited. I was heavy yet brittle—a hollow, easily shattered ornament. For my family’s sake I went through the motions. What could I do to make this year different? I gathered what I’d learned of my mother and wrote the letter I’d promised.
*** Now that it’s on paper I find there’s a sense of knowing her in ways I never felt before. I just had to go inside myself, look at my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to find her. This year when I visited Evergreen Cemetery I took the letter and tucked it between her headstone and the poinsettias.
We stopped at the cemetery office for a map. The simple granite tombstone in section C, row 3, plot 9, with her name and 1909-1940— made her real. She wasn’t a dream, a dimly remembered story or a faded movie memory. I was five when she died.
I placed a pink poinsettia next to the stone. Had she liked pink? It would have gone well with her red hair. The pale, desert December sunlight dappled through old, grown tall elms. My heart raced and I trembled as a soft breeze caressed my wet cheeks.
My husband put his arms around me, "Lucille, this is your daughter. You would have been proud of her. You have three grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. They are loving, good, young people. We wish you could have known them."
As we walked to the car I thought of my long search for Emma Lucille. I decided to write her a letter.
You waved from the city bus as you left to go downtown to the parade celebrating the premier of the first movie filmed at Old Tucson. It was the biggest happening in our little city since the railroad came to town.
Aunt Winnie volunteered to care for three year old Freddie and me. "Lucille, you love movies and theatre. You’ll have more fun without your kids tagging along. Remember everything so you can tell us all about it."
That evening, as we snuggled on the couch, you told us about your day. "I saw Jean Arthur and William Holden, the stars of ARIZONA, in their Cadillac convertible move slowly along Stone Avenue. Stagecoaches and antique wagons, pulled by teams of shiny black horses, were filled with local dignitaries—even the governor was there. The University Wildcats marching band thrilled us and we cheered. Huge banners hung high across the parade route. Light poles were wrapped with red, white and blue bunting.
"Congress Street was blocked to traffic and covered with sand. An Indian village, half sized Presidio Fort, front only saloons and old time merchant shops lined Congress from Stone to Fourth Avenue The cool breeze, low clouds and slight drizzle didn’t dampen our enthusiasm.
"It was thrilling!! I can’t wait to see the movie. The premier’s price is too high. We’ll go in a week or two. I’m worn out. Too much excitement for one day," you said as you tucked us in.
No one knew that in less than a month you would be in a hospital fighting for your life. On that cool, wet morning, you caught a cold and developed pneumonia. Daddy’s mother, Grandma Mary, was called to come from the ranch in New Mexico.
On December 21st Daddy drove me to St. Mary’s Hospital. We passed through downtown where brightly colored lights adorned buildings and lamp posts. Shoppers gathered at the large windows of Steinfeld’s, Levy’s and Jacome’s Department Stores to admire glistening animated holiday scenes. Christmas carols floated through the frosty air. I was scared while everyone else was happy. Daddy was silent.
Because children weren’t allowed in hospitals unless they were sick, Daddy held me up so I could look through a window into your room. I saw you lying in a bed enclosed in white gauzy cloth that I believe was an oxygen tent.
I wanted to give you a kiss or hold your hand. Did you know I was there? Your eyes were closed. Your red hair spilled across the pillow—the only color in an otherwise white room.
On the drive home it started to rain. The desert dry windshield wipers stuttered and shrieked. Squeak, squeak, back and forth. Was it the rain or my tears that blurred the Christmas lights?
After you died, two days before Christmas, Daddy had a big fight with Aunt Winnie about a funeral. There were no services. It would be ten years before I was allowed to see your two sisters and my cousins.
Death was no stranger to Grandma Mary—a pioneer ranch woman who had buried many friends and kin. She and Daddy handled grief by ignoring it and getting on with what had to be done.
I wondered if any one else noticed you were gone. I’d hide behind the door, listening to the grownups, hoping one of them would say something about you. Perhaps then I’d know you were real and not a dream. I was surprised that others couldn’t see the cannon-ball sized hole where my stomach used to be. They should have been able to look right through me. My questions made adults uncomfortable so I stopped asking about you.
No one allowed or taught me how to grieve. If only someone had said, "It’s all right to be sad. A sad thing has happened. Your Mama didn’t want to leave you. She loved you very much." Instead, I was told, "Don’t cry. Big girls don’t cry. It’s over and done with; water under the bridge. Smile. Be happy."
