Monthly Archives: October 2015

Bessie’s Boys Chapter Seven

Elizabeth and Robin entered her private sitting room where Rodney and Steppingstone sat at her conference table. They immediately jumped to their feet.
“Good. Both of you are here,” Elizabeth announced with satisfaction. Lord Boniface will join us shortly.” Elizabeth sat at the head of the table and turned her attention to Rodney. “Now, young Broadshoulders, what is this news of a Spanish threat?”
Steppingstone stood between Rodney and the Queen. “Spanish threat?”
“Ssh,” she shushed him. “Go on, young man.”
Rodney tapped Steppingstone on the shoulder. “If you don’t mind.”
The lord begrudgingly gave ground. “How rude!”
“Upon his deathbed, my father gave me this letter.” He pulled it out of his doublet. “It tells of high treason in your court, your Majesty!”
“I find that hard to believe,” Steppingstone interrupted disdainfully, trying to grab the letter out of Rodney’s beefy hand.
Elizabeth plucks it away. “When it comes to treason I’m willing to believe the worst.”
“My father writes in that letter that he found another letter on the grounds outside the palace,” Rodney explained. “It’s to King Phillip and speaks of plans to kidnap your Highness on the eve of a massive sea invasion.”
Steppingstone tried again to snatch the letter. “Ridiculous!”
“Where is the letter your father, Sir Boris, found on the ground?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, he became so enraged he tore it into pieces before he realized he needed it for proof.” Rodney blushed. “He immediately wrote this letter to me so he would not forget any of the details, including the name of the traitor.”
The Queen examined the ragged bottom of the letter. “And what happened here?”
“Being my father’s son and therefore a man of high passion and rash action, I tore the letter apart before reading who the traitor was.”
“And what, pray tell, happened to the bottom of the letter?” Elizabeth closed her eyes in an attempt to maintain her Royal composure.
“A pigeon swooped down and flew away with it before I could retrieve it,” Rodney reluctantly explained. “But the pigeon had already pooped on it, rendering it impossible to read.”
“And your father did not disclose the contents of the letter to you before he died?” Robin asked.
“He could not speak. It was with a trembling hand he handed the letter to me before his last breath.”
“A likely story!” Steppingstone eyed Rodney with suspicion.
“What do you mean?” Robin retorted in defense of the young soldier.
“It’s obvious young Broadshoulders found a letter among his father’s effects after the funeral. Upon reading the letter from his own father to King Phillip, he tore it up, wrote another letter copying his father’s handwriting and tore off the bottom.”
“That’s a lie!”
“I think this whole affair requires an official investigation before any more wild allegations are flung at the character of Sir Boris Broadshoulders,” Robin insisted.
“I agree,” Steppingstone said, “and the investigation should begin with the house of Broadshoulders!”
“It will not!” Elizabeth boomed imperiously. Sir Boris Broadshoulders was a loyal soldier. I will not see his memory besmirched by an uncalled-for investigation.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Rodney bowed deeply.
“This rush to protect the name of Broadshoulders is highly suspicious,” Steppingstone continued his attack.
“I’ll knock your block off.” Rodney glared menacingly.
Robin grabbed him by his broad shoulders and pulled him back. “Whoa, boy, calm down.”
“Rodney Broadshoulders! Cease and desist this very moment!” the Queen ordered.
Rodney wriggled loose from Robin’s clutches. “But your Majesty—“
“Enough!” This was loud enough to ring through the entire palace. “Leave my presence!”
“I’m sorry, your Majesty.” He hung his head in shame.
Elizabeth could not stay angry long with a young man so handsome. “You are young, and sometimes youth fatigues the old.” She smiled wearily. “Leave.”
As Rodney left her chambers, Steppingstone remonstrated, “Surely you don’t believe this fantastical story, your Majesty!”
“You do not know the Broadshoulders clan as I do, Lord Steppingstone,” she intoned. “Unfortunately, it all makes perfect sense.”
“It’s perfect nonsense.” The Lord High Chamberlain did not retreat from his righteous indignation. “You actually believe him?”
“I believe no one,” she replied with a raised eyebrow, leaving open a wide-ranging interpretation of her comments. “I only believe facts, and at this time I have no facts.”
Steppingstone raised his chin. “The facts speak for themselves.”
“It seems to me you are speaking for the facts.” The Earl of Leicester raised one of his own bushy eyebrows.
“Well said, Robin,” Elizabeth sweetly observed.
Before Steppingstone could protest any further, Lord Boniface entered the Queen’s chamber.
“Ah, Lord Boniface, you have finally arrived. We have received shocking news.” She handed the letter to him. “Look at this.”
Boniface held the letter as far away as his arm would allow and read it. He then looked directly into Elizabeth’s eyes. “Obviously a fake.”
“Why?” the Queen asked.
“You are too brilliant to allow a spy in your court.” Boniface returned the letter to her.
“Pretty words, but are they wise?” she questioned.
“As wise as you are beautiful,” he announced with charm.
Steppingstone, given time to recover his senses, re-entered the fray. “I say the boy tore the signature off the letter to protect his father Sir Boris.”
“Boris Broadshoulders was too dumb to be a traitor,” Boniface replied with a smirk.
“And that goes double for the son,” Robin said in agreement.
“Robin?”
“Yes, your Majesty?”
“Bend down.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
Robin followed her orders and lowered his smiling face, and she promptly slapped that silly grin right off his lips.

