"The Simpler Years" Published on Dew on the Kudzu

"Dew on the kudzu" celebrating the Southern Written Word, published my short story "The Simpler Years" online on July 9, 2012. It is printed below. To visit their website, click on this link which will take you to the home page. You can see the latest stories by others there. To find my story on the site, go to the left hand side of the home page and scroll down to Search for Stories Here blank. Put my name in the blank and hit go! Look for my next story to be published on August 14th.

The Simpler Years
7.09.2012

The Simpler Years

By Audrey Frank

     When I was a child, if you didn’t have an open front porch to sit on, you sat on the front steps and watched your neighbors and friends go by. Summers were a time of simple magic shared with loved ones.

     One summer evening, when I was visiting my Aunt Ida and Uncle Jim, the three of us sat on the front steps, and breathed in the soft night air.

     Uncle Jim puffed silently on his ever-present pipe. He didn’t care if the tobacco was lit. He just liked to puff his pipe and tap it in the palm of his hand. That gesture stays fresh in my mind today when I think of him.

     Suddenly, he looked up at the velvet sky and pointed.

    “Falling star. See it?”

    Sure enough, a tiny, bright blaze of light shot across the sky.

    Uncle Jim nodded wisely. “Somebody just died and went to heaven,” he mused.

    The thirties were an innocent time. People talked more about superstitions. Maybe they didn’t really believe, but they sure talked about them!

    Today, every strange happening can be scientifically explained into oblivion. I think I liked it better when we saw a smiling face in the craters of the moon rather than watching our TV set while astronauts tramped all over it.

     My generation grew up on a myriad of superstitions. Don’t walk under a ladder. Don’t let a black cat cross your path. Don’t step on sidewalk cracks. God forbid you broke a mirror. If you touched a frog or a toad you’d get warts. (That one made me chuckle as an adult! My children and I caught frogs and lizards when we lived in central Florida.)    

     Now we know warts are caused by a virus, so haul out Compound W. We break a mirror and buy a new one. And when was the last time you avoided stepping on a crack?

    Looking back, it all seems silly. It sure was exciting for a young kid, though. I mean, nobody would put shoes on a table. Who wanted to stay single all their life? Black cats summoned visions of witches and were to be avoided like the plague. Toadstools sprouting on the lawn brought good luck. If you took green moss, put it in a jar of water, when the next full moon rolled around, it might turn to gold.

     Nonsense? Of course. Exciting to a child? Absolutely!

     So the three of us sat on the stoop and stared solemnly at that falling star. I held Uncle Jim’s hand tightly, hoping it wasn’t someone I knew.

___________________________

Bio on Audrey Frank

     At eighty-four, Audrey Frank is getting back to her roots of writing. In her younger years, with children at home, her time was devoted to raising her family and writing children’s stories. She had over a hundred short stories published in religious magazines for children. That field is now fairly obsolete. Remember True Confession magazine? Several of her adult stories were published there. True confessions were more naïve then compared to the tell-all writing today. She placed with others finalists in a Writers Digest competition in the mid sixties.

     Life changed, as it does, and writing was put to the side.  Now from her home in historic St. Augustine, Florida, she has joined a writer’s group and is writing daily at the computer. Memoir writing is the genre she loves best now. She is transcribing her journals into short written essays and sharing a time lost with others.

    You can contact her at: afrank7660@bellsouth.net

 http://audreyfrankmyway.blogspot.com/

July Artist Of The Month at Claire's Collectibles Art Rubber Stamps.

July Artist of the Month - Audrey Frank.

Visit Claire's Collectibles online

or at the shop located at

78-A San Marco Avenue
St. Augustine, Florida 32084

Artist of the Month Link

"Audrey Frank likes to do larger cards, because it gives her more to work with.  One of her techniques is to use copies of backgrounds that her daughters have either painted or she photographed.  All she has to do is add a foreground.  For example, the photo of the flamingo planter is perfect for the fairy, and the bathing beauty is a nice touch for the painted beach scene.

Audrey has been stamping for over 20 years and recently resumed writing short stories about her past.  Ask her about the monkeys!"

The Geese That Never Went Near The Water

     

Beatrice and Hannabel

   

   My husband, Bob, was very skeptical of any pets the kids and I brought home. He liked dogs – that was a manly thing. It was all the critters we'd sneak by him that he objected to. Still, because he loved us, he would relent and a new pet was added to our household.

      We had just moved into a house with seven acres of land off a large lake in Winter Haven, Florida. Along with the house there was an artists' shack facing the lake. It seemed like a sublime location. Still, something was needed and the kids and I found the perfect answer.

      While at the local feed store we spotted two geese in a large cage. Daughter Barbara and I looked at each other and nodded simultaneously. They would be a perfect addition to the back yard.

