To Flu Shot ot Not to Flu Shot?

The flu is running rampant across the country.  Hospitals on the east coast have been flooded and even our own local hospitals here in the midwest have found themselves unable to accept new patients because they are at capacity.  There has been a nationwide clarion call to the GET THE FLU SHOT.  They say, it’s not too late.  This has spawned the anti-flu shot people to rise up in defense.  The arguments are compelling on both sides and I fall squarely on the fence about the whole thing.

I worked in a germ factory (aka elementary school) for 10 years.  In all of those years, I was offered the shot, but only took up the chance once. . .by accident.  How does one allow a needle to plunge into ones arm accidentally? It was offered to kids who were on public aid. The Health Department nurses came to the school and administered them.  One of the kids I escorted to the staging area was scared, tears raining from his eyes.  He pleaded with me to save him.  SAVE HIM!  I told him that I wasn’t a fan of shots either and I admired his bravery in going through with it.  He swelled with the first waves of pride at the thought that a grown-up might be equally scared and he took up the sword for me, “If I do this, you can too!”  He took the shot like a trooper, then got out of the chair and offered it to me, “Ok.  Your turn.”  Well, what could I do?  I coughed up the $9 and filled out the paperwork and, gulp, got a flu shot.  And what happened?  Nothing.  I didn’t get the flu.  I didn’t get the after shot sickness.  I didn’t even catch a cold that year.

In the ensuing years, I chose not to get the shot.  And what happened?  Nothing.  Even the year we were down to 4 or 5 students in a classroom, I did not get the flu.  So, I climbed up on the fence and allowed my friends on either side to extol the virtues of their opinions on intentionally injecting an illness into one’s body.  

This year, the flu has been a pisser.  I did not get the shot. The news has broadcasted of raging fevers, screaming aches and pains, and 3 week recoveries.  I did not get the shot.  Moondoggy gets the shot free at work. And what happened?  Nothing, except we have a vacation planned soon.  People around him at work are dropping like the proverbial flies, he could be bringing those nasty hangers on germs home.  I could catch this thing third party or worse on the plane as all those germs mingle in recycled air.  So, the thought of the flu on a vacation finally pushed me off the fence.

I bashfully walked into CVS and asked for the shot.  I filled out the paperwork and took a seat where?  Where other sick people sit to wait for their meds, of course.  Is there any hand sanitizer around?  No.  Any wipes like at the grocery store?  No.  But, I got the shot.  And now I have to worry for 2-3 weeks that I have been exposed to this heinous strain before the shot is full strength. And what’s happened?  So far, nothing except that I am now a raging germaphobe. All for a vacation?  I’m not sure the stress is worth it. 

I will be hiding out for the next 2 weeks, but then, I’m climbing back on the fence.

Waiting for the First Responders

 Every night before we go to bed, Moondoggy asks if I locked the front door.  I am only mildly offended when he hears me say, "yes" and then checks anyway.  Here is why. . .

During my first year of wedded bliss, approximately nine months were spent alone as my husband was working abroad.  I, on the other hand, was living in Virginia Beach working as the on site manager for a large apartment complex.  Everyone knew Moondoggy was not around, thus, I slept with an axe.  Yes, an axe and no, not to do serious physical harm to the murderer I was sure would be breaking in.  The axe was for breaking the window so I could make my escape.  I hated being alone at night. . .still do, although it got immensely easier when we moved from the big house in the woods to the small house in town.  Within screaming distance I always say.

For thirty years the thought of being alone all night has conjured elaborate scenarios involving me slithering out of bed and slipping under it - which no longer is possible, me using my mad kick boxing skills. me breaking the window for attention and then running like hell..  I have lain awake at night plotting every escape route, strategy and hiding place possible should I be stuck alone and the murderer come a callin'.  So, last night, due to work schedules, Moondoggy had to work an odd midnight shift and there I was, alone.  I wasn't even nervous about it, after all, I do have Moose the Wonder dog.

