Photofiction: Cracker Jack

Cracker Jack

Her brain was different.

She couldn’t remember the sweltering hot summer evenings they giggled in the bleachers watching the boys play baseball. After school they’d skip home, gulp down milk on the back shed stoop. The smell of lumpy bags of potatoes and carrots leaning up in the woody, dark corner filled the hot air. After the last bite of the fresh baked cookie they’d race up the back staircase into her bedroom. Fussing and flopping onto the bed; deciding what to wear to the game. Pinching their cheeks with cream rouge and tinting their youthful pouts with red lipstick. Evelyn’s brain was different and her best friend Delores would never be able to thank her.

It was forty-three years later. Evelyn just sat in her chair, lap quilt covering her legs, starring out the window. Delores came every day to visit. There were only three things that lit up Evelyn’s eyes. The taste of Cracker Jack, the feel of her sheepskin mittens of winters long ago and the sight of her tattered photograph of her and Delores. These are the three things that connected them to their past and after an hour of them, Delores would give hugs and walk out the door.

Evelyn and Delores met in fourth grade. There were exactly fifteen row houses between them and two fire hydrants. Evelyn’s parents ran the furrier uptown and many winter afternoons when the storage section of the business was slow, the girls would be hired to clean the large cooler room. Between the racks and empty hangers they would sing and dance; pretending they were on stage; performing to standing ovations and picking up dozens of roses off the creaky wooden floor. Evelyn had an imagination to carry them both through many boring moments. Her eyes would sparkle and then in a snap second she’d come up with a new and exciting idea for fun.

After their housekeeping was finished they would head outside to play in the snow banks; sticking their tongues out to catch fluffy snowflakes. Eve and Delly laughed a lot. Eve possessed the kind of funny bone that made her whole body go weak when she found something humorous. More often than not they landed in the snow bank beside one another, tossing handfuls of snow at each other. One afternoon a reporter from the local newspaper stopped and asked them if he could photograph them. The girls loved this; insisting to their classmates that they had become famous and sure enough, the image landed on the front page along with a story about the severe weather the area was experiencing that year. Eve and Delly were each given a copy of the photo as a keepsake.

Eve and Delly cried a lot too. Mostly about boys and mostly at the baseball field while they ate Cracker Jack as they watched the practices. As they moved through womanhood, mysterious adolescent moods and awkward boyfriend experiences, they supported each other. Giving hugs and making crafty greeting cards. They were always grateful and said so in their many scribbled notes to one another, ‘Thank goodness only one of us gets sad at one time. xo.’

Delly met Jack the year of the girls’ high school graduation. He was new to town and swept her off her feet. Eve was never left behind. It was the unwritten law of the ‘Cracker Jack Girls’, as they were known by everybody who knew them. Delly and Jack and Eve were inseparable. And then Jack proposed.

Eve was the most beautiful Maid of Honor anyone had ever seen. Some whispered, ‘Prettier than the Bride’. After the ‘I Do’s’ it all changed. Delly’s husband became more and more adamant that his new wife be home to see to his needs; pressures of the weak economy brought more stress on the newlyweds. He became irritated at Delly for talking about Eve. He slowly silenced her and quickly built a wall and a wedge between the best friends. People in town saw Eve’s sad eyes. Jack became known as ‘Cracker Jack’. A negative judgment of a husband who erased a childhood friendship.

Eve and Delly were resilient and resourceful. They could speak without speaking, they could communicate by sense and both were determined to change the way things had gone. The baseball diamond was the only place they could visit. Eve started dating a player on Jack’s team. She didn’t even really like him much; she just knew it was her chance at ‘bat’. To be with Delly. To keep her friendship alive.

One evening after dinner, Eve gathered up the courage to walk the three blocks over to Delly’s apartment. She thought it would be nice to sit out on the porch until sunset. Perhaps lemonade. Maybe a few cigarettes. Hopefully acceptance and hugs. What she came upon would change their lives forever.

