WHAT'S THAT DEAD COW DOING ON MY PLATE?

Here’s a vegan’s confession. I didn’t become a vegetarian for health or ethical issues. I just didn’t want to eat cows, pigs or chickens.

When I was a preschooler, the neighbors had cows. My family had pet rabbits and chickens as well as the usual assortment of pet dogs and cats. As soon as I found out that beef was really cow; bacon was really pig; and chicken was chicken, I didn’t want to eat it.

I wasn’t eating dead animals. I also didn’t want to eat eggs. They came from a chicken’s butt, and in those days I didn’t understand the difference between a fertilized egg and an unfertilized egg, so I thought there was a baby chicken in there.

My mother was okay with my choices. She thought I would grow out of it. She always cooked potatoes with every meal and there was always a vegetable too. I ate pancakes and lots of breads and desserts that had egg in them. Just so long as I didn’t have to eat anything eggy or meaty. I was all right.

I did get into trouble at school. The school lunch program served what was then described by teachers and cooks as “nutritional” meals. I wouldn’t eat the meats, and sometimes if the vegetables looked runny or the potatoes were mixed with the meat in a kind of hash, I wouldn’t eat that either. I would eat peanut butter sandwiches and milk and I usually ate the desserts. It was enough to get me through the day.

The teachers considered my eating habits rebellion. Sometimes I was forced to sit in the lunch room after everyone else had left. I was told I couldn’t leave until I ate something. When no one was looking, I would cut a piece out of the meat with a knife, hide it in a napkin and then claim I ate something.

Then I could go.

I was a liar, I know, but I was not going to eat a cow, a chicken or a pig. I knew the animals were murdered for their meat; I felt that was wrong, but I was not protesting the horrors of the slaughterhouse in those days. Factory farming did not exist then.Despite living in the country and visiting farms, I knew nothing about farming. I certainly never witnessed a slaughter.

On television I saw commercials for Carnation condensed milk. It supposedly came from contented cows.

I read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books. In one book she writes that cheese is made from a calves’ brains. I gave up cheese for awhile. But kept going back to it.

My elementary school classes got more their share of lectures about how important it was to eat meat for good health. I am sure I was the student those lectures were aimed at. The teachers were bound and determined to change my eating habits.

While I loved my pets, the birds and turtles, rabbits, and chickens as well as the dogs and cats, empathy was something I learned. I was not born with it. We who have Asperger’s are often accused of not having empathy. But like good nutrition, empathy can come from a variety of sources. I am grateful I always had pets. They made great teachers, and taught me empathy despite the Asperger’s.

As I got older, I became interested in the humane movement. I volunteered at an animal shelter in Iron Mountain, Michigan and I even wrote an article way back in June 1973 for “Dog Fancy” (Now “Dogster” Magazine) on how to start a humane society.

I became a conscientious vegetarian.

I learned about the health benefits of vegetarian and vegan living. I consider that a wonderful plus. I also feel superior to all those teachers who tried to force me to eat meat, and who lectured on its benefits.

I eat vegan cheese now, not the dairy kind. I avoid dairy like its the plague.

It’s good to be healthy and kind.

WRITE ABOUT YOUR FEARS

When I was growing up, I was afraid of everything. The dark. Spooky places like ship wrecks and airplane crashes,Haunted Houses. Dead bodies and snakes. I had to experience the dark every night. Snakes were a possibility, but the others were highly unlikely.

Where did all those fears come from?

We lived near a small airport, and the boys who lived near by told me the airplanes came alive at night and ate people. I was afraid those airplanes would come and get me in my sleep.

Those were the days of scary television dramas like “Twilight Zone.” I would watch an episode about a lost airplane, and I’d have nightmares for days afterward.

My mother used to get “Life” magazine. The pages were filled with graphic pictures of plane crashes, burned children and disaster aftermath. I tried to avoid looking at the pages of that magazine, but it was always there. Sometimes the magazine sitting on the coffee table would be open to the most horrible picture in the book.

When I was about eight years old, the Andrea Doria, a luxury ocean liner collided with another ship, the Stockholm. I watched the Andrea Doria sink. I had nightmares, not only then, but every time I thought about the ship. It’s in the deepest, spookiest part of the ocean, and many experienced divers have died exploring the Andrea Doria as it lies in its grave.