Cancer Chronicles Twenty-Five

I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I really like the commercials which hype new medications. What bothers me the most is the long list of things that could go wrong if you did talk your doctor into prescribing the stuff for you.
The other night one of those commercials came on and basically I tuned them out, but my wife became a bit excited. She said it sounded like a medication the oncologist gave her during her chemotherapy treatments. It was supposed to make your white blood cell count higher to counteract the effect of the chemotherapy. One of the main reactions to the drug was that it could make your bones ache.
“Yes, my bones did ache,” she exclaimed, and the doctor had to prescribe another medication to relieve that condition.
Now what I want to know is what good was it to hear about the medication in a television commercial three months after the patient needed to take it? Isn’t this why doctors are paid to keep up with the latest developments in medications? It seems to me they are doing their jobs quite well without watching the commercials.
Sorry, Arnold Palmer, but I wish you made extra money being in liquor commercials for liquor selling the ingredients for the cocktail named after you. Let doctors make the decisions about which drugs to prescribe us.

Monsters, My Brothers and Me

Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers at night may become a wolf when the wolf bane blooms when the autumn moon is bright.”
I love those old horror movies from the 1930s. My brothers and I used to pop some corn, raid the refrigerator for cold bottles of Royal Crown Cola and plop in front of the television on a Saturday night for a double feature of black and white scary films on an independent channel broadcasting from Fort Worth, Texas.
Our parents were out of the house for their weekly game of forty-two, some game played with dominoes and had rules like bridge. We didn’t understand it, and we didn’t care. We wanted to see Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi and Lon Chaney Junior terrorize the countryside.
These movies were all atmosphere and no actual blood. When the Frankenstein monster tossed someone over the tower wall it was obviously a dummy. I don’t think we ever saw Dracula’s teeth actually sink into flesh, and the wolfman didn’t do anything but walk around on his tippy toes with his rear end stuck out.
“Listen to them, children of the night. What music they make.”
One Saturday night we had this intellectual discussion. Who was the scariest monster? I voted for Frankenstein’s monster. My brothers said no. He might have been big and strong but he was really stiff and moved slow. You could easily out run him. The oldest brother said Dracula, but the other one scoffed. Dracula was scared of the cross and garlic, and you could drive a stake through his heart during the day if you found him in his casket. The other brother said the scariest was the wolfman because he was big and strong and the only thing that could kill him was a silver bullet or a cane with a silver handle on it. Who walks around the woods at midnight with silver on him?
“It’s alive! It’s alive!”
To this day I have all those silly old lines memorized. What argument can’t be solved by quoting a movie made 80 years ago? Should we have booze at the party? “I never drink…wine.”
“No, it wasn’t the airplanes. It was beauty who killed the beast.”
Those are the final words in King Kong, arguably the biggest, baddest and most sympathetic movie monster of all. I mean, if they had only left him alone on his island and not taken him to New York, he would have been fine. Ever since seeing that movie, I never trusted blondes.
In the last few years, Halloween, the official holiday of horror movie buffs, has come under attack because it seems all too supernatural, spooky, evil or whatever, but I love Halloween and let me tell you why.
My brothers and I were born about six years apart. Our theory was that once one child started school our mother wanted another baby to take his place. The end result was three boys who didn’t really have much in common. The older two, for their own reasons, truly disliked each other and got into some nasty fights.
As the youngest, I was expected to take sides. If I said one was right the other would physically attack me because I didn’t join with him. Turn up the television, one would say. Don’t you dare, the other retorted. If I just stood there, both were mad at me. When that station out of Fort Worth stopped showing horror movies on Saturday nights we didn’t watch television together anymore. We didn’t do much of anything together except fuss at each other and eventually moved away, both physically and emotionally.
But on these Saturday nights with Boris, Bela and Lon, we didn’t fight. There was peace on earth as long as the monsters roamed some mystical land with vague shadows looming over misty landscape. And when I married and had children, I had them watch all the old movies with me. They sat and giggled with daddy about how silly they seem now.
A world without monsters to scare us into being kind to each other? Now that’s a frightening thought.