As Eve approached the building she could hear muffled screams of Jack. He was hollering at Delly. Eve’s heart started pounding as she ran up the narrow stairs to the second floor. She banged on the door calling out for Del. ‘Go away Eve’, he shouted. ‘You have no business being here. Leave!’

Panicking to open the door she yelled to the neighbours below to come and help. Within seconds they ran up to kick in the thick wood door. It slammed to the floor. There inside, huddled in the corner was a tearful, distraught Delly. Covering her head, begging for kindness within a rage of violence. Jack was wielding his baseball bat.

‘Stay away from her Jack’ screamed Eve. ‘Don’t touch her.’

The neighbours tried to calm Jack down while Eve made jerking attempts to get past him. It was a frightful segment of confusion and shouting and fear and pleading. Jack warned them. He threatened to hit Delly if they did not leave his home.

And then Eve moved in. She ducked around Jack to cover Delly. Standing tall she announced to him to back away. And then he swung. The heavy, heaving bat hit Evelyn’s temple with a watery, horrific smack.

Her brain was different.

Patti Friday: Reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'

(Photo Source:  Old, Vintage, Google, Shorpy) 

Selling Vintage Fur

The debate over fur is an emotional battleground where ethics, attitudes and lifestyles collide. 

- Jan Tomes 

I recently wrote and published an essay about fur.

You may read it here.

This past weekend I attended an INCREDIBLE holiday event in Collingwood, Ontario, Canada.  There were many talented vendors selling their creations.  One booth that was crowded and clearly selling their goods. A vintage fur booth!  

I have owned and worn fur in the past - 1980's. It was a full length wolf coat.  Then I shied away from it for obvious reasons.  I tried to sell it in the late 90's and nobody would touch it.  I think I ended up dropping it off at a clothing donation box.  Hopefully someone who needed to stay warm ended up with it.  It was beautiful and toasty warm. 

Now I am asking different questions like:

1.  What should we do with the thousands of used fur coats?  Send them to a landfill?

2.  Should we give them away to people in need?  Those who must stay warm?

3.  What about film and theatre costume departments? Do they need furs?

4.  Is it OK to wear vintage fur?

5.  Are the furs our Grandmothers wore now collectible and it is OK to collect them?

6.  Recycle?  Upcycle? Burn?

7.  Donate them to charity?

8.  Give them to museums?

Price list of the average price of used fur:

• Rabbit or Raccoon jacket: $100 – $500
• Mink coat or jacket: $300-$750
• Mink or Sable collared 1950s – 1960s wool coat: $75 to $250
• Fox stole: $150 – $300
• Mink or Sable stole: $200-$400
• Mink or Sable collar: $20-$75
• Mink or Sable boa: $50 – $200
• Persian or Broadtail Lamb coat or jacket: $50-$450, more with mink collars or excellent condition
• Mouton Lamb coat or jacket: $50 – $350. I’m a big fan of these personally but they often don’t age well.
• Muff (Fox, Mink, Lamb): $40 – $350. A muff in good condition can go for strangely high prices.
• Full Pelt (w/heads and feet) Fox stole: $50 – $300
• Full Pelt Mink/Sable/Marten stole (w/heads & feet): $35-$150
• Other types of furs in coats, jackets and stoles will usually range from $50 to $300.
• $1000 and up for a full coat for the following furs: chinchilla, lynx, modern sables especially with provenance such as Blackglama. 
• Source We Love Fur

"Animal use is an integral part of many people’s lives, and is linked to essential products in our everyday life, such as medication, food, and clothing. Animals are used in medical testing in order to find cures to life-threatening diseases. We eat animals and while some people question the need to do this, there is plenty of evidence it can be done without harm to our planet. In fact, lots of land is better suited for pasture than for cultivation. And remember that animal manure is used to replenish the soil to grow crops. But if we are concerned about possible impacts, a small reduction in the amount of meat we consume – and waste – can go a long way. And lastly, we wear many types of animal products in order to protect ourselves from the elements. Fashion may not be essential, but clothing is. The need to keep warm in cold weather is a matter of life and death." - Truth About Fur

What are your thoughts on fur?

