NICE GUYS FINISH LAST

 

A series of essays….

ALLOW YOUR BETTER SELF TO STOKE A FIRE IN YOUR BELLY!
IT’S THE FORCE BEHIND THE ACTIONS THAT SHAPE YOUR FUTURE.

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

I wasn’t going to go here this soon since finding my happy place in writing about my childhood, grandchildren, friends, and trips taken—

Sitting here, fingers poised over the keyboard while gently directing my mind to be kind, gentle, and polite when the proverb “Nice guys always finish last,” comes to mind. People who are decent, friendly, and agreeable tend to be unsuccessful because they are outmaneuvered or overwhelmed by others who are not so decent, friendly, or agreeable. Am I ringing any bells here, people?

Being nice and decent and friendly might get us into heaven, or whatever space our souls might occupy after we discontinue walking this planet. It’s about time, politically speaking, that we ‘decent folk’ begin thinking more in terms of successfully challenging the “basket of deplorables” who have cajoled, outwitted, outmaneuvered, and overwhelmed us for years and years. Many of these deplorables happen to hold elected office in Washington D.C. and throughout the states!!

Yes, Hillary had named them properly several years ago during her presidential campaign speech and while attempting to fend off the immature creature who stalked her on the debate floor.

When a constitutional law that has set a precedence for the good of fifty percent of the population, Roe v. Wade, is overturned after a half a century of existence, it is safe to say that we, as a nation, have been successfully outmaneuvered and openly overwhelmed! Even though, the entire time he was stacking the Supreme Court with judges of a similar drumpf mind-set, he was, legitimately, telling us about his plans (the republican agenda) to take away a woman’s control over her own body!

Drumpf knew he could get away with murder and line his pockets with gold at the same time by inciting chaos while fueling the fear of Americans who feel unaccounted for, as well as those whose skin color, alone, makes them feel superior over all others. Taking his cues from oppressive dictatorships, past and present, and grasping a long-term republican plan dating back to, at least, the Reagan years, this Putin puppet continues to play his people to this very day.

Shall I bring up gerrymandering (long-term manipulation of voting districts), disallowing a sitting president to fill a vacant SCOTUS seat while having almost one year left in his term of office, or having the republican leader of the Senate literally dictate his venomous beliefs via his blatant lack of action for years? The vermin continue to skitter through the cracks in the form of nasty, gun toting women politicians, as well as seasoned male politicians who have been bought and sold so many times over the years that they are lucky to remember where their precious blood money is currently stashed.

If you feel like the stars above have not been aligning for those of us who are liberal minded and treasure the idea of helping others in as many ways as possible, you are not alone. What does it take to light that fire in our bellies? Is it possible to do so while maintaining our decency and not slipping down into the greed-slickened chutes of personal payoffs with the likes of Manchin and Sinema who refuse the ladders of hope offered to them by the current administration? 

I believe we can make a difference; short and simple. But we have to want it badly enough and be willing to break through the stigma of nice guy and not be overwhelmed by the people leading us back into time by erasing freedom and democracy from our lives through manipulation. For far too long, we have been nice guys getting pummeled by the not so decent guys. 

Without the intention of going down the slippery slope ourselves, it’s time we make a generous tactical maneuver of our own. Let’s begin with dry kindling and graduate up to small branches until the burning of larger logs eventually ignites our desire to get things done. Only then we will allow great changes to happen. We can’t afford to dilly-dally any longer; we need to take action, now!

If we don’t let our voices be heard, loud and clear, or allow our actions to be felt and fully comprehended—consistently—we will continue to slip down the rabbit hole of disgrace without an outlet or resolution of any kind. We’ve played the nice guy card long enough. It’s about time we spread our wings and get down to business. 

Just as the abortion card began with mild restrictions until having an abortion will soon become punishable by their own conservative laws, demeaning women in so many ways, liberals must advance, step by step, until all assault weapons, including the AR-15, are eliminated for private use. Until mass murders become history and the lives of those we love become more important than the guns that can kill them, the reason for fighting to stop their sale should hit all of us long and hard. This concept alone should have given us a stronger resolve, invincible backbone, and helped to save many innocent lives. Where have our strong liberal selves been hiding all of this time? We can do anything, together!

