Guaranteed Work

by Trudy A. Martinez

"I am here," a young woman announced as she tapped lightly on the counter to gain my attention. Then she leaned over the counter, smiled, and whispered, "You can tell everyone else to go home--the job is mine."

"Do you have an appointment?" I asked abruptly while pretending to have not heard her last remark.

"Most definitely," she answered smiling in anticipation my next question. She began to introduce herself: "My name is Margo--." Before she could finish speaking her finger was on my clipboard, pointing to her name. "There's my name right at the top of your list--," she hesitated and then added, "--where it belongs."

I thought to myself, "This young lady is certainly self-confident, a main requirement for the position of New Accounts clerk I am interviewing for. But, she appears almost too sure of herself." I called her into the conference room, requested that she have a seat, and then asked her point blank, "Why do you think you are the best choice for the open position here at the bank?"

She smiled and quickly exclaimed, "I guarantee my work!"

"You what?"

"I guarantee my work," she repeated.

I could hardly believe my ears she had said she guaranteed her work. I sat in silence, not knowing what to say next. Never had I been at a loss for words before that was usually a fault of the interviewee. I had only asked her one question; but yet from the very moment she made her presence known to me, she began to demonstrate all the qualities I was looking for. "Margo, you have my curiosity stirred. What do you mean by your statement: ' I guarantee my work?'"

"Curiosity killed the cat," she replied. "But you need not be curious, my work is accurate; I don't make errors. But if you find one and prove me wrong, I guarantee I will fix it."

I hired her. But because she was so confident that her work was errorless, I began to scrutinize it, looking for that one fatal error. A year passed; no errors ever surfaced. I became lax and stopped looking. "Perhaps it is possible for someone to do their work errorless," I thought. I felt confident that Margo could be trusted and relied on to follow procedures without me looking over her shoulders.

Then I was called out of the bank for a few days on business. When I returned, the vault teller requested that I enter the vault with her to prepare and fill an order of cash for a merchant. I did. While I was in the vault, I noticed that there was a stack of $100 dollar bills segregated from the other bills. I asked, "Why are these bills segregated from the other bills?"

The vault teller replied, "Margo asked that they be placed in the vault, separate from the other bills, until you returned. She said, ' They are counterfeit.'"

I asked, "Does she know who passed them?"

"Oh yes, a new account customer opened a time certificate with them."

I inspected the bills. They were definitely counterfeit. But since an employee of the bank had accepted them as legal tender, I feared we were now going to be faced with an operating loss. Never had I taken an operating loss for accepting counterfeit bills. I thought to myself, "When Margo makes an error, she does it good. Why didn't she notify the police or the F.B.I.?" Only Margo could answer my questions. She knew procedures. Ignorance was definitely not the reason. "Why didn't she follow procedures?" This whole thing didn't make sense. I approached Margo and asked, "Why?" "Why?" "Why?"

"The manager told me to wait until you returned."

"How did the manager get involved with it to begin with?"

"He brought the customer to my desk. I thought he knew him."

I excused myself saying, "I have to make a few calls before 5:00 P.M., I'll get back to you later concerning this matter." Immediately, I called the "Feds," explained what had happened, begged their forgiveness, and made plans to entrap this mystery man if by chance he attempted to do it again. Margo had shared with me his statement that he would be back to open another account when his certificate at another bank matured. The F.B.I. gave me instructions. I had to fill Margo in. But because of the frantic hassle and the circumstances, precious time had slipped away and so had Margo--she had left the bank for the day. "Oh well," I told myself, "Tomorrow is another day."

The next morning disaster hit. A family emergency occurred delaying my arrival at the bank. When I did arrive, Margo met me at the door. "It's fixed," she said.

"What's fixed?" I inquired.

"My error," she stammered with excitement, "I told you: ' I guarantee my work.'"

What had she done? My mind could not conceive how she could correct such an error. "Margo," I said in a calm, reassuring voice, "Face it, your error is not fixable. It cannot be erased as if it were chalk on a chalkboard."

