Write about predictability.

January 8, 1977
Ethel, with her death grip on my arm

Ethel's opiate is attention. She is adept at manipulating an entire room of people until she is at the absolute center. She joins every women's group, worms her way onto the board with her exceptional 160 wpm shorthand skills -- starting as secretary she soon rises through the ranks to president. If there is a committee to be formed and chaired, she's does it. If there is a cause to be taken up, she takes it. If there are sweets to be baked, she bakes them. Anything to be noticed, to be approved, to be "lovely" in the eyes of the community.

Ethel's addiction for attention came at a price, as high as if she were actually taking out a needle, filling it with a 7% solution, and injecting it into her veins -- she was as ruthless, demanding, irrational, moody as any junkie. As her daughter, the one loathed and resented, her behavior was as fierce as any retribution of Mother Nature and as predictable as the rotation of the earth's orbs, the coming of the seasons, the swell of the tides.

It was the last 1960's. Life in Southern California was simultaneously idyllic and unpleasant. Diamond Bar was a bedroom community of Los Angeles. Rolling hills, miles from any freeway access, were gently carved to preserve their natural grace and beauty and to build cookie cutter homes in five sprawling neighborhoods. Ethel's castle was the largest model in the nicest track of the Deane Homes development, a two story colonial of more than 2,200 square feet, pearched atop the highest peak of the Diamond Point development, purchased brand-spanking new in the spring of 1965. The neighborhood of 656 properties was filled with young families, hundreds of children, and mothers who stayed home to keep house, have bridge parties, and participate in the activities of the Diamond Point Women's Club and the Diamond Bar Women's Club. Right out of the pages of Better Homes and Gardens, for which two of the models had won awards in the prestigous Better Homes and Gardens 1965 Better Homes for All American Program.

I was eight years old, in the middle of 4th grade, when we moved from a lushly landscaped ranch-style home with a split-level back yard that included a small orchard and garden in the hills of Sierra Madre to the barren, clay of Diamond Point. Within a few years my father's green thumb and hobby for landscaping and building, and turned our yard into one of the most beautiful in the neighborhood, and Ethel had made herself a fixture in the community and had worked her way to the presidency of the Diamond Point Women's Club.

Adopted at six months from the arms of an unwed, uneducated 18-year-old on welfare, I did not possess Ethel's darting cow-brown eyes, board-straight hair, large Jewish nose, and short, stubby stature. I was long-legged with curled locks, blue-eyed with long, thick lashes. I captured the attention of men and photographers because of my uncanny resemblance to Shirley Temple. The first time I was photographed and appeared in the paper, I was in nursery school.

Ethel was not an attractive woman. In fact, her resemblance to Queen Elizabeth II is uncanny, although whereas the Queen has a hint of loveliness, Ethel has a hint of homeliness. I don't remember exactly when I understood that Ethel despised me; I've understood it for long it is ingrained in me. I was held responsible for her moods, for the way strangers, aquantances, and good friends perceived her. Ethel concerned herself more with how others thought of her than how her children thought of her.

Every year the Diamond Point Club held a mother daughter luncheon the Saturday before Mother's Day. Mothers and daughters dressed in their Sunday best and sat at tables decorated with flowers, which would later be carried home by lucky raffle ticket holders. In the front of the room was a stack of prizes, donated by local businesses. In the late 1960's, the door prizes were huge, and could include televisions, stereos, and cruises. I always went home with something, but never anything of any significance. The Mother's Day celebration also included a letter-writing competition -- and the Mother of the Year title went to the mother whose daughter had written the most convincing letter of adoration.

Ethel and I did not get along. I knew she despised me. I saw it in her eyes, I experienced it in her behavior, I felt it in the tone of voice with which she addressed me, I cringed at the endless reprimands that I had "humiliated" or "embarrassed" her in public. In kind, I loathed and despised Ethel. And it all came to head one Saturday before Mother's Day at the Diamond Point Clubhouse annual Mother-Daughter Luncheon when the Luncheon Committee initiated the "Mother of the Year" award.

