Your mother will always look out for you no matter how old you get it seems. Since I just moved here from that Stepford Wife state of CT, I’ve been temporarily staying with the parental units until my new house is ready next month. So I was humorously reminded of the protective bond a mother provides over the years. Let me explain a recent chain of events on how it goes on down the line through the generation tug of war.
Last week at dinner time my pre-schooler grumbled that he didn’t want to eat his food. He got down from the table and screamed, “Mommy, I want oreo’s for dinner.” Didn’t sound like a bad idea to me - heck, I wanted cookies for dinner too. Oh, but then the mother instinct took over and I told him “no” of course and he went off stomping his feet and yelling, “Bad Mommy”.
So after putting him to bed I dressed up and was leaving the house to go to a late dinner with friends but had popped my head into the TV room where my mother and grandmother were watching, “SuperNanny” that horrid little show with unruly children you wish to ship off to Guam. “You should watch this show, Carol, you could a learn a thing or two,” says my mother. “That little guy of hers could be an episode himself,” jokes my Grandmother. So I roll my eyes like any good daughter would and try to escape for my night out but too late – mom is out of the chair and scrutinizing my outfit. After a frown the size of half a hula hoop, she reaches over and buttons my shirt, “Look at this – you have cleavage showing for goodness sake.” Immediately I’m thrown back to high school hiding a pair of 3” red suede Candie heels in my back pack that I would change into after I got off the bus at school. So I let her do it knowing full well I’m going to unbutton it again when I leave the house. On the way out the door I overhear my grandmother complain to my mother, “You’re gonna let her go out at 9:00 at night?” “She’s 40 years old, Ma,” my mother replies. “I don’t care - What is she doing at 9:00 at night,” my Grandmother continues to apply pressure. I just know my mother is rolling her eyes at her own mother.
So the stress gets passed on down the line from mother to mother across the generations. Always looking out for your best interest with that mother hen instinct to protect their young even though you are a parent yourself. The next day my mother wheels my Grandmother into the Adult Day Center to spend some time with her friends. (93yrs. old and still kicking, God Bless her cranky little self) As she leaves she overhears my grandmother say to her friends, “Damn kids! Sixty years old and she’s still giving me aggravation!”
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Life in the Emergency Room
The local hospitals know my father on a first name basis. “Hi, Ron, what did you do this time?” is a popular phrase heard in every Emergency Room in the Hudson Valley. He’s there so often they need to name a wing after him from all the business he’s provided them over the years. What’s the problem? He’s either accident prone or just really bad at starting a career of suicide attempts.
Starting from my childhood I can count the years on what accidents Dad had. When the teacher asked me to recite the alphabet I’d say, “E-R”. It started when he was showing me how NOT to open a car’s radiator after it was running for awhile. “See this, Carol? Don’t ever open the radiator cap when it’s hot -- watch what happens.” You guessed it - facial burns that rivaled the Joker’s. That was my first experience in the ER. There was the time he was showing me how to ski down the slopes of VT. “Now it’s very important to watch where you’re going, Carol, so you don’t hit a treeeeee”. He looked like a cartoon character with his face smashed into that tree, arms and legs wrapped around it and various ski equipment strewn about the mountain. I just shook my head and wondered how he survived hitting a tree and Sonny Bono didn’t – they’re both the same size I thought.
Chainsaws! There’s a hot button. I can’t tell you how many body parts he’s cut up with a chainsaw over the years. Dr. Frankenstein must be his doctor one would think with all the sewn up appendages he has. As an adult whenever I hear the sound of one I immediately begin to twitch as if I have cerebal palsy. When I got my drivers permit he made sure I got full use out of it driving him to the hospital. “Hi Carol, can you drive on over here I need your help.” “Sure, Dad, let me finish eating my sandwich and I’ll be there in a half hour.” “You better come now because I’m lying under a tree.” WHAT??!!” “Yeah, the chainsaw got away on me and I sliced my arm just about off but I can’t tell because the tree fell on me so I’m a bit stuck underneath it right now. It’s a good thing the cell phone was in my other pocket,” he laughs while bleeding to death. Sixteen years old and I swore like a trucker at him all the way to the hospital as he faintly kept telling me to slow down or I’d get a ticket. Can you believe that?!
This man has totaled more cars than at the Derby Raceway. Insurance companies lock their doors when they seem him coming. The kicker is that he can roll the best trucks several times over and STILL walk away from them. He’s driven one off a cliff, down a slope, landed vertically on a set of railroad tracks and made it out of the cab before the train plowed through it. Stunt men just look at him and shake their heads. Absolutely amazing! Now that he’s in his sixties, retired, and recuperating from 2 heart attacks back-to-back in July I figured his days of being Evil Knieval were over. Nope. Eating my breakfast and staring out the window at the rain last week I suddenly see his body fall from the sky. Bastard fell off the roof. He was working on the addition in the rain and fell off the roof and into the hole of cinder blocks. I told my mother to just pour the concrete foundation on top of him and be done with it. They say cat’s have nine lives but watching this episode I swear I saw a mother cat telling her young, “See that guy – he’s got 15 lives and counting.”
