I have finally updated my links for Annie.
The Annie Collection
In the yard next door, a winsome giggle floats alongside birdsong as a small body tumbles down a grassy slope. The child, a girl no older than five, rolls along with eyes squeezed shut. Pink shorts and a yellow tee-shirt, already streaked with grass stains, flashes in perfect alternating colors as she somersaults like a rolly polly bug. Messy braids whip about her angelic face; somewhere in the grass is her glittery star barrette and the shiny quarter grandma gave her only that morning. She reaches bottom with an audible “hoof!” of air, then sucks in healthy lungful before allowing herself to explode into a fit of laughter.
She pauses to watch Mrs. Next Door picking tomatoes before racing back up the hill again. Another somersault pass ends and she scores herself well for her efforts, just like those real Olympic gymnasts on the television last night, then catches sight of her neighbor again.
“Tomatoes are good, especially when they are still warm from the sun,” Grandpa always says. She reflects on her Grandpa’s favorite tomato recipe, remembering how he loves sitting on the porch, eating them after Grandma marinates them in some salt and balsamic vinegar. This has always been her special time with Grandpa.
Her small hands reach out to the chain link fence and she pulls herself upright. Mrs. Next Door has picked nearly all of the bright red tomatoes by now, filling a large pot to the brim. Mrs. Next Door’s dog, an old mutt with late summer shed fur sticking out at odd angles, ambles over and licks her face through the links.
“Good dog,” she says. Her hand fits neatly through the fence and, as is their custom, dog and girl engage in a little bit of fur plucking, distributing a soft flurry of hair into the summer breeze.
The dog seems to almost smile, turning from side to side as the loose tufts slide out of the coat. The fur seems to take on a life of its own, drifting in the air or slinking along the ground. The girl hopes that Mrs. Next Door doesn’t mind the fur that’s come to rest on the squash plant leaves close by.
Her neighbor makes her way up the slope of the yard and waves. “My, but you’ve all but picked off every last clump of hair,” Mrs. Next Door smiles. “That deserves a reward!”
The girl’s eyes grow larger as Mrs. Next Door lowers the large pot to within her reach. This, too, is a summer ritual. She is permitted to choose as many tomatoes as she can carry. It isn’t much, considering her size, but it is just enough to make Grandpa smile. She selects five very juicy ones, and thanks her neighbor before racing back up the slope.
The last bit of sun begins to fade as the woman climbs the back porch steps. A lightening bug casts off from a tomato bush, lazily dancing in-flight as it prepares for the evening. The garden is bathed in an amber glow, birdsong still rippling upon the humid air.
See more observant scribblings at Sunday Scribblings
The picture below is in answer to one of my friend's questions. She asked, "Exactly what does an Italian refrigerator look like?" Both pictures are of our current crop.
The Price of Betrayal?
PostedI have always wondered what sort of people would allow themselves to be sexually promoted online, and what sort of fool would take their bait. Is it some new form of prostitution, where one avoids disease by stroking off using their wife’s hand lotion as some bored frump types naughty things into an IM box? Do men pay a small fee (“we take Masterbaiter Card and IwishIhadaVisa”) or are these women simply so desperate and disease ridden that they would market themselves as sweet school girls that everyone absolutely loves and adores. What of those too good to be true men? You know the ones: they steal a friend’s picture and assume their roll, only it goes too far – they actually present themselves as that person during an affair that can last weeks or even months. Bob the Tubby just became Brock the Olympian. Such popular people; wherever do they find the time to break away from all those popular real-life friends in order to engage in a little online smut-o-rama? (I won’t touch upon the gold diggers or rapists who are looking to take more than they will give back.)
Of course, none of this would happen if certain men did not possess the brain capacity equivalent to a gnat. The average American male will allow himself to be ripped off and lied to all for the sake of cyber eye candy. I find it humorous. Perhaps a bit too humorous considering that one of my close online friends is a large gay male who poses as a delicate Asian girl. He freely admits that he masturbates as he types, knowing that the clueless straight man on the other side of the screen is doing likewise. (Oh ICKKK!)
Where does that leave us as a society? Technology is allowing us to become more and more connected but it also seems to destroy more and more lives.
- 90 percent of Americans believe adultery is morally wrong. (MSNBC straw poll)
- 17 percent of divorces in the United States are caused by infidelity. (AP)
- Only 46% of men believe that online affairs are adultery. (Divorce Magazine)
- One-third of divorce litigation is caused by online affairs. (This Is An Internet E-Mergency, The Fortino Group)
- Approximately 70% of time on-line is spent in chat rooms or sending e-mail; of these interactions, the vast majority are romantic in nature. (Dr. Michael Adamse, PhD., co-author of Affairs of the Net: The Cybershrinks' Guide to Online Relationships)
- Because of the anonymity, affordability, and accessibility of Internet sexual resources, the computer can accelerate the transition from "at risk" to "addicted," as well as the progression of sex addiction in those with a history of prior sexual compulsivity. (Cooper et al Survey)
- 8-10 percent of Internet users become hooked on cybersex. (Dr. Bob Lanier, askbob.com)
- Spouses who get hooked on Internet porn are a growing complaint among spouses filing for divorce, according to a survey of 350 divorce attorneys. "If there's dissatisfaction in the existing relationship, the Internet is an easy way for people to scratch the itch," said lawyer J. Lindsey Short, Jr., president of the American Academy of Matrimonial Lawyers, which conducted the study.
