Poncho’s Memories ©
By Vincent T. LaQuire
My name is Juan Carlos Pedro Poncho Ortega-Juarez Smith, but most friends just call me just Poncho. I’m 65 and this is my life, as I remember it, or have been told by others about it…as my life began with gaps in it.
I was born, as it seems, fifty miles off of the coast of the Rock of Gibraltar to Pedro and Josita Ortega-Juarez. They had, as I’ve been told immigrated to Fuengirola, a small village in the southeast of Spain from parts unknown in Mexico—as my life facts are a bit vague here.
But for the grace of God; and being the fastest sperm in the pack (pardon my humor) and for good fortune that my adoptive parents John and Mary Smith from New York, New York found me, I wouldn’t be here. For as luck would have it I was found aboard my father Pedro’s fishing boat in the ship’s cabin. It can only be surmised that my birth parents were both washed overboard somehow, shortly, after I was born. For no sign of them was ever found in the shark infested waters of the Alboran Sea (a ghostly section of the Mediterranean) for I alone remained aboard when John and Mary Smith found me.
John, Dad—as I grew to call him, was on vacation with Mary “Mom†on his company’s yacht the “Let Freedom Ringâ€. They found me adrift after three days. I was hungry, very hungry and weak when they found me—or so I’ve been told. Fortunately for me, Josita had planned for most contingencies and had stocked canned milk aboard the tiny vessel, along with a few baby bottles with their nipples. She also had a supply of cloth diapers in reserve. My mother Josita had planned well ahead.
More importantly my mother Josita had left a tiny list of names written on a small piece of paper on a small counter near the helm, labeled “Names for my baby†in Spanish; fortunately Mary could read it. The top name on the list was Juan Carlos Pedro Poncho Ortega-Juarez; and Maria Josita Juanita Ortega-Juarez was the other. So I assume I would have been named Maria if my plumbing were different (again I apologize for my humor).
My birth parents names were found in a small satchel on the same counter the name list was found on; in it were two passports—one for Pedro Gonzales-Ortega and the other for Maria Ortega-Juarez. And that is about all I know of them, although later in life I did try to find out what I could; but the years had erased any and all signs of them, both in Spain and in Mexico.
John and Mary were childless and had all but given up any chance of being parents until they found me. The American consulate was very helpful in processing my adoption; once they found no other relatives in Spain and after a three-month extensive search in Mexico that proved fruitless, except for a vague rumor that the passports had been forged and my father was somehow involved in the drug rackets; either as a mule or a supplier—who had fled the Federales to Spain.
The consulate awarded me to John and Mary shortly after; for no one ever claimed me. I was legally adopted shortly after they returned to the States; and Smith was added to my moniker, as Mary “Mom†thought it only right I wear the name my birth mother has chosen for me. And Dad insisted on having Smith for a last name to eliminate any confusion with the government for schooling, social security, etc.
Here in America I grew into the man I am today. And I must say growing up in the Bronx is a great way to spend your life. I loved the rickety clickety sound and feel of the subways nearby. Some days when I was old enough I’d ride them all-day—eating out of the different machines on the platforms, or zipping up to eat at the White Castle near Broadway. Hamburgers more like today’s sliders sold for fifteen cents apiece there. I could wolf down four without any problem at all. Afterwards I’d dash down the steps to the subway platform again and pick one to ride with no real destination in mind.
God I loved the trains, even with all the graffiti and scary looking people that rode them. And I loved Grand Central Station—It was a hub of activity. And the echo from all the trains arriving or leaving there was hauntingly eerie.
But the best thing about the Bronx was Yankee stadium. I can’t recall the number of times I went there to see Mickey Mantle play and even Roger Maris whom I rooted against breaking the Babe’s record. I got an odd satisfaction when I booed him. I did forgive him eventually but it took awhile. And I didn’t care that I had to most times sit in the bleachers, the cheap seats…heck it made me closer to “The Mick†in the outfield.
There in the bleachers before the game started I could look down and see Whitey Ford warming up in the bullpen…he was just the best pitcher ever in my opinion. And though it was hard to see the dugout from the bleachers I could just make out Casey Stengel on the top step flaying his arms around, as he yelled at the Umpires or someone one in the field or some batter that missed a signal from him…or was just plain funny with some of the cardboard placards he’d display to throw the other team off. Like the one that read, “Bunt!†only to have his player swing away. Casey was a crafty old coot.
My best moment at the stadium came the time when “The Mick†hit a dinger to the left of me. I dove for it but some kid bigger than me got to it first. But I still got to see “The Mick†scorch one near me…it was awesome!
Another fond memory was going up in the Empire State building before the twin towers were built and so, at that time, it was the tallest building in New York. I rode in the elevator to the 80th floor where I had to transfer to another car to go all the way up to the observatory platform.
You talk about a view; well there’s been nothing in my life like it since. You could see for miles and miles even with the sunny distant haze. I did avoid looking down however, as I have a dreadful fear of heights. It was on the platform I met Joey—Joseph Gold—who became my best friend for life; and his sister Ester Ann…who later became the love of my life, but not for quite some time. Joey and Ester were twins; and Joey was twelve minutes older and never let Ester forget it. Ester was just a scrawny little scruff of a girl when I first laid eyes on her, with bright hazel-blue eyes that changed with the weather—being sort of gray when it was overcast.
Ester looked a lot like her mother Irma, a survivor of Buchenwald. Her husband Jacob, a G.I. at the time, was in the first group of soldiers to liberate the camp. Evidently, as I’ve been told, it was love at first site. They were married shortly after and Jacob arranged for his bride to come to America.
Irma was the best cook ever. Please, no one tell my Mom, she’s 92 now and it would break her heart to know I loved Mrs. Gold’s cooking better than hers, with the exception of the Matzos that she brought out at Passover. These just tasted like unsalted crackers.
But where was I…oh yeah…I was talking about Ester. But first let me say that Joey and I got real close once we learned that we were both lucky to be alive…with me being found adrift and him with his mother surviving the Nazi final solution.