The first year the award went to a mother and daughter who lived just 10 houses, but a world away from me. A Catholic family, whose children attend private Catholic schools, I knew who the girl my age was, but had very little contact with her. As her letter was read aloud over the crackling microphone, mother and daughter embraced and looked lovingly into each other's eyes. "Talking with mother," read the chair of the committee to pick the best letter, "is like looking into a mirror. I see eyes that reflect back at me with love and compassion. I see a face I can trust. I see my best friend."

I remember being floored, and if a 12-year-old's mouth can drop, then my was most certainly to the floor. I could not fathom her words. Like looking into a mirror!? I looked at the woman who had adopted me and visualized the wicked step-mother in Snow White glaring back at me. I stared in disbelief as tears formed in both their eyes, and the room roared with applause as mother and daughter rose to walk arm in arm to receive the plaque, potted plant, and local restaurant gift certificate that was the prize for their incredible relationship.

I knew Ethel wanted to make eye contact with me; I could feel her gaze burning on my right cheek. I purposely ignored her, fixing my eyes on the award and its recipients. Every cell in my body knew what was coming next -- it was as predictable as the clubhouse pool filled with children yelling "Marco Polo" on the sweltering hot days of summer. Ethel wanted that prize, and she would depend on me to deliver.

I don't remember exactly what year it was, only that I was probably around 11 to 12 years old. Ethel brought me the flyer announcing the Mother-Daughter Luncheon and the "Mother of the Year" contest. The deadline for submitting my letter was established; the expectation that my letter would win the coveted prize was laid down.

As I sat at my maple desk and stared out the window above me, I could not locate even a modicum of affection for this woman. Physical and emotional abuse in my home were rampant. Ethel was so jealous of my curly locks, she kept them shorn like a boy's. She made all of my clothes -- nothing stylish or pretty. I was overweight. I was the kid that everyone bullied. I was the "ugly" kid whose mother "dresses you funny." I sat at my desk, haunted by the words of the previous year's winning letter, crippled by an incomprehension of that type of connection between a mother and a daughter, and detesting the monster who was forcing me to create a lie to make her look good in front of of her friends.

Night after night I was questioned at the dinner table about my letter. I stayed the inquisition initially by claiming I wanted to keep the contents a secret so that my mother would be surprised.

However, she who raised me "investigated" by calling the Mother-Daughter luncheon chair and determined I had not submitted my letter. The deadline was less than a week away, and I had been caught in a lie. I was punished, beaten, grounded, and had privileges taken away, first for lying, and second for humiliating Ethel in front of her friend (the chair of the luncheon). There were only a few days left before the deadline, and I had better write that letter or suffer the consequences.

The lined notebook paper before me taunted me. My fingers gripped my yellow pencil. I cold not think of one thing to write. Finally, I decided to plagiarize what I'd heard the year before. It was the biggest pile of bullshit I'd ever created in my life, but I piled it on until I stunk.

The next day Ethel drove me the long mile down steep hills to the Diamond Point clubhouse, and while she kept the care idling in the clubhouse's horseshoe driveway, I walked up to the front desk window and slipped my envelope through the arched hole in the glass, and submitted my letter. There was no joy in my heart as I returned to the car and slunk into the car next to Ethel. There was no excitement at the possibility of winning. There was only relief that tonight I would not get screamed at and beaten for humiliating Ethel.

My letter did not win Ethel the "Mother of the Year Award," but she did come in second place. It didn't matter -- she's gotten something! My letter was read aloud, and faces turned and looked at us, filled with broad smiles and gentle eyes. No one seemed to notice my plagiarism. No one seemed to notice the indents in my arm as I leaned my body and pulled away from Ethel's gripping embrace. No one seemed to notice there were no tears of emotion in my eyes as I rose with Ethel to claim our prize. Ethel beamed, looked proudly at her friends, sang my praises. No one seemed to be able to see to the abuse that lay behind the lies. It was all so predictable.

It's too soon to tell.

