My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Posts Written By L Parker Brown

Things That Go Bump in the Night

by on ·Food for Thought, General, Strange Happenings

A strange thing happened to me this morning. Talk about weird occurrences.

As I often do while lying in bed between snoozes, I had a flash of inspiration. It was around 4 AM. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my laptop, and hurried to the dining room table. Before taking a seat, I switch on the kitchen light but leave the dining room light off. My concentration is sharpest when I’m writing in a dimly lit room. I set the laptop on the table, open it, and begin typing. I’m anxious to save the thoughts in my head to the hard drive before I forget them.

My fingers are burning up the keyboard, and I’m enjoying myself in the creativity zone. The early morning hours are my favorite time of the day; it’s when I am most inspired. It’s quiet outside and indoors. For the time being, no noisy emergency vehicles are flying up and down the streets with sirens wailing. No neighbors chattering or children playing loudly outside. The phone isn’t ringing. The TV is off. In my bliss, I recall a line from a Christmas story – “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” I glance at the clock. It’s 5:12.

Satisfied that I have saved my story ideas to my hard drive, I click on Facebook and scroll down the page. Then, I click my photos. The first image my eyes land on is a favorite picture of my mother that I posted last Saturday in observance of what would have been her 95 birthday. I decide that I don’t want anyone to steal that photo. (Of course, I realize it’s already too late. Everyone knows that once a picture is posted on social media, it becomes fair game for anyone who wants to copy it.) Still, I decide to delete it. I select the image and tap the delete button on the keyboard. A message on the screen warns me, “Deleting this photo will also delete the post.” Additional instructions about how to delete just the photo and not the post are available if I click “Learn more,” but I don’t click it. Thanks, but no thanks for the warning Facebook. I delete the photo, my message, and all of the appreciated comments from my friends and relatives.

As soon as I delete the post before I even lift the finger that pressed the delete key, I hear a sound like something has fallen near me in the room. Without turning my head, I swing my eyes toward the sound. I am sitting at the dining room table in front of the door leading into the kitchen. The kitchen light behind me and the light on the laptop monitor is the only illumination in the otherwise dark room. And I know the only other person at home is asleep in the bedroom, so I ask myself, “What was that noise?”

I have a pair of 8-by-8-inch canvas African art pieces hanging near the door leading into my apartment, so I think that perhaps the hook came loose, and one of the pieces fell off the wall. I lean back in the chair, reach for the light switch on the wall and flip it on. Then I look toward the door. And I see it, the source of the noise.

The little wooden bird that perches on the console table with my other ornamental animals, a parakeet, and a turtle (my menagerie, I call it), has fallen to the floor. I wonder, how did that happen? Is it possible that the stems on my philodendron plant had a sudden growth spurt and tipped the bird over? Nah. But maybe so. A few days ago, while watering my plant, I picked up a stem extending to the floor and gently laid it over the bird. The stem on my house plant isn’t strong enough to knock a wooden bird or any other inanimate object off that table. I’ve got to stop reading Stephen King.

My rational and imagination wrestle over the issue.

Fact – Immediately after I deleted my mother’s photo, the bird fell (or was knocked off the table by something). Nothing has ever fallen off of that table except one time after a house guest accidentally bumped the table while walking past it. So, how did the bird get off the table and onto the floor? It didn’t fly.

My mother, for religious reasons, did not observe birthdays. I do. Last Saturday, I posted a photo with a message acknowledging mom’s birthday on Facebook. The post generated several kind comments and “Happy Heavenly Birthday” remarks from my friends and relatives.

Imagination – During the days that the birthday message for my mother was posted on Facebook, could it have been transmitted beyond the grave? Did mother see it?

“You know I don’t observe birthdays.” She used to repeat that so often I can still hear her saying it. “But ma, I do,” I’d reply. Did mom’s spirit flick the bird off the table as a playful yet ghostly way of showing me that she knows I continue to acknowledge her birthday?

Okay, enough with the spookiness. Still, I need an explanation. That bird has perched on that table in the same spot for years and has never flown the coop, so to speak. No one was stomping downstairs in the hallway of the building. There was no large truck rumbling by outside. I didn’t feel an earthquake, tremor, or anything that would cause the building to vibrate. The only movement in the room was my fingers tapping on the keyboard. No matter how I try to come up with a reason for how the bird wound up on the floor, I can not. Guess I’ll have to settle for it being a fluke. Stuff happens.

Halloween is two days away. I wonder, are the ghosts (even the holy ones) and goblins already haunting?

