Member Bio: Sandra Reed
Sandra Reed is the mother of two grown children, and works as a real estate agent in Markham, Ontario. In her spare time, she edits and publishes her own unique community newspaper (www.cornellcrier.ca), but freelance writing is her favourite pastime. “My head is full of stories and articles and I sometimes have to stop myself from writing,” she says, “because it could easily become an obsession. That’s how I know I’m a writer!”
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Over The Hill
By Sandra R. Reed
“Any ideas for a theme for Cyndy’s birthday party?” my son-in-law asked. “I want to make it special since she’s turning thirty.”
“Why don’t you have a Come Black party?”
He had no idea what I was talking about. “A what?”
“They had one for me when I turned thirty and I’ll never forget it,” I said. I filled him in on the details and he loved the idea.
So yesterday, Cyndy came home to find the front of their house wrapped in black paper streamers. Above the door was a large banner that read, “Over The Hill.”
Inside the house, her friends were waiting to surprise her but she hardly recognized any of them. They were all dressed in black, with variations of spray-on gray hair. They also stumbled around, hunched over and leaning on canes. One of them even pushed a walker. They were so well-disguised and such great actors that I almost bought into it myself. As for me, I wore my favourite black dress, omitted makeup and didn’t need a lot of primping to look my years.
Cyndy’s birthday gifts included Viagra, incontinence pads, Polident tablets and Geritol. I gave her some Metamucil and some Oil of Olay from my own medicine cabinet. That was easy.
The house was filled with high-pitched laughter, reminding me of my own Come Black party years ago, but this time I was seeing things from a different perspective. I couldn’t help feeling a bit envious that they were still young enough to make fun of old age. To them the party was a masquerade, but to me it was a sneak preview of what was ahead for them. Interesting how far off old age seems when you are young until suddenly, you’re there.
Later in the evening, Cyndy’s mother-in-law and I were sitting together on the sofa.
“Little do they know they’ll be sitting where we are one of these days,” I laughed and she nodded her head.
My daughter approached us.
“This has been a total riot,” she said, “but I just wanted to let you both know that if I can look as good as you do at your age, I’m not afraid of getting old.”
She disappeared into the crowd and I turned to Flori. “Well what do you think?”
“It’s great,” she answered. “I’ve never been to a Come as You Are party before!”
***
Rockin’ Grandma
By Sandra R. Reed
I’ve been off my rocker for many years now, but that all changed today. I was shopping for an armchair for my living room—a La-Z-Boy or a wing chair—when I literally tripped over a rocking chair. It was a beauty—solid maple with carved spindles and a paisley print seat cushion that ran all the way up the back; much like the one I used to rock the kids in years ago… the one my mum bought me the minute I announced I was pregnant.
Rocking was huge in those days. Rocking cradles and rocking horses were everywhere and most homes had a rocking chair or two. Mom made sure my first rocker was perfect. The arms had to be just the right height so I could rest my elbows when I was feeding the baby and it had to be just the right size—not too wide and not too narrow and high enough to rest my head.
I lulled both my kids to sleep in that chair and the only time I was off my rocker was when the leg broke and my husband had to re-glue it out in the shed. Back then, it was a well-known fact that babies need to be held and rocked as much as they need to be changed and fed. Every Mom had a rocker. Instead of Tylenol, doctors prescribed the rocking remedy for fussy babies and I realize now they were killing two birds with one stone. That soothing back-and-forth motion worked wonders for nervous moms too! Nowadays, we have more stress than ever but I see very few rocking chairs in nurseries, and it seems those bulky La-Z-Boys have taken over our family rooms.
Remember those rockers our parents sat in, night after night on the front porch, discussing the weather and which seeds to order for the vegetable garden? They’re gone too, replaced by stiff, wicker settees and aluminum lawn chairs that blow away in the wind. That’s progress?
As you’ve probably guessed, the rocking chair I stumbled over today is now sitting in my living room and Leon’s even threw in a few squeaks at no extra charge. Who knows? Maybe I’ll start a new fad. Of course, we’ll have to change the name—maybe call them “mocking chairs” and add a few bells and whistles like built-in surround sound and electrically heated, vibrating seats. But I’m sure we could bring them back.