If there was a fear out there, it seemed ready to attach itself to me.

I remember the first time I saw a snake.

I was a preschooler sitting in the house with my parents, when the dogs outside started barking. They were making quite a ruckus. My dad was going to get up and see what it was about, but I jumped up and said, “I’ll see. I’ll see.”

I went out and saw the dogs barking at what I thought was this really pretty colorful striped cord. It looked like a jump rope. I was going to pick it up and start jumping rope. I started to approach it, but the dogs got in my way. They gently pushed me away and barked more fiercely than ever.

“What’s going on?” My parents came outside.

“See,” I pointed. I still thought it was a jump rope, but it startled me by moving.

My dad killed the snake, and then my mother said I should touch it so I wouldn’t be afraid of snakes.

The dogs went wild when I started toward the dead snake. They wouldn’t let me touch it. Thank heavens.

I am afraid of snakes. I don’t think touching it would have made a difference.

TRY THIS: Write about something you are afraid of. Why do you think you are afraid of this something? What experiences have you had real or imaginary?

Family Secrets

By M.A. De Neve (Mary Ann Slavcheff)

Chapter One

Lisa Brianka’s arrest came as a shock to all of us. Even me. I’m the Mountain Ridge snoop, so usually I’m way ahead of the gossip, and I can even sometimes predict things like this. What I felt that morning was closer to fear than to surprise.

When I stopped by the Yorkie cafe less than twelve hours after Lisa’s arrest, customers were discussing the latest Lisa gossip.

“Do you think she did it?”

“Of course, she done it.”

“She’s crazy.”

“Everyone knows that.”
 “Don’t mean she killed anyone.”

I glanced around at the dirty floor, the wooden tables, and the toy-sized juke boxes on the counter. Tony Orlando sang,“Tie A Yellow Ribbon.” Everyone in this town knows what a snoop I am, so no one ties a yellow ribbon for me. They started to quiet down. That was all right. I’d heard enough.

I glanced at a copy of today’s newspaper lying on the counter. The Beatles had broken up. Darn. Richard Nixon defended his decision to invade Cambodia. The war in Viet Nam was as unpopular as ever.

I know a lot about unpopularity. I’m not even a war, just a girl trying to escape boredom.

Bev the waitress poured me a cup of coffee just the way I like it, strong and black. “Hi, Penny. What’ll it be this morning?” she asked.

“A grilled cheese with a thick slice of tomato. Hash browns. Keep the coffee coming.”

“You got it.” Before she turned to put my order in, she asked, “You know anything?”

“The alphabet, the state capitals and my multiplication tables right up to 13 times 13.”

“Don’t be a smart ass,” she told me.”Were you there when they made the arrest?” “No.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“What they said on the radio.”

“But you’ll tell me when you find out anything?”

“Depends on what I find out.”

“You know I could spit in your hash browns,” she said.

“You won’t though.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Bev took off with her order pad.

I smiled and waved at Elaine, the elderly cook, who was moving slowly about the kitchen; her arthritis was probably acting up. She ignored me. She’s got some kind of grudge. She says I stole some papers she threw out years ago.

What can I tell you? They were at the curb, and I noticed them. She could have burned them. She could have read them herself before she put them on the curb for anyone to take.

I took a deep breath and sipped my coffee. I didn’t look around. I knew the other customers were looking at me. The only voice I heard was Tony Orlando’s voice. So much for yellow ribbons. At least the waitress talks to me.

I was just finishing my sandwich when Leo Olson came in. He used to be sheriff here in Mountain Ridge. Olson arrested me back when I was eleven or twelve on a shop lifting charge.

It was a fifty cent tube of lipstick. I could have bought it, but how much fun would that have been?

Leo was 70 years old or more than that, but still tall and thin like teen age basketball player. His grey hair was cut short; his steely gray eyes looked at everyone like they were murder suspects or drunken drivers. His skin was weathered like a fisherman’s skin. Yet he wore his years well. I would see him walking and even jogging around town, fit as a man in his thirties.

I started walking toward the door. Then I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask. “Is Lisa Brianka all right?”

The stillness in the room was complete. Every other customer was wondering the same thing, but no one else was brave enough to ask.

Leo sipped his coffee really slow, and then took a deep breath. Cops know that silence makes the rest of us feel uncomfortable and even guilty. Finally he said, “I ain’t a cop anymore.”

