For the Love of Mama

A work of fiction loosely based on old stories.

“FAT! Where the hell are you?” His deep voice shot through the house like cannon fire and made its way to the bathroom. Gertrude’s hands immediately started to tremble and her wrists went week. She dropped her new April 1939 issue of True Romance magazine into the bath water.

“Oh no! What is he doing home from work so early?”

She whispered nervously to herself as she stood up and reached for the damp, twice-used towel hanging over the toilet. The water whooshed loudly as its level dropped and filled the void left by the absence of her girth.

Gertrude was nearly 250 pounds. On her five-foot-one-inch frame, it was massive. She earned every ounce though, giving birth to nine babies in sixteen years. Her long, thick chestnut brown hair was twisted into a bun atop her head. Her fleshy back was still bruised and her bottom lip still split from the last time he got mad at her.

With one foot on the floor and the other still inside the bathtub, Gertrude was hurrying to wrap herself in the towel. He didn’t like her soaking in the tub and reading those magazines. It was her one and only pleasure after all the kids were in bed, but he saw it as threatening.

Since he worked the night shift at the factory on the corner though, she was usually able to steal a half hour of reading time and four or five hours sleep before he came home and the youngest of her eight living children woke up.

There was a loud crash as the bathroom door swung open and hit the wall behind it driving the doorknob deeper into the crevice he’d created in the plaster from years of barging in on her.

Cyrus appeared drunk, as usual. He was thin but strong. His six feet of height towered over Gertrude. He was 18 years her senior and as mean as they come. He looked at her naked body half in and half out of the tub. She struggled to cover herself with a towel that was too small, too thin and already saturated from the children’s baths earlier that night.

He looked at the True Romance magazine floating in the water and scowled,

“Getting ready for your boyfriend?”

Gertrude was shaking all over now; partly from the cold air on her wet skin, and partly because she knew what was coming next.

“C’mon Cy”, she said cautiously. “You know I don’t have no boyfriend. I just like to soak is all after the kids go down for the night.”

She pulled her other leg out of the water and tried to squeeze past him. He moved one step to the right to block her path. She tried to go left and he blocked her again. His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped a level. This is exactly what preceded every beating.

He grabbed her left wrist with his right hand and bent over to fish the soaked paper out of the tub.

“You wasted my hard-earned money on this shit again, woman?” He slapped the wet magazine against the side of her head and she flinched.

“I didn’t buy it Cy. Mrs. Tinsey down the street gave it to me for free.”

“Goddam liar!” he growled. Then he released her wrist only to punch her square in the face and knock her backward into the tub again.

Gertrude screeched in pain as her already sore spine slammed into the porcelain and her head banged against the wall. She tasted blood.

Cyrus bent over her, wrapped his hands around her neck and started to squeeze. Gertrude struggled, but he was too powerful and had all the leverage. Her thrashing about was just making him madder and helping him to push her head beneath the water as her bottom slid out from under her.

She looked up at his face, contorted and red with rage. Spittle spewed from his lips as he accused through gritted teeth,

“You’re a lousy no-good whore like your mother.”

~~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~~

Gertrude was born on August 7, 1905 to Anna, a Swedish immigrant, and Atwood, an American Indian from the Blackfoot Tribe. Atwood said he was born in North Dakota and worked his way East on the railroad. There were conflicting stories of him growing up on a reservation in Rochester, New York too. Nobody ever knew the truth about his life before he met 26-year-old Anna in 1900. He needed a woman to keep his house and keep him company. Anna needed a place to stay, and help feeding her 4-year-old illegitimate son. They moved into a house in Essex County, New Jersey, told the neighbors they were married, and went on to have five children together over the next 15 years. Gertrude was the second oldest.

Anna’s appetite for male attention wasn’t satisfied by the common law husband, who was at least 20 years older than she was. The same reckless behavior that made her an unwed mother in 1896 destroyed her own daughter’s life in 1920.

Cyrus was born in Morristown, New Jersey on June 29, 1887 to farmers with Dutch heritage so old they’d lost track of the details generations before. Cyrus married for love at the age of 22 and moved his bride, Emily, to the growing city of Newark where the possibility of a career in industry was huge.

They bought a house and tried to start a family, but Emily was physically weakened by a bad miscarriage. She contracted pneumonia and passed away in the winter of 1912, just three years into their marriage. Cyrus became depressed and bitter. He turned to alcohol and a dissolute life. Unable to hold a job or pay his debts, the house he bought for Emily was seized by the Tax Collector.

By 1920, Newark, NJ was a bustling metropolis with scores of theatres, scads of hotels and a nightlife rivaled only by Manhattan’s. Anna wanted to be a part of it. She was sick and tired of caring for her aged husband. Although she was in her forties now, she looked thirty-something and felt like a girl in her twenties.

