Category: Family

Trick and Treat

~ Linda Wright

Each year my mother would reiterate her two rules about Halloween. The first rule was “no accepting sweets.” The “no candy” rule extended all year with the exception of the Christmas multicolored ribbons my Aunt gave as a gift. However, on Halloween she saw the parade of little monsters and goblins ringing our doorbell as beggars. “Saying trick or treat doesn’t make it right,” she muttered. Mom had grown up poor and proud. She had never asked for a handout in her life.

As generous as she was to the neighborhood children every other day of the year, on Halloween she halfheartedly handed them sticks of sugar-free gum or tiny bags of popcorn. As soon as I was old enough, I shared the task of opening the front door. I was not allowed to join them. As I glanced at the full sacks of tasty treats each child gripped tightly, the demon of envy crawled up and out like a Halloween spider. The trick I learned was to look into each child’s face, not what they carried. It melted my resentment like warm chocolate and it is a technique I have used all of my life.

Mom’s second Halloween rule was that I could only wear a costume I designed and stitched myself. We were not poor, but every spare nickel and dime went into a savings account my mother called my college fund. “It’s just a waste of money to buy a costume when you can make one yourself,” Mom said.

This was my treat. I spent weeks thinking about what costume I could make that was both unique and fun to wear. Looking for something unlike the trite witches and ghosts, I would flip pages in magazines. After watching the Shriner’s parade one summer, I crafted an outfit that resembled a genie sprung from a bottle. I sorted through the old clothes, costume jewelry, hats, scarfs, bits of fabric. The balloon leg pants came from a tattered chenille bedspread. The pants puffed out at the legs, held tightly to my waste and ankles with elastic seams. The wrapped turban was scrounged from one of my father’s old jersey undershirts. I wore a single hoop earring. I stitched slippers that had a curled back point at the toe. I can still see that one-of-a-kind costume in my memory and feel the sense of accomplishment. It has lasted longer than the taste of any candy.

Internet Snake

~ Linda Wright

I was searching the Internet when I got a pop-up warning me that my computer had been infected. Odd I thought since I had blocked pop-ups. The message gave me a phone number to call to fix the problem. I couldn’t shut down my browser and I panicked. My reptilian brain hissed “do something quick or you will be sorry.” I called the number. The man on the phone said he could see if I had a problem or not and before I could say anything he took remote control of my laptop. That’s when I began to think I had made a stupid mistake. My curser was moving and it wasn’t me moving it. He showed me reports from my system and said, “Your warranty has expired and you have no virus protection. See all those zeros on this report? I can get rid of the malware, clean up your system and install virus protection right now.”

“How much will that cost me?” I said as fear began to be replaced with skepticism.

“That depends whether you want protection for one year, three years or five years.” Then after I was silent he said, “One year is $99.”

“I can purchase virus protection from some other company, if I need it.” I said.

“Oh yes, but with a Mac, your choices are very limited.” I knew that was not true, but I just wanted to end the conversation so I didn’t argue.

“Then I’ll go to a Mac store,” I said.

“I’m okay with that,” he said.

I didn’t really care if it was okay with him, I thought. I was now angrier than scared. “If I change my mind what number can I call?”

As soon as I ended the call on the phone, I disconnected my computer from the Wi-Fi and shut it down. Then I called Apple Support. “No one should take control of your computer without your consent,” she said. “I would have been just as frightened as you were about what he might be doing.” Then she assured me that I had done the right thing to shut the computer down.

As I suspected even though the warranty had expired, that had not affected my virus protection. At no charge, she directed me through a series of tests on my computer system. The scam artist had lied on several counts and in doing so he had also defamed Apple. Relieved that no damage had been done, I told my reptilian brain to go sleep under a rock and then gave Apple Support the phone number from the scam artist.

“Everything…affects everything”

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

Ralph the custodian at the library arrived for work on a chilly morning. He noticed another car at the back of the parking lot. “That’s odd,” he thought, “the library doesn’t open for another two hours.” He thought perhaps the owner had not been able to start it for some reason and left it there, but then he noticed the engine was running. Ralph walked over to see if the car’s owner had left a note on the windshield. It startled him to see that in the driver’s seat was a young woman, slumped over the steering wheel. He knocked on the window and got no response. The car door was locked.

By the time I pulled my car into the lot everything appeared as usual, Ralph was standing by the door waiting for me. He opened the door so that I would not have to use my key. His usually cheerful face was grave. Halting a bit, he explained the police had come and gone. As Ralph feared, the woman was dead. She had blocked the car’s exhaust pipe, turned on the car engine, locked the doors, and waited to die. If she had had any second thoughts later she would have been too paralyzed by the fumes to get out of the death trap she had constructed.

