True Stories Well Told

By Faith Ellestad

I had been crying for weeks. How could this have happened? Our beautiful, earnest, sweet natured little boy, our youngest child, was leaving home. He had reluctantly agreed to live at home his first year of college, but he was a sophomore now, more than ready to stretch his wings and move to the dorm.

Truth be told, that year at home had not been particularly smooth.  Ethan hadn’t wanted to go to UW, he wanted to go to Stevens Point where most of his friends had gone.  He was not impressed by our arguments that that living at home would save a lot of money, (something he had not done), and if you graduated from a renowned university, it would pay off in the future. The future seemed a long way away to Ethan, so whenever he was home, he pretty much sat around staring at us resentfully from the depths of the big blue club chair, and we began to question the wisdom of our decision as we stared stonily back from the couch across the room.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t deal with the idea of him moving away, and tears welled up every time I thought about it. His dad was more sanguine.” He’ll only be 3 miles away” he would reassure me, but there was an undertone of exasperation that was not entirely disguised. “Yeah, Mom, he hates when you do that,” his brother had commented, unhelpfully, on more than one occasion, indicating my ever-present damp tissue.  He had been sharing space with his brother, and was probably eager to have the upstairs all to himself.

None of this had any comforting effect on me as Dorm Move-In Day arrived.  Ethan, a gifted procrastinator, had deferred preparations and was just starting to sort through his possessions. 

“Do you have any sheets?” I asked? “No”.  “Blankets? Towels?”  “Uh, No”.

“Are your clothes packed?”  “Oh, yeah, I guess I better do some laundry”.  That meant another couple of hours I wouldn’t have to say goodbye.  I offered to run a load through and my offer was accepted, although if there was gratitude in his answer, I missed it.  Even so, in the privacy of the laundry room, I started to cry again.

Upstairs, a few books had made it into a box along with a vast collection of CDs. “Dad, can you help me carry my TV down?” The TV was gently placed in the back seat of our car. His brother carried down the DVD player, and I brought down a speaker.  And another speaker.  Laundry, most of it clean, was tossed into a basket and taken to the car.  He was almost ready to go.  He bent down to say goodbye to our old dog, which was so sweet, I choked up again.  He waved goodbye to his brother and turned to me.

“Mom,” he said sternly, “if you don’t stop crying, you can’t come!”

That dried up the tears instantly.  I wasn’t going to miss the move-in experience. I squeezed into the back seat, in a tiny sliver of space not taken up by Ethan’s many earthly goods, most of them electronic.

Arriving at Witte Hall, we found a drop-off space, snared a large wheeled bin and joined the parade of students and parents trying to maneuver the wheelbarrow –like conveyances into the elevators.  Once in the dorm room, we met Ethan’s roommate, located his side of the room and began to unload. We were directed to put the TV, VCR, disc player and speakers on the desk, CDs in the bookcase above, and everything else on the floor of the tiny closet.  Our work there was done.  One last look around and it struck me.  The desk was completely covered with entertainment supplies. I saw that his dad had noticed this as well. Not wanting to appear judgmental, I tried to stop the question burning my lips, but couldn’t.  “Ethan,” I asked, gesturing toward the desk, “where are you going to study?”  It was clear he had not given this part of dorm life even a passing thought. He pondered for a moment and then said, quite pleased with himself, “Well, there IS a lounge”.  OK. Allrighty then.  Time to go. 

I struggled hard and managed to give him a dry-eyed hug, then twirled around and fled to the hall while his dad said goodbye. We walked briskly to the elevators and I noticed I was not the only mother in a state of red-nosed, streaming-eyed distress.   Most of the dads just looked solemn.  A few were even smiling.

I dreaded going home to the reality of a house devoid of his presence. I didn’t know how I would react.  We stepped inside, the dog thumped her elderly tail in greeting, there were dishes in the sink, and a coke can on the coffee table.  Ethan had gone to the dorm, but his essence lingered here at home. 

© 2022 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents. Now retired, she has the opportunity (and with Covid restrictions, the time) to share some personal stories, and in the process, discover more about herself. Faith and her husband live with an elderly cat in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law.

By Barbara Vander Werff

In Randolph, Wisconsin, it was a rite of passage. You turn 16 and get your Driver’s License. Then you drive through town, make a right-hand turn at the stop sign, and when you hit the edge of the village limits, you step on it and head on out to the “mile corner.”