"But it has," she replied, "In just that way too--like chalk on a chalkboard." "You see," she continued, "The man who gave me the counterfeit came back. He said he had an emergency and he needed his money back. So, I gave him--I gave him his counterfeit bills."

"Oh no," I exclaimed, "Now the error is mine!"

Grama's Birthday By Trudy A. Martinez

Today is not my birthday: that day passed weeks ago but yet, here stood Elijah and Charity, wishing me happy birthday, handing me a present, asking me to open it, gleaming with joy from anticipation.

The package handed me was a work of art:  personality spilled from its hand painted design; each stroke told a story, filling my heart with joy; each color depicted a mood, an emotion sprang from it, leaping at my heart strings.

There is a cake waiting  to be eaten so I had better get along with my story.

"I painted this."  Elijah exclaimed, smiling as he pointed to his design.  "Charity painted this," he continued as his words sprang to life in the ears of his little sister standing next to him, waiting her turn to speak.

"Open it Grama,"  her words rang out, sprinkling the air with the soft tones of her voice.

"Do you know what it is?"  Elijah queried.

"No," I replied, "Can you tell me?"

"Can't tell Grama, Elijah!"  Charity's voice rang out.

"No-O-O-O-O-O."  Elijah answered, dragging out the one syllable word, lingering it in the air momentarily before he added, "You have to open it, Grama."

My fingers had already began to carefully undue the paper from one of the packages.  The paper was unique as it was homemade; the designs were drawings made by Elijah and Charity and the pictures would make a perfect addition to my refrigerator door that was adorned with such treasures.

My two prized possession hang from a looped chain that is attached to a magnet on that door:  pacifiers, One blue one and one pink one.  The blue one was given to me by Elijah a few years back.  The pink one was reluctantly given up on Charity's second birthday.  She wasn't forced to give it up; she did it willingly but it was difficult decision for her to make.  I remember.  She stood at a distance from me, covering her eyes.  She knew it was her birthday; she knew she was going to give up her infancy with the passing of her prized possession to my refrigerator door and thereafter, 'patsy' was to become my prized possession.  My thoughts were suddenly brought back to the present with the sounds of voices:

"Come on , Grama, hurry up--Open it,"  Elijah said.

"Open it," repeated Charity.

"Here,"  Elijah added, reaching for the other end of the package, ripping the paper quickly off.  Charity in the meantime, picked up the other package and quickly opened it for me.

"Here, Grama, here's your present."

Thanks honey, that's a pretty cup.  Why it even has my name on it:  Grama.  It's a Grama cup.  Elijah just finishing the unwrapping of the other present, proudly held it up for me to admire.

"Do you know what it is, Grama?"

I looked it over.  It looked like a milk carton, but windows had been cut out of each side.  There were also two small holes in each side.  And it had been painted all over with paint, different colors of paint.  There was a stick that was separate but that went with it.  On the top of the structure, a rope like twine was attached to it on both sides.  "Hm mm," I thought, " I wonder what this beautiful creation is?"  Elijah and Charity eagerly waited for a reply.  I was taking too long to guess and they were extremely anxious to tell me.

"It's a bird feeder, Grama!"  Charity exclaimed.

"You put seed in here," Elijah explained, "then you put the stick through here," he continued, "And the birds come and eat the seed."

"They come and eat the seed." Charity echoed, smiling.

"It is beautiful," I said, "I know just the place to hang it."  We went to the patio, hung the bird feeder, and then, came back inside to watch and wait, but no birds came.

"They'll come," Elijah and Charity assured me.  But the birds didn't come and Elijah and Charity went home.

A few days later, Kit, my cat, started jumping and running and acting real crazy.  She would sit at the patio door, swinging her tail back and forth, faster and faster her tail went back and forth.  She was trying to get my attention so I would let her outside.  I opened the blinds and saw that there was a bunch of little visitors in my backyard:  birds were perched on the bird feeder on the little stick that stuck out from the side.  Birds were walking on the ground, picking up the seed that their friends up above were dropping on the ground from the pretty bird feeder that Elijah and Charity made for me.

