I Remember Autumn ..

The Autumn Leaves

Autumn is (almost) here. What a wonderful time of the year!

Temperatures drop at night, making sleep more comfortable and the days turn cooler and less humid.

Leaves cover the ground in varying shades and those that can, will be nearly nude again, even here in Florida.

This time of year I get pleasantly caught up in all of the things I love most about fall.

As a child, I loved the leaves. I remember building houses and forts, then playing hide-and-seek in the noisy piles that had been the walls.  But what I remember most was the pungent scent as they burned after daddy raked and then ceremoniously lit the piles with a match -- something the powers-that-be sadly don't allow these days.

There was apple picking at the orchard and choosing the perfect pumpkins for carving, and drinking apple cider from little paper cups while you waited for mom, or dad, to pay for your special finds.

My Hometown County Fair

And who can forget the county fair? In my hometown, small as it was, they even closed school for an entire week because of the fair.

I loved going on the rides, playing the games on both sides of the midway, and (ugh) the animal barns with the hold-your-nose smell of manure that followed you everywhere, all day long.

I'll never forget the sweet smell of cotton candy and I loved watching the guy behind the glass as he turned the white paper cone around and around along the edge of the silver vat and, miraculously, the cotton candy slowly grew on the paper cone into a huge pastel cloud -- and you just had to have some.

My favorite fair treat was the thick, long french fries you squirted vinegar on and ate with your fingers. Those fries to this day are my yardstick for measuring a really tasty french fry.

The coup de gras of autumn was always the haunted house, which was set up in one of the barns after the fair was over.  Ghosts! Werewolves! Dracula hiding in a closed coffin that suddenly popped open, just as you walked by!

Monsters in the Haunted House

Every autumn, I counted the days until the haunted house would open.

I remember walking through the doorway, my adrenalin pumping, heart racing, and my mind silently screaming ...

"Go ahead, scare me! Scare the living daylight right out of me!"

... and it always did.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: "Yardsticks"

"Yardsticks" of Life

by CJ Heck

It was late autumn, but a day still warm enough to make Kathryn sweat and she smiled, remembering her mother's words. "Always remember, Kathryn, ladies never sweat, they perspire."

The salty air wafting over the water felt good as it teased the corners of the tablecloth up and out, like checkered wings. It also mercifully cooled the, (ahem), per-spi-ra-tion that had glued wisps of hair to her forehead.

From somewhere nearby, cicadas in love were calling each other in the trees. Their haunting chirp mixed curiously with the waves, the soft clinking of silverware, and the distant laughter of children playing in the dwindling daylight on the beach below.

Kathryn was celebrating her last full day of vacation with a hot fudge sundae. Both were few and far between and justly savored -- the vacation, day by lazy day, and the sundae, spoonful by decadent spoonful.

The best hot fudge sundae she had ever eaten had been in San Francisco, down near the water at the Chocolate Manufactory in Ghirradelli Square. That had been back in the early seventies, now nearly a lifetime ago, she thought, with a sigh.

Through the ensuing years, whenever she allowed herself this treasure, a comparison took place in her mind. Each hot fudge sundae from a new place was measured against The Ghirradelli Square Yardstick.

Of course, there were very few of these indulgences -- she wanted to maintain her figure, but the time between them built up a delightful anticipation, which made the stretches between easier to handle. Funny, until now, she hadn’t realized just how many of these invisible yardsticks she actually carried around with her.

Katheryn had just turned fifty-nine. Admittedly, she had arrived at that age kicking and screaming -- after all, no one ever consciously decides to be middle aged. Ultimately, thoughts of the alternative to getting older washed over her and, with a feeling of resignation, she bathed in all the positives of actually being allowed to live that long.

Kathryn had a sudden epiphany. She just realized that she even looked at other women around her who were her age, or near it, with yet another invisible "yardstick".

While never model-beautiful, she supposed she could have been considered a striking woman. She still had her figure and she worked hard to keep it, although admittedly, gravity was beginning to coax some things a little lower ...

Her hair had recently begun to silver at the temples with a few others twinkling here and there, as if in afterthought. She smiled, deciding that the total effect could be considered attractive. Besides, she felt she had earned the silver -- after all, she was a grandmother several times over.

Kathryn still noticed, and secretly welcomed, when a masculine head turned in her direction for a second look. She wasn't aware, (and would have denied it had she been told), that their attraction to her came from a puzzling enigma, one that only surrounded her in public -- she seemed mysterious.

Her child-like naiveté contradicted the sensual, at times even haughty, self-assurance she exuded in her walk and manner. However, if you were to ask Kathryn, she would tell you she was merely aloof.

Men thought, now here was a woman who drew your attention. She could walk into a room and own the room. Here was a confident woman who looked comfortable in her clothes -- and a woman they enjoyed imagining even more comfortable out of them, thus, the enigma.

