“I have placed a door between you and me, and I have empowered you to open or close that door. There are many ways to open it, but a grateful attitude is one of the most effective” (Sarah Young)

Like many people who are addicted to HGTV, I love Chip and Joanna from Fixer Upper. Between his construction know-how and her outstanding design, together they transform unloved or outdated houses into gorgeous homes, ready for new life. Watching their show today, I remembered a notebook entry from last year. Doorways…

Last week, we changed the wreath on our front door, from pine and berries to flowers and twigs. The groundhog may have predicted more winter, and there’s snow on the ground, but I’m certain global warming will come through and bring us some early blooms. It didn’t take long for a pair of finches to begin building their nest in this familiar spot. I’m honored, really, that despite our crazy lab Lucy, and the constant comings and goings of our family, the finches continue to build. I’ve been worried about the birds flying into the house, since the door opens inward without the safety of a screen or storm door. So I wasn’t surprised when that’s exactly what happened.

We had just gotten home from dinner, a feat in and of itself, as I am temporarily using a knee-scooter, healing from recent surgery, so entering and exiting the house is challenging. Although we were making a racket gliding up the walkway, the finch remained inside the wreath – until we opened the door, and she flew inside. She was frantic at first, flying in circles, until she rested atop the branch of another wreath! Luckily my husband was able to catch her with a fish-friendly net, made with materials specially to keep animals safe.

After a few attempts, he was able to catch and release her outside through the back door. I was worried she would be disoriented and forget her way back home, but she flew directly back to the wreath and nestled in. I love that little bird – so tiny, so vulnerable, yet resilient with a feisty spirit… driven to build her nest and nurture a life. That’s what motherhood is – a constant cycle of building, nurturing, releasing, receiving, fly-bys, fly-aways, fly-backs… sticks, twigs, leaves and stems – love, joy, heartbreak and forgiveness.

In honor of Motherhood
Grey shadow
     hiding in the light –
fluttering about
     on streams of breeze
Singing her melodious tune
Weaving new life
into our home

In yesterday’s post, I reflected on the practice of living through the lens of One Little Word. Since “believe” was my original word, it led me down the path of faith and spirituality, which brought me to today’s thinking. This slice is a reflection on my current role as a retreat leader, and the power of story. 

Every so often, I catch the show, “Inside the Actor’s Studio,” hosted by James Lipton. One of my favorite guests is director, Martin Scorsese, who regularly shares powerful insights on filmmaking and storytelling. In one particular clip, he talked about the importance of perspective which involves training both the “eye and the heart” to reflect on people, ideas and experiences through film. As a filmmaker he uses the art of the visual to access the truth of the emotional in order to move and touch his audience. This art form is truly a production, which is not dissimilar from my current role in leading, organizing and presenting a retreat.

Our work begins during the Team Formation stage, when potential team members meet regularly to reflect on scripture, pray, and listen to inspirational music, all focused on a particular spiritual theme. The purpose of the Team Formation stage, also known as Continuing the Journey, is to help us gain insight to one another while simultaneously exploring our interest level and role on the team. In order to help with this process, each woman prepares and presents a true-life story about her faith walk.

As you can imagine, there is usually some reluctance in putting pen to paper. It’s far easier to verbally share our stories in bits and pieces as we respond to reflection questions, then to think back on our lives and uncover the experiences that shaped us. Despite that initial hesitancy, the results are empowering, and often aid in healing, especially if the journey was painful.

Just as in filmmaking, the scope of our stories varies, which helps to transcend our beliefs and understanding of one another. Some women choose to provide a wide-angle view of their spiritual journey by taking us through the stages of their growth, while others choose a close-up experience by sharing a specific turning point that deepened their faith. Through craft and language, these writers strive to convey their unique story and communicate their authenticity. These shared experiences, prompt us to “open the eyes of our heart,” and calls us to awaken the presence and knowledge of God in our lives. That’s what writing can do – Amen!