If enough voices are raised in unison, with one mindset and goal, the strength of this action alone would change the world. There is strength in numbers. We’ve done it before; we can do it again and again. But, as I’ve mentioned before, we have to want it badly enough. That fire in our bellies must be stoked by good intentions, true, but also continue to fuel the action needed to make important changes. We must never lose sight of our freedoms. We cannot allow democracy to slide down that greed-slickened chute along with the slimy creatures willing to breach our democracy for their own ill gotten gains.

Let’s stop the forward motion of hatred and strife, ethnic and civil, and redirect this energy to do good rather than evil. Let’s concentrate on making the world a better place for all of the people instead of the few who continue to use their elected powers to brainwash those who would rather work to disrupt the Establishment instead of working with it for the betterment of all.

Without shedding the nice guy approach altogether, (after all, why would we eliminate our own innate capacity to love?), let’s find the resolve to be stronger, more organized, and highly successful this time around. As a small child actually desires structure, discipline, and love in order to survive and grow stronger, the adult versions of ourselves must approach today as a brand new opportunity to decipher right from wrong and work like hell to apply it towards keeping democracy the practice of social equality by and for the people of this great nation.

Don’t you think it’s time; before it’s too late?

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

MY ODYSSEY AS A FIVE-YEAR-OLD: Part Two of a Series

 

A series of essays….

A LITTLE, RED-PLAID BOOK BAG VERY POPULAR IN THE 1950’S: 
MINE, I’M CERTAIN, HAD LITTLE BLACK BUCKLES!

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

The deep imprint of one of the tiny, black buckles from my red-plaid school bag burned the left side of my face. Oh, not like from a real fire, but from the constant pressure of it on my cheek while being used as a pillow for the past twenty minutes or so. 

My story began when my older brother and I were awakened for school by our Mom two hours before. Ronnie and I shared bunk beds in the second bedroom of the little, white rental house on Milburn Boulevard in Mishawaka, Indiana. The thing is, both of us attended elementary school in South Bend, right about on the line between the two communities. it was the nearest Catholic school to our house. I was baptized at Saint Matthew’s and, as a family, we attended Mass there every Sunday morning.

Because Mom didn’t have her driver’s license and Dad was away on a business trip for the week, my brother and I would wake-up especially early to get ready for school and walk the forty-five minutes or more to Saint Matthew’s in time for the first bell. Ronnie, being three and a half years older than me, was my best friend, protector, and idol throughout our early years. Believe me, there was absolutely nothing he could do wrong. 

That particular morning was different. Mom’s morning calls from the tiny kitchen failed to rouse my brother as he remained curled and twisted in his sheets on the bottom bunk. Climbing slowly down the ladder and opening our bedroom door, I ran to tell Mom that Ronnie didn’t look well. Something was wrong.

Turning the burner off from under our boiling Quaker Oats, she gently sat down beside him on the bed and softly kissed his forehead. She was surprised by his fever; her lips tingled from the heat that radiated from his small body. Instantly I knew that we would not be walking to school together that morning. 

Placing the back of her hand on my forehead and finding it cool to the touch, she looked at me with sad eyes and proclaimed that I would be going anyway and pushed me into the bathroom in order to properly get ready. While brushing my teeth I could hear her in my dresser drawer and closet extracting clothes for the day, placing them in the bathroom for me to put on, and then dishing-up steaming oats into my bowl on the dining table. 

While I ate breakfast, alone, at our red and white, enamel table with shiny chrome legs, Mom was in the living room talking on the telephone. Sitting down at the table after her conversations, she explained what was going to happen that morning in order to get me to school on time since walking with Ronnie was not an option. I wasn’t afraid. After all, I was a five-year-old turning six in early November who had skipped kindergarten and was placed in the first grade after being tested for academic acceptability and social maturity. I was going to miss my protector that morning, that’s for sure. I sat still for now and listened to my Mom’s plan.