“Your son’s the sheriff,” I reminded him. “Is Lisa being treated okay?”

“Far as I know. Miles ain’t here. He’s getting ready to fly down to Louisiana.” Surprise. I was getting information from a cop, but then the sheriff’s comings and goings wouldn’t be secret. Or would they? At least Sheriff Miles Olson had something to occupy him other than poor Lisa.

Norman Cain, a serial killer awaiting execution in Louisiana was spilling his guts, delaying his execution for crimes committed down south by telling authorities where more bodies were buried in the tunnels under and around Mountain Ridge.

Dozens of state cops, crime scene investigators and reporters were in town covering the excavations. I supposed Miles’ presence was now and then called for down south.

“Our sheriff’s a busy boy,” I said. He arrested Lisa last night, and then what? Today he gets on an airplane and flies south.”

“He’s busy,” Leo agreed. I wasn’t going to get anymore out of him.

“Tell Lisa I’m thinking of her, will you?” I said after a pause.

“I ain’t goin’ near that crazy,” Leo said.

FALL

The ground is a spider web of twigs and leaves.

Wild rhubarb stalks stretch out their arms like crucified bandits.

LIST OF CHARACTERS WITH BRIEF DESCRIPTIONS

Meet the characters in my novel.

Yvonne Brianka was orphaned at age seven and shipped off to a Catholic orphanage, where she is treated as a third rate citizen because of her Jewish father. Her dad has disappeared. Her younger sister Lisa insists he was lynched.

Somewhere along the way Yvonne picks up the nickname of Vonnie. When she left the orphanage at age 16, she went to work for the Rinaldis, the wealthiest family in town. One night she is gang raped by two violent young men, and soon she discovers she is pregnant. Knowing her predicament, Ezekiel Cheney offers to marry her. He is a Civil War veteran seventy years her senior, who expects nothing but housekeeping from her. He fulfills the father role for her and her son.

Vonnie eventually takes over as manager of Almasy House, a historic old hotel. But her problems are far from over. Her son’s death was ruled accidental, but she knows he was murdered. And whoever killed her baby is still out there.

When her sister is accused of murdering her son. Vonnie gets the town snoop, a hippy girl named Penny Payton, involved in proving her sister’s innocence.

Lisa Brianka talks about hanged men and drowned babies. People say she’s crazy. She’s witnessed violent death, and now a serial killer targets her.

Jack Brianka spent a year in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Now people say he’s mobbed up. It could be true.

Dylan Mynter’s first wife cheated on him; his second wife, Lisa Brianka, is crazy and his daughter is a freak.

Lucinda Rinaldi takes in strays. She’ll help anyone in need. But then the Klan discovers she’s a black woman passing as white.

Penny Payton is the town snoop. She’s discovered several of the town’s secrets. But a serial killer needs to shut her up.

MY HIPPY NAME

If I were a hippy, what would my hippy name be?

I think it would be leaf. Long ago a friend named me Leaf because when he met me I had a leaf in my hair. One of the few half way decent poems I ever wrote was about leaves, and I think of myself as a person changing and light hearted like a leaf.

But I would need two names. For some reason hippies have two names.

I will stick with just the one for now.

WRITING PROMPT: USE STORY SONGS TO MAKE SHORT STORIES

As I was doing my exercises this morning, I noticed “El Paso” by Marty Robbins in the mix. That was a big hit around 1960, but most people have probably forgotten the tune.

I named one of my cats Felina, after the girl the cowboy falls in love with in the song. He sings, “Nighttime would find me in Rosa’s Cantina. Music would play and Felina would whirl… My love was deep for the Mexican maiden.”

I love story songs, and I thought about the cowboy, Felina, the handsome young stranger, and Rosa.

Writing prompt: Take a story song, and write a short story about one of the characters?

For instance: What was Felina like as a girl? After the cowboy died, who did she marry? Did she tell her husband about these men? Did she have children? How many?

Get crazy. What if my calico cat Felina, is the Felina from the song reincarnated. Perhaps two of my other cats, Lancelot and Dodger were the cowboys who in another lifetime loved her. Now they all live together as a spayed and two neutered cats in a household.

How would each of these cats tell their “El Paso” story?


 Too silly? That is okay because when we are writing we can get silly. Make up incredible stories. Have fun.