I remember when dumps were actually dumps – big pits where you pull your truck up and throw your garbage in. End of transaction.

When I was growing up, my family had our garbage picked up. On the rare occasion when we had items too large for the garbage men to pick up, we’d have to take them to the dump ourselves. I loved those excursions. I’d get to “help” Dad load the stuff into our pickup truck, and off to the dump we’d go.

The best part came when we got there – tossing things into the pit. It might be a boy thing, but watching large objects roll into a gigantic hole in the ground, loudly crashing into other large objects and breaking (the more breaking the better), well, it was just plain cool.

The years passed. High school, college, I met my wife, we had a cool son, rented for a while. Things were moving along.

Then, in 1999, I took a look around. A couple years had passed since college and I was still in the same place. My job was pretty boring, the pay was low and I wanted more of a challenge. At the time, we were living in western Massachusetts, and there really wasn’t much opportunity for a career-upgrade in that neck of the woods. On top of that, there hadn’t been any dumping opportunities in a while. It was time for a change.

My wife’s father let us move into his place temporarily so we could save up some money for a move. While we were there, I helped out with various manly chores, one of which was… going to the dump! The dump drought was nearly through and I was excited at the prospect of tossing stuff into destruction once more.

That first trip was a bit of a letdown though. As we pulled up to the “dump,” I thought, wow, this place is tiny. No big pit, just a bunch of dumpsters sitting around. Apparently, the modern dump isn’t a dump at all. It’s a “transfer station,” where all the garbage and recycling go into dumpsters, get compacted, and then trucked off to the real dumps.

Since I was a newbie, I was introduced to the head guy of the transfer station – a scraggly gentleman with an unruly beard. Okay, I thought, maybe dumping could still be fun. He explained the rules of the joint. Garbage goes in this dumpster, plastics in this one, metal here, paper there, etc.

I listened to his spiel, nodding politely. Now, I don’t know if he sensed my inexperience with this new form of dumping or maybe there was just something he didn’t like about me because his final words were: “Don’t mess up.”

On our next visit, I saw the Transfer Station Dictator holding court in his pickup truck. There was a bumper sticker on the back window which read, “For a small town, this one sure has a lot of a**holes.”

After a little while, I got another job and we bought a house. Things were moving along again. I thought back to that bumper sticker a lot though. The dump had evolved but I was happy to see that its zen and irony were still alive and well.

***
John Cleveland is a graphic designer who has learned to enjoy his weekly trips to the upgraded transfer station. He resides in central Massachusetts. To contact John, please drop a line at brendyn.schneider@hotmail.com

A Red House

I remember the exaggerated crunch of gravel as we rolled toward my great-grandfather’s house. There were no other sounds. Trees had filtered the orange sun into fat patches on the road at first, but as we drove, they became more hollow, until there were no birds and then no trees at all. There was only the single stretch of driveway and crunching tires.

The driveway was the longest I had ever seen, and I didn’t see another tree until I saw the house. There was a weeping willow off in the distance. As we drove closer, the tree stepped back. We couldn’t catch up to it, no matter how long I watched. I wanted my father to drive to it. I wanted to swing from its vines. There were no trees like this one at home, but my father told me that weeping willows were just big houses for bugs.

The house was red but not the rusty red color of our brick houses at home. This was the biggest, most red house I had ever seen. Inside, I met my great-grandfather. He was tall and looked strong. I thought he belonged in a grand old house with a long driveway and one tree.

His maid set a shining tea service on the table in front of us. It was the first tea set I’d ever seen that wasn’t plastic and wasn’t for play. She poured the first cup of tea I’d ever drunk. I spooned three cubes of sugar from a bowl into my cup and watched the tea creep up the to the edge and down again.

Great-Grandpa laughed at my wonder and took me to the barn. There I swung from the loft on a rope tied around a rafter, and when I was breathless, he told me, as we walked back, that the holes in the ground were where the gophers lived.

