Ginny's Short Stories
Cardboard Fantasy
by V. E. Zimmer
In the fifties when I was nine and my sister four, we waited patiently for the perfect Saturday afternoon. Our journey began with a quarter-mile hike to Alhart's Appliance Store down the street, our excitement building with each step.
Had the store discarded what we needed? Would we have major pickings to choose from?
As we rounded the final bend in the road, the store's dumpsite rose before our eyes. Empty refrigerator boxes were tossed haphazardly beyond the unlocked metal gate, stacked like a rickety house of cards.
Fearing nothing back then, neither rusty nails nor guard dogs, my sister and I waded triumphantly through the cardboard graveyard, searching for the supreme empty carton. Diligent in our quest, we tossed aside cartons with oil stains on the lid, others because of unwanted wet spots on the bottom, until we'd located the perfect prize.
With the towering stack of discards teetering over our heads, we pulled out the best looking refrigerator box and dragged it into the parking lot for final inspection. We checked for unwanted dents and scratches in the same manner our father inspected a used car.
After agreeing that we'd made the best choice possible, we each grabbed a corner of the lid and, dragging the monster carton behind us, we headed back home.
Our minds raced, lubricating the creative juices. We discussed whether we were carting home a pirate's ship, a space capsule, or a playhouse haunted by its previous owner.
Upon arrivingin our backyard, our hands became busy, our minds in forward gear as we indulged in childhood fantasy. Using a varity of household discards, buttons and crayons, my sister and I created our spaceship's control panel. Within two hours our cardboad ship was complete and ready for Takeoff.
We climbed inside, secured the hatch, and strapped ourselves into the seats. We began the final Countdown. Upon reaching the blast-off stage, our bodies bounced and jiggled as our rocket took flight. We soared through space, stars whizzing past our window with great speed.
As our journey progressed the ride got smoother. Our young minds generated glorious visions of wonder. The luminous moon, floating freely against a sea of bue, bid us hello as we skyrocketed past. Eager to investigate the mysteries of distant planets we increased our speed. Our adventure was limited only by our imaginations. We studied galaxies unexplored by mankind.
The expanse of the Milky Way and the brilliance of the stars beckoned us to slow and observe their wonders. We plunged ahead, zealous in our quest for more adventure. We dodged killer asteroids and space monsters that threatened to destroy us. We soared through the rings of Saturn, its colors radiating around us, filling our ship wth glorious prisms of colors.
Soon our journey exhausted itself. We steered for our earthly home, miraculously landing on the exact spot we'd left an hour earlier. Our mother, who had a knack for calculating our return time to earth, had hot soup and sandwiches prepared. T'was a hearty meal for her space-weary astronauts.
Those visions of heavenly wonder remained with us for days, until our creative talents gave birth to another explosion of ideas. Next time, we would build the playhouse, haunted or not. Or maybe we'd build a furturistic vehicles with which to whisk us into the past or the future. Or maybe we would construct a wooden ship with billowing sails and float away to an uncharted tropical island where wild animals ruled.
Our imaginations were not hindered by designer labels and electonic gadgets.
I symathize the child who strolls past a discarded refrigerator carton, never pausing to contemplate the fantasies that lay within its folds.
**The End**
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Beware the Polyester Pants
by V. E. Zimmer (written circa 2000)
Many people dread the coming of old age. They worry about arthritis, liver spots, baldness, four-pronged walkers... and even death.
Me? I worry about polyester pants.
It is rare to see an elderly lady who isn't wearing them along with a matching vest. This material above anything else marks the step from adulthood to senior citzenship. Older woman can dye their hear, wear tons of makeup and lather their skin with anti-aging creams, but those polyester pants will give them away every time.
My mother has been wearing them for decades. She says they wear well and never need ironing, but her legs freeze in the winter. I tried to introduce her to cotton sweatpants. They are warmer and more confortable to wear around the house, but she won't give them a try. She claims they are too baggy in the butt. You'd think that once you reach a certain age you'd choose comfort over looks, but apparently that isn't the case.
No senior citizen in her right mind wants to be seen in saggy-butt sweatpants, according to mom.
I took mom shopping last month. She needed another pair of polyester pants. The ones she wore in the 50s were beginning to show signs of wear. We went to several department stores, but couldn't find any polyster. I told mom they probably don't make them anymore, but she wouldn't hear of it. I dragged her to the shelves where the sweatpants were stacked in neat, colorful rows.
Nope! Not good enough. Find me polyester, she cried.
We ended up shopping at the VOA Thrift Shop. They had an entire rack devoted to the dreaded polyester. The pants were priced at one dollar a pair. Mom was in her glory when she found several pair that fit her.
Her excitement was evident in her smile as she draped her treaures across the counter and counted out the exact change from her purse.