I love fur. I just don't know what to do about that 'love'.

I think it will remain in my heart as a memory.

I am perplexed.

Peace Love Create Art

Patti

xo

Patti Friday: Reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'

Gin Craze

Every day, before lunch, which could be 11 am or 1 pm depending on her schedule, the Queen drinks gin.  This seems to be a genetic choice as her (Queen) Mum drank many a gin and tonic; morning, noon and night.  The next King.  Gin martini.  His second wife.  G+T.  And the Royals before them?  Gin. Gin. Gin. Serving and drinking this gros gin 'depuis 1695'.  In fact, it was overheard that William of Orange did several shots when he found out his longtime mistress, whom he left, due to his wife's death bed wish,  married someone else.  I think it's time we reveal to this family that genievre (Geneva) was not a British invention. It was Dutch.

Let's not just pick on the crown wearers.  Their royal subjects, according to 1740 statistics, exact and without error - unless of course the record man was drinking 'jenever' as he calculated and tallied up the results - drank 6 gallons of gin per person each year.  Back then, breast fed babies slept 76% longer than those who weren't.  This kooky era was known as the 'Gin Craze'. 

What makes a craze?  Is it because of the most alluring color of green glass bottle?  Everyone 'has to have it'?  Or the heart shaped label stamped with anchors and flourishes?  Surely they sipped it straight up.  No fizzy limoncello, expensive rose water or organic raspberry puree. Negronis, Gimlets or Tom Collins? Not in the 1700's. 

At this point I know you are secretly begging me to embellish upon the famous cocktail, The Pink Lady.  It seems this creamy concoction was first served at the Southern Yacht Club in New Orleans.  The exact origin is milky but the one I like is that this gin drink, made with egg whites and grenadine, was named after a 1911 Broadway musical.  The horrid taste of the prohibition brands called for sweetness and flavors to make it drinkable.  Pom syrupy and frosted. The Pink Lady, a girly choice, was also known as a Shimmy. This was my Grandmother's favorite request. 

My Grandfather worked in the theatre.  Behind the scenes he built scenes.  A Carpenter by trade and a bull-legged man of rolled cigarettes, he smelled like sawdust and always kept a bottle of De Kuyper Geneva (Gin) on his workbench.  I imagine him taking a gulp before sneaking kisses from Actresses backstage.  As President of the local Stagehands' union,  he probably took liberties with the ladies.  

'Pop' was German.  He left school at twelve to work in the logging camps in Algonquin Park.  Surely he had to earn money to send back home, contributing, so his Father could afford to buy food, ice and beer.   The winters were hard in Upper Canada.  Fur trappers would lodge with the army of young boys and men who labored log after log.  Dry timber topped up the massive stone fireplaces inside the crowded camboose, but it was the Geneva that kept them warm in the unforgiving, frigid wilderness.  Wood and fur for the King.  Across the wavy ocean.  Dutch Gin shipped back to those brawny lumberman and trapper gangs.  Chopping and hunting and drinking.  A typical 'Gin Craze', yet more out of necessity rather than widespread mania. Those men would go insane or freeze to death without gin. Poor Paul.  Died by freezing, clinging to a tree, tongue stuck on his saw.  Poor Cornelis. Died by freezing, wrapped in beaver pelts, foot caught in trap. 

I guess that prominently displayed green bottle on the workbench was a sentimental keepsake and reminder of those harsh years spent in the dense, black fly forest. 

