Great Writers - Ton-V
Tonāntzin Rodríguez is a poet, spiritual healer, and curandera.
The Making of A Chingona (from CCW2023)
If you grew up without the protection of a father and were raised by two powerful women, Mi Madre y Mi Abuela, you knew a little chingona was in the making.
Leaving your country and loved ones behind y tener que cruzar el Rio Grande de chavalita. Night had fallen en el monte and we hid from La Migra. Frightened, staring up at the heavens and luminous stars. The only protection was my mother’s warm arms.
I didn’t know the language and was a stuttering scared child in school. I had to work harder than most kids. Overcoming a speech impediment, earning good grades, and becoming fluent in both languages by
the age of ten because I disliked how some folks ignored and discriminated against my non-English speaking mom who couldn’t read or write. Our struggles have always been my motivation. I went to school for both of us. I was her secretary, helped fill out forms, and send payments. I also became her personal translator. Then she would volunteer me to translate for total strangers. At the schools, clinics, hospitals, washeterias, you name it. Not knowing then, she was already developing my public speaking skills. I was an active girl who liked the outdoors. Some called me a tomboy cause I preferred to play sports and could play better than some of the boys. Freshman year, I was picked up by varsity coach to be the point guard. That was a big chingona moment for me.
Then the boy problems began. You see, I’ve been blessed with many gifts. But most men only see the outer gifts. When they get to know me and don’t get me, they will try to control me.
Trev Trevino writes poetry and short stories that explore themes of love, the search for identity, and the LGBTQ+ community.
Centennial
because it is late at night you listen to the trees and close your eyes
the suburbs that are surrounded by mountains are the quietest
you realize no one is around to make a sound
only the wind that pushes through branches and leaves that make it sound like rain
the pink house that is surrounded by the eastside is the most dangerous
the child sleeps to the city’s lullaby of heated arguments and fireworks
only the clinks of beer bottles and laughter over Tejano fill the streets on the weekends
silence just is not what it used to be
The student never sleeps through slammed doors and wind whistling through the hallways
college was calm as crashing waves was only a window crack away
silence was the only thing that was missing
people having muffled conversations and bursts of laughter just outside the door
downtown was desperate for attention at all hours of the night
sirens scream to let you know that the city is being protected
people yelling at someone and no one
the heat suffocates you into soaking the freshly washed sheets
silence screams nothing at you as you lay under the window
because it is late at night you listen to the trees and close your eyes
the chilled breeze covers you like a blanket under freshly washed sheets
feeling less afraid as you realize no one is around..
An Ode to Her
The name that was given to me was never mine but rather belonged to a classmate of my mothers with blonde hair and blue eyes who was a cheerleader and sweeter than cherries
my brown hair and brown eyes could never fit that name
I wanted a name that would fit in the boys so that I could get dirty and not have to wear dresses instead i was trained to turn when her name was called
I took the first chance I had to change it in any way possible I learned how great nicknames are how much better they sound when that name can be abbreviated or shortened to a single letter it was a way to stray further away from who I was supposed to be some didn’t see her name within me instead they called me Alex Lexi(e) Ashley Trevino Trev Sandee Val TÚ
I later became accustomed to turn when any name was called though I still longed for a name that is mine one that maybe was neither he or she but just me just recently I asked myself who I was because I knew that I wasn’t the blonde cheerleader the softball star or the straight A student they were not me I then thought
am I the nameless boy who had no problem sitting quiet in the corner was I supposed to be the third Daniel my fathers son I thought her name was too feminine until I met a boy with the same name and I thought that it could be possible I first didn’t want to lose the name that was given to me but the more I heard it the more I disassociated from it most people like me despise their deadname and as much as I wish I could hate her as well
I could not be who I am now without her while I am still my mother’s child a friend a student a writer and a person living without a true name I hope to one day find the name that makes me want to turn around one that looks like me one that can play in the dirt a name to fit my brown hair and brown eyes a name that is not hers
Trish Koval is a citizen of the world. She posts her thoughts on Facebook.