She told me she was speaking with a person from the City of South Bend’s public bus system. Together they coordinated the bus schedule to see if I could be picked-up in front of our house and if the route could get me to Saint Matthew’s in time for school. With a tweak or two between them, I was to be standing out front near the curb by 7:30 a.m. 

Her second call had been to my school and she spoke with Mother Superior to let her in on the plan and approximately when to expect me at school. 

Soon afterwards, she was placing me on the bus with the strap of my little plaid book bag crossed snugly over my chest and speaking with the bus driver about making certain that I got off at Saint Matthew’s Elementary on Miami Street in South Bend. With everything working like a fine-tuned instrument, tenderly she kissed my cheek and gave me a reassuring hug that indicated all would be just fine. Thanking the driver, she stepped-down from the bus as the doors gently closed between us and waved from the yard while standing near the old maple tree that graced our front lawn.

The bus driver smiled and told me to take a seat anywhere I’d like. A third of the way down the narrow aisle, I chose my seat and slid across the padded, khaki green vinyl and settled in for the ride. 

A SOUTH BEND CITY BUS CIRCA MID-1950’S

On our journey down Milburn Boulevard, crossing over S. Ironwood Drive which turned Milburn into E. Calvert Street, I felt each stop as the bus would pick-up more people going to work or shopping on a busy weekday morning. Most of them sat up front in order to get off at their stop as swiftly as possible. The landmarks Ronnie and I would point out along our walk to and from school flashed by me making me dizzy, tired, or both. 

Thirty-one city blocks later, I didn’t feel the bus turn right onto Miami Street and would have been, at that point, just four blocks away from my school. And, how could I? I was fast asleep and using my school bag as a pillow while the little, black buckle was making its imprint on my young life.

Something told me to wake-up and I did—rather quickly! I didn’t recognize one thing outside the murky window and bolted upright, much to the surprise of the poor bus driver, his balding head turning abruptly; salt and pepper mustache now facing me as he continued up Miami Street. The look on his face was one of shock and surprise as he slowly brought the huge bus to a complete stop along the curb. 

Walking back to my seat, he tried to console a frightened little girl who had tears streaming down her face. He was a kind man. He was sorry for upsetting me, but when he no longer saw my blond curls bouncing just above the chrome handle of the seat in front of me, his stop at Saint Matthew’s was lost to him as he continued his route up the busy street. 

Promising me a safe passage back down Miami, quite a few blocks from school by then, he resumed his position behind the big, round steering wheel, but with me close by his side. Mother Superior stood waiting as he came to a smooth stop in front of the church. Deviating from his assigned route, he delivered me to the welcoming arms of Sister Anne, quickly telling her what had happened with plenty of sincere apologies to go around. 

She thanked the bus driver and told us both that everything would be just fine and that it promised to be a beautiful day. Knowing that my Dad, freshly home from his trip that afternoon, would be picking me up after school, all seemed right with the world. 

This story is meant to be continued…

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

MIC CHECK: TESTING ONE, TWO, THREE

 

A series of essays….

BRENNA AND BREE BONDING BETWEEN BINGING (NETFLIX)

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

At least twenty episodes of The Gilmore Girls later (thank you Netflix and our weakness towards binge-watching!), countless trips to Portage Northern High School during a whacky exam schedule then immediately off to gymnastics practice only to pick her up several hours later before enjoying dinner together. Spicing it up even more with spontaneous laughter, perhaps a few too many trips to enjoy ice cream, and romps on the living room floor with our fur baby and you have the future of our nation contained within our fifteen-year-old granddaughter—all wrapped-up in a perfect bow with a side of braces…

Not once did we complain. Being around Brenna tends to make a routine day a red letter one with her youthful enthusiasm being as infectious as good humor and optimism can be; especially during these past couple of weeks. 