I swallowed my tears and smiled. My feelings were wrong so I stuffed them down into the big hole. "You are such a happy smiling little girl," grownups said. They didn’t know how I cried myself to sleep, the awful stomachaches and the guilt.
Grandma visited with a neighbor on the front porch while I played nearby, "Lucille had a bad heart. She shouldn’t have had children. I don’t know how she survived her birth. She was a big baby, nearly eight pounds. Then Freddie came along two years later."
It was my fault. I made you die. To make up for my wickedness I promised myself to take care of Freddie, excel in school and never, ever do anything wrong again. I became the family peacemaker and did my best to make everybody happy. I carried the burden of Grandma’s casual remark well into adulthood.
Daddy remarried when I was eight and we often went to the cemetery on Oracle Road to visit the graves of Mama JB’s father and sister. I knew you were there but I didn’t know where. I’d look furtively around hoping to find your grave. I never did. Then I went home and had a stomach ache. The years passed and my memories faded but in times of stress my need for you surfaced.
When I married, when our three children were born, when I graduated from college with my husband and our three teenagers cheering for me—I wanted, I needed you.
In my middle age I gathered my courage and set out to find you. The person to start with was your husband, my father. He was arrogant, bombastic and a shameless liar. His third marriage was a shambles. I saw little of him. I threw caution to the wind and asked the forbidden. Did he see any of you in me? What did you do for fun? How did you dress, walk, laugh? What had you looked like? I had no photos, no letters, no keepsakes.
"She was an excellent typist. I always thought you were more like me than her."
"I’ve heard she had a bad heart. What can you tell me about that?" I pressed.
"She was born with a heart defect. They called them blue babies. No treatment in those days. Her mother said she was surprised Lucille lived long enough to graduate from college. I didn’t know about her problems when we dated at Flagstaff. It wasn’t until we lived at Fort Grant that she complained. Altitude was too high," he said. "Think I have a box of pictures and a few of her things somewhere. Maybe out in the shed. Never knew you were interested."
On my next visit, he gave me a battered, dusty carton that had somehow survived the many moves of his mangled life. The pictures, letters, beaded purse, wristwatch, round rimless eyeglasses—common everyday things to anyone else, were treasures to me. When I perched the glasses on my nose and looked through them I moved into another dimension. You had worn them, looked at the world through them, wiped and cleaned them and put them carefully into their hard blue marbled case.
Art nouveau costume jewelry fell out of a decaying heart shaped candy box. When I cautiously opened my baby book and for the first time, saw your handwriting I came unglued. I wept. Torrents of long denied grief wracked my body.
Through tear swollen eyes I opened a frayed manila envelope. It contained typewritten stories. You liked to write! One was stamped and addressed to Collier’s Magazine.
I had always wanted to write but was never encouraged to follow my instincts. Your stories told me my father was wrong. There was a lot of you in me and there was nothing wrong or hoity-toity about wanting to put words on paper.
The pictures showed you wearing fashionable clothes. You were about 5’8” tall and slim. One set was taken of you wearing the Juliet costume in a college production of Romeo and Juliet.
From Aunt Winnie, I learned you wanted to be called Lucille instead of Emma. You were born on March 9, 1909 in Hot Springs, Arkansas, graduated from Phoenix Union High School and four years later, Arizona State Teachers College at Flagstaff, Arizona in June 1930.
Dad said, "We were married on June 15, 1932 in Gallup, New Mexico. The Justice of the Peace was celebrating his appointment and was happily tipsy. We were his first wedding."
Who else could I ask about you? Aunt Christine and Grandma Mary were gone. My cousins barely remembered you.
I struggled to find the essence of you. Occasionally, I caught a hint of fragrance, a trace of nutmeg on a glass of eggnog or an echo of laughter that was gone by the time I became conscious of it. I couldn’t capture and hold those elusive moments.
I wish I knew what your favorite perfume was, what your voice sounded like, what food and music you preferred. I looked at the pictures, the letters and stories and tried to wring some warmth, some scent, some awareness of you out of inert pieces of brittle yellow paper. I failed.
Gradually, I realized you have always been with me. You must have been there through those traumatic years of growing up. How else to explain my academic achievements, my spunk in defying my father and marrying the love of my life—all despite the physical and emotional abuse that filled the houses I lived in?