Mom won't wear new sweatpants with a baggy seat, but she'll wear used polyester worn by countless strangers before her. Go figure.
I stood at a distance, wondering when the Polyester Sydrone was going to strike me. I shivered at the thought.
I don't understand my mother, but I love her anyway. At her age she's earned the right to wear whatever pleases her, including 60-year-old polyester pants.
I suspect I might be shopping for them too someday, but the thought makes me ill. I might even find myself wearing my mother's old polyester pants. I'm sure they'll outlive us all.
** The End ***
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PP in the Bushes
by V. E. Zimmer (written circa 2000)
After finding nothing to hold my interest, I left my mother to continue browsing the clothing racks. I exited the thrift shop in search of a distance, quiet place to light up a cigarette.
It was senior citizen day at the thrift shop. The place was packed with white-haired old ldaies and gentlemen searching through racks of discounted used clothing and nicnacs, some of them no doubt getting a jump on their Christmas shopping.
They arrived in droves on the senior citizen's bus, while others came in private vehicles operated by their adult kids or kindly neighbors. Most hobbled on four-pronged walkers with canvas bags attached to the handbars. Only the spry and able needed no assistance.
While holding open the front door for two walkers and a cane. I pondered the hand-printed sign stuck to the glass with yellowing tape. "No Public Bathrooms".
Eldery people and no bathrooms don't mix. The nearest public restroom was several stores away - an easy jaunt for the young, but impossible for the elderly with weak bladders and unpredictable bowels. I wondered if the staff would take pity should a senior customer request an emergency visit to the staff restroom. Probably not. This is cruelty at its finest.
I strolled down the walkway looking for an out-of-the-way place where I could indulge myself with nicotine without being insulted by the anti-smoking crowd. Finding one, I lit up quickly, savoring the taste and smell. I leaned against the cement wall.
Barely topping five feet, she hobbled past me, hardly clearing her walkers legs from the pavement before taking another excruciatingly slow step. The white-haired woman stopped a few feet beyond where I smoked. She began rifling through a red plastic basket secured to the front of her walker. From beneath a plastic bag filled with clothes, she withdrew a large cottage cheese container. She carefully peeled back the lid.
Hungry, I pondered?
Caring not that I watched her from a short distance away, the woman poured the contents of the container into the bushes, reapplied the lid and slipped it back into her basket. She slowly turned and trundled back across the pathway. She bid me a good morning and shuffled back to the senior bus, where the driver waited to help her board.
Curious to know what she had dumped into the bushes, I walked over to take a peek.
Smack in the middle of a fresh wet spot was a soggy piece of white toilet paper. A delightful snicker overcame me as I recalled the sign tapped to the thrift store's window.
It's a safe bet that the thrift shop's dressing rooms are being used for things other than trying on clothes.
You've got to respect the senior citizen who, when faced with adversity, needs no assistance in coming up with a solution.
***The End***
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My Private Island
by V. E. Zimmer (Circa 1990)
When the world begins to press a bit, and whenever the need arises, I escape to my secret, private island. I find tranquility there, the putting aside of all negative things. Nobody knows of this island unless I give them directions. Only very special friends receive a ticket from me to go there.
Once on my island, I walk her sunny beaches, delighting in the warm sand as it cushions my tired feet and flows between my toes. My island brings me comfort, tranquility and a sense of wellbeing.
I gaze up at the gulls swooping down from the sky. They skim the ocean's surface looking for morsels of food. Their sympathy of cries mingles with jungle birdsong and the occasional gentle patter of rain. I roll up my pant legs and scamper along the shore, allowing the surf to wash gently over my feet. The indigo sky is chocked with fluffy white clouds drifting lazily above my head.
Leaves rutsle on giant palm trees; their branches heavily laden with fruit. I toss a rock high into the leafy vegetation to dislodge a coconut. It lands upon the sand with a soft thud. The liquid inside is satisying and sweet; the meat tender and delicious.
A pathway snakes through the emerld woodland to a lagoon lush with exotic plant life. I swim in her cool crystal water, diving beneath a cool waterfall cascading from a tall cliff. Tropical flowers of red and violet grow thick and dense, thriving on the moist, humid jungle floor.
I detour down another path towards an old wooden fence. The gate opens upon a valley of green vines that sag under the weight of plump clusters of purple grapes. I relish the sight, taste and smell. Monkeys chatter playfully from the canopy of tall trees.
Further down the path, I collapse beside a gurgling freshwater stream. I evesdrop on the sounds of nature. My tired psyche absorbs the stillness as it rejuvenates my soul.
On my island all is good... and safe... and warm. It is my personal secret retreat. God's gentle whisper is heard here. He comforts me. He assures me that all is well with my soul.