Bessie’s Boys Chapter Six

Clarence Flippertigibbit found his hiding place under Maria’s dress less than comfortable. The crossing from Spain was hell. The reports of his demise upon the sinking of the Aquamarine Pigeon were greatly exaggerated. To avoid capture by the Spanish Inquisition, Clarence made a perfect swan dive into the Bay of Biscay and floated ashore at the beachfront estate of Senor Vacacabeza. Shortly thereafter Maria found him upon the sands looking like a drowned puppy.
(Author’s note: Good things come to those who wait. Now you know it was Clarence under Maria’s dress and responsible for all of those inappropriate outbursts.)
When Maria sat on the edge of her bed in her private chamber, Clarence took the opportunity to slide under the bed. It was good to stretch his legs. If he craned his head just the right way, he could make out the conversation between Maria and Vacacabeza who Clarence decided had less than honorable intentions towards his ward.
“You look so very lovely, my dear,” Vacacabeza said with a lecherous sigh.
He leaned in for a kiss, but Maria yawned, revealing each and every pearly white tooth in her mouth.
“I can’t look lovely when I’m so tired.” Slowly her Spanish accent became barely comprehensible.
“Could I interest you in a back massage, Maria?” Her guardian nervously reached for her exposed, soft shoulders. “To relax you?”
Clarence twisted his face in disgust. “Dirty old man.”
“Oh no.” Maria smiled innocently. “I’m relaxed enough as it is.”
“Maria, you don’t know what you do to me.”
Clarence made a fist. “If he lifts her dress, I’ll knock him on his ass.”
Before he knew it, Clarence noticed Maria was snoring. It was a healthy snore, he decided, worthy of a pirate on the high seas.
“Caramba!” Vacacabeza muttered in frustration.
Clarence’s snigger was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Si? Vacacabeza called out.
“It’s me.”
Clarence could not quite make out who was at the door. He did hear steps going to the door, which opened with a slight creak. Another set of steps entered, perhaps a light man, Clarence surmised.
“Shut the door before anyone sees me.”
Clarence strained to understand what the stranger was saying. Maria’s snore was getting worse.
“What’s wrong?” Vacacabeza asked as he shut the door.
Clarence decided the new voice was that of an Englishman, but he could not ascertain anymore.
“Originally I was coming to assure you that everything was fine,” the stranger continued, “but then I spoke to the Queen.
“What could she know?” Vacacabeza asked.
“I don’t know. She made some veiled comment about the Spanish threat.”
“She knows about the invasion!” Vacacabeza exclaimed too loudly.
Clarence’s eyes widened. “Invasion!”
“I don’t know,” the mystery man said.
“The plot to kidnap her on the eve of the invasion? Does Elizabeth know about that?” Vacacabeza persisted.
Clarence’s eyes widened again. “Kidnapping!”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!”
Clarence thought the unknown man was sounding like a parrot.
“All she said was to meet her in her private chambers in thirty minutes to discuss a Spanish threat!”
“Caramba!” was all Vacacabeza could say.
“I suggest you return to Spain immediately and recommend to King Phillip that he dispatch the Armada as soon as possible.”
Clarence Flippertigibbit, as inferred by his name, was as jumpy as a frog. Who was that man speaking to Vacacabeza?