Orange Eggs

The centers were hard and orange. A crusty corner of toast pushed against first one yolk and then the other. The flat, white rubbers framing the middles did not curl up at the edges like they were supposed to. That he couldn’t dip his toast was unacceptable.

My great-grandpa told his maid to cook him new eggs. She told him that he should go to Hell. He told her that she should know how to prepare eggs after all her years of service.

She went upstairs and came back down.

She sat at the table and toyed with the breakfast plates. An hour passed before she heard cars pull onto the drive, and it was another minute before she could see their flashing lights. She told a policeman that her gun was empty and the eggs were cold.

Green Grass

The house was sold and the weeping willow I admired in the sunlight is gone. The great barn with the rope that skinned my fingers collapsed, and the gopher holes were smoothed with dirt. There is a sprawling golf course where my great-grandpa used to be, and I only met him once. I am the only one who will remember the thousands of gopher holes that were punched in the earth, the thick smell of wet hay in the barn, and the size of his big hands on the rope as he passed it to me.

***
Jennifer Oddo released her first full-length publication in December 2008 – Mandolyn’s Masquerade, a historical fiction novel for juvenile readers. She may be contacted at sendtojenn@yahoo.com

“D!”

The football whizzed by my left ear. I cringed, burying my right ear in my shoulder and feeling a twinge in my neck. Wheeling around, I chased the ball into the neighbor’s yard. It bounced end over end, rolled, then bounced again, the way only a loosed pigskin can.

“You gotta keep your eye on it!”
“I know, Dad.”

I brought the ball back to my spot on the lawn and heaved it back toward him – a gawky, girly lob that was all elbow. It landed a few feet short of where he stood. He bent to pick it up, lining his fat fingers up between the laces.

“Always keep your eye on it,” he reiterated.

He pumped his arm a few times, feigning a throw, then released a perfect spiral. I saw the tip of that ball, like the nose-cone of a rocket aimed directly at my head. I leaned to the right and thrust my hands out in front of me, instinctively closing my eyes. The ball struck each of my hands momentarily, then hobbled into the neighbor’s yard once more.

“R! What happened? Did it hit you in the hands?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, it hit you in the hands, huh? That’s why you couldn’t catch it. It hit you in the hands? Go get it.”

I hustled onto the neighbor’s property and grabbed the football again. It was a new looking ball – one that had obviously not logged many hours in play, certainly not in poor weather. As I prepared for my next throw, I imitated my father, aligning my fingers with the fake leather laces. This bought me a little more distance and a nice spiral that just reached his feet. He bent to try to catch it in midair, but it bounced off his shoe and he awkwardly kicked and batted it back under control. Again he aimed and threw the ball my way, this time more carefully, even gently. I lurched toward it, encircling the invisible dotted line of its path with my arms. The football made a zipping sound as it grazed the nylon of my windbreaker.

“That’s O! One more!”

I followed the ball again until it came to rest, laces up, on the neighbor’s lawn once more. I walked back to my mark and offered another weak throw that landed far short of my father’s reach. He stepped out to get the ball, glaring at me as he picked it up. Returning to his spot, he launched the ball at me again.

None of it made any sense. I couldn’t understand where the ball was, or predict what it would do. I knew what it felt like when it hit me, and I didn’t like it. When I looked at it, I looked at it with disinterest. When it came at me fast, I flinched. It wasn’t like other kids’ footballs. It was new, unused. It still smelled like the box it came in. I didn’t like playing with it. I liked building models. I sure as hell didn’t care about catching it. My arms dangled at my sides. The football hit my chest and fell at my feet.

“P!” my father shouted. “Now go inside and help your mother set the table.”

If you would like to contact Rob, please email brendyn.schneider@hotmail.com with “Leslie Whittaker” in the subject heading.

It was Dad’s shoulders I sat on so I could see Mickey at Disney World. Dad taught me how to ride my bike in the backyard. Dad was the one who watched every game when I played softball for Madison Park.

Dad was the one who let me brawl it out with Tammy Lenellski.