A Chemist in Italy originally invented gin as a treatment for kidney disorders.  Italian Monks with various pains in their sides blended a batch with unusual botanicals;  had the monastery calligrapher jot down the recipe and centuries later a science obsessed Dutch teen found it and used it to make a better barrel-full. A chronological notation from the 11th century.  A Gregorian chant 'Gin Craze'!  Who knew Monks got tipsy? Those black habits were the perfect hiding spot for bottles of gin.  So wait.  Did the Italians discover gin or the Dutch?

I am in the thick of Swedish Death Cleaning.  Listen.  It's an absolute, joyless, stressful, necessary project that quite frankly nobody gets respect or appreciation for doing.  If you look it up in the thesaurus you get words like:  push-back, crying, kicking, screaming, blame, anger, hoarding, organizing, donating, tossing and my favorite alternative phrase, 'morbid de-cluttering'.

The bottle in the photograph belongs to my Father.  It has sat on his disorganized workbench for almost six decades.  He bought it one afternoon and that evening he took a sip.  He tells me it tasted 'God Awful'.  That must be really bad I thought.  He still kept it and placed it in the same sentimental position of honor like his own Father did.

My Dad has always been a Salesman.  Working in the pulp and paper industry.  Selling paper. printing and newspapers.  I never gave him a greeting card he didn't turn over to see who printed it. He is also a Master Mason, a member of that secret society brotherhood that I really don't know much about, except I recall him attending weekly meeting wearing an apron (do they bake?) and participating in Masonic funerals; symbolic conifer sprigs carried around a coffin then pointed up to heaven.  Immortality of the soul.

Currently, I'm attempting to rid myself and my parents of unneeded objects and stuffed-in, stored, soggy cardboard boxes (Did I mention he sold these too - and take-out boxes. He even sold Tim Horton his first carton of donut boxes!)  Let's just confess. We have too much stuff.  We need a Swedish Death Cleaning intervention.  I declare "Everything MUST go!" But then I come upon this gorgeous, green bottle of gin.  I love the color so much I want to marry it.  I undo the cap and the gin wreaks. It's been 60 years after all. But that gloriously designed label. And the typography.  I ask my Father about it and he tells me the story behind it. I shine it up and take it down to the lake.  It needed a portrait taken.

There is a story behind this and a long, fine thread of themes too.  Gin for starters. Oh I could lounge for hours in 'Gin Palaces' and soak in 'Bathtub Gin'.  Give me fresh limes and loads of ice.  Pour me a cool long drink in a country club short glass.  Wood comes next.  My Grandfather logged it, built things with it.  My Dad sold it's byproducts and I lived in a cedar log house. Last, Juniper berries from those trees that give us wood, are important to Freemasonry and become long-desired liquid granted in fabulous green bottles of Geneva (Gin).

It's a multi-national swig of ideas:  Canada, Sweden, Germany, Italy, Britain and The Netherlands.   I must be unearthing a present-day 'Gin Craze'.  Let's gather soon at some lavish bar; somewhere perfectly dazzling and discuss further.  We'll toast to the Queen and debate who should become the next King. And the tab?  (We all know who should get the credit.) We'll go Dutch.

-  Patti Friday © 2017 

Patti Friday: Artist | Illustrator | Author | Wellness Community Member | Reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'

Fur Pajamas

The (fur) coat hangs ceremoniously, eluding to Canadian history; strings of pelts clipped together on the back of those horse-drawn sleighs in vintage Hudson Bay illustrations. Like an altar to a merciful 'Saint of Roadkill'.  Oh yes, if the wild mammal dies by tire tread (squished out blubbery pinkish gooey intestines) then you are permitted to skin it and wear it.  Otherwise, shame on you!

Once I stayed at a rustic cabin on a wooded back lot in Muskoka. The front desk girl, dressed in gingham shirt, jeans and hiking boots; the good kind with red laces, gave me the 30 second tour.  "Fresh towels are there on the shelf, dry kindling is under the eaves out back, raccoons know how to unlock even the most sophisticated screen door latches so beware of glowing beady eyes. It's probably not a dream but a real critter sitting on your stomach trying to steal all the covers."  Pointing to the black fur thrown over the back of the chesterfield she continued. "Oh. That's from a bear. My Grandma noticed it up in a tree outside the kitchen window.  Grandpa grabbed his rifle and shot it.  Now its a blanket that nobody uses." 

