DING, DONG, DITCH by Judy Williams

Recycling. I just hate to waste anything. I think of all the resources that the earth has given up, and the hard work people and machines have put into manufacturing every darn thing I choose to toss away. From a sour cream carton to outdated flared blue jeans, I always find a way to re-use an item. As a result, I am sure if someone was keeping track, I put out the smallest amount of trash in my whole town, county, state – possibly even the nation! Is there anyone as compulsive about this as me? I often wonder.

I’ve even been known to ding-dong-ditch an item to someone I just know would need or appreciate it. Imagine what you might find at your doorstep if you knew me!

In August a few years back, it occurred to me that the gently used size 6 and 8 corduroy jeans that my oldest son, Damon, had outgrown could be a blessing to my neighbor eight doors up the street. Two pairs each of blue, tan, and dark brown. Marge had two boys a year apart in age and the cords would be perfect for school starting in a few weeks.

Mission accomplished. I had left them at the door, rang the doorbell, and sneaked home – not along the sidewalk where I might be seen, but hovering close to the bushes and flowers of the seven houses that separated us.

Seems there is another recycler in the neighborhood. A bag left at my doorstep within the two minutes I was gone, revealed three pairs of near new boys’ size 12 corduroy jeans. Size 12, just what Damon needed! And if that was not enough of a miracle, one was blue, one was tan, and one was dark brown.

“And My God shall supply all your needs according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus. Now to our God and Father be glory forever and ever. Amen.”
Philippians, 4:19,20.

While my ship, USS Rupertus, the Rupe, was still in Long Beach, before we deployed to Yokosuka, we always moored at piers on the end of the mole that reached out into Long Beach harbor. In Long Beach, there was a narrow road running out the mole to the piers. The crews of the ships at the piers used this road to get to the parking lots there, and large delivery trucks also used the road to deliver supplies to the ships. Because the road was narrow and the traffic was heavy, the road was often congested. So traffic accidents were not unusual. One of the Naval Base officers, an old, ex-enlisted, Lieutenant had just bought a magnificent new Oldsmobile station wagon. It was a huge vehicle, painted shiny metal-flake gold, with the entire annual chrome production of a small South American nation making up the vehicle’s trim. It was a sight to behold...and it was "looooong". It must have been three or four feet longer than other station wagons, and its front bumper extended far out over its front axle. The Lieutenant was justifiably proud of that car, but remember - “After pride comes the fall.” One day, the Lieutenant had some business with one of the ships at one of the piers on the mole, so he drove out along Mole Road and began to look for a place to park. The parking lots were full, however there were a few empty parking spaces on Mole Road near the head of one of the piers. But his new wagon being so long, the Lieutenant was worried that it would stick out into the road too far and be hit by a truck. Then he noticed there was some space actually on pier that would serve admirably as a parking space for his new behemoth. It wasn’t really a legal parking space, but since he worked for the Naval Base, he was sure he could talk his way out of any parking tickets from the Base Police. So he parked right there on the pier at its head, carefully pulling all the way up as far as he could, with his wheels tight against the 12” by 12” timbers at the edge, and with his front bumper extending far out over the water so the cranes and work vehicles going up and down the pier wouldn’t hit his new pride and joy. About an hour later, with the Lieutenant’s station wagon still parked there, our Operations Officer was conning Rupe to its birth at that very same pier. When mooring, to avoid hitting the pier with their anchor, navy ships normally take the precaution of "dipping their anchor", leting out a few feet of anchor chain so the anchor dangles straight down from the hawsepipe instead of extending nearly straight out. The anchor winds up just a bit farther from the pier, but somewhat lower toward the water. As as our Ops Boss made his approach, he too was careful to dip his anchor to short stay. Our Ops Boss, a superb ship handler, made one of his typically perfect landings. He placed the ship's bow very near the pier so the forecastle crew would have an easy job of getting mooring lines 1 and 2 over. In the final stages of the approach, while the ship still had just a little way on, the port anchor's fluke, hanging down from the hawsepipe, lined up perfectly with the Oldsmobile station wagon parked there, its front end sticking way out over the water. The anchor's fluke caught the right front fender of the station wagon and flipped it right over on it's top, ripping the fender completely off. A few minutes later, an agitated Lieutenant appeared alongside his upended Oldsmobile, shaking his head, wringing his hands, and muttering to himself at his own foolishness in causing this automotive catastrophe. But all was not lost. The Lieutenant had very good auto insurance with USAA....and that’s perhaps the best part of the story. A couple of days later, USAA sent its standard accident report form to all parties involved in the accident. With Rupe being one of the “involved vehicles”, and our Ops Boss being "the driver", Rupe received one of USAA's accident report forms to fill out. A number of us officers were sitting in the wardroom that morning when the Yeoman brought the form in. At first it seemed rather straightforward, but then it became really challenging when we began to annotate the standard auto accident diagram of the “intersection (???)” where the accident took place. Naval destroyers and piers just don’t readily fit on diagrams of city streets and intersections. “Hey XO! There are no piers in this picture - only streets. What do we do?” Well, we had a lot of fun filling out that diagram - that's what we did. ”Let’s see now, the destroyer was right here on Pier Street approaching Mole Road at about 2 miles per hour…..” The Officer of the Deck makes an entry in the ship's Log at the end of each watch. The "Rupe/Oldsmobile" entry in the Log that day must have been truly unique. I never took the time to actually go back and look at that entry, but I’ve always wondered what the Ops Boss really did write in the Log that morning. And I’ve wondered how the Ops Boss's Selection Board, as they considered him for promotion from Lieutenant to Lieutenant Commander, dealt with “a destroyer” involved in a traffic accident with "an Oldsmobile"? And yes, I've always wondered, too, whether the Lieutenant ever received any payment for damages to the station wagon from USAA after the insurance company got a look at how we filled out the accident report....I sure hope he did.

