The Phobic Do-Gooder

 A Pause in the Workday 

An office building where I used to work is wrapped in tall, wide windows. One winter day, something hit the glass not 20 feet from where I stood. There was a loud thump, and when I looked, a dark shape fell.

Image, Teece Aronin

I hurried to the window and peered down. On the ground, a sparrow lay on its back, its head submerged in snow. Its little breast rose and fell, rose and fell, and if it hadn't been for that, I would have sworn it was dead. 

I worried that if the bird didn't right itself soon, it would suffocate, but I hesitated to help. I love birds, but I love them from a distance because I'm a little bit phobic about them - fish, too. I think my fear is that they'll flap or flutter in my eyes.  

One of my coworkers came over to see what I was looking at, and because she was famously tenderhearted, I asked, "So, Jean, what are you going to do?"

An Origami Bird

While Jean was off looking for a box and I kept useless watch over the sparrow, one tiny leg sprang up and then the other, as if an origami bird were unfurling in the snow. 

Next, the sparrow flipped right-side-up, blinked, and looked around. It wore a party hat of snow on its head and another, smaller one, atop its beak. 

Suddenly, there was Jean, gingerly traipsing up to the bird, cardboard box in hand. When she got close, the bird took off but fell again. Jean came closer, and this time, when the sparrow took off, it kept going, faster and higher until it was clear that it needed neither Jean nor the box, and certainly not me. It disappeared into the wild, gray yonder.  

I need to get over my phobias before they stop me from helping when there is no Jean around. The fact that something is different from us doesn't mean we don't share the world with it, and it doesn't mean we shouldn't help. 

Besides, maybe some of the things that flap or flutter have a phobia about me. 

I Was Just Resting My Eyes . . . for Four Years

COVID Sucked Steam - Bigtime

COVID-19 sucked the steam right out of my little demitasse, leaving its contents to cool for four years. I started the blog in early 2014 to capture "anything that crossed my mind and stalled there long enough." 

Before COVID, Chipped Demitasse was a combination playground, underwater cave, and space camp where I explored ideas that struck me for any or practically no reason, probing the recesses for treasures of humor and ethos.   

When I wrote "Playing Games with Underwater Welders," the post before this one, it was March 2020, and COVID was dropping a big rock smack on top of the world's head. And the world wasn't wearing its helmet. 

Clicking "publish" on that post, I had no idea that would be it for years. 

This Little Light of Mine . . . Blinked Right the Hell Out

For six years Chipped Demitasse was a light I used to keep from falling in the dark, especially the pitch-black of divorce, sudden onset single parenthood, and my mother's death. It was a passionate pipedream whispering in my ear that I might write something astounding someday, something that helped people or righted a wrong. Even if it were a microscopically small wrong that no one knew about but me, I would be thrilled. Besides, COVID was microscopically small, and it was a very big thing. 

As the pandemic leaned in to savage the planet in earnest, I thought I was doing well - overall. I mean I was saddened by COVID, terrified of COVID, worried about my family and friends because of COVID, and grateful my parents had died before COVID. But I wasn't hit so hard that I couldn't keep writing the blog that was a coping mechanism and a joy - I thought. 

Still, my focus went elsewhere, toward building multiple income streams from freelance writing, marketing, and communications consulting. I love those things too - and in times that had never seemed less certain in my lifetime, they helped pay the bills. 

In the meantime, COVID ramped up its invasions of homes, schools, offices, work cubicles, and places of worship. It was a wheezing, hacking, spit-spewing blob that seemed to penetrate walls and ooze beneath doors. 

Fever Dreams Without the Fever 

And then there were the COVID dreams; you probably had them, too. In one of mine, my parents were alive. I was standing with them and my siblings on the beach at a blighted, deserted resort. The weather was blustery, and canvas beach umbrellas and cabanas flapped loudly in the wind. 

We were all wearing raincoats, and my brother's was long, gray, and drab as a tarp. My mother pulled two frilly black bras from a beach bag, passed them to me as though they were sandwiches, and explained that I should use them as masks. One of the cups consumed my entire face, and I remarked that they'd be great for glamour mask shots, proving that even in COVID dreams, I have a sense of humor.  

When my brother announced that he was off to find a restroom, I yelled, "Remember! Six feet!" at the wind-ripple-y back of his departing coat-tarp. 