Starting from my childhood I can count the years on what accidents Dad had. When the teacher asked me to recite the alphabet I’d say, “E-R”. It started when he was showing me how NOT to open a car’s radiator after it was running for awhile. “See this, Carol? Don’t ever open the radiator cap when it’s hot -- watch what happens.” You guessed it - facial burns that rivaled the Joker’s. That was my first experience in the ER. There was the time he was showing me how to ski down the slopes of VT. “Now it’s very important to watch where you’re going, Carol, so you don’t hit a treeeeee”. He looked like a cartoon character with his face smashed into that tree, arms and legs wrapped around it and various ski equipment strewn about the mountain. I just shook my head and wondered how he survived hitting a tree and Sonny Bono didn’t – they’re both the same size I thought.
Chainsaws! There’s a hot button. I can’t tell you how many body parts he’s cut up with a chainsaw over the years. Dr. Frankenstein must be his doctor one would think with all the sewn up appendages he has. As an adult whenever I hear the sound of one I immediately begin to twitch as if I have cerebal palsy. When I got my drivers permit he made sure I got full use out of it driving him to the hospital. “Hi Carol, can you drive on over here I need your help.” “Sure, Dad, let me finish eating my sandwich and I’ll be there in a half hour.” “You better come now because I’m lying under a tree.” WHAT??!!” “Yeah, the chainsaw got away on me and I sliced my arm just about off but I can’t tell because the tree fell on me so I’m a bit stuck underneath it right now. It’s a good thing the cell phone was in my other pocket,” he laughs while bleeding to death. Sixteen years old and I swore like a trucker at him all the way to the hospital as he faintly kept telling me to slow down or I’d get a ticket. Can you believe that?!
This man has totaled more cars than at the Derby Raceway. Insurance companies lock their doors when they seem him coming. The kicker is that he can roll the best trucks several times over and STILL walk away from them. He’s driven one off a cliff, down a slope, landed vertically on a set of railroad tracks and made it out of the cab before the train plowed through it. Stunt men just look at him and shake their heads. Absolutely amazing! Now that he’s in his sixties, retired, and recuperating from 2 heart attacks back-to-back in July I figured his days of being Evil Knieval were over. Nope. Eating my breakfast and staring out the window at the rain last week I suddenly see his body fall from the sky. Bastard fell off the roof. He was working on the addition in the rain and fell off the roof and into the hole of cinder blocks. I told my mother to just pour the concrete foundation on top of him and be done with it. They say cat’s have nine lives but watching this episode I swear I saw a mother cat telling her young, “See that guy – he’s got 15 lives and counting.”
Back to school.....
Back to School….
Well all the little kiddie-do’s went back to school this week. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief through-out the region as parents everywhere put those little ones on the bus. Half hour later what sounded like thunder was not your local weather but rather the groans of every teacher as they dealt with classes of crying kindergarterners and swearing teenagers. God bless those poor things as they struggle to help guide our offspring – I know I couldn’t do it. The fact that I kept my two children alive to the point of school-age is a miracle in itself. Ingrained upon my memory was holding my colicky daughter at three weeks of age and crying along with her thinking, “Why on earth did I do this to myself?” Five years later, with saggy body parts, ten more wrinkles and the loss just about every hair on my head I have to remind myself that in the end it is worth it. Ninety percent of child-rearing is living hell but the other ten percent is so wonderful it keeps you from jumping off the bridge.
The fact that I’ve passed onto my 6yr-old bad habits like swearing better than any truck driver is a mute point. “It was bound to happen in her teens, anyway,” I reason. I fondly remember the first time my little darling picked up on this odd new slang of expressing one’s anger. We were driving in the “mama mini-van” (Lord help me I finally broke down and got one – oy!) when another driver cut me off in a very near miss. Without thinking I yelled, “You A$$hole!” From the her car seat my darling child holding onto her ducky for dear life asked, “Mommy, why did you call him that?” So I begin to answer her, “Well, you see he ran a red light and red means stop….” And just when I was beginning to wonder why I was explaining traffic laws to a toddler wouldn’t you know it but yet another car runs a stop sign and pulls out onto the road in front of me and I have to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision. Without missing a heart beat I hear a little voice yell out, “Look, Ma, there’s ANOTHER A$$hole!” Chip off the old block.