With a burning desire to be the center of attention and go where the music, men and merry-making was, she took every opportunity to sneak away from home whenever Atwood fell asleep. She’d task her daughter Gertrude with the burden of making up excuses and creating distractions if her father woke before morning.

Once Atwood got up at 3 a.m. looking for his wife. Gertrude heard her father’s voice calling out for her Mother in the dark. His patience, and a good part of his common sense, had worn thin with age, and when he didn’t find Anna in the kitchen, up in the kid’s bedroom or in the water closet, he grabbed his shot gun and headed for the front door promising to “bring that alley cat home one way or another!”

Gertrude thought quickly enough to convince her father that her Mother had simply gone to help a neighbor give birth.

By the time she was 15-years-old, Gertrude had become an accomplished actress by vouching for Anna. It was second nature for her to stand behind any story her mother would tell because it always meant peace and quiet, if only temporarily, and there were never any real consequences. That is why she didn’t think twice in the early morning hours of Monday, the 12^th day of July 1920, when Anna burst into her bedroom shouting,

“Gertie, get up, quick! Your Father’s gonna kill me if you don’t help!”

Gertrude was exhausted from working ten-hour shifts at the factories downtown. Her fingers were sore from the cuts those little bits of tin gave her as she molded them into parts for toy cars. She just wanted to stay in bed until it was time to go back to the production line, but Anna had other plans for her daughter.

Gertrude hadn’t even rubbed the sleep out of her eyes when her Mother grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her downstairs to the front room of the house where her parents slept.

Yawning, she asked, “Mama, what are you talking about? Poppa isn’t even here. He went to Patterson for the trade show.”

Anna pulled the cream colored full slip she was wearing over her head and tossed it to Gertrude.

“Take off that night shirt honey, give it to me and put this on instead. You have to tell your father you were the one sleeping in here tonight.”

Gertrude did as she was told and waited for further instructions. She figured it would be just another story to calm Atwood down. Maybe she’d have to say she had a nightmare and asked to sleep in her parent’s bed with her Mom.

It could also be the excuse Anna used a few times before, that she and Gertrude traded beds because her back hurt, or she was sick and wanted to be closer to the toilet upstairs.

Whatever it was, she’d agree with her mother’s tale, even swear to it on the Bible again if that’s what it took to end another one of their fights.

The front door opened slowly. A tall, thin, bald man entered first. He walked with a limp. His face was pale and frozen with fear. He was holding his hands up because Atwood was behind him with the end of a shotgun pressed between his shoulder blades.

“Keep moving, you bastard”, Atwood growled at him.

Gertrude’s heart started to pound. She knew this was worse than any time before. But she didn’t know why yet.

“What’s she doin’ down here?” Atwood asked his wife about their daughter. “You want her to see you and your boyfriend’s guts splattered all over these walls?”

Gertrude felt a burst of adrenaline in her stomach and her heart threw a punch up into her throat. She wanted to run from that house and never look back.

“Stop that now, Atwood! You got it all wrong”, Anna said. This fella ain’t my boyfriend. He’s Gertie’s man.”

Gertrude tried to comprehend what her mother was saying. My boyfriend? She questioned in her mind. Was she supposed to pretend she knew this old man?

“Bullshit!” Atwood barked at his wife. “I saw you in this bed with him before he hopped out the window like a yellow-belly. I caught his ass hiding in the shed though.” Atwood laughed balefully, then continued, “Now you’re both gonna pay.”

“No, no Sweetheart.” Anna moved gingerly toward her husband trying to convince him he’d made a mistake.

“You didn’t see me. It was your daughter. Tell him, Gertie.”

Gertrude’s eyes opened wider and she began to stutter as her brain struggled with the decision to save her mother’s life again by admitting to something she didn’t do, knowing it would surely change her own life forever.

Anna looked at her daughter and begged with her eyes.

“Y-y-yes Poppa. It was me you saw, not Mama,”

Gertrude felt the whole world shift as she spoke those words.

“See there”, Anna nervously chattered. She suddenly felt safe enough to put her hand on Atwood’s back and pat it.

“It was just a misunderstanding. It’s dark in here. Anybody would have made the same mistake.”

Then she changed her voice to the high-pitched whine she used with her baby talk.

“She’s young. She made a mistake. I’ll have a talk with her. It’s all going to be all right.”

Then she started to giggle expecting everyone in the room to feel the same relief. Nobody joined her though.

Atwood stared at Gertrude, at first in disbelief, then confusion, but it soon turned to disgust. He lowered the gun from Cyrus’ back as he shook his head in sorrow and looked down at the floor. Gertrude knew she’d just lost her father’s respect, if not his love. She didn’t realize it yet, but she’d also lost whatever shred of childhood or innocence she might’ve have had left.

“Ok then. Ok!” Atwood seemed to be awakening from the brief period of deep thought that came over him after the revelation. He raised the gun again and poked Cyrus in the ribs with the barrel. “You ruined my daughter. Now you have to marry her.”