      “But what about Dad?” Son Steve was concerned. Our third child, Pam, was not with us that day.

      “It'll be okay” I assured him, so we crated up Beatrice and Hannabel and headed home. Where to hide them for a while? The artist's shack seemed the perfect answer. We herded them into it, filled a large container with water so they could get wet, and set out a bowl with food. They'd do nicely there until we broke the news to Bob.

      This worked for about a week. I don't know how, but the geese got out of the shack.

      Bob had gotten home one night and was standing looking out at the lake.

      “Hey, Aud, look what wandered on – oh, no, are they ours?”

      I had already fixed him his martini and I scrambled out to where he stood. He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head at me.

      I gave him a quick kiss and smiled. “They really will make a great addition to the yard,” I purred.

      Suddenly Bob laughed. “What am I ever gonna do with you and your pet mania?”

      “Love me and accept my quirkiness,” I suggested.

      He did and things settled down for the night.

      The next morning I went outside to feed Beatrice and Hannabel. They were nowhere in sight. Had they swam off during the night? I checked the shack and there they were, happily jumping in and out of the water.

      “No,no.” I scolded them. “You belong outside now.”

      I finally got them back on the lawn. I walked toward the lake calling them. “C'mon, babies.”

      They just sat there, honking as though to say “No thanks.”

      They didn't budge. I dragged the container of water to where they were squatting. They immediately took turns hopping in and out. With a whole lake waiting, they were happy where they were. At nightfall I watched them waddle back into the shack.

      Bob just chuckled. “Looks like you've got landlubbers there. Just let them alone.”

      Nope, I decided, geese belong swimming gracefully in the lake.

      They were back in the yard the next morning, gobbling up the food I had put out and, you guessed it, hopping in and out of the container. The lake didn't hold any appeal to them.

      For a frustrating week I tried to train them to follow me down to the lake. Where was the answer? Was it because they had been cooped up too long at the feed store? Or did I just have two stubborn geese on my hands? I finally realized Bob was right. They were more fun to look at closeup anyway.

      Beatrice and Hannabel lived happily doing their own thing, honking their approval when I would approach with their daily feed. Sometimes I felt they had outsmarted me. Still, as long as they were well and content, that's what counted.  

       

     

A House Of Love

     Aunt Ida's house was always warm and welcoming.  As soon as I was allowed to take  my bicycle off our block, I'd whiz the six streets to Aunt Ida's. As my legs pumped rapidly up and down, my heart sang. Her house was a place of refuge for me.

     From the minute I entered her back door and climbed the three steps up to her kitchen, I knew I was with someone who loved me. She didn't expect anything from me. I just felt secure.

     There was always a tender hug and a kiss, and an offer of something to eat. A pot of some sort of soup or stew forever bubbled on the stove. Her kitchen smelled like love should smell – delicious and comforting.

     If nothing else, Aunt Ida was predictable. Her kitchen was the heart of her home. Sunny, yellow polka dot curtains hung at spotlessly clean windows. A large breakfast nook was the place to sit and munch fresh baked cookies with frosty milk in oversized glasses. From the comfort of padded wooden chairs you looked out on a small but well kept garden.

     I remember I was nine years old and I had just seen Shirley Temple in the movie “Heidi”. I had raced over to Aunt Ida's  to tell her about the wondrous chunk of yellow cheese that Heidi had toasted golden brown over an open fire.

     “It was hard and crusty on the outside, but inside it was all soft and warm,” I explained.

      A twinkle lit Aunt Ida's eyes.

     “Really? I just happen to have a chunk of cheddar cheese and some fresh baked bread.”

     Did she mean what I thought and hoped? Could we really melt cheese right there in the kitchen? As though in answer to my unasked question, Aunt Ida produced a large, two-pronged fork and a brick of hard, yellow cheese. I could feel my mouth watering. I licked my lips in eager anticipation.

     Aunt Ida jammed the cheese on the fork, lit the front gas burner on her immaculate stove, and handed me the fork.

     “You heat this while I put out the bread and butter.”

     Maybe I wasn't at an open campfire in the middle of a green forest, but Heidi had nothing on me. I held the cheese over the flame. I could already taste its warm, soft goodness.

     The cheese started to char and little yellow bubbles exploded to the surface. I could even smell them. I turned to let Aunt Ida know it was almost ready. Suddenly there was a thud and sparks flew from the burner. I stared in horror as my beautiful chunk of golden cheese splattered all over the immaculate stove top.

     Quickly, Aunt Ida was by my side. She shut off the burner and shook her head. Gooey melted cheese had oozed over the burner and white porcelain stove top. It was a yukky mess, and I held my breath waiting for Aunt Ida to yell at me. I peeked at her out of the corner of my eye. She was laughing.

     “Audrey, love”, she chuckled, still shaking her head. “From now on you'd better leave this kind of cheese melting to Heidi.”