- Evidence proves there is a high correlation between on-line infidelity and subsequent real-time sexual affairs.
- Evidence supports the existence of disinhibition, accelerated intimacy, and hyper-sexual online behavior that can easily lead to real-time infidelity
- 31% of people have had an online conversation that has led to real-time sex.
According to MenStuff:
- 57% of people have used the Internet to flirt.
- 38% of people have engaged in explicit online sexual conversation and 50% of people have made phone contact with someone they chatted with online.
It begs to be asked: why do people stay with spouses who are caught cheating? I don’t know. Online relationships are a strange thing.
I have two sweet friends who have a casual online-only relationship. There is nothing sexual involved and they are not seeking to replace their spouses. In fact, they are friends first and flirty second. Their priority is not in ego or sexual gratification; rather it is that their families come first. They do not run around seeking partners to add to the cyber harem.
My second set of close friends are both female and they, too, have a relationship. They do not have spouses or significant others. They live in different countries. Their love for their work is first and foremost. They meet up every so often for a night of fun, pledge to continue to love each other and they go about their days. Neither worries that her lover will cheat on her with a person in their respective home countries.
My other friend faced a far more cruel life. She was a nice woman that used the Internet to expand her mind through college courses. She refrained from any sexual advances and vociferously pointed out that she was married. She was not happily married, however. Her husband is a cyber-addict who seems to spend his days looking at hot Asian woman and pursing relationships with other cheaters. I should point out that my friend had turned into a frump herself; she simply grew tired of his ways and she knew he would still run around behind her back no matter how sexy she was. She gave up on life. My circle of friends was stunned to learn that she had taken her own life this morning.
That brings me back to my initial thought: "at what cost...". What do we as people give up when we engage in frivolous cheating. How much dignity to we throw away when we broadcast ourselves in a way that depreciates us as a human being? Will the ultimate price be paid - the cost of the injured spouse's sanity and their own feelings of self-worth?
Dedicated to LlimaBeans (Cheryl Fergusan)
1967 - 2008
A QUESTION:
Darfur
Darfur
(starving mother and child awaiting treatment at an aid station.)
and the Republic of Georgia
and the Republic of Georgia
(wounded Georgian woman lies in front of apartments
post Russian air strike on the northern town of Gori.
She was later taken to a safe area.)
vs.
a vegetarian
Olympic swimmer
in the buff
(Amanda Beard and PETA.)
Which cause
deserves more press time?
Gertrude fidgeted a tad, her arthritic hands folded in her lap. I could tell that she had put on her best summer dress. Soft white curls framed her thin face, giving her head the appearance of a dandelion tuft. It was the archetypical old lady style.
I was here to write about her ordeal although I really did not want to be. My editor and I had a heated discussion about it last week. I absolutely loathe these sorts of interviews. I stood my ground, I threatened and I cajoled. I even stooped to pleading, offering a drawn out “Jim, do I have to?”
She thanked me for coming. Her voice was warm and the German accent endearing. I could almost picture her as perky Fraulein somewhere in Germany, eating sauerbraten and laughing with her friends.
I took out my recorder and asked her to begin.
_____________________________________
The apartment building was ominously quiet. Philip, a lover of men in more than just one sense of the word, cracked his door and locked fearful eyes onto mine. We both stepped into the hall, ears pricked in anticipation of the noise of the beautiful entry door downstairs being kicked from its old iron hinges.
“Mrs. Rosenbaum,” he whispered, indicating our ancient neighbor. We both turned to stare at her apartment door at the end of the hallway.
“Oh God,” I said, my heart beating a vicious tattoo in my chest. “Oh God, oh no! Oh Philip, she’s a Jew!”
The threadbare carpet seemed to stretch into eternity. Surely our footfalls would resound like a herd of elephants if we approached her door. We had no idea where They were. Had They surrounded the building? What if Zimmerman, that lazy bastard landlord, had simply let Them in. What if They were just a flight below, guns at the ready, waiting for an indication that people were moving about upstairs?
Tears blurred my vision, making the carpet’s pattern into a hazy fog of brown and red tones. I wiped them with my apron. I would have to sneak down that hall. I wouldn’t let them take Rosenbaum. I felt a hand slip into mine and Philip’s breath upon my ear. “We do this together, liebling.”