He looked at his wife and said,

“Set it up, Anna. There’s gonna be a wedding.”

The next few days were torture for Gertrude. Her mother had friends working just about everywhere in the city of Newark and was able to get the marriage license, medical papers and anything else needed for her daughter’s wedding to take place before the week’s end.

Gertrude tried to talk to her mother about it once and tell her she didn’t want to marry Cyrus, but she soon realized it was no use. Anna was forging ahead as she did with every project she set her mind to. She told her daughter there was no turning back now, that she was ruined in her father’s eyes, and if it got out that she’d been sleeping with an older man, no boys her own age would want her anyway. By going through with the wedding, Anna reasoned, Gertrude not only redeemed herself to Atwood by becoming a lawfully married woman, but she would get to live in a house of her own and give up working in the factory where she’d been laboring since the age of twelve.

Gertrude could always see right through her mother. She knew the real reason to marry that old man was to save Anna’s life and that’s what all the frenzy was about. It had nothing to do with being ruined, boys her own age or quitting the factory. Protecting Anna was enough of a reason for her though. She’d been sacrificing for her Mama since she could remember. She didn’t know any other way to be. So on Thursday, July 15, 1920, Gertrude became Mrs. Cyrus Putnam in front of her parents, a judge and the judge’s secretary.

She went home with Cyrus that day bringing along an old brown suitcase containing three cotton dresses, two pair of bloomers, a night shirt, a torn winter coat, a pair of boots, a pair of socks, the kewpie doll she won tossing hoops around a milk bottle at the only carnival she ever went to, and the cream colored full slip her mother made her wear the night she confessed to being in bed with the man who was now her husband.

On the way to her new home, they stopped at a tavern. Cyrus made her wait outside sitting on her suitcase while he went in and bought himself a quart of Guinness stout to go. He also had a couple shots of whiskey while he was in there. Gertrude didn’t mind at all. She’d just as soon stay out in the summer sun all day long than be alone with this stranger in some house she hadn’t ever seen before.

Eventually he did return though. He was grinning at her in a way that made her want to take the winter coat out, put in on and button it up to her neck right then and there.

They walked silently along 15^th Avenue to West Kinney Street. When they came a big gray house with a green door, he said, “This is it”.

Gertrude climbed the nine front porch steps behind Cyrus and waited for him to unlock the door. She followed him inside and stood in the foyer still holding her suitcase. He never offered to carry it for her during their trip from the courthouse, and he didn’t unburden her now either.

The walls were bare except for a crucifix hanging in every room she could see from there. The air smelled musty, like a window hadn’t been open in years. She put her suitcase down and walked slowly toward the kitchen. As she turned left to pass under the staircase, she gasped. There was an arched indentation of wall space with a shelf and a stained glass window high above it. It looked very much like an altar. Hanging just above the shelf and below the stained glass was a portrait of a young woman with pink cheeks and kind eyes. Gertrude stared into them trying to figure out who this might be.

Cyrus appeared behind her. She hadn’t seen or heard him coming from any particular direction. He said, referring to the woman in the portrait,

“This is Emily, my wife. She died on me, but I will always love her. That picture never comes down. Do you understand?”

Gertrude nodded.

“It’s getting to be supper-time. Make me something to eat.”

The only thing he had in the kitchen was potatoes and a head of lettuce. Cyrus sat at the table drinking his Guinness and watching Gertrude as she peeled, washed and cubed the potatoes. He monitored every move she made like a distrustful master standing guard over a slave.

When she put the potatoes in a pot of water on the stove to boil, Cyrus asked her what she was making.

“Mashed potatoes,” that’s all you got here”, she answered.

She tended to the pot way too much in order to avoid eye contact or conversation with this man who was getting drunker with every gulp. When he’d finished the last drop of beer, he wiped the foam from his chin on the back of his hand and belched loudly. He got up from his chair, squeezed himself behind Gertrude to get to the drawer where the utensils were kept and took out a long butcher’s knife. Gertrude pretended not to notice, but that’s all she could think of as he squeezed by her again, this time pressing the front of himself into her backside. It made her feel sick. She kept stirring the potatoes.

He took the head of lettuce from the icebox, put it on a cutting board and sliced in it half with one chop of the knife. The loud noise made Gertrude flinch and she quickly turned to see Cyrus dipping a half of a head of lettuce into the sugar bowl and then biting into it like an apple.

“Yuck!” She couldn’t stop that word from escaping her lips, although she did try hard. He shot her a mean look and she almost urinated right there on the floor. Then he took another big bite of the sugar-dipped lettuce and started to laugh out loud, giving her a clear view of what was going on inside of his mouth. She wanted to say the word again, twice even, and run home to her mother. Then she remembered, this was her home now, and that was because of her mother.