Boy was I ever glad I decided to ride to the top of the building that day. I’d been in the Manhattan based building before with my Dad; he worked out of an office there. He worked for the Merrat, Finster and Associates Corporation—my Dad being an associate. It was an investment company. Sadly they went the way of the dinosaur, but not before my Dad got a great severance package and secured another job with of all people Joey’s father Jacob, at his Jewelry and uncut diamond store, “Gold’s Gold and Diamonds.â€
Dad was employed as a salesman at first; but when Jacob discovered he had a keen eye for diamonds he got the higher paying job as a sorter. It was his job to differentiate the diamonds by their color and clarity.
But I’m getting ahead of myself and I must tell you before that happened a client gave Dad a pair of tickets to Yankee stadium; I can only imagine as a favor for a tip Dad had given him.
Anyway, Dad gave them to me and told me to take a friend. I had no one special at the time; I really couldn’t state if there was someone that liked me for me. But I remembered the kid, Joey, I met on the top of the Empire State building and seeing we went to the same school in the Bronx, I asked him. He accepted quick as a flash.
The seats in Yankee stadium were far from the best—I guess Dad’s tip wasn’t all that spectacular. They were on the third level to the right of the foul pole in right field, under the overhang of the roof. A place that hardly any dingers landed. Granted we could see the whole field, all that is but a chunk of right field below where Maris played right field…this was right after he had hit homerun 57 and I was really getting nervous he was gonna spoil the Babe’s record. So Joey and I didn’t mind not being able to see him at all. We were both hooked on “The Mickâ€.
We had a blast, when we first got to the old stadium through gate six and ran up as fast as we could; up and up the big blue ramps to each level until we finally got to deck 3 and sat with a plop into our seats—winded and thirsty. I can state safely that the way down was much easier to do.
After that Joey and I were pretty much inseparable whenever school was out, of course. He lived about a mile and a half away from me in a Brownstone building; which was another reason to love the subways we were only a dime away…unless we wanted to walk the fifteen or so blocks to see each other…and these blocks were long. During the summer you could fry an egg on the congrete.
It was Joey that tagged me Poncho after he heard how long my name was…and I in all fairness called him Cisco, from the western on TV, whenever, whatever we were doing like shooting marbles or hoops, or picking on Ester. And I believe he liked it better than being called Joey-Jewboy by some bullies near his home.
Joey’s mother Irma caught these bullies calling him that; and she caught one by the ear and gave it to him full barrels. Irma had little or no tolerance for bigots or those ignorant—to which when added to her children’s welfare meant trouble for any who crossed that line.
She told the squirming little brat, firmly, how she had survived the holocaust and what the Nazi’s had done to her and her family, and that the world needed no more Nazi’s in it. She also told him that she’d catch up to his mother at the next PTA meeting and explain what he and his buddies had been up to. He sort of winced at that and walked away rubbing his ear…mumbling something under breath; and not once did he look back—whether in shame, or fright, I’ll never know.
A few days later Mr. gold enrolled Joey in a Jujitsu class and when the news of how good he was at tossing people twice his size around, the taunts against him all but disappeared. I got black and blue sometimes from Joey trying to teach me and I became even more grateful he was my friend—because I’d not want to be on the wrong side of him in a fight. He was that good!
The years seeming flew by after that, with both of us getting bigger, stronger, faster, and in and out of trouble more often than you can blink. Ah, those were the days!
Then came Joey’s 15th birthday; and by then I had already had mine about 6 months earlier. It was at his home with some of his relatives gathering to celebrate it; although it wasn’t as large as his Bar Mitzvah that the family let me attend; even though I wasn’t of their faith—In fact I wasn’t of any faith, and grew up never attending church, except for funerals. Dad it seems always had an excuse not to go and Mom respected his wishes and stopped going herself around my third birthday; although I did see her cross herself every once in a while, especially after a friend or family member passed away…and then of course there was the occasional “Mother of God†exclamation she was famous for, when I did something wrong.
But, damn, I got side tracked again. It was at Joey and Ester’s fifteenth birthday that I noticed for the first time that Ester was no longer a scrawny brat, but a beauty; just like her mother, well endowed, shapely with long auburn hair; that she wore in a pony tail. I felt like I had been hit by a lightning bolt and that every hormone in me had launched an attack on my brain.
Ester had now gone to the forefront of my brain. It seemed as if every waking moment was devoted to thinking of her and her alone. I told Joey about how I felt and he just laughed—until he met Sarah the daughter of a friend of his father’s. Then he knew what I had been telling him. Talk about awkward; we were two blind fools dashing about in the dark hungry for any morsel from the girls of our dreams. Most days we went hungry—very hungry.
And so it remained for the next three years, stumbling, fumbling, stammering, and hoping that we’d be noticed. It was only until a month before the senior dance at the high school did Ester come up to me and blurt out; sort of coyly, “Well Poncho,†she smiled whenever she called me that—always wondering why I preferred it over Juan, “are you going to ask me to the dance or not?â€
I hemmed and hawed; gasping for air in my brain—stunned, as this was the first time she had showed any interest in me other than as a unwelcome co-teaser or pest like her brother had been to her. “I-I-I,†was all I could muster before she added, “If you think I haven’t noticed you drooling, staring at my pillows you’re not as bright as I hoped; and if you think I’m going to wait another three years for you to build up the courage to ask me out to a movie, a dance, or even a hot dog in front of Yankee Stadium…you do know I’m a fan of the Yankees too. Don’t you? Well I am.†Her look changed a bit from coy to a heated, “oh no, she’s got her mother’s strength and temperament.â€
I gasped quickly and blurted out, “I’d love to attend the senior dance with you Ester.†I must have had a confused lost puppy look on my face, because she quickly replied, “About time you made the right choice.†Although, I really had no idea what she meant by that.
But that wasn’t anything new, as I rarely knew exactly what she meant for many years to come. I have a male brain after all.