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Word Games and Anecdotal Nonsense

by on ·Humor

I’m in seventh heaven when I’m writing or playing word games. More outgoing people would rather be shaking their booty on the dance floor, matching winning symbols on a slot machine, or sightseeing in Spain. They’d probably think my idea of bliss is as boring as watching a leaky faucet. The aforementioned activities are an enjoyable diversion for some, but not for me. I dance like a wooden soldier. I dislike having one-armed bandits gobbled up my money with little or no return, and flying anywhere has been removed from my bucket list. (I’ve replaced flying with plans to be an audience member on The View one day. I’d take the train to the Big Apple.). On the contrary, this logophile is enthusiastically into word games. It doesn’t matter if the game is Scrabble, Wordle, or my favorite online game, Puzzly Words.

Sometimes just for fun, I create my own word games or anecdotes using crafty phrases.

For instance, about four months ago, Gertrude Stein’s expression, “there is no there there,” was being volleyed like a hot potato by politicians and commentators mimicking them. I was so intrigued by the phrase that I created an imaginary conversation between two friends trying to outwit each other using Stein’s expression. Listen to Karen and Becky.

Becky:  Stein was right, you know, there is no there there; nowhere.

Karen:  Of course, there is a there there. Everywhere.

Becky:   Where?

Karen:   Depending on the viewer’s perspective, there can be here or in that place. Where? There.

Becky:  Where can’t be there because there is no there there.

Karen:  Au contraire. Where indeed can be there.

Becky:  I’m telling you, where is nonexistent, and there is no there there.

Karen:  But there is there. There is a place nearby, far away, all over.

Becky:  There is where?

Karen:  There is anywhere and everywhere.

Becky:  There can’t be anywhere and everywhere if there is nowhere for there to be.

Karen:  I’m telling you there is a there there. Like where — there can be any place.

Becky:  Listen, there is no where, and no there.

Karen:  So, you believe there is no where and no there? How can I convince you that there is? If I say, let’s walk across the street. You might ask ….

Becky:  Why would we be going over ther ….

Karen:  Over where? Say it; over there.

Becky:  Don’t play with me. Stein had it right; there is no there there.

Karen:  Girlfriend, you’ve taken the whole thing out of context. Stein was referring in her autobiography to her childhood home that was gone after she left and returned years later. That’s what she meant by there is no there there.

Becky:  I don’t know about that. I just know she’s right; there is no there there and no where.

Karen:  If there is no there there nor where, then maybe there is no what either.

Becky:  What? Are you making fun of me? Where is this conversation going?

Karen:  Didn’t you just say there is no there there and no where?

Becky:  This is nonsense.

Karen:  Don’t stop now. I’m all for riding this clunker till the wheels fall off.

Becky:  Whatever!

Karen:  If there is no there there, and no where, what makes you think there is a whatever?  Hey, Becky, come back! Where are you going? Don’t stomp away mad.

 

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The Day I Smoked Raggedy Ann – Part II of 2

by on ·Reminiscing

Fast forward about 23 years, and I am a recently divorced mother of two pre-school-aged children.

We live on an upper floor in a high-rise apartment building. It’s Saturday afternoon, and I am slow-cooking chicken and dumplings. The pot is on the stove’s back burner, and the burner is set on low.

I need to make a quick trip to the bathroom. But, before I go, I look through the doorless doorway between the kitchen and living room to see what my children are doing. They are sitting on the carpeted floor near the sofa. My daughter is playing house with her dolls, toy kitchen, and tea set. My son is busy coloring outside the lines in his picture book.

I steal away to the bathroom. It is about 20 feet straight down the hallway, past our two bedrooms directly opposite the kitchen. When the bathroom door is open, the mirror on the medicine cabinet above the sink provides a clear rear view of the kitchen.

Having been a mischievous child, I knew that even the most well-behaved children could get into anything in a split second. So, out of habit, whenever my children are not sleeping, I always open the bathroom door while washing my hands. I was soaping up when the scent of something burning caused me to look up in the mirror. And I froze. Flames were shooting from the wastebasket set against the kitchen wall about three feet from the stove. (This was a few years before city regulations mandated smoke alarms in apartment buildings.)

I dropped the soap in the sink and sprinted like Flo-Jo down the hallway to the kitchen. My son was standing trancelike inches away from the waste basket and staring at the flames. I hastily opened the door to the lower cabinet opposite the wastebasket. For a split second, my mind flashed back to the cremation of Raggedy Ann. I reached into the cabinet, grabbed a large pot, set it in the sink beneath the faucet, and filled it with water. As I poured the water into the wastebasket dousing the flames, I was thankful that there were only a few tin cans and scraps of paper in the trashcan before it was set afire.