I catch glimpses of you in our three children. Kerry has a joyful laugh, a love of the theatre and a warm understanding nature that overlies the inner steel that has brought her to the top of her profession. Tracy is sentimental, caring and a great typist! She enjoys beautiful things and has a loving home and a wide circle of creative friends. Duncan has long lanky legs, a certain angle to his cheekbones and is a world class story teller. Our only granddaughter, Christine, is the image of you—the same cleft chin, the shy smile and the sober eyes.
Thank you for having the courage to give birth to me. I love you.
Your Daughter
My search was over. I had found Emma Lucille Jaeger McNeill.
Emma Lucille Jaeger McNeill
1909 - 1940
circa 1931 - 22 years young
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Marilyn and Terry insisted on a church wedding because they were proud of their love and wanted to let the world know. They had been forced to sneak around far too long. They planned and paid for the simple ceremony. His parents were supportive and his mother made the white lace gown Marilyn wore. For a fee, the ladies of the church provided the cake and punch and served guests in the patio of the church.
The years pass, the hair grows sparse and grays. The knees stiffen, the eyes weaken and water while the mind grows clogged with modern technology. Yet, through it all they have learned to depend on me. To those who ask "How have you managed to survive for so long?" I say, "I look back with wonder and joy. We three were blessed with good health, a sense of purpose, ambition and direction. They know there is a God, a power greater than they and that most of the time they are not in control. My two are as different as storm and sunshine but they love. They love each other, their children and life. Each marriage is different, each finds its own way. We have been lucky, we worked hard and were determined to see it through (Some say we are stubborn)".*********************


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Vera always made friends with the butcher. To make the broth she needed beef bones and she wanted them for free. She got up at 5:00 am to start them roasting in the turkey pan, no lid, oven at 250 degrees, for eight hours.
She made a cup of smoky Russian tea, put cigarettes into the pocket of her robe and went to the back porch. The southern California morning air was cool and redolent of the dairy that had been here before WW II. Lakewood was developed starting in 1946 to answer the housing needs of returning servicemen and their new families.
As she sipped and smoked, her mind drifted back to far away, long ago times, places and a family that lived in memory only. When she was a child she spent most days in the warm kitchen watching her mother, Theodosia, or the cook, Anna, prepare family meals. Two year old Masha played with her toys while confined under the large table. If Vera’s father, Simeon, was not out with the Cossack troops he sat with them. The kitchen was the warmest room in the house during Siberia’s brutal winters. Nine year old Vera loved to hear her father’s stories about the animals and people who lived in the land of deep snows and thick forests.
When Mamushka roasted the bones to make broth for pelmeni the fragrance drifted through out the house and warmed Vera from the inside out. Recipes for Piroshki, borscht, galoupsi and pelmeni were all she had left of her childhood. Most of their things were discarded when they fled the Red Army. Refugees save only what can be carried on their backs. They were refugees for three years. Her parents, their friends and her sister had died of disease, execution or starvation by the time Vera was thirteen.
While on their trip of terror from Nerchinsk to Shanghai Vera often dreamed of the fragrances, the warmth and the love in that kitchen. Those memories sustained her for five years in the French Convent where she was placed to keep her safe. Young Russian girls and women had few respectable ways to survive in Shanghai in the 1920’s.
Eventually she married an American sailor, fled to the United States on a Japanese freighter with her two oldest boys, Terry and Patrick. After many moves and years she and Clyde had two more sons. She wished she had a daughter to pass her recipes to. They weren’t written on paper but lived in her memory. This weekend she would teach her daughter-in-law, Marilyn and her twelve year old grand-daughter how to make Pelmeni. Kerry Lyn was of Russian blood by way of her father and that was very important to Vera.
The ingredients were ready. Vera waited for the family to wake so she, Marilyn and Kerry Lyn could start. Marilyn planned to write the recipes in her notebook. Vera felt they should be memorized and kept in the heart but her eldest son’s wife insisted on the notebook. She always wanted to write things down which was aggravating at times. Stories and recipes should be important enough to be memorized and passed on by sharing with a group by telling, laughing and answering questions.
The fragrance of the bones wafted through out the house. It was time to turn them over.
In her mind she reviewed the ingredients for the filling for the tortellini shaped dumplings.