That's the thing about these lavish, Dynasty-style coats.  They used to be so relevant and desired.  You got a failing mark in personal style if you didn't own a fashionable, designer one.  If you wanted to take it up a notch even further, you would have an embroidered, swirly script love note inside stating that your husband adored you more than life itself.  "Look Ladies", as you opened it up to show off - "George Loves Jean". The ultimate blessed owner had their coats pampered and chilled all summer in an expensive cold storage shop uptown. You've seen those frozen snowdrift signs. God forbid a hair fall out. That would be so mean!

The notorious drug squad of downtown Toronto in the eighties had a way with (legally) confiscated criminal cash.  They'd simply divvy it up between themselves and a dozen or so lucky wives would receive fluffy, mid-length wolf coats Christmas morning. Busted!  All winter those women would flaunt their good fortune.  After all, it was they who had to endure never, ever seeing their babies' Father due to his endlessly, long stakeouts on seedy street corners, remanded court dates, or rendezvouses with hookers in the back of their junker, unmarked rentals.  One more note about this:  All those undercover cops had afro-esque perms back then.  We (the significant others) could have skinned them alive and made poodle coats instead.  At the very least. They owed us that. 

Certainly the scariest memory of fur culture, for me anyways, was my highfalutin Aunt who wore an actual fox head scarf around her jiggly turkey neck.  It terrified me! (more than her neck) Dead eyes. Stiff pointy ears. Rigor mortis face.  Yellow razor teeth.  Puffy tail.  Musky aroma. I shiver today writing this.  What on Earth would drive a person to wrap a nightmare over ones shoulders?  It most definitely has the similar tingle feeling as seeing a taxidermy baby crocodile on your Uncles fireplace mantle.  Save. Me. 

Why are we so ashamed to wear these gently-used mollycoddled fur coats today?  I mean. It's not like we condone the senseless slaughter of thousands of animals 'As Seen On TV' or 'YouTube'. But back then?  We even smoked cigarettes in our hospital beds after giving birth.  We smoked in Doctor's office waiting rooms. Hell, the Dr. smoked while he asked you to spread your legs. Times were different back then. Everything was different.  Everyone wore fur.

Alas, my beautiful vintage fur coat hangs alone on its nickel door hook.  It sways daily as I open and shut the closet.  It whispers to me.  'Put me on. Wear me.' I ignore it.  I feel so damn guilty.  But what am I to do. What would you do?

Friends.  It's life has become a boring example of doing nothing. It loiters like a teenager in a sprawling suburban mall.  The coat has one role now.  When it gets really brisk. When my bedroom feels more like Siberia.  I wear it as pajamas. 

- Patti Friday © 2017

Patti Friday: Artist | Illustrator | Author | Wellness Community Member | Reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'

Slow Journalism

Slow Journalism is like peeling the layers of a fresh, local, organic onion. It might be so damn good that it makes you cry. 
- Patti Friday,  Embassy of Ideas 

Keywords:

Graphic narrative
Lyric essay
Installment publishing
Storytelling as performance
Micro-Nonfiction
Distinctive Intimate Voice
Complex approach to subjectivity
Innovative reportage
Sketchy apercu
Response Reflection
Public Diary
Personality
Human self-correction
Amended hindsight
Artisanal
Long original content
Luxury good
Long-form, in-depth compelling subjects
Reputation of excellence
Short personal broadcasts
Curated links
Long read tagging
Good writing
Online cover stories
Cultural criticism
Level of literature
Artistry in Blogging
Suspense
Shocking Conclusions
Appreciation for nuance
Argumentative essays
Complexities
Taking Reader on a journey
Singles (5000-30000 words) >magazine article <book
Digital chapbook
Documentation of discovery trademark
Supplementary material
High level of craft
Selection Constraint Completion
Talking by writing
Delayed gratification