I’m a big fan of the History channel’s show, American Pickers. I appreciate their passion in uncovering artifacts from our past, and weaving them into our stories. Beyond their love of bikes, motorcycles and classic automobiles, they also have a passion for circus memorabilia, which I watched on a recent episode. That clip coupled with the fact that the Greatest Show on Earth is coming to a close, has me waxing nostalgic on the end of this era.

In my childhood, we were fortunate to attend the Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Circus along with “pop-up” carnivals in neighboring towns. The rides were exhilarating, the food was tantalizing, and the side-shows were fascinating. One year the company my father worked for sponsored a traveling circus. Although the tickets were made available to the public, families and friends of employees were given first dibs. Since my dad and two other neighbors worked for the Kearfott Corporation, one whole section was filled with neighborhood kids. There must have been thirty of us squeezed into together eating peanuts, popcorn, and cotton candy, while taking in the sights and sounds of the three-ring entertainment.

While the acrobats were somersaulting in the air, tumbling down into the safety net on a final bow, there was a loud commotion coming from another ring. A deafening roar emerged from one of the caged wagons, wailing louder and louder as the trainer spun it around, intentionally aggravating its confined tenant. A minute later, the lights dimmed slightly, and the ringmaster made an announcement. Although I don’t remember his exact words, he did mention something about an anxious gorilla eager to get out of his cage, and warned us to pay attention as he was known to be a bit feisty.

The pavilion was silent. The gorilla emerged. He stared at the trainer, and began circling around the ring. Snap! The trainer sounded his whip defining his authority, but the gorilla would not comply. Instead, he stood up and began pounding his chest, Kong-like. Collective gasps resounded around the arena. In an instant, the gorilla  began climbing the acrobatic ropes near the side of the pavilion, directly in front of our section.

I was frozen with fear – along with the entire audience. Kids and adults started screaming, and leaving their seats. It didn’t take me long to join the crowd, eyes straight ahead, stampeding toward the exit. Imagining the hot breath of that gorilla breathing on my back, I wouldn’t dare turn my head. As you may have figured out, the whole thing was a hoax. After the gorilla reached the top of the railing, the imposter pulled off his mask revealing his true identity.

Digging up memories uncovers emotions. Although today I can laugh out loud over that hysteria, I’m still surprised at how overwhelmed I feel reliving that moment. And, as “The Greatest Show on Earth,” ends its reign, another chapter of my childhood goes with it. Suddenly I feel the urge to watch good ole Soupy Sales!

In this slice, I reminisce on a time when my mother went back to work, leaving my brothers and I on our own for a short while until she came home. Although fighting was inevitable, more often than not, we surprised ourselves with ingenious solutions, even after monkeying around.

When I was in the 2nd grade, my mother started a part-time job. Because we were outgrowing our two-bedroom Cape Cod home, my parents decided to add a dormer and convert the attic into bedrooms. Her resume of life experience was extensive, candy store sales, money management for her father’s bookie business, President of the Mother’s Guild, school secretary, school librarian, and school gym teacher – Pall Mall cigarettes and all, while her professional experience was slim and only included her role as a Girl Friday for the Colgate Corporation. Wanting a job with flexible hours, she became a banquet waitress for the Bethwood Restaurant. Although she would be home with us in the morning, we would be on our own for about an hour after school. At eight, ten and twelve years old, apparently we were ready for the responsibility.

Despite the usual in-fighting that occurs with siblings, for the most part, we policed ourselves. Every day, we followed the same routine – we came home, disposed our uniforms, changed into play clothes, and headed out the door to catch up with friends. Once the street lights came on, or my father whistled, we headed back. If we were beyond earshot of his dinner signal, somebody familiar with the sound, would pass along the message, mindful of the consequences.