Filling:
2 pounds of finely ground lean beef and pork
1 large white onion, peeled and grated
4 chopped cloves of garlic
2 Tbs. dill pickle relish
Handfull of freshly picked dill weed, washed and chopped (include stems)
Salt, pepper and horseradish to taste
After breakfast they began. Vera picked fresh dill from her herb garden, Marilyn grated the onion, Kerry chopped the garlic.
“Kerry, wash your hands then put all these things in that big bowl. Mush and squish the mixture together with your hands until everything is totally combined.
“Grandma, that’s icky. Why can’t I use a big spoon?”
“You’ll be adding something of yourself to the filling by using your bare hands. Just do it. Pretend its clay or mud!”
When the mix was just right it was covered and placed in the refrigerator until the next day.
Later, when the bones were richly browned, Kerry Lyn took them from the oven, placed the hot pan on the towel covered washing machine, put the lid on the roaster and left it overnight.
That evening they ordered pizza from Papa John’s.
The next morning Vera cracked the bones with a hammer and scooped out the marrow. She liked it spread on crackers.
Broth:
In large stock pot put;
Cracked brown bones
1 large quartered yellow onion, skin and all
3 large unpeeled carrots, cut into chunks
3 celery ribs, cut into chunks
2 Tbs. Kitchen Bouquet or other beef flavoring
2 Tbs Soy sauce
Fill pot with water, place on back burner and bring to simmer and cook for 3-4 hours while Pelmeni is prepared.
Dough for Dumplings:
No exact amounts, no measuring:
Flour: 5-6 cups, heaped on kitchen table
Make a well in center of flour.
A little salt
2 lightly beaten eggs.
“I’ll make the dough. Marilyn, take notes if you insist and Kerry can touch the dough as I work it so she will know what it’s supposed to feel like.”
Marilyn wrote, “Add salt and eggs to flour and start mixing with hands. Add a little water and keep mixing and kneading until dough is smooth and elastic. Shape into big ball.
When ready, put dough in lightly oiled glass bowl, cover with damp dishtowel and set aside for about 30 minutes.
Remove filling from the frig and mix again. Set aside. Prepare a large cookie sheet with several layers of wax paper.”
Vera took ¼ of the dough, placed it on the floured kitchen table and with the empty wine bottle that she always used instead of the new rolling pin Marilyn had purchased, rolled the dough until thin. She showed Kerry Lyn how to use the biscuit cutter cut out small circles.
A spoonful of filling was dropped onto the center of each circle of dough.
“You men get in here and help with this part,” Vera called. When all were assembled around the kitchen table Vera showed them what to do.
Clyde, Terry and Kerry’s brother, Duncan moistened the edges of each circle with water, folded the circle in half, sealed it and brought the corners together and twisted. Vera kept a close watch to make sure each Pelmini was securely sealed. They were set on the wax papered cookie sheet.
Everyone helped until all the dough and filling was used and there were four layers of dumplings.
To strain the broth place a large mesh strainer on top of a clean stock pot set in the kitchen sink. Clyde, was asked to pour hot bones, vegetables etc. into strainer and the pot.
The bones and veggies were discarded and the now clear broth was put back on the burner. “Drop no more than 12 Pelmeni at a time into the hot broth. When they rise to the surface scoop them out and set aside in this large bowl. Continue until are cooked,” Vera told Kerry Lyn.
Vera directed her helpers to prepare the dining room table with the family’s best china and crystal. She placed three shot glasses in the center of the large table and a glass at each of the ten places. Some friends had been invited.
Vera asked Terry, to pour Vodka into each small glass. Half full for the adults, a few drops for the children and teenagers. The memorial glasses in the center were filled to the brim.
Family and friends were called to stand around the table. Vera said Grace in Russian, all raised their glasses and said “Vastrovia, for Simeon, Theodosia and Masha”. The glasses were emptied in one gulp. Tears rose but did not fall.
Vera said, “Everyone, please sit and visit while I supervise in the kitchen.”
With Vera’s guidance, Kerry put eight Pelmeni in each soupbowl, a cup of broth and a few chopped green onions were added. Marilyn brought the bowls to the table. Butter and black bread were passed around. A large salad plate of pickled beets, thinly sliced red onion, cucumbers, herring in sour cream and quartered hard boiled eggs was shared by all.
After the meal Kerry Lyn put her arms around her grandmother. “Thank you for teaching me to make Pelmeni, Babushka. When can we do Piroshki?”
