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The first job I ever had was working as the “nurse” on-duty in the snack bar for the Big Sky drive-in theater.  I know what you’re thinking . . . okay I don’t know exactly what you’re thinking, but skepticism would not be unreasonable at this point.  I’ve scoured the internet and can’t find a single reference to this lauded profession.  If I hadn’t lived it, I wouldn’t believe it myself.  So stay with me and I’ll try to explain.

Teenagers in Ancient Times often hung out at the local drive-in theater.  It provided the perfect venue to get away with all manner of mischief . . . drinking, smoking, hooking up, brawling and general mayhem.  Theaters frequently catered to the demographic by playing horror flicks . . . always popular fair with the youth of America.  When I was about sixteen it became fashionable for these masterpieces of fright to be advertised as so terrifying that – to assure the safety of the general public – a “nurse” would be on duty in the snack bar during the showing.  Yeah I know, these days there would be a huge legal liability associated with such a claim, but remember we are talking about the Stone Age here . . . a nostalgic era prior to torts and class-action law suits.

Of course, it wasn’t a real nurse, rather some unfortunate, young girl in need of making a couple of bucks and I do mean a couple.  A friend of mine had the job before me.  She was given an opportunity to advance to a position behind the counter provided she could find someone to take over as the “nurse” on-duty.  Enter moi’.  The only requirement for the job was the ability to fit into a “uniform” consisting of a very short, plaited, white skirt and matching halter top that was closer to a bikini top than any kind of shirt I’ve ever seen.  Ownership of a pair of white boots was preferred.

My interview for this lofty occupation was donning the costume and doing a couple of twirls for the manager.  I started that same night.  I had to lie about my age, but you could do that in the Olden Days.  Nobody asked you to prove who you were or whether you were a citizen or held a valid green card.  I don’t even know if there were green cards back then.  I was issued a nurse’s cap and my life saving tools . . . a stethoscope and sphygmomanometer (Say that six times fast).  Thus equipped, I was literally thrown to the wolves.

There wasn’t normally much to do while the movie ran.  Once intermission commenced, it was a different story.  A horde of pimple-faced boys and middle-age perverts would descend on the snack bar.  These male miscreants had inevitably been so scared, they felt the need to be attended by a nurse.  This basically amounted to applying and pumping up the blood pressure cuff while protecting your womanly virtue.  Not once, in my time plying this trade, was it necessary to care for a female victim of the gruesomeness on the silver screen.  Go figure.

Needless to say, I survived the rigors of this employment experience with little more than a few bruises and blisters from the boots.  I can’t remember just how long it took to follow in my predecessor’s footsteps eventually landing the much sought after rank of ticket booth cashier, but I will always be able to say I was a teenage drive-in theater snack bar nurse.  How many people do you know that can lay claim to that?  Do you think I should add it to my resume?

Telephone Pole

Image by Nicholas Smale via Flickr

Cryptic contact
No rhyme or reason
What’s it really all about?

The call, a query
Inane conversation
Harmless seeming banter

“Hey, what’s shakin’?”
“How have you been?”
Sly code seeking new status

Nothing implied
No point or promise
Merely checking now and then

“Husband is well”
“Yeah, wife’s good too”
Nothing more to speak of

She knows she’s changed
That life long gone
Why cling to that persona?

He’s different too
Intent not known
What’s he seek to find there?

Farewell for now
“We’ll talk again soon
Catch you on the flip side”

“Sure, later babe
Must keep in touch”
Shades of disappointment

Beg your pardon?
What was the purpose?
As much to blame as he is

This trip they make
From time to time
Down a path that leads them nowhere

Abkhazian passenger train passing Psyrtskha stop
Image via Wikipedia

The train has left the station
Oh yes, I got onboard
The route and destination
Both totally unknown

My choice made at a crossroad
We’ll see how smart it was
Head lost to heart the battle
Thus my path’s chosen

The train has left the station
Its course by fate destined
There’s really naught to do now
My part at present done

I do however wonder
No pretense I don’t care
Might I someday lament
Unseen strife and sorrow there

Still better some tomorrow
Some future time not past
Should I pause in fond reflection
Of a trip over too fast

bungalow.png

 

They lived just down the road in a tidy, little bungalow painted a soft blue-gray with creamy-white trim. The modest dwelling had an aura of happiness and serenity.  I would see them on warm days puttering together in a garden filled with a riot of bright blossoms complemented by eclectic yard art and musical wind chimes created in the tiny shop set just back of the house from bits and pieces discarded by others.  My mother purchased a whimsical, mosaic ball constructed of shards of tinted glass one autumn from under the multi-colored canopy shading the spot they occupied every Saturday in the local Farmer’s Market – along with a jar of the best huckleberry jam I ever tasted.  I would run into them sometimes in the grocery aisles or notice them gaily singing at Sunday morning’s service.  Their presence was ever accompanied by carefree sounds . . . laughing, whistling, singing, happy chattering.  Always they were together.

