Here's A Tip



The line for Vicky's caricatures was 12 people deep and growing. No one knew exactly why her caricature sketches took so long. She drew quickly, but seemed to be a perfectionist. She did two sketches of everyone in line, claiming that the first one was "wrong." No one could see any flaws, but they waited patiently just the same because her sketches were so good.

Vicky's dirty little secret was simple. She always did two sketches of each person -- one for them and one for her. If a customer passed by her tip jar without adding a gift, she turned in her sketch to the police. She called these her artist composites and labeled each "Thief!"

In Memory of My Grandfather

Leonard Ralph Wetz
1917 - 2011

My grandfather passed away on Friday. We consider it something of a blessing. He'd suffered ill health for years and now is at rest. At 93 years old, he lived a good, long life.

Miles and circumstances separated us from a close relationship. I probably only saw him once every year or so. But he was my grandfather, and I admired him from afar. He was an extremely intelligent man; a Mensa member and engineer with a great logical mind. That mechanical aptitude inspired him to learn to fly, and in turn, lead to my fondest memory of him: flying aboard his plane.

I was young, maybe five years old, when Gramps took me up in his prop plane. It was a heady experience. There I was, a young, powerless girl in the world, suddenly kneeling in the backseat of a plane so that I could look out the window at the miniaturized landscape below. Suddenly I wasn't so small; I was on top of the world! The flight was noisy and exhilarating. I loved seeing the world from this vantage point and didn't experience one bit of fear. Why would I have? My grandfather was flying the plane and in my mind, he was a genius. He knew what he was doing.

I've loved flying ever since. Apparently, so did he. In his last days of waning lucidity, he rambled on about flight towers in front of him. His hands made the motions of clutching gear shifts and checking equipment. He'd soared back in time to his days in the cockpit. It had been a long time since he'd flown. I'm glad his mind took him on one more whirl through the air before he was gone.

Doing the Horse Story

It was a cold, January day in Ohio. I walked through the snow-covered mud toward the barn, in pursuit of my newspaper story. It was days like these that I felt lucky to be a writer; getting the chance to experience a world that I wasn’t familiar with. At the same time, I begrudged my working conditions and hoped that the snow, slush and mud wouldn’t keep everyone else at home since I had a deadline to meet.

I was there to meet Pat, a 17-year-old Founder horse who was about to receive her second round of acupuncture. The idea fascinated me. I’d never been a “horse person” and rarely came in contact with horses, so I was surprised to learn that they could benefit from medical/holistic treatments much like we could.

            Or so we hoped.

            The previous summer, Pat’s owner noticed her limping in the field. She had the farrier look Pat over, and he quickly summoned the vet. Pat suffered from laminitis; a swelling in the hoof that made it difficult for her to walk. I learned later that morning that Pat could barely even stand. If the acupuncture didn’t relieve her symptoms and help alleviate the pain, there was little they could do for the horse.

             Dr. Leick first checked Pat’s major pain spots. The horse was gentle and cooperative; much more so than many patients would be. Her pain was evident, and the veterinarian showed me the tension in Pat’s hind quarters from overcompensating for her bad foot.

            He ran his hands over her and noted tight knots that he felt on her rear hind quarter. Pat periodically raised her hurt foot as the doctor pressed and massaged her aching muscles. Then Pat started a chewing motion, which Pat’s owner told me means she’s comfortable. I swear if Pat could have articulated her reaction she would have said, “Ah, that hits the spot!”

            After Dr. Leick made some chiropractic adjustments, he checked Pat’s range of motion. He held a carrot to the right side of her head, and she followed it, bending her neck. Then he moved it to the left, and she followed it again. Finally, he baited her with the carrot by moving it down between her front legs. She bent her neck gracefully down toward him, and he finally let her have the carrot.

             “Good girl,” I cooed to her. I stroked Pat’s silky brown coat. I was quickly becoming attached to her.

            The doctor then opened his acupuncture bag and removed a series of needles -  some dry, other filled with vials of liquid like a syringe. He began inserting the needles along Pat’s legs at certain pressure points. Some went in along her hurt hoof, and some just below the knee. He stuck other needles into her rump and pulled out a box to stand on to begin work on her back.

            One by one, Dr. Leick began inserting syringes administering “aquapuncture.” These needles were inserted into deeper muscle in Pat’s stifles. She didn’t even flinch. The needles were filled with a B12 vitamin solution, and would remain in Pat’s back for about 10 minutes. Hopefully these treatments would help increase the circulation in the front legs which would, in turn, make the back legs more comfortable, too. The results would be gradual.