Bessie’s Boys Chapter Six

Clarence Flippertigibbit found his hiding place under Maria’s dress less than comfortable. The crossing from Spain was hell. The reports of his demise upon the sinking of the Aquamarine Pigeon were greatly exaggerated. To avoid capture by the Spanish Inquisition, Clarence made a perfect swan dive into the Bay of Biscay and floated ashore at the beachfront estate of Senor Vacacabeza. Shortly thereafter Maria found him upon the sands looking like a drowned puppy.
(Author’s note: Good things come to those who wait. Now you know it was Clarence under Maria’s dress and responsible for all of those inappropriate outbursts.)
When Maria sat on the edge of her bed in her private chamber, Clarence took the opportunity to slide under the bed. It was good to stretch his legs. If he craned his head just the right way, he could make out the conversation between Maria and Vacacabeza who Clarence decided had less than honorable intentions towards his ward.
“You look so very lovely, my dear,” Vacacabeza said with a lecherous sigh.
He leaned in for a kiss, but Maria yawned, revealing each and every pearly white tooth in her mouth.
“I can’t look lovely when I’m so tired.” Slowly her Spanish accent became barely comprehensible.
“Could I interest you in a back massage, Maria?” Her guardian nervously reached for her exposed, soft shoulders. “To relax you?”
Clarence twisted his face in disgust. “Dirty old man.”
“Oh no.” Maria smiled innocently. “I’m relaxed enough as it is.”
“Maria, you don’t know what you do to me.”
Clarence made a fist. “If he lifts her dress, I’ll knock him on his ass.”
Before he knew it, Clarence noticed Maria was snoring. It was a healthy snore, he decided, worthy of a pirate on the high seas.
“Caramba!” Vacacabeza muttered in frustration.
Clarence’s snigger was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Si? Vacacabeza called out.
“It’s me.”
Clarence could not quite make out who was at the door. He did hear steps going to the door, which opened with a slight creak. Another set of steps entered, perhaps a light man, Clarence surmised.
“Shut the door before anyone sees me.”
Clarence strained to understand what the stranger was saying. Maria’s snore was getting worse.
“What’s wrong?” Vacacabeza asked as he shut the door.
Clarence decided the new voice was that of an Englishman, but he could not ascertain anymore.
“Originally I was coming to assure you that everything was fine,” the stranger continued, “but then I spoke to the Queen.
“What could she know?” Vacacabeza asked.
“I don’t know. She made some veiled comment about the Spanish threat.”
“She knows about the invasion!” Vacacabeza exclaimed too loudly.
Clarence’s eyes widened. “Invasion!”
“I don’t know,” the mystery man said.
“The plot to kidnap her on the eve of the invasion? Does Elizabeth know about that?” Vacacabeza persisted.
Clarence’s eyes widened again. “Kidnapping!”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!”
Clarence thought the unknown man was sounding like a parrot.
“All she said was to meet her in her private chambers in thirty minutes to discuss a Spanish threat!”
“Caramba!” was all Vacacabeza could say.
“I suggest you return to Spain immediately and recommend to King Phillip that he dispatch the Armada as soon as possible.”
Clarence Flippertigibbit, as inferred by his name, was as jumpy as a frog. Who was that man speaking to Vacacabeza?

Cancer Chronicles Twenty-Four

The other day coming out from my wife’s radiation treatment at the cancer center we saw a long-time friend we had not seen for a while. We told her about my wife’s breast cancer. Her initial reaction was a heart-felt concern for my wife’s future. We assured her that the treatments had succeeded in eliminating all cancer cells. Our friend, as expected, was relieved.
Since then I have thought how we never considered death an option. We knew this was going to be a rough journey so we gritted our teeth, held hands, and marched right into it. This was an experience we had to endure. But as long as she’s here, my wife is alive and we rejoice in that.
How sad it must be for people who get the diagnosis of cancer and can never look beyond the specter of death. It is even worse for the family and friends who begin their mourning process immediately. Yes, losing a loved one is terrible but don’t dwell on it until it is a certainty and not a possibility.
To protect themselves, some people begin to think of the patient as already being gone. They pull away emotionally and physically. Conversations become devoid of affection and turn monosyllabic. This not only hurts the patient’s outlook and chance for recovery, but it robs every one of the joy of what life any of us have left. I want to have memories of celebrating life, not an unending period of wishing for what used to be.
When the patient does recover, the person who chose to mourn prematurely will have to create a sense of resurrection, which is harder than letting go. Here is a person whom we almost lost but have been blessed to have for more time to love, cherish and learn from.
How sad and lonely to give up a loved one before the battle is lost.

