Life on Life’s Terms

 

Florence (Flo to family and friends) felt her husband climb out of bed, it was still dark. She had gotten so use to the sound of the whistle that it rarely woke her but she always felt her husband’s warm body leave and her two youngest  instinctively taking his place and cuddling up to her. Putting her arm around her youngest, Adam, her mind started going over what she would buy at the Company Store, it was the first Wednesday of the month, payday.

The second whistle sounded fifteen minutes after the first. Flo gently moved out from under the quilt and slipped on her house dress and slippers. Walking the 3 feet to the curtain that separated the sleeping area, she pushed it aside and entered her kitchen. Raising her arm she pulled the chain of the single bulb to light the room.  Putting two more logs into her black belly stove she saw that there was just enough water left in the pail to make coffee and grits for breakfast.  Pleased that she would not have to stand in line with the other women at the pump, she placed the pan filled with water on the stove.   Walking over to the shelves that her husband had put up for her, she opened the bread box and removed the five biscuits left over from dinner. On the very top shelf, hidden behind the flour tin, she reached up and took down a small jar of honey.

Within minutes the door opened and her three oldest came in. Her heart broke as she looked at her precious boys, so dirty and tired. Ages 14, 13 and 12, they were too young to work the 12 hour shifts in coal mines.

It was the strength of the women during the 1940′s that held families together, especially in the mining communities and Flo was a very strong woman. She never complained or questioned why things were the way they were, she just accepted the fact that these were the cards she was dealt and made the best of what she had.

The tired young boys, faces and hands blackened by the coal dust, sat at the table saying little as their mother readied their breakfast. It wasn’t until the two youngest woke and joined them that the room seem to come alive with conversation. Adam (six years old) was always excited to see his older brothers and wanted to know every detail of the nights work. Was anyone hurt, how much coal did they dig and the most important question, did they bring him any new rocks? Adam collected rocks and had quite a collection in his play corner of the dugout. He was never disappointed. Each reached into their overalls and removed a small rock which immediately put a big smile on the little boys face.

Eleanor, aged 10, helped her mother scoop the grits onto the plates and brought them to the table. Flo poured the coffee and put out the milk jar. They ate silently, with the only sound coming from the corner where Adam was talking to his rocks introducing the new residents to the already large rock community.

Smiling, Flo then brought her surprise to the table, biscuits and honey. Everyone’s face lit up as they knew what that meant. It was the first Wednesday of the month, payday.

Flo always kept a small jar of honey hidden, in which she only brought out on payday. It was her way of letting her family know that no matter how bad things seem, tomorrow will be better.

The young boys tired but hopeful, climbed into the bed, that just an hour ago was occupied by the rest of the family. Flo and the children took the wooden crate and started walking to the Company Store.  

“Mama,” Adam asked, “Are we having meat pie tonight?”

“We’ll see baby,” Flo answered, “I know one thing for sure, whatever we do have, It’s going to be delicious.”

Adam smiled, he never doubted his mother….He knew she would always make due with what they had and the family would survive. Mama was a strong woman.

This story is for the millions of people who have and to those who continue to live life on life’s terms, we admire and congratuate you for your stregnth.  

Gardens of the Universe

Gardens of the Universe

Friday Night

“It’s called what?” Sean asked.

“I said, it been on all the news, they’re calling it…” Erin stopped midsentence, closed his eyes and just shook his head, realizing how useless it was to get his point across to his friend Sean, especially tonight.

McBride’s Bar and Grill in South Boston was, for all intent and purposes, the place to watch all major sporting events.  Baseball, football, hockey, it didn’t matter.  The faces may be different but the enthusiasm of the crowds is always the same.  Tonight the Sox were playing.

“Hey, I think we finally got a base hit!” Sean yelled out, stretching his neck to see the TV over the bar.  “About fracken time!”

“I’ll get us another beer.” Erin announced as he got up from the table.

“Yah, you do that.  I think you’re getting weird on us buddy.” Sean called out as Erin walked across the crowded bar room floor. Erin lifted his right arm behind his back and flipped him the bird.

Last call came and went and the boys were still sitting at the table.

“All right you bunch of bums, you’re out of here.” The barkeep announced.

The two friends headed for the door, bumping into a table or two on their way out.  A typical Friday night in Southie.

Once outside, Erin looked up at the night sky half expecting to see the spectacular meteor shower that the TV stations had talked about all day. It wasn’t until they were almost home at the projects that he caught a glimpse of what he thought was a falling star.