But I'm fairly certain Steven is falling in love with me. I'm not surprised; it's not unexpected. I'm simultaneously excited, nervous, scared, worried, hopeful. This is not a normal love affair. Steven in is a maximum-security prison, doing time for rape, assault, and robbery -- all crimes he says he didn't commit. I've never met Steven in person. I've never even heard the audible sound of his voice. I met him through a prisoner pen pal site. I've been so lonely since Azim's death, incarcerated in my own prison of loneliness, isolation and madness. I've had several servicemen for pen pals, but post 9/11 my several attempts at getting a pen pal in Iraq or Afghanistan have been thwarted -- I've reached out several times, only to come back empty-handed.

There are several reasons to reach out to a prisoner. The United States has incarcerated more than 2.5 million individuals, about 3/2% of the population, compared to 500,000 less than 20 years ago. Many individuals are doing time for crimes they did not commit -- as evidenced by the number of cases being set aside as DNA routinely proves the innocence of the condemned. Many prisoners sit in cells year after year, completely cut off from the outside world -- no friends or family keep in touch with them. The effect on their psyche only makes them less prepared to successfully re-enter society once they are released from prison. Rates of recidivism are lowered when a prisoner has a friend on the outside to communicate with. I felt compelled to be a friend and to give someone hope for the future, to be non-judgmental and supportive, and to encourage them to pursue their hopes, dreams and goals. This is how I met Steven.

My criterion was simple. First, I wanted to write to a male. Second, he had to be white (80% of the incarcerated are black or Mexican); anyway, I'm not a racist, but I felt I would have more in common with someone of my own race. Third, he could not be on death row. Fourth, he could not have committed murder. Fifth, he should be relatively close to me in age, again so we would have more in common. Finally, he could not look like Charles Manson. My pool was quite narrow because of my guidelines. In the end, I had basically one choice -- Steven -- and I took him.

From the first letter we clicked, not just a little, but a lot. My first letter went out on March 2nd; I didn't receive a reply until March 20th. Since then, we've been writing long letters back and forth, now almost daily. We've even become psychic. I write a question or comment, take my letter to the post office and find the one I've just received already has the answer, and vice versa. These psychic occurrences occur within a day of two of each other, but since it takes 3-5 days for our letters to be delivered, it had to be psychic.

Steven has begun to make hints at his feelings. He's told his mother about me. He tells me how special I am to him. He hints at the future (it will be four years before he is released -- and that's a "maybe" -- his sentence is 25-35 years).

On the other hand,

Write about a time you gave someone a present.

Christmas 1978, a few weeks shy of my second wedding anniversary. We were living on a tight budget while my husband finished his final year of law school. I had just turned 22; he was 26.

I had worked all year hand-painting the ceramic ornaments that decorated our small, live Christmas tree. A Nutcracker soldier with details so precise I had used a 3-hair brush to paint them on. Santa's head, with full beard, a pom-pomed hat, rosy red cheeks, and a broad smile. A gingerbread house with candlelight glimmering through the windows. A tree this regal demanded lots of presents beneath its boughs.

With a budget much smaller than I wished weighing in my thoughts, I jumped in my white 1972 Capri and headed up South Laurel Street towards the Brea Mall. Once inside, I sought out the gift I was certain would please my avid-skier husband -- a down, hooded ski parka.

The Brea Mall had several stores selling parkas, most of which exceeded my budget by hundreds of dollars. The search for a parka that was both "right" and affordable took time and patience. I finally found the parka. The down fill was full and fluffy, the hood was snug and easy to adjust, and, as the jacket was on sale at a 50% reduction, the price was well within my budget of $150.00.

I took my treasure to the counter, my head filling with images of my husband's surprised and pleased face as he pulled back the tissue paper and the beautiful jacket was revealed.

At a time when our house payment was $325.00 per month, and our car payment was $50.00 per month, $150.00 was a lot of money to spend on a Christmas present.

But might not this jacket be a way to patch up the marriage that was already fractured by his infidelity.

Might not this jacket be a way to redeem me for the 10 pounds I had gained since our wedding, the 10 pounds that made him repulsed to be seen with me in public.

Might not this jacket sooth over the pain and anger I carried from the abortion a few months earlier, the abortion forced on me by his threat that he would leave if I had the baby.