Any kid in Randolph knew about the ritual and when you were 16, it became part of your driving routine. The difference for me was that it changed my life.

It started with driving your parent’s car and on a weekend, you could see Oldsmobiles, Buicks, Fords, and Chevies making the trip to the Mile Corner and back. They were shiny from a wash on Saturday night and a gas tank filled with 25-cents-a-gallon gas at the full-service Phillips 66 gas station and a bottle of Coke.

This Sunday would be different. On my trip through town, after “Young People’s” at church, I noticed a motorcycle behind me at the stop sign. A flip of my hair, a move I learned from Margaret, who had a locker next to mine in High School and was much more experienced than I, and I made my right-hand turn. With one eye on the rear-view mirror, I saw the motorcycle and mysterious helmet was still behind me. The Mile Corner would be the true test. Surely, Dad’s Olds would leave a motorcycle in its dust.

When I stepped down on the gas and looked into the rear-view – all I saw was helmet! A U-turn at the four-way stop and I headed for home, only to be followed by the motorcycle, right into my driveway. After he removed his helmet, he looked familiar, although he didn’t go to my school. His grandfather had worked with my mom and used to entertain me by wiggling his ears.

And so it began. We dated through my senior year. He turned into my first love.

Now, graduating from high school, I had a decision to make. I had applied to several colleges both in-state and out-of-state, and been accepted to all of them. He had just finished technical school and had been offered a good job in town.

At Graduation, he gave me a present in a very small box. This decision would change my life, my dreams, my path. This decision could fill my life with regret!

….to be continued…

©  2022 Barbara Vander Werff

Barbara Vander Werff grew up in Randolph, Wisconsin, before moving to Madison to go to college and work in health care at the University of Wisconsin Hospital and Clinics. She did some technical writing for clinical textbooks in diagnostics, ultrasonography, and radiology management. Now retired, she is enjoying writing about life. Where have we ended up, and why?

By Marlene Samuels

Ruthie Whitefish and I were best friends from the time we walked and talked. As “besties” we naturally mimicked one another, dressed alike, wore our hair alike, even mirrored each other’s behavior. Unlike me, Ruthie was an Olympic-caliber temper-tantrumer. Remembering her tantrums reminds me of my terrifying, exciting adventure: being lost in a jam-packed department store during the Christmas season.

What did Ruthie’s tantrums have to do with my adventure? Simple: tantrums were the brilliant technique she employed with impressive effectiveness to control her mother. Mrs. Whitefish, a meek woman, confused good parenting with ensuring her children liked her. She realized that the most effective approach to stopping her daughter’s performances was to comply with Ruthie’s demands of the moment.

The Ruthie Method was straightforward. Whenever Ruthie failed to have her way, she’d launch a full-blown temper-tantrum, preferably in public spaces. These guaranteed Mrs. Whitefish’s instant compliance. Often, in multiple public venues, I’d witnessed Ruthie’s magical powers. So impressive and effective were they, I couldn’t wait to test them out. My opportunity arrived — Christmas season of my third grade.

Christmas shopping was in full bloom. Montreal, where we lived, was aglow with lights and decorations and I was mesmerized. Stores on St. Catherine’s Square and along downtown’s boulevards were dressed with massive wreaths and candy canes. For me, decorations also signaled Hanukkah. Saturday before Christmas, Mom and I boarded the streetcar downtown for a day of shopping. We’d buy gifts for teachers, presents for relatives in the USA plus “surprises” for my father, brother and me.

Downtown was teaming with women like my mother, with kids in tow, men agonizing about gifts for their wives and children, and roaming packs of teenagers. After lunch, we entered Eaton’s Department Store. Mom grasped my hand firmly and we snaked through mazes of congested aisles toward the toy department. As we passed under the glistening candy-cane arch, my senses were assaulted by wonders I had no clue existed. I was overwhelmed by dolls, incredible games, colorful books, and stuffed animals of an unimaginable variety.

Mom busied herself consulting her gift list and became distracted searching for her pen. I saw my opportunity and bolted toward a wall overflowing with stuffed bears. It was love at first sight! I knew precisely what I wanted but also believed my life might end without it. I yanked a fuzzy brown creature from his display pedestal then, clutching him to my chest, raced toward my mother, rehearsing my plea as I ran.