     I helped her clean up the mess, totally disillusioned with movie magic. Heidi's cheese must have been phony not to fall apart. And I was overwhelmed with love for this gray-haired, stout lady who took it all in stride with never a harsh word.

Maybe Monkeys Shouldn't Be Pets!

    Horrible Harold

Harold

     I did it! I bought a squirrel monkey and I've named him Harold. When the husband's away, the wife will play. All my life I've wanted a monkey and now I'll find out first hand whether or not I made a mistake.

      Bob always frowned at the various pets I'd bring into the house. Eventually, though, he accepted them as part of living with me. There were snakes, pet rats, an opossum, literally dozens of mice because they kept breeding like rabbits. Which reminds me of the six wild rabbits we found abandoned under a bush. We tried to raise them and they seemed to be doing fine until one morning we found them all dead – never fool around with mother nature.

      As for Harold, I wasn't sure how Bob would react to his sudden appearance into our family life. Harold was a pretty rambunctious monkey, hard to handle. I kept him chained to his cage so he could move around on it but couldn't escape.

      I decided to remove the chain when Harold was locked in his cage. My reasoning? If Harold knew the chain meant freedom from his cage, he'd look forward to being out. Ha! When I opened the cage to put the chain back on his belt he escaped and daughter Barbara and I had to chase him all over the house. Lamps went down, books got strewn everywhere.

      When I finally got him back in the cage I still couldn't get the chain on him. He kept screeching and fighting me off. I was a complete nervous wreck. My blouse was soaked with sweat. My arms were all scratched from the sharp edges on the cage. After about an hour of this nonsense Harold was eighteen inches of indignant fury.

      And who walked in the door at that minute? Bob, back from his trip. He just looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Something new I didn't know about?” Actually, to my amazement he seemed amused, not angry.

      Bob got his heavy work gloves, reached into the cage and amid screeches and howls from Harold,  grabbed him, held him firm while I snapped the chain back on Harold's belt. I'd never heard such commotion from such a tiny animal. Poor Harold really looked beat up when it was all over.

      There was one good thing that came out of all this. Bob was impressed with Harold's  spunky attitude and even  admitted Harold was cute.

      Unfortunately, Harold grew wilder each day. There was no way to control him. I eventually admitted defeat and wound up trading him for a six inch Capuchin monkey. Ah, but that's another story to be told.

Baby

Daughter Barbara on left, Me on right!

         The day I exchanged Horrible Harold for a seven inch Capuchin monkey I became the owner of a little bit of love. Baby (the name we gave him) took to the family immediately. He was rarely in his cage because I was at home all day.

         He'd sit happily on my shoulder as I made beds, straightened up the house, or even when I just sat down to have a cup of coffee. He'd cuddle my neck and give me  little monkey kisses. He also loved his small blue blanket and carried it everywhere.  When he wasn't cuddling a family member he'd cuddle the blanket and watch us from his perch on the rafters.

         He loved company and  would greet guests with lots of monkey chatter. He'd climb up to his favorite perch and watch what went on below.

        Daughter Barbara was one of his favorite people. I think he liked the smell of her perfume. After time with her, Baby smelled of perfume, which was certainly better than most animal smells. Yes, I decided, he was the perfect little pet, loving and sweet. When it was time for bed, there was no problem with him being put in the cage. He knew the next morning that he'd be back out with me.

        Then I found a job at the local hospital. I worked from nine in the morning until five. No time to play with Baby. After the first day on the job, I came home to the screams of an indignant, distraught monkey. When I opened the cage he leaped out and scrambled up to the rafters. His chattering was more like scolding. He eventually calmed down and spent the evening with the family.

         I didn't have much trouble getting him back in the cage that night. But each night after that it became harder and harder. His resentment of being cooped up all day changed his whole personality. He became belligerent and waged war with us every night.

         We made the decision that maybe Baby would be happier at the local zoo. So on my next day off, I carried him and his blanket down to the zoo. I explained my predicament and he just nodded wisely.

         “Folks shouldn't really keep what are basically wild animals. I get a lot of this.”

         He went on to explain that for a few days Baby would be kept in isolation, then placed on a little island where all the monkeys were kept. I left to the screams of Baby as the zoo keeper took him away.

         I visited Baby as often as I could. One day the zoo keeper approached.

         “Before you see Baby you need to know that a swan swimming in the island pond bit off his right hand. We fixed him up and he's fine now. Just wanted you to know.”

         I looked at Baby and a feeling of remorse swept over me. He had become impossible to handle and I had thought this would be the best solution. He really didn't know me anymore. He climbed the trees on the island and chased and was chased by the other monkeys. I guessed he was content. Still I longed for the loving Baby he had once been.