The Pheasant
Was on the road, and as I'm driving down swoops a dove from the overpass bridge and lands smack dab in my lane. I was traveling down a steep slope a two lane throughway, clipping along about 50 mph/80 kph. The throughway was quite empty, and I quickly looked in my rear-view before braking to see if there was anyone behind me... there was not. Could only slow down just so much before I was literately on top of this bird (those doves usually take off in flight as a car approaches them...this one didn't for some reason.) I thought, oh crap, I smashed him/her! Looked in my rear-view as I passed, the little bugger was fine, yet continuing into the next lane (no cars coming that I could see.) Maybe it was dehydrated, for it could fly. Hope it made it!
Funny how events suddenly jog the memory of another, for just after this as I continued to drive on I recalled an incident dating back to when I was around 10-11 years old. My father was working a job all the way down in Santa Cruz, CA. Remember well he was constructing a huge sewage plan down there. Anyway, he was on the long drive back home on the coast highway 1 at dusk. As par of the course, it was socked in by fog. He said, suddenly a wild pheasant hit his truck. He pulled over to see the condition of the bird. Its neck was broken, and it was lying dead on the side of the road. He picked it up and put it the back of his truck. When he came home he told he had a pheasant down in the basement, and told me what happened, however he never mentioned it was dead. Guess he assumed that that was understood or he felt bad that it had died and knew how I would react. I went racing to basement to see our new exotic pet! He had laid it out on his work bench. I got all emotional and turned to him and said, 'dad, it's dead!' He said, 'Trisha, of course it is dead sweetheart, it slammed into my truck!' I cried at that point, that I recall so well. My dad felt awful, and was hugging me wordlessly. Then he calmly explained to me that even had the pheasant survived it would have not survived in our care, wild birds rarely do. Nevertheless, him being a country boy, he knew all about plucking, and preparing a bird for cooking.
Naturally, I did not attend the feast, but my mother and brother did. Soooo... to conclude this bit of small history, he was right about all of it... just took me a bit longer to come to terms.
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Tulip Chowdhury is an educator and writer. She has authored multiple books. They are available on Amazon, Kindle, and Barnes and Noble.
Winter Nights
My guitar is silent like the hushed snow land outside
while I wait for you to knock on my door.
The flames dancing in the fireplace spread warmth
and reach a brighter fire in my heart;
the fire of love reaches beyond the cold night
to hasten you to my door.
Snow Flakes
Milky white angels in snowflakes
softly settle on my window sill
invite me with their intricate designs
like invitation cards unique.
I must hurry and step out
before they melt away
along with their heavenly messages.
December
December and winter carry different vibes.
The season comes to settle the cold
while the month bids farewell to the year.
With mixed emotions come
the year-end thoughts
like a pendulum swing between
joy and sorrow.
My Winter
I like the covered with snow
while the cold wind bites my face
grips my body
and shakes me from head to toe.
When snow is white and fresh
and crunches under every step
I like to listen to the stories they tell
while the biting chill settles in my flesh.
When the full moon catches the snow
with its mystic light
I hold my breath and wait
for fairies to join the magic show.
I love the winter season
as a winter's child
and when it's biting cold
it loves me with all its passion.
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VAUGHN WESTHEIMER is a poet and short story writer. His works include a variety of themes, including nostalgia, cats, fantasy, and fantastic cats. He is a mostly (but not completely) retired attorney.
BABY ELVIS AND THE MAGI OF MUSIC
“Do you hear what I hear?”
What Murphy was hearing was subtle, esoteric babysong. Only 80 or so people in the world could detect babysong, waves which flowed outside the range of normal human hearing. These men and women called themselves the Magi of Music.
“Yes, I hear it!” replied Lorenzo. “It’s coming through hushed and clear.” The date was January 9, 1935, and the babysong, muted as it was, transmitted more clearly than the long-distance telephone call Murphy and Lorenzo were on. “It seems to be emanating from somewhere in the southern U.S. I guess that means this is a case for us.”