Source: Slow Journalism in the Digital Fast Lane


Like the other Slow movements, we take time to do things properly. Instead of desperately trying to beat Twitter to the punch, we return to the values we all want from journalism – context, analysis and expert opinion - The Slow Journalism Company

Slow journalism is the news analogue to slow food. Slow journalism is about valuing content over speed. Slow journalism is about identifying core issues and finding a way to give audiences information of lasting substance--it's not about posting the latest news clip on a 24/7 deadline to "feed the beast." Slow journalism is about news you can use... to make you a more informed citizen. Slow journalism is activist journalism; it's journalism that tries to enlighten, and perhaps even empower its audience, often by asking that audience to become collaborators. - Susan Moeller


"It is a cultural revolution against the notion that faster is always better. The Slow philosophy is not about doing everything at a snail’s pace. It’s about seeking to do everything at the right speed. Savoring the hours and minutes rather than just counting them. Doing everything as well as possible, instead of as fast as possible. It’s about quality over quantity in everything from work to food to parenting." - Slow Movement



Patti Friday, Photojourno, reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'. Reading. Listening. Learning. Improving. Hanging out with successful people. Photographer. Pirate. Bubby. CANADA @pattifriday

The Mental Notes of Currie and The Plant Keeper

Damn You Currie!!!!

Where are you?  I might lose a lung riding my Bobbin down the lane to the post box.  I watch for the plume of dust.  I listen for the man's screeching tires and echo of the crows flapping away in a panic. Then I know the mail has arrived.  It's been seventeen days since I got a letter from you. I only have eight cigarettes left.  I keep them in the freezer.  You know I hope to get something from you at least every pack. Remember?

In honour of harvesting and processing my Chinese lanterns yesterday I made home-made egg rolls to eat with my sugar-boiled corn..  Thank God I was able to find a greasy little packet of plum sauce way, way in the back of the junk drawer!  Do you like where I put your butterfly painting?  This plant is so aggressive. It is taking over the entire border down by the pond.  I'm OK with it. Plants needs to be free. I am packing up a box of about 50 stems to ship to your studio. They will look spooky cool in one of your old coffee cans.  Just dump those crusty used paintbrushes out of one.  I need the exact address. Hurry up now!

Did I tell you I bought a pink ukulele?  

Love Your Plant Keeper Forever.

(Read the whole story here)

Like a serial novella, served in continuous installments, this page is my publishing house for 'Photofiction'. A story unfolds with my photographs, illustrations and mixed-media pieces. A graphic novel of sorts!
Patti Friday, Photojourno, reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'.

Peace Love Create Art 

Patti xo 

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Currie and The Plant Keeper

Dearest Plant Keeper,

Before I answer you about the fragile fruit situation, I wanted to let you know that the elevator in the loft is on the damn fritz. I lug my canvases up the back stairs; annoyed at first, having to go pee, and then beyond frustration I begin to laugh remembering our little cubby inside the farmhouse. You know the place. Under the stairs. We'd hide there when Dad began to yell. You'd grab your little Dixie Cup bean plant. Masking tape emblazoned with your official title marked in scribbled handwriting. All upper case. THE PLANT KEEPER.  Of all the things you wanted to protect while he smashed his way through the creaky floored rooms was your sprouted greenery.  

Forget about the apples for this season my love.  Nature has decided. 

I've started a new series of paintings. "Miracle Whip". This triptych is called, 'Whose Joint Is This Anyway?". The Latino lady who runs the bodega smirked and her cousin was so offended.    

What do you think?

Oh. And about the rainfall. You better do another dance tonight. It didn't work.