So with a big smile on my face I stood alongside my own mother and took pictures of her getting on the school bus and waved a tearful goodbye. I ponder what experiences my daughter will encounter in first grade this year and all the wonders her little mind will absorb and breathe a sigh of relief that she has a good teacher to guide her. Someone that will help un-do all the mistakes I’ve made thus far and set her on a steady path of good manners, education and ambition. The glow of the moment ended abruptly however when my mother, filled with the unique ability to inflict catholic guilt on everyone she knows, says “I just don’t see why you just can’t home school.” [Smirk] Till next time….
Well all the little kiddie-do’s went back to school this week. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief through-out the region as parents everywhere put those little ones on the bus. Half hour later what sounded like thunder was not your local weather but rather the groans of every teacher as they dealt with classes of crying kindergarterners and swearing teenagers. God bless those poor things as they struggle to help guide our offspring – I know I couldn’t do it. The fact that I kept my two children alive to the point of school-age is a miracle in itself. Ingrained upon my memory was holding my colicky daughter at three weeks of age and crying along with her thinking, “Why on earth did I do this to myself?” Five years later, with saggy body parts, ten more wrinkles and the loss just about every hair on my head I have to remind myself that in the end it is worth it. Ninety percent of child-rearing is living hell but the other ten percent is so wonderful it keeps you from jumping off the bridge.
The fact that I’ve passed onto my 6yr-old bad habits like swearing better than any truck driver is a mute point. “It was bound to happen in her teens, anyway,” I reason. I fondly remember the first time my little darling picked up on this odd new slang of expressing one’s anger. We were driving in the “mama mini-van” (Lord help me I finally broke down and got one – oy!) when another driver cut me off in a very near miss. Without thinking I yelled, “You A$$hole!” From the her car seat my darling child holding onto her ducky for dear life asked, “Mommy, why did you call him that?” So I begin to answer her, “Well, you see he ran a red light and red means stop….” And just when I was beginning to wonder why I was explaining traffic laws to a toddler wouldn’t you know it but yet another car runs a stop sign and pulls out onto the road in front of me and I have to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision. Without missing a heart beat I hear a little voice yell out, “Look, Ma, there’s ANOTHER A$$hole!” Chip off the old block.
So with a big smile on my face I stood alongside my own mother and took pictures of her getting on the school bus and waved a tearful goodbye. I ponder what experiences my daughter will encounter in first grade this year and all the wonders her little mind will absorb and breathe a sigh of relief that she has a good teacher to guide her. Someone that will help un-do all the mistakes I’ve made thus far and set her on a steady path of good manners, education and ambition. The glow of the moment ended abruptly however when my mother, filled with the unique ability to inflict catholic guilt on everyone she knows, says “I just don’t see why you just can’t home school.” [Smirk] Till next time….
Sunday, June 28, 2009
My Paintings
Paintings
When I was getting my Masters degree in Fredonia, NY, just outside Buffalo, I waitressed and sold my paintings to pay the bills. I had a lot of my works in pubs for sale and did pretty good for a while. Every one of them has a story to me just like a fond memory or a favorite tattoo. While bartending for this posh historic 1700’s Hotel where I actually had to wear a tux every night in the lounge with a beautiful mahogany bar, I met a rich fellow that had a hunting room and we got to talking about art. I told him where my paintings were hanging in town and he commissioned me to paint him a picture of wild ducks for his hunter green trophy room. Two weeks later I deliver the painting to his Mc-Mansion and see his really tripped out hunting room. He pays me $200 in cash for the painting, offers me a joint for which I pass and I start heading out. I walked out the door and got this weird tingly feeling as I walked to my car. I pulled out of the driveway and made it to the light at the end of the block when about a zillion SWAT cars and a police helicopter just storm the place and I watch it all in the rearview mirror as my art lover gets hauled out and thrown down on the front steps of his place. The papers next day said it was a huge mega drug bust that had been planned for a while. God, can you imagine that? I have a lot of odd stories like that of various travels …Lord the stories I could tell of some very interesting people you meet in the world. Mercy!
Picture #4 – Ribbon through time. This one has specks of glass sprinkled into the blue starry night that this peachy ribbon floats effortlessly through. I’ve had a few offers to sell it but I can’t part with it.
Picture #5 – Shattered. This is one of a few paintings I started doing that I termed, “Emotion paintings”. Like if you could take an emotion, say for instance, “sadness” and tried to paint it – what would it look like? This one is raw anger, bloody, and filled with shards of glass making you keep your distance… it is pain…it is rejection and rage…. betrayal and isolation… I painted it after being left at the Altar by Fiancé #2.
Picture #6 – Thunderstorm. Love this one. I always lose an earring so I took all the remaining earrings and put them in this painting. The one in the middle is the eye of the tornado, the upper left is crackling lightening, the bottom left is a canyon that the raging river on the lower left flows to. In the upper right are clouds and rain. I love thunderstorms and the rain in general. It’s electric nature fascinates me and water pouring down is a symbolical cleansing of the soul; a renewal.