“And Arceneaux,” Murphy added. “It may be cold, but at least it should be warmer than my last winter pilgrimage. That was in New Jersey back in December 1915.”
Some babysinger facts:
The babysinger on this January day had been born the day before in Tupelo, Mississippi, on a relatively mild day by January standards. Like other babysingers, little Elvis Presley would only babysing until he was 15 days old. No one knows why that is, just as no one knows why cold weather at the babysinger’s location interferes with accurately tracking the source of the babysong. Babysingers have latent musical talent – not always as singers, though that is often the case. The Magi of Music use their powers to awaken that talent. Most babysingers will not become famous, but a successful encounter with a Magus will spark their musical future. These facts have been learned through centuries of Magi of Music history, even though it’s a mystery to them as to how all this works.
And now, some Magi facts:
The Magi live an average of around 200 years. To avoid suspicion, they usually need to relocate from time to time. A Magus will usually have awareness of his or her power as a teenager or in early twenties. When it happens, it is as if the Magus has known it since birth. The Magi condition is not genetic. In fact, there are no known instances of Magi being married or having offspring.
Somehow the Magi communicate their existence to the Magi en Musique International, whose headquarters in 1935 was in Stockholm, and by “headquarters” was meant the actual head of one Nilsson, whose destiny was to be the Magi clearinghouse. Like other Magi phenomena, how this communication to and from headquarters happens is an enigma. The Magi refer to them as “emanations,” the same term they use for the transmission of babysong, although the two are not the same, as the Magi-to-headquarters-to-Magi emanations are silent.
Communications between Magi by using the headquarters as an intermediary is an inefficient substitute for Magus-to-Magus communication. Thus, the use of the telephone by Murphy and Lorenzo. But contacting Arceneaux was another matter. Phone service was still sketchy, where it existed at all, in her swampy part of Louisiana, despite anything Huey Long had done. So Murphy emanated a message to Stockholm, and Nilsson directed it to Arceneaux. As it happened, she was already on her way to Vicksburg, having a sense that the babysong was emanating from that direction. When her rarely-used jalopy putt-putted into town on January 11, she placed a call to Murphy, and through a series of conversations among the three Magi, they plotted their strategy to locate the newborn babysinger.
Meanwhile, in Tupelo, Elvis was fussy. He vocalized his discomfort in a sound so velvety that it barely qualified as a cry but was more like a melodic message as sweet as Tupelo honey. There were times he cried like a baby, but then there were those other occasions, banana splits with cherries on top, harbingers of a potential, but unassured, future.
Murphy, Lorenzo, and Arceneaux coordinated their search for the babysinger by triangulating the signal that Elvis emanated. Lorenzo lived in Fayetteville, Arkansas, but had traveled to Little Rock, sensing that that would place him closer to the baby. Murphy was at his home in Savannah, Georgia. Two Magi could narrow down the location of a babysinger, but when they applied what they liked to call “three-part harmony,” they could pinpoint their intended target – weather permitting. By the time they were able to work together, it was January 15. The temperature in that part of the country had begun falling on the 14th, but it was already a week after the birth, so they wanted to get started. They each tuned out distractions and homed in on the apparent direction of the babysong. Then they did their best to see where the respective paths met.
Their triangulation pointed to what turned out to be a field near an isolated shack not far from Columbus, Mississippi. The three Magi approached the house with excitement mixed with uncertainty due to the potential distortion of the signal as a result of the cold. It didn’t take long for a man, who looked to be in his 60s but was actually 39, to push open his door, which had not been locked, since it didn’t even have a lock.
“Hey, y’all. Come on inside, out of the weather. What can I do for you?”
The Magi entered the house and introduced themselves by last names. In fact, the Magi always used only last names when involved in Magi activity. (Well, almost always. There are currently two exceptions: Susmita Paikaray, who is living in Pasadena, California, and Srinibas Paikaray (no relation), now living in New Delhi; known in the Magi world as Sushi and Srini.)