Love Currie

(Read the whole story here)

Patti Friday, Photojourno, reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'.

A Mental Note

Currie Dearest. You never wrote back to me. And then I got your letter yesterday. 

Thankfully the sunshine and humidity this summer has raised my spirits some what.  Odd that the makers of sunscreen don't really describe in full, honest detail how to use and apply and re-apply sunscreen. For heaven's sake, who knew this? I sure didn't. Did you? Did you realize that SPF 15 needs to be slathered on again and again and again every fifteen minutes! What a racket.  Anyway, here's my dilemma. The apples are not on the tree. Seriously Currie. There aren't any. And none on the ground either. I looked. That crabby farmer down the tenth line was spewing at the cafe, stating that the early Spring and the walloping cold snap killed the buds and confused the bees. Well, I never. What shall I do with our acres and acres of macintosh trees? 

Write back soon. I did a rain dance last night and slid down the banister five times. I think it may have worked. The screen door just banged. Must go.


Love The Plant Keeper


P.S. I am growing garlic to go with your spices.

Patti Friday, Photojourno, reporting from inside 'The Art Dept.' at the international 'Embassy of Ideas'.

A Mental Note

Dear Currie,

I am so sad. I gasp for air in the night and dream of frogs who jump on my bed. The worst nightmare was of my leg, covered in swollen and sticky barley pearls and little black worms were slithering out from the center of each one. I scratched these moonbeam predators but they would not come off.  I feel panicked most turns of the clock; in a hurry to do what? My joints suffer and I seize my limbs instead of the day.  Has this life been a complete waste of speeding years. I fear that time is running out and the world will miss my entire point(s). Tell me Currie. What would you do if you were me?

Love The Plant Keeper

Raw Materials

I've been editing my life for almost 2 years now. I have gone from roomfuls of books and magazines and collectibles to very, very little. I now possess 3 books and a few key keepsakes.  I photographed everything I had owned before I gave it away - I then donated the rest.  Now, as the new year approaches, I have begun to think about my  plans for 2012.  I've decided that I will once again invest in actual, hard-copy magazines. I miss them. I miss the smell, the pages, the eye-candy, the fold, the feel. I want them back. I bought 2 yesterday. Both '12 issues of Style At Home Magazine and House Beautiful.  I've also been pondering the thousands upon thousands of photographs I have of mine on my external drives.  I have enough raw material to create in 'The Art Department' (located inside the 'Embassy of Ideas') for several months. Clearly I need to go back and re-visit these images and I made the stand - no more new images by me for a while. I will use the raw materials. I will give the world my best or my best. Some fine art originals, some books, some prints...and well, who knows! Fingers crossed and feeling inspiration promises. I am looking forward to it and I hope you are too! PFXO

Cracker Jack

Cracker Jack

Her brain was different. She couldn’t remember the sweltering hot summer evenings they giggled in the bleachers watching the boys play baseball. After school they’d skip home, gulp down milk on the back shed stoop. The smell of lumpy bags of potatoes and carrots leaning up in the woody, dark corner filled the hot air. After the last bite of the fresh baked cookie they’d race up the back staircase into her bedroom. Fussing and flopping onto the bed; deciding what to wear to the game. Pinching their cheeks with cream rouge and tinting their youthful pouts with red lipstick. 

Evelyn’s brain was different and her best friend Delores would never be able to thank her. It was forty-three years later. Evelyn just sat in her chair, lap quilt covering her legs, starring out the window. Delores came every day to visit. There were only three things that lit up Evelyn’s eyes. The taste of Cracker Jack, the feel of her sheepskin mittens of winters long ago and the sight of her tattered photograph of her and Delores. These are the three things that connected them to their past and after an hour of them, Delores would give hugs and walk out the door.

Evelyn and Delores met in fourth grade. There were exactly fifteen row houses between them and two fire hydrants. 