Sometimes I Wasn't Dreaming

At the height of the pandemic, things you once thought only happen in dreams, happened in real life. When my daughter, Sydney asked if we could go garage sale-ing one day, my knee-jerk response was, "Sure!" I didn't think before I spoke, and when I saw how happy Syd looked, I didn't want to disappoint her. We masked up and ventured out. 

As I browsed dogeared paperbacks, grimy action figures, and laceless roller skates in some stranger's back yard, two people without masks stopped within a foot of Syd. I transformed into Donald Sutherland in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," pointed and yelled, "Syd, get back! Those people aren't wearing masks!" 

That happened during a particularly ugly early days COVID surge. Still, it might've been an overreaction on my part. I who had performed crisis communications during two public health emergencies - an oil spill and a heat wave - went apoplectic as two passersby at a garage sale strolled into my baby's personal space. 

Then there were the almost apocalyptic experiences, like when I drove past a house with a child's birthday party underway in the front yard. The yard was decorated with a banner and balloons, and revelers in party hats laughed and clapped - but the child was in one yard with her parents, and the guests were another family in another yard - across the street.  

Things that Are Frivolous but Deep and Neurodivergent and Loving It 

Chipped Demitasse never focused on one topic. It's not a travel blog or a parenting blog, or a history, finance, or health and wellness blog, although I've written about all of those things here. 

It does have a theme, though, which I touched on earlier: teasing out exquisite, moving, painful, meaningful, awful, zany, or frivolous things to see them in a different light. 

Last October, I was diagnosed with ADHD, meaning that I'd been cluelessly neurodivergent all my life. Most people I've told said, "I don't see it; you seem pretty low-key." But ideas for things to write, comics to draw, and paintings to paint ricochet around in my head all the time, and I have to keep my phone handy to jot them all down.  

Before my diagnosis, there were times when tedious things were harder than they needed to be. A boss once glanced at notes I'd taken and complained that they gave her a headache. I was the only one who would be using the notes, and they made perfect sense to me, but I know now that my loathing of tedium and my meandering notetaking can be traits of ADHD and neurodivergence. I've also learned that those challenges could be addressed and that my turbo-charged creativity and alternative thinking skills give me an advantage much of the time.  

My plan for this blog is to keep nudging it up the same path but to zhuzh it up a little (note the snazzy new subheadings). But most important: I want to share my new and improved world with others.

Different Flavors of "Expresso" All in One Tiny Cup

The forms of expression available to me through this blog are more reasons to bring it back. Writing ghost stories for Halloween and noir spoofs starring Sam Spayed, Dog Detective, and then swinging to the opposite end of the spectrum to write about grief and loss, feels freeing, although it might give others vertigo. And if any COVID-related flotsam washes ashore, I will lay it gently on the sand and look for treasure.  

Playing Games with Underwater Welders

I play this game on my phone called Words with Friends. It's a lot like Scrabble, and most of the people I play with are people I actually know. However, sometimes I accept an invitation from someone I don't know, and occasionally, when I spot someone who looks like a better player than I am, I'll challenge that person to a game as a way of sharpening up my skills. 

Words with Friends allows players to "chat" with their opponents, and it's rare that I am willing to engage in a chat on there with someone I don't already know. But once in a while I do. What follows is a conversation which took place between me and a new opponent a few months ago.

Player: Hello! You play so well. How long have you been playing? 

(I'm not that great a player.)

Me: Thank you. It's been about four years. 

Player: Wow, that's such a long time. I just started some days back. Where are you from?
 
Me: The Midwest. You?

Player: I'm from Houston, Texas, but currently at Israel Gaza for peacekeeping. How's the weather over there in the Midwest today?

Me: Peacekeeping mission? What organization do you represent?

Player: I'm a USA Military General currently serving in Gaza Strip and I work for the United Nations. Lovely photo you've got. You look exceptionally beautiful and amazingly gorgeous on your photo.

Funny how this USA Military General wrote as though English was not his first language. 

Three hours later . . .

Player: Hello?

Me: I'm really not much into chatting on here. Thanks, though.

Player: You're welcome. I just find you interesting and nice to talk to. It's been so long since I've had someone to text with. Please, for the sake of friendship, can you text more with me? I really would love to get to know you much more. Are you married or single?

Sadly, that's where our acquaintance ended. Something came over me, some fickle inspiration, and I blocked our chat. Words with Friends has a feature allowing you to do that. I'm sure he was sincere and looking for a long-term relationship. Actually, I don't think that at all. I think he wanted to scam me. The same is probably the case with Felipe.