The theme at the senior ball was “Autumn Harvest†which I though a bit absurd as there were no farms or gardens near us…other than an occasional plant growing on a fire escape or in a window box. My Mom did once try to grow a tomato plant in a pot on the east windowsill…but it died. So to me “Autumn Harvest†was a reach and thought a sports theme would have been better. Joey agreed with me.
I stopped evaluating the theme to the dance when I saw Ester in her lovely yellow silk gown with laced bodice. I felt like a total jerk standing next to her for a photo in my white tuxedo with red cummerbund; though the carnation in the lapel did match it. I must say the wrist bouquet my Mom picked out for her was a great touch to her ensemble. Later, I gave my Mom a big hug for it.
I felt like a fish out of water on the dance floor, but managed a reasonable presentation of myself as the D-J played “The Twist†by Chubby Checker; but quickly reverted to two left feet when they played “Diana†by Paula Anka…my hands flayed about goofily and my feet felt as if they were nailed to the floor.
Then they played “Enchanted Melody†by the Righteous Brothers and I held Ester in my arms for the first time ever and my heart was lost to her forever. And I knew then that God was really real, for I was in heaven! And I felt I was floating on a cloud later when I brought her home and she reached up and planted a kiss square on my lips; thanking me for a lovely evening.
From that day forward my life, my soul, my heart; and everything I was or ever would be belonged to my Ester Ann. No other women came even close to tempting me—she was my only love for the next forty years. For yes, somehow, someway, I eventually built up the courage to ask her to marry me; even though my mouth was dry, my hands sweating, and words were coming out of my mouth like a machine gun firing bullets. I felt like I was in hell, as I waited her reply. Then she rescued me from flames when to my great joy she accepted.
Yet her father didn’t…at least not at first. He felt we were too young and that I needed a trade of some sort to be able to support her. To prove he wasn’t totally disapproving he offered me a job with my father.
But after two weeks Mr. Gold decided I was no salesman; and he was right I hated selling. And of all the luck I’m colorblind and could get nowhere when Dad tried to show me how to do his job.
So that left me looking into a trade school and hallelujah I found something I liked and felt confident doing. It was as a plumber…and surprise I was good at it!
Once I completed my schooling almost two years, as I took extra course just in case plumbing was not for me; and then there was interning—really nothing more than on the job training for almost two years more—Mr. Gold consented to our marriage. Dating during that period was a nightmare, as I had to get her home by 10.
Mr. Gold had warned me sternly, “No patty fingers!†it was his way of saying no sampling the product till you bought it. And it took awhile for me to figure that one out, as he said it in Yiddish. Luckily Ester translated it for me; but regardless Mr. Gold had nothing to worry about, for Ester kept me at arms lengths most times, and my honor the others—as I had given him my word; and I prided myself on always keeping it. But believe me I was sorely tempted several time to break it!
Before I go any further let me tell you of my date with Ester to Coney Island; it is one of my fondest memories. We caught the subway on the elevated platform on River Avenue, across from Yankee stadium. It was a warm day with a light blue sky and a few clouds that the sun played peek-a-boo with. Ester was dressed in a breezy yellow blouse with tan slacks that fit her form tightly. It was all I could do to keep from staring at her.
Once the train stopped at the Coney Island platform we headed straight for Nathan’s to grab a hot dog. She had hers with Cole slaw, spicy mustard and cheese fries…my choice was just a simple dog-mustard-relish-chopped onion with an enormous dill pickle.
After lunch we headed straight for the roller coaster. I’d have done it different if I had to again…no lunch first. I got a bit queasy on the ride. Ester seems to not have that problem but she did squeal and laugh uproariously at my discomfort and the exhilaration of the weightless feeling on the way down.
We stopped long enough for my stomach to settle down before being seated in the Ferris wheel. Alas, I got a bit nauseous again when the ride car swayed back and forth as passengers boarded or departed it. And with my fear of heights I was getting a deep pit in my stomach when we got to the top. Ester saw my distress and put her head on my shoulder. I forgot all about the height after that.
We stopped long enough after the Ferris wheel to buy some pink cotton candy. Well I got one for her; I passed!
Next we got on the huge Merry-Go-Round; but not on the horses we sat in the bench with the large sheltered sides. I was grateful for that, as the thought of riding a horse up and down, up and down, while going round and round made me seasick just thinking about it. Besides we got to snuggle in the bench, as the calliope played a cheerful sound as the ride slowly turned. We rode this one twice.
After that I tried to demonstrate my strength on the High Striker and win a Cupie doll for Ester. I won’t say how far up the puck went…but let’s say close but, no cigar, wasn’t even close—the bell was safe! But my ring toss abilities proved more successful and I won a small teddy bear for her.
Finally we finished the day in the Photo booth, and for 25 Cents we got a strip of four photos—one with Ester kissing me; that I carry in my wallet to this day…though it is fading and a tad wrinkled. But the best part of the day was kissing her goodnight even with Mrs. Gold gazing out the window through her curtains all the while pointing to her wrist; and even though she wore no watch, I knew what she meant once I had seen her out the corner of my eye—between coming up for air.
I should mention getting drafted the minute I got out of trade school put a temporary wrinkle in my future plans. But fortunately or unfortunately depending on your viewpoint. My asthma got me labeled 4-F and I was summarily dismissed and never saw Viet Nam like Joey did.
Because of his college education he was made a Second Lieutenant and put in charge of a Platoon in Nam. And fortunately or unfortunately his time in Nam was cut short when he stepped on a land mine. It removed three of his toes on his right foot and part of metatarsal bones; he also caught a piece of shrapnel in his right cheek that gave him a jagged scar he wore for the rest of his life.
Joey received a Purple Heart medal and an honorable discharge after that; much to the joy of his mother, who didn’t want to have him go to war in the first place, after the horror she had gone though in WW2. But Joey was adamant after I got drafted and enlisted the same day as I took my physical. If he had waited a day he might of never gone to war.