Might not this jacket be the genesis for love to return to our marriage?

Looking at it this way, I knew the money must be spent. I pulled out a $20 deposit, asked for a layaway form, and committed to paying off the jacket within the next eight weeks.

As Christmas drew nearer, my excitement grew. My husband became playful and attentive, teasing me about the presents he'd chosen for me and simultaneously begging for clues as to what I'd bought him. Neither of us gave enough information to the other for an accurate guess to be made; the banter was enjoyable and we relaxed into an intimate, playful routine that rivaled our courtship days.

The weeks passed quickly. When Christmas Eve arrived, I hurried from work to the mall, the final payment bursting from my pocketbook. I presented the layaway ticket and a $20 bill to the clerk. She smiled and congratulated me on the purchase, then went to the back room to collect my treasure. I was beyond excited! When she returned with the jacket securely wrapped in plastic, my mouth dropped in horror and I felt my stomach turn. This was not the jacket I had put on layaway!

"This isn't my jacket," I said to her, hearing the high pitch of panic in my own voice.

"Are you sure?" she said.

"Yes,” I said, with a tone that communicated that I was not in the mood to be treated like an idiot.

I described the jacket I had purchased. We looked at the layaway ticket and compared it to the jacket. No, the description and item number did not match the item in the plastic, but the layaway ticket number matched the ticket number hanging from the jacket's hanger.

Hot tears began to well in my eyes, and I blinked to control them.

"Are there any more of these jackets in the store?" I asked, pointing to the description and item number on the layaway ticket.

"No," she said, "they sold out during the sale, and we won't be getting any more like this."

I felt my world crumble. The clerk read my devastated face.

"Look," she said kindly, "take this jacket, put it under the tree. Come back after Christmas and we'll work something out." I was assuaged, agreed to her plan and paid for the jacket. As I trudged from the store to my car, the jacket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Christmas morning arrived. The huge box under the tree had intrigued my husband since I had put it there the night before. He had shook it and poked it and felt the weight of it.

"Come on, Mel, what is it?" he playfully chided, as he guessed his way through his Christmas list.

"No, I'm not telling," I repeated a dozen times even after he shouted out that he was sure it was a down-filled ski parka. "You’ll have to wait until morning."

At 5:30 a.m. my husband sat cross-legged in his boxers in front of the Christmas tree and tore into the huge box, not taking time to admire the paper and the bow that I had painstakingly wrapped it in. His eyes sparkled, he was smiling, and the marijuana he had smoked with his coffee made him animated and delightful. I watched him with trepidation, ready to explain what had happened once the look of disappointment crossed his face. Instead, he pulled the jacket out and shouted in glee. He rose up with the grace of a gazelle, pulled the jacket on, and happily admired himself in the living room mirror.

"You like it?"

"Yes, it's exactly what I wanted," he said, and bounded over to give me a juicy kiss and a warm embrace.

The smell of marijuana lingered in his hair and mixed with the “new smell” of goose down and nylon. I started to cry. I told him about the jacket I had picked out and the deal I had gotten on the price. I told him about the layaway plan, and the shock of finding a different jacket waiting for me when I went to pick it up. I told him that the jacket I had purchased was exactly what he had been asking for, and that the store had somehow lost his jacket. I heard myself apologizing for the mixup, and promising him that if he didn't like the jacket he was wearing that we would look for one that he really did like.

My husband listened to my story, insisting that the jacket was perfect and that he loved it. I was not convinced. I continued to press for the "truth." Finally, he said, "Mel, sit down, I've got something to tell you."

"I know where you got the jacket," he said, "and I know when you got it. A couple of months ago I was walking through the mall on my lunch hour. I saw the jackets on sale. The jacket you mentioned, the one you put on layaway, I looked at it, and it was exactly what I wanted. But then I saw this jacket," and he touched the jacket he was wearing. "I just knew that you'd been to that store, and I just knew that you'd put one of the jackets on layaway for me. So I went into the store and asked the clerk if there was anything on layaway with your name on it. She went in the back, and found the jacket you'd bought for me. I told her I preferred the other jacket, and could she switch them out. Since they were the same price, she agreed to do it. I tried on the jackets, found the one that fit the best, and she put it on the hanger for you to pick up at Christmas time. So you see, Mel, you have given me exactly what I wanted for Christmas."