Felipe: Hello! I must say this because it has been on my mind from the beginning I matched you. First of all, my late wife's name was the same as yours and the smile on your face reminds me of her so much and one other this is that she's also a nurse. And I have been wondering if people in this world are in twos. 

I didn't bother to point out to Felipe that not only was I not smiling in my photo, I was wearing a jacket and blue jeans and sitting in the grass. His late wife being a nurse and sharing my smile weren't the coincidences he was faking them out to be. He must have thought I couldn't see my own picture on the game.

Felipe: My pleasure playing with you! Where are you from please? I'm from Lisbon, Portugal, but I live in New York.

Me: I'm from the Midwest.

Felipe: Okay, that's nice. I have heard a lot about the Midwest, but I have never been there at all. Although I have a colleague that lives there. Have you ever been out of the Midwest, visiting other states or countries? I have traveled to several countries due to my job in engineering and seminars. 

Me: I haven't traveled as much as I'd like, but I hope to travel more in the future. 

Felipe: That's nice. At least you'll have experiences of how other countries and places feels and look like. Are you an outdoor person? I like going out maybe gather with few friends every once in a while. 

I go to bed without responding. The next morning:

Felipe: Believe that you are beautiful and have what it takes to move mountains, and you'll move mountains. Don't allow yourself to be let down by what others say. Get up and do what you can do best. Good morning!

 Me: Thanks, Felipe, all nice thoughts. 

Felipe: You're welcome! Still you have not answered my question. You like being outdoors?

Me: I used to enjoy being outdoors but not as much since I shattered my knee cap in a mountain climbing accident and had to have my leg amputated. You've really brought up painful memories for me, Felipe. 

Felipe: I am so sorry about your leg! I know it'll be uncomfortable for you sometimes. Always make sure you follow the doctor's advice so you don't hurt yourself again. Outdoor activities brings fresh ideas into my everyday life, and it makes me think freely. 

Forget about what you couldn't achieve yesterday, and think of the wonderful things today has for you. Work with all your might towards them to make your tomorrow extraordinarily bright. Good morning!

Me: Good morning.

Felipe: How's your day going? I figured you always play game at midnight. Are you working on night shift?

Me: No, it's just that I usually play at bedtime. My day is going well, thanks.

Felipe: Mine has been busy but going smoothly. Whenever I'm on my lunch break, I take time out of my busy schedule and take a little time to check on you. So, tell me, please, how long have you been a nurse or a doctor?

Me: I'm not a nurse or a doctor. 

Felipe: Oh, pardon me please! When I saw your clothes, I thought your were a nurse. So what are you doing for a living please? I'm a private contractor and an underwater welder. 

Cut and scene. That wasn't the first time someone on Words with Friends told me he was an underwater welder. Next time it will be an underwater welder who's also a "USA Military General" on a peacekeeping mission in the Gaza Strip.  

Ugh.






 

Facebook 101

When I'm on Facebook, I get the feeling I'm being immersed in a different culture. I'm not multi-lingual enough to have much Facebook experience in anything other than English, but it seems that no matter which English-speaking country its "friends" are from, Facebook has a way of of corralling everyone into certain protocols, language patterns, and forms of address. In other words, it messes with the ways we might otherwise interact.

Facebook allows users to reply to one another, and when you tap "reply," to respond to someone's comment, Facebook auto-fills the other person's name. As a stickler for punctuation, I often take the extra two seconds required to insert a comma after the name before typing my reply. If I don't do that, I am nagged by the notion that I have just contributed to the breakdown of written language in Western civilization. I think Facebook should include the comma in the auto-fill so I no longer have to take time out of a busy day to either add the comma or contemplate the damage caused when I left it out. 

Many of us also use our middle names, maiden names, married names, and hyphenates of all of the above when on Facebook. This can cause a stilted lilt in our Facebook conversations. Consider:

A woman posts a picture of herself with a trendy short haircut. Such photos are usually selfies taken in the poster's car immediately after leaving the salon. One of her Facebook friends comments that the haircut has a "cute little David Cassidy vibe going on." The woman fires back with, "Emma Jane Zelinski-Masterson-Whalberg, you think I look like a guy?!?"

In its ongoing effort to clarify users' communications even further, Facebook offers a collection of emojis for reacting to a post. The options are a thumbs up, a heart, a laughing face, an awestruck face, a crying face, and a scowl-y, angry face. Facebook used to offer only the thumbs up, aka the "like" button, but broadened the choices when users found it off-putting to "like" their friends' heart-wrenching posts about the death of a beloved pet and the other kinds of heartbreaks we all endure in life. 

