Mother Of Five

The mother of five had a long day, and yet, not even noon. Well, a long week, really. Honestly, every week, but let's focus on what's at hand. Of the numerous issues, the accumulated aggravations, and perpetually recurring chores, the task of the moment was a recent bill. Macy's. She enjoyed this delightful store. A fun place to browse for clothes and household decor, pick up a thing or two as needed, of course, only during those rare occasions when she actually had time with which to browse. That infrequency of available time made it special.

The bill was received in last week's mail. A billing error was noted and today was designated for resolution seeking. The error was a double charge. Same amount, same date. Certainly just a mistake, but a phone call was necessitated for a fix, and in the midst of a busy week, because every week for her is busy. Today, though, it gets done, along with all the regular chores which continue to resurface day after day, week after week. She was tenacious, efficient, and determined to see this through to its fruitful completion, as she would everything else.

She had five youngsters, two at home and three more in school. The two were napping, thankfully. It had never occurred to her in younger years, as a young mother, when she had just the one, then two kids, and so forth, in those years past with a growing brood in her future. Of all the conceptions, she had never conceived of how thankful she would one day be for the institution of grade school. From the hours of 8 am to 3 pm she had help. Familial assistance with at least some of her kids contained in school.

School days, those seven blessed hours were her opportunity to get things done. Her To-Do list could entail any of a wide variety of tasks from laundry, vacuuming, grocery shopping, washing floors, meal preparation, ironing, diaper duty, school drop offs and pick ups, you know, household tasks. Today, though, it was the phone call to Macy's. Must resolve before that bill comes due, and that date was encroaching more quickly than tasks were getting completed, despite her vaunted efficiency. So goes her frustration.

The two youngest were down for a nap. She viewed nap time as her daily superpower, her efficiency boost. If lucky, maybe an hour of napping peace while she stepped up her game, the wonder woman she is. Nap time allowed her to tackle tough tasks unencumbered, those requiring some concentration. Something of which she found herself to be in short supply with so many little ones afoot.

Looking into her future, there appeared no break on the horizon, even with a fourth entering grade school next year. How to get it all done and have the strength to do it again another day, every day, she pondered, but only briefly because there was too much to do, and very little time leftover for the luxury of a good pondering.

She dialed the phone number indicated on the bill, engaged the phone system matrix to speak with a representative about the billing error. 'A human, please,' she thought to herself. She was flustered at this additional chore, this phone call, this having to deal with a human, when she already had too many items from which to choose needing her dangerously diluted attention. Her patience, typically commendable, even under her busy familial constraints, was running short today.

She was on hold, looking at her watch. As each minute on hold ticked off, her kids' nap time wound down by that same corresponding minute. Time to seek resolution was slipping away, as if seeping through a sieve, before even having a chance to engage. Finally, there it was, the representative picked up!

"Hello, thank you for waiting. How may I help you," asked the phone representative.

"Hi, yes, thank you. There was a billing error on my current bill. Can you please fix it," started the mother of five, no time for pleasantries, straightforward was the way.

"I'll certainly try to do that. First, what's that account number?"

"I've already provided that on the automated phone system before it put me on hold."

"Thank you, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience. The account number didn't carry forward. Will you please provide it again?"

The mother of five did as requested, then the questioning promptly resumed.

"Just a few questions, please. They're needed for verification."

"OK, if that's needed. What information do you need," pursed lips in an effort to contain her waning patience.

"What is your PIN?"

"My what?"

"Your phone PIN, ma'am. You might have set that up when you first opened the account," offered the phone rep hoping this would provide the useful nudge needed to move the phone call forward.

"I don't understand what you're asking me," replied the mother, nervously looking at the baby monitor on the kitchen countertop, thankfully still quiet.

"Your PIN. It would be a numerical code you entered. This is used for the verification process," explaining further, knowing instinctively this was not going to progress as hoped.

"This account was opened more than five years ago. I don't remember any PIN," losing her cool in just the slightest. A kink in the armor, if you will. A budding impatience broaching the surface of her consciousness, but she must retain her cool long enough to complete the task. "Can you please tell me my PIN so I can write it down for next time," asked the mother.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, you need to tell me the PIN. I can't tell you."

"Well, I don't understand what that is. Is there another question you can ask instead," an edge in her voice as she looked at the clock knowing nap time was getting dangerously close to concluding.

"There is a backup question. I'll ask you that," offered the phone rep.

"Yes, please, I just hope this won't take long."

"What are the birthdates of your children."