The truth is, I didn’t buy that chair to start a new trend in home furnishings! I bought it to start a family. Not my own, of course, but my daughter will soon be having a baby and I want to be ready. Meanwhile, rocking back and forth may not get me anywhere but it sure gives me something to do while I’m waiting. Rock on!
(At the time of this printing, Sandra has a 5-month old granddaughter and the rocking chair is getting a lot of use!)
***
A Change of Heart
By Sandra R. Reed
Under the intense heat of the morning sun, Sabina lay stretched out on her back on the deserted Caribbean beach. Her lean, athletic body was fashionably clad in her new tiger-striped bikini, giving her an untamed look to match the wildness of her golden hair as it sparkled in the sunlight.
Behind her, the ragged cliffs exuded tranquility and timelessness. She was staring at the sky—sun and clouds were playing tag against a blue backdrop—and for the first time in her life, she was really seeing them. Awesome, she thought.
She lifted her head to peruse the beach for some sign of Marco, shivering slightly in nervous anticipation. Relax, she told herself, falling back on her towel and closing her eyes.
The scent of his cologne crept up on her so gradually, she was unaware of it until his lips were on hers and her body was responding to his touch as if it had a mind of its own. It was the gentlest of voices she heard when he finally pulled away and spoke, cupping her face in his hands. “Tonight I’m taking you to meet my family.”
Things were moving far too fast for Sabina. “But Marco….” she started, but even as she spoke, she clung to the sugary sweetness of his voice and the warm tenderness of his touch, soon forgetting any words of protest that may have entered her mind.
Nothing could interrupt his lovemaking. He played her like a fine instrument, coaxing a love song from every chord in her body, secure in the knowledge that they were visible only to the occasional seagull. She was acting like another woman, held captive by the lovespell of this man who was a stranger until six days ago. A man who had declared he was going to marry her as if she had nothing to say in the matter.
Like children, they giggled between kisses as the cool waves tickled their toes. Suddenly, Marco spotted an exquisite caramel-coloured conch shell that had been dragged to them by the incoming tide.
“What’s this?” he laughed.”A gift from the sea?” Quickly plucking it from the sand, he pressed it against her ear. “Can you hear the ocean, Sabina?”
“I will always hear the ocean when I’m with you,” she assured him, hardly believing the echo of her own words.
The sun was directly overhead when he took her hand and they hopscotched through the boulders that formed a breakwater for the ocean waves, then he helped her climb the cliff to the roadway lined with sugarcane that linked the southern villages. Marco hailed one of the rickety old cabs that were so common on the island and she crawled in beside him, tucking herself under his outstretched arm.
Her eyes were closed when the taxi began to fishtail on one of the corners. Sabina instantly bolted upright to hear the driver snarl, “Dose damn peegs!” as he regained control of the swerving car. Glaring at Marco, she waited for an explanation.
“The pigs cross the road here. When a car hits one, it leaves an oily film on the road that makes it slippery and dangerous for drivers,” he said calmly, gently pulling her back into the safety of his arms. How horrible, she thought, wondering why there were no fences to keep the animals away from the road.
As they entered the hotel gates, Marco leaned away from her, digging into his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll pick you up in the lobby at four o’clock. Dinner with my family,” he said as he drew her into his arms once more, teasing her with his mouth until she herself became the kisser, chasing his elusive lips with her own, while the driver waited patiently for his fare. His love was like quicksand and she was in well over her head.
Back in her hotel room, Sabina soaked in the Jacuzzi tub, dreaming with her eyes open for over an hour, barely snapping out of it in time to get dressed for dinner. Was this the power of love or was she losing her mind? Oh well. Tomorrow she would be packing her bags and returning to Toronto. She could sort her feelings out there.
Fashionably late, at five past four, she entered the hotel lobby. There was no sign of Marco so she did one last check in the broad mirrors that lined the upper walls. The navy linen suit she had worn on the flight down would make a great impression on his parents. It was plain, but impeccably tailored and fit her slim frame perfectly, ending just above the knee.
As she fidgeted on the edge of a brocade sofa, Sabina’s eyes were fixed on the revolving doors of the hotel entrance. Frenzied tourists were pouring in, seeking refuge from the late afternoon drizzle (better known in the islands as pineapple juice), weaving their way through the maze of banquettes and leather chairs studded with nailheads, flapping their umbrellas.
