Bullets

Carolyn J. Rose

Sometimes I feel like a duck in a shooting gallery.

Except, unlike those metal waterfowl, I have the ability to dodge bullets coming at me.

And, in my case, the bullets are figurative. They take the form of accidents, incidents, opportunities, rejections, windfalls, entanglements, penalties, illnesses, and all the other variables of life.

Sometimes, when “bad” bullets flew, I’ve been quick enough to escape unscathed. Sometimes I received only a scratch or a minor wound. But sometimes I took a more serious hit—a hit to my health, my finances, my pride, or my heart.

I dodged some serious bullets before I was even born. I was conceived in a democracy to parents who valued education, hard work, humor, and an inventive spirit. As a toddler I was struck by the polio bullet, but was fortunate enough to shake off the virus and suffer only the fever. After that, the comparatively smaller-caliber bullets of mumps, measles, and chickenpox seemed like marshmallows.

As I grew to my teen years and the world entered the 60s, new projectiles came at me—or maybe it’s more realistic to say there were times I threw myself at them. I rushed toward stupid choices, listened to bad advice, and allowed my emotions to rule. I tried cigarettes and alcohol, puffed marijuana, had sex, and questioned authority. Mostly I hid all that from my parents. Or I lied about it and convinced myself they believed me. At the same time, I longed to be “grown up” and “finally on my own” because everybody knew “I could take care of myself just fine.”

And then I was on my own.

And I discovered how large and fast and powerful some of the bullets coming at me were. I discovered how badly they could damage my mind, my body, and my future.

There were toxic friends who played on my insecurities or steered me down roads less traveled—less traveled for darn good reasons. Some of those friends were obviously needy and greedy. Some were more subtle. They all sucked time, money, and energy. Some sucked at my soul.

There were job choices—decisions made because I wanted new experiences or because I wanted to escape a boss in possession of the title but not the skills.

There were poor health and wellness choices—too much of what tasted good or numbed the pain, too many late nights, too little exercise.

There were the boys and men I convinced myself I wanted to be with. All were charming or fascinating or addictive in their own ways. Many also—whether they would admit it or not—wanted me to live my life according to their rules. And sometimes I did. For a while.

Now, scarred and bullet-riddled, I’m still upright, still crossing the landscape of the shooting gallery called life. I’m the person I am now because of the bullets I dodged. I’m also the person I am now because of the bullets that struck. The bullets I didn’t dodge because I couldn’t. Or because I wouldn’t.

The Great Cover-up of my Childhood

Carolyn J. Rose

Adults, especially those of the grandparent variety, did a lot of covering up when I was a kid.

And I’m not talking about the way they tap-danced around those birds-and-bees topics.

I’m talking about doilies, antimacassars, tablecloths, placemats, and aprons

Except for brief moments after a meal while the old cloth was being exchanged for a fresh one, I never saw a bare table at my grandmother’s house. Except for when cleaning and freshening was going on, I never saw a chair arm in her living room without a circle of lace upon it. 

And except for when she was headed for church or a party, I never saw her without an apron.

She had a lot of aprons. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more. Some she made for herself. Others were gifts. Some tied around the waist. Others were of the pinafore variety, often with gathers and ruffles. Some were everyday aprons with simple patterns. Others were for holidays and special dinners. They had fancy braid or bows or rickrack. They went on when the messy part of cooking was complete and serving dishes were ferried to the table.

When, at four years of age—after washing my hands with a bar of brown soap the size of a paperback novel—I was trusted with the task of creaming butter and sugar with a wooden spoon, I did it standing on a chair and swaddled in an apron wrapped twice around my chest.

For years I thought aprons were more critical to the meal-preparation process than pots, pans, utensils, ingredients, a stove, or a refrigerator.

Then I graduated from college and struck out on my own. I had a car, a dog, a collection of T-shirts and blue jeans, a battered record player, a few dozen albums, and not a single apron. I didn’t have a single recipe, either. But somehow, through a process of trial and error—sometimes major error—I cobbled together meals.

As for those aprons my grandmother passed along, well, I hung onto to them for years. Not for culinary reasons, but for sentimental ones.

The Last Day of School

The Last Day of School

Carolyn J. Rose

 

 Schools Out--Muppets and Alice Cooper  

The last day of high school.

  

The seniors have already graduated and gone and many of the others took their finals in advance and headed off to summer jobs and family vacations or long days of just hanging out.

The halls aren’t crammed between classes.

The classrooms echo with farewells and promises.

Even the sunlight through the trees seems to have a different shade and slant.

Walking to the office to turn in my substitute keys, I cast my mind back to the June days of my teen years when I would count down the hours, the minutes, and even the seconds.

My thoughts then would be on the rising level of the water in the pool we scrubbed and whitewashed on Memorial Day. Fed by a spring now dry, it seemed to take forever to fill. And it was cold—muscle-numbing, breath-catching, toe-curling cold. But it represented summer—afternoons of sunbathing, listening to the static-ridden signal of WMGM from New York City for the hits of the season, and wondering who might come down the road and dive in.

As school days dwindled down to the final one, moods shifted. Those we now refer to as slackers did less and became more disdainful of the educational process. Those hoping for college scholarships hunched over their notebooks and drilled with their vocabulary cards. Those with confidence joked. Those freaked out about finals joked more. Everyone talked about summer plans and speculated about what teachers would do after the final bell.

Everyone was aware that all that was familiar and mundane would be behind us in a few days. When we returned in the fall, there would be a sense of strangeness. There would be harder subjects to tackle and perhaps a few new teachers or new classmates. We would find seats in classrooms we may never have entered before, or get involved in new activities with new friends.

And, until tedium set in again, we would be energized and somehow renewed.