"The what? You want the birthdate? For which child."

"All the birthdates," the phone rep said, closing her eyes and cringing to herself as she said it.

With that, the mother of five was on the cusp of snapping. Her mind going through the mental gymnastics being triggered with this engagement. All the birthdates?! Who are these people to think a busy mom can have such details available on a whim, at a moment's notice, when there is so much she already has juggling in the air at any time. Dammit if this load was not one load too far, this unreasonable ask. 

Slowly, a deep breath to try to keep calm, without so much as a peep at first, the five-second pause before the storm, but it was too much. Her brain wrapped itself around the roadblock to her resolution. There was no time for such bullshit as is being requested by her phone foe. She exhaled. There was nothing left to unravel. This ball of yarn had become completely unwound. Her shoulders slumped. It was too much and too far. Her patience had leaked out as if from a compromised helium balloon. Then she fired back.

"All the birthdates?! I have five of 'em! I can't remember all of them off hand," her tone of voice and cadence changed as if she had transformed into a leather-clad super villain. She might as well have been wielding a bicycle chain swinging over her head looking for blood and assessing how to inflict maximum damage.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, that's the back up question," an uncomfortable pit in her belly, feeling solidarity for the mom.

"Certainly you're joking! Five birthdates," she exclaimed before redirecting. Task completion must be the focus. Bring it back under control. "How about the years born instead," hoping to broach a more attainable qualifying threshold.

The phone representative, it turned out, was no foe. She was a sister-in-arms living under familiar familial constraints, to the point that going to work was sometimes a treat to get out from under the endless domestic tasks necessitated by her own children, an escape, a reprieve. Five birthdates on the whim. Yes, the phone rep knew it was baloney, these protocols passed down by the elites in corporate's ivory tower. She could barely remember the birthdates of her own kids under the tension of this phone call.

"Sister, you're absolutely right. Tell me those birth years, please. Nail those and we'll consider you verified," crossing this threshold into decency, helping out the mother in her moment of distress. Screw the protocols, she would do the right thing instead.

In the background a baby monitor started to sound off. One of the children was awake, not yet crying, but soon would be, then the second would follow. Resolution was underway, but it must be prompt. Her stress seemingly never ending. 

[This is based on a real life scenario as recently told by my Mom, probably took place in the late 1970s, my four siblings and I were youngsters. A Macy's billing error to resolve. She specifically recalled the phone rep asking for ALL FIVE birthdates. Mom got upset at the audacity of asking for All five, let the phone rep know it, then pivoted to offering the birth years. Mom was laughing about it now, 50 years after the fact. My parents had five of us, and it was Mom maneuvering all us monkeys every day, and still, she was nails, never flinched, and got things done, even brought that phone verification conundrum to its successful resolution. wdk]

Meat Protocols

Her food-related peculiarities were sometimes astonishing in their absurdity, yet held a certain charm and were always amusing. At least, if you're only observing them as opposed to being the one relegated to living out the confining culinary proclivities.

She was a meat eater, this one, but such inclinations were not to be fulfilled without first being safely contained by a battery of safeguards. The meat eating was bound to certain strict rules. She was nutritiously desirous of meat's nourishing protein-based benefits. But only so long as it did not in any way resemble its original animal form.

A hamburger, for example, was a viable dining option, but not a filet or a steak, nor even a steak sandwich. Too closely resembling their original animal state. Ground beef, though, was all good, as it fell safely outside the confining codicils and mandates. Shredded beef tacos were helplessly disallowed.

Similarly, scrambled eggs were a definite go, but not a hard boiled egg. Again with the resemblance restriction. Egg salad was authorized, though with the requirement that the egg be sufficiently sliced and diced beyond any possible recognition.

Then there were the chicken and pork, but you get the idea. Pork chops are a no, but yes to liverwurst, should she, somehow, have a desire to consume such a thing. Chicken on the bone is a no, as is a drumstick, the chicken leg, not the musical instrument accessory, but a chicken taco from any fast-food restaurant presented nothing in the way of a gastronomic hurdle.

Additionally, during the meal, a person was disallowed from asking a question bringing attention to the fact of the flesh.

'How is the sandwich,' was a legitimate and allowable probe.

'How is the tuna sandwich,' was illegitimate. Such a precise query raising awareness of the animal comprising the sandwich would result in putting it down, a polite wiping of the mouth, terminally concluding the sandwich, then retreating to the side dishes, conscientiously making not a stink over the unknown party foul. Unknown, because really, who possibly could know these ridiculously intricate dining rules. She was absolutely not in the habit of pregaming her dining partners on the rules of the meal.