After I was confident that the fire was out, I took my son’s hands, looked him over from head-to-toe and front-to-back, and was relieved that I didn’t see any burns on his skin or clothing. Then, I transformed into angry parent mode.

It took a few minutes of questioning and the “crazy mom” look before he admitted to doing what I suspected. After sticking a piece of paper in the flame beneath the pot, he panicked and threw the lit paper in the wastebasket. I kept silently thanking God that he didn’t toss the burning paper through the doorway and onto the carpet in the living room.

One would think that his punishment – sitting for a considerable time in his little yellow plastic kid’s chair would teach him a lesson. It didn’t.

About two years later, we were living in a different apartment building. My son and his sister were playing outside. As I called for them to come inside, the phone rang, so I told them to play in their bedroom until I got off what turned out to be a lengthy phone call with my best friend.

At some point, after they closed the door to their room, I smelled smoke. I was sitting on the bed, still talking on the phone, and I told my girlfriend I’d call her back.

I hurried to the kids’ room and flung open the door. The room was filled with smoke, but I didn’t see flames and couldn’t tell where the smoke was coming from. I dashed around the room, hurriedly looking inside the closet, in the dresser drawers, behind the curtains, and all around the room, the whole while yelling, “Where is the fire? Tell me where the fire is, now?”

In hindsight, I should have rushed the kids out of the apartment, but I didn’t see flames and wanted to find and extinguish the fire quickly. In the time it would have taken me to usher them outdoors and run back inside to locate the fire, it would have spread.

“The real trick in life is to turn hindsight into foresight that reveals insight.” Robin Sharma

“Dennis and Denise the Menace” stood there wearing the guilty face children display when they know they are in trouble. Finally, my son, the perpetrator of the crime, pointed to the mattress on one of their twin beds. I reached down and flipped the mattress up on its side. A small flame was slowly beginning to spread between the wooded frame of what looked like straw filler inside the bottom of the bed. Never in my life had I felt so afraid. I ran to the bathroom, grabbed a mop bucket, and half-filled it with water from the tub. I left the water running as I ran back and forth, pitching water on the burning area until it was drenched. Then, afraid that the fire might still be smoldering inside the mattress, I lowered the mattress and poured water on the topside, soaking it.

After some prodding, my son told me that he had found a cigarette lighter outside while they were playing. Since I was on the phone, he had crawled under his bed to play with it. Then, in a quivering voice, he told me (parodying a then popular TV commercial), “I just wanted to flick my Bic.”

“Where is the lighter?” I asked through clenched teeth. He stuck his hand in his pant pocket, pulled it back out, unfolded his fingers, and held the lighter toward me. I snatched it from his hand and said, “Don’t you know that you could have burned this place down? I’m gonna flick your Bic.”

That was the last fire-starter incident in our home, and I hope that the childhood pyromania gene in our lineage fizzled out.

One of the cutest Flick Your Bic commercials.

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The Day I Smoked Raggedy Ann – Part I of 2

by on ·Reminiscing

When I say I smoked Raggedy Ann, I didn’t go out and shoot someone with that nickname. However, I did unintentionally kill my doll.

It happened when I was about four or five years old. The only reason I remember this story like it happened yesterday is that my mom repeatedly told it to me while I was growing up.

When the incident occurred, our family lived in a two-story duplex apartment in LeDroit Park. I was a clingy preschooler; my younger sister was a toddler, and my Raggedy Ann doll was my favorite toy and best friend. So, I don’t know why I did what I did to her.

One day, while dad was at work, Mom turned on the oven to preheat it for a cake she was making. I watched her mix the ingredients, anxiously waiting for her to pour the batter into the pan so that I could have the bowl. (Yes, back in the day, kids ate the raw cake batter left in the bowl and licked the spoon, too.)

Mom needed to go upstairs to check on my baby sister, who was napping. So, she led me into the living room, sat me on the sofa, and turned on our old small screen, black and white TV, tuning it to Howdy Doody. “You sit there with Raggedy Ann and watch TV, and I’ll be right back.” She said.

Moments after she goes upstairs, I slide off the sofa and stroll into the kitchen, hugging Raggedy Ann in one arm. I may have dipped a finger in the cake batter and tasted it before walking over to the stove. Our old-fashioned gas stove did not have a window on the oven door nor a light inside. I open the oven door. The heat forces me to take a step back. I toss Raggedy Ann on the bottom rack, shut the door and go back to watching Howdy Doody.