Picture #7 – Two Ships passing in the night. This is my front window. I cut large plates of stained glass and set it in the window framework. It feels to me like an aerial view of two ships passing in the night--- kinda’ also reminds me of the aerial view of the two battlestar ships just missing hitting one another in the original Star Wars. Yes, I’m a huge fan of the films… what can I say.
Picture #8 – Folded Rag Rug. This one is actually one of those colorful woven rugs made of rags that everyone has had at one point in their lives at the entrance to the back door. It represents the woven strands of one’s life – there are hi’s and low’s, some dark periods, lighter/colorful sections, snags and worn areas but soft and comforting.
So that’s just a little sample of some of the paintings I’ve done. As I’m sure everyone does, I too have a favorite one. It hangs in my entranceway and has a secret message written on the back for someone I had not yet met …. but that’s another story.
When I was getting my Masters degree in Fredonia, NY, just outside Buffalo, I waitressed and sold my paintings to pay the bills. I had a lot of my works in pubs for sale and did pretty good for a while. Every one of them has a story to me just like a fond memory or a favorite tattoo. While bartending for this posh historic 1700’s Hotel where I actually had to wear a tux every night in the lounge with a beautiful mahogany bar, I met a rich fellow that had a hunting room and we got to talking about art. I told him where my paintings were hanging in town and he commissioned me to paint him a picture of wild ducks for his hunter green trophy room. Two weeks later I deliver the painting to his Mc-Mansion and see his really tripped out hunting room. He pays me $200 in cash for the painting, offers me a joint for which I pass and I start heading out. I walked out the door and got this weird tingly feeling as I walked to my car. I pulled out of the driveway and made it to the light at the end of the block when about a zillion SWAT cars and a police helicopter just storm the place and I watch it all in the rearview mirror as my art lover gets hauled out and thrown down on the front steps of his place. The papers next day said it was a huge mega drug bust that had been planned for a while. God, can you imagine that? I have a lot of odd stories like that of various travels …Lord the stories I could tell of some very interesting people you meet in the world. Mercy!
Picture #1 - Cindy in nothing but her Halston Perfume. This was an ad that came out that Cindy Crawford did for the Halston Perfume line circa 1980’s at the height of her career. That Pepsi commercial with the little boys watching her down a Pepsi on a dusty road to the tune of “Just one look” was all the rage. I liked the shading of the bone structure in her collarbone and her knee in this.
Picture #2 – Life in Pottery – This is representative of some of the Native American themed paintings I’ve done. I sold a lot of my young Indian maiden portraits at a business I owned called, “Two Eagles Horse and Wolf” in 2000. This painting is representative of the harsh terrain of life’s up’s and down’s as symbolized by the mountains. On a table of raw lumber sits 4 pots that represent 4 stages of my life. The yellow pot is the warm phase of childhood and youth; golden with promise. The white pureness of the wedding jar is next followed by the heart shaped bottle that has the words, “El Corazone” (Spanish for “the heart”) written in the glass and lastly the plump pregnant vessel of Motherhood rich with it’s natural wisdom and strength. Notice that the eagle feathers are in the burgundy wine pot of the heart; the soul. I was in my late 20’s and putting the feathers in that pot was used to represent the phase I was in at the time.
Picture #2 – Life in Pottery – This is representative of some of the Native American themed paintings I’ve done. I sold a lot of my young Indian maiden portraits at a business I owned called, “Two Eagles Horse and Wolf” in 2000. This painting is representative of the harsh terrain of life’s up’s and down’s as symbolized by the mountains. On a table of raw lumber sits 4 pots that represent 4 stages of my life. The yellow pot is the warm phase of childhood and youth; golden with promise. The white pureness of the wedding jar is next followed by the heart shaped bottle that has the words, “El Corazone” (Spanish for “the heart”) written in the glass and lastly the plump pregnant vessel of Motherhood rich with it’s natural wisdom and strength. Notice that the eagle feathers are in the burgundy wine pot of the heart; the soul. I was in my late 20’s and putting the feathers in that pot was used to represent the phase I was in at the time.