We have all been working on taking control back in the best way possible. But first, sacrifices had to be made as life’s routines were tumbled around like her tiny clothes (anywhere from size 0-4) in the dryer in order to cope with everything that, unfortunately, comes with the current tone of the world we live in. 

In practice there is little or no difference in meaning between contagious and infectious when applied to disease or its spread—you get to choose the phraseology. Our daughter called us right before the last week of the school year for our grandchildren (Brenna a freshman and Gavin rounding-off fifth grade) to inform us that Gavin just tested positive for COVID-19. He had recently been experiencing headaches and his current temperature was hovering a bit over 102 degrees. He was doing okay with it until he realized that the final week of his fifth grade career began the following day on Monday and being in school with his friends and enjoying closing activities was not going to happen.

Despite the fact that all four had been vaccinated, along with boosters for those eligible, the impact from this pandemic hit them fast and furious, with very little warning. One tested positive with symptoms while the remaining three tested negative. Initially, Brenna panicked just thinking about having to miss her scheduled exams if she were to test positive. Our daughter gave us a call and we all reacted post haste.

Brenna was packed and crashing in our spare bedroom not long afterwards. 

She made it through exam week with flying colors sans any symptoms whatsoever! So grateful for this. FaceTiming with her ‘gang’ at home helped to keep spirits up believing that her return was right around the corner. That was until our daughter began experiencing coughing and a runny nose. Was it simply allergies or a common cold? Most likely not. She tested positive on Sunday and gave us a call early that morning with the sad news. Our little houseguest would have to waylay her homecoming as her mom went into isolation while continuing to work from her home office.

I still cling to the premise that every single soul on this planet will, eventually, contract COVID-19. Having Doctor Anthony Fauci take his turn at the coronavirus karaoke mic, recently, proves my point. Dr. Fauci, the leader of the U.S. government’s COVID-19 pandemic response effort, experienced mild symptoms recently, tested positive, and has gone into isolation while continuing to work from home. There truly is no way of getting around this disease as long as one lives and breathes alongside their fellow humans. It is strictly a matter of time.

Well, today is D-day! Today our daughter and son-in-law take yet another coronavirus test. Today might just be the beginning of the end to all this madness and heartbreak for Ali and her family. I’m thinking negative results all the way. Fingers and toes crossed. Brenna deserves to be back into the fold and sleeping in her own bed. 

As much fun as it is having her around us and, simply, having a teenager injecting  youth and enthusiasm into our lives on a daily basis, Brenna needs home. Brenna needs to cuddle her dog, Oreo, and interact with her own immediate circle. This lends personal credence to the adage: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Through all of this, Dan and I remain symptom free, virus negative. Although we are setting-up appointments for our second booster shot, as soon as possible. 

I would have never believed that summer vacation would begin on such a deeply concerning note. Dan and I were very content to have been there for our children and little did we know how our decision to move back to Michigan would effect all of us. But, we always knew we would be happy to share our lives together, once again, and be there if and when they needed us to be. 

Here’s hoping for some good news today! 

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

AN OLDER BROTHER’S ODYSSEY

 

A series of essays….

SUMMER NIGHTS AND BONNIE DOON
ICE CREAM WENT SO WELL TOGETHER

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Mom didn’t drive and never had a license. Dad said he could never teach her and life was too short to even try. This coming from a man who traveled extensively for his job, often leaving his wife and young children for five days at a time. 

I was too young to question my father’s motives, but later learned that, in many cases, the mentality and social norm of the 1950’s was to keep a wife as dependent upon her male counterpart as much as possible. Our Mom often sacrificed her own needs in her quest to pacify everyone else in our small pack. And, even though we missed him, Dad worked hard to provide for us even if it meant being away much of the time.

Our own two feet, a bicycle (depending on the Indiana weather), and the local bus system became our good friends. Seriously, my older brother, Ronnie, and I did walk to school in South Bend, over a mile away, come rain, shine, snow, and freezing cold.