Tears ran down Vera’s cheeks. Again she felt the love of family even though some of them weren’t Russian.
Vera Simeon Krivanosovna Pate had begun another journey. This one would help her regain her heritage.
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I don’t know if I can keep up this pace. Things weren’t so bad three days ago when an older man and woman came to the house and put their suitcases, extra pillows and jackets in the guest room. In addition to the man and lady I live with, I only had two more humans to care for. I did pretty good with only two extras who needed me.
I quickly learned that the woman, who kept crying and blowing her nose, had an ample lap and liked to cuddle. The man was good about going for walks when I had time to take him. The woman wasn’t much for walks. As soon as we got to the corner of the pasture she wanted to go home.
This afternoon at two o’clock a younger woman showed up and put her things in the den. My lady had put an air mattress on the floor for the guest along with extra sheets, a pillow and some towels. There was lots of hugging, crying. They had hamburgers for supper that my man cooked outside on the deck. Boy, did they smell good. When the people sat at the dining room table to eat I patrolled the area to make sure all cleaned their plates. If any morsels fell to the floor I cleaned them up. That’s one of my jobs.
Now, it’s dark, time for me to get some rest. My bed is in a corner of the largest bedroom. After turning round and round I find my special spot, curl up in a ball and try to relax so I can sleep.
I remember when I first came to this house in the mountains. When I left my birth family I lived with a couple and a little girl. They sent me to school to learn how we are supposed to behave, what our duties to the families are and how to obey certain commands. I tried very hard and must say I am usually a very well behaved dog. My mother would be proud of me. She is a black and white Jack Russell Terrier and my father is a solid brown Chihuahua. So I am called a Jack-Chi. I weigh about twelve pounds, have smooth silky mostly white hair with some black spots on my back and brown ears and nose. My ears stand straight up when I’m happy, flop down when I’m scolded or told I have to stay home and lay back on my head when I’m barking to warn my people that someone is walking or driving up from the road. I’m quite handsome.
When my first family could no longer keep me they asked my new family if I could live with them. I’ve been here for about a year. I like the mountain air, lots of squirrels to chase and all has been calm until now.
I doze off only to be wakened by a loud knock at the front door. I bark my alarm bark, jump out of bed only to find my lady already at the door hugging two more people. Why are more people coming in the middle of the night? People do the strangest things.
They sit at the kitchen table, drink a glass of wine with my people and then take their things to the exercise room. There is a day bed and another air mattress ready for them. More laps to sit on, more walks to schedule, more tidbits on the floor. I almost forgot playtime. This is wearing me out. People who cry a lot need playtime either in the yard with a Frisbee or chasing a ball up and down the hall. I have a box of tug toys that works also. I growl and hold on while the person shakes the other end of my long pink sock.
Finally all is quiet and I can sleep.
The next morning everyone is up early, standing in line for the bathrooms, slurping coffee, eating muffins and fruit. I guess they have to be somewhere at a certain time. When someone is ready to leave and sits down to wait for the others I make sure they get their lap/cuddle time. Others will have to wait until they return. When all are ready my lady gives me my instructions, “Buddy, you can’t come with us. No dogs are allowed at the beach celebration. You stay here, don’t eat the cat’s food and keep the alligators away.”
She always talks about alligators. What is an alligator and how would I know one if I ever did see one? The man says, “Never saw one around here. Buddy, you do a good job.” Everyone laughs as they go outside.
I stand on the back of the couch as their three cars drive away. Ahh, some peace and quiet. The cat comes out from under the couch and sits on her tall viewing/scratching post in front of the bay window. I curl up on the recliner and take a nap.
The next few days are a blur. More and more people keep coming to visit, have dinner and talk. There are even two little children who want to play. I let them chase me round and round the dining room table. They laugh and giggle while I am exhausted but there’s no time for a rest. Next I must take the older man for his walk. so I get my collar and leash and drop them at his feet. He likes the idea so off we go.
“Nice and quiet out here, Buddy. Thanks for getting me out of the house. I love all those people but they all talk at once and it sounds like bedlam.”
After four days of greeting, hugging, eating, crying and laughing people begin to leave and I will miss them but it’s nice to get back to normal. I think I did a good job of comforting, cuddling, walking and playing to take their minds off of whatever was the reason for the visits. I also enjoyed the few bits and pieces of food that dropped or was handed to me under the table.
Being a family therapist is a rewarding tiring occupation.