Picture #3 – Looking up from the ocean floor. This painting was the first one that I started writing secret messages in the paint that can only be detected if you really study it. It is the view you see looking up from the ocean floor towards the sunlight shining down through the frothy waves. I was living in North Palm Beach, Florida in my 20’s and every day was a boating day. I loved snorkeling and everyone had a boat party on a daily basis since I lived at a Marina behind a fabulous little bar off US 1 called “the Brass Ring”. They had this brass ring that hung from a string in the ceiling. The trick was to swing it at a hooked nail on the wall and see if you can make it catch. I spent some time in that place watching the ocean and lovin’ Killians Red on tap, laughing at the tourists and being a parrothead. Snorkeling, living the singles life and being a bum. So at this little establishment I would sit and meet some interesting people from time to time. I loved seeing people struggle at the brass ring game over and over never getting close to hooking it. When they tired of the impossible-to-win game and sat back down at their table I’d take my Killians and slink on over in my tanned skin, ragged lockes and bohemian skirt and in one minute hook it 7 times in a row without skipping a beat. I’d suck down the beer in several swallows listening to them mutter over my unbelievable success, and then turn, wink at them and leave the pub. Smooth as butter. Snapshot moment in time of my life there. So this painting represents that careless freedom I had in exploring that time I spent in Florida.
Picture #4 – Ribbon through time. This one has specks of glass sprinkled into the blue starry night that this peachy ribbon floats effortlessly through. I’ve had a few offers to sell it but I can’t part with it.
Picture #5 – Shattered. This is one of a few paintings I started doing that I termed, “Emotion paintings”. Like if you could take an emotion, say for instance, “sadness” and tried to paint it – what would it look like? This one is raw anger, bloody, and filled with shards of glass making you keep your distance… it is pain…it is rejection and rage…. betrayal and isolation… I painted it after being left at the Altar by Fiancé #2.
Picture #6 – Thunderstorm. Love this one. I always lose an earring so I took all the remaining earrings and put them in this painting. The one in the middle is the eye of the tornado, the upper left is crackling lightening, the bottom left is a canyon that the raging river on the lower left flows to. In the upper right are clouds and rain. I love thunderstorms and the rain in general. It’s electric nature fascinates me and water pouring down is a symbolical cleansing of the soul; a renewal.
Picture #7 – Two Ships passing in the night. This is my front window. I cut large plates of stained glass and set it in the window framework. It feels to me like an aerial view of two ships passing in the night--- kinda’ also reminds me of the aerial view of the two battlestar ships just missing hitting one another in the original Star Wars. Yes, I’m a huge fan of the films… what can I say.
Picture #8 – Folded Rag Rug. This one is actually one of those colorful woven rugs made of rags that everyone has had at one point in their lives at the entrance to the back door. It represents the woven strands of one’s life – there are hi’s and low’s, some dark periods, lighter/colorful sections, snags and worn areas but soft and comforting.
So that’s just a little sample of some of the paintings I’ve done. As I’m sure everyone does, I too have a favorite one. It hangs in my entranceway and has a secret message written on the back for someone I had not yet met …. but that’s another story.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Poem - "Rainstorm"
Don't you just love the rain? Lately it seems like Noah is gonna go by in an ark it's been raining so much. There's a romance, beauty, and powerful strength about the rain storm that makes you respect it and want to be apart of it. I guess you could say, "I'm a dancin' in the rain kinda gal". So here's a poem I just finished on rainstorms.
Rain Storm
Raging Sky!!
Roaring and Ripping
Heaven’s heart.
Electrifying Cracks of Grumbling Anger
Whirling dervish whips and cuts
Pain ………Rains ……. Down
~sobbing on quivering leaves~
Trees bow down......
To their......
Master’s Might.
Droplets sparkle
Upon the spidery web
A crystal kaleidoscope arches it’s glorious hues
across the indigo lily sky;
New found Healing Sun.
{ Soothing Sigh }
Rain Storm
Raging Sky!!
Roaring and Ripping
Heaven’s heart.
Electrifying Cracks of Grumbling Anger
Whirling dervish whips and cuts
Pain ………Rains ……. Down
~sobbing on quivering leaves~
Trees bow down......
To their......
Master’s Might.
Droplets sparkle
Upon the spidery web
A crystal kaleidoscope arches it’s glorious hues
across the indigo lily sky;
New found Healing Sun.
{ Soothing Sigh }
Friday, June 12, 2009
Yooo Hoo??!!! Anybody a producer out there?? Below is a treatment, (a short synopsis) of a screenplay that I've finished and am currently editing. Copyrighted copies currently available upon request.
Treatment
Lizzie Borden
When only an Ax will do..