After a few minutes, mother comes running down the stairs and into the kitchen. I jump up from the sofa and run behind her. Seeing smoke gushing from the oven, she begins screaming in a panic. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

She turns off the stove, and after gently pushing me away from the stove and behind her, she opens the oven door. Heavy smoke wafts out of the oven. When mom sees Raggedy Ann smoking, she grabs a knife from the sink, plunges the blade into the doll’s torso, and, holding the handle of the impaled knife, lifts the smoldering doll out of the stove and drops it into the sink. Then she turns on the water, full blast.

While mother is rushing around the apartment, opening the front and back doors and windows to let the smoke out, I stand teary-eyed in front of the sink, looking at Raggedy Ann. Except for the singed red yarn hair on her head, Raggedy is nearly unrecognizable. The blue dress, white apron, and red and white striped stocking are all as black as the eyes that are no longer distinguishable on her previously pale face. Finally, after lecturing me on why never to touch the stove again, mother removed the soaked doll from the sink and discarded her outside in the trash can.

I don’t why I put Raggedy Ann in the oven. It certainly didn’t occur to me that my action would result in my best friend being burned, stabbed, and drowned. Talk about overkill.

Or maybe we should talk about a sense of déjà Vu.

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Hold the Beef: Plant-Based Food vs. Meat

by on ·Food, Plant-Based Food vs. Meat

I’ve been trying to eat more healthful foods for years, mainly by consuming less meat and adding more fruits and veggies. When I began the quest to eat less animal flesh (It sounds nasty when put that way, doesn’t it?), I gave up red meat. Okay, not entirely; I cheat now and then when a steak beckons to me. But I cut back significantly on the red stuff and began eating more chicken, turkey, and fish. Although I occasionally get tired of poultry and seafood, they are my primary substitutes for roast beef, hamburgers, and pork, especially pork chops (smothered in onions and gravy with brown rice and green peas on the side). Mmm, mmm, good.

While doing my best to adhere to my decision to stick with plant-based staples, I discovered and cooked some delicious vegetarian and vegan meals. Last week I prepared a small broccoli, cauliflower, and cheese casserole from a recipe I found online. Loved it! Since my significant other declares he will be a carnivore until his dying day, he didn’t even taste my delicious B&C casserole, but I didn’t mind—more for me. I finished the whole thing in a few days and enjoyed every morsel.

Still savoring the broccoli casserole success, I decided to try my hands at another vegetarian meal – homemade chili. Some folks consider chili ideal for cold winter days. I love good, homemade chili anytime, any season. For years, I made chili using ground beef. About a decade ago, I began substituting ground turkey. When I made chili a couple of days ago, I switched to tofu.

A few folks who I know have told me, while frowning and scrunching up their face, that they don’t like tofu. Some admit they’ve never tried it, but they know they don’t like it. A couple of weeks ago, my daughter-in-law (a recently converted vegetarian) and I were discussing plant-based foods. She expressed her distaste for tofu, saying it is too soft and watery to use for almost any meal she prepares.

Although I experimented with tofu long ago and also found it tasteless, mushy, and nearly intolerable, I decided to give the bean curd another try. Back on the Internet, I went for another recipe. The half-dozen cookbooks I brought at various times over the years are collecting dust in my bookcase. I tried some recipes from those books but only found a few that I liked. Even Patty LaBelle’s cookbooks didn’t hold many recipes that appealed to me. (No offense, Patty. I’ve loved you for decades, ever since I first heard you and The Pips sing “Midnight Train to Georgia.” Woo Woo.) Let me get back on track. (Pun intended.)

So, I made the tofu chili, which was absolutely, positively delicious. Anyone who has eaten tofu knows that plain tofu doesn’t have much taste. However, it absorbs the flavors of seasonings, marinades, and nearly anything it is cooked in, including tomato sauce used in making chili. I am not exaggerating when I say that I couldn’t taste any difference between the tofu chili from the turkey chili. There was only one little problem: I added too much ground cayenne pepper, or maybe it was the chili powder. I’m one of those cooks who seldom bother to measure most of the contents in a recipe. Instead, I’ll estimate a half-teaspoon of this or a tablespoon of that, and into the mixture, it goes. The ingredients in my tofu chili, in addition to the tofu (extra firm) and a variety of spices, included diced green bell pepper, onions, sliced mushrooms, tomato sauce, and kidney beans.

As I said, my chili would have been perfect, except that I added too much cayenne pepper or chili powder. One, or the combination of those two ingredients, set my mouth on fire. I mean, the burn was on. I had tears running down my face and steam coming out of my ears, but by guzzling lots of water, I put out the fire. Aside from that, my chili was delicious. I must tell my daughter-in-law.

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