It would have been easy to dismiss them as a trio of “crazy, old, cat ladies” sans the multitude of critters. In all honesty, there may have been a cat or two around though nothing defining.  What was most noteworthy were their eyes. All three had sparkling, amazingly youthful eyes of distinctly different colors.  Over time, I came to associate other particulars with each as well.  Boots had eyes of uncommon green and straight, blondish hair with a smattering of silver.  I can’t recall any time I saw her without her signature boots. She wore them everywhere and with everything.  Gypsy’s eyes were brown and soft and inviting.  Need I explain why I tagged her Gypsy?  She would forever put me in mind of the stereotype associated with those nomadic, romantic peoples.  She was not a caricature, but from her flowing skirts to her golden earrings and dark, wavy hair, she had that same flavor. Curly most certainly had once been the quintessential beach girl.  Her eyes the color of a summer sky were underscored with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and framed by the platinum grey curls that could not be contained by clips used in the vain attempt to control the rebellious mop.  They were the embodiment of Bohemian regardless their advancing age.

I often wondered how they came to be the inseparable troupe they were.  It was unlikely they were sisters, though their closeness that often seen in twins.  They even finished one another’s sentences. They shared everything.  It was not unusual for Boots to retrieve the reading glasses from atop her head handing them over to Curly to examine the print on a box or in a hymn book.  Curly, in turn, frequently pulled one accessory or another from her own hair to gather Gypsy’s locks keeping them from interfering with whatever undertaking Gypsy was absorbed with.  Should Boots shiver with cold, straight away one of Gypsy’s scarves would materialize to cloak her.  I don’t believe words were necessary between them.  They were synced on a level sometimes developed by couples married a lifetime.

One winter day I was watching Boots and Gypsy from the street as I meandered past their cottage on my way home from school.  They sat at a desk in the window engrossed with the computer before them.  I was not surprised to see them tapping away at the keyboard switching on some mystic cue back and forth, pointing, pausing to laugh, only to return to the task they were so obviously enjoying.  I was so captivated by the scene, the sound of the mailbox closing startled me.  I found myself staring into a pair of amused, blue eyes.  Embarrassed to have been caught so blatantly peering into the home of another, all I could do was stammer and become intensely interested in the toes of my scruffy tennis shoes.  The resonance of Curly’s supple chuckle brought my eyes back to hers.  What was there to do, but shrug and smile?  The gentle touch of her hand on my arm, as if by some strange conjuring, released me from my anxiety and shame.

“I’m sorry to be a Peeping Tom, ma’am.  It’s just that you and the other ladies . . . well, it’s just that . . . you can’t be sisters.  Why aren’t you with your families,” the words had slipped from my lips before I could filter such an inappropriate inquiry from being born and trailed away with an awkward, “or something?”

Curly then gave me in her sweet, quiet voice words I would learn the truth of throughout the years of my own life. “Well, I suppose, it might seem odd to a girl as young as yourself, my dear, but in your future there will be both cheer and tragedy, glad times and heart breaks.  It’s sad to say, but men will likely come and go.  Your parents will not always be around.  Should you have children, you will raise them and they will leave you to lead lives of their own as will your siblings.  But if you are truly blessed as I have been, you will have those sisters of your soul that will be there with you through it all. They will laugh with you in your joy.  They will support you in your trials. They will encourage you to pursue your dreams. They will cry with you your tears of sorrow. They will be proud of your achievements. They will ground you when you drift from what is reasonable. They will find you should you lose your way. They will hold your confidences and keep your secrets.  They will offer the hand that helps you up when you have fallen.  They will come to know you and you them in ways no one else ever can.  So, at the end of the day, you are never alone.  We three have each other now that the loved ones in our separate lives have passed or moved on.  We are simply doing what we have always done . . . be there for one another when there is no one else.  We are friends!”

Work . . .

Communication
Most insincere

Trying to guess what
They want to hear

Need a job so
The game I play

Trying to guess what
I’m suppose to say

Grin and bear it
Smile through it all

No job too much or
Compensation small

Really don’t want them
These jobs I pursue

My God how I hate
The interview

Love . . .

Communication
Not quite sincere

Try to be all that
Will keep you near

Need to be loved so
The words I say

Wait in fear seeing
If you will stay

Hiding my tears
Sweet through it all

No abuse too much or
Recognition small

Want you to love me
The one I pursue

But this feels like
A job interview

Life . . .

Communication
Heart felt, sincere

Trying to do right
Try to see clear

Pray for redemption
Every new day

Look to tomorrow
How it will play

Put weakness aside
Enduring it all

No trial too much or
Temptation small

More worthy a life
All I pursue

Just to be ready for
St. Pete’s interview

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