by Sadie Cracker

I’m standing in my kitchen making spaghetti for the third time this week and humming, “Traveling Kind” by Emmylou Harris. Four soccer games, a school diorama project, my full time job, kitchen cleaning has rendered any energy I might have for a Rachel Ray style dinner moot.  Suddenly, Johnny runs into the kitchen with his small hands clasped around something. “Mommy look what I found.” He said.

“What is it?” I said.

He opens his small, still fat, baby hands. At seven he’s so hopeful and excited about everything — a life untainted by all the disappointment and I’m afraid of what’s in his hands and that it’s something aweful and I’m gonna have to tell him to get rid of it.

“His name is Maxwell.” said Johnny.

And inside his hands sits a small brown frog that is no bigger than a quarter. “I’m gonna keep Maxwell.” He said. “He’s gonna be with me forever.”

I’m gonna let him down right now. All the hope in his face is gonna fall when I say the one thing I need to:

“Buddy, we can’t keep Maxwell.” I put my ear down near his small hands. “Maxwell just told me he has to be free. He needs to be outside and he needs to live his life. He’ll never be happy if we keep him inside.”

And Johnny’s eyes well up with tears. “If you love something you set it free. Daddy used to say that. It’s dumb. It’s dumb, dumb, dumb and I hate it.”

“It’s true. If you love Maxwell you gotta let him go find a river, or a blade of grass, and you just have to believe that you might see him again because he’ll remember how kind and tender you were with him and how much you cared about what he needed.” I said.

“Or he won’t.” said Johnny.

“And that’s okay too.” I said.

#############################################################

It’s Thursday night and Ladies Night and revamped old hymn night at Bear’s Biker bar in Coma and the publisher of Coma News Daily told me if I write one more story about, “playing dumb songs in a bar full of drunk locals” he won’t publish it. But it’s also Mother’s Day weekend and I once again reminded him that I’m a mom who works a full time job, raises kids, takes care of an ailing father, and that he is really doing a service to the female community by letting me have a voice in the paper.

“Just don’t be depressing.” He said. “Stop talking about love and realities. No one wants to read real stuff anymore especially when it’s written by a 40 year old woman.”

And Charlie, a local motorcycle enthusiast and the Coma Librarian, is up on stage playing, “Let Him Fly” by  Patty Griffin and it’s funny to hear him belt it out so strong and I look at the beer in front of me and giggle to hear Charlie, “I’m gonna let him fly. I’m gonna let him fly.”

Bear, the local 30 year old skate rat punk and owner of the bar, is playing Go Fish with my Dad, Stan Bargemeyer, at the other side of the bar.

“Do you have a five.”

“Go fish, buddy.” said Stan.

“What?! How is that possible?? You just showed me your hand and you had a 5??” said Bear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re crazy.” said Stan. And Stan, who remembered to put on his pants tonight and struggles in his Alzheimer’s, shows  Bear all of his cards.

“That’s a five.” said Bear.

“No buddy. That’s a six.”

“I’m gonna let him fly, ” sings Charlie. “I’m gonna let him fly.”

I’m waiting for Jack. Jack is late and it’s okay because tonight is the last night I’ll see him for quite some time. I thought after Michael died and left me alone that I wouldn’t love someone again. I was okay with being alone, it was lonely, but it was my pain. And as long as I was alone I knew I wouldn’t hurt again. Then Marybell posted my picture in local Paneara’s and somehow Jack appeared in my life.

But tonight he’s leaving for LA. He accepted a teaching position at UCLA and California is not the same as Coma.

“You could come with me.” said Jack.

“I can’t. I need to stay here and take care of my Dad. I need to stay here and take care of my kids.” I said.

“But you could come if you wanted to.” He said.

“You could stay if you wanted to.” I said.

“You could visit.” He said.

“You’re gonna be so busy.” I said. “With all those 20 year old coeds who think you are so amazing because you are successful.”

And I look at his face and all the lines of age and the beautiful way his entire forehead crinkles when he thinks about something and I’m old enough to no longer believe in fairy tales. I’m old enough to know that this life isn’t always fair.

“You gotta let Maxwell go, Johnny.” I said.