I immediately called Elijah and Charity on the telephone to tell them about the little visitors.  They were not home.  I left a message.  Here's what I said:

"That beautiful bird feeder you gave me for my birthday has brought joy.  I have lots of birds in my backyard where before there were none.  The birds have been eating the seed and I keep filling it up with more seed because they are very, very, hungry.  Have to go now--just wanted you to know--love you. 

Oh yeah, Kit likes it too.  She jumps and runs and acts real crazy.  She wants to go outside with the birds.  She wants to catch them, but they fly away when they see she is coming out.  Love you--Bye."

Love Grama Trudy

-Trudy Martinez-

A Special Pair

Hello World,

I am trying something new,  The Windows Live Writer (Beta).  It promises to be a great tool  in posting  blogs to my site.  So here it goes, lets see if it  is easier and better than my old avenue of blogging.  I am going to insert a picture of my grandson, Elijah.

His parents had the most used phone numbers coded in their phone.  The number to my phone was "2".  While babysitting one night, I taught him to call my number and listen to my answering machine's message.  I kept telling him to say "Hello, Grama" when the message stopped and he heard the ding.  He wouldn't say it.  But we practiced calling my phone many times until he could call without my prompting him. 

About a week later when I got home from classes, there were some  messages waiting for me.  I listened to the first; it was from my oldest daughter.  Then came the second.  Wow!  It was Elijah.  He said, "Hello Grama".  There was a lot of noise in the background.  I could hear my daughter and her husband talking.  Don, my son-in-law, said, "Elijah, you are not suppose to play with the phone."  Then there was a click.  Don had hung it up.  I immediately picked up the phone and called their house and told them I had a message from Elijah on my phone.  Of course, they did not believe me.  So I played it for them so they could hear for themselves.  With a little patience on the adult's part, a child can learn to do things at a very early age.  This little incident is proof of that.

Here is a picture of Elijah now.

He is no longer a boy; he is a young man, attending college.  When he was just a little guy,  I wrote some journal entries about him and his little sister, Charity.  The two were quite a special pair.

They played well together as evidenced by the photos above.

No Where To Run is an article I wrote about an adventure they had with my cat, Kit.  If you click on the title you can enjoy the adventure too.  

In addition, Grama's Birthday is an other article I wrote about both Elijah and Charity.  It was a joy when they both came to my house to deliver a present that brought with it a lasting joy for me and my cat.  Click on the title and enjoy the adventure too.

Charity has grown too.  Here is a picture of her holding a crab she found on the beach here in California.

She has turned into quite a soccer player too.  She guards the goal and stops the ball from entering.  She does a good job.  Before too long I plan to put some video clips of her doing just that.  Then you can judge for yourself.  In the meantime, there are some still shots in the photo album under Soccer and Charity Blanton if you care to check them out.  Charity also sings.  The AV Beat On-line Magazine wrote an article about her in their magazine. They called her the"Singing Soccer Player",  Check out her singing and follow the links posted there to read the magazine article.

Yes, I do believe I am convinced:  The Writer (beta) is for me.

It makes it easier to tell the stories and lets you see what I am saying through pictures.  I am also able to link the journal entries or stories to the people I love and let you see how they have changed over the years.  I really like this program.  It is really worth downloading.  And it has been up-graded quite a bit since I first installed it.  Try it.  You'll like it!

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by

Trudy A. Martinez

"I am here," a young woman announces as she taps lightly on the counter to gain my attention. Then she leans over the counter, smiles, and whispers, "You can tell everyone else to go home--the job is mine."

"Do you have an appointment?" I ask abruptly, pretending not to have heard her remark.

"Most definitely," she answers smiling in anticipation of the next question. She begins to introduce herself: "My name is Margo--." Before she finishes speaking her finger is on my clipboard, pointing to her name. "There's my name right at the top of your list--," she hesitates and then adds, "--where it belongs."

I thought to myself, "This young lady is certainly self-confident, a main requirement for the position of New Accounts clerk I am interviewing for. But, she appears almost too sure of herself." I call her into the conference room, request she have a seat, and then ask point blank, "Why do you think you are the best choice for the open position here at the bank?"