Mom decided to treat my brothers and me to a hamburger supper, replete with French fries, an abundance of individual ketchup and mustard packets (we were easily amused), and our personal choice of milkshake flavor. Bonnie Doon Drive-In sat about a mile from our front door and was settled and established in 1941 on one of Mishawaka’s main thoroughfares, Lincoln Way West. 

Dad, being on a business trip, afforded Mom no better option than to send my older brother on his shiny English Racer, up to Bonnie Doon to purchase our special meal. I recall her pulling out a small, leather wallet from her purse that was setting on a dining room chair and handing Ronnie several paper bills. He neatly folded the bills and carefully placed them in one of his front bluejean pockets. 

Slipping deftly onto the narrow saddle, pride resonating on his handsome face, our eleven-year-old hero was on a mission of importance; he was to bring, not only, sustenance to his family, but joy, as well via his responsibility of being the current ‘man of the household.’ 

Mom having a driver’s license would have been very useful right about then, but a cellphone would have been the icing on the cake, the cherry on top! Communication was a burgeoning  commodity back in the mid 1950’s when technology was slithering its way into the daily routine of the American lifestyle. By the time my brother returned home, quite a bit later and a little worse for wear, with a sad story to tell, our Mother took one look at his face and hugged his narrow frame for several minutes before releasing him, tears in her eyes. 

THE PROVERBIAL CHERRY ON TOP!

He saved the milkshakes. He rescued the fries and condiments. However, the hamburgers were not so lucky. His skinny bike tires lost their grip on the gravel along the side of the road and down he tumbled, supper and all. While reaching for the cardboard carton of shakes and the bag of fries in his front basket, the greasy burger bag exploded upon contact with the ground, ripping open and tossing meat patties, small chunks of onion, and lettuce and tomato all over the side of the street. He had made it almost half of the way home.

To this day, I envision my brother reconstructing the sandwiches as best he could while pulling cinders and grit from the glutinous mess and then flopping the top bun back in place. With tears in his eyes, instantly replacing the pride he felt only seconds before, and an explanation of it all being carefully formulated in his head, he rode his racer home feeling like a defeated warrior bringing a single rabbit back to feed his tribe after an 8-point buck had eluded him.

Well, our rabbit stew turned-out to be rather tasty! Who doesn’t love a thick milkshake accompanied by fries? Sitting around our red and white, chrome-legged dining table, talking and laughing together, was the cherry-on-the-top, after all. And we were still able to rip open those cute packets, squeeze their contents onto the paper plate, and dip our crispy fries into the sweet tasting   ketchup.

Life’s lessons touched all of us that day—so long ago. With a twist of fate, Ronnie learned that pride can be fleeting when humility knocks on your door. Mom realized that rewarding her son’s best efforts meant as much as if he had successfully accomplished the mission. Her love and understanding put things in their proper order. Respect for my older brother rose quite a few notches as I began to understand that life can get into the way of practical thinking more often then we thought. And, we all understood the importance of family just a little bit better as we sat around the table that evening, together.

This story is meant to be continued…

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved

OUR MIGHTY SYCAMORE TREE

 

A series of essays….

OUR SYCAMORE TREE REMINDS ME OF THE PLANE TREES LINING
THE SMALLER ROADWAYS AND VILLAGES OF FRANCE;
TALL, STRAIGHT, AND MAJESTIC!

….as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E Hughes

Yes. Life is all about, at least it should be, watching two squirrels scramble down various rutted tree trunks and chase one another across the backyard. Taking the few seconds of time out from a busy morning to take this all in seems to be the biggest challenge for most of us. 

Even at my age, my mind is filled with ‘to do’ lists, schedules, and Zoom meetings. Heck, by the time those furry-tailed tree rodents scratch their way down to terra firma and make a run for it, I’ve begun my morning schedule of daydreaming, imagining different scenarios, plotting, all while attempting to put these thoughts into coherent and interesting sentences. 