There I was, minding my own business, sleeping in the middle of the bed with ALL the pillows and my dog, when my ADT alarm beeps the little staccato beat indicating that a door has been opened.  The dog goes nuts barking and leaping off the bed, scrambling headlong into the living room.  I have prepared for this moment for years, I know exactly what to do, self preservation is my middle name.  And what do I do?

I climb out of bed, head down the hall toward the living room where I see the light of a flashlight shining along the floor.  You would think at some point I would have stopped right?  NO!  I keep going, where I come face to face with a man in a dark clothings who, I realized later, was more shocked than I.  

"Oh NO!  Wrong house," he calmly and quickly raises his hands in the air and clearly announces, "We're firemen!  Wrong house!" Like a scene from some slapstick comedy movie, he starts backing up repeating, "We're firemen.  Wrong house.  We're leaving."  Moose is doing his best warning growl (although secretly thinking if one of those guys produced a ball, all bets were off) and just before he closes the door and leaves, I say, "Wait, what's your name?"  He gives it to me (and I am now awake enough that I know who he is).  Then, there was that ghastly smell.  I think Moose might have had a little "nerve" gas.

I flip on the light and there, in the mirror, get a gander at what the intruder was looking at.  I am wearing my best thread bare pair of red Mickey Mouse jammy pants that long ago lost the drawstring.  I am also wearing an old gray tank top.  Gravity hit the girls long about pregnancy time and never left, so, without a bra, a tank top is about the worst look I can have.  My kids have said they need therapy after seeing me in that tank top.  And amazingly, I'm still not scared.

I called Moondoggy at work to relay the humorous tale, calm down, and allow my dog to relax because something smelled awful and I'm pretty sure it is my perfect little dog. Moondoggy was not happy at all and asked me to call the police.  I waffled.  I WAFFLED but acquiesced, dialing 911 assuring the operator It was NOT an emergency but felt it needed reporting.  She did not think it was funny. "Ma'am there have been NO fire calls tonight.  I am going to have an officer stop by."

Well crap!  I've already seen myself in the mirror and, looking around, I realized that I was not prepared for guests.   I quickly threw on a hoodie sweatshirt, fluffed the couch pillows, took my old coffee cup to the kitchen, decided I didn't have time to do dishes so opted to shut that light off and sat down with the shade up to wait for the officer, like it was the most normal thing in the world.  And a minute later he was there.

The young, good looking, former marine was on duty.  I wished I had brushed my hair!  He took some info but offered what he thought had happened:

The next street over in the same location lives a woman who is infirm.  She often makes errant calls to the fire and police stations and sometimes they do midnight service calls to her house.  There is a new driver on duty and he got confused with the streets. . .

As he was telling me this, there was another knock at the door and the two firemen returned after making their call, to apologize again.  All I can think about at that moment was about is my hair, which looks like a tornado!  They had in fact, been doing exactly what the police officer said.  I looked at these three men standing in my living room, one apologizing profusely, one turning redder by the minute (he must be the new driver) and one who now has to make a report about the whole thing and I said, "Next time I'll make coffee and have donuts," to which the police officer, a funny guy, says "Donuts?""   

As they left , I scooped Moose into my arms and took one last look in the mirror, "and I'll even brush my hair,"  I commented to my reflection.  Moose sniffed close to my mouth and jumped away running down the hall.  I smelled that putrid, rotting sour odor again.  It wasn't the dog, it was my breath.  Forget brushing my hair, I should have brushed my teeth.

As for the practiced escape plan?  It went out the window without me.

Never Say Never

Five years ago, I sat in the office of one of my bosses and told a story about a serial killer that stalked children in the city where I grew up in Michigan. I started with the abduction of Mark Stebbins in February 1976 and ended with Tim King’s death in March 22, 1977.  Tim was the youngest brother of a friend of mine and he was one of my own brother-in-law’s best friends.  