And up onstage Charlie sings “Mary” by Patty Griffin and promises that the next song will be “I’ll Fly Away” which is the first song I learned to play on the banjo. I remember my grandma in her apron in the kitchen making a pie for my grandfather from scratch and humming “I’ll Fly Away” and it’s hard to remember how beautiful a moment like that is when you see someone just so grateful to love another human being.

“Sadie Cracker. Sadie Cracker. Come up here and sing with me.” said Charlie.

I shake my head, no. “I’m waiting for someone.” and Charlie laughs. It’s only my father, Bear, Charlie, and me in this bar.

“Just come up here and sing.” He said.

So I pick up my acoustic guitar and walk to the stage.

“What are you gonna play?” said Charlie.

“I think,’ a love that will never grow old’ by Emmylou Harris.” I said.

“Good choice.”

And I strum the guitar three times and start to sing. My father is still at the end of the bar fighting with Bear about a 5 card.

‘Go to sleep may your sweet dreams come true

Just lay back in my arms for one more night

I’ve this crazy old notion that calls me sometimes

Saying this one’s the love of our lives…’

And the door opens and I see Jack standing there with his scratchy beard and great hair. I see him standing there and I know I will miss him so much.

And Johnny’s eyes well up with tears. “If you love something you set it free. Daddy used to say that. It’s dumb. It’s dumb, dumb, dumb and I hate it.”

‘I know a love that will never grow old’  I sing. I sing it loud because I want to believe in it. I don’t want to give up on that.

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By Bob Smith-Smith

Welcome to my inaugural home repair advice column! Got a leaky sink or a squeaky door that needs fixing? Well then hopefully my experience will help you address it without all those nasty repair bills.

Our first letter comes from local resident Micah Horncraft.

Dear Advice Guy,

I wonder if you have any idea whether flooding a house will kill off a flea infestation?

Please, this is a serious question.

Several months ago, my dog or cat (I’m not pointing fingers, even though it was probably my wife’s damn cat) brought fleas into the house. Before we knew it, our entire house was a biting, scratching torture zone.

We tried everything: a range of powders, ointments, elixirs, chemicals, acids, vacuuming, vacuuming, and vacuuming and of course a series of hexes and charms.

Short story, nothing worked. Turns out every time you kill off a few thousand of these buggers, a thousand more eggs hatch and take their place within hours.

Then, a couple weeks ago a pipe burst in the wall and submerged most of our first floor. Obviously I assumed we had a poltergeist trying to drive us from our home. But then it occurred to me: maybe a flood was exactly what we needed to drive the flea armies from our home?

So what do think, AG? After the flood waters recede will we be pest-free?

–Fleas Have Invaded My Nightmares

Dear FHIMN,

The short answer is no.

Although fleas are susceptible to drowning they also are capable of seeking higher ground when water appears—as they move to your dog’s head when you wash him.

One way to tell if your fleas found and clung to floating debris—imagine miniature life rafts—is to think about the day of your flood. Did you have “My Heart Will Go On” stuck in your head for no apparent reason? If so, that may have been because little fleas were re-enacting the “Titanic” love scene of floating lovers all over your flooded house. And as soon as the flood subsided, those little buggers went right back to making more little buggers.

My advice: burn it down, take the insurance money, and start over in a new house. The fleas always win.

That’s all for this week folks. Join me next week when I advise a local resident who suspects he home may house a furry varmint. Spoiler alert: He actually has multiple types of rodent and marsupial infestations going on. Until then!

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The following is one in a series of intermittent excerpts from Coma residents’ blogs published by Coma News as a community service

By Sadie Cracker

My oldest son Joe runs fast up the rain-slick mountain path to catch up with his little brother who spotted a rainbow and ran toward the possibility of catching it and out of my eyesight.

Joe stops by an Oak tree to catch his breath and he says, “I can’t go on.” and he’s 14 and he can.

“Don’t stop. You can catch up to him.” I said.
Joe takes off running. His legs strong now. More like a man’s legs than boy legs and I watch him run until I can’t see him anymore where the hike-path bends.

This is hike was a bad idea because I’m old now and this mountain path is reminding me I need to work out more but the boys, they need to run, and I need to keep up.

One of my girlfriends gave me Sheryl Sandberg’s book, ‘Lean In’ as a Christmas gift.  This book says I can have it all—motherhood, amazing career, amazing internal life—but right now all I can do is lean forward to push up this hill when my thighs are killing me.

