Killed Dead, Part 3 of 3

This story is fiction. Part 3.

Molly looked at Mama, suddenly afraid that Mama was watching her and reading her mind. But Mama was on the couch with Cade’s head in her lap. She was crying and stroking Cade’s hair with her fingers. For the first time, Molly saw weakness in her mother. Mama wouldn’t do anything about this.

Just then, Mama confirmed Molly’s conclusion when she got up from the couch and walked to the kitchen. She got a glass jar from the cabinet and filled the jar with water. She pushed aside the quilt hanging in the kitchen doorway and walked down the hall to the bathroom. Molly heard the metallic scrape of the medicine cabinet door opening, then the sound of pills inside a plastic bottle. She thought Mama was getting some medicine for Cade but Mama went to the back of the trailer instead.

Molly moved the quilt aside to see what Mama was doing. She heard Mama talking quietly to Tommy but couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Mama came back into the kitchen with nothing in her hands. Molly didn’t try to hide her disgust. Mama sighed and closed her eyes. “You’ll understand someday,” she said.

“I’ll never understand you,” Molly said. Mama sighed again, then called Tommy’s boss and told him that Tommy was sick and wouldn’t be at work the next morning. Molly knew the pattern. Tommy would sleep half the day and act like nothing had happened, as always. But this was the first time Tommy had hit Cade.

Molly lay under the weight of several quilts that night, relishing the sting of freezing air on her face. She didn’t go to sleep for a long time. She was making a plan. Her alarm would wake her up at six-thirty and she would get Cade up as usual. Mama was opening at the café in the morning, so she would be gone when Molly and Cade got up for school. Molly would make their toast for breakfast. They would walk to the road and wait for the bus with the rest of the trailer park kids. At the last minute, she would tell Cade she felt sick. She would watch the bus drive off, to make sure. She would go back to the trailer and fill the heater with kerosene. She would drag it to the hallway and turn it on full blast. She would open Tommy’s bedroom door. He would still be passed out. She would make sure all the windows were shut tight and she would seal off the front part of the trailer with the quilt, making sure it was pulled tight against the walls so no fresh air could get through. She would walk to the library, which was only a mile away, and spend the day there. She would come back home at two o’clock, long before Cade and Mama would be home. That should be plenty of time for the carbon monoxide to work. She would quickly drag the heater back to the living room. She would crack a window in the living room and lie on the couch and pretend she’d been sleeping all day. Mama would discover Tommy’s body when she got home from work.

Could she really do this? Whenever her resolve slipped, Molly replayed Tommy’s strong punch to Cade’s soft stomach. She remembered Tommy’s brown hand tight against Mama’s white throat, and Mama’s red face and bulging eyes. Yes, she could do this.

The alarm sounded at six-thirty sharp. Molly was instantly awake. She felt a moment of disbelief that she was finally going to solve her family’s problem. She felt grown-up. She dressed quickly in the cold room. She opened the door to Cade’s bedroom and told him to get up. She was about to go to the bathroom when she smelled something. Coffee? She frowned and brushed aside the quilt in the doorway. The lights were on and Mama was sitting at the table. She looked at Molly and smiled. “Good morning, baby,” Mama said. Her throat was bruised now that the redness was gone.

Molly felt her chest tighten. “Mama. What are you doing here?”

“I got Belinda to cover for me this morning,” Mama said. “I’m going to open for her tomorrow.”

Molly ducked back through the quilt. She went to the bathroom, closed the door and sat on the edge of the bathtub. She put her face in her hands. Her perfect plan, ruined. The disappointment tasted bitter on the back of her tongue. Tonight, Tommy would still be here, acting like everything was normal. She stood up and took a deep breath. Her legs were shaky. The plan will just have to wait until another day. She knows there will be another night like last night. There will be another morning where Tommy is passed out and Mama is at work.

Mama made a big breakfast for Molly and Cade. She even walked them to the bus stop, which she hadn’t done since they were little.

When Mama got home, she filled the kerosene heater. She dragged it into the hallway and turned it on full blast. She opened her and Tommy’s bedroom door. The last four of the sleeping pills Belinda had given her were doing their job just fine. She pulled the quilt tight against the kitchen doorway to make sure no fresh air would get through.

Later, the neighbors would tell the police that they had heard her squeaky car leaving the trailer park that morning as usual.

-Melanie K. Patterson

© Forged in Words 2023

Killed Dead, Part 2 of 3

This story is fiction. Part 2.

Molly spun toward Tommy, holding her soapy hands in the air. “What! What happened?”

“Monoxide got ’em. All three of ’em. Damn fools fell asleep with their kerosene heater going and didn’t crack a window. Killed ’em deader’n hell.”

Molly looked at their kerosene heater in the living room in a different way. Mama was always talking about how dangerous it was.

Tommy poured another drink and Molly turned back to the sink. The kerosene heater was their only heat in the trailer, except on some mornings when Mama opened the oven door to heat the kitchen. Before Tommy came, she used to let Molly and Cade get dressed in front of the warm oven on the coldest mornings. Mama had nailed an old quilt where the hallway ended at the kitchen, making a fabric door that kept the heat in the front of the trailer. The rest of the trailer was always freezing, but they learned to move fast in the bathroom and to bury themselves under piles of blankets in the beds.