Minnie caught her breath and held on to the back of a kitchen chair as the child in her womb kicked hard and she felt the familar pains signaling the onset of labor. She quickly called the other children to come to eat supper. Anna, the oldest at 20, sat beside the only boy, Matthew, now two and a half years old, mashed his potatos and carrots and helped him, handing him a child sized spoon. Holding a cup of chicken broth to his mouth and haanding him a drumstick. The other girls, Belle, Lilian, Dolly and Goldy ate quietly.It was a special day because Papa did not go to his place of business but had stayed home even though it was a weekday. Minnie spoke in Yiddish. "Papa, take the girls to stay with Tante Ruchel, and go to the corner store and call Dr. Hochman."
A midwife had assisted at the birth of her first seven children, but a doctor had been present for her second son's birth, coming so soon after the death of her first son. It had become fashionable to have a medical doctor present for the birth, a status symbol proclaiming that the family was rich enough to pay the doctor's fee.
Minnie cleared the table, stacked the dishes in the sink, and prepared her bed. She put pads of newspaper, inside some old pillowcases on the double bed in the room she shared with her husband. The wooden cradle, used in turn by each of her children, stood beside the bed, with its little mattress and blankets. A stack of clean flannel diapers on the taable beside the bed, along with a belly band, shirt, and flannel wrapper,all prepared several days ago, in readiness for this birth.
Minnie wondered if this child would be another boy, even though her husband seemed very happy with the birth of each of the six girls. Both had been despondent when their first son died of poliomylitis while they were in their summer cottage in Liberty, New York. The family spent each summer there.
Minnie filled a basin with warm water and took a spnge bath before putting on a fresh muslin nightgown. She put her feet into the felt slippers and walked through the railroad flat between contractions.
The doctor and her husband arrived at the same time. Dr. Hochman had just opened his private practice and this would be the first birth he attended after finishing medical school. He washed his hands, checked Minnie's heart and blood pressure and listened for the baby's heart beat. All seemed in order. Minnie did not seem worried, she knew labor would not be long, but she was wrong. Not until eleven that night did the little girl enter the world, and gave a lusty cry as Dr. Hochman held her up by her heels and gave her a spank on her bottom. Then he wiped her off, wrapped her in a receiving blanket and handed her to Minnie. He went out to the living room, where the father paced the floor. They both spoke Yiddish, "You have another fine daughter and your wife is also doing well."
"Good, here, join me in a glass of schnapps."
After going to the bedroom to see the ninth child, he said "Minnie, it is almost midnight, but I will go bring the children home from Tante Ruchels. Will you be all right by yourself."
"Of course, go now but tell the children they must wait until tomorrow to see their new little sister. I'd like to name her Cecile, is that all right?"
"Whatever you want is all right with me. She certainly has a lot of hair, did you unwrap her and look her over?
"Yes, she is perfect except that there is a brown birthmark on her right leg halfway between the knee and foot. Lucky that it is not on her face."
Minnie breast fed me as she did each of her children. However, she died after suffering terrible burns before my second birthday so I have absolutely no memories of my mpother, although I'm sure she held me in her arms, bathed and fed me, combed my hair, crooned to me, rocked me in the wooden cradle and rubbed my gums when my teeth appeared.
Twenty-five years later, I turned to Dr. Hochman for advice after the birth of my son, who developed pyloric stenosis a few weeks after his birth. Although only Belle still and Jessie still lived in New York, and Dr. Hochman served as the Assistant Medical Examiner of the Bronx, he remained our "family doctor" whenever we had a health problem.