“Hey, look at that!”  He called out while pointing upward.  “See that, it’s a falling star or maybe even a meteor.”

“Yah, yah… whatever.” Sean grunted out. “Like I said, you’re getting weird on us buddy.” With that, he left his friend and walked up the sidewalk to his building. Opening the door he paused and shouted over his shoulder, “See ya when I see ya.”

That would be the last time he would see his friend Sean.

Saturday

“Friends for life” that was their mantra. The four boys grew up together in the projects and were best friends. They were all about the same age except for Skipper; he was a year older and sort of the leader. Every Saturday morning they would hang together and venture into the many abandoned buildings that dotted the Mission Hill section of Boston. Hours were spent searching for treasures and making up stories about their finds; an old watch could be a time traveling device or a foreign coin, could lead them to a pirates’ treasure!

Pete was the first to see it. A small neon green canister wedged between a rock and some twisted metal. “Hey you guys, check this out!” he called back to his friends, then picked up a stick and flipped the find out of its position and onto the dirt.

“What is it?” one of the kids asked.

“Beats me!” Pete responded.

“Hey, give me that stick.” Skipper demanded; always finding pleasure in bullying the group of younger boys. He grabbed the stick and gave the canister a hit.  Nothing happened.  He hit it again and again, nothing. Then he finally gave it one more smack and the canister cracked open and a puff of white smoke escaped. The boys stepped back and looked to Skipper for direction.

“It’s crap, just junk. Leave it and let’s go play some hoops.” He turned and started walking away. Relieved, the boys followed.

Sunday morning

The first Mass at Mission Hill church started at 6am, a full 22 minutes before sunrise. At 6:50 the parishioners walked out into the daylight and among the faithful were Marty and Claire Emerson. As they had for the past 13 years, after Mass they would stroll hand in hand the two blocks to the Mystic Diner for Belgium Waffles and strawberries. After all these years of marriage, little was said between them as they made their way down Tremont Street, passing several vacant lots and abandoned buildings.

It was Marty that first noticed something was different.

“Claire, look at that across the street. All those flowers weren’t there yesterday were they?

“Can’t tell from here,” she quietly answered, “let’s cross and have a look.”

With each step closer, Claire was able to truly see the beauty that was before her. What was an empty lot yesterday was now home to thousands upon thousands of plants, each with a 6 foot tall center spike topped by a single huge bell shaped red flower. The scent in the air was intoxicating and much like a bee to honey; it seemed to draw them into the garden.  Hand in hand the old couple weaved through the many plantings careful not to step on any of them. Occasionally they would brush up against a flower or two, unaware that each time that happened, a miniature explosion of spores lifted into the air carrying them away by the wind.

Monday morning

On Monday mornings the traffic was always tough and Erin was running a little late.  Jumping into his truck, he backed out of his parking space and headed toward the Expressway. Traffic was surprisingly light.  ”Must be an accident somewhere.” He thought while reaching over to turn on the radio.  

The announcer was talking; “City officials are baffled by the appearance of thousands of gardens in and around Boston that seemed to have been magically appearing overnight. The Mayor’s office is investigating and will have a news conference when more information is available.  In other news, local emergency rooms have been inundated with thousands of people from the Mission Hill area complaining of flu like symptoms…Doctors are baffled and have notified the CDC in Atlanta.”

Tuesday

Headlines; Boston Globe

On Beacon Hill last night the Governor declared a State of Emergency, advising that residents of the Commonwealth should, at all cost, avoid open space areas and remain in their homes.

All State, City and local governments will be closed until further notice.

Wednesday

Erin slowly opened the back door of the Mini Mart. Scanning the alley he assured himself that it was safe for him to finish loading the truck. Once loaded he covered the bed with a blue tarp, securing it on all four sides with bungee cords. With the exception of the 5 gallon water bottles sticking up a little, no one would suspect what precious cargo he was carrying, cargo that would hopefully sustain him until the first hard frost in November. Climbing into the driver’s side he withdrew the newspaper from his pocket and threw it on the passenger seat.  He couldn’t help noticing the headlines;

ALIEN PLANT INVADES EARTH KILLING MILLIONS WORLDWIDE!

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. With a shaking hand he put the key into the ignition and looked down at the gas gauge.  He had just enough gas to get back home to the projects. Who would have ever thought that the most unsafe area of Boston has become the safest of all?

 After all, nothing ever grows in the projects, or as we called it “Slab City.”