Tarantulas Fudge and Altered Reality

By Karen Banfield

a collection of raw, funny and loving reflections on life. a savage in childhood, the author takes us through her experience of boarding school, surviving music teachers, travels abroad, being a tarot card reader, mental health therapist and a hitch-hiking encounter with the mafia, to name a few. I guarantee that karen's honesty and tenderhearted insights will leave you laughing, crying and wanting more. “a fantastic, funny collection of heartwarming, heart wrenching stories full of mystery and wonder. a winner all the way! I have collected short story anthologies for years and this one is superb.” −lisa lopez. ten years around the world

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Banfield
• Release date: Feb 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311798879

Karen Banfield

Karen Banfield is a storyteller, speech coach, writing teacher, singer and intuitive. She has inspired audiences throughout the United States, and appeared on national television as a featured guest at NBC.Years of working as a counselor, touring in the performing arts and understanding the power of language, combine to make her communication rich, fun and uniquely satisfying.Her latest book, Tarantulas Fudge and Altered Reality, is perfect for a morning commute or sitting in a café after work, but be forewarned, waiters and commuters may look at you funny when your eyes well up or you burst out laughing. Karen's gypsy-like experiences and raw honesty will have you reading her books more than once and begging for more.Visit her website at karenbanfield.me

Book preview

The Test

As a child, I learned that God was both angry and male. At nine years of age, I decided to test him. Okay, I challenged, if you're going to strike me dead for swearing, let's get it over with.

Positioning my hands in the pockets of my corduroy jumper, I gazed skyward, cutting loose with a string of words so crimson they could've blistered paint from the barn. Dashing to the closet, I slumped to the floor, placed trembling hands over blonde curly hair and prepared to die, ready to meet my maker, ready to receive the punishment I’d heard so much about. The room was still. Quiet. I waited. Nothing happened. There must be some mistake. Maybe he didn't hear me. No, I was sure he did. I shouted really ~ loud ~ and took time in the delivery. He must have heard. But I was still alive, still breathing. Maybe there was a time delay. Could that be it? Not with God. He was supposed to hear everything and act immediately. How strange that I wasn't dead.

I envisioned God the same way I envisioned Santa Claus, except God had flowing white robes while Santa preferred red. These guys seemed a lot alike. One could punish me on Christmas morning by putting a piece of coal where a present should be; the other could make me an angel or burn me in hell. But the God-guy didn't seem to like fun. He didn't even think dancing was good. But I knew for a fact that dancing was very very good because I’d gone square dancing with Bernice, the woman who baked bread for our restaurant. I’d watched people laugh, hug each other and swirl their dresses in the air. I didn’t like God’s rules, which is what sparked this confrontation in the first place.

I uncovered my head, looking into a forest of dresses that hung above me. They weren't moving. Everything was silent. Maybe he was waiting for me to come out in the open. So be it!

I unfolded my young body, wrapped my fingers around the door sill and peered into the room. No vengeful God there. I didn't get it. Why hadn't a lightning bolt turned me into a pile of burning ash?

I sat on the rug in the middle of the room, my neck craned toward the ceiling. Waiting. Nothing. Maybe, I reasoned, there was no God. I didn't see him, didn't feel his presence. He didn't strike me dead like everyone said he would. Why hadn't he killed me?

Suddenly it all fit into place. If I was still breathing, maybe people got it wrong about God. Maybe he was kind and not mean at all. And maybe if he was kind, I'd better stop swearing at him, so he could have some peace and quiet. That's what my dad always said, For crying out loud, will ya just give me a little peace and quiet?

I figured God, being God, probably needed more peace and quiet than most.

Savages

There were no grown-ups in our world except the out of breath cook, who climbed steep stairs from the restaurant below with food trays in hand. His was a hurry-up job. Here’s your food, be good. He delivered prime rib, mashed potatoes, vegetables and homemade pies. Sometimes we ate it; but more often we had food fights. Dishes crashed as we climbed on the table, eager to perform. We made wide-armed gestures like the ones we'd seen on television, sang, danced, created costumes, twirled and laughed.

My older brother picked a guitar, as my youngest played percussion on a midnight blue drum set. We shrieked with delight, often peeing our pants from riotous antics. We were five kids raising ourselves.