I felt a small smile creep to my face despite the horror of the moment. Liebling – darling. Philip called everyone by this pet name. I had so many fond memories of hearing his voice singing a jaunty song as he cleaned his apartment or beat his rugs in the courtyard below. He seldom had visitors, with the exception of Wilhelm, a handsome man that come to call on weekends, staying until sunrise on Monday mornings.
We set off together, Philip and I, each step carefully placed. God forbid the ancient wooden floor under that dusty rug should betray our movement! Our entwined fingers were like small vice grips upon each other, knuckles white. Even our breathing was strained, a quiet yet shuddering intake of air with each step.
The apartment door slowly opened. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s pale, round face reminded me of the moon. She toyed with the fading Star of David pinned to her sleeve and opened her mouth, but Philip put a finger to his lips and proffered a soft “shhhh”.
“They have come for me,” she stated.
“Yes, yes liebling,” Philip said. “They have come, but they will not find you.” We softly spoke of various plans of hiding Rosenbaum. Perhaps she could take shelter in the attic? Would the basement be safer or in a closet?
Screams echoed from the street followed by a volley of machine gun fire. We knew the voice and drew close together, holding onto each other until a second volley silenced Mrs. Liebermann’s screams. It was then that we heard a pounding upon our building’s main door.
“Fuck!” Philip said. I felt my hair standing on end.
We shuffled about like drunken pigeons trying to fly in all directions at the same time. I heard Landlord Zimmerman’s gentle admonishment to "please wait” as he scurried towards the door, only a flight below us. I thought I would piss myself.
I grabbed Philip’s sleeve. “Look, I’m German. All my papers are in order. I only live in this neighborhood because I’m a student. I will hide her. I have space under my bed and we can stuff shoeboxes and old quilts around her like a cocoon. Perhaps they won’t come in. Perhaps if I spoke about the Jew rats and my hate for them, glorifying Hitler’s ideology, perhaps they will go away!”
“You would risk too much to hide me in your apartment,” Mrs. Rosenbaum cut in, shaking her head violently. “You should not do this!”
“Mrs. Rosenbaum,” he whispered, indicating our ancient neighbor. We both turned to stare at her apartment door at the end of the hallway.
“Oh God,” I said, my heart beating a vicious tattoo in my chest. “Oh God, oh no! Oh Philip, she’s a Jew!”
The threadbare carpet seemed to stretch into eternity. Surely our footfalls would resound like a herd of elephants if we approached her door. We had no idea where They were. Had They surrounded the building? What if Zimmerman, that lazy bastard landlord, had simply let Them in. What if They were just a flight below, guns at the ready, waiting for an indication that people were moving about upstairs?
Tears blurred my vision, making the carpet’s pattern into a hazy fog of brown and red tones. I wiped them with my apron. I would have to sneak down that hall. I wouldn’t let them take Rosenbaum. I felt a hand slip into mine and Philip’s breath upon my ear. “We do this together, liebling.”
I felt a small smile creep to my face despite the horror of the moment. Liebling – darling. Philip called everyone by this pet name. I had so many fond memories of hearing his voice singing a jaunty song as he cleaned his apartment or beat his rugs in the courtyard below. He seldom had visitors, with the exception of Wilhelm, a handsome man that come to call on weekends, staying until sunrise on Monday mornings.
We set off together, Philip and I, each step carefully placed. God forbid the ancient wooden floor under that dusty rug should betray our movement! Our entwined fingers were like small vice grips upon each other, knuckles white. Even our breathing was strained, a quiet yet shuddering intake of air with each step.
The apartment door slowly opened. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s pale, round face reminded me of the moon. She toyed with the fading Star of David pinned to her sleeve and opened her mouth, but Philip put a finger to his lips and proffered a soft “shhhh”.
“They have come for me,” she stated.
“Yes, yes liebling,” Philip said. “They have come, but they will not find you.” We softly spoke of various plans of hiding Rosenbaum. Perhaps she could take shelter in the attic? Would the basement be safer or in a closet?
Screams echoed from the street followed by a volley of machine gun fire. We knew the voice and drew close together, holding onto each other until a second volley silenced Mrs. Liebermann’s screams. It was then that we heard a pounding upon our building’s main door.
“Fuck!” Philip said. I felt my hair standing on end.
We shuffled about like drunken pigeons trying to fly in all directions at the same time. I heard Landlord Zimmerman’s gentle admonishment to "please wait” as he scurried towards the door, only a flight below us. I thought I would piss myself.
I grabbed Philip’s sleeve. “Look, I’m German. All my papers are in order. I only live in this neighborhood because I’m a student. I will hide her. I have space under my bed and we can stuff shoeboxes and old quilts around her like a cocoon. Perhaps they won’t come in. Perhaps if I spoke about the Jew rats and my hate for them, glorifying Hitler’s ideology, perhaps they will go away!”