She smiles and quickly exclaims, "I guarantee my work!"

"You what?"

"I guarantee my work," she repeats.

I can hardly believe my ears; she said, "I guarantee my work." I sat in silence, not knowing what to say next. Never before have I been at a loss for words; that is usually a fault of the interviewee. I only asked her one question.  From the very moment she makes her presence known to me, she begins to demonstrate all the qualities I am looking for. "Margo, you have my curiosity stirred. What do you mean by your statement: ' I guarantee my work?'"

"Curiosity killed the cat," she replies. "But you need not be curious, my work is accurate; I don't make errors. Nevertheless if you find one and prove me wrong, I guarantee I will fix it."

I hire her. Because she is so confident her work is errorless, I begin to scrutinize it, looking for that one fatal error. A year passes; no errors ever surface. I become lax and stop looking. "Perhaps it is possible for someone to do their work errorless," I thought. I felt confident I could trust and rely on Margo to follow procedures without me constantly looking over her shoulders.

I am called out of the bank for a few days on business. When I return, the vault teller requests I enter the vault with her to prepare and fill an order of cash for a merchant. I did. While I am in the vault, I notice there is a stack of $100 dollar bills segregated from the other bills. I ask, "Why are these bills segregated from the other bills?"

The vault teller replies, "Margo asked that they be placed in the vault, separate from the other bills, until you return. She said, ' They are counterfeit.'"

I ask, "Does she know who passed them?"

"Oh yes, a new account customer opened a time certificate with them."

I inspect the bills. They are definitely counterfeit. But since an employee of the bank accepted them as legal tender, I fear we are now going to be faced with an operating loss. Never had we taken an operating loss for accepting counterfeit bills. I thought to myself, "When Margo makes an error, she does it good. Why didn't she notify the police or the F.B.I.?" Only Margo can answer my questions. She knew procedures. Ignorance is definitely not the reason. "Why didn't she follow procedures?" This whole thing didn't make sense. I approach Margo asking, "Why?" "Why?" "Why?"

"The manager told me to wait until you return."

"How did the manager get involved with it to begin with?"

"He brought the customer to my desk. I thought he knew him."

I excuse myself saying, "I have to make a few calls before 5:00 P.M., I'll get back to you later concerning this matter." Immediately, I call the "Feds," explain what had happened, beg their forgiveness, and make plans to entrap this mystery man if by chance he attempts to do it again. Margo shared with me his statement that he would be back to open another account when his certificate at another bank matures. The F.B.I. gives me instructions. I need to fill Margo in. But because of the frantic hassle and the circumstances, precious time slips away and so does Margo--she left the bank for the day. "Oh well," I tell myself, "Tomorrow is another day."

The next morning disaster hit. A family emergency occurs delaying my arrival at the bank. When I do arrive, Margo meets me at the door. "It's fixed," she says.

"What's fixed?" I inquire.

"My error," she stammers with excitement, "I told you: ' I guarantee my work.'"

What had she done? My mind could not conceive how she could correct such an error. "Margo," I say in a calm, reassuring voice, "Face it, your error is not fixable. It cannot erase as if it is chalk on a chalkboard."

"But it has," she replies, "In just that way too--like chalk on a chalkboard." "You see," she continues, "The man who gave me the counterfeit came back."

He said, "I have an emergency.  I need my money back."

"So, I gave him--I give him his counterfeit bills."

"Oh no," I exclaim, "Now the error is mine!"

-Trudy A. Martinez-Technorati tags: Journal+entry, that+is+Life

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Technorati ProfileThe Winners By Trudy A. Martinez

As I approach the O.J. Actis Junior High, a hum catches my ear like that of a swarm of bees.  Occasionally, a high squeal pitch punctures the air, following a towering roar, commanding, "Get over here--leave that girl alone!"

The doorway is crowded with mothers and dotted occasionally with a father here and there and, of course, a lot of small children trying to squeeze through openings in the crowd.

