Beautiful Things - Bob Killion

I remember my moms when they had their adventures: chasing giants, rescuing children, singing to the moon… it was a long time ago.  When she walks me to school, Laurie reminds me of everything that happened and we pick flowers that grow around the sidewalks.  My moms used to be famous; they made everyone jealous.  When I tell the kids about my moms, they only listen until I talk about the adventures.  Then they say, “Ah, now you’re pushin’ it, Daisy!”  I tell my teacher all the things I remember and she smiles at me and says, “That’s nice, Daisy.”  Grown-ups don’t believe me when I say I remember.  They tell me I couldn’t remember because it was before I was born.  But I remember.  I remember everything.

My moms met when they were fighting terrible battles at the hospital.  Maggie came from Canada on a flying dog sled with a blue flowery backpack and a great green coat with two hundred pockets.  When they heard she was coming, Mayor Gregory had his soldiers surround the city and told her she was on thin ice, and that she better not come any closer.  But she pushed through.  She shouted and swung her backpack, and all her flying dogs charged.  The soldiers got so scared they ran home and jumped under their beds.  Mayor Gregory is still hiding in his closet to this day.  She took her dogs right down Broad Street to the hospital and kept up the fight.  That’s where she met Laurie. 

Laurie fought at the hospital too.  She says she was a good fighter, but she got tired and used to cry a lot.  She says Maggie helped her fight.  Then she shows me her pink ribbons and tells me it’s okay to cry, but it’s better to cry with someone else.

When the battle was over, my moms moved to Washington Street and lived together, far away from the hospitals.  On Fridays, they took the bus uptown and made everyone jealous.  They wore blue suits with pink blouses or silky hats with peach dresses, and everywhere they walked, people turned their heads and wanted to know who they were.  At Jim’s restaurant, they would go to hear the band, and Donny would ask Maggie to sing, “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.”

In the day-time, my moms fought giants.  They put on their old battle clothes and chased them all over the city.  They rode dragons and forged shields; swung their swords and blew their trumpets.  Laurie says the fights weren’t as scary as they used to be.  And when they won their fights, people got their homes back, or they could afford food, or their children got to go to school.  And when they said thank-you, or sent them a picture, or baked them a cake, or cried with them, Maggie called it “beautiful things.” 

They rode Maggie’s dogsled to the moon for vacation, and had picnics under the stars.  In winter, they went hiking in the forest, and learned how to speak to the wild wolves. And when they had seen everything there ever was to see, my moms came home to Washington Street and decided to look for me.  Laurie says they looked for a long time and filled out a lot of papers, but that they finally just asked Donny because he had a good heart and they wanted me to have a good heart too. 

On the day Maggie died, they told her something was wrong.  The doctor said she had to stop pushing so they could take her to the hospital.  She didn’t want to go.  She wanted to stay at our house.  She didn’t like hospitals anymore, but she went.  For me.  So I’d be okay. 

Laurie cries sometimes but she says she’ll be okay because she has me now.  Donny brings me books on my birthday and teaches me how to draw clouds and dinosaurs. 

I remember everything about my moms, especially in the days when they had their adventures.  Some days, Laurie tells me new stories.  She tells me about driving in New Jersey and about Law school and about how Maggie liked apples.  And when I tell her I remember—that I remember how they were, she and Maggie together—Laurie smiles and tells me it’s beautiful.  She tells me, never forget, let it move you. And when we walk down Washington Street on the way to school, Laurie points to all the new flowers.  “That’s Maggie,” she says, “that’s your mom.  Still fighting battles.  Still pushing beautiful things into the world.”

Bob Killion

"Pushing daisies" is an action.  "Dead" seems so final and static--a complete end to all activity.  

But "pushing," pregnant with the energy, strain, and emotion of human endeavor, captures life.  

And in the springtime of our death, the bulbs of our labor break open and grow.

Life lived for beautiful things.  