Blessed baby.

Three heirless girls and finally a crown prince son!

Oh, glorious day.

O, holy day.

The day He was born and wrapped in swaddling clothes and placed in a crib.

And the glory of the Lord shone round about him and he grew in wisdom and stature and in respect among all peoples in the tiny town of Northfield on the Cannon.

From the day you see him newborn sitting uncomfortably on his father’s lap until He was six and had his locks shorn and was as helpless as Samson, He remembers nothing. A total void. A tabula rasa. A preternaturally dry sponge thirsting for a flood of memorable stimuli.

February 19, 1921 was a cloudy, cold day. The most newsworthy event? A snowstorm that draped a fresh blanket of purity upon the face of Minnesota farm fields and lawns, roofs and streets.

Not an auspicious day.

Kansas went dry in 1881 on February 19.

In Peru, in 1600, stratovolcano Huaynaputina exploded in the most violent eruption in South America’s recorded history.

In 1942, iconic President Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed executive order 9066, imprisoning 120,000 loyal Japanese Americans—-the most shameful act in modern U. S. history prior to the invasion of Iraq.

On February 19, 1945, cousin Lt.jg Bill Murray, U.S. Navy surgeon, landed on Iwo Jima with 30,000 U. S. Marines for six weeks of hell, sewing up an average of 100 broken bodies a day.

No, February 19 is not a good day to be born. It is either the last day of Aquarius or the first day of Pisces—-an astrologer’s cusp and curse.

He shared his natal day with such lesser luminaries as pot stirrer Karen Silkwood and six footballers—Belgium’s Enzo Scifo, Dominican’s Mikko Kavén, Italy’s Gianluca Zambrotta, Ireland’s Clinton Morrison, England’s Nicky Shorey and Brazil’s Marta.

But He transcended these negative omens and brought great light and pride into the lives of his earthly mother, municipal court judge father and five siblings.

His Hebrew name means beloved, and He strove like Sisyphus to take away the sins of the world—-to feed the hungry, heal the sick, house the homeless and triumph over tribalism. He knew grief and sorrow and bowed low to kiss the feet of all those who preach the gospel of love and peace.

His progeny unto three generations have faithfully marched in his footprints, bringing him tidings of great joy now and forevermore. Amen.

By Reiss

The four children stood silently waiting, it seems, for hours until Mrs. Felicie, the midwife, opened the door, escorted the doctor from the room and softly prompted, "Ma petites, come in, your mother has something to show you. Please come in quietly."

Mrs. Felicie was the community midwife. In this household and family, however, she held other important and venerable titles. She was the aunt to the patient, and the great aunt to the new born and the other children in the household. Her grandchildren, to differentiate between their mother and their grandmother, had begun to lovingly address her as Ol' Maman, a child's version, we assume, of Old Mother in the Creole language. In this small, isolated community, that name became hers, and she was never addressed by any other. Her gentility, generosity and soft approach to human relations was shared by her sister Rita, known to her children and grandchildren as Mi Mal, a colorful version the French, Ma Mere, or my mother.

This had been one of the few births for which Ol'Maman requested assistance. She assured Phenella that her baby would be fine but she might need an assistant. Her friend and colleague, Doctor Donasier, was asked to attend. Her assessment was correct. This was a breech delivery and one for which her years of experience and expertise suggested the need for special medical attention.