I don't remember anything else about that Christmas. I don't remember what presents my husband gave me. I only remember feeling betrayed, and played, and deceived by my husband's selfishness and by my own foolishness for believing that a down-filled ski parka could save my marriage.

Write about a cold snap.

February 26, 2010
Westchester County, New York

33-hour snowstorm buries New York City under 2 feet of snow; 37 inches reported in nearby New Brunswick, N.J.

By 

Tom Skilling

 on February 26, 2010 11:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

It's a first for New Yorkers. Nothing like the parade of megasnows which have lambasted the Big Apple in February has happened before. The latest storm, one of three which have hit the region in just the past month, roared into the city late Wednesday on 30 to 40 mph winds and generated 33 hours of uninterrupted, often heavy snowfall. When the snow finally broke late Friday, New York had been smothered by 21 inches of snow while just across the Hudson River in New Brunswick, N.J., the tally hit an astounding 37 inches. Sparta in northwest New Jersey came in a close second recording 33" of snow. To the northwest in the Catskill Mountain community of Woodridge in southeast New York, an off-the-charts 46.9" of snow had occurred. In effect, more than a season's worth of snow had fallen with a single storm over a day and a half's time. New York City's Central Park February tally of 37" made it the city's single snowiest month ever. The total eclipsed the previous single-month record of 30.5" set in March 1896. Snow records in New York City extend back to 1969.

http://weblogs.wgntv.com/chicago-weather/tom-skilling-blog/2010/02/33hour-snowstorm-buries-new-yo.html

Wearing that ring . . .

Checking out my wedding ring
January 8, 1977
Brea, California

. . . made me angry every time I looked at it. It wasn't the ring I wanted. I wanted a four prong tiffany solitaire engagement ring, and a simple gold band wedding ring.

Wearing that ring sometimes made me feel trapped. He stopped wearing his wedding ring, but insisted that I wear mine. After our divorce, I discovered that some I knew also knew him, and had known him for several years. She had not even known he was married and, in fact, knew several women who had wanted to date him.

Wearing that ring sometimes made the skin under the ring itch.

Wearing that ring often ruined my pantyhose.

After the inevitable divorce I made the ring into a necklace. After a few years, I took the necklace to a hock shop because I needed money. I was told the diamond was of very low quality, and I was given only $90 for it. Knowing of what cheap quality the ring was made me angrier than wearing a ring I didn't like. Writing about this now, makes me angry.

"Why not?" . . ."

Magnolia blooms @ Sleepy Hollow Cemetery
Westchester County, New York

. . . choose a lonely soul from PrisonPenPals.com and agree to be a friend who will write often and who will value his thoughts and opinions? On February 15, 2010, at 6:00 PM, I printed out the ad from a 37-year-old man convicted of and incarcerated for robbery, rape and assault. He was searching for "a friend or a special someone" with whom he could share his "dreams, hopes, fears, and goals." Most compelling, to my own lonely heart, was that he has no family or friends who keep in touch with him, and that he feels alone and hopeless.

I wrote to him on March 2, 2010, offering no more than friendship, but promising "to write often and to value your thoughts and opinions." I confessed that "I also have no family and friends, and even though I'm 'on the outside' I struggle with feelings of loneliness and isolation. My life didn't start out like this, but, through a 'series of unfortunate events,' it's ended up like this -- and I don't have much hope of things ever changing . . ."

His response came a couple of weeks later, and we've had a nice exchange of letters since. He's sensitive, creative (writes poetry), introspective, and has had a hell of a life, which makes for interesting, but also troubling and devastating, discussions. He has become my muse, inspiring me to write again, after more than a year of withdrawal from regular attempts at creativity. In fact, finally committing to working through A Writer's Book of Days is wholly a result of my correspondence with him.

Write about falling.

Senior Prom
Larry Landreth (my first broken heart) and me
May 1974

Every time I fall in love, my heart ends up shattered.