It was Molly’s job to light the heater every afternoon when she and Cade got off the school bus. The trailer was freezing when they got home. She knew how to take the heater outside and use a funnel to fill it with the stinky kerosene. Then she would bring the heavy heater inside and make sure nothing was near it. Lighting the heater always scared Molly. She half expected it to blow up every time. But it made her feel good that Mama could warm up as soon as she got home because the heater in Mama’s car was broken.

Sometimes before Mama and Tommy got home, she and Cade would do experiments with the heater. They liked to put things on the top surface and see what would happen. Once Cade spat onto the heater, and his spit bubbled for a few seconds before turning brown. The stain was still there. They put a match on there once to see if it would light, but it didn’t. Another time, they put a fingernail clipping on the heater, and it stank up the whole living room. “Ugh! Get it off!” Cade yelled, holding his sleeve over his nose and mouth. Molly watched, fascinated, as the clipping turn brown. Then, gagging, she ran to the kitchen to get a spatula and scraped the fingernail off. They never told Mama about their experiments.

People always said kerosene heaters could kill you. Molly was properly afraid of it, but this was the first time she actually knew somebody that died from one. The Mitchells were nice people. Cade played with the little boy sometimes.

As Molly washed the last plate, she heard the squeal of Mama’s car. Tommy had promised to replace the belt months ago. The sound embarrassed Molly when she was riding in the car, but she was always thrilled to hear it from inside the trailer. Mama walked in carrying a pizza box. She smelled like the diner where she worked.

Cade ran from the back of the trailer. “Mama!” he yelled, wrapping his arms around her waist. Mama laughed, holding the pizza above her head with one hand and putting her other arm around Cade. She kissed the top of his head.

“Boy, stop acting like a fool,” Tommy barked. Mama’s eyes flitted from Tommy to the open bottle on the table and then to Molly, who was standing by the sink drying her hands. Molly thought she saw Mama’s eyes go dark for a second. Mama hugged Cade tight and kissed him again. She dropped her purse onto the couch and went to the kitchen, pushing aside a jumble of papers on the table to make room for the pizza.

Tommy grabbed Mama’s waist and pulled her to his lap. He kissed her roughly, making Mama put her hand on his bare chest and push away from him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, pulling her back and kissing her neck. From the look on Mama’s face, Molly knew Tommy was hurting her. Molly looked at Cade, who was staring at Tommy with open hatred.

“Come on, let’s eat before the pizza gets cold,” Mama said.

“Fine,” said Tommy, throwing his hands in the air. “Let’s eat the damn pizza. But I’m not finished with you.” Mama got up and Tommy slapped her hard on her rear end. Mama clenched her teeth and her face turned red. Tommy poured more of the brown liquid from the bottle.

Mama saw then that Molly had washed dishes. “Oh baby, thank you!” she said, giving Molly a tight hug. She looked so happy that Molly felt guilty for not wanting to wash them earlier.

“You need to thank me,” said Tommy. His words were sounding mushy now. “I’m the one that made her do it. She would have sat right there on her ass all night.” He pointed to Molly’s chair, which made Mama look at the science book.

“Are you ready for your test?” Mama asked as she got four plastic plates from the cabinet. Molly shot a black look at Tommy behind his back. “I still have some studying to do,” she said.

“Well, eat supper and you can finish studying,” Mama said. “Come on, Cadey-Boy, let’s get you some pizza.” Cade was still glaring at Tommy. Molly hoped Tommy wouldn’t notice. Mama put two slices of pizza onto a plate and handed them to Cade. “Go in the living room and sit on the couch by the heater,” she ordered.

“Yeah, sit by the heater, Cadey-Boy,” Tommy said with a sneer. “Don’t forget your bottle.”

Mama spun toward Tommy. “That’s enough,” she said in her firmest voice.

Tommy stood so fast he knocked his chair over. He instantly had his tanned roofer’s hand around Mama’s throat. “What did you say to me?”

He put his face inches from Mama’s. “What did you say to me?” he screamed again, squeezing her throat. Molly, stunned with fear, saw spit fly from his mouth into Mama’s shocked face.

The next thing she saw was Cade crashing into Tommy’s side with his shoulder. Cade, who was eight, was not an athlete. When the messy tackle didn’t work, Cade started pounding Tommy’s back and side with both fists.

Tommy laughed. He let go of Mama’s throat and punched Cade hard in the stomach. All the air went out of him and he collapsed onto the floor. Molly ran to Cade and knelt next to him. He was wheezing as he tried to breathe. Mama was wheezing too, but she knelt down beside Molly.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said. “Cindy, it was an accident.” Molly glanced up at Tommy and was shocked to see that he looked scared. Mama glared at Tommy. “Get out of this house,” she said.

“I said it was an accident,” Tommy said. “Molly, tell her. Cade, I didn’t mean to, buddy. You shouldn’t have hit me.”