Furthermore, she would eat tuna at almost any opportunity, was her hankering so highly charged for this fish, but not a delicious tuna steak. A robustly mixed tuna salad was a yes, while a tin of tuna was not possible because the tasty skeins of the tuna cuttings were too close to original form, went the recurring limitations to be allowed passage through the strictly discerning gullet.

A work around was that she might request assistance from a friend or guest, if their visitation was properly timed to coordinate with the consumption of a can of tuna. The friend might be officiously asked to open a tin, drain the undesirable tuna juice in which it was packed, then "thoroughly mix the tuna so that it no longer looks anything like it was, a fish. Mash it up until it looks like it could be cat food. Then please empty it into that bowl," pointing to a bowl she had reached down from the cabinet while issuing the careful and important preparation instructions, "Then just leave it on the counter. I'll take it from there. And really, thank you. You don't understand the extent of your help."

So went the culinary matrix and fog of her daily nutritional existence. Seemingly always something that needed to be maneuvered or a food conundrum to clear.

Ridiculous and completely endearing, but there would be no complaint emanate from her. She'd come to peace with the conditions and cumbersome self-imposed rules. She accepted them and went forward through this caloric complexity with the untroubled nonchalance of acceptance won over many years of fastidious practice rather than strategically tacking back to establish a tiny beachhead from which to regain lost ground. There would be no challenging the considerable friction, the kind of thing from which almost anyone else was oblivious and free.

To most people it was simply food. It comes from animals, yes, and if we were not supposed to eat animals, they might contend, then they would not be made of meat. To which she would add her own flair, if we are supposed to eat animals, then they would not be made to look like animals.

[I dined not long ago with a friend and his wife when a meat-eating hang-up was revealed. Meat served in a format too closely resembling its natural state decreased the eating desirability to nil. Good-natured guffawing and an irresistible Q&A revealed much of the above. Anyway, that meal's discourse was a wonderful and fantastic inspirational treat. -wdk]

Unlaundered Shorts, the short stories

I'm excited and proud to announce the release of my second book! Unlaundered Shorts is live on Amazon. [Fun note, that's my Dad's profile on the cover.]

This is a collection of 23 short stories. The unique feature of this book, following each story is an explanation of its inspiration. I wanted to share the thought behind the stories and enjoyed adding their inspiring explanations behind the writing process.

Contained within the pages of Unlaundered Shorts are a bad batch of clowns, Rudolph the red nosed reindeer all grown up and lashing back, Abe Lincoln as a podcast guest, cows going extinct, a troop of sailing monkeys, Popeye the Sailor in real life, Superman as a pranking collegiate, Mother Theresa behaving poorly, dinosaurs, dog heaven, and a family that bonds over riding bicycles in the house.

Regarding the title, Unlaundered Shorts, these short stories are deemed unlaundered because they are not intended for the gentle reader. While these are not meant for bedtime reading to the kids, there are two child-friendly stories. The Adventures of Tedesco and Adventures of Jackie were both written for my own kids when they were young. The other shorts, though, consider yourself amply cautioned.

I'm proud of these stories and hope you have the opportunity to enjoy them. And if you do, please consider leaving a Star-rating review on Amazon or Good Reads.

Book Lover's Companion podcast

I had the good fortune of being on another podcast! The marketing plan for my novel Magglio Cervantes, published April 2023, was to engage podcasts to discuss the book. I sought out, and continue to seek, podcast opportunities, then email my marketing pitch offering myself as a guest.

The first five marketing email pitches yielded no response. But much like life, this was to be a learning process. The Book Lover's Companion podcast, my sixth pitch, was the first to respond favorably to my advances.

That initial email exchange was August 2023, and a recording date for January 2024 was offered. I gladly, and nervously, accepted. Heck, I didn't know what the process was, but was surprised, and thankful, to be offered a recording date without first vetting me, [well, they scouted out my Amazon author page], or make sure I could speak coherently, which I often do. 

The January recording date was proudly marked on my calendar for five months forward. [Note: this was my first podcast for which a recording date was set, though two other podcasts were subsequently corralled and recorded between August and January.]

As preparation for this upcoming date, I listened to many Book Lover's Companion episodes. Common questions were identified for which I could then prepare. It also allowed me to get familiar with the format and what to expect.