Not Romeo

Ever since Benjie realized that Romeo in Shakespeare’s play was sixteen, which happened to be his exact age, he became fixated on playing the romantic hero.
He wasn’t being totally impractical about this ambition—he had been acting in school and community theater plays for a long time. When he was ten years old he played Oliver in the big musical. The director liked the idea of having a boy of ten playing a seven year old.
This worked out well for Benjie until he turned thirteen when his voice cracked and lowered to something that sounded somewhat mature but was just vaguely boring.
Benjie heard that the theater in a neighboring town was putting on Romeo and Juliet. He prepared, memorizing the best lines and went to the audition. He thought he had done a pretty good job until he heard the director comment, “This part calls for a sixteen-year-old, maybe older.”
“I’m sixteen,” Benjie replied.
“You look twelve.”
“I’m too tall to be twelve.”
“I’ve seen tall twelve year olds. They don’t look like Romeo. They look like basketball players.”
“But I don’t want to play basketball.”
“No wonder. As a sixteen year old you’re too short to play basketball.”
“I’ve already memorized most of the lines—“
“Next!”
After Benjie recovered from that rejection, he began an exercise regimen to make himself look like a romantic hero. And after his voice stabilized, he acted in several more productions, mostly as the leading man’s best friend. And anytime a nearby theater announced it was going to produce Romeo and Juliet, Benjie was there for the audition. He still looked too young though.
Finally, when he was twenty-six he looked like a sixteen-year-old boy who would have a hot affair with a thirteen-year-old girl. The girl playing Juliet actually was eighteen, but looked much younger. Even after his makeover Benjie didn’t exactly thrill the hearts of young women in real life, but he could pretend he was Romeo on stage.
During the audition, Benjie let go of all his inhibitions and self-doubt and he felt like he was actually Romeo. After he won the role, Benjie floated through the rehearsals. The only problem was the girl who played Juliet did not like him at all. Her brother who was cast as Tybalt treated Benjie as though he were a true menace to their family. The young actress expressed her wishes that Benjie wait to kiss her until opening night. Her brother played the dueling scenes with frightening enthusiasm.
None of this backstage drama dampened Benjie’s excitement because when on Halloween night the curtains would part, he was Romeo.
The first few scenes passed smoothly. Benjie thought the balcony scene was fantastic because Juliet grabbed his face with both hands and laid a hard, hot kiss on his lips. He was so shocked he could not remember his next line.
Benjie blinked several times and when he finally focused on his surroundings, he realized he was not in the theater. He held Juliet’s hand as they skipped along a moonlit cobblestone street in a Middle Ages Italian city. His first thought was that this place really stunk. And he didn’t smell none too good either. It was as though he bathed once a year, and he was a month away from his next one. He didn’t want body odor to ruin this fine romance.
Not one building looked familiar to him, but he felt drawn to the big cathedral in the town square. They went around the church to a door hidden by dark shadows. Benjie knocked, and an old man wearing monk’s robes opened the door. This man looked like the actor playing Friar Lawrence but strangely enough, he didn’t speak English but Italian. Strangest of all, Benjie understood everything the monk said. And when Benjie opened his mouth to speak, he asked, in perfect Italian, for Lawrence to marry Juliet and him.
The monk took them to the chapel and married them right on the spot. When he leaned in to kiss his bride, Benjie bumped into her cheek because she had turned her head away at the last moment.
“Boy, does she run hot and cold,” Benjie muttered.
Before he knew it, Benjie—or was he now really Romeo—was walking in Verona’s town square with his kooky cousin Mercutio in broad daylight. What happened on his wedding night he could not remember. Then Tybalt came upon them trying to pick a fight.
Now Benjie’s rational side told him this was the brother of the girl playing Juliet, but his other side realized—as fantastical as it seemed—he was actually Romeo in old Verona. This guy with a sword was indeed Tybalt and meant to kill him.
Benjie’s practice in dancing, fencing and gymnastics paid off because he kept Tybalt off balance. Nothing bad would have happened but Mercutio started fighting against Tybalt too. This two-against-one gambit didn’t seem fair to Benjie—I mean, Romeo—and he tried to break up the entire brouhaha which caused Tybalt to kill Mercutio.
Never in Benjie’s life had he ever gotten that out-of-control angry—but that’s all his alter ego Romeo did, get mad and fight. There was a small part of Benjie’s mind that was still Benjie which thought, “Uh no, I don’t want to do this. I know what this leads to.”
Too late. Romeo/Benjie stood over Tybalt’s dead body. Everyone in the square told him to get out of town and never come back.
What sense would that make—get married, kill somebody and run away? The dwindling consciousness of Benjie made one last decision. He knew gossip on the street about Tybalt’s death would spread like wildfire and would eventually burn him in the end. Benjie’s only logical course of action was to run immediately to Juliet’s house, grab her and escape, possibly as far south as Sicily.
When Juliet tried to ask what had happened and where they were going, Benjie shushed her as he stole a couple of horses at a nearby stable. They rode about half a day before he stopped to rest the horses. He lifted Juliet from her mount, told her he had killed Tybalt and assured her they were going to live happily ever after in Sicily.
Juliet grabbed his face in her hands and kissed him hot and hard upon his lips. This pleasurable sensation only lasted a moment before Benjie felt the sting of a harsh slap across his cheek.
When he recovered his senses, he was still on the balcony set in the community theatre. His eyes focused on the girl playing Juliet.
“Snap out of it, you idiot!” she hissed.
Benjie smiled. He was back in his own frustrating, boring, unrequited life. But it was a hell of a lot safer than being the real Romeo.