Evelyn’s parents ran the furrier uptown and many winter afternoons when the storage section of the business was slow, the girls would be hired to clean the large cooler room. Between the racks and empty hangers they would sing and dance; pretending they were on stage; performing to standing ovations and picking up dozens of roses off the creaky wooden floor. Evelyn had an imagination to carry them both through many boring moments. Her eyes would sparkle and then in a snap second she’d come up with a new and exciting idea for fun. After their housekeeping was finished they would head outside to play in the snow banks; sticking their tongues out to catch fluffy snowflakes. 

Eve and Delly laughed a lot. Eve possessed the kind of funny bone that made her whole body go weak when she found something humorous. More often than not they landed in the snow bank beside one another, tossing handfuls of snow at each other. One afternoon a reporter from the local newspaper stopped and asked them if he could photograph them. The girls loved this; insisting to their classmates that they had become famous and sure enough, the image landed on the front page along with a story about the severe weather the area was experiencing that year. Eve and Delly were each given a copy of the photo as a keepsake. 

Eve and Delly cried a lot too. Mostly about boys and mostly at the baseball field while they ate Cracker Jack as they watched the practices. As they moved through womanhood, mysterious adolescent moods and awkward boyfriend experiences, they supported each other. Giving hugs and making crafty greeting cards. They were always grateful and said so in their many scribbled notes to one another, ‘Thank goodness only one of us gets sad at one time. xo.’ 

Delly met Jack the year of the girls’ high school graduation. He was new to town and swept her off her feet. Eve was never left behind. It was the unwritten law of the ‘Cracker Jack Girls’, as they were known by everybody who knew them. Delly and Jack and Eve were inseparable. And then Jack proposed. Eve was the most beautiful Maid of Honor anyone had ever seen. Some whispered, ‘Prettier than the Bride’. 

After the ‘I Do’s’ it all changed. Delly’s husband became more and more adamant that his new wife be home to see to his needs; pressures of the weak economy brought more stress on the newlyweds. He became irritated at Delly for talking about Eve. He slowly silenced her and quickly built a wall and a wedge between the best friends. 

People in town saw Eve’s sad eyes. Jack became known as ‘Cracker Jack’. A negative judgment of a husband who erased a childhood friendship. Eve and Delly were resilient and resourceful. They could speak without speaking, they could communicate by sense and both were determined to change the way things had gone. The baseball diamond was the only place they could visit. Eve started dating a player on Jack’s team. She didn’t even really like him much; she just knew it was her chance at ‘bat’. To be with Delly. To keep her friendship alive. 

One evening after dinner, Eve gathered up the courage to walk the three blocks over to Delly’s apartment. She thought it would be nice to sit out on the porch until sunset. Perhaps lemonade. Maybe a few cigarettes. Hopefully acceptance and hugs. What she came upon would change their lives forever. 

As Eve approached the building she could hear muffled screams of Jack. He was hollering at Delly. Eve’s heart started pounding as she ran up the narrow stairs to the second floor. She banged on the door calling out for Del. ‘Go away Eve’, he shouted. ‘You have no business being here. Leave!’ Panicking to open the door she yelled to the neighbours below to come and help. Within seconds they ran up to kick in the thick wood door. It slammed to the floor. There inside, huddled in the corner was a tearful, distraught Delly. Covering her head, begging for kindness within a rage of violence. Jack was wielding his baseball bat.‘ Stay away from her Jack’ screamed Eve. ‘Don’t touch her.’ 

The neighbours tried to calm Jack down while Eve made jerking attempts to get past him. It was a frightful segment of confusion and shouting and fear and pleading. Jack warned them. He threatened to hit Delly if they did not leave his home. And then Eve moved in. She ducked around Jack to cover Delly. Standing tall she announced to him to back away. 

And then he swung. The heavy, heaving bat hit Evelyn’s temple with a watery, horrific smack. Her brain was different.

- This photofiction was written by Patti Friday

Photo: Shorpy