When Friends Collide

We gathered, as always, on the first Sunday of the month, at the place where our friendship had begun five years ago, back when we were still in high school and working in the kitchen. Where jokes had been tossed about more often than the pizza dough in our hands. The restaurant went by the redundant name of “Pop’s Pizza Pies,” christened in the late ’60s when some people seemed to have no idea that the word “pizza” was Italian for “pie.” The owner, Kevin O’Neil, didn’t have a clue either.

On this certain day, Jerry’s voice boomed across the crowded room as he raised his Pilsner glass. “Here’s to pretty Tessa. And here’s to catching the scumbag who killed her.”  ….

(Read the rest of my story, “As Always,” here on OMDB! magazine)

 

HOLIDAY OVERLOAD

Holiday Goodies

There’s always something

last minute to do,

like dashing downtown

only to stand in a queue.

Or tying up packages

with bells and some bows,

then forget what it was

we had wrapped–oh no!

The sound of sweet carols

fill the night air,

but try as we might,

our minds are elsewhere.

There are cookies to bake

and eggnog to buy,

yet we haven’t a clue

what we put in the pie.

Remember the reason

our homes are bedecked,

so sit down awhile

and take time to reflect.

May you and your loved ones

have joy, love, and peace,

and in the new year

may blessings not cease.

(Now go put your feet up!)

–Anne Skalitza

SUMMER’S OVER (hear me sigh)

The air is crisp,

my walk is brisk,

to lose the weight

from funnel cake.

I breathe in deep,

the climb is steep,

 summer’s over,

must get over…

…chocolate ice cream,

(now a dream),

 cannot forget

 sweet baguettes.

Boardwalk food–

cannot brood

for greasy fries,

 tomato pies.

Oh, barbeques!

I pay my dues,

and exercise

for waist resize.

~ Anne Skalitza~

SLINGING THE RAILROAD BLUES

We, the traveling family of four, lurched through several train cars to the dining car. Somewhere between the Asleep-By-Six car and the Beware-Of-Children-Screaming car, part of our party became separated. You’d think we were on different continents, the way a few of us reacted once we were reunited (oh thank you dear God!) at our assigned table. As we readjusted to this wonder of finding our family members on a speeding train where no one can get off or lost (except maybe among the bathrooms on the lower level), a server marched over to us. Directing her words at me, she remarked how I have to enjoy the trip, not get my britches in a knot, and well, chill.

I was puzzled. I was the one who was okay; I had known where everyone was. I was merely looking forward to a meal and a glass of wine. The server parted by rubbing my back. Hey, if I wanted a massage, I’d go to a spa, and bumpy train rides were in no way spas.

As she moved on to the next hapless family, she wore a satisfied smile like she changed the leadership of the state we were traveling through. The three members of my entourage debated what just happened and segued into who of our little group was at fault. I drank my wine.

Needless to say, the Pinot Grigio was especially refreshing. We held on to our plates and glasses and silverware as we swayed along with the passing houses, farms, and fields. We, the passengers, refrained from singing the railroad blues, and chatted and laughed and drank. We wrestled cutting the sirloin steak with butter knives since on a jolting train, steak knives could be lethal. Needless to say, with all the energy directed toward trying to eat and half the food landing on our laps, our caloric intake rivaled that of a two-year-old’s.

After dinner, I made my way through the dining car, sidling past the server, and thankfully she didn’t rub my shoulders. But I could have sworn I heard her whisper, “Don’t get upset about food stains. It’s all good.”

I wished I had saved my strawberry ice cream. It would have looked lovely on her crisp white shirt.

Haunted Groceries

I like ghosts just as much as they like themselves. Occasionally they put on a show, either for our entertainment and theirs (they’re bored perhaps, watching us dull humans), or they want to make a statement. I believe it’s more of the latter.

For instance–two of the houses I’ve lived in have had ghosts. One house had  the spirit of a small child who padded around in the middle of the night, ringing bells that hung on the inside of the doors, playing with my sons’ toys (he or she loved trains), or opening kitchen cabinets, playing with the mixing bowls, then walking away. The house I live in now has a spirit who likes to play with some sort of tiny ghostly metal ball in the attic, rolling it across the boards while we (try) to sleep. Or once when I was angry, she shoved my shoulder so hard I lost my balance. (And yes, a ghostly hand feels very real.) I told her to knock it off and she floated away.

Today I shopped at my favorite supermarket, the kind where the employees know my name, my sons’ names, and my husband’s job. It’s like meeting up with old friends every Tuesday (discount day). I stood chatting with two employees at the head of Aisle Nine when a package of candies flew off a hook nearby, as if thrown by an unseen hand. Laughingly, I said, “So you have ghosts here now.” One of the employees nodded her head and the other said, “We’ve always had them here.” Mind you, this is a store that is only twenty-eight years old, built on a horse farm. What spirits would wander a 24-hour, brightly lit, supermarket, where horses used to roam?

I must have looked bewildered because they began to regale me with stories of framed pictures of their coworkers being flung from the wall, or, like in the tossed bag of candy I witnessed, throwing a pizza or two at a passer-by.

So now when I push my shopping cart up and down the aisles, I’ll be watching the shelves and my head. I really do hope, though, that the people I meet there are all on this side of the grave.

AN ODE TO COFFEE

Listening to the music

from the radio next door,

my head is pounding;

can’t take it no more.

 

It ain’t so much grammar

the singers do lack,

but the incessant thumping

like a hard head-whack.

 

This poem don’t rhyme good,

nor does it seem sane,

’cause I need my infusion

of strong coffee today.