Mama and Molly ignored Tommy and tended to Cade. Tommy finally walked down the hall and Molly heard the bedroom door shut. She and Mama worked together to get Cade onto the couch. Molly picked up the chair that Tommy had knocked over and sat in it. She stared at the kerosene heater and heard Tommy’s voice in her head. “Damn fools went to sleep and didn’t crack a window. Killed ’em dead.” She got an idea.

(Look for Part 3 next week)

-Melanie K . Patterson

© Forged in Words 2023

Killed Dead, Part 1 of 3

This story is fiction. Part 1.

Molly heard the bathroom door open and felt little tremors in the trailer every time Tommy took a step. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

Tommy was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and nothing else. His hair came to his shoulders and was wet from the shower. He had carefully combed it, parting it just so. He was a compact man. Molly could see his ribs from the back, but he wasn’t overly skinny. His stomach was flat and his arms and legs were toned from carrying roofing shingles up a ladder all day. The top half of him was brown from the sun. Everything below his waist was as white as God made him, all the way to his feet. Molly thought he looked funny in shorts. A two-toned man. And why was he even wearing shorts? It’s freezing outside and chilly in the trailer.

Molly watched him from the cluttered kitchen table as he pulled another beer from the refrigerator. He stood there and drank half of it in one pull while he held the door of the fridge open. She knew he was going to guzzle that one and grab another.

“Give me one of those,” Molly said as Tommy reached for his second bottle. He turned to her with raised eyebrows. “Are we a big girl now?” he said. “You ain’t old enough.”

“Oh hell, Tommy, just give me one.”

He grinned. “Okay then. If you think you can handle it.” Tommy held the bottle out toward Molly and jerked it back just as she reached for it. He did that twice before finally giving it to her. “You gonna drink the beer, you gonna have to help pay for it,” he said.

Molly rolled her eyes. “I don’t think drinking one out of a whole case means I have to buy your beer.”

“You see it’s just the one,” Tommy said, using the half-empty bottle to point at her. “I’m watching you.” When he said it, he did watch her. Molly crossed her arms over her chest. Tommy was looking there more often lately.

Molly twisted off the cap and sniffed the bottle. She wrinkled her nose and jerked her head back. Tommy laughed. “See? I told you. Fifteen is too young.”

He sat across from her and reached for her bottle. Molly let him take it without complaint. Tommy hooked one arm on the back of the chair and looked at the dirty kitchen table. His eyes rested on Molly’s science book. “What’s for supper?” he asked.

“What do I look like, a chef?” Molly said.

“You kids are spoiled,” Tommy said. “You better be glad I’m not your daddy.” Every time he said that, Molly was relieved that Tommy was not her dad. She hoped Mama would never marry him.

Molly wished Mama had not brought Tommy home last year. The first time he came over, Tommy had taken them all out to eat at the steakhouse in town. Molly and her brother Cade couldn’t believe it. They’d never had steak. And such a fancy restaurant! Molly was sure nobody else in the trailer park had ever been there.

Every time Tommy came over after that—which was practically every day—he brought more of his stuff and left it. He’d been living with them full-time since the spring.

Molly glanced at the clock. Twenty more minutes until Mama got home. Her science book showed a drawing of a man with no skin and his arms spread wide open. They were learning about muscles. For the first time, she noticed that Tommy looked like the man in the book. Tommy’s stomach looked just like the stomach in the drawing. It had the same line down the middle, with lines going across, dividing his belly into sections. No fat at all. Not like her brother, who had a chubby stomach. Not like herself or her mother either.

Tommy went to the refrigerator again. “You need to clean this house up, too. Me and your Mama work all day. A girl your age is old enough to have supper on the stove when we get home.”

Molly gritted her teeth. “I have school all day. And homework every night,” she said.

Tommy’s head snapped up. “Don’t talk back to me, girl. Get up and wash those dishes. Now.”

“I have a test tomorrow! I have to study.”

Tommy’s face turned red. He spoke through clenched teeth in a low voice. “I said, get up and wash those dishes,” he said, staring hard at Molly.

Molly stared back at him for a few seconds. She closed her book, stood up and went to the sink. She was so mad she wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t give him the pleasure. She filled the sink with scalding soapy water and started piling the dirty dishes in.

“There, is that so hard?” Tommy said. Molly could tell he was staring at her. He stood, and Molly thought he was going back to the fridge. Instead, he stopped behind her. He stood inches from her for a few seconds before leaning into her and reaching for the cabinet above the counter. She could smell his soap and wet hair.

“’Scuse me,” he said. Molly shrank away from his body and his beer breath, but he took his time getting a bottle from the cabinet above her on the right. Then he leaned the other way, brushing hard against Molly again, and got a small glass from the cabinet on her left. “’Scuse me again,” he said, laughing. Molly looked at the clock. Her anger was turning into something else. She wanted Mama to get home.

Tommy sat back at the table and Molly heard a plastic lid being unscrewed from a glass bottle. She heard liquid splashing into the glass and smelled the sharp, sweet smell.

Tommy put the glass to his lips and moaned with pleasure. “Damn that’s good. Where’s that fat brother of yours, anyway? That little pansy needs to be helping you.”

“I’m almost finished,” Molly said quickly. “I’m fine.” Cade never left his room when Tommy was there unless Mama was home.