It was the summer of 1892 in Fall River, Massachusetts. A particularly scorching August with temperatures around 104 degrees. Ah, but the temperature wasn’t the hottest thing come from Fall River that year….. the hottest thing was the Trial of Miss Lizzie Borden in one of the most famous, and heinous, of histories unsolved crimes: the ax-butchering of Andrew and Abbey Borden in broad daylight. It was a serial killing that made headlines all around the country; a news frenzy rivaling the trial of O.J. Simpson. Scandalous stories were printed in The Boston Globe that nearly brought a newspaper to its knees. Children sang a song about it: “Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.” At every breakfast table, Irish pub and gentlemen’s smoking lounges all the talk raved about how a woman had never been accused of the crime of Murder before. Why they didn’t even have a jail to keep her in with the lack of a need for a woman’s prison and all. But the major whispering that went on was mostly focused on the father she killed, Andrew Borden, the most powerful and richest man in all of Fall River. The Borden name was chiseled on the A.J. Borden building, the most prominent building in all of downtown Fall River… a thriving monopoly of businesses that it was. A self-made millionaire by deception and miserly characteristics he had a reputation of being unsocialable and stern. For all of his wealth he lacked charm, love, and compassion for anyone except perhaps Lizzie on occasion. Abbey’s death was of little consequence to anyone other than that she was Lizzie’s stepmother and Andrew’s wife. Andrew’s death, on the other hand, caused many a mug of beer to be raised in celebration. But the matter of finding out who the killer was… I mean the real killer and the political conspiracy, pay-offs and subsequent other murders that occurred in the cover-up of this case haven’t been revealed until now.
On the morning of August 4th between 9 and 10 am Andrew and Abbey were murdered by several blows to the skull by what forensic experts believed to be an axe. The only people believed to be in the home at the time and listed so in court testimony was Bridget (or Maggie) the maid and Lizzie. On the morning of the murders when police had arrived it was often noted how Lizzie showed absolutely no emotion and seemed cold and distant. At the viewing of the bodies most men vomited and Lizzie didn’t even swoon which was considered unlady-like for the times since women were seen as being very emotional. A few days after the murders Lizzie started to behave oddly by burning a blue dress in the kitchen stove, which looked exactly like the dress she had been wearing the morning of the murders. It was rumored a woman fitting her description was seen trying to buy prussic acid or arsenic poison from a pharmacy across town 2 days before the murders. It was noted by the family physician that Abbey had come to him the day before her murder and said the whole family was sick and that she believes they were being poisoned. So the Chief Police arrested Lizzie requiring her to undergo an inquisition regarding her parent’s death, which lasted for a period of four days. Lizzie would be allowed to return home at the end of each night since there were no accommodations for a woman in jail. At this time a conspiracy was brewing between many parties, a silent government, in the private back smoking parlor of The Mellenhouse Hotel. A woman was seen entering and leaving one night from the back door of this private lounge of which included the company of the Prosecutor in the case, Hosea Knowlton; the Judge, Josiah Blaisdell; the Defense Attorney, Andrew Jennings and lastly, John V. Morse, Andrew’s brother-in-law by his first marriage. A deal had been struck to intentionally accuse Lizzie and pay-off’s were made. No explanation would be given as to the identity of the killer, why they were being protected, and by whom. And so the parties set out to create a trial against Lizzie Borden.
The inquisition and preliminary hearing delves into the private past of this family as Andrew and Abbey come alive in flashbacks depicting their strained relationships. It is a strange house with odd entrances and exits, furniture in front of locked doors, and completely lacking in creature comforts. Even the poorest in the community could afford gas lighting and indoor plumbing but Andrew wouldn’t have it, preferring instead to use the outdated kerosene lanterns; even then - he would sit in the dark rather than burn his kerosene. Abbey was seen as a fat oaf by her stepdaughters, Emma and younger Lizzie. Emma being 12 years older than Lizzie when their mother died, raised her like a daughter. She fostered a hatred for Abbey, which she handed down to Lizzie. They often ridiculed and scoffed at Abbey, who painfully grew accustomed to her miserable existence. After all, she was an old maid when Andrew, after a week of courting her, simply offered a business proposition of marriage in exchange for someone to run his home and raise his children. She was an obedient wife. Andrew was a strict head of the home. The girls were never allowed to have suitors for Andrew believed the only reason anyone wanted to marry his daughters was to get at his fortune. Therefore, the women were doomed to lead the life of spinsters letting the years pass in their father’s home with no social outlets or escape. Lizzie was greedy and a snob, however, and wanted to live amongst the other wealthy inhabitants of Fall River Society upon what was termed “the Hill”; a prestigious neighborhood of Fall River that resided on the steep hill in the Northern section of town. On occasion, Andrew’s confidante and brother-in-law, John Morse, would visit the Borden home and did so the night before the murders with a purpose in mind.Through the court scenes of Lizzie’s trial, the social drama of a nation caught up in the scandalous affair and the sub-plot of the truth, this tale is woven - leading up to a surprise ending of the killer’s identity, the massacre of the victims, and how Lizzie orchestrated the entire thing – all out of greed for money and high society. She manipulated the killer into performing the gruesome act, and he received the freedom from jail-time in exchange for his share of the inheritance making Lizzie extremely wealthy with a home on the hill. Little did she know the price she would pay for these murders and getting away with them …..