I don't need money to go to my island. The trip requires no special planning. No travel. No bags to pack, carry and check at an airport counter.
I mearly close my eyes and... go, whenever the need arises.
There is room on my island for a tired friend. You are invited to go when worry overwhelms you. You already have the ticket. I gave it to you long ago. Do you remember, my friend? You thought it silly, so you buried the ticket beneath your burdens, beneath all the pressures in your life. You were too busy, you said.
Stop. Please. Close your eyes, dear friend. Breathe deeply. Envision my island. It's the only ticket you need. Just relax... and go there, if only for a few glorious minutes. Escape to her shores. Lose yourself in her isolation. Remove your tight shoes and walk her sunny beaches. Feel her warm breeze on your skin. Taste the salty sea air. Release to my island all those things that bring you sadness. Go there as often as you wish, anytime, night or day. Eat of her fruit. Relax in her goodness. Listen for God's soothing voice.
While you are there, my friend, and if you choose to take the time, look for the hidden pathway at the edge of the jungle, just beyond the giant black rock formation that juts mightily into the sea. Follow the path that leads into the jungle coolness. Listen for the sound of a babbling brook. Seek it out. Something wonderous awaits you at the end of the path. Take the time to discover it.
***The End***
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We Would Have Made Terrible Pioneers
by V. E. Zimmer (written circa 1990)
We modern humans don’t like it when the electricity goes out. We weaken rather quickly, some more quickly than others when plunged into darkness for more than a few hours.
It actually takes a massive power failure to make us appreciate the pioneers. They traveled to this new land in covered wagons. There were no paved highways, road signs and comfort stations along the way.
Our first Americans were tough ambries. They didn’t need bridges, ferrys and boats. They’d seal their wagons with tree pitch and float them across the river. Sometimes the family made it across. Sometimes they didn't. They buried their dead and moved on. Modern man would need a psychiatrist’s couch and someone to sue for their grief.
What if it had been up to 21st century humans to be the first American pioneers? We wouldn’t have been able to steer the horses westward without GPS and MapQuest. If a street sign is missing, we’re lost. The younger generation can’t even read a road map.
Those covered wagons weren’t equipped with shock absorbers and air conditioning. Imagine the stink comin’ off those sweaty horses? Pioneer children didn’t sit idle in the wagon and ask “Are we there yet?” They walked. They walked for thousands of miles. Our modern kids need a yellow bus to drive them back and forth to a school 300 yards from their home.
Sometimes I’m too lazy to drive to the corner store. I can’t envision myself hoofing it a hundred miles on horseback just to the store. It’s a safe bet that the mercantile owner wasn’t serving up hot coffee and donuts upon my arrival.
I cannot picture myself creeping through the backwoods, stalking my supper with a rifle over my shoulder. I try to envision myself gutting and skinning my lunch, but the image is too disturbing. I like my chicken gutted and pre-wrapped in cellophane.
If Cholera didn’t get me, wild coyotes would. Let’s not even think about rattlesnakes, bears, wolves, thirst and starvation.
The pioneers didn’t have a 1-800 number for Build-Me-A-Cabin. They had an axe, a lot of trees and a fortitude that didn’t comprehend the meaning of “Cappuccino Break”.
If I were blessed enough to have my own cabin and fresh dinner dangling over my shoulder, I wouldn’t be able to start a proper cooking fire. The only lighter fluid back then was a chunk of dried up horse poop.
It would take hours before my coffee started to perk. I’d first have to sharpen the axe, chop down the tree, haul it back to the cabin, split the wood and start a fire hot enough to boil water for the coffee. Forget it! I’d die!
I’d probably help the other ladies prepare lunch for the barn-building menfolk. I’d have to plant and harvest my own potatoes in order to make the potatoes salad. Did they have jars of mayo back then?
Can you imagine canning your own fruits, veggies, jams and jellies? What about baking your own breads and pies? I consider it a chore to remove a frozen pie from the freezer.
Washing dishes required hauling the water back from the stream, heating it on the stove and later disposing of the dirty, soapy water. Anyone wanna talk about the outhouse and the fact that toilet paper hadn’t been invented yet? Not me!
I would make pets out of the livestock. I’d give them names. I would never be able to slaughter Pete the Pig. The PETA people would finally love me. There is no way that I could eat an egg after seeing it pop out of the hind end of Carla the chicken. I want my eggs already cleaned and sitting in a Styrofoam tray.
It would be nice having the doctor come to me when I was sick, but with my luck I’d get Dr. Mengele with a dirty syringe. I wonder what qualified someone to be a doctor back in the day? On second thought, I probably don’t want to know.
Thank God it wasn’t up to any of us to pioneer the new land. America wouldn’t exist today.
***The End***
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