Molly heard more liquid being poured into the glass.

“By the way,” Tommy said. “Did you hear about the neighbors?”

“Which neighbors?”

He thrust his chin toward the window. “A few trailers down. Those old folks raising their grandson. The Mitchells.”

“What about them?”

“Dead,” Tommy said.

(Look for Part 2 next week)

-Melanie K. Patterson

© Forged in Words 2023

Self-portrait

Photo taken in 1999 with a Canon AE-1 35-millimeter camera. (Photo by Melanie Patterson)

This is me at 25 years old.

I took this self-portrait from the passenger seat of a Humvee in Bosnia-Herzegovina, where my Army Reserve unit was deployed for seven months in 1999. The war ended in 1995, so we were there on a peacekeeping mission.

 I don’t remember where we were heading on the day I took this photo. I do remember taking lots of photos from the Humvee (while someone else was driving, of course). I wanted to capture what I saw: the beautiful landscape, farmers in their fields, horse-drawn carts, and also buildings with dozens of bullet holes in them from the war.

In the beginning, many of the photos were out of focus because I wasn’t used to shooting from a moving vehicle. But even those photos are intriguing, especially the images of women doing field work. The women and the landscape are blurred, making them look other-worldly and mysterious.

Eventually, I got the hang of panning my 35-millimeter Canon through the window of the Humvee so I could get some in-focus photos, too. During my time in Bosnia, there was plenty of opportunity to focus on my passion for photography and writing.

The military was an ideal place for a young soldier to learn photography and journalism.

When I enlisted in the Reserve in 1993 as a print journalist, I had been doing personal writing for years. Photography was new to me, though. I first learned to use a big heavy Nikon camera, loaded with black-and-white 35-millimeter film. After learning the basics of composition, framing and timing, the instructors turned us loose on base—Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana—with our cameras and with pockets full of film. Then they took us into the darkroom and taught us to develop our own film and prints.

For the next eight years in the military, I had many chances to practice photography and journalism. I interviewed and photographed low-ranking privates, high-ranking generals and plenty of people in between.

I photographed engineering and construction units as they built schools and drilled wells in the suffocating heat of El Salvador.

In 1994, I was in France for the fiftieth anniversary of the D-Day landing. At Omaha Beach, I interviewed a man who had survived the landing fifty years prior. Tears streamed down his face as he pointed to the spot where he had landed.

The military also took me all across the United States. In Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota, I covered dental units providing care for Native Americans. I rode with flight crews on Black Hawk helicopters in North Carolina, where they kept the door beside me open during the flight so I could photograph the landscape below. I had to put my glasses in my shirt pocket and button it closed so they wouldn’t blow out the door. The pilot had fun tilting the helicopter, trying to scare me.

I’ve covered military exercises in the Mojave Desert at Fort Irwin, California; at Fort Hood, Texas; at Fort Bragg, North Carolina; and at Fort Polk, Louisiana, among other places.

It felt like a privilege to tell the stories of my fellow soldiers. I’ve always said that being a journalist was the best job in the military.

—Melanie Patterson

© Forged In Words 2022

Title tells the story

It’s taken longer to come up with a title than it did to write the book.

I was trying to be too fancy. I thought of a few clever titles, only to find that someone else had thought of them first.

I wanted it to be catchy and memorable and encapsulate the entirety of the book in just a handful of words. The fact is, I was trying too hard.

This is not a new struggle for me. When I worked for newspapers, writing headlines was my personal nightmare. I could knock out a 300-word article in 15 minutes, then spend a half hour trying to come up with a headline that worked.

For a few years I was an editor, so writing headlines was my job. I never did get good at it. Even coming up with headlines for these blog entries makes my stomach hurt a little.

When I worked as a reporter at the Cullman Times, there was another reporter named Rich who was an expert at making up headlines. He was witty and funny and could sum up his stories in just enough words to fit in the space above the story. It wasn’t even his job, but he was just great at it.

Once, he wrote a Father’s Day story about a man whose wife had just had quadruplets. He wanted to title it, ‘The Quadfather.” I thought it was brilliant, but our editor shot it down.

I started working on the sex-trafficking book a couple of years ago, knowing the whole time I was going to have to call it something.

After picking a few titles that I learned were already used for trafficking books, and after friends politely told me that some other ideas were terrible, the book finally has a name.

It’s called, The Truth About Sex Trafficking: A Survivor’s Story and What It Means for All of Us.

The book tells the story of Angela, who survived the horrors of being trafficked and agreed to share her story so it could help others. I also interviewed other people to get their unique perspectives—anti-trafficking advocates, a forensic interviewer, law enforcement officers, attorneys and counselors.

I’ve already paid money for the ISBN, the International Standard Book Number, which you’ll see on the copyright pages of your favorite books. Plus, I’ve paid money for designers to be working on the book cover as we speak.

So, if you come up with a better idea for a title, please don’t tell me now.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2022

Sometimes quitting means finishing

Have you ever believed in something so much that you quit your job so you could spend all your time on it?

Yeah, me too.

For me, it was writing a book.

