It’s Tuesday Somewhere

Putting My Feet In The Dirt: On a Typical Tuesday Morning

On a typical Tuesday morning  the local commuter bus that stops in front of the Suttel Apartments is always late.

As it pulls away from the curb,  the stop lights at the intersection that it is headed for start to flash wildly from green to yellow to red and then they shut off.

From inside the bus a man rushes up the aisle to the front,  kicks the door open, runs out to the street looks up and says, ” I’m dead, I’m dead. Somebody wake me up I’m dead. ”

On a typical Tuesday morning  the woman in H201 on the third floor of the Suttel decides that today is the day and she goes out to her balcony, swings her leg over the railing and pushes her self off to the street below.

On a typical Tuesday morning a little blue car with it’s bumper held in place by duct tape tries to out run a Fire Engine with a screaming siren and fails. It jumps the curb and hits a green  and white trash can sending  bags of fast food wrappers, beer bottles, and coffee cups into the street and across the sidewalk.

Among the half eaten burgers and bags of chips  that are littering the street,  perched against the curb,  there is a severed human hand in a freezer bag with last years date written in blue sharpie across the front.

It stands on it’s stump for a few seconds before it slowly falls palm side down.

Above the street at the Suttel, a woman named Betty watches the excitement on the street below from her kitchen window and when she’s done she steps back closes the curtains and takes her seat at her kitchen table and pours herself some tea.

She adds a little sugar and as she stirs her warm- no longer hot tea, she decides that today is probably not a good day to clean out the rest of her freezer.

That’s a typical Tuesday at the Suttel Apartments where on Tuesdays  time hits the ground in front of it like a lightning bolt.

In most cases when lightning hits the ground it leaves nothing behind but a little scorched earth. However, anything that was there before is gone now and all that’s left is a mark, that with time will fade away.

In time maybe that’s what will happen at the Suttel, maybe one day that  Typical Tuesday will get dimmer and dimmer until it disappears all together from memories, calanders and clocks.

Unless of course that bolt of time hits on Saturday five years ago or on Friday  six years from now.

It might sound confusing, but in this part of the Universe that failed on the day it was created-

it’s typical.

 

 

Friday Flashback- These Horns Were Made For Tooting

First Published 2015

These Horns Were Made for Tooting

Today, share something you love about yourself  — don’t be shy, be confident! — but that few other people know about you or get to see very often.

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You would never guess it by the crap  I eat now, but back in my child rearing days I was a pretty good cook

I loved to dice, chop, slice and sauté.

And most of what I cooked or baked I worked on from scratch.

But I did, after awhile start to have trouble at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

For those holidays I made turkey- never ham. My dad did a great ham and unless I could turn something out that tasted as half as good I didn’t bother.

Here’s when the trouble started.

When I went to work in the Funeral Home, you could not rattle my cage. I could do reconstructions or an embalming for hours at a time. After spending most of the day working with death and corpses I eventually would look up at the clock and when lunch time rolled around I’d finish up, grab a car and race down to one of the three nearby burger joints.

I could eat like a horse after doing that work.

But…yes the mighty BUT one Thanksgiving I was cleaning the turkey- I reached into the cavity and my stomach clenched up and I almost barfed all over the bird.

I pulled my hand out and took a breath.

I thought I was coming down with the flu- which figured I always got sick around the holidays.

After I got myself together I tried again and this time I did puke- I made it to the sink and I heaved so loud I think I ruined my kid’s and husband’s appetites for the rest of the holidays.

We got the bird cleaned and stuffed and I felt fine for the rest of the day.

That is until Christmas rolled around and the same thing happened- and over the years I got somebody else to clean out the bird and stuff it because the thought of putting my hand into that carcass turns my gut.

I could embalm, I could do reconstructions I could treat the dead no matter what condition they were in with care and dignity.

But to this day I cannot stand to put my hand in a turkey.

Something in me broke and I guess it’s going to stay that way.

Because I am

NEVER

EVER

GOING TO STICK MY HAND IN A DEAD BIRD AGAIN.

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Fandangos Friday Flashback October 16 th