When I was in the third grade, we moved and I instantly became the new kid in school. It was certainly not a position I thought I would have ever been in, but there I was, out of place and on display.

I hated every minute of it.

I thought – new school, new friends but that was far from the truth. I quickly learned who was nice and who was not so nice. I spent the entire new year under siege from Tammy Lenellski and her entourage of friends. I didn’t like those girls and over the years, I got to know them very well.

In seventh grade, I finally had enough. One day, on the bus ride home, I just snapped. I can’t recall what she and her friends were throwing at me but I remember turning around in my sticky bus seat, looking her straight in the eye and saying, “You and me at Voorhees School, four o’clock.”

Yeah, maybe I had been watching too many movies but that’s what came out.

Well, the bus went wild! I’m sure there were other kids who would have liked to put her in her place. But I didn’t think they were brave enough to muster something up.

While the entire bus made plans to be there, I went cold with fear. I had never fought anyone before. What was I thinking? How was I going to do this?

The walk home was a jittery one. My nerves were shot from what I had gotten myself into and I decided that I needed to prepare. This girl and her entourage had tortured me for long enough! I wanted to stand up for myself. I wanted to declare that enough was enough!

Now, I know what you’re thinking. How does a twelve year-old girl prepare for her first fight? She walks down to the bodega for all the Pixie Stix and Jolt Cola she can get her hands on. That’s how! I guess I was thinking sugar could magically help me do this thing.

At four o’clock, I walked down the street to Voorhees with my friends behind me and an uncertainty of what would happen. As I turned the corner, I saw that Tammy Lenellski and almost every kid who lived in the neighborhood were already there.

I gulped.

I walked up slowly. No backing out now. Man, did I want to be on the sidelines!

Then I heard a stern voice say my name.

“Kimberly!”

Only one person called me “Kimberly.”

My father was there on the corner. He looked at all the kids, taking in the spectacle.

Then he looked back at me.

Right. Four o’clock. Dad’s home from work. Damn.

His eyes said it all. “Get over here.”

No! Could this get any worse? You can’t have a parent show up at a fight!

“Dad, what are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

I made my plea. “That girl over there has been hounding me since the first day I got to school. I’ve tried ignoring her and it didn’t work. Dad, I’m not gonna take it anymore!”

He scanned the crowd. I wanted to tell him that my self-confidence was in pieces but I didn’t know how to word it, not at that age. The fight wouldn’t happen. No doubt, he’d be taking me right home. What would school be like now?

“Alright,” he said. “You come home when you’re done.”

My friends roared. THE FIGHT WAS ON!

Speculation ran wild the next day. In typical middle school fashion, Tammy’s side claimed victory and mine did too. Of course, those who were there know the true outcome.

Looking back, it doesn’t matter who “won.” The important thing is that I went through with it and Tammy Lenellski and her entourage never bothered me again.

My father knew I had to face her. He knew I had to stick up for myself and I’ll love him forever for it. It’s not about fighting or condoning violence. It’s about being able to value your own self worth. If you can have that in your life then the sky’s the limit.

Thanks Dad.

***

Kim is an established Philadelphia artist. You can access her work at http://www.kmsmurals.blogspot.com/

© 2009, Kim Munn, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.

I was in love with a good friend of mine when I was twenty-four, or I thought I was, and her elder daughter, Erica, really took a shine to me. We had nicknames and special high-fives; we were close.

At the end of June, my friend and I took Erica clothes shopping. She was a skinny thing, even for fourteen: ninety pounds of boyish, gangly limbs with a lip-glossed smile on top. It was a hell of a time trying to find clothes that fit both the body she wanted to have and the one she was stuck with.

An hour later, as my friend paid, Erica and I took one last walk around the store.

“So,” she said, “when are you going to get it over with and marry my mom?”

I said, “Aw, you know I can’t answer that question, Erica,” and I looked at her admonishingly.

Her expression drooped, and we walked on in silence. We never spoke about the subject again.