Pushing Daisies - Jerry Karn

In a neighborhood of squinting windows, none squinted so hard or long as those at 212 Maple Court. These were manned by Miss Minnie McComb and, though she kept a 360 degree vigil, she concentrated on Daisyland. She was quick to remind everyone that she had originally opposed the special exception and look what happened. It had opened and failed, then failed to reopen. When she learned George Daisy was to buy the place, she prepared for another disaster. She had gone to high school with him. She knew him for what he was, a wealthy, dreamy, hippie, communist and likely philanderer. Even after all these years, she found it hard to tell the stories she had heard, but she soldiered on.
If George could have overheard her thoughts, he would have stood right up on his hind legs and told her straight out, “I’m no communist!” But he didn’t see her, wouldn’t have recognized her if he had. They ran in different crowds.
For George, Daisyland was about doing something on his own, making a contribution to society. His parents were both accomplished and he had gone to a good school, a number of them actually. It took many years, but finally his assorted courses aligned with a degree requirement and he graduated. He was ready to contribute right then and there, but his dad insisted he find a job. He found it even more difficult to align the degree with a job, until his father finally saw his potential and took him into the family business. That was 30 years ago, now his father had passed on and he had inherited a comfortable sum. During those years he had also acquired a wife, two children and a paunch. The wife remained loosely fastened and the detachable parts were now living in North Carolina.
Through the years, he had flirted with many progressive causes, but now he was focused on a single cause - old people. Perhaps it had to do with his own advancing age, but he was moved by the plight of the elderly: abandoned by family, tossed out of homes, left to vegetate. He envisioned a place where they might live out their final years in a fun filled environment, dedicated to providing for their desires as well as their needs. And he thought it would be a sound investment. After all, there were more older people each year. It was Economics 101, a class he had passed first time. He had barely mentioned his interest, when a friend of his cousin contacted him with a recently completed retirement home for sale. He would have his realtor meet George at the home.
That’s how Minnie knew of his involvement. It started with a black car turning into the nursing home, she had spotted it right away. It wasn’t a neighborhood vehicle. And the middle aged lady getting out, she wasn’t from around here either. She was fiddling with the padlocked gate when a little red sports car arrived, definitely foreign. But when George Daisy stepped out she tingled with interest. She was a bit disappointed as he now seemed shorter and the long black hair had left his skull, whitened and gathered about his chin. His silhouette which once resembled a pencil, now looked like a coke bottle. But now they were inside and she needed to focus on what they were doing. The lady seemed a bit matronly, but you never know and with

binoculars, she followed their progress through un-curtained windows. It appeared, however, she was only showing him around.
George considered himself an astute observer and quickly surmised that the inability to open the door was not only the lock, which was missing multiple screws, but the door had swelled considerably. It re-emphasized the curved marks on the floor as he put his shoulder to the task. He made note of this and then noticed slight enlargements at the wall base and a musty smell. “It was a recent flood, one of the hundred year types, so it shouldn’t be a concern again for some time.” the real estate lady said. George considered the statement a bit cavalier and added ‘flood’ to the list. They couldn’t turn on the lights as the electric power was off due to non-payment. There were other problems, but there were good things too. The two large leaf filled pools held great possibilities as did the separate recreation building at the rear. The landscaping was generally dead, but he envisioned hedges and flower gardens tended by his guests as they might in their own homes. Yes, with the bugs removed and comfortable furniture installed, it could be a great place. Something that could bear his name.
That was nearly two years ago, before he had spent a small fortune on a list of repairs required by the building department and another to meet the nursing home occupancy. But they had been done and ‘Daisyland’ was open. Now he had new worries. It was losing money, big time. It was well below the projected business plan his consultants had provided. They had cut prices, reduced staff, but were still were running about half capacity. Moreover, Emily was threatening divorce. Their personal wealth was disappearing quickly and he was spending too much time with those old people.
He had begun working at the front desk, a cost saving measure, when Mrs. Heathcote-Wortley appeared. She was a distinctive thing, wrapped in an indignant air and a worn mink coat. She was topped off by some bird of prey arranged into a hat. She arrived lightly, clutching a twine strung cardboard box and perhaps, a grandson, who was dragging two vintage pieces of luggage. Their worn sides and faded stickers, likely still elegant in a bright brass rack at the Ritz, struck a melancholy note on the discount carpet. Following a stiff, but sincere hug and a dabbing of tears, the child returned to the car. It sat with door still ajar as eyes peered from its interior.
He had no information save a note from the night clerk and had barely started filling in the formwork when she said she would prefer to do this later. “Of course,” he said. “And what room might you prefer, we have a selection.”
“It really doesn’t matter as I don’t expect to stay long.”
“Oh. Well, lets try this one. Wonderful sunlight and a great view of the recreation building and the pools. They’ll look a lot better when we remove the cover and bring the lounge furniture from storage.”
She gave it a glance and said, “I’m sure they will.” Good sign, he thought, and continued.

