Egg Cracking Contests and Candy - My Childhood Memories

I realize that Easter has long since passed us by, at least for this year.  However, I am in the process of moving my articles over from Y!CN to this blog.  As I was perusing through the article list and deciding which piece I would post next, I ran across this one.  While I wrote the Easter memoir a couple of years ago - and for a specific holiday (Easter) at that- I think it bespeaks to some timeless elements in my childhood.  Perhaps you can empathize?

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this reflection on the joys of Easter, as seen through the eyes of a child.

Microsoft Office

We are less than two months away from one of the most popular holidays in the United States and one of the holiest days of the year for most Christians throughout the world. That is right; it is almost time for Easter.

Most Americans have fond, childhood memories of by-gone Easter weekends. Some of them might recall the time spent with family and friends at home or at church. Other people may remember particularly exciting moments from their Easter egg hunts or reminisce about some special gift they received from a beloved relative. While their stories may differ, almost everyone probably has at least one or two cherished memories which are connected with the Easter season. Their tales are at once unique and at the same time contain ubiquitous elements that result from shared perspectives, beliefs, and experiences. As a result, I feel that many of my readers will be able to empathize with at least parts of my personal, Easter narrative.

When I was young, I used to look forward to Easter for several reasons. On the one hand, I knew that I would not have to attend school on the Thursday and Friday before that holiday. I craved this time off, especially since I did not have many vacation days in between Christmas and Easter. Coming from a Catholic family, I also had to give up something every year for Lent (the 40 days preceding Easter), which in my case usually meant forgoing either candy or soft drinks. For adults, this action often has a special significance; it helps them refocus their attention on their obligations to God and to their fellow men and women. As a young child, I did not make these connections; I simply saw it as my duty to family and God and did not hesitate to end my agreement as soon as the clock struck midnight on Easter morning. I also became excited at that time of year because I knew I would receive a basket full of candy on Easter Sunday. I already knew what types of sweets would be in the carrier, as the assortment of jelly beans, peanut butter cups, candy bars, and other goodies did not change from year to year; nonetheless, I still maintained a youthful sense of anticipation.

Microsoft Office

On the day before Easter, my Mom, a great aunt, and one of my Mom's friends would come over and help me and my sisters to color eggs. We used generic, water based dyes and none of our creations were especially imaginative; however, that was okay. While I enjoyed coloring them, I thought it was much more fun to use them in egg cracking contests in which I and my sisters would each pick-up an egg and slam them together. The winner was the one whose egg had the fewest cracks; I usually prevailed.

In many ways, Easter Sunday was always a letdown. I had to get up earlier than usual so that I could dress in my very best clothes before heading to church. I then had to sit through a mass that lasted longer than usual and a church luncheon event that was usually rather dull. As an adult, I can appreciate and enjoy these aspects of Easter, the 8 or 9 year old version of me could not. I did enjoy myself once I got home, as I could stuff myself full of jelly beans and other types of candy. At the same time, I lamented the fact that I had to go back to school on Monday.

While my childhood, Easter experiences would not be considered newsworthy, they were an important part of my life. I had a chance to feel all the joy, excitement, and (sometimes) boredom that are part and parcel of any good Easter experience. I also had the chance to bond with family in ways that I did not appreciate at the time. I will cherish these memories for the rest of my life, and in this respect, I do not differ from other Americans.


-- Anthony Hopper

#Easter #holidays #candy #happiness #childhood #memoirs

Why My Deceased Aunt Might Have Liked Facebook

ABSTRACT: My deceased aunt is no different from millions of other Americans who have passed away over the centuries. Her life story is slowly fading and will soon disappear entirely. With the advent of social media, my generation may not have to suffer this fate.

For most of her existence, my great aunt lived in a world that relied on typewriters, slide-rules, and notebooks (the paper type). To the best of my knowledge, she never owned a computer and died before the Internet came into its own. She did not have any children and her husband had passed away years earlier. She kept a diary of sorts, as written snippets on annual calendars, in notepads, on receipts, and in other, unlikely places. These thoughts represented who she was---her dreams, her beliefs, her ideas, and montages of her daily life.

Microsoft Office

After her husband died, she lived by herself, with a small dog as her sole companion. We only visited her a few times; perhaps other family members went to see her more often. She did have cousins and nephews who lived nearby. However, for all of that, she seemed like a lonely person--at least that is what I recall. Perhaps her sense of isolation (if she truly was lonely) resulted from the fact that she resided by herself. Due to her advanced age, she might also have naturally been more inclined to reminisce about the past than to contemplate the present or to think about the future. More likely it derived from the fact that she did not have enough friends or societal connections to replace the diaphanous memories with new, solid experiences.