An hour later, Sabina was tired of watching for Marco, tired of primping her upswept hairdo and tired of reapplying her lipstick. The large print of a magazine cover on the tabletop jumped out at her. Holiday Romance—Real or Illusion?
Well, this romance was certainly smoke and mirrors, she thought “and I have waited long enough. Hopping up from the sofa, she marched back to the elevators, not daring to look at the faces at the registration desk as she flew by. Even the clerks would know she had been stood up.
Slamming the door of her room behind her, she quickly stripped out of her clothes and hurried into bed without washing, anxious for sleep to numb her aching heart. What a fool she had been.
The agony dragged into the next day when there was no phone call, no apology and no explanation. Sabina was relieved to board the plane in hopes that every mile she put between herself and Marco would help ease the pain. But the memories travelled home with her and the empty seat beside her was filled with him—his scent, his touch and his smile.
Her mind drifted back to the night they met. His eyes had penetrated her soul as he stared at her from a distance at the Welcome Cocktail Party. Eyes like magnets that would not let go of her as she meandered through the crowd of tourists, sipping rum punch and making small talk while he followed her, keeping far enough away not to be obtrusive.
As the last guests were leaving, he was suddenly at her side, helping her with her silk shawl as if they had spent the evening together, and in a way they had.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said in a tone that implied chivalry, then he fell in beside her, cupping her elbow in his hand as if she were made of fine bone china.
As they strode the dimly lit bougainvillea-bordered pathways that connected the beach club to the hotel, Sabina learned he was an engineer for a Montreal plastics firm.
“I’ve been transferred to Toronto, so I guess we’ll be neighbours,” he chuckled. “Right now, I’m visiting my parents here in Grandport, where I was born. It’s a small village. I could take you…”
“So what brings you here tonight?” she quickly changed the topic.
“My brother owns this beautiful hotel. I was looking for him when I found you.”
Before she knew what was happening, he’d pulled her round to face him. He was compellingly attractive under the lamplight, with dark brown eyes that bespoke intelligence, an easy, confident smile and cocoa coloured brown hair which seemed have a mind of its own. His lips brushed hers and her entire body stiffened in resistance.
“What are you fighting?” he asked with genuine curiosity in his voice. “Let yourself go.”
His eyes begged Trust me. Please trust me, and Sabina, who had been nicknamed The Icelady by her past suitors, suddenly melted like a snowman caught in a spring thaw. The days that followed were a glorious blur of moonlight cruises, candlelight dinners and endless hours of golden silence.
That was the beginning of the end, she thought, as her plane touched down at Pearson International. Toronto was the same when she arrived home, but Sabina was not. In the days that followed, she grew to hate the city she had once loved and even her real estate career was not a safe haven from the haunting flashbacks of her winter holiday. Memories of Marco clung to her like a tale with frayed endings, begging for completion.
Days dragged into months and the winter that followed was colder than usual, prowling around the city like a wolf with fangs, hungry for flesh. Sabina hadn’t closed a deal in ages but it was tough to get people out to look at properties. One frosty morning, she was called into her broker’s office for a much dreaded meeting.
“I just need time,” she pleaded “I’ve had a run of bad luck this past year.”
She had just escaped the hot seat and was checking the open house list when the receptionist handed her a message: Please call Marco. Tucking the note into her daytimer, she headed for her car, almost colliding with one of her colleagues along the way, and drove straight home. Within the sanctuary of her own living room, she finally allowed herself to break down, and when she ran out of tears, she turned the hurt into anger.
“Once bitten twice shy!” she muttered out loud, crumpling the message slip into a penny sized ball and firing it into the waste basket.
Marco kept leaving messages, sending her back into her old habit of tossing and turning at night, searching for the perfect last words to say to him. But nothing was cutting enough to free her from the anguish that had crept back into her life. Besides, she had no intention of calling him. Then the fax arrived.
Please find me a Toronto home. Something nice on a few acres. Call me when I can see it.
Sincerely, Marco.