Now that many people are easing out of the pandemic that has taken over our lives for the last several years, tiny stirrings of what I presume to be normalcy erupt inside me. I am encouraged by this. But, even as we begin sticking our toes into the nearly forgotten waters, we are chilled to the bone given all of the uncertainty about life that has to be dealt with if we desire to, actually, take the final plunge.

Even though the room I write in can change on any given day (as we continue the work on improving our little cottage), I have felt comfortable within the scope of my working existence for over two years and have found solace in the act of creating my stories to share with others. I humbly thank you, my dear readers, for allowing me time to get my head together before continuing my journey along this inspired path.

Each morning becomes a new adventure; each adventure brings new promises, often based upon my life, growing-up, and existing in a world of my own particular circumstances. It’s rather cozy here in my own skin. This is where I feel safe every morning—no matter which room I happen to be in or what the news has to offer.

It’s fairly certain, especially at my age, that the dark hand of death would be gripping my wrist and pulling me into the reality of one of life’s greatest promises: all living things will, eventually, pass on and we should be grateful for the time we have on this earth. We must make the most of it and improve with age like a fine wine or a brilliant French cheese! Many of us concentrate our best efforts at productive thinking towards the end of our lives and, I don’t believe this is, necessarily, the wrong thing to do. 

Slipping into a comfy groove, routine, after years of further education, employment, having and raising children, having these children marry and begin families of their own—feels very satisfying to me. Grandchildren have always been my priority and one  reason for living in Michigan, today. Sadly, three grandchildren have become as illusive as a David Copperfield performance with our daughter preferring her parents to be magically transformed into a lengthy disappearance act. Life can be disappointing, irrational, and absolutely unpredictable no matter how hard one tries to do the right thing; work on making things right, once again. Sadly, this is another story for another time.

No one has a perfect life. There are too many things that impede it. As it’s been said before, life itself tends to get in the way of perfection. But, if we can concentrate on what feels good, what makes us happy, or what makes others happy, we might just have a chance to experience the closest we can come to perfection in this lifetime. This is why my writing, especially at this time in my life, has become exceedingly important to me. Putting into words my feelings and beliefs in story form gives me a reason to exist; a purpose for spending time interacting with others and visiting unknown places in order to find others who believe in these same things. 

My heart goes out to all of the families who have unconventionally lost someone they love so dearly! We can, almost, come to terms with the fact that decease takes lives away from us on a daily basis. Aging is a process by which our bodies begin to deteriorate and leave us at their mercy. However, to witness our youth being deprived of their future and the promising possibilities of hope, is beyond comprehension. 

Within the past few weeks, I have had several relatives pass on. Children of friends have succumbed to cancer. Innocent grandparents and even a father purchasing a birthday cake for his son have been lost due to gun violence. Students and their teachers have been taken from their families because someone brandished a weapon of mass destruction and shot twenty-one innocent souls in a Texas elementary school. While the families grieve for their loss, authorities who won’t accept responsibility run and hide; spoiled adults being enabled by their peers who hold offices of importance within the very same community. No backbone. No shame.

This past Sunday, a good friend in her eighty’s left an open wound in the hearts of those who love her and must exist without her. May you Rest In Peace, my friend. The world has lost a very talented and beautiful lady!

It is difficult for me to take any of this lightly. It would take an extremely heartless person to do so.

Sitting back in my chair, once again, two squirrels, one black, one gray, repeat, with Indianapolis 500 speeds, their race to the bottom of the sycamore tree that lives outside of the window and has its roots under the surface of the ravine that exists alongside our house. And yet, our mighty sycamore tree stands straight and tall as it towers above most of the trees along the block.

What a long journey for my acorn loving neighbors to make on this lovely spring morning. With the gusto of fresh eyes and a willing disposition, the scene before me hatches over and over again as if it were Groundhog Day. Gladly taking a few seconds out of my busy morning, I savor the opportunity to witness nature’s little scramble along with its plethora of earthly colors and delights. 

Copyright © 2022 by Jacqueline E Hughes

All rights reserved.