            As the veterinarian looked Pat over, I stroked her nose and looked into her soulful brown eyes. She seemed more relaxed already. I felt privileged to have witnessed the events of the morning, but my job here was done. The vet and I finally packed up our things and left the cold, drafty barn. I knew I would look for Pat whenever I drove by that farm. I hoped the treatment worked. Only time would tell.

Huh?

Marshmallow? What marshmallow? Oh, I get it. April Fool's!

Last Night at the Lobster

Lobster boat in Maine

I just finished reading Stewart O'Nan's novel Last Night at the Lobster. My immediate reaction: Argh! Why didn't I think of that?!

The premise for the book was simple: the restaurant manager describes what happens on the last day before his Red Lobster closes for good. Some of the staff don't show up. Some are angry that they're about to be out of work and he didn't recommend them for the new Olive Garden coming in. He worries about the staff stealing things since they have nothing to lose at this point. A snowstorm blows in and no one is sure how that will affect business, but they prepare for a normal night anyway.

That's it. That's pretty much the whole story. There wasn't much plot line, and not too many developed characters, and yet, something about this book worked. I was sorry when the novel ended. I felt like I'd been in the restaurant all day alongside Manny, the manager, looking out the window at the foreboding weather and going through the motions of his job for one last time.

I wish I'd written this book.

Down by the Dock in Haiti

I have never felt as embarrassed and ashamed to be a "rich American" as I did on the day our mission group walked down to the "dock" in Haiti. I say "dock" euphemistically, because there was no dock; just old, dilapidated wooden boats in the water, and a mob of Haitian men standing at the edge of the shore, calling out for work.

"Two dollars! I'll carry you. Two dollars!"

They crowded around us, hurriedly collecting around the slimmer teenagers who didn't weigh as much, but quickly moving on to the larger middle-aged women and men who also had to be carried. A few dared to raise their price to $3.00, but were underbid by their hungry competition.

And they were hungry. That was the saddest part. Most of the Haitian people I met were too proud to beg for money. Instead, they offered to work for a pittance. But every now and then, one of them would simply, quietly state, "I am hungry." I wished I had a dollar for every person I met, and silently berated myself for not bringing every dollar I had to this impoverished nation. Next time, I vowed.

For now, we stood mobbed on the bank as Haitian men began scooping the Americans up onto their shoulders and carrying them out to the weathered boats where we would sail 13 miles to Tortuga Island, bringing toys, clothes and food to the children there. We couldn't walk to the boats ourselves; the water went up to the shoulders and sometimes over the heads of the men, and the rocky ocean floor would cut up our feet. It was not lost on me that our feet were deemed too delicate while theirs were not, despite the fact that we wore shoes and they didn't.

They carried us on their shoulders as water sloshed against their chests and faces. When we reached the boat, they heaved us up higher on their shoulders, muscles straining as Haitian men on board grabbed our arms and pulled us up onto the boats. It was clumsy; we were heavy. But not nearly as heavy as my heart as I realized the disparity in our lives and how unfair it all was.

Misty Niagara

Janice bit her lip to keep her chin from quivering.  She thought she could pass it off as being cold rather than tearful if Henry asked, except that she was starting to feel her eyes swell with tears. Perhaps she could blame that on the cold, too. The truth was she hated this Maid of the Mist cruise. She was miserably cold, wet, and a little bit seasick. She couldn’t imagine why Niagara Falls was such a popular honeymoon spot.

Henry seemed to love it.  Janice watched him leaning over the deck rail, throwing his head back as mist crashed against the boat and splashed him. He turned to her, laughing, and Janice forced a smile onto her face.  It was her job now to make sure her new husband was happy. She wouldn’t  utter a word of complaint.

Instead, she dug underneath her dripping plastic rain poncho and into her purse. Her fingers were wet and cold, but she managed to pull out the camera and held it up as Henry turned toward her, smiling again.

“Let me take your picture!” she yelled to him. She doubted he could hear her voice over the explosion of the waves, but he seemed to understand her and posed with his back to the magnificent falls. She snapped his picture and nodded toward him. She’d gotten it; a picture of Henry on their honeymoon.

Henry turned back to the falls as the boat bounced atop the choppy waves. Janice stuffed the camera back underneath her rain poncho and slipped quietly inside. She felt a few tears on her cheek, but she could easily dismiss those as drops of mist. No one would suspect this bride was crying on her honeymoon.