Over my dead body! she growled under her breath, but one week later, Sabina was staked out at the Old Wallace Mansion, awaiting his arrival. Her practical mind had won her over and if he loved the estate home with its acres of perennial gardens as much as she did, she stood to earn a hefty commission.
A wood fire glowed under the mantelpiece in the library where Sabina paced the cherrywood floor, dressed in her best bib and tucker, a burgundy wool tweed suit she normally saved for offer presentations. A copy of the listing lay on the mahogany coffee table. From outward appearances she was ready for business, but inwardly her mind was in a state of wild confusion. What in the world was she thinking, being here?
The sound of knuckles tapping on glass across the room saved her from having to answer her own question. As she walked languidly to the front door, Marco’s eyes peered at her through the upper panes—the same dark brown eyes that had once been hot chocolate for her soul. A sad smile curved his mouth as she let him in and Sabina could feel her solitary resolve crumble.
“Sabina, we need to talk,” he pleaded, grabbing her hand. Her heart beat inside her like terrified wings on the bars of a cage. Pulling away, she moved quickly toward the library, babbling professional commentary as she proceeded to show him through the house as if she were leading a cavalry charge through the wilderness.
Marco was moving slowly with what appeared to be a slight limp, pausing to sit whenever he had the chance and Sabina was practically dragging him from room to room. Stopping in the kitchen, he leaned a broad shoulder against the doorframe and glared at her.
“You really like this place don’t you, Sabina?
“Well of course I do,” she replied “but that’s not the issue. It’s whether you like it that counts.”
She was wearing her real estate hat now and Marco was just another client. As they settled into the wing back chairs in the library, she moved in for the close.
“Well what do you think? Would you like to own this beautiful home?”
“Definitely. Draw up the offer,” came his answer. “But there is one condition.”
Reaching into his blazer pocket he pulled out a seashell, his trembling hand fumbling as he placed it on the table in front of her. It was the conch shell from the beach but the delicate fluted edge was chipped and a large chunk was missing from the side. Why was he taunting her with this broken momento?
“It was in my pocket when I had the…….aah……when I was coming to pick you up at the hotel.”
Sabina was silent. Waiting.
“Dose damn peegs,” he blurted out, shaking his head and laughing half-heartedly as he slouched back in his chair like a soldier just home from the war. Sabina’s mind was spinning like a roulette wheel. The slight limp, the fumbling hand, the dangerous roadway, the rain…An accident?
Marco turned the shell around so that the opening that had once played ocean music in her ear was facing her. Peeking out of the fathomless hole was a glowing cluster of diamonds set on a gold band. So that’s the condition, she thought. Why after all this time…?
He must have read her mind. “They said I wouldn’t make it but I beat the odds. Soon I’ll be good as new. It’s been a long year, my love.”
Sabina’s eyes were fixed on him now, taking in the body language that spoke as clearly as pantomime. “But why…” she started, tears swelling up in her eyes. In an instant Marco was kneeling in front of her, gently covering her lips with his hand, holding back her questions and then just holding her. The heat of his searching mouth drew her in, transcending all the days since their last kiss—days which now seemed nothing more than a bad dream.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he assured her as he pressed kisses into her hair.
“No, we won’t,” she corrected him. “We’ll be much too busy to do any talking.”
“Does that mean you’ll marry me?”
“Yes, oh yes, my dear Marco,” she promised, smiling as he slid the ring onto her finger. All the anger, hatred and grief had gone. I’m so happy, she thought, and the best is yet to come.
***
The CRASH of 2009
By Sandra R. Reed
These days, I practically live on my computer. My desk is my groaning board and I can type 30 words a minute while I gobble down TV dinners and potato chips without dropping a single crumb. Yes, my PC and I are pretty close-so close, I’m afraid if it catches a virus, I stand a good chance of catching it too. Fortunately, Microhard is always one step ahead of the game. I was one of the first users to sign up for the new Flu Shot, Norton Antivirus for Humans. So now that’s covered but I’m still nervous about storing all my important data in one computer strongbox, even if it does have a firewall for protection.
Nowadays, we count on our PCs for everything-the news, the weather, bill payments, time management, mail, research. No wonder the crashing of a computer is right up there with a death in the family. Support groups are popping up everywhere to comfort the increasing number of people who are losing their lifeline.