“I’m Murphy,” said the native of Boston who had just moved south in 1919, at the age of 171. “Lorenzo here,” said the Chicago-born Magus. “And me, I’m Arceneaux. We’re looking for a home with a baby born last Tuesday. I don’t suppose this would be it?”
“Not any way in heaven or earth!” The man of the house laughed at the thought.
Murphy asked, “Have you heard of a newborn near here in the last few days?”
“Tell you the truth, mister, I don’t cotton to talking with Yankee boys like you two, but since this here young little lady is a daughter of the South, I’ll tell you what I know – and what I know is that my friend’s cousin’s boyfriend or something said that some folks in these parts had twins, but one of them done died.”
“Do you know the name of these people?” inquired Arceneaux (who was not exactly a young lady of the South. She looked to be in her 30s but was actually 124. And as for being a “daughter of the South,” Arceneaux was born in Quebec, although she had lived in Louisiana for 80 years.)
“I know my friend’s name.”
“And what is it?”
“Tommy Richardson.”
“Can we talk with him?”
“He was on his way to Texas or something. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Now, you say that folks in “these parts” had the babies. Whereabouts in these parts are they?”
The man scratched his head, which was tilted to the sky, but the sky wasn’t too helpful. “I reckon somewheres in Mississippi or Alabama, seems to me like,” he answered with a shrug.
Arceneaux shrugged back. “Thank you, thank you very much.” And with that, the Magi have left the building.
Murphy said, “We don’t know where this surviving twin is, and even if we found him, he might not be the babysinger. Let’s find something to eat in Columbus and make new plans.”
Murphy and Lorenzo slid into some greasy burgers, while Arceneaux dove in for some catfish. Between bites and napkin breaks, they decided that they would wait for the next babysong and redirect their search accordingly.
In the meantime, Lorenzo asked Murphy about the babysinger he found in New Jersey in ’15.
“I could tell this kid was bound for greatness. This is not your average babysinger we’re talking about. He’s – let me think – well, he just turned 19 last month. I could tell he was special.”
“So I suppose you nicknamed him,” Lorenzo said.
Some Magi have learned how to imprint babysingers with nicknames. Lorenzo knew that Murphy did that if he saw something special beyond the usual specialness that babysingers possess. The technique was discovered by accident in the early 1800’s in Denmark. Even though the process was over a century old as of 1935, only a few Magi could master it. Murphy was one of those. It involved simultaneously whispering and whistling the nickname into the babysinger’s ear. The baby apparently would not be aware of the nickname, but somehow someday the name would leave the former babysinger and land on someone who would disseminate it into the public consciousness.
“I sure did,” replied Murphy. The kid – his name is Francis Sinatra, by the way ,,,”
“Never heard of him,” Lorenzo said.
“Nor have I,” Arceneaux added.
“You will. And, if I was successful in planting the nickname, he will be called The Chairman of the Board.”
“That’s not bad. Better than that Louis guy, Steinberg or whatever,” Lorenzo opined. “’Maestro’ is more like a job description than a nickname, if he follows the path you predict.”
“It’s Bernstein, and they call him Lenny now, as I understand it. And I am sure he will be a major force in the music world.”
“Just like Francis, who we have never heard of,” smirked Arceneaux.
“So, Murphy, have you thought of a nickname for this new babysinger?” asked Lorenzo.
“As a matter of fact, I have. If my impressions based on the emanations are right, this one will be music royalty, I tell you. He should be known as The King.”
“Or The Queen,” added Arceneaux. “Who says it’s a boy?”
“So, supposing we locate this babysinger, who will encounter him?” Lorenzo wondered.
“I have the nickname chosen, so I should be the one to see him,” declared Murphy.
“If it’s a girl, then it will be easier for me to get access,” suggested Arceneaux.