Although we would fight with one another, as mentioned, more often than not, we were thick as thieves, united together and ready to defend one other. Like the time one of the Walker kids got into a scuffle on the bus with my brother Michael, Joey and I joined the rumble taking on the other two siblings. And even though Michael and I intentionally held the storm door closed one day, causing Joey to barrel through the glass, we cleaned up the mess and stood together to take the blame.

One rainy day when we couldn’t play outside, we decided to attach the chin up bar from the bedroom doorway upstairs to one of the doorways downstairs. The boys wanted to test their strength and show off, and I wanted to practice my gymnastics. They went first, and then lowered it for me. Hanging from the back of my knees, I started pumping, swinging faster and faster. Getting ready to dismount, I swung up in one final push, when all of a sudden, the bar detached from the sides, causing it and me to drop to the floor. In shock, with the wind knocked out of me, my brothers got worried and told me not to move. Knowing a back or neck injury could be dangerous, they understood I needed to be still. With quick thinking, they found a piece of plywood in the basement, slipped it underneath, and lifted me up to my parent’s bed.

I think my dad was home earlier than my mother that night. As it turned out, all was well. My parents agreed that my brothers did the right thing. The three primates stood tall –  nothing like a near fatal accident to stir up emotional pride, rather than anger on our monkeying around!

Not unlike other Irish/Italian families, parochial school was a standard; better to have the nuns deal with the messy work of discipline, especially with the Tafuni children. Everything you’ve ever heard about Catholic school is true – I swear it! 

Two years ago, I joined a handful of schoolmates at a 40th class reunion. Not for high school or college, but for St James, my elementary school. Diane, my best friend at home and school, organized the informal outing. Having spent eight years together, my classmates and I were close, not always in friendship, but united in our mutual respect and disdain for corporal law, the discipline of Catholic School. The rules were so strict, that many of us found it more fun to find ways around them. Laughing out of control simply because we felt so stifled by the controlling environment, that when were in trouble, our laughter grew worse.

Right from the beginning, we were taught about guilt and warned about punishment. Following our First Penance in 2nd grade, we joined the rest of the students attending confession every First Thursday of the month to purify our souls for First Friday mass. Each grade had an allotted time slot, so the priest wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the web of lies ready to assault him. As we stood in line waiting for our turns, we discussed the transgressions we would make up. I said, “I’m going to tell him I fought with my brother five times.” Diane shared, “I’m going to tell him I pinched my sister by accident.” Colleen mused, “I’ll say I disrespected my mother twice.” Siblings were lower than parents on the commandment scale, so we had to be careful to weigh out the sin against the expected penance. Even though we all “used the Lord’s name in vain,” we would never admit it! That one topped the list.

Most of the punishments far exceeded the crime. This one in particular had me in tears. Joe and Carl were dueling with the water from opposing fountains, the old white porcelain ones, where the knob could be hyper-extended causing the water to leap out of one side all the way over to the other. Typical, self-absorbed adolescents, they weren’t smart enough to realize they were only twenty feet away from the principal’s office. It didn’t take long for Sister Barnabas to step out to investigate the commotion. The punishment? She pulled them close, face to face, and using their neckties, she tied them together to the pole outside the restrooms, publicly humiliating them, while sending a message to the rest of the potential rule-breakers… not even kidding!

Another time, in 2nd grade, David told on Glenn for some minor offense. As a result, David, the tattler wore the tattle tail for the rest of the day. In 3^rd grade, Mrs. Drexler asked Donna to be the monitor, and to write down the initials of the children who were talking during the day. Right before the bell rang, she stood up front to snitch on her classmates – poor kid.  As soon as she landed on LT, yours truly, Laurie Tafuni, I defiantly shouted, “That’s not me, that’s Lucy Tomallo!” Mind you, Lucy was the quietest girl in the class. The punishment? I had to stay after school, write an apology to the teacher and class, and write on the blackboard, I will not call out in class. No warning for my parents, or my brothers who would be waiting for me by the bus. Case closed.