Treatment
Lizzie Borden
When only an Ax will do..
It was the summer of 1892 in Fall River, Massachusetts. A particularly scorching August with temperatures around 104 degrees. Ah, but the temperature wasn’t the hottest thing come from Fall River that year….. the hottest thing was the Trial of Miss Lizzie Borden in one of the most famous, and heinous, of histories unsolved crimes: the ax-butchering of Andrew and Abbey Borden in broad daylight. It was a serial killing that made headlines all around the country; a news frenzy rivaling the trial of O.J. Simpson. Scandalous stories were printed in The Boston Globe that nearly brought a newspaper to its knees. Children sang a song about it: “Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.” At every breakfast table, Irish pub and gentlemen’s smoking lounges all the talk raved about how a woman had never been accused of the crime of Murder before. Why they didn’t even have a jail to keep her in with the lack of a need for a woman’s prison and all. But the major whispering that went on was mostly focused on the father she killed, Andrew Borden, the most powerful and richest man in all of Fall River. The Borden name was chiseled on the A.J. Borden building, the most prominent building in all of downtown Fall River… a thriving monopoly of businesses that it was. A self-made millionaire by deception and miserly characteristics he had a reputation of being unsocialable and stern. For all of his wealth he lacked charm, love, and compassion for anyone except perhaps Lizzie on occasion. Abbey’s death was of little consequence to anyone other than that she was Lizzie’s stepmother and Andrew’s wife. Andrew’s death, on the other hand, caused many a mug of beer to be raised in celebration. But the matter of finding out who the killer was… I mean the real killer and the political conspiracy, pay-offs and subsequent other murders that occurred in the cover-up of this case haven’t been revealed until now.
On the morning of August 4th between 9 and 10 am Andrew and Abbey were murdered by several blows to the skull by what forensic experts believed to be an axe. The only people believed to be in the home at the time and listed so in court testimony was Bridget (or Maggie) the maid and Lizzie. On the morning of the murders when police had arrived it was often noted how Lizzie showed absolutely no emotion and seemed cold and distant. At the viewing of the bodies most men vomited and Lizzie didn’t even swoon which was considered unlady-like for the times since women were seen as being very emotional. A few days after the murders Lizzie started to behave oddly by burning a blue dress in the kitchen stove, which looked exactly like the dress she had been wearing the morning of the murders. It was rumored a woman fitting her description was seen trying to buy prussic acid or arsenic poison from a pharmacy across town 2 days before the murders. It was noted by the family physician that Abbey had come to him the day before her murder and said the whole family was sick and that she believes they were being poisoned. So the Chief Police arrested Lizzie requiring her to undergo an inquisition regarding her parent’s death, which lasted for a period of four days. Lizzie would be allowed to return home at the end of each night since there were no accommodations for a woman in jail. At this time a conspiracy was brewing between many parties, a silent government, in the private back smoking parlor of The Mellenhouse Hotel. A woman was seen entering and leaving one night from the back door of this private lounge of which included the company of the Prosecutor in the case, Hosea Knowlton; the Judge, Josiah Blaisdell; the Defense Attorney, Andrew Jennings and lastly, John V. Morse, Andrew’s brother-in-law by his first marriage. A deal had been struck to intentionally accuse Lizzie and pay-off’s were made. No explanation would be given as to the identity of the killer, why they were being protected, and by whom. And so the parties set out to create a trial against Lizzie Borden.
The inquisition and preliminary hearing delves into the private past of this family as Andrew and Abbey come alive in flashbacks depicting their strained relationships. It is a strange house with odd entrances and exits, furniture in front of locked doors, and completely lacking in creature comforts. Even the poorest in the community could afford gas lighting and indoor plumbing but Andrew wouldn’t have it, preferring instead to use the outdated kerosene lanterns; even then - he would sit in the dark rather than burn his kerosene. Abbey was seen as a fat oaf by her stepdaughters, Emma and younger Lizzie. Emma being 12 years older than Lizzie when their mother died, raised her like a daughter. She fostered a hatred for Abbey, which she handed down to Lizzie. They often ridiculed and scoffed at Abbey, who painfully grew accustomed to her miserable existence. After all, she was an old maid when Andrew, after a week of courting her, simply offered a business proposition of marriage in exchange for someone to run his home and raise his children. She was an obedient wife. Andrew was a strict head of the home. The girls were never allowed to have suitors for Andrew believed the only reason anyone wanted to marry his daughters was to get at his fortune. Therefore, the women were doomed to lead the life of spinsters letting the years pass in their father’s home with no social outlets or escape. Lizzie was greedy and a snob, however, and wanted to live amongst the other wealthy inhabitants of Fall River Society upon what was termed “the Hill”; a prestigious neighborhood of Fall River that resided on the steep hill in the Northern section of town. On occasion, Andrew’s confidante and brother-in-law, John Morse, would visit the Borden home and did so the night before the murders with a purpose in mind.Through the court scenes of Lizzie’s trial, the social drama of a nation caught up in the scandalous affair and the sub-plot of the truth, this tale is woven - leading up to a surprise ending of the killer’s identity, the massacre of the victims, and how Lizzie orchestrated the entire thing – all out of greed for money and high society. She manipulated the killer into performing the gruesome act, and he received the freedom from jail-time in exchange for his share of the inheritance making Lizzie extremely wealthy with a home on the hill. Little did she know the price she would pay for these murders and getting away with them …..