That just made me think of something else. Say one of my Facebook friends goes skiing at a luxury resort in the Swiss Alps. He breaks his foot and posts a picture of his bruised-up toes peeking from a cast. His post says he'll have to spend the next ten days recuperating in front of a roaring fire while drinking brandy. If I tap the heart to send my love, will people think I'm happy about the broken foot? Probably not.

But how will they know for sure?  

A Live Van Gogh

I'm at an age where I have more aches and pains than ever. I've also noticed I feel them less when I'm happy.
And the pain isn't all age-related. I was diagnosed with juvenile arthritis at age 10, and my rheumatologist told my parents that while my prognosis might be good, I also might wind up using a wheelchair more than my legs. 

Flash forward a few decades, and I'm in good shape considering. Still, my knees tend to ache and my back can get testy, so I'm focused on losing weight to take unnecessary strain off them. 

One weekend, I took my kids to Northern Michigan and we spent a day on Mackinac Island. I'm a native Michigander, and Mackinac Island is my restoration place. Cars are not allowed there unless you're a police officer or emergency responder, and horses, carriages, bikes and feet are the only means of transportation for regular folk. I was struck by how joyful I felt and by how gratifying it was to reintroduce my kids to a place they hadn't been since they were barely more than toddlers. 

We walked everywhere that weekend - up and down streets, up and down hills, and up and down long stretches of beach. That's when it dawned on me: I wasn't in much pain. 

Could it be that my mood was overriding my pain? The only place I drew the line was in climbing Castle Rock in St. Ignace, Michigan. I don't know that it was as much a pain issue as it was stamina, since Castle Rock is almost 200 feet high. My son did it though, and I vowed to him that in 2021, we'll climb it together. 

But I'm meandering, as one does in Northern Michigan. 

I was thinking that if I were awarded an all expense paid trip to Paris, and it rained for most of the trip, I'd probably still be thrilled just to be there. I'd be thinking how picturesque Paris is with its streets all shiny and wet and how fascinating Parisians are to watch, darting in and out of shops and clutching their umbrellas. Of course the Parisians, there all the time, would be all down in the mouth because it's raining. Maybe they'd be wishing they were in Miami Beach. 

So if Parisians can get bummed when they live someplace fabulous, maybe the rest of us can
be expected to when we live someplace mundane - mundane to us anyway. Could it be as simple as choosing to find what we need from our surroundings, and, by extension, our lives? 

Van Gogh painted pastures and stars and flowers and life until the day he suddenly didn’t. While he lived, he breathed color into his lungs and exhaled it onto canvass. He gazed at starry skies and walked through fields as yellow as the sun.

I choose to be a live Van Gogh every day I possibly can. 

The Axeman Loves to Swing

Have you ever heard of the Axeman of New Orleans? He was (or they were) responsible for a string of slayings and non-fatal attacks that took place in and around the Big Easy between May 1918 and October 1919. Can you imagine the panic that must have erupted in this pre-forensics era where killings and assaults were harder to solve and therefore, harder to contain?

The Axeman's first victims were husband and wife Joseph and Catherine Maggio, killed on May 22, 1918. The Maggios ran a combination barroom/grocery store and were found with slashed throats and pounded heads, the weapons: a razor and an axe. The Axeman brazenly left his bloody clothes at the scene, and robbery was ruled out as a motive. 

Next up: Louis Besumer and his mistress, Harriet Lowe. After being attacked in the wee hours of June 27, 1918, the pair was found alive at the back of Besumer's grocery store by an unsuspecting delivery man. The axe used in the attack belonged to Besumer. Adding insult to injury - literally - Lowe accused Besumer of the assaults. Things got awkward again when the extramarital aspect of their relationship became public, and dicier still when Mrs. Besumer returned from Cincinnati where she had been at the time of the attacks. Besumer was imprisoned as a result of Lowe’s accusation but was acquitted nine months later.  

The Toughest Nut to Crack award for 1918 goes to Anna Schneider who was attacked by the Axeman on August 5 of that year. Despite a smashed face and lacerated scalp, Mrs. Schneider gave birth just days after the attack to a healthy baby girl. A Wikipedia entry on the Axeman says that instead of an axe, the weapon used on Schneider might have been a lamp. One could argue that a lamp isn't as lethal as an axe, but still. And labor is hard enough as it is. Giving birth with a mass of head injuries has got to be at least a little bit rougher. 