After Gertrude served her new husband a plate of mashed potatoes, she cleaned up his kitchen and reluctantly complied in his bedroom, that night, and hundreds more that were to come.

She gave birth to the first of their nine babies in April of 1921. He was a boy named Louis who was said to be so smart he was born before his time. Gertrude believed that’s why God took him in a freak accident right before her eyes at the age of five. She raised her other eight children in spite of great poverty, lack of education and the brutal physical and emotional abuse she suffered at the hand of her husband for some nineteen years.

As the children grew bigger and stronger, they often intervened, taking beatings from their drunken father to spare their mother. There were times when the older sons and daughters would resort to physical violence themselves against their own father to revenge Gertrude after a bad beating.

She often worried that one day her sons, now reaching manhood, would accidentally kill their Dad during one of these free-for-alls. She didn’t know how to stop it though. She prayed for an end every day. If that meant Cyrus’ death, so be it. She would not grieve. In fact, she told her husband on more than one occasion, while he was unconscious of course, that when he died, she’d dance on his grave wearing a red dress.

~~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~~

With only her eyes above the bath water and Cyrus’ hands squeezing the last bit of life out of her, Gertrude started to pray. She asked God to take care of her children and to make her death, if this was it, be quick and painless.

The water was in her ears, muffling everything he was saying. Suddenly there was a loud bang. The hands that were just gripping Gertrude’s throat were now limp and sandwiched between her chest and Cyrus. He was lying on top of her, crushing her. She couldn’t budge him. As she beat her fists on his back, she felt hot liquid, much warmer than the tepid water they’d been wrestling in. She looked at her hands. They were covered in blood. She screamed. Her two oldest sons, aged 17 and 15, pulled their father’s lifeless body off of their mother and out of the tub. Her 16-year-old daughter used a bathrobe to cover her and then pulled her out too. Gertrude was struggling to understand what was going on.

“My God!” She squealed. “Who shot him?” All she could think of was the trouble her children would get into now. She didn’t want them ending up with a life sentence for her, as she had done for her mother.

As the two boys lowered Cyrus’ body to the floor, Gertrude saw her mother standing in the doorway holding the old shotgun.

“Mama! What did you do?” Gertrude asked, trembling all over.

“I did what I should have done a long time ago, I saved you. Get your mother out of here,” Anna said to her grand children.

“Oh Mama”, Gertrude sobbed. “They’ll take you away for this!”

Anna grabbed her daughter’s chin and assured her,

“Don’t worry. Are they going to put a 65-year-old near-sighted woman in jail for saving her daughter’s life? I came to visit you tonight. Your husband is supposed to be at work. I find a crazy man trying to kill you in the bathtub. I did what any mother would do. The police will see that.”

The kids put Gertrude to bed and called for the police. Anna was the last one to leave the bathroom. Before she did, she looked down at Cyrus’ body lying on the blood soaked floor. She closed the door ensuring privacy, then she kicked him in the stomach as hard as she could and asked,

“Who you calling a lousy no-good whore?”

~~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~~

The murder was classified an accident. Gertrude never remarried, but saw all of her children graduate high school and start their own families.

Anna married her third husband in 1925. He was a vaudeville musician who played the ukulele at the cemetery while she danced in a red dress on her son-in-law’s grave.

© Crystal Stango, 2009

The Roots Are Starting to Take Hold

Appeared as the FAREWELL column of "Transplant Times" in The Fort Mill Times on Wednesday, December 24, 2008


All the gardening experts say when you transplant a shrub or a tree, it causes trauma that requires a long period of adjustment before the foliage is able to bloom again. I think the same is true for people.

It was May of 2007 when my first article about being a Northern “transplant” in the South was published in this newspaper. I needed to vent my frustration and to reach out to others who might also be new here and ask the question: “Is it just me, or do you notice this too?”

After 18 columns I’ve realized there are some things I will just never get used to. For instance, driving in the Carolinas still presents a challenge for me. My opinions haven’t changed regarding the legality of using hand-held cell phones while operating a motor vehicle, or the road configurations that allow left-hand and U-turns just about anywhere. I’ve accepted the cliché you can’t fight city hall regarding these matters though.

I still think the cost of living is extremely expensive in this area, especially in relation to the high unemployment rate and low salaries most jobs are paying. The good news on this one though, as well as on my complaints about the high crime rate in nearby Charlotte, is that more and more people are agreeing with me every day, where just a year ago most were in denial about all of these. It doesn’t do much for the problems, but it sure feels great to be validated.

Then there are things I took issue with in the past, but have since changed my mind about. The slower pace in grocery stores and other local businesses for instance. They once sent me ‘round the bend, but have taken on a charm, if not a familiar comfort, for me now…within reason of course.