Kathryn wasn’t aware of those things. What she did know was, the heads that turned in her direction were divinely better than looking in a mirror -- and more flattering, too.

Kathryn leaned back in her chair, not wanting this last vacation day to end. The sea breeze still felt wonderful. Maybe she would sit here just a little while longer.

The sun was making its descent into the distant trees and she was suddenly struck by the silence. When had that happened? The laughter of the children, even the drone of the cicadas, had disappeared sometime during the reverie about her various yardsticks.

Comparing hot fudge sundaes, or other women her age, was one thing, but she felt guilty, when her mind eased on over to compare the men she had known in her life. She knew she shouldn’t -- each deserved to be separate and unique -- still, she rationalized, everyone did it and she couldn’t help doing it either.

It wasn’t that she had a huge number of men to compare.  She didn’t, but she felt safe saying that the ones who had been in her life, had been there for a damn good reason.

It took years, but she eventually came to see that each had played a specific part in who she now was. Each unknowingly brought a valuable lesson, or lessons, that she was to learn. After all, aren’t we all products of our environment? Everything that happens to us changes us, making us who we were destined to become.

No, she decided.  She would save her yardsticks to think about at another time. God knows, there were many nights when sleep wouldn't allow her in.  That's when she should think about her silly yardstick comparisons about life.

With that decided, Kathryn stood and adjusted her skirt. Then she lifted her chin for maximum effect and walked proudly and confidently to her car.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The Stew: My Story

CJ and Roommate, Chris

by CJ Heck

Saying goodbye to the last of the first class passengers as they deplaned had become methodical.

It was the middle of the night, my feet hurt, I was tired and trying my best not to sound sing-song with my goodbyes. Keeping focused was difficult. My thoughts were wandering elsewhere.

It was the last night of my nonstop coast-to-coast run for the month. This flight had been long and difficult. For one thing, the passengers had had way too much to drink and they'd become overly rowdy.

We'd been forced to take a two-hour layover at O’Hare so the ground crew could repair an engine problem. As an apology for the delay (and with the best of intentions), the captain instructed us to open the bar, once we were back in the air.

I was really looking forward to my four days off, before the next cycle, when it would begin again for another month. One good thing, the next month my flights would get me home at a decent hour -- no more 2:00 a.m. arrivals, feeling totally used up and washed out.

I had made plans the day before to join my three roommates for a bicycle ride on Angel Island on my first day off. We had done this several times before and it was one of our favorite weekend haunts ... oh, I just remembered, I have to buy the sourdough bread. The other girls were bringing the wine, cheese, and a blanket to sit on.

How I loved San Francisco. It was beginning of the 70's and hippies were still hanging out on downtown corners with their beads and music, wearing bright flower garlands in their hair.

I loved the quaint cable cars that clacked up and down the busy, steeply-angled streets. It was local custom that each conductor composed a special beat, which he always played on the bell of his cable car. Each became known by his own unique beat, and the more complicated it was, the better -- my favorite was the cable car that went to The Cannery and Ghirradelli Square. That conductor rang an awesome mean beat on his bell and his cable car was always packed with regulars and tourists.

Half Moon Bay

On Sunday, we were going to Half Moon Bay to soak up some rays on the warm sand. There was never a lack of things to do in San Francisco, only a lack of time in which to do them.

I remember thinking, "Finally, the coach section and then we’re through."

More smiles, more good-byes, although I was acutely aware I had lost the battle to sing-song halfway through first class. My smile felt as though it was bordering on an all out grimace, but I was almost done and then I would head for home.

The fear in icy tendrils prickled the nape of my neck as I walked through the all but deserted parking lot. I chose to ignore the feeling, chalking it up to the hour and being drag-my-butt tired from the long flight. The engine problem at O'Hare had added two hours and it was now 4:30 in the morning -- no wonder I was dragging and feeling hinky.

As always, walking through the lot, I marveled at how the dew crystallized on the hoods of the few remaining cars, creating a twinkling diamond field under the bright lights of the parking lot.

Odd, I thought, this feeling. That night was no different from any other late night flight. I was always tired after, but I usually felt almost rejuvenated by being earthbound and heading home -- and my four days off.

To speed the mindless walk to my car, I thought about the goings on of yet another red eye special, although special was way too nice a word. The work was grueling and the hours long that a flight attendant spent on her feet babysitting jet loads of bored passengers who were anxious, themselves to be home.

Trans World Airlines Logo

I really loved my job with Trans World Airlines, aka TWA. It’s what I had wanted to do for as long as I could remember. Oh, there were parts of it that rankled, the wandering hands of the crew for instance, but easy enough to fend off, if you knew how.

I grinned as I thought about their almost universal arrogance and well-used line, “So, sweetie, what did YOU do before joining us in the air?”