“And here,” pointing to an area of dried weeds, “will be our flower and veggie garden...“
Walking back to the desk, he couldn’t help noticing, ... once shed of fur and feathers, this was an elegant and attractive lady. There was something about her. Heathcote-Wortley was a strange name, the only Wortley he could recall was a prominent madame in a prostitution ring. It had operated for years undetected in the best hotel in town. Sixty-eight according to the form, but she sure didn’t look it.
At first, she stayed in her room and ate meals alone at the table in the corner. He was on the verge of joining her just to cheer her up, but the next time he looked she was with Sunny McCrossin. Sunny was a short, energetic sort who had for years managed sun tan parlors in the area. She had a perfect name for her warm disposition. Then the next day, several businessmen joined them. By the end of the week there wasn’t any room at the table.
The following Monday, Mrs. Heathcote-Wortley told him she had decided to stay on permanently. “I knew that view would get to you,” he said.
“No,” she answered, “I’m staying because you are so cheap, but the view has given me ideas.” George grinned.
When she left, his grin faded. He was down to 28 residents and in near panic. The place was like a black hole, just consuming money. If he closed down what would happen to his people? Sometimes he almost envied them, wished he could forget the responsibilities, after all he just wanted to do good. Poor things, even now they were gathering in whispering groups, going from room to room clutching shaky impressions on folded paper. Something was going on, but they weren’t telling him. Maybe it had to do with Mrs. Heathcote-Wortley. He thought it had started with her, because two weeks after her arrival the whole place had started changing. The sound was turned off on the big screen TV which was not so unusual. The unusual part was how few continued to watch. It was amusing to observe what ever was happening, but he had no time now, he had to think about the big picture.
Over the next few days the whispering groups morphed into a series of long meetings that extended into the wee hours. These were held behind closed doors with all the residents in attendance. The only staffer present was Jeffrey, his part time middle schooler. He was bright enough and George considered asking him what was going on, but he was likely too young to know. Perhaps they were planning a rebellion. After their third meeting that he was extended a written invitation, The ‘Daisies’ cordially invite you to discuss an exciting and mutually profitable business venture... Terrific, just as he had envisioned, a bottom up idea and a cute name.
That evening the room was crowded as Jeffrey pushed the three Daisies, confined to wheelchairs, into position. There was great enthusiasm. The meeting came to order. Mrs. H-W asked Miss

McCrossin, chairwoman of the business committee, to make the presentation. She wasted no time saying “...with last night’s nearly unanimous vote, the SOCIAL Security Club Ltd is prepared to negotiate the rental of the recreation building, one of the pools and other facilities with Daisyland Inc...” She continued, but at a pause, he raised his hand and inquired as to the business of the SS Club. “We will be in the same business as you, Mr. Daisy,” she smiled. “Providing for the needs of the elderly, bringing people closer together and earning a bit of spending money along the way.”
He recalled that one retirement home had gotten in some trouble with monetary prizes for bingo and asked if they were aware there could be legal consequences. “They had consulted counsel,” was the quick retort. Then Mr. Edwards rose with some difficulty and after getting everyone’s full attention and in the most bland of deliveries, simply said, “We were told that if we violated the law we could be confined to an institution.” The room exploded with laughter and he sat with a slight twinkle.
George left the meeting wondering if there would be any interest in the various programs and services they were considering. The lists needed editing and the terminology corrected. A subheading of ‘Invest’ was consistently misspelled with a “c” and he felt senior positions and family relationships might need more explanation. He doubted movies and games would be popular and why stipulate audience sizes such as threesomes and groups? He realized many were in a second childhood, but would they really play with toys? And bingo, it was included, but apparently you gave up items if you lost. Now who would play such a game? Still, they were going to pay for things already in their monthly charge. Maybe he was taking advantage, but he needed the income. He would be at the 10 am negotiating meeting.
****
Three months later, Minnie McComb was beside herself. She had stopped reminding people of her predictions of failure and now complained of the lines of visitors and lack of neighborhood parking. She was upset. How come Daisyland was thriving while the library had cut back hours and she had been released from her job after 15 years. Something was going on there, but she couldn’t see through the thick evergreen hedge. The best hole offered a view of the pool. It seemed quite active with lots of people floating about on strangely lifelike rafts and chasing each other with those long tubes. Well, she would soon have an opportunity to see for herself as that middle schooler had dropped off an invitation to an open house. Seems the SOCIAL Security Club was starting an outreach program. They were looking for the entrepreneurial man or woman needing income, wishing to develop relationships. You could work in your own home. She glanced at the wall mirror. The lady there wasn’t an entrepreneur, but she needed income and relationships? There hadn’t been many of those, still, she was once a looker, everyone said so. Maybe she should loosen the bun a bit. She turned her head slightly

