The Hoarder: Outraged

Pierre, a forty-nine year truck driver felt overwhelmed, as he entered his father’s trailer. Huge tears welled up in his eyes. The heavy odor made him gasp. “What on earth?” 

Dennis, his seventy-five year old father, had recently lost his second wife, Alicia, to lung cancer. While a stranger to Pierre, he knew Alicia was the love of his father’s life. She had been a heavy smoker.

“Obviously Dad is too,” said Pierre. He put out a smoldering cigarette in a huge, ashtray filled with old, cigarette butts beside a huge stack of old newspapers, on a wooden table.

“Dennis is not coping,” reported Martha, a neighbor, who had contacted Pierre. “He is a hoarder. Please come and check on him.”

“I am delivering a container in that area, next week,” replied Pierre. “I’ll visit him on my way back.”

As Pierre’s eyes gradually adjusted to the light in the room, he was appalled. Almost every square inch of the living room contained stacks of various kinds of broken objects scattered around the room in such a way no one could walk through it. Huge piles of things appeared to have fallen over. Dirty boots, coats, clothes, blankets and towels lay everywhere.

“Has someone trashed Dad's place?” he wondered. 

The coffee table lay upside down, on top of other, broken furniture. There was old, dark blood splattered everywhere. 

“You were right to call me, Martha.”

An unopened letter was on the floor, the last one he had sent to his father. It contained a check for his step-mother’s funeral expenses. 

Piles of torn garbage bags and half-empty, broken boxes, blocked the entrance to every room. Pierre could not believe the number of antiques, miscellaneous household items and other kinds of junk, they had collected. Bags of unpacked groceries stood on the kitchen table and chairs. Others lay on the floor. Empty cans and bottles littered the room. Partially eaten containers of food were stacked on the fridge and stove. The kitchen sink and counter were overflowing with dirty dishes. The food the refrigerator appeared rancid.

“Don’t touch anything,” his father ordered, several moments later.

“Alicia's gone. We were recycling and trashed the place because we were outraged by her cancer. Want  some coffee?”

The Antique Dealer: A Hoarder

“Anything old, bought or sold,” the sign on the door of the antique shop read. The owner appeared almost as old as his antique desk. Some might have guessed that Antonio, the antique dealer was a hoarder, but he would never admit it.

“I like to collect and sell old things, the older the better,” Antonio advised his customers. “My wife forced me into the antique business, because she wanted room to live. Probably the best thing I ever did!”

“Isn’t this place getting out of control?” wondered the sophisticated, elderly physician, casually browsing through huge stacks of old books, journals and other medical documents. “The dust is horrendous.”

Antonio’s eye caught the elderly man’s expression, as he uttered, “I can’t believe it!” under his breath. “Effects of the time on the profession”; this article is dated August 3, 1842.”

“I have a special today,” said Antonio. “I’ll give you that at a good price and guarantee you’ll never find another copy.”

“How much?” asked the physician, purposely ignoring him.  

“One hundred dollars,” replied the antique dealer. “One hundred dollars for you and that is not much for an old treasure.”

“Make it fifty,” bartered the physician, suddenly aware whatever he paid would not be money wasted.

“Seventy five and it is yours.”

“Sixty two fifty. That is my final offer!”

“Sold!”

The physician walked out of the antique store still glancing through the journal, as he headed for his Mercedes.

“Does Antonio have any idea of its value?” the physician wondered, as he dusted it off and carefully placed it in his black briefcase. “It will be recognized by our medical community. That antique dealer is a hoarder though.”

“Does that old man have any idea of how I just shafted him out of sixty-two fifty?” wondered Antonio. “Pure profit. Better money in my pocket, than his.”

“Next,” he said to a woman, admiring a piece of antique bone china.

The Mobster: The Accident

“Nobody throws a baseball at my kid like that and gets away with it!” a heavy, stern looking, middle-aged man yelled from the bleachers. He got up and headed towards his short, chubby, dark-haired son whose nose had started to bleed.

“Not a good throw, Monty!” yelled Terry, from first base. He ran to the pitcher’s box when he realized the baseball Monty had thrown had hit the batter in the face.“That man was a mobster,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here, pronto!”