When she passed away, her estate was split between several family members. They might have kept a few items as "mementos." I am sure that at least some of these people still have a photo or two of my great aunt and her late husband. Nonetheless, her story has almost completely disappeared; the notepads, the receipts, and the calendars that contained her words--her life--were long ago consigned to the dumpster. Rare is the time when anyone speaks her name, much less recalls any fond (or perhaps not so fond) memories of her. In many ways, she is as anonymous as the men and women on the antique family portraits hanging up in roadside diners. Of them, nothing much remains except perhaps for a picture and a gravestone. Even their relatives have forgotten them.

Microsoft Office

Perhaps my great aunt would be content with this situation. For her, the next life was the more important one. Nonetheless, I cannot help but wonder what she would think about the Internet, and more importantly, about social media. With these tools, she could have left her story behind on a blog, on Facebook, or on some other, on-line site for a future generation of curious relatives to read. As important, while living, she could have used social media to keep in constant contact with friends, family, and acquaintances. When she logged into her Google + account for instance, she might have been cheered to see a post, which she authored, had garnered 15 responses.

I will never know what my aunt would have done if she had spent the majority of her life in the new, social media driven world. However, I am thankful that I might have the chance to leave behind some aspect of myself on the Internet--some part of me that a future relative (say in a couple hundred years) can access.

-- Anthony Hopper

#genealogy #family #technology #socialmedia #opinion #personal

An Upset Stomach Leads to Disaster - Flash Fiction

ABSTRACT (Flash Fiction): A short story about people, planes, and stomach aches.

He had made it to the security gate with only twenty minutes to go before his flight took off. He waited anxiously in line with the myriad other passengers trying to get past the TSA checks. Time seemed to pass in slow motion, as the mass of women, men, and children filed one by one through the checkpoint. He looked at his watch and thought, "I still have time." He took a photo of his wife and their three boys out of his shirt pocket and whispered, "I'll be home soon."

As he waited in line, tiny beads of sweat began to form along his brow; he quickly wiped them away. He reminded himself that he still had time. In response, his stomach began to rumble-voicing its anger over its last meal. He instinctively rubbed at his stomach area in a fruitless effort to calm his intestines.
A few minutes after he entered the line, he made it to one of the three TSA guards acting as gate keepers. He quickly handed the bored looking young man his license and plane ticket. The youth briefly scanned the items, initialed the boarding pass, and waved him on. He smiled his thanks and moved to the next checkpoint thinking, "One down, one to go; I'm almost home." His stomach pains became more pronounced. He told himself, "No time to worry about that now."

He quickly removed shoes, tie, and suit coat and posited them in a container to be scanned. He took the family photo out of his pocket, kissed it, and put it in another box. He quickly looked at his watch--10 minutes remaining to the last boarding call--and then placed it in the same container along with his billfold, loose change, a pocket chemistry book, and a smartphone. He checked his pockets to make sure he didn't have anything else hidden away and stepped into the body scanning machine. He had begun to sweat profusely now and the stomach pains were becoming much worse, as was the grumbling. He and his possessions passed through the scanner without a hitch.

One of the security guards, a middle-aged man with a kindly face, asked him if he was okay. He replied, "I'm fine. It's probably just a cold."

He checked his watch and thought, "Five minutes to last boarding. I can make it!" He quickly donned his suit coat, put his tie and other items in his pockets, and ran as fast as he could. After dodging around several fellow travelers, with apologies to each one, he finally came to his flight area. Sweat poured down his face and appeared on his hands and (unseen) under his arms. The dash had apparently aggravated the contents in his stomach, and tendrils of white hot pain were shooting through his intestines. To his ears, the rumbling in his stomach now sounded like the roars of a great beast, though a quick look around indicated that no one else seemed to notice.

When he gave the ticket to the boarding attendant, she took one quick look at it and then stared at him for a second before asking, "Dr. Houston, are you okay?"

He replied, "I am fine. I just have an upset stomach; it's nothing to worry about. I'll be home soon." Smiling, he took out his family photo and showed it to her.

She said, "Aww, the kids look so cute. Okay Dr. Houston--if there is anything we can do for you on this flight, let us know. Luckily, the plane will only be in the air for about 25 minutes. So, you will be home shortly."

He thanked her and walked down the runway and into the airplane.

Airplane - Microsoft Office

Five days later, an excited anchorwoman cut into the regularly scheduled programming on one of the major television channels and said, "We have a breaking update on the cause of the crash last Friday which killed all 95 passengers on a McDonnell Douglas DC9-50, flying from Washington D.C. to Philadelphia. It appears that a Ph.D. chemist by the name of Arnef Houston is the person responsible for bringing down the plane.