“Mom you gotta see this,” Joe said.  And he yelled and then laughed.

I round the corner to see them together. Joe stands looking down at his little brother Ben who is covered in mud.

My legs are on fire from leaning forward and there’s my little guy, Ben, his mouth covered in dirt.
“What happened?” I said.
And Joe laughed so hard he can barely breathe. “Ben ate dirt.”

*************************************************************************
It’s karaoke/ poker night at Bear’s Biker Bar where the losers have to sing Madonna’s “Justify My Love”.

There are only two poker players tonight, my dad, Stan and Bear. The poker game will end soon because my Dad can’t remember how many cards he needs to win. I am sitting at the bar and trying to get through Sheryl Sandberg’s book. It’s been on my nightstand for months beside all the other books written by people who have money, time, hired help, and some sort of success and they want to share with me. Sheryl, Oprah, Kardashian fashion—all stacked on top of Virginia Woolf — on my nightstand.

There’s a lot of information out there about how we as women can be better at being ourselves written by people who don’t know us or live our lives.

“I can’t go on.” Dad says and he throws his poker cards on the table.
“But you were winning, for real.” said Bear.
“Doesn’t matter.” Dad said. “I’m tired of playing this game it’s always the same thing. Some cards. Some winning.”
“When you don’t give up, you win sometimes.” Bear said and he goes behind the bar and turns on the news.

“There are no good presidential candidates. The world is ending…” The newscaster on the radio says in a matter-of-fact voice. Bear turns the radio OFF and he winks at me.

I look down at the book jacket cover of Sheryl Sandberg. She’s staring up at me but her hair looks great.
“Sadie is a winner. She went to a great college. She’s gonna be a famous singer.” Dad says.
Dad has Alzheimer’s and he doesn’t remember everything that got us to this moment where I’m not a famous singer and staring down at Sheryl Sandberg’s hair that looks slightly unnatural. He thinks I’m a 12 year-old-dreamer tonight but I’m happy he knows who I am.

***********************************************************************
“You can’t eat dirt. Why did you eat dirt?” I said.  And why did I take this walk? I can’t feel my legs.
“I wanted to know how it tasted.” Ben said.
“What did you figure out?” I said.
“It doesn’t taste like anything.” he said. “I’m tired. Can we go home?”
And I look at the trail-mile marker and it is one more mile to the top of this hill where we can see everything.
“Let’s keep going.” I said.
“I can’t go on.” said Joe.
“I can’t go on.” said Ben.
I can’t feel my legs. “Let’s keep going.”

*********************************************************************
“My Sadie, she’s no quitter. She’s so strong. She’s gonna be a famous musician.” Dad says. “Better than Madonna!”
And I look down at Sheryl and her perfect hair that doesn’t “Lean In”.

“Bear.” I said and he looks up from where he’s wiping a spill up on the bar. I point to the book “Can you throw this out?”
He nods picks up the book and it makes a “swoosh” sound as it hits the trash bag inside the can. I turn around on the creaky barstool and face the stage. Don Reynolds is at the Karaoke machine singing “Like a Virgin” and he stops mid-touched-for-the-very-first-time- sentence to wave at me.

“She’s better than you, Madonna.” Dad said and points at Don.
There was a moment in New York City 15 years ago, where I stood in front of a bar and it was open Mic night, and I’d just gotten a call from Michael who was back in Coma. I was standing in front of the bar with my acoustic guitar and ready to play because tonight maybe a record label would be there. But on the phone so far away Michael said, “I miss you.” and he was just some mechanic in Coma. Just a guy I’d known forever but I knew I had to turn around. I knew I had to go see him. And now he’s gone and I’m raising two boys alone and I wouldn’t give up that moment.

I wouldn’t do that moment any differently.

I didn’t lean in that night.

I stood.

I walked away.

Charlie, the Coma Librarian walks in the bar, and nods at me. Tonight he’s in a leather jacket but tomorrow he’ll read Shel Silverstein to kids at the library. He walks up to the stage and Don stop singing Madonna which is something to be grateful for. He starts setting up and I think about standing up.
All of the candidates may be bad, the world may end, and we will have disappointment. We aren’t Sheryl Sandberg leaning in and leaning on a nanny and a housekeeper.

But we all end up the somewhere with our choices which are the only things we can own in this world.