Twelve-year old Monty, the pitcher for the Blazing Blazers and Terry, his best friend, immediately left the baseball park, much to the dismay of their coach.

“Hey, boys, come back! You cannot leave in the middle of a game.” Exasperated, he threw his hands up in the air. “How can we win baseball games if players always leave? Somebody get an ice pack!”

Moments later, Monty explained what had happened. “It was an accident, Mom.”

“It is just a baseball game, son. Did you apologize?” 

Monty realized that he could have and diffused the situation. “Mom, that man is a mobster. I cannot be a pitcher now. I want to quit playing baseball.”

“There would not be baseball games if the players quit when others were injured by baseballs,” Monty’s mother replied, She knew they were frightened. “Where did you get that information?”

Several hours later Monty’s mother answered the front doorbell. The coach, the boy injured by the baseball and his father stood at the door.  

“I want to talk to Monty!” demanded the boy, whose face was bruised and swollen.

“I want to speak to Monty’s father!” demanded his father. “Get him, right now!”

“That is why my baseball players are quitting,” thought the coach. “Bullying!”

“I am so sorry,” Monty’s mother replied. “Monty is not at home and his father is deployed overseas. Can I help you?”  

“We came to apologize to the boys and hope they'll come back,” suggested the coach, kindly. “Please relay that message for us.”

The Candidate: Political Ambush

Hours before the election, two candidates who were watching a third female candidate were amazed at what they saw.

“Grace will win because of her exceptional charisma, confidence and grace,” predicted Hope, a petite, dark-haired candidate in a beige, wool outfit with matching accessories. “I admire and respect her. If only I could touch and change the lives of people the way she does.”

“Watch her work that crowd,” replied Destiny, a blonde woman, wearing a gray suit with a black hat, purse, gloves and shoes. “If you knew how to do that, you would win the election.”

“We could learn from her,” suggested Hope. “She demonstrates wonderful integrity with respect to political issues. She has amazing energy, strength and stamina, too!”

All three young women were new hopefuls in the political arena. Hope was allowing the possibility she might win the race, but Destiny’s ratings were too low. It was too late. There was no doubt that Grace, the tall, slender woman with long, dark hair, was making a good impression on everyone. She focused on the huge crowd of excited voters gathered around her. Her professional appearance in a bright, blue suit with white accessories and her unwavering composure as a female politician, made her stand out among the rest.    

“That first speaker was ungracious, loud and outspoken,” said Destiny. “She’s definitely out!”

“Grace demonstrates an inner beauty that is magnified every time she speaks,” replied Hope. “Watch her smile!”

“Where did she learn how to speak to people?” asked Destiny. 

“It is not something that is learned. You have it, or you don’t.”

Hope decided to keep on trying to win the political battle. She walked into the crowd and chatted with people. Being true to her name, she was still hopeful.  

Destiny stayed where she was, simply allowing destiny its course. Having given up already, she was not destined to win. In fact, she had ambushed all hope of winning. Sitting where she was, her fate was sealed.

“No female is going to win this election!” a man in the crowd yelled, as he pulled something out of his pocket. “Politics is a man’s game.”

The Fascinator: Less is More

“I'm not British, but I can certainly don a fascinator for the royal visit.” Nellie looked in the mirror. “There is no way that I can change my face, though.” 

She was sixteen and much to her dismay, still pleasantly plump. Her waist length, dark hair and pudgy cheeks were just like they had been when she was a baby. Everyone pinched her cheeks as a child. Now, she had rosy cheeks that made her look like she was blushing.  

Just then, the doorbell rang. Whoever was at the door was in a hurry and rang again.

“Help,” said Monica, her fifteen-year old friend, a petite, pretty girl who was extremely shy. “Mom says I need a hat to wear when we go to see the royals tomorrow. Everyone has to wear a hat. She offered to lend me one of hers, but they are so old looking. I am not into hats!”

“Me neither. I was just thinking about wearing a fascinator,” replied Nellie, with a smile. “Come in. We will figure something out. “A fascinator looks like a bird’s nest, perched on an angle, on one side of your head and it’s worn towards the front.”