One of the more humorous crimes occurred off school premises. Even though Diane and I rode the bus, and were expected to eat lunch in the cafeteria, our friend Colleen was a walker, and wanted us to join her at her house instead. Sister Barnabus was more than eager to approve permission, hoping for some peace and quiet in the middle of the day. On our way back to school, we regularly headed over to Cozy’s Candy Store, an “off limits” location for the St James students, as it was considered a drug den – not kidding. There we would fill the pockets of our uniform vests with candy and sneak it into our mouth all afternoon. One day we were greeted by Sister Barnabus, who got wind of our daily outing. Already in the middle of our purchases, Lou, the shop owner, saw her coming and hid Diane and Colleen behind the counter. Not paying attention, my hand was reaching for some sweet tarts, when I noticed a black and white sleeve come across my shoulder led by a gnarled hand headed straight for mine. Sister B marched us back to school. While Diane and Colleen were smirking silently, I continued to sass her, “This is so unfair! It’s a public place. We should be allowed to go where we want!” guaranteeing myself a more severe punishment.

Although we had a great time poking fun at our religious training, all kidding aside, it seems we all share a steadfast faith. As we were catching up on our lives as adults, many of us found ourselves on our knees praying for ailing parents, challenging children and financial  stresses. Despite the relentless voice of Sister’s “Nun of this and nun of that,” we all agreed that St. James School did provide us with a moral compass and code of behavior.

As mentioned in an earlier post, I grew up in a tight knit neighborhood, filled with baby boomers and friends that were as close as family. Safety and freedom were never an issue – kids played independently and our doors remained unlocked. This slice recalls an incident when that comfort was interrupted, but with a humorous twist! I will refer to my mother as Annie T, a term of endearment.

Every Sunday night, my family of five would squeeze into the TV room to watch our weekly shows. Some of our favorites were Lassie, The Wonderful World of Disney, Jackie Gleason, featuring the June Taylor Dancers, and believe it or not, The FBI – in color! I’m not sure if I loved the show or the actor, Efram Zimbalist Jr. My mother, an avid reader, loved mysteries and detective stories, so The FBI and others topped our list. Other shows such as Mannix, Colombo and The Streets of San Francisco followed later, and of course her favorite, Hill Street Blues was a staple in the 80’s.

Her love for the intrigue and mystery of crime began in her childhood. Raised in a raucous Irish home, she was the daughter of a bookie, who sold newspapers on a corner in Jersey City and owned a candy store as well. Both acted as “fronts” to maintain my grandfather’s side business. My mother and aunt would work up front in the store, while my grandfather organized poker games in the back. Most of the card players were cops and councilman from neighboring towns. According to my mother, who loved to embellish stories, there was even a button under the counter in case there was a bust, giving those in the back a chance to get out. You can easily see where her love for this type of drama grew. Little did she know then, that she’d get a chance to play “cops and robbers” in our own neighborhood.

Like most kids at that time, we treasured our bikes. Sting Ray’s, Cinderella’s and Schwinn’s littered the street in a variety of styles and colors. Unless we saved up our own money, our bikes were given as Christmas gifts or for special occasions such as birthdays, Communions/Confirmations and graduations. New bikes were paraded around proudly while everyone gaped at the sleek colors and dazzling chrome – prized possessions in the gateway to independence. But sometimes that independence came at a cost as my brother Michael soon discovered.

Michael and his buddies were riding a little ways from home near the river. Leaving their
bikes on the side of the road, they were scaling the bank exploring the current. A few minutes later, there was a rustling above them. “Hey, did you hear that?” Michael asked. His buddy Roy looked up and shouted, “They’re stealing a bike!” By the time they reached the top, the boys were gone – two of them, one riding on Michael’s bike. “Quick! Hop on the bar!” said Roy. The two of them along with the rest of the crew, hopped on their bikes and took off.