And for three years I’ve been regretting that indecision, that fear of being misunderstood which made me close up on her. The genuine curiosity of a child was rebuked by the defensiveness of an adult who should have known better. I know that, in some important ways, I did answer Erica’s question, but implications aren’t good enough. She deserves more.

So this is my answer to Erica, a story and an explanation and an apology.

Erica’s mom and I had been in love, for a time. We were more than friends; what we had wasn’t a crush and it wasn’t lust. (We had kissed only once.) But it was confusing. One moment, I thought I wanted to know her for the rest of my life. The next, I thought I would try to date her friends. She would go out with her boyfriend, but come home where I’d be waiting, and we’d talk about it, and I’d sleep on her couch, and her two daughters would wake me up in the morning and we’d make pancakes together. By that June, though, we decided to end the confusion and just be friends. The tension passed away reluctantly, but certainly.

Figuring out my relationship with Erica’s mom had been the easy part, though. The bigger challenge would have been in becoming a father to two girls.

First, I just didn’t have the experience. In the year I had been friends with Erica’s mother, I’d spent a lot of time with her family. I’d done the dishes and seen fights, spent the night and shown care. But at my most involved, I was a glorified babysitter. It was one thing cleaning up after physical or emotional messes and quite another earning the trust to guide these kids through thick and thin. I couldn’t even successfully help Erica shop for clothes, so how would I have helped her when an important decision was laid at my feet?

For that matter, I didn’t think I had the authority to make those calls. Erica thought so, perhaps, but she was a teenager. I was only just out of the teens myself, and I was closer in age to Erica than to her mother. Erica’s eight year-old sister might have been young enough to adapt to seeing me as a leader in the family. But with my being just a year out of college, with hardly the responsibility to care for a houseplant, a girl about to enter high school would no more need or listen to my advice than that from any other strange young adult.

I could, I thought, do no more to help Erica than I did already.

And with these concerns about responsibility came many others that were simple and selfish. I had spent serious effort cutting out romance from my relationship with Erica’s mother, and to add it back in would be painful. I didn’t want to commit to something so big when I was so young. I would regret losing all of the potential futures I’d imagined for myself by trying to be a dad. I was afraid I would fail at it, screw Erica up, and feel guilty for the rest of my life.

Having all of these thoughts in my head, I rejected Erica’s offer of love. It may have been the right call to avoid fatherhood at that stage of my life, but it was a crime to treat a young girl’s openness with such disrespect, and I have long brooded over what would have happened had I given her another answer.

But it didn’t matter, in the end, because Erica could not be dismayed, or put upon, or “screwed up” as I feared. She is now seventeen, a young woman, a smart and a fast and a creative one. Her boyish figure gone; she is beautiful and endearingly ignorant of this fact. Erica is responsible with her mind and her heart in ways that make me unfairly and insanely proud. She is very soon going to be all grown up, and she has her own ideas about what fatherhood means.

About a month ago, around the anniversary of Erica’s mother’s new marriage, I asked Erica about her life outside of school, and she told me she’d spent a lot of it fighting with her biological father.

“I’m just done with him,” she said, “I’m finally done. He’s never there for us; he doesn’t know who I am; he says he wants to be a part of our lives and then he ignores us. So I’m done with him. I have a dad – I have a new dad. And I have you for an uncle, so I don’t need him.” She paused. “As soon as I’m old enough, I’m quitting visitation. It just isn’t even worth my time to be around him if he isn’t going to love me.”

An uncle, a member of the family whose love is genuine but whose nearness is not needed, whose guidance might be given and sought but not with the requirement that it be obeyed, who would never ask but would be always ready to give: yes, I could be that.

For everything I could do for Erica, and for what little I could give of myself: yes. I could be that.

***
Alex Cunningham teaches high school in Massachusetts. Prior online publication can be found here: http://www.commonties.com/blog/2007/07/04/dear-andrew/

© 2009-2010, Alex Cunningham, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission of the author.