He finished his schooling after that and graduated with honors and passed the law examines with no trouble at all; and soon was working out of an office in Manhattan as a defense lawyer. This while I was interning with Paulo Perfetti of Perfetti’s Plumbing and Supply.
Paulo was an old man in his late 70’s that boasted he’d only retire when hell froze over. And there wasn’t a plumbing job he couldn’t handle. He without a doubt was in excellent shape for a man his age. You should have seen the abs on him and the size of the muscles on his arms. He said Jack Lalanne was his inspiration. And if he had a fault if you could call it that was his intolerance for being stupid or lazy. Fortunately, I never met this side of him.
I can’t say that for Ron and Jerry…they only lasted about two weeks while I made it for two years…well nearly two years as an apprentice; then journeyman…before Paulo feel down a flight of stairs and broke both hips. Sadly he got pneumonia while in the hospital and died; but not before telling his nurse to pass me a message, “Sorry Poncho plunger-man,†he always fondly called me that, “it looks like hell has frozen over!†Say what you want about him, Paulo was a great man, with a great heart and one hell of a sense of humor!
Eventually I owned and operated my own plumbing business and even had two employees and made a great living. I named it Poncho Plunger-man’s Plumbing and Supply.
Joey law practice was always of pride and disappointment to his father. Mr. Gold had hoped for Joey to take over the family business one day; but Joey’s heart went into law instead. Mr. Gold accepted this eventually and would forever after Joey had made his mark in the courts say, with a beaming smile about him, “My son the litigater!â€
Once I established myself in plumbing and seeing how hard I worked to succeed at it, Mr. Gold finally consented to Ester and I getting married. He spoke to Abram Silverstein, his rabbi, and arranged for us to be married at the synagogue…well on the lawn in front of it under a Canopy, that is. The lawn was filled with folding wooden chairs, that looked recently painted.
My heart went up into my throat, as Mr. Gold walked arm in arm with the most beautiful bride I had ever seen. Mr. Gold put Ester’s hand in mine and calmly said, “After today…no more Mr. Gold…you call me Papa!†before adding, “Make my Ester happy!†to which I could only nod “Yes!â€
The ceremony ended under the canopy on May 14, a special day for Irma and why we choose it for her to honor the re-birth of Israel. I breathed a sigh of relief when the two glasses under white cloth napkins were crushed under foot with a roar from the guests shouting, “Mazel Tov!†And I found myself in heaven again, seeing the smile on my bride’s face, as she quietly whispered to me, “Finally, no more curfews!â€
The next year and a half flew by; my business was growing and so was the lump in ester’s belly. Three month’s later she gave birth to our daughter Katherine, named after her best friend. Our joy soon turned to sadness for Katherine was premature by for months and quietly left this world from lung complications.
Our sorrow, our tears lasted for what seemed months. But then came the day when ester beamed at me and said she was pregnant again. This time her obstetrician took extra precautions with her and had her come in weekly.
These extra visits brought of first son John into the world. We named him for our favorite actor John Wayne. A year later found our twin sons being born; we named them Charles and Peter. Charles for our second favorite actor Charles Bronson and Peter for Peter Laurie whom we adored in “Arsenic and Old Lace,†with Gary Grant. Some thought I named the boys after myself using the American form of them…but really it was after the actors.
The boys grew tall and strong all too soon; and we decided mischief was their middle names…al of them. I swear they couldn’t stay out of trouble…EVER! Their grandparents would pamper them to no end, and spoiled them rotten. My Mom would even bring them presents at Christmas time stating Happy Hanukah to Ester. But deep down I knew she meant Merry Christmas, as she still crossed herself now and again.
You’d of thought that would be enough children for Ester but she wanted a daughter. But alas, this was not to be. While getting an exam to see if she was pregnant her obstetrician discovered a lump on her uterus; which proved cancerous and she was forced to have a hysterectomy. She tried not to show it, but you could tell her heartbreak at not being ever able to have a daughter.
I at least had a business to loose myself in. You know calls from desperate souls to have something unclogged or perhaps a new toilet or bathroom fixture. So my mind swam in a sea of Teflon tape, oakum, brazing, soldering, plunging, mud, crap and more crap. Ester found solace for a time in raising the boys. But when they started school she found herself alone at home with only her dreams to pass the time until the boys got home from school.
I asked her if she’d like to help out at my business to help. She declined. I think the smell of my place had something to do with it, as my power snakes did smell a bit; and even after being hosed.
One day I came home to find her smiling that, “I’ve got a surprise look on her face.†I knew it couldn’t be her being pregnant again. But I was concerned it might be something I wouldn’t like. She didn’t keep my in suspense too long, and blurted out, “I’ve got a job!†and my wonderment must of read like a road map on my face, for she quickly added, “It’s at the delicatessen down the street,†calmly; and yet happily continuing, “I went to get some sliced turkey and saw a help wanted sign—part time mornings to 2 p.m.†Her look showed me she was serious as she went on, “It’s perfect for me…the boys will be in school and I’ll be home in time to cook supper and…†I stopped her stating, “If it makes you happy, I’m fine with it.â€
She jumped with joy and planted the biggest kiss I had from her in some time. So our lives for the next few years became me with poop, and her with pepperoni and provolone!
Our life became a routine. It was safe, quiet, peaceful, and uneventful—save for the boys graduating, then trying unsuccessfully to be plumbers—but finding paths of their own, then finding mates, and having our grandchildren. Life was good…but like everything fate, karma, destiny and the devil can spoil it.
We got the call from Papa to two in the morning. Joey had been mugged. The thieves had wanted and stole Joey’s diamond studded Rolex Papa had given him for graduating from law school. But that wasn’t the only thing they took. With a quick jab from behind they had plunged a switchblade in his back straight to his heart. He died instantly! He was fifty-two.