Charlie clears his throat and Dad starts clapping, “Sadie is famous tonight…”
I stand but as I try my skirt gets caught on the bar stool and a falter, fall a little and a drunk guy at the end of the bar starts to clap and laughs a little. I smile and stand up.
Charlie winks at me and he pulls out a banjo. He strums a couple chords and suddenly it’s ‘Moon River’ in here and I think, “I can’t feel my legs.” – after sitting for so long on that stool. I keep moving and pick up a banjo and Bear sings about a couple of drifters go off into the world together and I pick up the banjo and play the chorus…
Moon River…
And we go on.

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Dear Query Guy,
How do I find happiness? When I was young my grandma told me that I could find happiness and it would be as a little leprechaun man who guarded a pot of gold and every time I went to find the rainbow it would vanish before I could find where it ended and I ran the minute I saw the sun come out when it was raining but I never got there. When I got older I searched for it in other things such as stationary bicycles, dark alleys, matching knit sweaters with my significant other and I still couldn’t find it. I need an answer Query Guy. How can I find happiness and stay happy all the time.

Dear happy,

Laughter has always been very close to pain even as a court jester in a Shakespeare play would come in just before Hamlet murdered himself and everyone else or more recently on Game of Thrones where the midgets brought laughter to the crowd before Joffrey was killed by poison. The truth is that laughter and pain are always closely linked and this reality is not something that a leprechaun can fix if perchance you find him huddled under the rainbow with his bottle of Jim Beam whiskey.
In truth you have to find the happiness in yourself and sometimes it is easier to focus on the unattainable rainbow when kidnapping a midget would be much more simple.
If kidnapping a midget it not feasible for you and you don’t have access to a jester hat wait to down the poison. As my sweet petunia always says when we are huddled by the fire surrounded by our very expensive furniture while the renters in our ten aments call and ask for fire wood “hit it with a hammer”. Take your pain and hit that as hard a you can with a hammer. Hit the pain and hit it and hit it until you are exhausted and the only thing you can do is laugh.

Sincerely,
QG

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By Marybell Davis, 25 years old, amazing life lived, local blogger and Coma’s only Private Dick

Daddy Warbucks: I’m not sure you should go and get a second graduate degree in Criminology Marybell. You’re not even using any of the degrees you have.

Marybell: Listen, Daddy. It’s tough to be a woman in a man’s world. Men are everywhere farting and taking up space. I need a Criminology degree so I can solve really important mysteries like why is Mom always wrong.

Apparently mothers have been around forever and basically they’ve always been wrong. It’s amazing that children even exist and become anything because mothers have no idea what they are doing, obviously. Case in point: Mary. Yeah right, lady. You were such a good mom that dude Jesus got nailed to wood and stuff. Case in point: Ted Bundy’s mom. What even happened there? For years, mothers have been around thinking they know so much. “Brush your teeth, George,” said Momma Washington. “That tight rope is dangerous,” said some carni’s mom. And the real mystery is how can women who know so much be so wrong?

Here’s an example. I am dating this guy named Randy and he said, “your mom is cute for an old lady.”

And I said, “gross.really?”

And he said, “Yeah I think she was totally wild when she was your age.”

And I said, “gross”

So I told my mom and she said, “I don’t like this Randy. I don’t like how he talks to you. You can do better.”

And that’s where she’s wrong! Randy is the best. He lets me be a real woman and pay for everything when we go out because Randy is between jobs right now. He’s trying to do a lot of meditation and spend some time in a sweat lodge looking at crystals to tell him “What the UNIVERSE wants him to become”. That’s huge. Randy tells me how great I am to look at and that I have an amazing mind that is represented by things like my tight butt and he can really see how smart I am in a bikini. He tells me that one day when he figures out what he’s going to do with his life he’ll take care of me by letting me do everything including work full time so I can feel like a real woman.

And basically I realized moms are wrong because they just don’t get it. They don’t know how it feels to be an independent woman and basically they are never there and always failing you because they can’t help it. Mystery solved. They are wrong because they just can’t help it. Someday if I ever become a mom I’m sure I’ll do everything better.

Daddy Warbucks: Marybell, dinner is ready. Your mom made enchiladas.

Marybell: That’s so gross, Daddy. I didn’t want enchiladas. How come she never knows

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