“I felt so alone when it happened,” said one poor soul. “No one seemed to care that my life was over.”
According to Happy Face, the president of That Last Click of the Mouse, the newest service for computer crash victims, there are several e-motional stages that people go through after a fatal crash.
“First there’s the initial shock,” he says with a grin, “when the screen goes blank and can’t be rebooted. Then there’s a period of denial and hoping the local computer guru can resuscitate the files.”
When Dr. Woe’s life support software fails to revive the darn thing, he hands you a bill for his services and gets the heck out of there before you start tearing your hair out. After several sleepless nights, you’ll finally give in to acceptance-a stage followed by guilt, anger, depression and self-hate. Then comes the inevitable mourning period.
“Our firm provides user-friendly online support software called TOOBAD 2009*,” says Happy Face, “which can be up or downloaded by bereaved Yahoos at any Internet café. For a minimal fee of less than $1,000, our cyberchologists guide them through all stages of their rehabilitation, after which there are several Letting Go Google All Gone tests, ($100 each) which qualify a student for re-entry into cyberspace.
Happy Face goes on to say, “As part of our special all-in-one starting over package, we then offer our subscribers brand new low-tech computers at high-tech prices, complete with the latest versions of MicroHard Office Unprofessional, Word Imperfect, PhotoScrap, Ouchlook, Spybot Search and Search Again, Windows Don’t Shoot the Messenger and My Adobe Hacienda.”
The following is an excerpt from the Toobad 2009 website: www.xodtujj68883kkksadlkjv9daijrij009flmam.com
*TOOBAD 2009 is a compressed file which can only be opened with the latest version of LoseZip 2009 which can only be purchased through PainPal for an additional $500. If your computer is not equipped with Painpal, click on the Adobe Acrobatic Reader tab at the bottom of the home page. The Acrobatic Reader will not open Painpal, but at least it’s free and might come in handy someday. Clicking on the Help tab will link you to a secure site where you can order the Adobe Acrobatic System Analysis Report. If you accept the terms of the agreement (click I accept) the report will be downloaded. This could take up to five hours so feel free to watch the clock while you wait. After reading the report, just choose the appropriate website and download our 25-page booklet of instructions on how interpret it. These instructions can only be printed out on an HP Sauce Laser Printer 1007 (see your manual for required settings.) If you don’t have printer-specific hardware, then do not pass Go, do not collect $200, and kiss your computer goodbye.
***
Pandora’s Box
By Sandra R. Reed
We hear a lot about addictions these days-illegal drugs, alcohol, gambling, smoking-but there’s one addiction you won’t hear much about, especially on TV. I’m talking about television addiction.
Here’s what I have read:
Television addiction is a disorder where the subject has a compulsion to watch television. The compulsion can be extremely difficult to control. It has many parallels to other forms of addiction, such as addiction to drugs or gambling, which creates an altered mental state in the subject.
Television addiction becomes a problem when a person doesn’t want to watch TV, but experiences an uncontrollable compulsion to turn on the boob tube. If that person gives in to the impulse, they may not accomplish other tasks or goals that need to be addressed. Then it becomes a problem.
Addicted people often feel withdrawal symptoms when they try to go for long periods without watching TV. They feel anxious and crave TV’s hypnotic effects. Coupled with other factors, habitual television watching has been known to cause a lack of motivation and feelings of listlessness, depression, and anger.
After reading all that information, I began to wonder if television is designed to be addictive or if that’s just an unfortunate side effect. Didn’t take me long to come up with my answer. Of course they do it on purpose. Have you noticed all the serials lately? Stories that promise to be “continued next week” and beg you to tune in. They shout commercials at us till my head almost explodes. And that incessant music! What are they trying to do? Put us into a trance?
TV is like a two-way mirror. While we’re watching our shows, they (the producers) are watching us. Taking copious notes about our favorite programs, movies, and commercials. Even our favorite cleaning products. Every programming decision is based on our likes and dislikes.
Now, if we were a bit smarter and could be responsible for our choices-if we knew what to watch for our own good-that would be fine. But we’re not. Food commercials give us the munchies, violence makes us aggressive, and too much reality and bad news can make us depressed. Are they leading us down the garden path?