         That winter is was colder than most and lasted longer than usual. A call from the zoo advised me that Baby had gotten pneumonia and died. They said they would bury him if I agreed.

         My throat choked up as I murmured, “Yes, thank you.”

         Perhaps the zoo keeper was right. Wild animals shouldn't be kept as pets. Still, I'll never regret having the chance to bond with Baby. For a while he brought so much joy into our lives.

Bob and Baby

The Death Of Eggo

   

     Today is a day of mourning for me and I need to write my feelings down. Eggo was just a musk turtle that had hatched from an egg Pam found. He was so tiny and cute when I got him. I don't even remember exactly when, but it was several years ago.

      He was fun to watch as he wiggled around in the tank – he was a voracious eater and soon grew into a fat turtle. At the beginning he was shy and would wait until I tossed in the food and left before he would venture up to eat it. As time passed, the minute he saw me approaching he'd swim to the surface and gobble up the first bit of food I'd toss in.

      I loved to watch his antics as he push things around, and scramble through the tight spots. As much as you can love a turtle, I loved Eggo.

      As I headed out to the hairdressers this morning, the little bridge in the tank was knocked off the huge cup it rested on. I didn't think anything of it until I got back home and didn't see Eggo anywhere. I kept moving everything around and when I lifted the large cup, there was Eggo. I don't even understand how he got into the cup and didn't push it aside. Instead he suffocated and died. Right now I don't know what to do with him. I placed him on the righted bridge – my final tribute to him.

      I guess eventually I'll have to get rid of him, but for now, at least I can still see him and remember the small, but joyful moments his actions gave me pleasure.

A Long Ago Letter

  I was going through some old photo albums when I came across this letter:

                                                                                               Ye Olde England

                                                                                                September 1944

Dear Audrey,

    Well, well, wipe the surprised look from your face, and take on a gay, carefree mood.

    Of course, you don't know me, but I do know you. Reason - “Jake”. That's the name Milton goes by over here. After having received a certain picture of you in a bathing suit, we (the fellows who live with Jake) noticed him drooling and swooning. Then we all took a look at your picture. You now have sixteen lovers. You're jus our lil' pinup gal No. 1.

    I know you will receive, (nope, I guess it's spelled receive) this letter in the same spirit as it's being written. Gee, if we can't have a laugh occasionally then it isn't much fun living.

    A letter like this isn't approved by Emily Post, but it is out of the ordinary, and doing things “out of the ordinary” really suits me.

    Jake didn't notice me copy down your address, so he won't know a thing about this until you tell him. But will you leave us fellows have a little fun with him? We'll heckle him good if you will. Here's the goods. Send another picture and label it  To the fellows I love of hut K-3. It's all for the war effort you know. Heh  heh, just appealing to your patriotic side.

    Again, I ask you to take this letter in fun. I'll really appreciate an answer to this, even if you reprimand me for being fresh.

        All in fun. Earl.

      That old letter brought back so many memories of the Second World War. We may have been engaged in fighting the enemy, but it was a different kind of war. There was so much patriotism and hopefulness that this would be the war to end all wars.

      When my father enlisted – you couldn't keep that 43 year old war horse at home – he had to be in the center of things. He loved being in the military. He loved the young men he trained. To him, they were like the sons he never had.  Stationed in Gulfport, Mississippi, he was in charge of  “Guadalcanal” an area at the camp where he trained soldiers to endure the hardships of jungle fighting. He worked their asses off, but he was right in there, side by side, struggling through the swamps and wild terrain. Those young soldiers had nothing but admiration for him because he never asked them to do something he couldn't do.

     We had rented a cottage in Long Beach and every Sunday my father would invite three or four young soldiers from his regiment to have dinner with us. We all swam off the dock and did a lot of crabbing just for fun.

      Every weekend there were different faces. At fourteen, I was having the time of my life, surrounded by all these handsome hunks. Of course, my father warned them that I was off limits.

      Then one weekend a young soldier named Milton was on the guest list. We hit it off immediately. He was a bit older than me, but I loved his warm, brown eyes and quirky smile. We swam away from the rest and I found myself underwater kissing him. When we broke to the surface he was blushing.

      “I – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that, but you were so tempting. Your father would kill me.”

      I assured him I was fine with the kiss and we'd keep it between the two of us. I never saw Milton again but we did correspond until the war was over.

     Which brings me back to the letter I received. What a simple time it was that those lonely soldiers wanted me as their pin-up girl. Most soldiers wanted pictures of Betty Grable.

      I wrote Earl back and declined his offer. I didn't think it would be fair to Milton because, through our continuing correspondence, he began thinking of me as his girl friend.

     It's funny how war changes people in subtle ways. We become closer to those in service. Today, every time I see a soldier in uniform I walk over to him or her, shake hands and profusely thank them for helping to keep our country free.