As Michael and Roy neared our house, they yelled to my other brother to get my mother. Annie T sprung into action. Keys in hand, she had just gotten a call from a neighbor down the street that two kids, strangers, were riding bikes; one of them was on Michael’s new bike. Annie T told us to get in the car. Eight kids squeezed into the back seat and back benches of the station wagon. She peeled out of the driveway, careful not to hit the pile of bikes cheering us on from the sidelines.

As we passed our neighbor’s house, we noticed they were slightly ahead of us already in pursuit. If our car had a police radio, you could almost imagine the dispatcher’s voice. “1 Adam 12, 1 Adam 12, two males riding bikes headed down Riverview Drive nearing Union Boulevard. Suspects approximately twelve years old, wearing jeans, one riding a green ten-speed Schwinn.” I’m not sure how we didn’t catch up or pass them, but the chase finally ended in the Two Guys parking lot. Officer Annie stayed with the young culprits, while our neighbor got help inside. The neighborhood watch did their job. Although the doors of our home remained unlocked, we made it a point to lock the shed!

In this slice, I take pause to think about how my mother unknowlingly influenced my desire to write. That coupled with an innate desire to be heard is why I have kept journals my whole life.

“Long before I could really write, someone must have known that this was all I needed.”        (“Composition Notebook” by Jacqueline Woodson)

 It was my mother who knew that writing would be an outlet for me. Long before I filled diaries with adolescent angst, I had always been curious about the physical act of writing. After watching her sign my name on family Christmas cards – Dominick, Ann, Michael, Joseph and Laurie Ann – I was intent on imitating the swirling loops of the letter “L”, until I got it just right. In contrast to my mother’s free-spirited cursive, my father, a draftsman, wrote with sharp lines – precise, exact – the opposite of my mother’s, and in hindsight, a reflection of their personalities as well. One was able to “go with the flow,” while the
other required order and routine – both influenced me greatly.

Although I could write in both ways, in kindergarten I insisted on writing using only capital letters arguing, “What’s the difference? It’s still my name.” That’s the kind of lawyering I brought to every moment of injustice I faced. Every single paper that came home that year was corrected from LAURIE ANN to Laurie Ann. Was I too stubborn to change, or were those early indications a felt need to express myself, a desire to leave my mark on something?

Growing up in a home where praise was not regularly dispensed, somehow I sensed my mother’s pride in my writing. One memory I can recall is when she shared my 5^th grade writing with her friends from work. Our teacher, Sister Patricia Mary, a fan of creative writing, asked us to write the autobiography of an inanimate object. My character, a Swiss watch, aptly born in Switzerland, was put through grueling trials in order to prove her worth. One morning she woke up in the chilly air and was submerged into the icy waters of a pond, mirroring the famous 1970’s ad-line, “It takes a licking and keeps on ticking?” It’s funny how the motto of my watch-friend is shared by writers… those who take pen to paper every day struggling for acceptance, facing criticism, all in the hope of getting published some day.

Despite the fact I only have that one public memory, I do know my mother revered words and language. She herself, an avid reader, was rarely seen without a book and cigarette in hand. She honored reading, respected libraries, and on the rare occasion we got something outside of a birthday or Christmas gift, she bought us books. Beyond the popular titles of Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, and the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys mystery series, two books she encouraged me to read as an adolescent were Ann Frank: Diary of a Young Girl, the extraordinary life of a girl living in hiding, and Go Ask Alice, a lesson on the perils of drug abuse – memoirs of tragic lives which remain with me till today.

Pieces of their stories showed up once in a 7th grade paper I wrote reflecting on the Sounds of Silence, an assignment from Miss Joyce, who had finally had it with my incessant talking, calling out, and general rebellious behavior. As a punishment, she told me to go home and write about that topic  – a brilliant move on her part. Later, after my mother passed, it showed up in one of her drawers alongside another piece I wrote reflecting on the death of Aunt Ida, my mother’s best friend and neighbor, who died of cancer leaving three young daughters. The fact that she treasured those pieces speaks volumes of her approval.