.

****

It was a bright May day with the three blocks between the Sunoco Station and the old town hall filled with little booths. Between the VFD tent and the VFW, was the Daisyland exhibit. It may have been the shade or lemonade, but it was definitely the spot for the older crowd. George sat among the ladies enjoying the festivities. Like others he was sporting a ‘little pin on daisy’, not the real thing, but bright yellow cut outs made by the ladies. They weren’t giving them away, but selling them for fifty dollars apiece. There was a sign thanking all for donating, saying it was an investment in the elderly and suggesting they could be redeemed for twice the fun if you were over 65 and a club member.
The parade was moving by with the high school band, scantily clad Pompomettes and the Lions Club. But, none got a warmer welcome than the SOCIAL Security Club. It’s tractor drawn float laid out as the rear deck of some cruise liner with railing, flags and banners. There was a central cabin from which older ladies and gentlemen would individually emerge along the sides. Tipping hats, curtsying and bowing their way to the back, they would meet, pose, embrace and often begin to dance before reentering the rear doors together. All this was done in turn of the century costume. Ladies wore large feathered hats, lacy blouses and long pleated skirts, while men had straw hats, vests and spats. Usually man would meet woman, but occasionally through some confusion, members of the same sex would meet and to the delight of the crowd would pose and embrace before entering.
Pulled behind the float was the ‘Pet Therapy’ wagon where a couple of residents sat with dogs and a cat plus a small herd of sheep. He had concerns about the sheep as soon as he saw them delivered and went directly to Mrs H-W. She took him aside to a small room and closed the door. “Now what are your concerns?” she asked.
“Well, I’ve had experience with sheep.” Oh? she said looking at him intently.
“Yes,” he continued, “My grandfather had some and they ate everything, ruined his yard and the shrubbery.”
She smiled and patted his hand, “Don’t worry, George, I’ve already told the ‘Animal Lovers’ they must put up an attractive fence and despite the popularity of their ‘Adopt a Sheep’ program, we will allow no more than four sheep.”
“Just thought I needed to say something. You know I run a tight ship.”
“We know you do, dear, but its your ability to focus on the big picture that we so like about Daisyland.”
He knew she was a good judge of character when he first saw her. And now he had to concede their popularity. He noted the tiny alfalfa bales were broken to sell at 25 cents per handful as children fed the animals. They wore little slip -on signs with cute names such as ‘Lamb Chops’,