Both girls laughed aloud.

“Fascinators are the rage in Britain. There, the millinery shops are full of them,” replied Nellie. “I have an idea. Let’s create our own fascinators.”

Several minutes later, Monica said, “The web site, “Ooh, La, La Plume” gives the historical background of fascinators and says feathers were the base material for the original fascinators. Jewels and precious stones came along later and miniature ships, stuffed animals, butterflies and flags, too.”

“That is neat. They have engraved shells, cameos and even ostrich feathers,” said Nellie. “They can have artificial flowers, waxed, satin ribbons, tulle and even stuffed birds.”

“I think less would be more, if we make our own fascinators, don’t you?” asked Monica. “Let’s start with a comb or headband, and see what we can create.” 

“Monica, you will look wonderful no matter what you wear.”

“I am not wearing a stuffed bird!”

The Royals: Protest Pomp and Prejudice

“Oh no, there are going to be anti-monarchy protestors at City Hall, on Sunday,” read Dominic. “This cannot be happening in our country, not in Canada! This is a demonstration against our British, royal visitors.”

Marie, Dominic’s wife, looked over his shoulder and was shocked as she read the first line. “But, they have come here in peace.”

“It is demonstrators who oppose the newlywed couple’s representation of the monarchy,” continued Dominic. “Can you imagine? They will be carrying signs and chanting slogans. This should not happen in a free land that is a democracy.

He read on. “Canadian broadcaster CBC reports that Quebec’s relationship with the monarchy has often been strained, with the Queen met by booing protesters on a visit to the province in 1964. That was so many years ago!”

“I love the excitement, pomp and circumstance associated with the young royals, even though they are not our king and queen yet,” said Marie. “It is so wonderful to see a newly married couple being welcomed in Ottawa by so many people, on Canada Day. Why do a few protesters have to spoil it for everyone?”

“Protests happen all around the world,” replied Dominic, sadly. “What if they were our children?  We would feel terrible. That beautiful, young bride could be our only daughter. We would be terrified for them.”

“I am terrified for the royals,” replied Marie. “We live in a supposedly civilized country. Have we not learned to love one another yet?”

Just then, Dominic and Marie’s daughter came in the back door, with her boyfriend. “Dad, Mom, we are going to the protest. Come with us!”

“Excluding people from our country because of their race, creed and color, that is prejudice,” replied Dominic. “Or because of the monarchy. That is so wrong!”

The Princess: A Walkabout

“Daddy, do you think I might be a princess, someday?” asked Tammy, his five-year old, adopted daughter, as they were preparing to go to the park to see the royal visitors. “Like the real princess we are going to see today?”

“You are my little princess,” replied Theodore, a single dad and a police officer. “Your mother and I chose you out of all of the children in the whole world to be our little girl. Now, your mommy is in heaven, but you will always be our little princess.”
      
“I want to be a real princess, Daddy,” insisted Tammy.

“I might have to find a prince charming for you, then.”

“Like in fairy tales?” asked Tammy. “That is only make-believe, Daddy.”

“If only I could make your dreams come true.”

“Do they have princesses in heaven, Daddy?”

Tammy continued to bombard him with questions about princesses. He did not know how to answer all of her questions. He only knew that seeing the royals might help her understand the meaning of the word princess.

Theodore stopped at the flower shop to buy flowers for the prince and princess, who were going to do a short walkabout.

“If the royals are close by, you can give the princess this bouquet, all right, Tammy?”

“They are so beautiful, Daddy!”

Theodore did not expect to see the huge crowd that had gathered in the park.

“If we are lucky, the prince and princess will walk by us and say hello. I brought my camera, so that we will have a picture of them even if we do not have a chance to talk to them.”

Tammy waited patiently behind the barrier that had been set up. She held the flowers very carefully.

Theodore took a photograph of her just as the royals walked up to her and the princess graciously accepted her floral gift.

Tammy was thrilled and talked about the princess, all of the way home.

Later, Theodore enlarged the photograph he had taken earlier

“My God, the hit-and-run driver who took my wife’s life is standing beside my daughter!”