How did those books influence me? Why am I remembering them now when I am “writing about writing?” It’s not that those books are the reason I write, because I was too young to notice, but reading about Ann and Alice helped me to discover that I prefer the raw truth that emerges from tracking a life.

This memory is the one my children, nieces and nephews love to hear. Since my mom, their grandmother, passed away at the ripe young age of fifty-nine, they have few of their own memories of her, so they appreciate when my brothers and I share. My mother was a character. At times I will refer to her as Annie T – a term of endearment for her feisty spirit. 

“So, Laurie Ann, how old are you now?” Mrs. Sullivan asked. My mother and I were at Shop-Rite on our weekly shopping visit. It was just the two of us, since my brothers were at school. Lucky me; this meant, I wouldn’t have to share the chocolate chip cookies.

“I’m four and a half. I’ll be five in October,” I shared, licking the melted chocolate from my fingers.

“How wonderful,” she smiled, “Soon you’ll be heading to kindergarten!”

I turned around in the shopping cart, in full view of both mothers, “No – I won’t be going to school. Mom said I can stay home with her instead,” I proudly announced, sneaking a glance at my mother to confirm what she promised.

“That’s right,” my mother responded, smiling at Mrs. Sullivan. “I told Laurie Ann if she doesn’t want to go to school, she doesn’t have to. She can just stay home with me.” Mrs. Sullivan returned her smile with a knowing nod, acknowledging this important fact.

That’s how it went from spring through summer. Everyone was asking me about school, while my mother and I firmly shared that I wouldn’t be going. We would remain partners at home, doing as we pleased. Playing cards, watching game shows, baking cupcakes, and eating baloney sandwiches. Imagine my surprise that September morning, when I woke up and heard her announce that it was time to get ready for school. A new dress, maroon with polka dots, hanging alongside patent leather shoes were at the ready, waiting to make their debut. Bewildered, I asked her why, insisting we already had this worked out. She casually mentioned that we had received a letter from my teacher inviting me in, and that maybe we should check it out. Smooth move – Annie T was always quick on her feet. Ok, I thought. This is only temporary. Once the teacher realizes her mistake, I’ll be back home in no time, playing with my dolls, picking up where we left off yesterday.

So, I went along with her game. I got dressed, ate breakfast, and posed for the usual “first-day of school” pictures alongside my brothers and neighboring friends. When the bus pulled up, I looked over at my mother. She assured me she would follow me to school. I quickly moved to a seat further back on the bus and watched her driving behind me, my eyes glued to our blue station wagon, never letting it out of my sight.

Bus number three pulled up, and true to her word, my mother was there to meet me. My brothers remained on the bus, waiting for the second stop at St James School. I’m sure they were snickering under their breath, imagining the next few scenes. After saying hello to other moms, and snatching a few more pictures, my mother took my hand, and together, like partners in crime, we walked through the vast doors of Memorial School. I was confident, or at least hoping, that in just a few short moments, the charade would be over.

It was a quick walk up the stairs followed by a hard right. There in front, ready to greet us was Mrs. Moorehead, a petite woman with a gentle face and warm smile. She reached out her hand to me to coax me into the classroom. Glued to my mother’s side, we inched forward. Under some mysterious spell, Mrs. Moorehead managed to shuffle me through the room to the other side, away from the door, where my mother remained. Wait a minute, I thought – what’s going on? With my eyes peeled on my mother, the teacher pinned on my name tag. But I’m not staying, I thought. My little heart was pounding in my head. Rather than exiting gracefully, my mother impishly waved at me and said, “Bye, bye, Laurie!” Frantic, I screamed  – “No!” and began sobbing … uncontrollably at first, and then to a quiet whimper. According to my mother, I got over it pretty quickly. When I returned home later, she asked me, “How did you like school?” Not to her surprise, I replied, “I loved it!”