A raccoon ran up and down the hallway, a cat with new kittens nested on fallen coats, and a pet crow rode my sister's shoulder like it was born there; even an occasional chicken wandered into the kitchen. The raccoon was a mainstay until he crawled on the back of the sofa and bit my father's balding head. Coonie disappeared after that.

No one survived very long in that house, especially housekeepers or babysitters. We constantly fought one another, but became a unified force with outsiders. Those with an idea toward reform or discipline stood no chance at all, like the babysitter we cornered in the music room. Five of us threatened like predators. My brother thought we should have done the pail of cold water over her head from the second floor trick, but I wanted to give her a fighting chance. She left and never returned; one of many defeated by the Banfield savages.

A Russian woman came once a week, leaving stacks of clean clothes, folded and neatly balanced on our beds. "Put these away," she instructed, in barely understandable English. But that never happened. During the week her stacks were knocked to the floor and walked on, like everything else. There was no one to notice, no one to care.

The playroom was at the far end of the kitchen and housed a rarely changed cat box. I only remember it being cleaned the week my mother employed a dance teacher. A large clown-faced tile smiled up from the center of the linoleum, as we shuffled back and forth in hopes of learning first and second positions. Ballet did not stick, nor did tap dancing, but the horses, ice skating, swimming and backyard baseball did.

My father's mother was trouble. Grandma Lottie was serious about rules and best avoided. A small white cottage had been installed near the pond where I escaped when she came. The cottage was safe, since age prevented her from venturing across cornfields to further her point. Lucky for us, she didn't visit often, or we could have been civilized.

Jesus Saves

The first thing I ever stole came from the baptist church. It was Christmas. We were given sugar cookies shaped like stars, steaming hot chocolate and bible lessons. Brightly colored packages circled the tree in the entryway, one stacked above the next, but those were not for us.

After the final prayer the other kids exploded with freedom, pushing against tall wooden doors that opened into snow and afternoon light. Stalling in the lobby, fully mesmerized by the tree I studied the copious pile. Surely one of those presents was meant for me. I drew closer, full of longing and larceny. The lobby was still and quiet. Perhaps, I thought, I could take a tiny one, one that would not be missed.

Inhaling evergreen, I reached between threaded tinsel, carefully plucking a small rectangular box. Snowmen wearing black top hats, buttons of coal, carrot noses and big smiles stared back. Yes. That was the one. I quickly buried it in the well of my pocket, deep, beneath woolen mittens. The crime complete, I sprang from the door like Satan himself was chasing me, dashed a mile through snowdrifts and crusted sidewalks, raced up the stairs of my home and down the hall. I was breathing heavy as I twisted the lock on the bathroom door, afraid the God police had been alerted. I listened for footsteps but no one followed. The house was empty. I tore open my prize.

Inside was a tie clasp that said JESUS SAVES. A tie clasp. For a man. I folded my arms around the iciness of my jeans in deep despair. I couldn't take it back. What on earth could I do with it?

In a moment of generosity, I went to the junk drawer, found black electrical tape and rewrapped it. My dad was tending bar in the restaurant below when I climbed on a bar stool.

Close your eyes. I have a gift for you.

Where did you get it?

From the Baptist Church. They were giving away presents for dads.

He fingered the torn green snowmen.

Looks like you opened it.

I wanted to make sure it was right.

He wiped his hand with a bar towel, then released the silver clasp from the box.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this? For crying out loud, Karen. JESUS SAVES? What were you thinking?

There was a moment of tense silence as we looked into each others eyes. Did he know what I’d done? Finally he looked away, clipped the gift against his tie and went back to mixing drinks.

Oh, what the hell.

Brat

I couldn't do math to save my life, still can't. I didn't get those brain cells, but my mother did. She was an elegant business woman and book-keeper, who believed that her daughter should be able to navigate the world of numbers by some miracle of genetic biology. When that failed, she hired math tutors; lots of them. They were dead-on serious people who sat in over-lit rooms arranging columns of tiny numbers in miniscule boxes. They used rulers and charts and made up nonsense stories about a person traveling to Cleveland going twenty miles an hour and how long did it take if they stopped for a coffee and donuts on the way, and how much longer did it take if they went to see Aunt Lizzie, who lived thirty minutes from the interstate? Who the heck knows that? Those teachers made a nice vacation into a big complicated mess.

In seventh grade my mother decided I should forgo the usual horseback riding, baseball games, manure fights, fort building and tramping the woods, so I could devote my entire summer to…you guessed it…math! She got up each morning to drive me into the city for summer school, like I was going to the hospital for urgent care.