‘Fun Buns’ and ‘Lambsy Divy’. They had even won a local agriculture award for ‘best kept’ animals.
There were so many changes he couldn’t keep up with them: the new partitions in the recreational building; unusual work out equipment with special electronics; and something called the Toy Store. But he saw a thickening bottom line with Daisyland booked up solid. There was an increasing demand for short term stays. They had always offered some rooms by the night or week for the family, a sort of transition to residents, but now there was a tremendous demand. And so many inquires about an hourly rate. It took almost an hour to fill in the forms and he kept explaining the insurance companies wouldn’t cover the therapy without a full name. Some people couldn’t accept getting old, he thought. A couple were confined to wheel chairs and he asked how they liked their classes. “We are just observers,” they said, “a sort of cheering section.” It was reassuring to see how older people supported each other.
He had gone to see Mrs. H-W about the forms though and she quickly said they would just rent several rooms long term. Apparently they used a short form. She also said they would pay the increased laundry service. He hadn’t noticed that, but upon examination, it was considerable.
He was so impressed with the marketing aspect of it all. There were ads in the local paper and little daisies pierced by arrows decorated the telephone poles. They pointed directions to Daisyland. It seemed to bring the community together. They had apparently tapped into some latent interest in tans, massages and games. The bag packers at the local grocery were friends of Jeffrey’s and great promoters of Daisyland. They spent a lot of time talking to the seniors as they cashed social security checks and honored food stamps. Another kid at the drug store advised them on purchases and knew what would be covered by their insurance. George could see the generational divide shrinking before his very eyes. It was a good feeling and he was part of it.
Small community groups met regularly at Daisyland. He had never realized there were so many animal lovers and groups like the ‘Chain Gang’ and the ‘Submissives’. Singing groups, he guessed, although he thought there names a bit dated, like some 70’s quartets out of Detroit.
Yes, things were looking up at Daisyland, in fact, it was flourishing. The silent TV had no picture and the living space was more like a reception area. Mrs H-W had become a frequent speaker at the local Chamber of Commerce and, with Miss McC, spent hours answering inquiries from other elderly groups. Jeffrey had acquired a chauffeurs uniform and had hired another kid to help. They were constantly picking up and delivering guests. They had painted the van like some candy cane and stuck these magnetic yellow flowers all over it, even had an air horn.
Folks began calling them the ‘Facilitators”.
New small groups with strange names were springing up daily. The SS Club was worrying about taxes and increasing the profit margin, but they had taken his advice. They started a new club with ‘Invest’ spelled correctly, though they still carried the old listing. The outreach program was the fastest growing segment of the business and now headed by that neighbor he could never

remember. She claimed they went to school together. Mrs. H-C had even setup a 529 plan for her grandson.
****
George and Emily were enjoying breakfast on the veranda, reading the Sunday paper and checking out real estate opportunities from North Carolina. They were planning to retire there near the kids. Things were good between them now with the financial strain of Daisyland removed. The Daisyland Residents Group had offered to buy him out and they were going to accept. From time to time each would point out some interesting article and Emily asked if he had seen where the state legislature was on the verge of legalizing small amounts of marijuana? “I’ve heard talk,” he chuckled, “maybe we should just stay here.”
But he was ready to move on. He’d made a success of Daisyland, even when everyone had predicted failure. Sometimes even he wasn’t sure how he’d done it. Luck, he guessed, and hard work. He had always considered himself a hard worker. Of course, the ‘Daisies’ deserved some credit. He heard the Garden Club was planning an enormous greenhouse. He thought they should wait as the new Home Depot already had a big plant section, but they were projecting big profits. Those Daisies were pushers... 

Jerry Karn

Bubba - Will Craig

            There was never so much fuss in our house as there was the week we got the fish.  After a year of noise and chemical smells, we had added a new wing to our house.  Now Mom and Dad wanted something to dress up that new space.  Dad decided that something should be a fish-tank.  He brought his new-wing-warming present home that day, and put it on top of the cabinet, across from the TV.  In it were five fish, a pipe blowing bubbles, a diver in an old-time suit, and a plaster Buddha in one corner.  And at each end a clump of plastic pink daisies were planted in the turquoise and magenta pebbles.

            When Dad unveiled the tank for us, Mom gave the same look I’d been trained to give when someone gave me a pencil case or pack of socks for Christmas.  Meg and Molly, my two younger sisters jumped up and down clapping and shouting, “Fishes! Fishes!” That first day, they couldn’t get enough of those fish.  Me? I thought they were creepy.  There was something zombie-like about them, the way they drifted around with that dead-eyed look at everything.  They were two goldfish, one thin silvery one, and a round zebra-striped one.  And then there was that one fish, bigger than the others.  We never knew what sort he was. He was pale yellow, had big grey eyes, a sort of bulge in his head, and a mouth that kept sucking in and out.  I’m not sure how to describe it, but if any fish could strut swimming, it would be him. He had a look that seemed to say “This is MY tank.  This is MY diver, MY Buddha, MY daisies!”