A long metal table blocks the wide entrance, except for a small passage way that leads on to the activity floor.  Behind the table, volunteers sit on a tan metal folding chairs.  They are frantically handing out fliers, signing up enrollees, or answering questions.  It is difficult for those who have already enrolled to get past the eager new participants.  A harsh voice rings out, "Just a minute, Jimmy."

"Come back here," says another.

Anxious children who manage to escape their parents side pepper the passage way.  They are uniformly dressed in black outfits that look like over-sized pajamas tied in the middle with a white belt.  The belt wraps around their small frames twice before being tied in the front.  On their backs, contrasting the black color of the pajama, are bold white letters forming in a semi-circle, spelling out "Young Olympians," an artistic illustration of a block kick in action, and stars, U.S.A., and more stars.

A white sock becomes air-borne, flying high above the heads of the crowd, as if it has wings--tailing behind it is a voice command:  "Go get that sock!"

On the activity floor which takes on the appearance of a gym with its waxed and shining hardwood, an instructor is giving directions to a group of children that were in an earlier session; the group is about to break up.  He says, "Remember now," taking in a deep breath as he raises his finger to is puckered lips, "Sh-h-h!"  Then he continues, "What you learn here tonight is to only be used as self-defense--to protect yourself from anyone who tries to grab you or hurt you--not your friends." he adds.  He takes another deep breath and says, "This bright yellow belt can be earned through your participation in learning and mastering the techniques I show you."  Then he asks, "Do you want one?"

A loud sharp, "Ya," can be heard as all the children reply to his question in unison.

The program is being sponsored by the Y.M.C.A.  Although the program is sponsored by the men's organization, participants of the educational activity are not limited to boys; girls are welcome and encouraged as well.

Chandra, my granddaughter, eagerly awaits her class to begin.  her big brown eyes glisten and beam with excitement.  It is difficult for her to remain still.  Her muscles tense and her fists clench in anticipation.  When her mother says, "Chandra, you need to get your shoes and socks off."  Chandra immediately drops to the floor as if she is a puppet and the words pull her string; her mother does not need to repeat the words.  She moves quickly, untying her shoes, pulling them off, and then removing her socks; when she finishes with one foot, she instantly repeats the process with the other.

On the activity floor, the instructor tells the early group, "Good-night," as he bows to them with both hands at his side.  All the students reciprocate and then leave the floor, scampering with excitement back to their parents.

Chandra's eyes grow in size, taking on a pleading look as if to ask, "May I go?"  Her lips form a smile and she turns her head upward toward her mother, anxiously waiting her mother's approval.  "Okay, go on."

The turn out for the self-defense and safety awareness program seems to highlight a growing problem that faces America: that of helpless children falling prey to unknown assailants and being victimized.  A concern for their safety prompts the offering of the classes.  The overwhelming response indicates parents worry about the children.  Because of the size of the class, some parents are asked to participate by holding the block pads and block sticks (foam padded) for the children to practice on, thus freeing more instructors to assist those kids who are having difficulty.

The children line up in rows.  Chandra makes sure she is right up front so she doesn't miss a move  Chandra's mom had told me the first night of class, Chandra had to be encouraged and reassured that she would not be the only one who didn't know anything; but no one would guess that she had been so shy now or that she had had only one lesson.  She certainly did not act like a novice.

"Horse stance," says the instructor.

Immediately, all the children assume the position:  they spread their legs apart, assume a semi-squat position, double their fists tightly until their little knuckles appear white and hard, and position their little arms in preparation to block and punch.  Their bodies are rigid.  "Punch," yells the instructor.

The children threw one arm forward sharply with force--"Ya." they reply in unison.

The instructor has them sit on the floor in a squatting position as he demonstrates the next move.  "When I say, ' Get up.'  I want you to get up as fast as you can--but don't start until I tell you."  All the little bodies tense and lean forward slightly.  One over anxious little bottom left the grown, protruding upward--it is Chandra.  "Down," the instructor repeats.  "Don't get up until I say."  He went on giving detail instructions on how to block a hit and then immediately follows through with a kick forward.  "Up," he says.