The monster that became known as the Oakland County Child Killer scarred the lives of all the people who lived in Oakland County, Michigan from those at “ground zero” to those who watched these horrors unfold on tv.  The killer was never found.

As I told this story out loud from the abductions to the theories, possible suspects and my own personal involvement, my boss leaned back in his chair and said, “I see a great piece of fiction to be written.”  I scoffed.  I was MAD.  No way, I said, could I ever turn this disturbing time of so many lives into fiction.  

Well, a few days ago, I published my next book, “No Such Thing”, a fictional story about child abduction and murder.  While not about the real killer or murders, it employs many of the same events and theories, weaving a story of what could have happened.  The real story takes remarkable twists and turns.  The book streamlines many of those twists into one story.

I would never attempt to diminish the lives of Mark Stebbins, Jill Robinson, Kristine Mihelich or Tim King; their lives were far more important.  Their deaths forever changed my life.  

With the blessing of Tim’s sister and brother, I wrote and published this novel and hope that when it finds its audience, it keeps these kids in the public eye until the real killer has been caught.

Currently available on Kindle and Nook and in paperback through my site www.judicoltman.com.  

More information available on the Resources page of my website.

Run Along!

About a week ago, my Boston BFF called me.  Thanks to caller ID, I answered the phone, dismissing the traditional ‘Hello” and simply asking, “What’s up?”  Without feeling the need to identify herself, she replied, “So, I hear you are running these days.”  I pondered the statement.  Running.  I guess that’s the term although, I really think “shuffling” or even “tripping” is a much better descriptor.  

The truth is, I have spent the last 9 weeks following the Couch to 5K program.  It is a completely do-able program in that it only asks for 3 days a week and ups the running time in teeny tiny increments.  

I began the program on a lonely, quiet road where very few people could see me, figuring if I failed only a few people would take notice.  Much to my own shock, I didn’t fail.  In fact, I haven’t missed a day.  So, in this second day of my 9th week, I just “ran” for 30 straight minutes.  Ideally this is supposed to be approximately 5K.  Yeaaahhhh.  For me it is almost exactly 2 miles.  That’s right, I shuffle a 15 minute mile.  Just call me Flash.  

Moreover, my running form, or lack thereof, is comical.  I know it and I expect people to laugh.  I laugh.  My shadow, which often passes me out of shear frustration, is fairly honest with the round belly in front and the butt waddling dutifully behind.  I am sure that young people who see me run are dumbfounded at the sight and purists have burned their retinas watching me run by.  

I’m ok with that.  After 3 surgeries on my right foot and knee, I never thought running would be an option.  But it is, and I am doing it.  I feel pretty good about that.  If you see a blue or gray mass stumbling by. . . it’s me.  I still can’t call myself a runner and keep a straight face, but that is my goal!

And You Thought The GPS Was For Following

It’s an old joke, men and their refusal to ask directions, their insistence that they know a “shortcut’ and the inevitable time lost in the process of saving time.  Then, along came the GPS.  I really thought the macho bravado of driving would change with an electronic toy doing the hard work.  How dumb am I?

Our GPS does not have a pleasantly accented male or female voice to guide us.  Our GPS has Lois, a no nonsense kinda gal.  She gives the direction and expects you to follow. . .I think Lois was once a third grade teacher.  She does not hide her disdain when announcing that she is “recalculating” in response to something my man, Moondoggy, has done.

It wasn’t until this summer while driving to the east coast that I realized the love/hate relationship that exists between Moondoggy and Lois.  All packed up, we hopped in the car and pulled out of the driveway when Moondoogy announces, ‘I think I’m going to skip her direction to take I-90 and take I-88 instead.”  Not even out of the driveway, he thinks Lois is wrong and she is pissed off. . .you can hear it in her voice.  Luckily there aren’t many options for getting to our stop for the night so she recalculated and the tension eased.  Lois knows how to pick her battles.