More Magi facts:
What happens when a Magus engages with a babysinger varies depending on what can be called the “vibe” between them. The Magus and babysinger are in a mutual trance which neither will recall later. (The implantation of a nickname is not part of the traditional Magus-babysinger encounter, so the Magus remembers it.) But based on the nature of the emanations from the babysinger and the visuals the Magus receives upon their meeting, the Magus derives a sense of the babysinger’s potential, as well as obstacles that he or she may need to overcome to attain musical fulfillment, and that will direct the Magus’s methodology. In the case of Leonard Bernstein, for instance, Murphy observed the infant moving his left hand and fingers as if playing a piano, while his right was independently mimicking a conductor’s wand hand.
Murphy, of course, would be proved right about Sinatra and Bernstein, but now the trio were involved with the January 8 mystery babysinger. Back in Tupelo, people noticed peculiar things about little Elvis. Like the way he orchestrated his mouth into a sneer. And what other infant that age moves his hips like that? A wild baby dance. Some suspicious minds thought he might even be possessed!
Things were warmer on January 16, so the Magi had a better opportunity to determine a general direction for the emanation, but they needed to spread out in order to triangulate to a particular spot. So they headed towards their respective homes – but, on the edge of somewhere that was the middle of nowhere, Arceneaux’s ramblin’ wreck stopped a-ramblin’, and she was out of touch for days. Murphy finally sent a message to her through Nillson, but it was not until January 21 that the three Magi could make their next attempt.
You may be thinking that this time they were going to locate Elvis, head over to Tupelo, and jumpstart a legendary career. But on January 21, a cold front hit Tupelo, and lasted well-beyond the 15-day life of the babysong.
Murphy was despondent, regretting the loss of what he was sure would be a musical marvel. He decided to return to the Northeast, where died in 1952, before the career of Elvis Presley began. However, Murphy did find another nickname-worthy talent. It was in New Jersey again, September 1949. “I’m telling you, this Springsteen kid has a spirit like I have rarely, if ever, detected in a babysinger. He is going to take charge. I have imprinted him as “The Boss.”
Then on January 8, 1960, Arceneaux was listening as a radio station played a medley of songs by her favorite performer in honor of his 25th birthday. And then it hit her like Chick Webb banging sense into his drums. Elvis Presley, known as The King, was born in Mississippi on January 8, 1935! “This was our babysinger, and he reached the top without the Magi! Murphy was right – Elvis really is musical royalty.” Arceneaux exclaimed to her ears alone. After waiting a minute to compose herself, she turned to her now reliable telephone and, grinning a grin that could be heard through the phone line, she called Lorenzo.
Vaughn Westheimer is a poet and short story writer. His works include a variety of themes, including nostalgia, cats, fantasy, and fantastic cats. He is a mostly (but not completely) retired attorney.
CHALK OUTLINE MAN
Lightning animated the Chalk Outline Man
A work of art born on what had been a sunny day,
And he rose in a swirl, like Dali’s moustache,
A pink-yellow-blue (but mostly blue) pastel frame,
And he raced through the rain in search of identity.
Squeaking as he skimmed the sidewalks and streets,
The Chalk Outline Man attracted dreadful stares.
Wondering what image he was projecting,
He captured his reflection in a puddle
And saw the superficiality that others beheld.
“So I must have been created because of homicide,
But the homicide was not because of me.
Can’t these people see that I am on the side of justice?”
The Chalk Outline Man proceeded to the police station.
The police captain viewed him with official suspicion.
She thought, “Those must have been some nasty drugs.”
Before she could lock him up, he said:
“I have come to help solve the heinous murder of …”
Then, realizing he did not know whose body he was modeled on,
He asked the captain who the victim was.
“Oh, are you like a chalk outline robot?
Never knew they had those.
Anyway, we don’t use chalk outlines in murder cases any more.
We have cameras, you know.”
“Well, do you know who may have drawn me.”
The captain exhibited a shrug,
More “I don’t care” than “I don’t know.”
Then she told him to beat it,
And off he went without design.
The Chalk Outline Man hung his head,
If only metaphorically,
No impression as to how to go on.