Little bodies pop up like they are spring loaded.

"Horse stance," he yells.  They instantly assumes the position.  "Block--Kick.

"Ke--." they yells as one arm goes up to block.  "Ya," they continues as their leg goes up close to their body and instantly shots forward.

Judging from the height of their kicks, I imagine an assailant dropping to his knees.  "These kids can turn out winners," I thought as my mind envisions the encounter and then their little legs carrying them speedily away from the danger.

Winner-Trudy Martinez-

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Today I hit the road, visiting one of those grandchildren of mine.  Her nickname is War Bug!    A War Bug is the good bug that distracts all the bad bugs away.  Well my War Bug is a joy; she loves to make little lady bug rocks.   Anyway,  She called me yesterday to give me some good news.  She said, "Grama, guess what?" 

I stopped being a good guesser years ago.  I like it better if they just come out and tell me what.  But I played the game.  "What, Honey?"  I asked in reply.

"We won!" She said excitedly.  "We won!"

"What did you win?" I asked eagerly. 

 "The regional championship!" She chirped out, "Our cheerleading squad did!  We were great Grama.  The crowd loved us."  The year before the squad did great too and the crowd loved them, but their team was disqualified because their coach clapped her hands and smiled (just like everyone else in the crowd).  However, the judges declared her hand movements and facial gestures (a smile) were her attempts to coach the girls from the side-line which of course is against the rules.  An attempt was made to appeal the judges decision to no avail.  I was a member of the crowd last year when War-Bug came away disappointed and in tears after so much time and effort had gone to not.  Their squad was clearly the best there.  I am not saying that just because I am her Grama either.  They practiced hard -- about 6 or more hours per week.  I let her know that it is all about sportsmanship.  And told her to keep her chin up because next year they would for sure win.  Both the coach and girls learned a lot about competition and the dos and don'ts.   Sure enough they won this year.   They did!  Last year their coach was female.  This year their coach is male.  He has three daughters and all three are on teams that he coaches.  Their team comes from the Kern Valley

This years' competition was held at Big Bear.  "Did your mom take the video camera?  Did she get some pictures?"  

They didn't take the video camera, but they did get some pictures from the digital camera.  I hope to post one here for you later.  If not, at least put one in the photo album on my site.  I hope you will enjoy it as much as I do once it is posted.gramashouse0ne.spaces.live.com  

This Journal entry is up-dated today with the pictures I promised to post here.   I was told by the photographer of these pictures it was difficult to get pictures because the girls were always moving. I hope you enjoyed seeing some Kern Valley wining teams.

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November 26 12:02 AM | Add a comment |

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A Concept of Truth:  The Truth--Nothing But The Truth 

By Trudy A. Martinez

"Put your right hand on The Holy Bible," the bailiff said.  Then he continued, "Repeat after me:  I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God."  In this scenario if a real statement of things is not made and instead, and untruth (a lie) is told, the untruth is referred to as perjury, a voluntary violation of an oath to tell the truth; therefore, it punishable by the law.

A friend asked, "How do you like my new dress?"  She smiled and twirled around, allowing the dress to billow out.  Her eyes were beaming with excitement, anticipating an affirmative answer.  Before I had an opportunity to reply, she added, "Tell the truth."

My mind regurgitated: " . . .the truth . . . nothing but the truth."  Then I blurted out, "I don't like it--the print is too bold--the color doesn't flatter you skin."

"How could you! How could you--What did I ever do to you?"  She stammered as tears filled her eyes.

"You said to tell the truth.  Is it my fault that sometimes the truth hurts?' I asked, defending my answer.  Under the circumstances, it was evident to me that the truth was not what she wanted, at least not in the sense I imagined.  Instead, the truth was something that was acceptable as true to her.