Bessie’s Boys Chapter Five

Rodney followed Elizabeth and Robin out of the dining hall but he kept looking back at Maria. This was not a good idea because he kept bumping into Robin’s backside.
“I must take a bowl of broth to Mistress Wrenn.” Elizabeth waved at one of her ladies-in-waiting who was quickly away to the palace kitchen to fetch the bowl of broth. “She must be suffering.”
“Good idea, Bessie.” For all his reputation as a daring rogue, Robin was, in actuality, a toad—a horny toad, but nonetheless a toad.
“By the way, Rodney Broadshoulders,” the queen said, looking over her shoulder, “why were you in court today?”
Rodney obviously was still intent on his thoughts about the lovely Maria when he bumped into Robin again. This time Robin forcefully laid his hands on the lad’s considerable shoulders and pushed him closer to her royal personage.
“Huh? Oh. Excuse me, your Majesty. I have urgent news from my father.”
“Your father is dead.” Robin was clearly impatient with the youth.
“He left me a letter with instructions to read it after his burial.” He leaned into the queen to whisper, “It’s about the Spanish threat.”
Elizabeth’s interest was piqued but not to the point of losing her composure. “Meet me in my private chambers in half an hour.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” Rodney bowed deeply and backed up to leave, almost colliding with the lady-in-waiting who carried a silver tray holding the tureen of hot broth. “Oops. Sorry.”
When the royal party arrived in front of Mistress Alice Wrenn’s chamber door, the queen nodded to Robin to knock.
“Come in,” a tiny voice called from behind the door.
Robin opened the door, stepped aside to allow Elizabeth to enter first, followed by the lady-in-waiting carrying the silver tray and then he shut the door, joining his monarch at the young lady’s bedside. As previously mentioned, he was quite skilled at being a toad.
“Your majesty!” Alice sat up.
Elizabeth sat on the side of the bed, motioned to the lady-in-waiting to come forward with the tray. Her highness took a silver spoon and began to ladle the steamy broth. “There, there, my dear. We mustn’t stand on formalities at times like this.”
Reminded of her recent tragic loss, Alice began to swoon again. “Clarence!”
“Sit up!” she barked at the young woman. Regaining her composure, the Queen smiled. “You need sustenance, my dear.
“You are much too kind.” Alice blew on the spoon and tentatively sipped the broth.
“Don’t be timid. Drink,” Elizabeth said in a soothing tone.
“I’m so sorry to be such a nuisance,” Alice mewed between sips.
“There’s no need to apologize. I’m not oblivious to the affairs of the heart in my own court.”
“Then you know about Clarence Flippertigibbit and me?” she asked, swallowing hard.
“I’d have to be blind not to see the love in your eyes and in the eyes of your young man.”
“We’d have to be blind not to notice the hickeys on your neck,” Robin cracked.
Elizabeth thumped him between the eyes with the silver spoon before dipping it into the tureen to present more broth to Alice, who put her hand up.
“No, please. I’ve had enough.”
“Very well, child.” The queen returned the spoon to the tray, and the lady-in-waiting took a step back. “Don’t fret. Your sorrow is understandable. Try to sleep. Swooning can be terribly exhausting.”
Elizabeth and her entourage left the poor girl as she snuggled down in the covers. The Queen dismissed the lady-in-waiting, but ordered her to find Lord Steppingstone and tell him to come to her private chambers as possible. She and Robin proceeded down the hall to her private chamber.
“You’ve a good heart, Bessie.”
“It’s what I do best, Robin. That’s why they call me Elizabeth the Great.”
“You’re so hot,” Robin murmured in her ear.
She saw Lord Boniface walking down the hall from the general direction of the Spanish ambassador’s chamber. “Not now.” She raised her voice so it echoed through the vaulted ceilings. “Lord Boniface.”
“Your Majesty!” He executed a perfect deep bow. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Come to my private chamber in half an hour. I’m about to receive information about the Spanish threat.”
“Spanish threat!” Boniface asked incredulously. “What Spanish threat?”
Elizabeth and Robin did not stop nor even slow down as they passed Boniface. Robin whispered, “Half an hour. Will that give us time to—“
“No.”