Some of you know that I’ve been working on a nonfiction book about human sex trafficking for a long time. I finally realized it would take years to finish the book if I didn’t find a way to devote more time to it.

I put extra money into my savings account for almost a year until I was finally able to quit my great welding job at Altec and write full-time for a few months.

The great news is that the manuscript is finished. The book isn’t published yet, but it is finally written. It has been edited by several wonderful people and I plan to get it edited by a few more wonderful people. When it finally gets out there for readers, I want it to be right.

Here’s a little about the book: It follows the story of a real sex trafficking survivor I’m calling Angela. Angela agreed, with much grace and kindness, to share her experience with me about her life before, during and after she was trafficked. She wants her story to help others, and it already has.

In addition to Angela, I interviewed several anti-trafficking advocates, mental health professionals, law enforcement officers, a forensic interviewer and others. I also attended conferences, where I gathered valuable information from subject-matter experts.

The book is well-researched. It contains information about:

·         What is and isn’t sex trafficking

·         The tactics that traffickers use to trap kids and adults

·         How traffickers target kids and teens through smart phones, apps and online video games

·         What makes some people more vulnerable than others

·         The link between pornography and sex trafficking

·         The role of trauma

·         Trafficking laws in the United States

·         And much more

The book also shatters some common myths and misconceptions about sex trafficking. For example, fewer than ten percent of victims are kidnapped by strangers—most people are trafficked by someone they know. Also, traffickers target boys as well as girls and women.

I’ve thought of a few great titles for the book, only to find out other authors had already used them. But I’ll let you know as soon as I get a title pinned down.

I wish I could write full-time forever, but unfortunately the state of my bank account forced me to go back to work in January. Actually, I love my new job. I’m teaching evening welding classes at Wallace State Community College-Hanceville, where I have excellent colleagues and outstanding students. I’ve found that I truly love teaching.

If it sounds strange that a welder is writing a book about human sex trafficking, I should explain that welding is my second career. Before I went to welding school (at age 41), I was a journalist for almost twenty years. I stopped writing for a couple of years, then realized I just couldn’t stop writing forever. I like it too much. It might be a strange combination—welder, teacher and writer—but it works for me.

There’s an indescribable sense of satisfaction from finishing the book manuscript, but now begins a whole new journey into getting it into readers’ hands. When I get the publishing process figured out, you’ll be the first to know.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2022

Worst and best gift

The Garfield that my Grandma’s sister made for me for Christmas when I was nine.

When I was nine, the only thing in the whole world I wanted for Christmas was Garfield.

I’d seen the stuffed cat at the store, with its soft fur and wry grin. I knew I would die without him.

To refresh my memory while I was writing this, I did an online search for “1980s Garfield stuffed animal.” My Garfield infatuation was almost forty years ago, after all. Looking at the pictures, I’m at a total loss as to why I wanted that damn cat. Nevertheless, it was my nine-year-old dying wish.

We still lived with my Grandma then. I was well aware that we didn’t have extra money. I knew Garfield was expensive because he was a name-brand cat, after all. I begged for him but didn’t expect to find him under the tree.

When it was time to open gifts, someone handed me a package that was about the right size and weight. There was no noise when I shook the box. Good sign.

I removed the wrapping paper and peeled back the Scotch tape holding down the flaps of the cardboard box. What I saw horrified me.

I reached into the box and slowly pulled out a bright orange crocheted cat. You could see the white polyester stuffing through the yarn. It even had white whiskers coming from its orange crocheted nose, and a big smile on its crocheted face. Was this supposed to be Garfield? Garfield would never smile like that.

It’s a known fact that kids tend to be jerks when they don’t get what they want, and I didn’t disappoint. The worst part about that moment was that my disdain showed on my face, and I knew it hurt my Grandma very deeply. She’d had her sister, my great aunt, crochet Garfield for me because we couldn’t afford the store version. I tried to recover and pretend that I loved it, but she’d been watching closely when I opened the gift. She’d been so proud of providing it for me.

I put the cat in the bedroom that I shared with my sister and Mom. Every time I saw it, it drove home how we couldn’t afford the things I wanted. I hated that cat.

It took years, but I finally understand how valuable that gift was. I still have him. If I’d gotten the “real” Garfield, I would have lost him years ago. Now when I look at that stuffed cat, I no longer see how poor we were. I see the richness of my Grandma’s love.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2022

Ugly Orange

December 1982

We had a big cardboard box of oranges, and I, at eight years old, ate the fire out of them. Every night, I peeled and ate one, or sometimes two, while we watched television. But there was one I avoided. It had a long, jagged brown scar all the way from the north pole to the south pole. If I ever accidentally picked up the ugly orange, I would discard it back into the box and select a nicer one.

We lived in a large rented white house with a big yard that was our wonderland during the warm months. But in December, the grass was brown, the trees were bare and the days were short and cold. Even inside the house was freezing. The only heat was a fireplace in one of the bedrooms, which did nothing for the rest of the house. Mom or grandma would tuck us in underneath a pile of thick, heavy hand-made quilts. Our bodies would slowly warm, but we could still see the white mist of our breath in the freezing air.