The thieves were caught once they tried to pawn the watch. It brought us no comfort, only tears. The trial lasted but mere days and the jury was out only 40 minutes. Ester proved stronger than me at the sentencing, and calmly but with pure hatred in her eyes as she glared at the thieves (there were two of them, but only one, the tall one did the killing…their names have been all but removed from my memory, as they don’t deserve to be remembered); and then she started, “You have taken from me, part of me…I can only hope you live a long, long, time; and may each day of the years to come may you think of what you have done…may you never see the day that you are free!â€
I was proud of her, with a pride now words could ever express. And we where satisfied when the Judge sentenced the killer to life without parole and his accomplice with 25 years to life. It would bring our Joey back but at least there would be no more Joeys for these two.
Over the next months Ester’s light seemed to go out after the trial and her moods were seemingly always sad and depressed. She rarely complained about anything, yet one day she clenched her back in pain; she had some before but she shook them off as growing older or picking up too much at work. An exam proved another cancer had invaded her body. This time in her pancreas, and it was at stage three by the time she got the exam. She bravely went through the chemo and radiation.
To me I cared less she had lost her hair…that meant nothing to me; but she did. The treatments seemed to work at first but once given a break from the treatments; so as to not have the radiation kill off her immune system entirely the cancer took off with a vengeance.
It was at home two days after our fortieth wedding anniversary that she succumbed and joined her beloved brother in peace. She was fifty-four. I was with her until her last breath. Clutching my hand tightly, her last words to me, with a wry smile, were, “Finally, no more curfews!â€
My God I cried for endless hours, days, weeks; for an eternity.
And now I find myself alone in a city of 8 million plus; even though I still have my boys, their wives, and my grandchildren, and Irma—bless her heart; I believe she has out lived every Nazi in Buchenwald by several years.
Yet, I’m alone now wherever I go; my favorite seats at the new Yankee stadium feel empty without Ester. The subway trains have lost their glow for me; each car now—even when packed feels cold and bereft of any passengers. I find myself very old and very tired; and without my Ester all I have left in this big naked city are my memories.
Tags: writing, stories, fiction, Poncho's Memories,
The Nigel Diaries ©
By Vincent T. LaQuire
I am Nigel Pennyfinger. My Mumsy loved sardines. She loved Haddock, Sea Bass, Marlin, Shad, Herring, Salmon, Tuna, Halibut, Flounder, Red snapper, Cod, and Japanese Butterfish as well. But she loved sardines the best. Mumsy must have loved to eat fish a lot, because, we ate it everyday, for six months once.
Eating fish everyday really gave Mumsy fish breath, and I dreaded being tucked in and kissed goodnight. Especially when she had sushi. I hated eating fish. The only thing worse than that was the fuzzy jam we had in the refrigerator. I had to take that on bread or biscuits for my lunch at school, almost everyday.
At least I had no problems with the bigger kids stealing my lunch. They did once. But they gave it back!
One day we got a cat. Mumsy named it ‘Slap-n-tickle’. I know this may seem an odd name to give a cat. But stranger yet, was how we got it. I came home from Ms. Ophelia Despot’s class early one day because the toilets had all overflowed. With so many girls at the school, they had to send us home early.
Mumsy wasn’t expecting me for a few more hours, when I got home. I yelled to her, but there was no answer, and when I got to her bedroom door, it was locked. I put my eye to the keyhole but Mumsy’s key was in it. So I knew she was in there.
She gave me quite a start and scared me half to death, when I heard her moaning, and crying out, louder and louder, “Oh Doctor…Oh Doctor!†over and over, and finally after several minutes, “Ohhhhhh Doctor!†She’d done this so loud; I knew she hadn’t heard me.
I was about to call out to her again when I heard what could have only been the Doctor say, “I just love your little brown kitty, my dear!†and “Quite the Slap-n-tickle! I shall take the memory of it to my grave! Now you be sure to drop by and pick up the fish of your choice.â€
With that, I heard Mumsy call out sort of out of breath and gaspy, “I will luv, but remember I’ve a growing boy and I’ll be need’n more than one!â€
To which the Doctor replied, “And so will I, my dear…so will I!â€
Later after the Doctor, a funny looking man that smelled like squid and clams, left; I asked Mumsy what he meant about the Slapintickle, and the little brown kitten; as it was the first time I’d heard that expression, or anything about a kitten in our house.
Mumsy fumbled and said, “Why that’s the name of our new cat Nigel (another of the rare times she called me by name) he’s just this minute jumped out the window. Why don’t you go outside and see if you can find him.â€
Well it took me two hours, but I finally found him going through the garbage two blocks down. You should have seen the look on Mumsy’s face when I brought him home. All bug-eyed and startled…like she’d seen a ghost or something.â€
But it must have been the right cat, because Mumsy said, “That’s my boy…my little Bootbrain…Now if I could only send him to find some money!†And then, “Good job Lummox why don’t you give ‘Slap-n-tickle’ a bath. He’s a might bit filthy don’t you think?â€
I said, “Yes, Mumsy he’s been in the garbage. He smells a bit too!†I think it had something to do with the fact he had only one eye; and the socket where there should have been was full of garbage and dead bugs. The big pussy sore on his back leg was a bit rank too; but his shredded left ear hardly smelled at all.
We had “Slappyâ€, as I called him, for only about three months, when he went missing. Mumsy got really upset everytime I brought Slappy’s name up. Saying things like, “He’s gone…he’s gone…he’s gone!†With the biggest smile on her face, so as not to show me how upset she really was. My Mumsy was always like that with me; trying to cover up her pain with smiles and giggles.
Finally one day she said “Mangycat†as she was prone to call him…why she ever named him â€slap-n-tickle†was beyond me as she never ever called him that. Usually it was “Dirty Brown Furbag†or “Rancid creature†but mostly “Mangycatâ€) she said he had left hurriedly one day and was gone to cat heaven with tons and tons of garbage to root through. Where that is I have no idea, but once again she smiled, to cover up her pain.
Of course there was a nasty rumor going out around the neighborhood that the bread deliveryman backed over him as he was leaving after delivering several loaves to my Mumsy. There was a strange lump in the yard by the lawnmower hut too. It made my mower rock a little when I pushed the mower over it.