But then latent lightning from inside
Sparked him to a new goal:
Seeking the comfort of family.
He returned to his sidewalk of origin.
“Maybe someone here can tell me who my parent is.
Who drew me onto the concrete canvas?”
And it happened that a woman from the occult emporium across the street
Had seen and talked with his creator.
“She was a girl of single-digit years from the faraway,
Traveling with her family to some farotherway. “
And that was all anyone could tell him.
The Chalk Outline Man shed virtual tears
From hypothetical eyes
And wandered aimless as Dada
Until his hypothetical eyes saw an art museum.
“Maybe I’m a masterpiece.”
He found the curator, who was standing by a Haring.
“Am I museum quality?”
But the curator exclaimed, “Anyone can see something like you
On a sidewalk outside the home of an eight-year-old girl!”
The Chalk Outline Man stumbled and staggered,
No family, no direction, no hope left,
Nothing to do but seek release from his storm of sorrow.
Praying for erasure, he visited a classroom
And entreated the teacher to turn him to dust,
But the lightning had left the Chalk Outline Man with an indestructible frame,
Relegating the eraser to irrelevance.
And so he drifted, clothed in despair,
Looking for nothing and finding it.
Resigned to spend eternity wandering the town,
Day to night, sidewalk to alley,
No garden, no earthly delights,
The Chalk Outline Man was alone and unwanted,
Lonely as Christina in her world according to Wyeth,
One of a kind, surrounded by the unkind.
But three weeks after he first arose,
Elsewhere in the same town,
A girl of single-digit years,
Traveling with her family back to their home in the faraway,
Took out her tools of pink and yellow and blue (but mostly pink),
Drew a Chalk Outline Woman,
And, with Vincent’s intensity, stared up into the starry night …
And summoned the lightning.
BLUE WISH
The only reason I still have birthdays, the better part of a century’s worth, is for the wishes. I have learned from movies and TV shows that the granter of wishes, whether genie, demon, prankster, or innocent but incompetent angel, will honor your words but not your heart.
So it is with the bestower of birthday wishes, who I decided to call “Birthday Fairy” (B. F. for short). Two birthdays back: “I wish I had ten million dollars,” I silently wished (you can’t say your wish out loud). And indeed, I had (past tense) all that money, but within minutes it drifted away like the smoke from the extinguished candles on the cake of ages. Then last year, when I wished for “ten million dollars right now, to keep or spend as I want to, when I want to, no time limit,” B. F. presented ten bills of a million dollars each—in the currency of Lower Utopistan, whose economy had collapsed.
Now, the interesting fact is that there had never been a country called Lower Utopistan until B. F. granted my wish. So now I realized that he, she, it, or they (I didn’t know B. F.’s gender) can create new worlds.
That brings me to my most recent birthday, when I turned 70. I had been dreading this one – I was going to be old! I didn’t want to wish to be younger—that could create new problems. What I really wanted was to be happy. All my past efforts, to be specific, had gone up in flames, so I just asked for happiness. And, so as not to be selfish, I asked for it to be for everyone.
Maybe it was because of the B. B. King song, The Thrill Is Gone, playing in the background. Maybe it was the celestial blue candles. But something subconscious caused me to be careless and wish that “No one will have the blues ever again.” And just like that, the music stopped, and the candles turned black.
It only took a few seconds for me to realize that I had slipped again. Somehow, B. F. had eliminated certain wavelengths of light; or maybe he (I decided to go with “he” because I thought I heard a male-sounding cackle when the color changed) messed with the cones in people’s eyes so that blue was blown away. What hath B. F. wrought?
The consensus seems to be—or, I should say, seemed to have been —that my best physical features were my blue eyes. Now, as I looked in the mirror on the other side of the table, my reflection told me that my eyes were now—well, I don’t know if there is a word for these colors because they were a swirl of muddy and moldy shades.
My friends were slicing the cake and digging in and generally acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened while I just loitered with a blank look on my devalued face. Finally, someone asked me if something was wrong. “B. B. King is gone!”