With smug satisfaction, I recalled my latest comeback, just that evening, “I was a stock car driver, sir. A damned good one, too.” Another favorite I often used, "I was a lady wrestler, sir, usually in mud or jello."

Usually, a knife-sharp comment, a demure smile and the ever popular batted eyelashes were all that was needed to deflate even the most amorous jerk, mid-grope.

Yet passengers could be even worse. I wish I had a dollar for every time I asked, “And you, sir? What can I get you?  Coffee, tea, milk, a cocktail?” only to hear the way-too-familiar response:

“I’ll take you, little lady! Har de har har.” Then he would give a “see-what-a-big-man-I-am” nod to his seatmates. I tried never to dignify the remarks with an answer and, instead, gave them a well-practiced smile which said, ”Oh, you clever man, you.”

After flying for awhile, you discovered there were ways of getting even, with even the biggest big-shot. Devious? Maybe. Necessary? Abso-friggin-lutely.

“Oops! Oh my! I’m so sorry, sir! It must have been the turbulence. Let me get you a few napkins so you can wipe that wine (cola, tomato juice, hot coffee) off of your nice trousers.”

Or that night, I had picked up a dinner tray from a playboy type and found a room key to the Fairmont Hotel and a one-hundred dollar bill tucked under his used napkin. DUH. As if I would ever be so stupid. For the most part though, those kinds of passengers were the exception, rather than the rule.

To me, the irony was obvious, at least back in those days when hijackings to Cuba were always in the news. At the very first sign of a problem, the bad apples were always the first, and loudest, to bombard the flight attendants with pleas for help in getting off the plane. We were suddenly promoted to angels of the skies,where only moments before, we had been treated like flying call girls. Ah, yes, the glamorous life of a flight attendant ...

It sure was different from the Brady Bunch family in which I was raised. San Francisco seemed like the perfect place to be back then. It also seemed like the perfect place to heal, after I buried my new husband -- and my rose-colored glasses -- the year before. Doug had been an army combat medic and one of the casualties of war in Vietnam. I had been only twenty then, and devastated.

After nearly a year, with love and the best of intentions, my family told me they believed the best thing for me was to get back into some semblance of life.

So, with my family's encouragement, I wrote a letter to TWA and then flew to Kansas City for interviews. I was accepted.  Two weeks later, I boarded another plane, this time to their training academy for six weeks in Kansas City. After graduation, I found myself in the most sought after domicile in the whole TWA family.

Walking through the lot, I shivered. Strange that I should again feel ice-cold terror prickling, interrupting the after-flight mind ramblings that were the norm.

"Jeez oh man, this is nuts," I thought, as the razor sharp panic again snaked up my spine and sunk its teeth in. Again I ignored the inner voice. It was more than a whisper, but it wasn’t yet at Defcon One.

CJ and "Alfie"

I couldn’t have seen from that distance the broken glass twinkling on the pavement below the driver’s window of my car.

I would have been horrified to see the long thin slice cut through the rag top of my most prized possession, a little red Alpha Romeo. "Alfie" was an older model, but it had been a present to myself, and I treated that car like it was a long awaited child.

I also couldn’t have sensed HIM from that distance, but the little voice down inside me had, and it had at once spoken. Then a second time, and then again, but I still failed to listen.

But he was there, all right. He was hidey-holed and waiting like a creepy spider ready to bite. His mind was filled with who knows what feral thoughts and his crotch was bulging with a sick anticipation.

The comings and goings in the lot had been followed under the comforting cover of night, his trusted friend. He had watched my routine and he knew it well. He watched, planned, and waited. He really didn’t care who’s thighs he got to part. He had merely learned my routine. His mind erupted like a boil as he sat and waited for the red eye special that night, while a sick smile played across his face.

Suddenly, the fear was overwhelming, like the static in the air when lightning is about to strike. This time, just as I opened the car door, I heard my little voice inside booming like God’s own thunder.

He came at me then with a punch to the face. He held a knife between us in his other hand like an amulet for good luck. His rage for all women let loose and he demanded “Put out, stew, you fuckin' bitch!” There were more punches, more yelling. "Shuddup, bitch! I'm gonna fuck you up good!"

I never really heard the rest of his words. I never actually felt the punches, because that’s when my mind took flight. Mind curdling screams rang out into the night, one scream on top of another, and another. I didn’t realize, but they were mine.

”The screaming is what saved her ass”, the officer said later down at the station. The screaming, and that elderly couple who found her walking, still screaming, right down the center of a busy two-lane with cars whizzing by in both directions."

Thank God, they stopped and convinced me to get in their car for a ride to the police station. The couple was still there, too. I could see them sitting on a bench by the wall in the long hallway, wringing their hands, waiting to see if there was anything else they could do. I remember hugging them as I was leaving, wishing my mom and dad were there.