We never went to the fishmonger’s after we started receiving daily deliveries of day old bread. I was really happy about this; my fuzzy jam sandwiches were better on day old bread; they were much better than the hard biscuits Mumsy had made the week before. I never could get used to them being gray and all.
Sadly though we had no more fish. I think the Doctor was jealous of his twin brother the fishmonger. At least that’s what Mumsy said when I said to her one day, “That looks like the Doctor!â€
She said I was mistaken; that was his twin brother, and asked me not to tell anyone. It was to be our big secret. And here I am blabbing it for the entire world to know. I am such a gad. It would break my Mumsy’s heart if she found out I let our secret out.
I am so ashamed of myself I must stop this story...until part 5
Tags: cat, Nigel Diaries, writing, stories
I am Nigel Pennyfinger. All right then, for those of you insist on full names Nigel Anne Pennyfinger; there I’ve said it, are you happy?
I was going to tell you of the demise of my pet pig, the lovely ‘Bromdingdale Maiden’, but instead I’ve made up my mind to put her tragic end to rest and instead talk about my first teacher ever Ms. Ophelia Despots.
Ms. Ophelia, as she asked us to call her, was the former Mrs. Horace K. Smithe. The K standing for Kenneth, another middle name I would have killed for. It would seem their marriage just didn’t work out. There had been a big misunderstanding made before they got married, that never got cleared up until sometime afterwards.
It would seem that Horace, a brush salesman from Dovershire, had asked her a rather simple thing when they first met. It was simple on the surface; yet with a deep underlying misinterpreting (gawd, I hope that’s a real word) and yet disastrous meaning for their marriage.
When they first met, Horace had asked her what she wanted from life. She answered, “Just a little peace and quiet.†Rather harmless on the surface, as I already mentioned. But to Ms Ophelia it meant one thing, and to Horace another.
When Ms. Ophelia (still Mrs. Horace K. Smithe) stood before the judge at the divorce proceedings, she revealed what a mistake it really was.
“Your honor,†she said, trying to be polite and respectful, as she always was, “Horace and I have made a terrible mistake in getting married. It seems he completely took one simple statement I made, and somehow managed to fiddle twist it around in his mind.â€
“And what was that, dear lady?†asked the judge, trying to be as respectful as Ms. Ophelia had been to her.
“Well your honor,†again being polite, “Horace thought what I meant by ‘a little peace and quiet’ was for him to be able to make passionate love to me everyday, and not ever have to say a word to me.
This I had no problem with, for the first year or so. But in the third year, when I asked him what time it was,â€
This is where she broke down, “And he said he didn’t know! I was startled to the point of distraction. You see, your honor, he’d never answered me before. Confused me he did!â€
“That’s it then,†responded the judge impatiently, “You’ve taken up the courts good time with a petty confusion?
“Well, your honor,†Ms. Ophelia replied rather nervously, after hearing the tone of the judge’s voice, “That, and the fact that Horace was giving ‘a little peace and quiet’ to the barmaid at the Boar’s head tavern.â€
“And what do you have to say on your behalf?†the judge asked Horace.
“Well your honor,†he too being respectful, “I was just as startled as she was. She had never asked me for the time before. I was heart broke…I was. Can you image my shock? I figured she nolonger wanted my peace and quiet anymore. So I did what any self-respecting man would do. I went for a cool one.
Molly…that’s the barmaid at the Boar’s head tavern served me up…and went on a passionate tirade…about just wanting some peace and quiet after the day she’d had, your honor. I saw she was in distress…I did. So I helped her out like any man would of done, given the situation. The Misses, here, took it all wrong she did…I was just trying to help the poor girl out…honest!â€
“Well,†said the judge to Ms. Ophelia.
“Well, your honor,†a bit chagrined, “I can’t have him going around answering my questions, and helping every stray barmaid needing help…can I?â€
“No,†said the judge with a furrowed brow, “I guess not. I declare your marriage over.â€
And then to Horace, “I’d like to see you in my chambers…there’s a number of things I’d like to ask you.â€
And to the court stenographer he inquired, “Check your notes Patty (the steno’s name)…what was the name of that tavern and barmaid again?â€
So then Mrs. Horace K. Smithe became Ms. Ophelia Depots again, and the first teacher I ever had. And I’d love to tell you more; but before she can ask me for the time…I must end this story...until part 4
Tags: teacher, Nigel diaries, writing, stories
The Nigel Diaries ©
By Vincent T. LaQuire
I am Nigel Pennyfinger. Nigel Anne Pennyfinger as you might recall. Mumsy didn’t call me by any of my given names; she did once in a while, but not very often. She preferred her several nicknames for me, instead.
I was called Lummox most often. Perhaps because of all the dishes I broke. That of course was before my sweet sister Rose was born and took the blame for me. Then there was Bootbrain, just one of many she threw my way. And Chunkypants…a name I hated with all my heart; why she called me I’ll never know, but she would smirk whenever she did.
Of course at times she would call me by the name I preferred…Sweet Tangerine. Which I at first considered sort of…well odd, to say the least! But when I found out why she called me that, I grew to appreciate it. And it was so much better than the others she spit out.
It would seem my head was in the shape of an orange; which had the appearance of being shrunk a bit in the sun; it had pox marks all over it, and the top of my head had a divot in it that resembled where it might have been attached to a tree. Thankfully my Mumsy, instead of calling me Orangehead, as she very well could of, called me her “Sweet Tangerine†instead.
I think she made the correct choice. As I feel it could have caused severe mental anguish on my part, should I had been called Orangehead. I cringe at the ridicule the other lads at school would have made of that one. Bad enough they heard her calling me “Kissmybusterboy†when she dropped me off at school one day.
But enough of that…you must be thinking I’m just prambling on again (you know to walk about in circles with words not knowing where your going) …and which of coarse I was.