I practiced in the weeks leading up to the podcast appointment. On my morning walks with Ghost Dog, I'd play out conversations and interview questions in my head. Questions asked by a host, me answering, then replying to follow up questions. I was trying to manufacture hours of interview experience, because by the January recording date, this would be only my third podcast, barely one hour of actual podcast experience. And I must admit, by the recording date, I felt good and confident about my speaking points. 'If only they will ask me the right questions,' I thought to myself.

A week prior to our recording date, I received an email from the host. Our appointment was confirmed and a subsequent email contained a link. I was to click the link on the appointed day to join the podcast by video.

We recorded on January 20. Our conversation was conducted on video, though only the audio was recorded. The hosts were in Vienna recording at 8 pm their time. I'm here in Southern California, recording time was 11 am Pacific. [Very nice of them to accommodate me on the time conversion.]

I spent much of that Saturday morning managing my pre-game nerves by staying busy. A walk with Ghost Dog preceded breakfast, followed by a walk to Vons for groceries. Keep active, was the goal, do not get bogged down in a nerve-rattling game of wait and over-thinking.

I clicked the link 10 minutes early to join the video. Got in early as a courteous show of appreciation, instead of coming in late or too close to Go time. One of the two hosts was already present!

The extra minutes allowed us to confirm no IT difficulties, audio and microphone input and output were adequate, then fun pre-game conversation of Hellos and greetings before Go. For all the pre-game nerves, this felt more like a conversation than an interview.

Shortly before the start of recording, the host, of whom there were two, moved a green screen behind them, then picked their preferred virtual backdrop, the bookcase seen in the episode's media post, then clicked a screenshot of us to be used for the episode on their website.

During the recording I didn't feel nervous and the two hosts were delightful. The audio, however, doesn't lie, some choppy cadence on my part near the end, balancing nerves and trying to respond to questions for which I was unprepared. Don't take my word for it, listen in and decide for yourself. But hey, life is about the experiences. Regret is best relegated to the things we did not do or try, not the things we did.

Please click the following link to listen to the podcast. [Book Lover's Companion - Magglio Cervantes podcast]

[Thank you and much respect to my hosts, Edith and the Chattering Teacup @ the Book Lover's Companion podcast. -Bill]

Fireman's Descent

Fall 2012

Alhambra, CA

He didn't even know he could do it. Yet, there he was implementing a skilled fireman's descent as if honed from decades of firefighting duty. But this guy, no fireman, was merely a weekend warrior waging a losing battle on an inopportunely housed beehive.

This was at his momma's house. He loved his momma. What a bad day that might be if those bees, under the second floor eave, got loose on her. Not so nimble on her feet anymore, so he went on the offensive that fabled, lazy Saturday afternoon. A constructive effort that should have been done months ago, before the hive got so big. But he hadn't noticed.

'What now,' asking himself rhetorically. 'No biggie. I'll get this done quick enough, then make dinner,' he played out in his head. Only tonight, he was not going to make dinner. He'd be in no condition for a culinary creation.

A simple task, it seemed. Point, aim, shoot. Spray the beehive, then descend crisply, but in an orderly manner. The bees, after all, would be doped up with insecticide. They'd be lethargic once hit with the poison, thought our hero.

Actually, the poisoning effect is an eventual effect. Like drinking a tasty beer from a chilled glass. The effect takes time to establish a beachhead. In the immediate term, the bees would be angry and aggressive. This they displayed from the onset.

An important note about our guy. He was not allergic to bees. Well, that is to say, he was not allergic to bees when he awakened that morning. By nightfall, however, this would take a wildly divergent turn.

His neighbor facilitated the task as it unfolded. He held the ladder as Emmett ascended with the necessary tools of war, insecticide spray. The bees, though, would not be simpatico with his desires. He was not afraid of bees. Nor was he overtly agile, so he was deliberate with each rung of the ladder.

Having attained adequate altitude and proximity to the hive, he drew up the chemical spray and was poised for assault. Nothing personal against bees, he told himself, a kind of mental confessional, it's just business. One final deep breath, he held it and pulled the trigger. That’s the last thing he remembered until awakening in a hospital bed.

His neighbor, Tim, watched as the spray-phase of the offensive got underway. He also watched as the bees shot out of the hive quick and thick like molten lava.

Immediately before the assault commenced, he thought possibly that Emmett was too close to the hive. But what did he know? Nothing, he thought. Thirty minutes earlier he had been vastly enjoying a recurring weekend treat of pancakes for lunch. At least, he had been until the knock on the door disrupted his final bite.