When she stepped to one side, the children walked slowly and quietly into the bedroom to find their mother propped up with mounds of fluffy, pillows, that had covers whitened, somehow, when Mi Mal added a liquid called "bluing" to the rinse water. Mama's short, black, damp hair was pulled back and tied with a thin pink satin ribbon. Mi Mal, with a smile of achievement on her round, soft face, ushered the children, one by one, to look at the tiny baby wrapped in the white sheets resting so quietly on their mother's chest. "Mama, are you well?" The look of concern, that was somehow a part of Adele's beautiful face, turned to a bright and lovely smile as she was assured by her mama that all was well. The smile broadened as she saw the red face and thick locks of auburn colored hair that covered the little round head of the new born baby. The children were allowed to kiss their mother, look closely at the baby and were urged by their grandmother to go back to bed.

Before the children could leave the room, the apparition known as Miss Raphael appeared. In one move that was entrance, demand for acknowledgment and a notice that she was here to make a pronouncement, she removed her short wool cape and scarf, revealing silver hair that had been carefully pulled into a cinnamon roll chignon on the back of her long, regal neck. An air of reverent intensity and energy accompanied her entrance. She was not very much taller than the tallest child, but had the prestance (1) of royalty. Her whispered words carried the authority of the Papacy. Her, carefully orchestrated, silent pauses were thunderous. A tiny raised hand, that had the delicacy of fine porcelain, commanded the attention due Toscanini's baton. "Bonjour, Bonjour," a respectful nod aimed at each of the ladies as she addressed them by name, "Felicie...Rita. Well, Phenella..." an intentionally weighty accent on the la at the end of the name, "your gentillesse is enhanced by childbirth. You are radiant, even at your advanced age!" A sweet, but instructive smile, one raised eyebrow and a raised right hand, suddenly glove-free, accompanied this remark. "How are you, Ma Chere?" No response expected or required, she gracefully glided past the other ladies. "Let me see the bebe. It is a boy. The way you carried and the foods you ate, it had to be a boy! Is it beautiful? Let me see! Ahhhh, yes! Beautiful child. Good for you! You always make beaux enfants, even at thirty three years of age, or is it thirty five?" There was no impeding her path, no questioning or responding with anything but acquiescence to Miss Raphael, as she was, without question, the most respected, if not slightly feared, lady in the community. She was seer, matchmaker, marriage counselor, keeper of the Creole flame of propriety, historian, yardstick by which appropriate behavior was measured, and above all, a Victorian. She was an active member of the Ladies' Sodality, a lay organization of ladies, in the Catholic church, formed to promote charitable activity and devotion to The Virgin. Her lean figure, silver hair shining through her black lace scarf that framed her stern, angular face, was seen praying, fervently, at five o' clock mass every morning and at every Thursday night novena. She was known, however, to look, with unspoken disdain, upon the young priests who served the local parish, as they had names like Malone, Casserly, Flannegan, Quinn and O'Hara. Were there, for God's sake, no priests with good French names in that order? She demanded and received the esteem due a woman with her many talents, responsibilities and authority. Some wondered how much credit should go to her black, ankle length, long sleeved dresses, with delicate, white lace protruding at the wrist and neck, worn winter and summer, for the universal sense of awe that she earned.

The children stepped aside, smiled a greeting to Miss Raphael. Nice children, in her world, were “to be seen and not heard." Quickly, silently and with little fanfare, they were gone. As they reached the bottom of the stairway, there was a soft but demanding knock on the front door. Paul, the eldest boy, never one to admit or display fear, opened the door to see his Aunt Ruth and her friend, Lillia breathing soft, visible puffs of steam. Both women were covered, it seemed, from the top of their heads to the bottom of their feet in brown fur to shield them from the cold that followed them into the house.

After affectionate kisses and loving greetings for Aunt Ruth and the obligatory kisses for Miss Lillia, the girls went quietly to their room. Paul rushed, without a jacket, hat or gloves, noisily knocking down a small vase of porcelain flowers, as he went, out to the back yard to attack what ever early morning, winter demons awaited him there. Only Roy remained behind to accept the affection reserved for him from Miss Lillia, his godmother. Miss Lillia took the honor of godmotherhood very seriously, as her one great regret in life had been her inability to have children.

Lillia picked up the newborn and began singing, "Fay Do Do Mon Petit..." in a voice that was anything but melodious. It had a tendency to be shrill and uncommonly loud for a lady of breeding. It was, though, softened by her love for newborn babies.