            He was the only one we bothered to name - Bubba.  His favorite activity was to burrow under the pebbles and push up those plastic daisies so they floated around the top of the tank and caught in the filter.  Then some of the other fish would get caught in the plastic leaves, and after a zombie-ish struggle, just die.  Five times Mom had to empty the tank and replant those daisies, but Dad was determined to keep his investment in the new space.  Week after week he’d bring back new fish to replace the dead ones. The ending was always the same.  Down went Bubba, up went the daisies, and something or other happened to the other fish. Even the ones that didn’t get caught barely lasted three days.  Maybe Bubba ate too much of the food, maybe he scared them to death.  Only Bubba went on.

            Meg and Molly enjoyed holding little burials for the fish in our yard.  Meg wanted to find real daisies to throw over them before filling the hole in, but Molly protested saying “No! You’ll crush them!”  She seemed to believe the daisies were somehow responsible for the deaths. For a long time the three of us had a friendly debate over how many daisies it would take to crush a dead fish.

            After a month and a half, Bubba was still the only survivor under the floating leaves, and Dad finally gave in to Mom’s demands and gave it up.  He donated the fish-tank, with the Diver, Buddha, daisies and Bubba, to our pediatrician’s offics.  After that we saw Bubba at our annual check-ups.  A year later, he was still there, and he’d become huge, as big as a mini-basketball, and the other fish the staff had filled the tank with were all avoiding him.  The receptionist told me they’d named him Nikita, because the bulging forehead and big lips reminded her of Krushchev.  “If only we could stop him pushing up those daisies!” she fretted.

            We replaced the fish with two guinea pigs, which I found a lot more lively and satisfying, but I could never really get Bubba out of my mind.  One year, we went to the doctor’s office, and Bubba wasn’t there anymore.  There was a new, circular tank filled with tiny fish.  I assumed he’d finally passed on, but no – the receptionist told me they’d given him up.  He’d gotten too big for the tank, and started eating the other fish!  She’d heard he was now living in a dentist’s office across town, under the name of ‘Blofeld.’

            After that, we lost track of him.  Fish, living or dead, are still sort of freaky to me, but I’ve never met a fish like that one. I have to assume he’s swimming in someone’s tank, somewhere. Or maybe he’s finally been flushed out to sea where he’ll get even bigger and start digging up something bigger.

            Last year when our cousin got married, she chose to decorate all the reception tables with a fishbowl in the center.  Inside each of them was one tiny yellow fish.  And floating on the top of the water were a number of freshly cut daisies.  Now I can’t help wondering if there’s some smaller version of Bubba left behind in one of those tanks.

                                                                                                                        

Will Craig

I suppose ‘pushing daisies’ implies both hard work and flowers, like Eliza Doolittle selling her flowers in the London Slums. In the academic response, of course, ‘Pushing daisies’ is simply a colorful way of saying ‘dead.’ On how many occasions can you refer to a dead person that way? Outside of gangster movies, very few.  Expressions like this seem made for movies and comedy routines.  What springs to my mind at once is John Cleese’s spiel from the ‘Parrot Sketch’ – “He’s off the twig! He’s kicked the bucket! He’s pushin’ up daisies! He’s shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible!” All colorful, evocative phrases, and a fairly accurate description, but totally inappropriate to say at funerals.

Volume 3 Spring 2014

Hello Fellow Scribblers!

The best laid plans are often the ones that unravel with the most ease. It's certainly been that way for the Washington Creative Writers Club. In nearly a year we have grown from eight or nine writers on a Thursday, to twenty. We have divided into smaller tables, but yes, they are still in the back. Nearly everyone who attends reads, and there are many truly talented writers. As ever, some have been coming since we began over two years ago, and others have just joined. Because we have gotten so big it has been a challenge trying to figure out the week to week issues of having this group, let alone coordinating a publishing effort.

It's take a while, but we are back and I think, better than ever. Our last two issues dealt with the themes of fish out of water and isolation. Both are themes that I see covered in writing everyday. They are also rather dark. This issue's theme is Pushin' Daisies. As you'll soon see, it can be interpreted a number of different ways. Be prepared to laugh and cry (at the same time, even) as eight writers again come together to explore Pushin' Daisies and what it means to them. As with our other two issues, we have what the theme means to each author followed by their piece. I hope you enjoy our latest effort. Feel free to leave us comments, we love them. Or better yet, come see what you've been missing on Thursday nights. Enough's enough, on to the writing.

See You Thursday,

Tina