The concept of truth is difficult to explain and to teach children.  Everything around us seems to lie.  As a result, our actions speak louder than words.  For instance, when my daughter attempted to teach Chandra, my granddaughter, about traffic signals (they were in the car), every time they came upon a light my daughter would explain and then react.  "The red light means stop," she said to Chandra as her foot pressed on the brake to stop the vehicle.  "The green light means go,"  she said as she removed her foot from the brake and placed it on the gas peddle and then pressed downward to accelerate the vehicle.  Then my daughter attempted to explain the yellow light.  "The yellow light means slow down and get ready to stop." she said.

"That's not true, mommy." Chandra blurted out quickly.  Then she continued, "The yellow light means hurry and go fast!"  She looked up at her mommy with her big brown eyes fixed in a stare, confronting her.  "You stepped on the gas when you saw the yellow light."  Then she said as she continued to justify herself, "Remember when we were walking across the crosswalk, mommy?"

"Yes."

"The green light told us to go.  We went-we started walking."  She smiled and then continued.  "Before we could get across--the yellow light came on."  As Chandra continued, a smile formed on her mommy's face.  "You said, ' Hurry up--we have to go fast and get to the other side before the red light comes on," she stammered.  "So the truth is, mommy," she said as her eyes beamed with delight, "the yellow light means hurry up and go fast!"

In an attempt to prepare my two oldest daughters for the world, I had told them to always tell the truth--the whole truth--no matter what; they were warned that if they did not tell the truth--the whole truth, they would be punished.  My youngest daughter was four.  Her sisters were eleven and nine.  The four year old was very impressionable and wanted to be just like her sisters.  She would follow them around everywhere.  Then one day, she came running into the house, crying:  "I got a big ow-w-ie!"

"Oh honey," I said, "let me kiss it and make it feel better."

"No," she said.  "I need a big bandage."

"I'll get you one."

"No," she replied.  "I-I--do it."

"Are you sure you can reach them?"

"Yes," she answered.  "I'm a big girl."

"Okay, go ahead--if you have any trouble, call me--okay?"

"Okay," she stammered as she stumbled out of the room, limping and holding her knee.

A short time passed.  I heard her coming down the hall.  I was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for dinner.  I didn't bother to turn around.  I just asked, "Did you manage okay by yourself?"

She replied, "Yes, mommy," as she hurried past me toward the living room where her sisters were sitting on the living room floor playing a game of Monopoly with a couple of boys from the neighborhood.  All of a sudden, screams filled the air.

"Mom!" exclaimed one.

"How could you--you little brat!" Said another.  Laughter began.  The laughter nearly drowned out the screaming.

"What could be going on in there?"  I thought as I dropped what I was doing and made my way to the living room to find out.  The laughter got louder.  The two girls were still screaming.

"Mom!"

When I entered the room, the little one was standing with her back to me.  Her hands were over her ears; her tiny fingers were spread apart, covering as much of her head as possible.  The boys were rolling on the floor, laughing as hard as they could.  "What is going on here?" I asked.

"Look at her--just look at her,"  the two oldest girls yelled in unison.

"I-I--got a big bandage," the youngest replied softly.

I looked.  There on her knee, tied in back, was a sanitary napkin, a Kotex to be exact.  "where did she get the idea that this was a big bandage?" I asked.

The two older girls looked at each other.  Then blurted out, "It was easier to tell her it was a big bandage-then--to explain the truth."

"Then," I said, "You got your just reward--leave her alone--she has a big owwie!"  I took the little one's hand and we left the room as the laughter echoed behind us.  I said, "The way to avoid embarrassment or disappointment is to tell the truth--the whole truth!"

-

Trudy Martinez-

No Where to Run

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No Where to Run gramashouse0ne.spaces.live.com

                                 No Where to Run

                               By Trudy A. Martinez (GramaTrudy)

Reassuringly, little voices whispered dramatically,  "It's okay, Kit, we're not going to hurt you."  Kit was asleep when the two surrounded her with the intent of making friends.  Normally, she ran at the sight of them.  Now she was unknowingly cornered.

When the words, "It's Okay -- we're not going to hurt you." were repeated in unison.  Kit's eyes opened.  Obviously, she was not sure what to make of them:  Her ears moved from their normal stance, when their hands reached out for her, to a stressed slicked back position.