When the TV weatherman calls Morganton “Morgadon” and refers to Lancaster as “Lankster”, I not only understand what he’s saying, I barely notice his accent. Coincidentally, I recently saw a woman from New York being interviewed on a national talk show and her pronunciation of words like “dawg” and “cawfee”, made me cringe. That was the first clue that the transplantation is succeeding. Some of my roots have finally acclimated to their new surroundings and I am no longer in transplant shock. I now know this is why I’ve been struggling lately with what to say in my column. The “Transplant Times” theme has run its course for me.

I’ve appreciated having the opportunity to write here each month and I have thoroughly enjoyed the feedback from readers who took the time to email me with their comments, both pro and con. I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit the contradictory and angry email responses were the most fun. A writer enjoys being read and confronted on their position. It’s now time to pass the torch, or should I say the keyboard, to a newbie with a fresh point of view.

Nobody NEEDS an SUV

Appeared in The Fort Mill Times, "Transplant Times" column, on Wednesday, November 26, 2008


If a diabetic started eating sugar because one blood test was within normal limits, you’d think he was foolish. If a cancer patient who endured surgery and chemotherapy went back to smoking because they were in remission, you’d think she was stupid. Doesn’t the same thought process follow when you hear about people running to the SUV dealerships to buy a gigantic vehicle because the price of gas is down right now? Have they forgotten that just two months ago there was no gas available, and the few stations that did get deliveries were charging us nearly $5.00 a gallon? Do they really believe that was a one-time thing?

Listen, I’m as happy as the next driver that fuel prices have dropped so drastically, but I have to wonder why, and more importantly, for how long? Oil prices are unstable and susceptible to any number of variables. They will go up again. And you can bet the new SUV owners will be the first to cry the blues about it. They aren’t planning for tomorrow. They want quick satisfaction today. Isn’t that the mindset? To me it would have to be.

It is my opinion that greed is the deciding factor in purchasing one of those monstrosities that take up too much space in parking lots, block the safe view of people in normal sized vehicles making turns or pulling out of parking spaces and use way too much gas anyway. We all know the reason we got into this whole oil mess as a country in the first place is because of our high fuel consumption. How about making an effort to cut back on usage?

Nobody “needs” one of these enormous tanks, and unless you’re transporting six soldiers across the Afghan desert, you don’t need a Hummer. People simply WANT one because just like the over-sized house with the inflated mortgage and the massive amounts of furniture bought on credit to fill it, an SUV is perceived as a status symbol. They think it says they’ve made it. To me it says they’re part of the problem---not part of the solution.

The reason I hear most often for people buying an SUV is to have room for a family. My small car seats four comfortably, and millions of families of five or more did just fine up until about 15 years ago in something called a station wagon. I guess there’s no power trip to driving one of those though.

I’ve also heard reasoning about an SUV keeping their children safe in the event of a crash. That would explain why so many people driving their Its-All-About-Me Mobiles seem to channel Evel Knieval on the road. They must get a sense of invincibility when they hoist themselves up into that bonus room on wheels. I’m thinking that putting them in a normal sized car for a change might not only be safer for their children, but the rest of us as well.

All this Campaigning has me Pooped

Appeared in The Fort Mill Times newspaper, "Transplant Times" column, on Wednesday, October 22, 2008.


I spent my childhood waiting half the year for Christmas and the other half hoping for summer vacation. In my thirties I realized how precious time is and stopped wishing it away. I must say though, I might consider sacrificing two and a half weeks just to get the Presidential election over with.

I realize we're coming down to the wire and its time for the big push, but we've been subjected to relentless campaigning for almost 24 months now. Maybe I wasn't paying as much attention four, eight or a dozen years ago, but I don't remember it ever going on so long in past elections. Enough is enough. I haven't been able to watch one TV show or listen to a half hour of radio without being told by one candidate how bad the other one is.

I've watched all the debates, both Presidential and Vice-Presidential. While it is fair to say I tuned in hoping to witness some unscripted comedy, I was also trying to learn more about where each of them stand on the issues. What I got was more of the same. Is it me, or do they just repeat themselves over and over again?

Maybe all the advertising is working though. Just recently I've noticed more lawn signs and bumper stickers supporting one of the two candidates. I never understood the point of them really. It's a little bit scary to think how many votes are won or lost based on who your neighbor deems worthy, or unworthy, of a poster. I'll admit to getting caught up in the whole thing myself this time though. While I'm not completely thrilled with either John McCain or Barack Obama, I do favor the policies of one over the other. Most people know I'm from a blue state, which gives them a clue where I stand, but I normally wouldn't display my choice publically.

Then a friend of mine shocked me by slapping a bumper sticker on the back of his car last week naming the team I don't agree with, and had assumed he didn’t either. I suddenly felt obligated to counter for the other side. It's a strange feeling really, one a sports fan might have when hearing cheers for his home teams' rivals. I couldn't help myself. Being much more afraid of long-term commitment than my friend is though, my show of support is Scotch taped to the inside of my back window where it can easily be removed on November 5th no matter who wins. I'm not in this battle for the long haul, but I do admire the stamina of whoever owns the property on Highway 160 where the Ron Paul sign still stands.