On August 10, 1918, five days after the Schneider attack, the Axeman took down Joseph Romano, who lived with his two nieces. The nieces reported seeing a large, dark-skinned man wearing a suit and slouch hat escape the scene. Romano was able to walk to the ambulance, but died two days later. When you think of it, a not-yet-dead murder victim walking out to meet the ambulance which has arrived to transport him to the hospital makes for a creepy mental image.

Fast forward to the evening of March 10, 1919. Charles Cortimiglia, his wife, Rosie and their two year-old daughter, Mary were attacked. While Charles and Rosie survived, Mary did not. 

Steve Boca was the Axeman's next victim. Their fateful meeting came on August 10, 1919. Boca recalled seeing a shadowy predator hovering above his bed. When he regained conciousness, he rushed outside to investigate the break-in. It was then Boca realized his head was sliced open. He survived but was not able to provide police with details of the assault.

Almost done!

Sarah Laumann was discovered by neighbors with blunt force head trauma and multiple missing teeth. This was on the night of September 3, 1919. A bloodstained axe was discovered on the front lawn of the apartment building in which she lived. As with Steve Boca, Laumann survived but could not remember enough details to help police solve the crime committed against her.

Last but not least comes the Axeman's final victim, Mike Pepitone. Pepitone crossed paths with his killer on the evening of October 27, 1919. He was married and had six children. His skull was badly crushed, and there were not enough clues to unmask the killer. 

The Axeman of New Orleans was never apprehended. 

Not only did the Axeman get away with murder unless someone did him in somewhere along the line, he did it while taunting police and public alike. Here is a letter from the Axeman written ten months after the first killings and published by the media of the day:

Hell, March 13, 1919

Esteemed Mortal of New Orleans: The Axeman

They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.

When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.

If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me, but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.

Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens (and the worst), for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death.

Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:

I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it out on that specific Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.

Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and it is about time I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fancy.

- The Axeman

Hmm . . . methinks the Axeman was a bit of a dip. He talks about "earthly time" and calls himself "the worst spirit that ever existed" right after mentioning "His Satanic Majesty." Wouldn't Satan have to be the worst spirit that ever existed? And would the worst spirit that ever existed bonk a pregnant woman on the noggin with a lamp? Whatta ya say to that, Lampman? 

For the record, the clubs were hopping the night the Axeman specified for the citizens of New Orleans to "jazz it out," and there were no killings that night. Isn’t it bloodcurdling to imagine the Axeman wailing away on his trombone in one of those clubs, playing, as it were, to beat the band?

I know I talked pretty big, insulting the Axeman the way I did. Still, if I were in New Orleans that night when everyone was supposed to be jazzing it out, and I didn’t feel like making the scene, I might have dragged my clarinet down from the attic, you know, just in case. 

Not in My Wildest Dreams

Late middle age has crept up on me, and I can still honestly say it is the most terrifying nightmare I've ever had. In it, I am at a wake for my maternal grandparents. In reality, my grandmother died in the mid 1970s and my grandfather, years before her, in the mid-1930s. 

Image by Teece Aronin

At the wake, my grandparents are laid out in a wooden double coffin that looks oddly similar to a piano crate. My grandmother, looking like the 86-year-old she was when she died, is dressed in a snow-white wedding gown. My grandfather appears to be a young man, in keeping with his early death while still in his forties. Although he was not in the military that I know of, he is dressed in a muddy, wool, World War I uniform. It seems he died in battle and is being buried in the uniform he was wearing when killed. His hat lies under his hands which are folded across his stomach. His face and body appear to be those of a worn and battered store mannequin, hard to the touch with telltale chips all over. 

The room is filled with people coming to pay their respects, and suddenly the crowd parts to reveal my grandmother, padding around barefooted. Her wedding gown is gaping in the back like a hospital gown, and she is dragging an IV pole around with her. I look to the piano crate/coffin to see that my grandfather is no longer there either. I'm both shocked and terrified, thinking that if my grandmother could rise from the dead, hop out of a combination piano crate and coffin and scamper off to join the party, there was no telling what my grandfather was up to. 

Then a voice, a sort of Hercule Poirot presence, makes an announcement. He tells the crowd that my grandfather's corpse has been stolen and that both thief and corpse are still somewhere on the premises. 

Like someone who has fought her way to the surface of a deep and murky pond, I smash back into wakefulness. I am shaken but confident that my grandparents are securely ensconced, side by side in the cemetery - and not in one huge double-sized grave - just two nice regular-sized graves - as any long-dead married couple should be.