“Who? Gone where? Phoebe King? Who’s she?” asked my long-time friend, Lorraine, not her real name, but what I call her because she calls me Marty, not my real name, because she says I look like a Marty.
“Not Phoebe – B. B., the blues singer,” I moaned.
“I don’t know B. B. the singer.”
“The blues singer,” I verbally italicized.
“That’s what I said, ‘B. B. the singer’”
Could she not even hear the word “blues”?
After a few seconds, I mumbled, “And guitarist.”
“What’s going on, Marty? You look like you’ve got the indigos. Cheer up. It’s a party!”
“It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.”
“You’re gonna cry?”
“Not really. Just quoting the dear, departed Lesley Gore, you know, the singer, blond hair, blue eyes.” I didn’t actually know what color her eyes were, but I had to hear how Lorraine was going to respond.
“Yeah, I know she had blond hair, and of course she had eyes. I liked her. So sad she’s passed on.”
Okay. This new existence that B. F. had created still had blond hair and memories of Lesley Gore. But, even if it wasn’t still called the blues, sadness remains.
I didn’t understand why I could hear the word “blue” and remember what it is—the color, the music, the feeling.
It took a couple of days for me to leave my house. I didn’t recognize my car at first. It has switched its service branch—no longer navy blue, it was now army drab. I unlocked the door, dropped inside, aroused the engine, and drove off under the sunny gray sky. I turned the radio on to listen to my usual—the age-appropriate oldies station. It was Carl Perkins inviting us to do all manner of bad things to him, just don’t step on his “new suede shoes.”
“No, Carl, they’re blue suede shoes!” I screamed. I could definitely hear the word “blue” even though it seemed that I couldn’t see the color. So why was I apparently the only one who could hear it, and remember B. B. King and, for that matter, still have the ability to hear the music in my mind? Maybe it was because I am the one who made the wish.
I had another thought: maybe I still had the capacity to see blue—it’s just that there was nothing blue to be seen.
Over the next few days, I noticed plenty of people feeling what I knew as the blues, including Lorraine. “Marty, I have a bad case of the melancholia. Remember how much fun we used to have on the North Carolina coast? Let’s go out there for a few days.”
“That sounds good to me.” Then, as an experiment, I asked her “Remember that one time we were there when the wind blew my blue cap off my head, and we ran down the beach after it?”
“I don’t remember that,” she replied, “but the wind definitely blew hard sometimes.”
So she can hear “blew,” the past tense of “blow,” but not “blue.”
“Do you remember that cap?” I continued. “It was the blue one.”
“It was the one? The one what.”
“From the blues festival we went to in Memphis.”
“I don’t remember going to a festival in Memphis with you. Maybe you went with Karla With A K. She likes Memphis.”
We have two friends who we refer to as Karla With A K and Carla With A C to distinguish them.
“I haven’t seen Karla With A K in about three years. I can’t even remember what color her eyes are. Are they blue?” I knew they were.
“Are they what?” she asked.
“Never mind,” I muttered.
“I never do!” she replied.
Seeing no change in the blue banishment, I joined Lorraine on a trip to North Carolina. Along the way, we tripped a bit northward into Kentucky, where we were greeted with a sign welcoming us to “The Grass State.”
“Seriously?” I moaned, “The Grass State? Why would they call it that?”
“You sound surprised. I thought everyone knew that Kentucky is The Grass State.”
“But every state has grass. So why should this one be The Grass State?” I protested.
“I guess it’s because of Kentucky’s association with grass music,” Lorraine unhelpfully explained.
“Blue grass music.” Sigh. Frustrated look. Maybe a roll of my formerly blue eyes.
“Now, Marty, I know you like music. You have to know what grass music is—with the banjoes and fiddles and whatnot.”
Yeah, whatnot. I knew what not.
So, on we went to North Carolina.