As for me, when anyone asked, all I could remember was having feet like lead and being unable to move, completely frozen to the twinkling pavement. Imagine that. Even through it all, I remember seeing the twinkling glass on the pavement.

Now, in looking back, it had been like some bizarre one-act comedy. One actor screaming like a lovesick concert fan, the other, a boxer punching a dummy in the ring, like some eerie, Mexican standoff. Which one would break first and run?

Thank God, it was the sinister star of the play. He had lost all interest in the crazed screaming woman. He ran, his legs like pistons pumping, propelling him towards whatever hell hole he called home that night.

They never did catch him -- oh, I really didn’t think they would. I wasn’t able to tell the authorities much. I walked into the airline terminal the next day, though, and quit on the spot, wearing my cuts and bruises like my husband’s medals from Nam.

I did feel the punches that day, and somehow, I knew it would never be the same again. The girl-next-door flight attendant bubble I had strived so hard for had burst out there in that nearly deserted parking lot, amidst the dewy diamond fields and the twinkles on the pavement.

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The Old Apple Tree

Apple Tree - My Reading Tree

I don't know why, but last night as I was lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, I thought about an old apple tree we had in our side yard when I was a child.  It was an ancient, gnarly old thing, and so big I couldn't wrap my arms around it.  

I remember it had the most wonderful bark and one side of its trunk looked just like the wrinkled face of an old man with his eyes closed.  I always imagined that he had been trapped inside the tree forever by a wicked witch, and he was just waiting, hoping for a genie to come along and break the spell to set him free.  

Just above the old man, a long, thick branch grew straight out in a perfect right angle from the trunk, and right over it, a round hole had formed in the tree itself. 

That branch is where I loved to be.  I would climb up there and sit and read for hours, my back against the trunk, legs stretched out in front, with an extra book tucked in the hole for later.

But that old apple tree wasn't just for reading and climbing.  It was great for other things, too.  We kids used it as 'base' when we played tag and it was perfect to hide behind for hide and seek. 

I remember once having to memorize the poem, "Trees", by Joyce Kilmer when I was in the fourth grade and thinking, She must have had an old apple tree, too, when she wrote the poem.  Ours also had a nest of robins in its hair.

Daddy always said he wanted to take the tree down.  "Lord knows, it isn't good for anything but dropping leaves in the fall and it hardly ever grows an apple."  He and mama thought it was such an eyesore, and maybe it was, but Mother Nature saved him the trouble.

One hot summer night, we had a huge thunderstorm and it woke all of us from sleep.  One particular flash of lightning was much brighter than the rest.  Daddy said it sounded like the lightning hit something nearby and he went downstairs to look around.  

When he came back upstairs, he told us the lightning had split the old apple tree right down the middle.  

I loved that tree.  It was like losing a good friend.  But I always wondered if the lightning broke the spell and set the old man free ... 

   

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Christmas Morning at Our House

(Yawn ... s t r e t c h ... yawn ... scratch-scratch)

  (Jumping out of bed in sudden realization) ...

(poke-poke) "Claud? You up? Wake up, it's Christmas." (poke-poke)

(loud yawn) (stretch-s t r e t c h)  "Stop poking ... I'm up. You sure Santa was here?"

"I think so. Let's go see.  Shhhhh, we gotta be quiet. Don't wake anybody up ... not yet. We have to see if he came, first. Then we'll wake 'em up."

(stairs creaking) (tip-toe - tip-toe - c  r e a k - tip-toe - c r e a k)

"He came. He came!"

"He did?  Let's go tell them!"

"Shhhhh, wait. Can you see anything, Claud? Can you see what he brought?"

"Nope. It's too dark. But I can see presents under the tree! I can see the puffy stockings and there's stuff sticking out of 'em! C'mon, Cath'. Let's go get 'em up!"

(creak-creak) (tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe) (creak-creak) (tip-toe, tip-toe) (creak-creak)

(pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter)

(doorknob turning)

"Bill!  It's Christmas and Santa was here.  Get up ... shhhhh." 

(pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter)

(doorknob turning)

(nudge) "Timmy, wake up. Santa came." (nudge-nudge)

(yawn) "I'm up ... stop that."

(poke-poke) "Chippy, chippy? Wake up. Santa was here. It's Christmas!"

"Don't poke. I'm awake, I'm up."

"Shhhh, where's Shari?  She's not in her crib."

"She ... she's prob'ly sleeping with mommy and daddy. She has a cold."

"Everybody, c'mon. Let's go get mommy and daddy up!"

"In a minute. I gotta potty."

"Me too!"

"Me too!"

"Me too!

(door opening, flush ...closing, opening, flush ...closing, opening, flush ...)

(feet shuffling in the hall) (pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter)

(doorknob turning)

(hinges squeaking)

"Mommy-Daddy, Merry Christmas!   Wake up, Santa Came!  Wake up!"



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck