Memoir

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Come Some Rainy Day

“The first time I saw you, I knew I would love you.  When I kissed you, I lost my heart completely, and all we wanted was just to stay that way…”

A road that winds through my memory.  Trees covered in leaves, each a sliver of remembrance.  Crystal waters, and cool, crisp air.  Sometimes when I breathe deep, it's still with me.  The freshness, the joy… the sorrows. 

One stolen weekend, two lost hearts.

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Stories In The Key Of Me



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“Once in your life, you find them – someone who turns your heart around… wake up and it’s still with you, even though you left them way across town, wondering to yourself ‘hey, what’ve I found?’”

          Terry makes me smile. 

          We haven’t talked in… I don’t even remember the last time, it was through FaceBook or something – a place he never really hangs out at and our emails are non-existent now.  It’s been nine years since we last talked regularly, in 2001.  I’d just met Roger, and like so many of my guy friends, I let go of him, and once the hand is dropped, you never quite go back to holding them again. 

          But thinking of Terry, even now, is a warm summer breeze in my memory of twists and turns, hurricanes and tornadoes. 

          He lived in New York, and I in California.  We were online buddies – not even sure where or how on the internet we found each other.  But we clicked, we confided, and we laughed.  This is why Terry stands out to me.  Someone who gave me the genuine giggles with his warmth, someone that liked who I was behind the mask.  There were no false bravados with this one.  I had nothing to lose – he wasn’t a potential date, being thirty-seven states away and all.  Talking with him was like slipping into an old, faded pair of blue jeans.  Relaxed, and comforting. 

to read more, click here:
Stories In The Key Of Me
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Sugar And Spice, And Everything…

          “Can I buy you two gals another round?”  Gina and I, intoxicated cinnamon-haired bookends, glanced across the table at each other, trying to stifle a laugh. 

          “No, thanks!” we exclaimed in unison above the jukebox in the background.  It wasn’t playing as loudly as if it were a weekend night, but it was just loud enough that we had to raise our voices to be heard.  A quick thought hummed between us as we shared a laugh.  Where did this loser come from?

          Not accepting our answer, Big Bubba Joe lingered at our tiny raised table where we sat with our feet swinging from the tall stools.  He looked us up and down like a stray mutt at the backdoor of a butcher shop.  Gina caught his eye in her white button-down blouse and dark vest.  The lace tops of her white stockings peeked from beneath the pleats of her short, plaid schoolgirl skirt.- a very hip look for 1995.  His eyes moved over to my red sports-tank top and black sweater, my bare midriff peeking out. 

          We were already a couple of shots into our evening, and we’d just gotten started.  It was Gina’s birthday, so I’d gathered a group of girls to descend upon our favorite hangout.  Robin, Lisa and I arrived with a hand-drawn, rainbow colored, poster-sized card and a homemade cake, frosted and still in the pan, with candy pieces spelling out the occasion on top. 

The Bottom Of The Fifth was a divey type bar on a small street in the quaint little town of Benicia.  Of the three or four watering holes on

Fifth Street

, it was the most reputable.  I was instantly drawn to Gina, a voracious girl who, despite her sadness, could capture an entire room with her bountiful laugh.  Like myself, she rarely filtered her thoughts, and valued her few girlfriends with a vengeance.  I considered myself quite lucky to have become one of her chosen confidantes.

Just hanging out with her gave me an energy that I clung to after a long day of working two shifts and the never-ending arguments with my grandmother at home.  A shot of Cuervo, an ice cold Miller Genuine, and a story of Gina’s latest romance was often a welcome distraction.  We formed a sisterhood of sorts with a third redhead, Dori, who kept post behind the bar, helping to shape our ginger-attitude while pouring us another dose of confidence.  Her platitudes were often entertaining, such as the night someone fired obscenities at her for refusing to serve him.  The swaying drunk leaned over the bar that barely held him up, and as he got in her face she cut him down with a glare and said “Bitch?  Did you just call me a bitch?  That’s MIZ Bitch to you!” as one of her protective regulars hauled him out the front door.  Dori leaned over to us and lectured, “Remember that, girls!  It’s not an offense, it’s a compliment!  Means you don’t take crap from anyone!”

What better place to come and raise a toast to being single and midtwentysomething?  Until Bubba Joe Bob came along, anyway.  Once Gigi and I realized he wasn’t leaving the table anytime soon, we finally figured – why not use him to our advantage?  Rather than squander our scraped-together dollars on drinks, he was more than willing to take on the tab.  Soon we had him talked into pitchers, so as we wouldn’t leave our friends out in the cold. 

Gina and Lisa weren’t the pool players that Robin and I were, so while Bubba kept the beer flowing, we jumped up on occasion to shoot a game with one of our buddies.  It had turned into quite the party for a weeknight, with Rick, Ed, Jon, and many of our favorite cohorts wandering in through the back door.  

I’m not sure how it came about, exactly.  At this point I had giggled my way through several shots of cactus juice accompanied by several glasses of what Rod Stewart claimed made Milwaukee famous.  In fact, I was pretty certain he’d been singing about it that night right behind me on the flashing juke that was my best bar friend.  But somehow a gauntlet had been thrown down on the table, as Gina laughed and yelled “Sure!  Bring it on!”

“Uh, ZheeZhee, what ‘zactly is it he’s um… bringing on..?” I sloshed.  

“Chug contest! Ten bucks!” Another bawdy laugh.  Bubba Joe came back with three mini-pitchers of our favorite draft, and slid one toward each of us.  The idea of a “chug contest” is to gulp down a pitcher of beer, on the count of three, without breaking, to see who could polish theirs off first – a pastime usually reserved for frat boys and bachelor parties.

“You gals really think you can take me on, huh?”  His belly shook with amusement as he towered over us.  I shot him one of my withering looks, which only spurred him on.  Before he could finish spouting off his next condescending challenge, I had lifted my 40-ouncer and had half of it down my determined throat.  Once I’d gulped it all down I slammed the plastic pitcher down and stuck out my drunken hand.  “Pay up, sucker.”

Gina nearly fell off of her vinyl-covered stool in gales of bubbly mirth at the look on poor, surprised Bubba’s chubby face. 

It was in this beer-soaked condition that we’d finally conceded and accepted Bubba Joe Bob as the party game that he was. 

Two a.m. was approaching, there were still a dozen or so of us left to close down the bar, and it was time to take down the decorations we’d hung all along the dusty walls.  As Cooter, a grizzled, jovial old coot – hence the name – flirted with each of us in an attempt he knew would get him nowhere fast, climbed up on the bar to yank down the streamers and balloons, Gina and I nudged each other with a conspiratorial wink and reached up to tug on his loose-fitting jeans. 

Never did we suspect that Cooter was going commando.  We fell to our knees, leaning on each other as our sides split from laughing at his wrinkled old bare moon above us.  He never even batted an eye as he said in his gravelly voice, “That’s right, ladies, now you know what you’ve been missin’!”

We had ruled the roost that night, Gina and I.  It was intoxicating, girly, and legendary.  A little sugar, a lot of spice, it was everything little redheaded girls are made of.