It was in Bromdingdale that I met my best friend Charlie Alexander (I would have killed to have his middle name) Bentwhistle the third of the Bromdingdale Bentwhistles, who owned the largest pig farm in all Bromdingdale.
I met Charlie at the Pig racing event at the Bromdingdale town fair. He had a large boar pig named “Chester the Fatâ€; which was the town favorite to win. I had a small female that was given to me by one of Mumsy’s gentlemen friends. I kept her in the lawnmower hut. Mumsy said it was payment for something, but never told me what.
I named that lovely pig, “Bromdingdale’s Maiden†and would sometimes call her “Maiden†for short. And to everyone’s surprise she won; mine especially. It had something to do with the heat that day. At least that’s what Mumsy said. Especially after the crowd yelled, “That pig’s in heat, the boars are running wild.â€
So it was, with the boars grunting fiercely and fast on her heals, my “Maiden†passed the finish line first. The first place prize was a cherished one.
The prize was a pecan, apple and lemon pie made by the infamous Widow Cornwadder. Whom my Mumsy made a snide remark at, when I went to collect my winnings, stating, “She’s no better than your pig Nigel (one of the rare time she used my name)…look at the men swarming around her…the little tart.†I didn’t think much of it and believed she might be somehow referring to the pie.
All the town’s women seemed to have something against the Widow Cornwadder. I think it was because the Widow was only 25, and I was told well acquainted with the game of playing Doctor.
Mumsy’s attitude towards the widow surprised me, as I new Mumsy liked playing doctor too. And I would often hear from the other side of my bedroom wall late at night, “My doctor, but you have a big stethoscope!†and “The doctor is in…time for the exam, Nurse!â€
To continue with the Bromdingdale fair, I was also entered into the downhill cheese wheel-rolling contest there. But sadly I didn’t finish, as my cheese scurried away from me; and went helter-skelter down the hill; before hitting a big rock and sailing, as it were, hap-hazardously into the Bromdingdale bog, where several of the town’s ruffians were snorkeling; with all of them being the local champion bog snorkelers…and winners of the World Series of Bog Snorkeling at Bilbesterton last season.
They retrieved my cheese for me, and returned it with only a bit of greenage sticking to it. They gave it back, but not before they secured my promice of an introduction to my Mumsy. Mumsy was delighted to meet them too. She said something about there always being room at the clinic. Whatever that meant.
Days later I ran into Charlie Bentwhistle and was congratulated by him for winning the pig race. I humbly thanked him. He then asked if the Widow’s pie was as good as everyone said her pie was. I remarked it was a bit tart.
He told me he wasn’t surprised about that, as he had over heard his mum saying something about the widow and pie and tart all in one sentence. I told him, “My Mumsy said something similar!†It was that one statement that made Charlie and me fast friends for life. Though I honestly don’t understand how a comment about a pie could do that.
Personally, I thought the Widow Cornwadder had put too much lemon in the pie, and not enough sugar. In any event it was way too tart for me. The townsmen on the other hand couldn’t get enough of her pie. And I heard that anyone that had won one and thought her pie was too tart could come over after dark and she’d give him a new one. Well, at least, that’s what I’d been told.
Charlie confided to me he’d love to try a piece of her pie, as his father had told him, that her pie was the best in the world. He got his chance one year after retaking the pig racing championship.
I’ll never forget the look on his face when he told me, “Gawd that pie was good!†I never got a chance again as we had to eat the “Maiden†when Mumsy threw a party for the Bog Snorkelers.
Then just as I was going to tell more about the sad demise of my “Maiden†in further detail, the blog police arrested me and put a quick end to this story...until part 3
Tags: pig, Nigel diaries, writing, stories
These are some facts about me I left out of my first bio. If you haven’t read that yet…it would make help this make more sense if you read it first, although I probably will repeat myself a bit here.
Alright then, I was born in upstate, New York, USA and grew up in the 50 or sixty miles surrounding it in various places. I have 2 high school diplomas. I went back and post graduated to get better grades to qualify for college. I got accepted at Oswego State and had every intention of becoming an Art teacher. But I met Betty, and I couldn’t afford tuition and marriage both. I chose Betty!
I’ve worked at several jobs in my life. My father was a master carpenter, and I learned most of my building experience from him until he disappeared. I was the gopher at first…you know…go for this…go for that. Later I was the sweeper. One day he gave me a hammer; the next day a saw.
By trial and error I became better. I also worked in the school cafeteria as a dishwasher so my dad wouldn’t have to come up with lunch money for me (remember we were poor as dirt with no floor to lay it on) I also, besides getting my lunch would get a couple of bucks a week. Those 2 dollars were a fortune to me. They still are now that I’m living on Social Security.
After my dad disappeared, I got jobs outside of school as a dishwasher or grocery store shelf stocker. Next I went into the Navy, where I graduated from hospital corps school with a 91.3 average…something I’m proud of…I worked proctology and entered into surgical tech school.
The Navy is how I came to know Chicago and New York. I never did finish my training, as I was needed home to help my mother with my siblings. I was given an honorable discharge to go help her. Returning home I found work in grocery store while going back to high school to get my second diploma.
This was the darkest period of my life. I was working and going to school. At school I was maintaining a 90 average, and after school I was working. Working and school, that was my life! I was lonely, mixed up, and confused, and tired…so one day I tried to commit suicide.
My mother had me rushed to the hospital. Afterwards the state sent me off for a short VACATION. It was less than a month. But once rested, I returned home and received my second diploma. I also found a new job at a hotel. It was here that I met Betty…she was a maid. My job was room service; I would pass her in the hall on the way to different rooms, while carrying trays.
One day she pulled me aside and asked if I ever went out. I told her I took my siblings to the drive-in movies. She hemmed and hawed and hedged with several questions, finally she asked me out, seeing I was too shy to ask her. We went to see “Hannibal†with Oliver Reed.