But on this night, the frigid house was not enough to chill our excitement. It was Christmas Eve. There were promises of Santa Claus if we’d been good, and high hopes that he didn’t remember the fights and arguments.

When our feet hit the icy floor the next morning, we rushed into the living room and were not disappointed. We saw gifts under the tinseled Christmas tree that had not been there when we went to bed. We even had stockings hanging near the fireplace - stockings that looked suspiciously identical to my uncles’ white tube socks with the blue and red stripes around the tops.

We opened gifts first, and then someone handed out the stockings. Santa had put small gifts in the socks, along with some nuts and fruit. I pulled out the surprises one by one. Toward the bottom, my fingers wrapped around something familiar. An orange! I pulled it out and received a shock. It was the ugly orange from the cardboard box. I would recognize that awful scar anywhere. I held the fruit in my hand and stared at it. This was the moment I realized that Santa Claus was not real. He would never have left me the hated orange. But I also realized that my mom and grandma had been pretending to be Santa all along. I knew they had gone without something to make sure we had a good Christmas. I decided to keep their secret.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2021

India Workers

Hard labor is a way of life for many in India. This man carries a load of wood along a gravel road. Below, a woman walks along a city street while balancing a pan on her head. (Both photos by Melanie Patterson)

India Motorcycles

Motorcycles are a main mode of transportation in India. On our visit, we were surprised to see so many people with bare feet. One of the men explained to us that on certain Hindu religious days, the practitioners of that religion forgo the wearing of shoes out of respect to their gods. There could certainly be other reasons that people choose to not wear shoes, but I thought that was an interesting explanation for some of the folks. (By Melanie Patterson)

India Dancers

In 2014, I accompanied some friends to India. They were adopting a little girl from an orphanage, and asked me to come along to take photos. On one of the visits to the orphanage, the children were practicing for their Christmas program. Here, they practice a beautiful dance in preparation for their performance. (By Melanie Patterson)

Blessed be the poor

This is not the same group of people I saw from the roof of the hotel that day. But areas like this were common in New Delhi and the other places that we visited.

A few years ago, I was fortunate enough to visit India. Some friends were adopting a child from there, and asked me to accompany them and document the event with my camera. In those two weeks, I took almost three-thousand images. I’ll be posting a few of those here, along with some written memories.

 2014 

On the roof level of a luxury hotel in India, I walked past the swimming pool that appeared at the far end to be spilling over the edge to the ground far below. The deck chairs and tables and the beautiful, perfect plants in their enormous planters made me sharply feel my childhood of growing up in an old, rusty trailer. It felt like I was trespassing on this beautiful property.

I walked to the low wall at the edge of the building. Looking over, I saw several small campfires where people were cooking their dinner. Their houses were fashioned from boards, tin, tarps and cardboard. A haze of smoke separated me from them. I wanted to taste what was cooking in those pots. I wanted to squat in the dirt and look the women in the eye and connect with them. I wanted to hear their lyrical conversations. I wanted to smell the earth that was their home.

I turned and looked at the extravagant hotel and felt the disorienting feeling of standing between two worlds and belonging to neither.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2021

It was just a small thing

My niece in me in 2012, around the time she picked the flowers for me.

2012   

         I was already running late.

            Arriving to take my four-year-old niece to daycare, I gave a big sigh upon realizing that she wasn’t ready. I had to get to work, so I tried my best to rush her along.

            What I learned that day is that four-year-olds do not care when you’re running late. They don’t understand the clock, which makes them have not a care in the world about schedules.

            Cursing silently while also trying to be cheerful and hastily loving, I got her dressed. Just getting both shoes on and tied took four hours. Getting her to brush her teeth took another two.

            She was chattering and singing and playing and dawdling and being sweet. I had to force myself to not put both hands on her little back and shove her from one chore to another. I hate being late.

            Finally, we made it out the door. That opened a whole new world of distractions. I walked quickly to the car and opened her door, only to turn around and find that she was still on the front porch.

            With a big sigh and more curses under my breath, I walked back across the yard and ushered her down the porch steps.

            When we got into the grass, she pulled her hand out of mine and made a break to the left.

            She needed to pick flowers.

            Meanwhile, I was calculating which route to take and how drastically I’d need to break the speed limit in order to be only fifteen minutes late to work. If I ever actually left her house that day.

            Then, with utmost love and serenity on her face, she reached up toward me with a fistful of weeds.

            They were the most beautiful flowers anyone had ever given me.

            I looked down at her gentle, unhurried smile and the freckles on her nose. I looked at the small hand reaching toward me with the flowers. I saw the pure love in her eyes.

            Accepting the flowers, I lowered myself onto one knee and hugged her tightly. My attitude changed instantly. Suddenly, it did not matter that I would be a few minutes late. I had the privilege of spending a few minutes with this precious little girl.

            We walked casually hand-in-hand to the car and talked all the way to daycare. I held her hand as I walked her in, then dropped to a knee and gave her another long hug before I left. I drove to work with a smile on my face and in no particular hurry.