Cancer Chronicles

The other day I took my wife to her radiation treatment. It took a little more time than usual because the technicians are very careful to adjust her body in the right position before they zap her. When she came out, she wanted to stop at an electronics store on the way home to buy a new land phone for our house. The one we have now is so old it still has to be cranked, and we get tired of shouting, “Hello! Operator! Operator!” into it.
At least the one she had picked out was on sale. But as usual she wanted to walk around the store to look at all the other bargains on sale. This may not seem like much, but this is the first time she has had the energy to walk into a store and do a little shopping. Cancer patients know how thrilling it is to have the energy to finally be able to do a simple activity like this.
When she wanted to go to the bathroom accessories store next door, though, I put my foot down. She didn’t need to overdo it on her first foray back into shopping center adventure. I think she has another trip planned after radiation treatment tomorrow, though.
This is quite a relief for me, in more ways than one. I have a REM sleep disorder which resulted in a heart attack a few years ago, so I have had to learn to ration my energy too. My wife would fuss at me when I would plan too much in a short period of time. I tried to explain to her that when I did feel good I wanted to take advantage of it. Now she knows how I feel. We have to spend our energy wisely, but still spend what we can.
We don’t want to put off living for a day when we feel better, because we don’t know when that will be.

The Ghost and the Skunk Ape

I didn’t realize this until recently but ghosts of Native Americans really have a peculiar sense of humor. Throw in what a skunk ape thinks is funny, and what you end up with is absolutely bizarre.
My wife and I live in the woods about a mile—as the crow flies—from the ground where all the tribes up and down the Florida peninsula met in the early 1800s and decided it would be better for all concerned if they united as one tribe with one name—Seminole, which means “let’s get together, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
A couple of miles in another direction is the location of a tribal war village. It was on a swamp. One can only assume the peace village was at a much more pleasant location. The name of the war village was Chocachatti. We have been solemnly schooled that the name does not translate to Choke a Chicken.
I have credible evidence that this long-held legend is true because of what happened right outside my patio door a couple of months ago. My wife and I were watching some nonsense or other on television one night when the dog barked at the patio door. Evidently he wanted outdoors to do his business.
When I got to the door and was about to open it, I looked through the glass to see a fully materialized Seminole all dressed up to go to war. His craggy face looked none too happy.
“Honey,” I whispered to my wife, “you need to look at the patio door right now.”
“Huh?” Not only was she watching a television documentary about Vikings in America, she was also looking at a genealogy website to figure out how she was related to both Pocohantas and Attilla the Hun.
“Look at the patio door,” I repeated as firmly as possible.
The dog barked again.
“For God’s sake, let he damn dog out,” she said.
When I opened the door, the dog let out a yelp and ran back to the sofa, where he whimpered until my wife leaned over to pick him up.
“Damn dog,” my wife growled. “Doesn’t know what he wants.”
“Please,” I said as softly and as calmly as possible.
The Seminole warrior was looking menacing as each moment passed.
“Oh, all right.”
Just as she sighed in exasperation and looked up the Seminole disappeared into the darkness of the night.
“Okay. I looked out the door. I saw black nothingness. Are you satisfied?” she muttered before returning her attention to the television and the computer.
Of course there was no appropriate answer to that question so I kept my mouth shut.