Poem - Thanksgiving
Ahhhh…… Thanksgiving – now that’s something I can sink my teeth into. Every year in my family we have a wonderful tradition of going around the dinner table and each of us stating one thing we were grateful for in the past year. I love this holiday, so in honor of the occasion I’ve written a poem in a Wordsworth-like style. Hope you like it.
Thanksgiving
What is there about a field of Barley
golden, crisp, flowing and rippling in the afternoon breeze
like the waves of a frothy blue, deep ocean
on a day in November when frost is plentiful and
harvest is ripe to be wrought from the burnt umber vines
shriveling back to the bed of earth for it’s rich warmth
leaving it’s painstaking fruits behind
for our cakes, pies and breads
licking our butter spattered cheeks
by the sap-crackling fire on a cold winter’s morn
and stirring up warmth like a meaty stew
slowly bubbling on the stove all day
and filling the house with it’s brothy aroma?
Why is it that we travel like pack mules
dirty, tired, and sweaty
with shards of fur shagged off from a prick of barbed wire
and maneur grown thick in the hooves
trodding over fields stubbled with nubs of corn crop stalks
remaining in the heart of Autumn
when they’ve been cut down and banded together with twine
standing erect in scattered clusters for miles to see
with plump, ripened pumpkins deep in russet brazen tones
at their base, preparing for the snows of winter,
and each of us,
coming together with our own brood,
nestled through the passing years of old harvest & new growths
calling that universal ring like a loud, heavy steeple church bell
low and humming within our souls
vibrating through our blood line of generations
driving us homeward like migrating geese
back to the small towns of our youth
hidden from the absurd realities we now live
and tucked away like a Norman Rockwell
reliving football games and hot dogs, floats,
candied apples, Uncle Tommie, prom gowns, Sunday dinners,
the chorus at Midnight Mass, grandma,
your dog barking as you come up the drive,
and parents still cheering for you in the crowd
filling your lungs with the hearty laughter
that rolls along like a high school marching band
with the drum reverberating within your chest?
What is it that brings us back to the roots
Of our lives, our loves, our memories, our past?
The answer is woven within the worn and tightly knotted strands
Of a blanked called, “Family”
On a day we call Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving
What is there about a field of Barley
golden, crisp, flowing and rippling in the afternoon breeze
like the waves of a frothy blue, deep ocean
on a day in November when frost is plentiful and
harvest is ripe to be wrought from the burnt umber vines
shriveling back to the bed of earth for it’s rich warmth
leaving it’s painstaking fruits behind
for our cakes, pies and breads
licking our butter spattered cheeks
by the sap-crackling fire on a cold winter’s morn
and stirring up warmth like a meaty stew
slowly bubbling on the stove all day
and filling the house with it’s brothy aroma?
Why is it that we travel like pack mules
dirty, tired, and sweaty
with shards of fur shagged off from a prick of barbed wire
and maneur grown thick in the hooves
trodding over fields stubbled with nubs of corn crop stalks
remaining in the heart of Autumn
when they’ve been cut down and banded together with twine
standing erect in scattered clusters for miles to see
with plump, ripened pumpkins deep in russet brazen tones
at their base, preparing for the snows of winter,
and each of us,
coming together with our own brood,
nestled through the passing years of old harvest & new growths
calling that universal ring like a loud, heavy steeple church bell
low and humming within our souls
vibrating through our blood line of generations
driving us homeward like migrating geese
back to the small towns of our youth
hidden from the absurd realities we now live
and tucked away like a Norman Rockwell
reliving football games and hot dogs, floats,
candied apples, Uncle Tommie, prom gowns, Sunday dinners,
the chorus at Midnight Mass, grandma,
your dog barking as you come up the drive,
and parents still cheering for you in the crowd
filling your lungs with the hearty laughter
that rolls along like a high school marching band
with the drum reverberating within your chest?
What is it that brings us back to the roots
Of our lives, our loves, our memories, our past?
The answer is woven within the worn and tightly knotted strands
Of a blanked called, “Family”
On a day we call Thanksgiving.
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