            That was nine years ago. She now stands eye-to-eye to me. Sometimes she still picks beautiful flowers out of the yard – some would call them weeds, but not me – and hands them to me with that same sweet smile.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2021

Naked Misunderstanding

The author checks out a strip of negatives. (Photo by Jennifer Anders)

1979

My mother and two of her friends were sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet. Dozens of pictures were strewn on the floor.

At five years old, I was sitting on the floor near them. It was fun to watch the effect the pictures had on the three young women as they laughed and told stories.

One of the women, Kathy, kept doing something strange. One at a time, she would hold up some long, dark rectangular strips and peer at them. The strips were thin and had holes down the sides. They must have been delicate, because she gripped them gently by the edges. She kept holding the dark things up toward the window and putting her face close to them, squinting her eyes. 

I was mystified. From where I sat, I couldn’t see a thing on the dark strips. For a long time, I didn’t say anything. I was a quiet kid, so I just watched and listened and tried to figure it out.

“This is Christmas two years ago,” Kathy would say in triumph after staring at one of the things. Or, “I think this is the trip to Six Flags.”

Finally, curiosity won.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing to the black strips.

“Oh, these are negatives,” Kathy said. She motioned me over. “Do you want to see?”

My stomach lurched and I firmly shook my head no.

Kathy looked surprised, then shrugged and turned her attention back to the picture project.

Years later, I laughed when I realized my mistake. I had thought Kathy said the strips were “naked-ives.” In my mind, the mysterious black things were tiny pictures of naked people.

Fifteen years down the road, I would grow up and become a photographer. I started out shooting black and white film, which I developed in a darkroom and made my very own naked-ives.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged In Words 2021

Blackberries and wire

One of my former welding instructors, Roger, gave me several thornless blackberry plants a few years ago. They grew like crazy in my backyard and now make some wonderful, sweet berries. (By Melanie Patterson)

Observations from a guard tower

I wrote these observations following a guard duty shift when my U.S. Army Reserve unit was deployed to Bosnia and Herzegovina in April 1999.

Very early in the dusky morning, a man and a little boy about three years old slowly walked up and down the rows of the field directly in front of us.

The man and boy arrived not long after I settled in at my guard tower, along with my partner for the day, Specialist Cole. The little boy stopped in front of our tower, standing just on the other side of the razor wire fence that separated our base camp from the rest of the world. He bent down and picked up an empty Pepsi can and showed it to us before gently setting it back down.

He didn’t say anything, just watched us intently to see if we were going to toss him a soft drink. When we didn’t, he ran and caught up with the man and continued walking the field.

Movement to the right caught my eye. I looked over and saw a woman walking toward the others. She was carrying a hoe with a wooden handle and was followed by a child of perhaps five years old. She sat under a tree and watched the kids play, while the man cut limbs with a hatchet.

At about 9 a.m., we heard the melodic, melancholy call to Muslim prayers through the loudspeakers. The morning fog had burned off and we could see houses with orange roofs on a nearby hill. Farther in the distance was a mountain range. The woman had moved from underneath the tree and was hoeing the field.

The man was using a white horse to plow the earth. He was bent over and walking to the left of the plow. He was struggling and awkward, as if unaccustomed to the work. Nearby was a black horse attached to a little brown cart.

It was a twelve-hour guard duty shift. My attention drifted from the scene before me to the little green notebook I carried everywhere. I took notes, these notes, writing down what I saw and heard and thought. I chatted with Cole a bit. I let my mind drift to wherever it wanted to go.

When I refocused on the farmers, a new person was there. She was holding a bowl and walking behind the plowing man, throwing out whitish grains, probably fertilizer. She periodically walked back to the end of the row and refilled her bowl from a big plastic bag.

This was my second time to pull guard duty. The first time was a week earlier and was an overnight shift. That time, I had reported for formation around seven in the evening and didn’t get back to the tent until ten the next morning. I considered it supreme luck to have drawn the day shift duty this time.

It was relaxing to sit there on this beautiful spring day, even though I was wearing forty pounds of battle gear and was supposed to look intimidating and vigilant. I set my mind to enjoy the slight breeze and the fresh air.

I was jolted from my thoughts by children’s voices. Now four kids had appeared on the opposite side of the razor wire. They were practiced beggars. Previous soldiers had taught them some English words. “Give me water! Give me Pepsi!” they shouted. “Give me juice! Give me MREs!” (MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, are prepackaged meals that soldiers often eat in the field.)

Cole pulled guard duty every day, not just sometimes like me. He knew the children well, and told me their names. The boy who looked about twelve hung around for two or three hours, begging the whole time. We were not supposed to give them anything, but his persistence suggested that his efforts were rewarded often enough for him to remain stubborn.

In the next field, which was just out of sight, we could hear the engine of a tractor. In the background behind us was the hum of planes from the airfield on base. The sound blended with birdsong, the voices of children, the periodic chirps from the radio in our tower, Cole tapping his foot as he wrote a letter, and the occasional truck that drove by on the road directly behind us, stirring up a storm of dust.

The day’s early chill was gone by mid-morning. The rest of the day was warm and sunny, not unlike a spring day at home in Alabama. I watched a yellow butterfly float in and out of the open-air tower. There were much worse ways to spend twelve hours. I noted the new, bright green grass and the bare earth of the field, darker where the farmer had just turned it over.