The next morning, Moondoggy announces with pride, “I think I’m going to follow her directions today and see where she takes us.  According to Lois, our drive time is going to be 8 hours with an arrival time of 5:15 p.m.” Me?  No comment.  And, here’s why.   Not twenty minutes later, Moondoggy says, “She is taking us through Breezewood which will take us around DC.  The traffic will be hell.  I’m not doing that.”  And with the intrepidity of Magellan and a slight smug sneer, Moondoggy deviates from Lois’ prescribed route.  We followed some very hilly country road that meandered through Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia and Virginia.  I admit, it was beautiful and there was very little traffic, but the 2 hours we spent listening to an increasingly irritated Lois as she tried to guide us back onto the interstate was beyond livable.  But, does he turn it off?  No.  Why?  Because now he is WINNING and he is going to challenge her to find a way to our destination from this new path.  He’s on a roll and the game is on.

She wants us to be on I-95.  We are taking 17.  She wants us to get on I-64 in Richmond.  We stayed on 17.  She wants us to get off on Indian River Blvd.  We got off on Independence Rd.  The whole way Lois is recalculating and Moondoggy is snickering. . .he is winning.  

Finally, we took the now familiar route to the beach house. . . arriving in the driveway at exactly, you guessed it. . ..

5:15 p.m.   

So, who won?

On another note. . .

My next book has just gone to the editor.  I am aiming for a December release. The cover art is ready though.

When a Trip Down Memory Lane Ends at a Cul de Sac

Part II

And so, our 16 year old selves grabbed us by the hand and begged us to embark on our annual trip down Memory Lane.  Usually under the safety of a car, this year we used the provided golf cart as our vehicle of choice.  I drove.

The ritual involves pointing out certain houses we have stayed in over the years, recalling funny stories, memories that have become characters of their own that punctuate the vacation each year.

Eight Bells, our first house. . .we pretended we were horses romping over the dunes.  Yeah, we did that.

Euphoria, the house where we proudly proclaimed meeting 26 boys (count em, 26).  It must have been like flies to honey back then and I didn’t even realize it.  It was the year we met The Boys, and therefore, an important stop.  Gosh, we were cute, our 16 year old selves comment from the back seat.

The Elvis House, name for the year Elvis died.  We were there that very week.  It was a stone's throw from The Boy’s house and we had big plans until Stephanie’s Pittsburgh boyfriend hitchhiked down and threw a monkey wrench into our week.  

Passing the houses, I teasingly  told Steph we were going to stop by The Boy’s house and she laughed.  “You’re kidding, right?”  Hells yeah, I was kidding.  We were wearing lounge wear, the equivalent of pajamas, but I was going to go down another street to see his other beach houses.  So, I bypassed his street and headed down the next, stopping in front of one of the homes that had a sign bearing the name of The Boy’s company.  A moment of pride and then, onward to the next house.  

The golf cart lurched forward when I realized there was a new white pick-up truck sitting in front of the next house and I had to swerve to avoid it.  Stephanie grabbed my arm, gasping, “Oh My God! Holy Crap!  That’s Him!” she turned her head toward me as we passed the man in the truck.  I glanced at the license plate, a vanity plate, and knew she was right.  I kept driving.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.  

My 16 year self was saying, “Well Duh, turn around and go say hi,” but she was also battling with 53 year old Stephanie who took one look at herself in the suddenly very large sideview mirror of the golf cart and caught a glimpse of herself in her jammies, hair pulled back after a day at the beach and no make-up and she hollered, “Just drive!”  And I did.  I drove the full length of the road at full golf cart speed until it ended at a cul de sac.  

I stopped and looked at Steph who was hyperventilating, “Now what?” I inquired.  

Without hesitation she says, “We run!”  but stopped short of escaping through the sand.  She rethought,resigned, “I guess we head back the way we came.”  

Never one to go willy nilly without a plan, I said, “We should stop and say hi.”