When asked why she maintained the charade for so many months, Annie T had a logical answer. “Why upset you for months on end, when it could be handled in one single moment,” she claimed in her matter-of-fact tone. “Besides, I knew you would end up loving school.” She had a point… The call to teach came later in my life, but mothers are always right.

In keeping with my goal of tracking family memories, here’s another. Although this is drafted more like a personal essay, I may revise it into a narrative. For now, I wanted to set-up the setting, so that my children, nieces and nephews can get a glimpse into the neighborhood where my brothers and I grew up.

As a child of the sixties on the tail end of the bab-boomer generation,  I grew up in a tightly knit neighborhood filled with friends that were my extended family. Like every strong community, we celebrated together and supported one another through challenging times. We even had an unwritten rule of referring to the adults as aunts and uncles, reinforcing that closeness. Most of the moms were home managing the house and tribes of children, while the dads went off to work either to the office or to the trades. No matter where we played, our community embraced a collective code of conduct, which was shared in our homes and churches.

For the most part, we entertained and refereed ourselves – riding bikes, climbing trees, hitting balls, playing tag,  – pool hopping in the summer, and sleigh riding in the winter. We also wrote and performed plays, using old curtains as costumes and boxes for stage furniture. One year we decided to raise money, through a series of craft-making and show-making fundraisers, to rent a house for a week “down the shore.” With acres of woods behind us, plus a playground around the corner, there was always something to do and someone to play with.

One summer, we turned our attention to philanthropy and decided to run a carnival for Jerry’s Kids, an organization founded by Jerry Lewis to raise money for muscular dystrophy. The starter kit came complete with game ideas, signs, and tickets. The rest was up to us. Like everything else, we did it ourselves. We met weekly to organize the games, design the layout, gather materials, develop a schedule and create posters to promote the event.

Although I remember playing many games, the one booth that stands out in my mind the most was a raffle to win a kitten. It was a late addition, and the tickets were only 20 cents, but I was out of luck having spent all my money. Disappointed, I walked home to plea my case to my mother and ask her for the money. Although Annie T (the adult name my brothers and I gave to our mother) was uncomfortable in saying no, she refused my request immediately, claiming she was allergic to cats. Suspicious of her reason, as she was known for making up stories, and refusing to take no for an answer, I asked again promising to take complete responsibility for the kitten, to feed her, change her litter box, and comb her daily. With a quick “No!” she turned and left, leaving no room for a rebuttal.

Sulking, I ate my lunch in silence, playing with my food on the tray in the TV room. As I was finishing up, I noticed two dimes sitting on the side of the coffee table – beckoning me, teasing me, calling my name. I thought long and hard, knowing that if I took them, it would be stealing. I wanted that kitten at any cost – any cost. In one ear, I heard words cautioning me to do the right thing, while in the other I heard my own voice convincing me that I deserved that kitten. After a long pause, I snatched up the dimes, and headed back to the carnival, intent on getting a kitten, black-dotted soul and all. I’d worry about confession and penance later.

After paying the fee and entering my ticket, I had to wait until the close of the carnival to learn my fate. I bid my time walking around, daydreaming about that kitten. I planned on naming her Little Friskies, after the only cat food I knew. She would join my stuffed animals and rest on my bed at night. She would be the sister I’d wished for.

As luck would have it, there were only three entries and two kittens. The odds were definitely in my favor. As the carnival came to a close, and the winners were announced for the “count the gum ball contest,” and the Rock’em Sock’em Robots game, the ring master moved to the kitten raffle. I crossed my fingers and closed my eyes, hoping to be called. The first ticket was pulled out of the jar, “989124,” he announced. Not my number. OK, I have one more shot. He pulled the next one, “989147!” What? Not my number!! How could that happen? I was crushed watching those two little kittens get placed into the arms of others. Little Friskies would live in someone else’s home. After the shock and disappointment of losing seeped in, I realized my mistake. Crime really doesn’t pay… See you next Friday, Father Reilly!