I'm thinking of having two bumper stickers custom made. The first, which I'll display now, will say, "Write in Hillary". The second, to go on top of the first in 2009 will say, "If you voted for them, don't complain to me".

Bill Collectors In a Hurry

Appeared in The Fort Mill Times, "Transplant Times" column, on Wednesday, September 24, 2008,


Northern transplants might use "slower" and "kinder" to describe the South. Those words are accurate for some things, but they don't apply to the local traffic or bill collecting.

I was here less than six months when I experienced the aggressive collection procedures used by medical facilities. I did medical billing for four years in New Jersey. I understand how long it takes insurance companies to pay their part of a claim. We waited at least 90 days for that process to be completed before billing a patient directly. Beginning official collection from the patient came only after three or four months of standard billing heeded no attempt to pay. Taking legal action was an absolute last resort, and by law, the patient had more latitude than the provider.

Three weeks after surgery in a Charlotte hospital I was being billed and called on a daily basis for an amount the hospital assumed would be my responsibility. My insurance company hadn't even issued a payment or an explanation of benefits yet, but the collectors were already on the account. They also created a payment schedule on my behalf where I would pay an exorbitant amount in three equal installments. In NJ a patient is allowed to make six, eight or a dozen payments. As long as they are consistent, no law or judge will require more. Here though, I’ve learned that doctors and hospitals can and will haul you into court and succeed in getting liens and garnishes to collect their fees rapidly.

I’m also amazed at the billing and collecting practices of most utilities in this area. Shut-off notices are issued if a payment is just a few days late. There is no consideration given to the possibility of slow mail delivery or a missing bill. The customer's payment history doesn’t hold any weight either.

Living in the panhandle of Lancaster County known as Indian Land, I have the misfortune of Time-Warner being my cable provider. Experience with their shortcomings in customer care should have prepared me for what happened when they over-billed me for a service I hadn't ordered. Their call center told me to deduct the $15.00 from my regular payment. One month later I received a shut-off notice, not for missing an entire payment, but for the $15.00 I'd "neglected" to pay on the previous bill. Furthermore, they were giving me less than 24-hours to make payment, and warned me that if they shut me off, I'd be responsible for a hefty turn-on fee. My two year perfect payment history didn’t matter.


I had a choice of losing television and Internet service that weekend, or making an immediate $15.00 payment to an automated system with a credit card, and for a service I never asked for. I reluctantly chose the latter.

My previous cable provider would’ve been required to give more time before discontinuing service. It makes one wonder about the power shifts in our country depending upon which part of it you’re in at the moment.

Highway 521 Revisited

Appears in the Wednesday, August 27, 2008 issue of the Fort Mill Times newspaper, "Transplant Times" column



I don’t like to revisit topics so soon, but H3006, the new Bicycle Safety Law, has compelled me to expand on “No Room for Hiking or Biking” from July 23. I wrote about safe walking and
bike-riding areas for people who want to be active.

I still stand behind that and support those who choose biking for exercise, transportation or both. That being said, I feel the need to speak out for motorists too.

I’ve gotten the impression that some cyclists are interpreting the law as a win against drivers, and that’s a bad attitude to take.

Of course there are aggressive drivers who purposely endanger cyclists. These are usually the same jerks that speed, tailgate, and constantly change lanes endangering everyone on the road.

My concern is for the average, law-abiding, good driver. It’s terrifying to be behind the wheel and suddenly come up over a hill or around a bend and find yourself having to make a split-second decision between coming dangerously close to the cyclist on your right, or veering too far left and risking a head-on collision. The fact is, without bike lanes, cyclists simply don’t belong on many roads and they need to be responsible when choosing where they ride.

The new law says motorists are required to keep a safe distance between their car and the cyclist, but that distance is unspecified. What if the cyclist is riding erratically, weaving in and out of traffic and darting across the road? Is it still the responsibility of the motorist to control the safety of that situation?

H3006 mentions a law that has existed in SC all along: Cyclists are not allowed to ride more than two abreast on public roads. If you’ve driven Highway 521 on a weekend morning, you know the cyclists are not obeying this one. In fact, you may think you’ve happened upon the American leg of the Tour de France with scores of riders occupying the entire right lane.

On the subject of Highway 521, I’d like to point out that signs there post a maximum speed of 55 m.p.h. and a minimum of 40 m.p.h. Do cyclists have to keep pace or does that only apply to cars, trucks and motorcycles?

The scary part is that cyclists are being told to get a tag number, call the police and file a criminal complaint against a motorist who they feel has buzzed or harassed them. Which law protects a driver or car owner who is falsely accused? Are cyclists required to wear identifying signs on their backs so a driver can call the police and report them when they go through red lights, fail to indicate their intention to turn or refuse to ride in bicycle lanes that are paved, clean and ample?