The next night while the television beamed a show about has-been celebrities trying to keep up with professional ballroom dancers on the floor, I intermittently glanced out the patio door to see if the Seminole reappeared. Just as they announced which two-left-footed famous person was going home, the Seminole appeared, this time with a chicken in his hands. I gasped as he began to choke the poor feathered thing.
“Honey! Look out the patio door!”
“No,” she replied, staring intently at her computer screen. “I’ve just figured out I’m related to Vlad the Impaler.”
“But there’s a Seminole about to choke a chicken on our patio!”
“Tell him to leave it, and we’ll have fried chicken tomorrow night.”
Then the Seminole smiled, petted the chicken and kissed it on the head.
“Now he’s kissing it,” I said in amazement.
“A Seminole kissing a chicken? Now this I gotta see.” By the time she turned around to look, both the Seminole and the chicken disappeared. “I’m beginning to worry about you,” she said before returning her attention to the computer.
I dreaded sunset at our little house in the woods. Sure enough, as darkness enveloped the neighborhood, an image materialized at my patio door. I was so astonished at what I saw that my mouth flew open.
My wife looked up to see my expression.
“Don’t tell me you see the Seminole with the chicken again.”
“No.” I could hardly find my voice. “It’s a skunk ape this time.”
You see, about five miles—as the crow flies—in the other direction from our house is the Green Swamp which supposedly is inhabited by the Florida version of big foot called the skunk ape, thus named because he never bathes and stinks to high heaven.
“Oh really?” my wife said, her eyes never lifting from the computer screen.
Right then the skunk ape pulled a chicken out from behind its back and hugged it and kissed it and presumably called its name George.
“It’s—it’s hugging and kissing a chicken.”
“So the skunk ape scared the Seminole and took his chicken away.” My wife can be so sarcastic when she wants to be.
I was about to agree with her when the Seminole jumped from the shadows to wrestle the chicken from the grasp of the skunk ape. A moan escaped my trembling lips.
“Now what’s happening? She asked wearily.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying. I can tell by your eyes.”
I sighed. The skunk ape and the Seminole are fighting over the chicken. They both want to cuddle with it.”
“I’m going to look out that patio door, and if I don’t see anything I’m going to box your ears.”
All three of them—the Seminole, the skunk ape and the chicken—disappeared into the darkness. Of course, my wife didn’t see them and marched toward me, her hands in fists ready to box my ears.
She would have done it too, if I hadn’t pulled out my best weapon of self-defense. I began crying. My tears aggravated my wife so much she retreated to the bedroom and slammed the door. When I looked back out the patio door, the Seminole and the skunk ape had returned, and they were tossing that chicken back and forth like a ball. And the chicken acted like he enjoyed it.
I marched right over to that patio door, threw it open and wagged my finger at the Seminole and the skunk ape.
“Now listen here,” I began, “I don’t know if you think you’re being funny, but I want you to cut it out!”
My outburst must have caught them by surprise because they stopped in mid toss. With great dexterity the Seminole caught the chicken before it hit the ground. They looked so sad that I thought they were going to cry.
My first reaction was to tell them everything was okay and they could come and play on my patio any time they wanted to. But I reminded myself that, after all, they were a ghost and a big foot, and my wife didn’t approve of such things. After forty-four years of marriage I had learned she made all the rules.
The Seminole and the skunk ape shrugged and, with chicken in tow, disappeared into the night, never to return.
My wife came back from the bedroom and gave me a big hug.
“You’re not going to see silly things anymore, are you?”
“No, I won’t.”
She kissed me. “I love you, even if you are weird.”
Weird. If she only knew.