Now seated in a corner, Miss Raphael was reading her Almanac. Majestically, Miss Raphael rose and said, "Here it is, today is the feast day of Saint Simeon, the godfather of Christ. Your child's name will be Simeon." With her heavy French intonation and accent, the name was pronounced, Simmy yaawnn.

In one movement that placed the baby in Phenella's arms and a sprint that moved her to a vantage point that brought her face to face with the older Miss Raphael, Lillia shouted in her highest, most hysterical, operatic tone, "Are you absolutely crazy, you silly old bat? Name that child Simeon? Have you taken leave of your senses? Is that stupid old dress choking all of the sense from your befuddled old head? He'll be named Simeon over my dead body!" In another cat-like move, she was on the other side of the new mother's bed, hands placed firmly on her hips, feet apart, eyes flashing, yelling, "You're not going to listen to this old loony are you?"

Miss Raphael, shocked to a point near collapse, regained her composure enough to shoot back, "You, young woman are no lady! You think you are one of those moderne women, but you know nothing about decorum and suitable behavior! I've never heard such language in my life! How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice! Do you know that I have taken time to look up the proper name in my Almanac and in the Bible. Here it is. There can be no other!" No one, in the history of the city had ever heard Miss Raphael lose control and raise her voice to such a hysterical level. There had never been, until now, a need or an occasion that warranted her voice above its lady-like whisper. Her face blushed to a bright red, her lips tightened and turned blue, her eyes flashed and narrowed to pin points of fury and hatred. The lace on her collar went limp. Her hands, holding the Almanac and Bible, were raised to the heavens to seek divine intervention. God, strike this person down to the fires of hell and eternal damnation!

Lillia, not impressed with Miss Raphael's demeanor, reputation, age, fury, association with the almighty or her black dress, looked directly into the old lady's eyes which were now overflowing with tears of rage. From the depth's of a newly- found mezzo soprano, Lillia's voice sang out, "I don't give a royal shit about you, your almanac or your black frock. This child will not be named Simeon!"

"Oh, Mon Dieu... Mon Dieu," cried Miss Rapheal as she dropped her books to the table beside the bed. The string from her Sodality scapular, caught by the sudden move of her arm, was ripped from her neck as she readied, it seemed, for physical combat. With new found, God given strength, she hissed, "We all know about you, young woman! You are not a respectable person! The world knows about you and the fights you have with your husband. Poor man, poor man, I don't know how he tolerates you. You are a Jezebel! Your poor MaMa, she is such a fine lady. Were did she find you? Whatever did she do to deserve the likes of you? You, are ...."

Before the old lady could utter whatever biblical phrase she had left in her verbal arsenal, Lillia with the fire, flash, drama and excitement of Carmen singing the Séguedille, shouted, "Shut up, you ridiculous old nanny goat, no one wants to hear your ravings. Go to hell, you old Bitc...."

" Ohhh! Ladies... Ladies.... Please!" interrupted MiMal, whose face had lost all of its regal color and now matched her bluing rinsed sheets.

Ol' Mamon, determined she must maintain the dignity of her profession, opted not to swoon into a dead faint, but fell, instead, into a conveniently soft, welcoming chair, wiping her face with a handkerchief produced from nowhere, timidly pleading, "Think of the mother. Respect this house! Think of this family! Think of the new baby. This is not good. You'll make my patient sick."

Ruth quickly stepped toward her sister and the baby to protect them from all harm that this catastrophe might bring. As she did so, she noticed the new mother had buried her face in the mounds of snow white pillows and her entire body was shaking convulsively as she tried to hold the infant still.

Panic! Ruth reached for the baby and for her stricken sister. Suddenly, she realized the sound coming from the new mother was laughter. The two protagonists, oblivious to the laughing patient, the peacefully sleeping baby, Ruth, poised like Joan of Arc ready to defend the crown, or to the other women who were each comforting the other to avoid faintings, were glaring from one side of the bed to the other, ready to strike with venomous words never before heard in polite society. The stronger their glares, grunts and humphs, the harder the new mother laughed.

Late that night, Langlois, still trying to calm his wife who laughed uncontrollably each time she pictured the scene over her bed, finally had to go to Ol' Maman's house and request she pay a call, as Phenella had laughed until she had a "burning fever!"