Details are sketchy, but a source with the FBI says that the agency found a suicide note in Dr. Houston's apartment claiming responsibility for the disaster. The agent states that Dr. Houston was angry at the court system for not convicting a drunk driver of manslaughter in the deaths of his wife and children three years ago. He felt that it would be fitting revenge to destroy a plane with connections to two of the most important U.S. cities before going to 'heaven' to be with his family. He also thought that his act would bring attention to what he believed was a corrupt and inefficient court system.

The source also states that, in his suicide note, Dr. Houston claimed to have ingested explosive materials. They were wrapped in a chemical gel that would react to the acidic juices in his stomach and eventually ignite the explosive materials. The agent says at this time the FBI is not sure what materials were used or how they worked together to create the explosion. He said the agency is very worried that other terrorists could use this technique, and that it would be nearly impossible for the TSA to stop this type of threat. The FBI member requested to remain anonymous, as he is not authorized to discuss the investigation.

We will keep you posted as we learn more details about this tragic event."

#flashfiction #fiction #shortstory #planes #mystery #horror #flyers

The Spotted Hand Disease - Flash Fiction

 ABSTRACT (Flash Fiction): Two villagers are returning home from a trip to the market. They discuss many things, including the sighting of a new disease.

Arren walked alongside the old mare, as she pulled a dilapidated cart--containing foodstuffs, salt, and unfinished wool--down the overgrown dirt road. His elderly friend, Berten, stood on the other side of the cart and used reins to guide the horse along the trail.

Except for a couple of prosperous farmers, the villagers in Arren's small town of Right Hand were poor. They eked out a living from the earth and from their skill with the loom. Every fortnight, Berten and Arren would take the finished cloth to market in the provincial town of Ergaster. They would return with some needed materials for the village along with raw wool for the weavers.

Arren, who was 13, had been accompanying Berten on these journeys for four years now. The youth usually looked forward to these trips, as they allowed him to escape-for one day anyway-from the backbreaking toil that came with living in a poor farming community. However, today he was preoccupied with worry. Arren had heard that thieves were stalking the road for the first time in living memory, but that was not the source of his concern.

Turning in the old man's direction, Aaron said, "Berten, do you worry about catching the spotted hand disease?"

Berten replied, "Nah boy, we haven't been to Ergaster in over two months for a reason. The spotted hand disease has passed. The clothiers we spoke to said as much. The last victim died almost a week ago. Did you see anyone that looked like he was daydreaming, or that had spots on his face and hands?"
The youth said," No, but I'm still worried Berten. Jergus the tailor said that half the children and a quarter of the adults died. The disease hasn't hit Right Hand yet, but…"

Wagon - Microsoft Office

Arren was about to say more, but the old mare started off the road. He instinctively grabbed the cart to keep it steady while Berten pulled on the horse's guide rope to get her back onto the trail. Once Berten was satisfied that he had the animal under control, the old man said, "Enough Arren, leave it alone!" The spotted hand disease has run its course. Besides, that malady is the least of our worries. This year's crop looks to be poor. Worse, all the deaths in Ergaster have decreased the demand for our finished wool products. We will be hard put to keep villagers from starving this winter. Hell, an old man like me is unlikely to survive!"
Arren replied, "Berten, you are only around 60 summers, right?"

The old man laughed, but his eyes carried a mixture of anger and sadness: "Ah, to be young and naïve. I forget exactly how old I am, but it doesn't matter. How many people in our village make it to 60? One out of 100? Some of the wealthy folk may live past 60, but few of us poor farmers ever see that age. I have to deal with a hundred little aches and pains that come from old injuries. You've seen me in the field boy; I can barely manage to do a day's work anymore. No, my time is near."

Arren looked shocked, "Don't say that Berten! You're as healthy as ever!"

Berten did not reply immediately. The mare had slowed down considerably and was again veering off the trail. Berten busied himself with slapping her side while pulling on her guide rope to get her moving in the right direction again. He then responded, "Nah, I'm about done, and none too soon I say. My life is full of pain, both physical and emotional. As you know, my wife and children are all dead. I miss them. And I no longer derive any joy from things like the feel of the wind in my hair or the sound of the birds in the trees. My days are filled with toil and sorrow. I'll be glad when it's over.

But I won't let it end just yet! I have an obligation to the village, and to your late father, to make sure that our weaving trade remains strong long after I am gone. I would as soon be confined to the Four Hells before I let anything happen to the…"

Berten was interrupted by the mare, who stumbled. He slapped her side in frustration with one hand while pulling on the reins with the other. "Stupid, old horse! Boy, you'll carry on with these trips when I'm gone. Ask Yarrow or one of the other villagers to help you. Any of them would be willing to lend you a hand. At least you'll be able to head to town with a new horse. Two more trips and we'll have enough money to buy a nice, young horse to replace this old mare. Just two more trips…"

Neither of the men noticed the dark spots that had formed along the mare's flanks and around her face.

-- Anthony Hopper

#disease #fiction #flashfiction #shortstory #story #fantasy