“Have you looked at us lately?” She pointed to the telltale mirrors and I saw my reflection.  She as right.  We weren’t 16, we no longer have long flowing hair or cute little belly buttons.  In fact, we were so well disguised in our 50+ fat suits there was no way I was going to stop and say hi.  Not like this.

“Alright.  But what if he has recognized us and he stops us?  I have to stop, Steph.”  

She bit her lip.  “He isn’t expecting to see us so he probably won’t, but IF he does, we stop. . .I guess.  Just drive as fast as you can.”

I hit the accelerator as we headed back down the road reaching a sluggish top speed of 16 miles an hour.  Tearing down the road at 16 mph, we steeled ourselves for the possibility that at that speed, we may indeed be forced to make eye contact.  Heck, at that speed, we could make eye contact and conduct a full conversation with the guy in the time it took to drive by.  Our stomachs were knotting, we were nervous, but thankfully, the white truck pulled away in front of us and drove off.  We both sighed an audible breathe saved from an awkward moment and I punched it to get back to our place.

Giddy, it was hard to delineate between our 16 year old selves giggles and our 50+ selves giggles.  That Boy still made us smile somehow.

Pulling back into our driveway, Steph looks at me and huffs, “I’m a little offended he didn’t recognize us, I mean we were right in front of him!”

Maybe next year, Jimmy.

A Drive Down Memory Lane

An entire genre of music has been created in it's honor.  Movies have been made about it.  Books have been penned in its name.  A boy, a girl and a vacation location (mine is the beach. . .see my book).  In one week’s time, during the freedom of the summer, a teen aged girl could live out an entire lifetime of love from Saturday to Saturday.   It is the summer love and the beauty of it was, it only really lasted a week until the next year.  In our case, there were two very special boys, that Steph and I spent time with every year from the time I was 13 until 17.  The years when we were particularly cute, thin and young.  

Last year, I had the good fortune to get in contact with one of the boys (Steph’s “love”) and was pleased to find out he was married with children and still lived at the beach.  Well, ok.  I already knew he still lived at the beach. You see, Stephie and I have stalked him year after year, driving by his house, looking to make sure the name was still on the mailbox, daring one another to go to the door and say hello.  We never follow through. And so it was, this year that we hopped in an electric golf cart and traveled back down Memory Lane once again.

It was my intention to show Stephie how successful her Boy had become.  He now owns several houses at the beach, many of them back up to a freshwater lake once called The Pits.  

We met The Boys in 1972, at the Pits actually, when one of them road his bike down the dirt path and into the lake - stark naked.  Had we been any younger we might have needed therapy to get beyond the incident, but hormones had already kicked in and it didn’t take long for us to get to know The Boys.  We were young, bikini'd, and barefoot . We squeezed lemon juice into our hair to give it highlights and bathed in baby oil to enhance our tans.  And for a whole week, we didn’t wear shoes.  The Boys were long haired, deeply tanned and they surfed.  We thought they were gorgeous. The parents nicknamed them The Munchkins - which was better than Snort and Grunt (the back-up beach boyfriends).

Our first official date a was homemade dinner.  My boy enlisted his Italian father to cook us an authentic Italian lasagna and set us up with a little candle lit table.  Stephie was so nervous that she could not eat.  I never had that problem.  After the dinner, they drove us down to the public beach at the very south end and we caught ghost crabs, walked on the beach and kissed.  We kissed a lot.

My father always believed that The Boys had a different set of girlfriends every week.  We always believed WE were the only girls they saw and that their summer wasn’t complete until we arrived. Perhaps we were delusional, but we have elevated those hormonal memories to historic proportions, creating epic stories from what amounted to no more than six weeks from our collective lives.  Those Boys are icons in our lexicon, archetypes in our stories and legends in our own minds.  

So what happens when a drive down Memory Lane brings traffic you weren’t expecting?

To Be Continued. . .