They petted her, gently.  Kit's ears remained down.  "It's okay,"  they reassured her.  Their words did nothing to change her countenance.  She was stiff and looking for a way to run.  Perhaps she recalled the day before, being cornered and her tail pulled.  The perpetrator of that incident was now gently running her hand from the top of Kit's head slowly over her thick winter fur to the tip of her tail without tugging.  The question now was:  Was Kit going to relax and take advantage of this freely given affection?

The children continued to assure her that they meant well with each movement of their hands over her body.  It was a slow process, a persuasive process, a winning process.  Kit's ears relaxed, relinquishing their stress.  Smiling the children exclaimed, "She likes me!  She's purring," They added with excitement.  "She's pur-r-ring."

-GramaTrudy Martinez-

November 26 12:14 PM | Add a comment | Read comments (1) | Trackbacks (0) | Blog it | Journal entry

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  litlev6

  litlev6

  Hello and thanks for stopping by.. :)  I enjoyed your blog and your wit.  I will be back..

  have a wonderful week

  Peace

  J

  November 29 7:57 AM
  (http://litlev6.spaces.live.com/)

gramashouse0ne.spaces.live.com

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Abandoned

                                           By Trudy A. Martinez

Why does she leave me here alone?  When she leaves, she's gone for days at a time.  I'm left alone, locked in, feeling sorry for myself.  I mope around and sleep more than I should.  But what is someone to do when your left alone for days on end.  I can't leave; I can't reach the door knob; I can't open it.  I can only sit and look out the window at everyone outside living life to the fullest. 

I guess you might say, I'm depressed.  How lonely I get.  I tend to get in mischief when I am left alone.  I think I do it just to get back at her for going off.  After all, turn around is fair play.  Isn't it?  It's fun to do things you're not suppose to do.  I remember once, when I was feeling down and a little possessive too, I went upstairs to sit and look out the window at everyone playing on the green grass.  But when I got to my favorite chair, I found it occupied with a stack of papers.  "That's my chair!" I exclaimed.  I quickly threw all the papers on the floor.  But I didn't stop there.  I was still upset because she left me again.  So, I tore the papers into little bits; I shredded them!  I even made sure if she were able to glue them back together she would not be able to read them because I poked them full of holes.  The ink ran some on some of the pieces because I put them in my mouth and got them wet.  Oh, was she mad when she saw what I did.  I sure got her attention. 

She yelled, "My papers!"

Well, they were her papers and she can have them now.  I had my fun.  I'll bet she'll think twice before she puts anything on my chair again.  She was almost in tears; she stood and glared at me; she didn't even blink.  "Hasn't she learned by now I can out stare her?" I thought.  It was as if she were getting ready to attack me.  I wasn't going to back down---I stared back. 

When she reached for me and grabbed me by the back of my neck, I wasn't scared.  I didn't yell out; I didn't fight back.  I did get my motor running though--you know--I started purring.  That always gets her to smile again.  Then, she started petting me.  She loves me no matter how mischievous I am or what I've been into.  I love her too.  But I hate it when she leaves me here alone.

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  GramaTrudy

  GramaTrudy

  Writing this journal entry helped me to work out the pain I was feeling.  It is a lonely pain.  My cat, Kit, went outside (in my backyard) and never came back.  I've been teary eyed ever since.  I haven't been able to concentrate.  I've been too sad.  Sometimes my only  contact with anyone is with my cat.  I call her Kit because even though she is full grown, she is small like a kitten.  I decided to write as if I were her because in a way the tables are turned.  I usually leave her for a few days by herself -- now here I am grieving because she has left me here alone.  The process of writing as if I was her made me feel somewhat better.  But there is still an empty place inside me that will never be filled if she doesn't come back.  I love her as if she were my child.  How could I be so insensitive?  How could I have left her here alone?

  June 19 2:34 PM
  (http://gramashouse0ne.spaces.msn.com/)

Unworthy of Honor?

By Trudy A. Martinez