"You ever spray a beehive before," asked Emmett skipping over the preamble of a greeting, so went their familiarity.

"With what," Tim.

"Bee killer, an aerosol spray."

"No, not yet."

"Whatchya doing right now."

"Lunch," replied Tim, wiping syrup from his mouth with an already tainted sleeve, the uncouth rascal.

"Your weekend pancakes?"

"Just finished."

"Want to help?"

"Bees?"

"Just hold the ladder, and watch how it's done," said Emmett with a slant toward well-practiced braggadocio.

"Can I clean up first, the dishes?"

"This'll just take a few minutes. Do the dishes later," believing his own ill-founded self confidence.

"Here we go."

The dishes would still be waiting several hours later.

Tim was ground level watching how not to spray a beehive, but he couldn't be certain of this until the effort had run its course. It would then be abundantly conclusive.

As the bees exited the hive, they swarmed our hero with the viscosity of a well placed smoke bomb. It was awful, scary, and fascinating. To Tim's amazement, Emmett performed a surprisingly impeccable feat. He did not perceive his pal to be capable of such dextrous command of his motor skills, nor so quick on his feet.

Under the beehive's retaliatory retribution, Emmett instinctively dropped the spray bottle. Then he placed both hands on the outside rails of the ladder, did the same with his feet, and performed an immaculate ladder descent that would have made any veteran firefighter proud. He dropped from the cloud of bees with the quickness of a mud pie dropping from a second floor window.

He wouldn't remember any of this afterwards. His neighbor, however, would later tell him what he had witnessed, thankfully for Tim, from a safe distance.

When the angry cloud of bees dissipated, Tim retrieved the jettisoned bee spray, returned the ladder to the garage, then checked on his friend.

"Hi, Emmett came inside in a hurry. Did you see where he went."

"He shot upstairs with speed I haven't seen since he was a teenager. The day I told him I'd found his Playboys and was going to burn them. Is everything all right?"

"I don't know yet. I think he might've gotten stung by a bee."

"Well, by all means, go on up and check on him."

When Emmett had returned to the safety of terra firma, he was wildly brushing his hands through his hair, then ran into the house. He started stripping off his clothes as soon as he entered. A trail of spent clothing followed him to the upstairs shower.

Tim didn't want to look. He'd known Emmett since he was a boy, since Tim was a boy. Emmett was ten years his senior. He really liked him, but was not eager to make a visual.

"Emmett, you OK," eyes wide open with concern.

"I needed to wash the bees out of my hair. You should see them all, they're clogging the shower drain. I'll be right out." Something in his voice, it wasn't right. Excited. Vacant somehow. 

Tim was not a child, he gathered that something significant had happened and he thought, maybe, that the brewing sequence of events was going to get messy.

"I'm going to get my dad. I'll be right back," he said.

Five minutes passed.

As our delirious hero exited the shower, got dressed, remembering none of this later, still in a bee-sting induced stupor, came downstairs, and answered the front door as Tim returned with his dad.

"Emmett, everything OK," asked the dad knowing that all was not OK, but knowing not the depth of degradation to which he was entering.

"Yeah, I'm OK," said Emmett, then promptly barfed on the dad. Not like, barfed on his feet, or a glancing blow on the arm. The vomit was delivered from a fellow who was so far gone that there was no attempt made to soften or deter the vomitous load. No attempt to cover his mouth. No attempt to turn to avoid an unwitting target. It was a free flow delivered by a body desperately seeking to void itself of an alarming load of bee sting venom. The dramatic result of dozens of stings.

Dad was nailed with the full force of vomit, a direct hit on his classic weekend Hawaiian shirt. A favorite, but not so much after today.

He was a man of considerable life experience. Tim had mentioned bees, but dad knew not the magnitude. The load delivery, however, told him everything he needed to make some snap decisions. All of them correct.

The shirt was discarded and he carried on in his tee shirt, issuing commands decisively and calmly, orchestrating the saving of a life. 

"Tim, get the car keys and my wallet. I'll get Emmett to the curb. We're taking him to the hospital emergency."

Emmett was treated at the hospital for four days. He would live. My friend would live with an allergic reaction to bees going forward for the rest of his days, those days not yet termed out as of this recounting of his tale. He lives with a potentially life-saving Epee pen within reach in case of crisis.

The bees did not return. The bee-spraying was not deemed a success. The life saving quick reaction of the neighbors, however, would be.

[Based on a real life experience of my pal.]