If the motivation behind passing the new law was to put an end to animosity between cyclists and drivers, someone forgot that tipping the scales in favor of either side is not going to help. Being smaller doesn’t automatically make you an innocent victim. Everyone has to play fair or nobody wins.

No Room for Hiking or Biking

Appeared in The Fort Mill Times, "Transplant Times" column, on Wednesday, July 23, 2008

You can’t drive the roads in Fort Mill these days without finding yourself sandwiched between a cement mixer and a dump truck. Gooseneck trailers pulling backhoes are everywhere. I see new homes, new shopping centers and new office buildings going up. Streets are being repaved. Medians are being widened and perfectly landscaped. We’re even installing some left turn lanes with traffic lights. These are all great steps to improving the look and functionality of our growing city, but I think we’re forgetting two very important things. What about the pedestrians and the cyclists?

The government pays a lot of lip service to developing alternative fuel sources and decreasing our dependence on foreign oil, but they fall short on putting any plans into action. With gas prices over the $4.00 mark now, how long will it be before the cost for one gallon surpasses the hourly wage of many people? While we’re all going bankrupt waiting for water, another substance in short supply around here, to be turned into engine power, maybe we could start getting around on our muscle power by burning all the excess calories most of us have stored up as the new fuel. They do it in Europe and China all the time. Incidentally, they have a much lower incidence of heart disease and obesity.

While it may not be practical for many people to get to work on a bicycle, especially if their job is 10 or 20 miles away and they have to get there by traveling over busy highways, it certainly is possible to take a walk to the grocery store to buy a loaf of bread. That is to say, it WOULD be possible if there were sidewalks.

How nice it would be to hop on a bicycle when going to visit a friend across town or to mail a letter a few blocks away...IF there were bicycle lanes on all of our roads.

While we are spending millions of dollars and dozens of years designing and installing our future infrastructure, why can’t we draw in a bicycle lane on those blueprints and pour a three-foot slab of concrete to walk on?

Creating an environment conducive to physical exercise and being outdoors may just be what gets more families off the couch. It has to involve safety though. How long can we go on mixing those packs of 20 m.p.h. cyclists who take up the entire right lane of Highway 521 every weekend with the 60 m.p.h. motor vehicle traffic before tragedy strikes?
How many near misses happen on Route 160 when drivers suddenly swerve over the center line to avoid hitting a jogger who is straddling the nearly non-existent shoulder?

If we, as a community, really encouraged and supported the choice to walk, run, and ride bikes, we’d make sure there was a designated section of road for it.

If anybody thinks not enough people would use these areas, I say, if you build it, they will come.

We're All Americans

Appeared in The Fort Mill Times, "Transplant Times" column on June 25, 2008.



A friend of mine recently moved his family here. They held the tradition of attending a parade every year on Memorial Day. Back in Ohio, that was how their hometown honored its veterans. Unable to find a parade this year, they decided to visit a recreational park just over the state line in Union County North Carolina for the holiday.

They were impressed with the campgrounds, fishing area and hiking trails, but couldn’t find any sign of celebration, so they asked an old man working there about it. His answer, and tone of voice, surprised them, to say the least. He made it perfectly clear that Memorial Day is a “northern holiday” and said it would never be acknowledged “around these parts”.

I did a little research and discovered that Memorial Day was indeed first enacted to honor the Union soldiers of the Civil War. That was 143 years ago though. It’s hard to imagine that after fighting together in World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam and now Iraq, some people in this country still see us as fighting against each other, especially when it comes to the differences between the north and the south.

With the swift inflow of transplants from just about everywhere, opinions and attitudes do vary greatly and will continue to change. The entire premise of this column is to compare life here in the Carolinas with living in New Jersey. I guess its human nature to notice, and even condemn, dissimilarity.

By the same token, it’s also natural to band together when a third party introduces criticism. Have you ever watched two siblings fighting? They appear to hold no regard for one another until a kid from down the block calls one of them a bad name. Instantly brother and sister are united against the outsider. I suspect the same to be true of the transplants and the locals when push comes to shove.

Just imagine if people from another country came to America to do us harm. Suppose they hated us for our way of life and the great freedoms we’d fought for and won? What if they wanted to ruin what we had so much that they attacked us?

Oh wait, that DID happen, and it wasn’t all that long ago. If I remember correctly, every American took September 11, 2001 personally and for a good, long while there was a tremendous sense of solidarity within our nation.

I can’t imagine the men and women who are right now serving in Iraq and Afghanistan being hung up on which side of the Mason-Dixon line their great grand father fought for in 1865. We have to step into the 21st century now and just be Americans, not southerners or northerners.