“Mom, look! Can we get him, please? He’s so soft and cute and I don’t have anything like him!”

“Put it back. And no, you don’t need it. Need isn’t want.” My mother explained, her voice firm. “You’re a big girl. This is for babies.”

“But Mommy, please? I need it. Ruthie’s mommy got her one so why can’t I get one, too?”

“You’re not because I said you’re not. It’s expensive, you don’t need it, I’m not buying it, so put it back.” Her voice sounded scary.

“I won’t!” I argued. “I want it!” Stomping my feet for emphasis. “Why can’t I have it? You’re so mean!” That was the moment for which I’d waited — the place and time for implementing The Ruthie Method. Her method always succeeded with her mother, I reasoned, not realizing that my mother and Ruthie’s occupied polar ends of the “mom-spectrum.”

  “I want it!” I shrieked, bouncing up and down as I’d seen Ruthie do. “I want it, I want it!” I screamed at peak volume. My mother instantly turned her back and walked away. Emotion overwhelmed me. I hurled myself onto the slush-streaked floor crying and screaming as a crowd of mothers encircled me, tsk-tsking disapprovingly. Their children stared in horror.

I lost all sense of time writhing on the floor. A firm hand on my arm interrupted my performance and I was face-to-face with Eaton’s store manager. He crouched down armed with tissues and a rainbow lollipop.

“Now, now, what’s the problem?” His voice was soothing. He was no stranger to crying children, especially during holidays. “Are you hurt?” He asked, full of concern. I shook my head, no. “Are you lost?” I shook my head “yes.” Embarrassment and guilt over my performance washed over me. He blotted my tears then presented the lollipop.

“Here, this should help you feel better, then we’ll look for Mommy together.” He lifted me from the floor brushing slush from the back of my coat. We wove through mazes of displays, aisles upon endless aisles.

“What color is Mommy’s coat?” He asked. I went blank. Now all woman looked identical to me. We’d just completed our third go-around of Eaton’s first floor when movement made me glance toward a staircase between two escalators. There, against the handrail, stood my mother, gaze riveted upon us. Her crimson coat was unbuttoned, her hat perfectly positioned, a matching handbag draped over her arm. But her intense blue-eyed glare contradicted the nonchalant posture.

“There’s Mommy!” I pointed, relieved. I hadn’t a clue how long she’d been watching me yet took her time claiming me.

“Goodness, there you are!” She exclaimed mocking surprise. The relieved manager smiled warmly.

“You know Christmas is our busiest time of the year so you can imagine how many crying children and frantic mother’s I deal with. Your daughter was incredibly upset becoming separated from you but was remarkably brave.”

“I’m sure she was and thank you for finding me so quickly. I was terribly worried!” She proclaimed, poker-faced.

We finished shopping, slowed by her vice-like grip on my wrist. It was 4:30 p.m. when we headed toward the streetcar. Unexpectedly, she reversed her route leading me into Eaton’s Cafe where we shared chocolate cake plus hot chocolate for me, coffee for her. She never uttered a word about my performance. I never again implemented The Ruthie Method.

©  2022 Marlene Samuels

Marlene holds a Ph.D., from University of Chicago. A research sociologist by training, she writes creative non-fiction by preference. Currently, she is completing her book entitled, Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story.  She is coauthor of The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival, and author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact-Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers. Her essays and stories have been published widely in anthologies, journals, and online.  (www.marlenesamuels.com)

By Patricia LaPointe

See this coat. When is it worn? Is it the only coat? It can be worn for Sunday services. Is it good enough? It can be worn in the rain. How does it look when it’s wet? It takes too long to dry. See the buttons. They get loose when they catch on the car door. It’s too hot to wear it in the car. Why not wear a different coat? Why wear a coat at all? 

See the homeless woman. Her coat; the stains, the tears, and no buttons. Was she always homeless? Does she sleep in that box?  Does she have food? Did she ever have a job? What kind of job did she have? Did she ever have a house? Where did she live? Why isn’t she there any longer? Did she have children? Are her children looking for her? Does she sleep in that coat? Is it warm enough for her? Why doesn’t someone give her a coat? Should you give her yours? Then what would you wear? You have more coats. 