We can block channels for our kids but who’s protecting us? Our government? Seems as if they’re lowering censorship standards as often as the actors are dropping their pants.
All those warnings of sex, violence, nudity and coarse language? Huh! They’re actually commercials for the movies they pre-empt. Hooks for the weak of flesh.
The question remains: Does TV reflect our standards or is it setting our standards? Is the dog wagging the tail or is the TV tail wagging us? Like blind mice, are we following a trail of cheese into a huge TV mousetrap?
I could say a lot more about television-that idiot box we all welcomed into our households back in the fifties. But I have to go now. It’s nine o’clock. Friends is almost over and Nip Tuck is coming on next. That’s my favorite show and I never miss it. I wonder who they’re cutting up tonight!
***
The Best Man
By Sandra R. Reed
Doris was having one of her better days. She couldn’t remember who had brought her into the garden and sat her in the lawn chair, but that didn’t matter. Today, for a change, she knew who she was and where she was, and that’s more than she could say for the other residents of Maple Valley Nursing Home.
A white uniform bent over her and asked, “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Winters? Cuppa’ tea or a glass of lemonade?”
“No thanks. I have everything I need,” she answered, leaning back and smoothing the folds in her cotton skirt. Her eyes were fixed on the flowerbed and her mind was on George. He would have loved it here, she thought, among the petunias and the marigolds – but something very important was missing. Roses – his glorious roses – the only thing they ever fought about, as she recalled.
George spent long hours in his garden, talking to his roses – weeding, pruning and sometimes even grafting them together. Doris remembered watching from the kitchen window, silently craving an equal show of affection. One day she just snapped. “You might as well live in that wretched garden with your beloved floribundas,” she exclaimed. “You’re out there twenty-four hours a day.” George just laughed and continued flipping through the plant and seed catalogue.
A hungry robin caught her eye as it darted back and forth between the stones on the walkway, searching for crumbs. George would have a fit. His garden had feeders for the birds and a porcelain water fountain for them to bathe in.
It was not often that Alzheimers released its cruel grip on Doris’ memory, and she knew she didn’t have much time. Her thoughts rushed back to the day they’d met. It was at someone’s wedding. George was the best man and she was the maid of honor. Love at first sight and from that day on, they’d never been apart. She glanced down at the row of diamonds on her left hand. Funny — she couldn’t remember their own wedding but she remembered the day George proposed. He was down on one knee when she told him, “I don’t know how to cook. I can’t even boil an egg.”
He wasn’t even slightly put off. “Well then, we’ll just have to get you an egg timer.”
That was her George. A solution for everything. Whatever he was lacking in the charm department, he made up for with sheer determination. He was a much better catch than the men her friends married. “Womanizers, the lot of them,” she muttered out loud. More devoted to their cars and their dogs than they were to their own wives. Yes, George was truly the “best man” and she would marry him all over again if she had the chance.
How long were they together? That part was a blank. As if her wretched disease chose not to hand that information over. It must have been a long, long time because all of her snippets of memory featured him in a leading role. If she was happy, George was happy and sometimes he even tickled her to make her laugh. That recollection made her giddy and then she remembered – if she was sad, he was sad too. Like when she found out she couldn’t have children and he curled up on the bed beside her and rubbed her back till she fell asleep. Then she heard him sobbing on the other room in the middle of the night.
Doris smiled. Even the sad times were not bad times when she was with George. It must have been hard on him when she started to lose her memory. Welcome or not, that part was coming back to her too. First she left the iron on, then the stove, then she couldn’t remember names and places and it just got worse. Her heart pounded as she remembered George, sitting on the front steps, weeping, as that minivan took her away to the home. What happened after that was a total blank. She gasped and cupped her face with her hands. Maybe he died of a broken heart? Or maybe he was still alive, but if so, then where was he now?
She extracted a tissue from her sleeve and was dabbing the tears on her cheeks, when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up into a blinding bouquet of red roses, and then into the face of the man hovering over them. “George, is that you?” She blinked her eyes in disbelief.
Thrilled that his wife had recognized him, George placed the flowers in her lap and let the sweet fragrance engulf her. “This time I’ve brought floribundas,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “As I recall, they are your favourite flower.”