As Independence Day approaches, I hope everyone remembers that the Fourth of July is to raise the flag and honor our forefathers for fighting against England. If you’re tempted to hold a grudge because your ancestors, like mine, were British, just remember, they also lost!

DMV's Annoying No Matter Where You Live

Appeared in The Fort Mill Times, "Transplant Times" column on Wednesday, May 28, 2008



From the viewpoint of a transplant, I write about things I find to be different here as compared to where I grew up. Lately though, I've been noticing the similarities.

Frustration with bureaucracy is something we all have in common and I believe the Division of Motor Vehicles is a place where it can be found in any of our 50 states.

I live in the Indian Land section of Fort Mill. Until last summer, we shared the 29715 zip code with much of the town. The Post Office assigned 29707 to our area in July of 2007 and gave us one year to make the change over. We’ve been warned that beginning this July any mail with the wrong zip code, will not be delivered.

A recent newspaper article advised those of us in this new zone to be sure we’ve made the necessary changes with the DMV because undelivered property tax bills for our vehicles that go unpaid will probably turn into a big mess.

Being proactive by nature, I’d already notified the utility companies, the credit card companies and my friends and family. I wasn’t sure about the DMV though, so I called my local office in Lancaster and got (surprise-surprise) a tape recording stating that all inquiries had to be left on their voice mail system for an employee to call me back when time allowed, so, I left my question with a call back number and yes, I did receive a return call approximately five hours later. That’s when I was told I had to come into their office, bring proof of my address change, pay for a new driver’s license and have my picture taken again.

I was annoyed, to say the least, so I questioned the accuracy of this information. It was reiterated to me by another employee there that indeed, I was to be inconvenienced by losing time from a new job to stand in line and pay a fee for something I had no control over.

Adding insult to injury, the burden of proving my “change of address” fell to me when I hadn’t changed anything. The United States Postal Service changed my zip code. It’s a matter of public record.

I stressed about the situation for 23 hours and 55 minutes too long. Had I checked www.scdmvonline.com as soon as I hung up with the Lancaster office, I would have learned sooner that there was an email address where I could send my question. I received a rapid response from a well-informed employee in the Columbia office who had me fill out a simple change of address form on their website. A confirmation number was delivered to my Email address almost immediately. A confirmation letter was delivered to my home two days later. A new vehicle registration reflecting my new zip code was sent to me two days after that. The simple solution was there all the time. I just had to do a bit of digging to find it.

Looking Local Make a Difference

Appeared in The Fort Mill Times, "Transplant Times" column on Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Some people think my views on living in the South have been too harsh at times. We all base our opinions on personal experiences. It never occurred to me though, that where we specifically have those experiences, could drastically affect the outcome.

The real estate agent who sold me my house said I live in Indian Land but the post office says my address is in Fort Mill. Fort Mill is considered York County, but I’m registered to vote in Lancaster County. It’s all a bit confusing really, but I’m not sure it matters much aside from paying taxes to the right jurisdiction.

It was explained to me that "Fort Mill," other than the town, could refer to the greater Fort Mill Township area that straddles both counties. There isn’t any difference, as far as I can see, when passing the county line. There is however, a noticeable change when you cross the state line into North Carolina, which is what I’ve been doing for the better part of two years.

I work, shop, seek entertainment and frequent restaurants in Charlotte. So when I complain about heavy traffic and dangerous road configurations, it’s probably due to hours spent in gridlock at the exits off I-485.

My fear, which I admit borders on paranoia, of local crime, stems from newscasts out of Charlotte-based TV stations reporting their own statistics.

I’m not slamming Charlotte. It’s a city overwhelmed by rapid expansion. Growing pains are bound to be part of the process. What I am saying is, until recently I didn’t realize the charm to be had here at home in South Carolina.

I’ve started taking Highway 160 and Springfield Parkway as a new route to work. I’m now enjoying rows of peach trees and fields of horses instead of staring at a sea of brake lights every morning.

I bought groceries from a supermarket in Tega Cay and filled my gas tank at a station in Lake Wylie. I found the lines to be shorter and the service was friendlier.

What prompted me to finally venture west instead of following Highway 521 north every day, were two stories I read in this newspaper. One profiled the York County Humane Society and their need for help. I took a drive to make a very modest donation one day and found a staff of dedicated people working hard in the center of a really nice town.

The other article, “York County counts on its credibility to stop crime at the state line” (March 26) quoted Kevin Brackett, the York County Solicitor as saying, “It’s a completely different world here in York…” in a warning to criminals considering coming here from Charlotte. I decided to see the difference for myself and I haven’t been disappointed.

I recently accepted an invitation for coffee and made a new local friend. I even attended my first Homeowners Association meeting last Monday night and was inspired by well-intentioned people willing to give their time to create a better place to live.

Like Dorothy Gale who discovered her heart’s desire was in her own backyard, I’m learning to see what’s right in front of me.