See the coat. It rained the day of the wake. It didn’t get very wet. It was cold. It had to be kept on. She didn’t like this coat. Should you apologize for wearing it? She won’t hear you. You should say it. Now you can have one of her coats, maybe the dark one. So much darker than this tan coat. Would she be mad that you took it? She hardly wore it. It was for special occasions. Can you wear it now, anytime you want? It’s spotless. Your coat has tears and makeup stains where they all hugged you and cried for her. She can’t hear them. Shouldn’t they be crying for you? 

A girl had coats but wanted a new one. The one she wore most was not good enough any longer. She took it off at Burlington Factory and laid in over a rack. There were so many racks she perused. Would she remember where it was left? Five racks, ten racks until:” Yes, this is it! This is the best.” Where was the coat she came in with? There it was! A woman was nearing the exit with it in her arms. Her hair was matted, her clothes soiled and meant for a warmer season. She wasn’t wearing a coat. Did she have a coat? Did she need that coat?  The girl looked the other way. She didn’t want the woman to see her. The woman rushed out the door with the girl’s coat in her arms. The girl wore her new coat home. 

©  2022 Patricia LaPointe

Pat LaPointe, creator of Share Your Voice, an online interactive community for all women. She is editor of the anthology; The Woman I’ve Become: 37 Women Share Their Journeys from Toxic Relationships to Self-Empowerment. In addition, she has conducted writing workshops for women — both online and onsite. Pat’s essays and short stories have been published widely in anthologies, literary journals and on Medium.com @patromitolapointe. Currently, Pat is completing her first novel, forthcoming late 2022.

By Marg Sumner

A friend and I have a pact. At 10 minutes before dementia strikes, we’re each going to take two hits of fentanyl and ride off into the dawn, dusk, rainbow, whatever. There are two problems with this: (1) How will we find the fentanyl and (2) How will we know when it’s 10 minutes to dementia?

I’m not obsessing over the details of this plan; I’m getting on with my life. My undiagnosed Cushing’s Syndrome in 2018 interfered with my life for the next two and a half years. While it severely restricted my life and forced me to the sidelines, it left me with hours of unasked-for “me time.” I hate that phrase, but what else would you call resting in bed, resting in a chair, resting in the hammock, resting on the toilet, with lots of time to think through my junk drawer of thoughts.

Thought #3,679: Death is a fact of life. 

I toyed with the idea that I might be that one person who lives forever, but Donald Trump said he was that person. I concluded that what’s more important than fussing about how the inevitable was going to grab me, is how I make it to the end. I want to die in peace and I want to die happy.

My first 45 years were fueled by rage, alcohol, sex and pills. Also a lot of good stuff, but I wasn’t who I wanted to be. The next 20 years I spent unwinding from all the bad behavior and figuring out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I think I’ve figured it out. Two years of enforced inaction followed by two years of covid will do that to a person.

I’m struggling to put in clear English exactly what my goal is for myself. Here are a couple lines I read the other day about a low-level bank clerk fleeing Paris with his wife ahead of the invading German army in 1940.

[He] was not really unhappy. He had a unique way of thinking: he didn’t consider himself that important; in his own eyes, he was not that rare and irreplaceable creature most people imagine when they think about themselves.*

The many blessings of being born who I am, where I am, what advantages I have … all that led me to a higher opinion of myself than deserved or necessary. This sounds awkward because I haven’t worked out my thoughts exactly, but my goal is to become more humble. Not saintly, just humble.

There’s a to-do list (what would a Protestant work ethic be without a to-do list?): Give away what I can to family and friends; donate what I can; pare things down; reduce and simplify. Also a mental paring down and a physical paring down. Figure out what a moral, essential life means for me.

None of this serious shit means I have to become a sourpuss. I’m going to plant flowers on my deck and nap in my hammock with Rosie DeDog. Read books between naps and manic bouts of dishwashing and do-gooding. I’m going to terrorize the buckthorn trees in the woods next to my apartment. I’m going to be merciless with the garlic mustard. I’m going to annoy politicians with un-asked-for opinions.

I’m not a follower of any religion, but I do believe in redemption. That it’s important to be a better person at the end than you were at the beginning. And when I check out 10 minutes before dementia, I’ll be wearing a dress of red, orange and purple flowers – with matching underwear.

* Suite Française by Irène Némirovsky

© 2022 Marg Sumner

Marg Sumner is retired from 40+ years of copyediting and proofreading other people’s words. The tables have turned, and she now writes and suffers the slings and arrows of copyeditors.