I tried to comply but couldn't. Two whole days passed before busting out. I knew she wouldn't take my escape well, so we continued our morning routine. I'd give her a long-faced troubled look to avoid suspicion, then waved good-bye before catching the number ten bus to the swimming pool.

That summer I perfected skill on the high boards doing swan dives, the jack knife, half-gainer, half-gainer with a twist, double flips and the look out, here she comes cannon ball. Work on my suntan and social skills completed the day.

This went on for an entire glorious month before coming to an abrupt halt. I no longer remember if it was the lack of report card, a school visit, or the fact that my teacher had no memory of any student named Banfield, but one day I returned from the pool to find mother standing on the front steps of the school, smoke spewing from her ears, too incensed to speak. I also remember those eyes in the rear view mirror as they glared at me all the way home. I sat wet, contrite and humbled in the back seat. Her eyes full of displeasure and disappointment, but mostly a kind of hopeless exasperation about what to do with her ‘problem child.'

Elmer

Elmer was one of the evening bartenders who worked in my parents’ restaurant. His shift began at five, but he walked through the door each afternoon at exactly four-thirty dressed in black pants, polished shoes, white shirt and tie. His hair was combed left and his cheeks scrubbed and rosy. We lived above the restaurant; five kids, mom and dad, a crow, a raccoon, dogs and too many cats to count.

I’d filled a metal bucket from the barn with cold water and hauled it upstairs, slopping it wet against overalls and bare feet. The bucket was frosty and hard to grasp but I managed to hoist it to the second story window. I was eager to try a trick I’d seen on a cartoon show, the one where the cat fixes a bucket of water over a door, so the dog that’s chasing him gets drenched when it opens. Poor Elmer had done nothing wrong, he was not chasing me; I just wanted to see how this worked and he was the first person I thought of. I didn’t have long to wait. He was punctual.

Elmer left his Packard sedan, took a quick peek at his image in the side mirror, then smiled a little grin of self-approval. I studied him like a hawk. When he put his hand on the restaurant door, I tipped the bucket. Let it rip. A perfect bulls-eye!

I’ll never forget the way his hair plastered against his scalp and the transparent flesh tones of his shirt. He looked up at me with an expression of horror and surprise. God Damn you! You little unsupervised shit. He lunged through the door of the restaurant, had a talk with my dad and walked right out again. Elmer took the night off.

I search my mind for consequences as I write but don’t remember a single one, although there may have been a don’t-do-that-again kind of conversation.

A few months later I was walking barefoot in tall grass when a rusty fishhook lodged between my toes, a jagged barb making it impossible to pull out. I screamed for help, yelping like a hit dog. Elmer arrived for work, right on time, saw me but never slowed his pace − just straightened his tie, smiled in my direction and kept on going. I guess he still had the water incident in his grudge pile. I don’t remember how that one was resolved, but doctors were as hard to get to as outer space. Someone must have cut that thing off, but it definitely wasn’t Elmer.

New York City

Every few years our parents treated us to a cultural week-end in NYC. We drove four hours through vineyards and rolling acres of farmland to the heart of a cosmopolitan environment that was as different from our barefoot childhood as I could imagine.

We stayed at the Hotel Astor, which in 1955 was the finest hotel in the city. The Astor embodied old world elegance, sat in the heart of the theater district, and towered over Time Square. The Brooklyn Dodgers had just won their first world series and the city was alive with excitement. Cab Calloway and Fats Waller were hot stuff and the Cotton Club was birthing a new musical sound.

We had fresh gardenias from a street vendor pinned to our evening coats. The smell of that delicate flower still brings back memories of Julie Andrews and Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady, sinking into red velvet theater seats, watching chandeliers dim against a ceiling of gold, and holding our breath as plush curtains whooshed back to reveal a magical world of song and dance. We sat spellbound by every theatrical gesture and perfected vocal score. Those performances began my love for the theater but also spoiled me for anything less professional.

I was ten years old when I watched long rows of women called Rockettes high kick in unison at Radio City Music Hall. The Latin Quarter opened my eyes to the exotic as women on flower-covered trapezes descended from the ceiling wearing high heeled shoes, seamed stockings and long tassels adhered to each nipple, their breasts bare and exposed. I could not take my eyes off them; grown women swinging naked from the ceiling of