The man seemed to be moving slowly, so I was surprised when I looked up an hour after he’d started to find that he had turned most of the field into a dark, rich brown. Both women were bent over, their hands busy in the earth.

They made me wish I was planting my own garden at home, or maybe mowing my grass in the sunshine.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2021

Island Vegetation

On a trip to the Gulf Islands National Seashore in Pensacola, Florida, a couple of years ago, I almost missed this tiny mushroom. It was about two inches tall and was dusted with sand that looks like a sugar coating. (By Melanie Patterson)

Lying Gets you Nowhere, 1985

I did not want to go to school.

My grandma was tough – whining to her was no good. But maybe I would have more luck with my mom. 

“I don’t feel good,” I said from the couch, where I was lying down and trying my best to look sick. At first, she said what she always said: “Get up and move around and you’ll feel better.”

“No I won’t. I already tried.”

She put her hand on my forehead. “You don’t feel hot.” But she left the room and came back with the thermometer. I panicked. I knew I didn’t have a fever. But that, or a missing limb, was the only excuse for missing school.

She put the glass tube under my tongue and left the room again. I tried to force my brain to think of something, quick. 

Then I heard it. The coffee maker belching and snorting. I imagined the steam rising from it, and the little stream of hot water falling into the pot. Hmm. I wonder. I raised up and looked down the hallway. Clear. I moved quickly and silently to the kitchen, where I stood staring at the coffee maker. All that beautiful hot liquid dripping down. I stuck a finger under the stream, then instantly jerked it back and stuck the scalded finger into my mouth. That ought to do it. 

I glanced behind me: the adults were still in the other room. I briefly dabbed the thermometer into the hot stream of water, then checked the reading. Still 98.6. No good. Had to leave it longer. I put the metal tip directly under the hot water and held it there. 

In an instant, the glass tube shattered into a million tiny slivers as the little BB of mercury shot across the room. With huge eyes and my mouth wide open, I stared at what was left of the tube in my hand, knowing I was about to be murdered. 

In walks my mom. She stared at the broken glass in my hand. I burst into tears. Real tears. Why was the thermostat broken? Why was I in the kitchen? Her eyes moved suspiciously to the coffee maker and back to the thermometer. 

“I don’t know what happened,” I said, choking through my tears. “I swear. I didn’t do anything.” 

“Go get dressed,” she said through clenched teeth. 

I went to school that day. And we never did find that little ball of mercury.

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2021

Friends

Two of my closest friends died last year. 

Their phone numbers are still in the Favorites section on my phone, and I just can’t make myself remove them. 

Angie passed away first, in August, followed by Jo Ann in November. Jo always called us the Three Musketeers. 

It stings a little every time I see their names on my phone, which is every day. Logically, I know that removing their numbers wouldn’t cancel my love for them or cause me to forget them. Still, it feels disloyal somehow. 

The two of them were long-time best friends (I was a latecomer to the relationship) who had very different personalities. 

Jo was outgoing and loved to tell funny stories, mostly about the crazy things she had said or done. She could laugh at herself and make everybody else laugh, too. She was fiercely determined, absolutely independent and strong-willed. There was no changing her mind once she’d decided on something. Jo wasn’t private about most things. She posted many of her thoughts and opinions on social media, including about her terminal lung disease. 

Angie was more reserved. She held much inside. She smiled often, but hardly every belly-laughed the way Jo frequently did. Angie, too, was very independent and strongly determined. She had a positive outlook, even when she was very sick the last couple of years of her life. Angie’s strength was quiet and solid. She rarely posted on social media, but when she did it was never personal and was always encouraging. She asked her family and friends to refrain from mentioning her illness on their social media. Angie was far too private for that. 

Jo used to tell a story that epitomized their differences. They were visiting a friend in the hospital and decided to have lunch in the cafeteria. Jo went outside to smoke (which she quit years ago). On her way back in, she accidentally walked face-first into a glass wall. She always laughed as she acted out, in dramatic mime-like fashion, the moment that she bounced off the glass. Back inside the cafeteria, she sat down across from Angie and doubled over in laughter at herself. “Did you see that?” she asked Angie after she finally caught her breath. In her typical calmness, Angie simply said, “I saw it,” as she raised a spoonful of soup to her mouth. I can imagine the look of slight exasperation on Angie’s face. Jo even thought that Angie’s lack of a reaction was funny. 

Despite their opposite personalities, Angie and Jo had much in common. Both practiced a strong Christian faith. They both were supremely loyal to their families and friends, especially to each other. 

And they both loved me. Life is not the same without them. I wonder when, and if, I’ll ever remove their names from my Favorites list. 

-Melanie Patterson

© Forged in Words 2021

Angie bought us these matching shirts for Christmas a couple of years ago. From left is me, Angie and Jo Ann.

Hurricane Creek Wildflower

This flowering plant caught my eye when I was on a hike at Hurricane Creek Park in Cullman, Alabama, in June 2020. The plant was growing in a sandy spot near the creek. Its beautiful color was like nothing else around, so it drew me over as soon as I saw it. (By Melanie Patterson)