“You would risk too much to hide me in your apartment,” Mrs. Rosenbaum cut in, shaking her head violently. “You should not do this!”
I bit my bottom lip as I mustered up my courage. “Do I have to do this? No. I choose to. You can’t complain. They are at the door. Philip, help me tuck her under my bed. NOW!” I hissed these brave words even though my knees knocked together.
We heard shouts below as the soldiers began to spread down the hallways. Heavy boots began to stomp up the stairs. Phillip pushed both of us into my apartment and secured the bolt.
“This way, hurry!” I said, and Philip practically carried Mrs. Rosenbaum’s fragile body into my bedroom. He eased her down and she rolled herself under the bed. We pulled my favorite quilts from the closet to seal her in and make my bed look festive.
As we stood back to survey our work, we heard solders knocking on doors. It was not a polite sort of knock; it was two or three loud raps followed by the crunch sound of a boot kicking in the door itself.
“I suppose this is it for me,” Philip sighed. I gave him a confused look. “Liebling, I’m homosexual. They know where the Jews live. They know where the gays live. It’s the camps for us.”
The absolute harshness of that reality struck me. “How would they know?”
“They know. I am sure of it. They somehow know.”
“But, you are German!”
“I’m a fag. Most of us have gone into hiding. I stayed. I had nowhere to go,” he said, and then added in a thick voice, “They took Wilhelm last week.”
There was silence between us then. His lover. I had known all along, but polite girls wouldn’t discuss such things.
Two doors down, a frightened family screamed in unison as their door shattered off its hinges. The husband shouted that he was a loyal German, loyal to Hitler, loyal to the ideology. I knew that he had his papers in order. He might have been the bastard who turned in Rosenbaum and Philip. Who can say in these troubled times?
I would protect Mrs. Rosenbaum and Philip. My mind began to work furiously. I knew that there might be a chance, if my plan worked. It would mean that I would be humiliated. I am a virgin, a good girl. I would never bed a man without the blessing of a priest. Yet… I asked myself, “Do I have to?” The answer was “yes”. If I failed… I did not want to think of such things.
I turned to Philip and said, “Strip.”
He looked horrorstruck. I said it again, even as I pulled off my blouse and unhooked my bra. “Strip. You are not gay if they catch you in bed with a woman. Perhaps the ruse will work. Hurry. We will pretend!” I pulled off my skirt. We must have looked like naughty young lovers frantically trying to join each other for the first time. The knock came to the neighbor next door even as we hurried onto the bed.
When the knock came to us, we were kissing and rolling about like fish trying to find air on a dock. When the door shattered open, we sat bolt upright, a tangle of body parts, and I offered a scream for good measure. The soldier was rather embarrassed for us and lowered his gun.
I rose from the bed and allowed him to see my nakedness as a form of distraction. Philip slid on his pants and then grabbed the sheet and offered it to me.
The commanding officer joined the soldier and the young man quickly explained what he had walked in on, offering a bawdy laugh to cover his embarrassment. Philip and I produced our papers. The officer questioned Philip closely, but Philip and I both grew indignant at the implication that he was anything other than heterosexual. After all, we had dated since I was eighteen and we were engaged to be married. Yes, he still worked at the paper mill. Yes, his bad knees prevented him from serving in the military. The officer gave us a dubious look.
_____________________________________
She stated that her apartment smelled of stew that day. She remembered it so well. She could recall the young soldier’s face as he leered at her. She recalled Philip pushing the door back into place, then propping it shut with the couch. She could clearly remember Mrs. Rosenbaum’s hand waving at them from underneath the bed; her face wet with tears as they pulled her from her sanctuary, the old woman’s sobs wracking her body as Gertrude sat on the floor and rocked her. She remembered Philip kneeling next to her, thanking God and every saint that he had ever heard of. She found that so odd. Philip was an atheist.
They stayed in the apartment that night, huddled together. They saw the glow of buildings on fire, and they feared theirs would ignite. They were afraid to look out the window but they could hear the occasional burst of bullets riddling some poor undeserving person.
These are her memories. What would it be like to forget what she told me, to sweep it under the rug, to pretend it never happened?
Philip evaded the concentration camps; so many of his friends did not.
Mrs. Rosenbaum was later captured and taken to a camp. She accidentally tripped while carrying water, and was deemed too frail to be of use. They lead her to a communal shower (along with 49 other men and women) and as they sat shivering in the gloom, lethal gas belched from the fixtures. Eighty years on this earth were ended in such a brutal fashion.
Who will remember these things when all the survivors are gone? Who will care? I ask myself, Do I have to? I hear my mind reply, No, but I choose to do this. I choose to remember.
For further reading: Gay Holocaust - Lagers
Other "Do I have to?" posts can be found at: Sunday Scribblings