I noticed the absence of blue constantly, but it was no longer surprising. It was just the way of B. F.’s new world. But there also seemed to be a major increase in people suffering “the blues.” Well, the science folks say that blue wins the blue ribbon as the most calming color. I was wondering what color of ribbon goes to the winner these days. That was what I was thinking about when I noticed a bumper sticker that read, “If God is not a Tar Heel, why is the sky Carolina taupe.” God would not be pleased.
During the days since my birthday, I had been unable to figure out the no-blues rules. Sometimes, a new word would be substituted for the one that was supposed to be in the phrase – sometimes a color: “Carolina taupe” – and sometimes a non-color word: “new suede shoes.” And sometimes nothing took the place of blue: “The Grass State.” This made me think that B. F. was still actively involved in manipulating the world. And to emphasize the point, I still thought I could hear his cackle from time to time.
I had noticed that if I tried to say the word “blue,” no one else could hear it. I wondered what would happen if I wrote “blue” instead of saying it. I decided that, when we made our next stop, I would put it on paper, which would give me more control than if I sent it electronically.
As we continued coastward, Lorraine said, ”Ooh, we need to go to that coffee house in Durham. I hope it’s still there after all these years.”
I was trying to recall “that coffee house” that apparently made quite an impression on Lorraine and was as lost to my mind as blue was to everyone else, when she added. “It was near the Duke campus.” And that prompted me to ask her what Duke’s teams were called, figuring they are no longer Blue Devils. “The Red Devils,” she answered.
When we arrived in Durham, she was able to direct me to the coffee house. Good memory—she must have really loved the place—and it was still there,
Inside The Devil Made Me Drink It Coffee Emporium, Lorraine and I were sitting at a counter facing a mirror. I asked Lorraine if she had a pen and some paper. She dug a pen from her purse and handed me a napkin, so I scribbled a message on it: “Lorraine and Marty’s Carolina adventure to the blue ocean.” I handed it to her and asked her if she could read it, noting that my handwriting might be a little shaky. “Can you read it out loud?” I asked.
“Lorraine and Marty’s, uh—” pause “—Oh, Carolina adventure to the ocean.”
I took the napkin back and saw that the word “blue” wasn’t there, even though I knew—I knew—I had written it! I fired a frustrated stare at the mirror, and that was when I saw what should have been a blue devil, now in his new color. He seemed to have stepped out of a poster, and he howled his evil crimson laugh, louder than the other times I had heard it. “Did you hear that?” I asked, but Lorraine just said, “Hear what?”
I was not dealing with a Birthday Fairy; this was a Birthday Devil! What else could he do? I wanted to get away from him, and I felt compelled to share with Lorraine what was happening. “Let’s sit outside. It’s a nice day.”
So we exited the coffee house and sat out under the taupe sky.
“I need to let you know something about my birthday wish.” Then I saw that the Birthday Devil had followed us outside.
“That reminds me,” Lorraine said. “I’ve never shown you this video I made. I was looking at it the other day and noticed something. Watch Carla With A C as you were blowing out the candles.”
And then I saw it. When I tried to blow out the black candles, one still burned until Carla blew it out! “So, I didn’t …”
“No, you didn’t blow all of them out. Sorry, you don’t get your birthday wish.”
I looked at the Birthday Devil and saw that he had turned purple. I lifted my head and saw, in the Carolina sky, blue, pale beyond pale, but still indisputably blue. I asked Lorraine to play the video again. There were the celestial blue candles, and there was music! “Do you know what that song is?” I asked her.
“Sure. The Thrill Is Gone by B. B. King.”
As a test, I asked her, “Would you call that jazz or rock or what?”
“Are you kidding,” she laughed. “It’s blues, dude.”
“Blue as the sky!” I exclaimed, and we both looked heavenward.
So, it seems the world had returned to normal. Sadness will still exist. That is a part of life, but now it can go back to normal levels, and blue can exert its calming influence again.
And then I saw a dejected devil dissolve into ethereal blueness and drift away like the smoke from those extinguished candles.