I had often thought of Ralph as our Tin Woodman, a man who was more comfortable building bookcases and taking care of people, than acknowledging his kind heartedness. He lowered his voice and said, “They took her body to the morgue and towed her car away.”

It was mid-morning when the police officer came to the library to say that they had identified the body. She was a college freshman. The officer told me her name, but I didn’t recognize it. Her name rippled from one staff member to another in hushed tones. Most shook their heads and said, “No I don’t remember her.” Murmurs of “How sad,” echoed each time another staff member came into work.

But Emily at the circulation desk said, “Oh yes, I remember her now. She was soft spoken, kind of shy. She probably used the college library most of the time, but she came here every once in a while.” 


Most of that day few people talked about it. The atmosphere was somber. At the staff meeting the next day, I asked everyone to say a few words about what they had felt when they learned of the suicide. Some librarians, who had children of their own, thought how the young woman’s parents must be grieving. Several people said that they wished they had known her better, known that she seemed withdrawn and anxious. Perhaps if they had taken the time, while checking out her books, to inquire how she was, they could have offered her some comfort. If she hadn’t felt so alone, could it have made a difference? Then Ralph spoke, “I thought I was the only one who thought perhaps I could have prevented this. I wondered if I had just arrived extra early to work, could I have saved her life.”

I think she would have been surprised that the town librarians sat together mourning her death. She may have been astounded to know that thirty years after her suicide, the director of the library still remembered her death as tragic.
“Everything…affects everything”
— Jay Asher (Thirteen Reasons Why)

Even a Mouse

~ Linda Wright

Anne, the high school student had finished shelving all the returned books. “Did you pick up the books that were on the tables?” I asked.

“Yes, and I straightened all the shelves,” she said.

“Thanks, then I guess we’ll see you on Monday,” I said.

She put on her puffy winter coat, wrapped the wool scarf around her neck, and pulled the knitted hat down to cover her ears. As she waved goodbye she tugged up the scarf to cover her lips and the tip of her nose. A wisp of cold air ghosted through the hall and around the corner where I sat at my desk reading review journals. The children’s room of the library was rarely quiet. This evening the only sound I could hear was Judy in the next room picking out picture books for next week’s story time.

It was just a few days past the winter solstice I could see the street lights come on shortly after four. It would have seemed less dark and less cold if there had been some snow on the ground. I heard myself humming the tune to “In the Bleak Midwinter.”

With the holiday break only a few days away children would have no homework. Anyone with any sense would be home baking cookies this afternoon I thought.

I glanced at the clock. Only about a half hour to go and the library would close.

The scream from the next room pierced my daydreams and brought me to my feet. “What’s wrong?” I yelled out to Judy. We almost collided head on at the door.

“It’s a mouse!” Judy said. “It’s over in the corner behind the puppet stage. You’ve got to catch it. I’m too frightened.”
I sighed. “Judy,” I said, “If I catch it I will have only three choices. I can put it outside, but it will likely come right back in. It obviously knows how to do that. My second choice would be to kill it and I’m telling you right now I could not do that.” I felt myself stalling for time because I knew there was only one choice. “Or,” I said, “I can keep it as a pet.”

“I don’t care what you do with it,” Judy said. “Just catch it.”

“Ok, keep an eye on it and I’ll be back in a minute.” I saw Judy roll her eyes, but I thought it was a fitting punishment for her silly fear of a mouse.

I climbed the circular black iron staircase to the staff lounge and found an empty coffee can in the trash. I wiped out the remaining coffee grinds and punctured a small hole in the plastic lid.

When I got back Judy was on a table, looking like the cartoon image of a woman afraid of a mouse. She pointed, “It’s over there now.”

I approached the mouse one slow step at a time. When I was close enough to see it’s ears twitch, I put the coffee can upside down over the mouse. Then I slid a piece of stiff paper under the can, flipped the can right side up and popped on the lid. I had done a lot of critter catching as a child, but never thought about this experience as a skill I could use on my résumé.

Judy gasped. From the opaque coffee lid I could see the mouse quavering in the corner.

The mouse and I went home together. Driving home, I named the mouse Hezekiah.

When my father asked what I wanted for Christmas, I said without hesitation, “I want you to build me a mouse house.”