I can’t tell you much about the movie…that woman of mine is a real “Go get what you want†sort of a girl. I believe if I said, I needed a lot of chapstick afterwards you’ll understand. After that date whenever I would pass her in the hall I would drop off little cartoons I drew. They started out saying, “Good morning†or “Hi there!†Next the messages became “I like you†and finally evolved into “I think I falling in love with youâ€.
We got married 3 months later on June 27, our brothers’ birthday. She comes from a large family and both her brother and mine were born on the same day. Not the only coincidence we shared. I learned we both rode the same school bus to school for a couple of years till I moved away. Yet, we never knew it until after we got married. Small world!
So there we were getting married, and I paused during the ceremony, when asked, “Do you take this woman?†I reflected before speaking. I knew if I said this it would be forever…no turning back…this was serious. You see once I commit and give my word that’s it…period! Well I said, “I do†and it was the best decision I made in my life.
So now I was married. And now the job I had no longer was enough to support a wife and daughter…yep…quick as a flash I had a family to support. So I got one in a sheet-metal fabricating company, and it paid very well. I got injured on the job however and I spent the next 7 months in orthopedic care.
So after that I became a tow-motor operator until they laid me off. Next I got a job as a carpenter until they laid me off. So I got another as a carpenter handyman but they paid me poorly…I quit them and found a job in a hospital.
This is where I spent the next 33 years as a maintenance man. I painted, did plumbing, repaired beds, etc; but primarily I remodeled offices or built them. I was on-call 28 days a month and would come in on several occasions to restart the boilers and the power generator. I lived a block and ½ away…so I was the quickest to call-in in an emergency.
I would still be working there if not for my stroke. It did permanent damage and caused me to feel severely fatigued all the time. No amount of rest helps and there is no medicine or surgery that can correct it as I told you in my first bio. So now I’m the family cook, after being a workaholic, it was hard for me to sit and do nothing. I can at least sit and peal potatoes and throw things together. My wife says I’m pretty good at it. Well anyway she eats it!
During my stint working at the hospital I developed several friendships with my workmates, and usually I visit them once a week since my stroke. I also developed a fondness for some of our regular repeat patients. One day a woman named Mary was transferred to the nursing home next to the hospital. So I stopped in one day to visit her; after that I would stop and see her before work.
Soon I found myself visiting others, and before you knew it I was a regular visitor there. I found I had an affinity for the elderly and even visited on days that weren’t my workdays.
I visited everyday for about 40-60 minutes a day for 9 years straight come rain or shine, sun or snow. But events in my life dictated I cut back; and slowly my visits became once a week. Then after my stroke, I just couldn’t do it any more on a regular basis. I see my friends rarely now…but several of my friends have email accounts…so I can still send or receive news from them.
My hobbies are varied. Computing is number one, playing games, Yahoo Q&A, and making friends on 360, Mash, Multiply and online. I like to read, and have several favorite authors and my favorite books are to numerous to mention!
I watch a little TV; but usually only the programs I like…. okay…especially Yankee baseball…I hooked on the team…what can I say…and all you Yankee haters should be comforted by the fact that if they aren’t there in the series…I root for the Redsox…or the Mets…and now the Dodgers with Torre at the helm. Of course if the Cubs ever make the World Series I’ll do a little dance.
I have two daughters, Melissa and Debra; and four grandchildren, Amanda, Donald, Christopher, and Jennifer. My three sons died at birth; their names are Thomas, Vincent, and Adam.
I’ve got 2 dogs that are quite the combo. Puff is a female blonde haired brat…I mean Pug. And Worm is a black lab…chow mix. His name is short for Wonderful Old Reliable Mutt; which is an apt description of him. His hair is thick like a chow and his tail turns up…he’s also got a black spot on his tongue like a chow.
On his chain outside he’s a chow…and a very good watchdog, and he’s frightened every mailman we ever had. Yet off the chain he’s a lab…he’ll knock you over trying to lick, kiss, or smell you. I love him the most of the two.
My mom raised me to respect others and look for the best in them. So I’ve an attitude that I trust you right from the get go, and will maintain that…even defending you…until you betray my trust. Even then, I’m so forgiving in nature; I usually go back to trusting you again.
I don’t care what you look like! I don’t care if your skin is purple and you have big hairy green lips. Looks are unimportant to me.
I don’t care if you’re straight or gay…it’s not my business.
I don’t care if you’re mentally or physically challenged; in fact I’ll probably care about you more because of it.
I don’t care if you’re a Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindi, atheist, or agnostic! I don’t even care if your politics differ from mine! I don’t care because if you’re my friend you are precious to me, no matter what.
My only turn offs when it comes to people is if you’re overtly rude, obnoxiously crude beyond what I consider good taste for my other friends…I’m not a prude I love a risqué joke just the same as any other adult…but I draw the line at truly nasty ones.
I also draw the line at bigots. All people no matter what color or creed or nationality are my friends…because God made them that way. If God makes them…they’ve got my friendship!
Of course you can lose my friendship by killing or raping or thinking you’re better than someone you consider is less than you, because of their color, race, or nationality.
Just because I hate Bin Ladin for what he did doesn’t mean I’m going to hate all Arabs. He’s the murderer, not them.
I’m sensitive to the pain of others. I have empathy that touches my heart when my friends or family hurt. I cry at the drop of a hat when my friends are hurting. My father always thought this a weakness in me. My mother thought it was unusual. But that’s me…I guess I can care too much…. And I’ll care about you and your life even if I just met you.
I’m super sincere, sensitive or silly…I’d compare myself to Thorax from 9 Chickweed Lane in the comics. I have three main interests aside from my hobbies. That’s to make people laugh; and make people smile; and make people feel good about their selves…with a kind word, phrase, or remark.
I enjoy sharing my knowledge and will go out of my way to give it to you…as long as it’s welcome. I try not to force myself on anyone. I’m hurt when I’m not liked or respected in return, especially, if you don’t really know who I am.
I guess that about covers everything about me…. oh one more thing my main interest is making friends…and I hope you’re one of them.
Tags: blogging, my bio part 2