My father was pleased with the request. It had been years since he had constructed a critter house. When I was a child, he had made one just for spiders with twigs sticking out from the inner walls. I could catch an interesting spider watch it spin it’s web between the twigs, then set the spider free. My father made a screen lid for a used aquarium. My friends and I carpeted the floor with moss. We filled a plastic bowl with fresh water and then put on the screen lid. We walked to the library to research what our guest would like for dinner. We learned that the Preying Mantis would sip water from a spoon held in front of it. We watched a toad shed its skin.

When I arrived at my parent’s home later that week for the long holiday weekend, Hezekiah’s new home was ready. The front and back were Plexiglas panels that slid up so that the water bottle and food could be refreshed. Dad had laid down a blanket of hard wood saw dust and constructed a zigzag exercise ramp that ran from the left to right, then right to left. The droppings could get cleaned out from the bottom each day. Hezekiah soon learned to go back in the coffee can while his house was cleaned.

The following Monday, Hezekiah came with me to work. Inside his new house he had a full view of the children and they had a view of him. He seemed to like to amuse his audience with running up and down the ramp or chewing on a used toilet paper roll. Three-year-olds looked up to him and giggled when he made his most breathtaking leaps. Even the most cynical twelve-year olds, stopped on their way in or out of the children’s room to greet Hezekiah.

At the end of the first week I received a copy of a memo written by the Supervisor of Technical Services to the Library Director. The title of the memo was “Rodents Threaten the Library.” The Director called an emergency meeting of Department Supervisors to discuss the matter. To my surprise, the children’s room staff took a united stand. They might not of cared for Hezekiah in the beginning but to call him a threat was laughable.

When the Department Supervisors met, sides had already been chosen. A compromise was worked out in writing and entered into the policy manual. It stated that any department that chose to keep a rodent as a pet must have 100% approval by the staff members in that department.

After that each staff member in the children’s room volunteered to help with Hezekiah’s care. Before the room would open each day one person had to clean out the droppings from yesterday and refresh the water and food. We all took a turn, even Judy. On Saturdays the library was only open until noon. On Sunday it was closed. We had to make sure that Hezekiah had enough food and water to make it through until Monday morning. In January snow began to fall. Schools closed for snow days and so did the library. By February there were ice storms. But when the library re-opened each time Hezekiah seemed happy to see us back. How would he survive if we did not return?

Then on the first warm day in March I arrived at work at noon since I would be working the night shift that day. Standing around my desk were four staff members clustered around Hezekiah’s house.

“We don’t want you to be upset,” said Grace.

“We know how much Hezekiah means to you,” said Pat.

“But, when I opened the door to clean out Hezekiah’s house he didn’t go into the coffee can. He just ran and disappeared,” said Anne.

“We’ve looked everywhere,” said Judy.

I looked from sad face to sad face and then I just couldn’t hold back the laughter any more.

“No doubt we gave that little mouse a winter vacation he won’t forget. Now it’s time for him to make a family of his own. He probably found his way out the way he found his way in.”

Trust the Dawning Future

~ Linda Wright

The sun appears to slide towards the sea like a seductress waving scarfs while backing away inch by inch. The water mirrors the colors of the sky, splashing yellow, pink, salmon, and violet. Just when I think it is over, sun out of view, the clouds pick up the theme and intensify the colors in
a last attempt at enticement. It is as if the sun is still fluttering her scarfs from behind the closed door of night. Follow me she tempts.

After the sunset has given its last burst, little star patterns emerge from the darkness. The constellation we call Orion begins to rise from the southeast. Welcome back old friend, I think. Glad to know you are still doing well, still up for the good fight.

By morning the tide will be at its lowest ebb. Rows of sea birds will be sitting on the sand bars and the sunrise will turn the sky to yellow gold just before it pops above the horizon lighting the stage. I muse about how each of these, sunset, star sparkles, and the golden dawn are like jewels in an infinity chain. The eternal return is indeed what seduces me. My mortality is so insignificant.

We’ve spent four weeks at the beach and I feel like I have
been drinking in each sunset, gulping the gifts of sun, sea and, sandy ground.
Tomorrow we will pack our belongings and head towards home. The sunsets there
are small city slices between houses and tall trees. I lose touch with the
circularity of life. I miss the subtle spectacular repetitions of our circular
planet Earth and the wider view.  

We’ve spent four weeks at the beach and I feel like I have been drinking in each sunset, gulping the gifts of sun, sea and, sandy ground. Tomorrow we will pack our belongings and head towards home. The sunsets there are small city slices between houses and tall trees. I lose touch with the circularity of life. I miss the subtle spectacular repetitions of our circular planet Earth and the wider view.