Rambles Ii

By Jerry Criteser

Jerry Criteser says that the classics never get old. They continue to amuse us and continue to warn us.
He has retired, so he has been able to devote his time to writing. His Medea brings us to remember those characters once more. Between the Lines goes behind the curtain and tells what is really going on.

There are a couple of affairs going on in the book also. Eleventh-century England makes an appearance. The author would love to go to Mars, and this appears also. He is a gardener who also likes to travel. There is a short poem about a trip to Singapore, and the poem was written there.

As he says, read the classics, and use good grammar because that is how people remember you. The writer says that his heroes remain Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu, and Harper Lee. He hopes you enjoy his book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532006326

Jerry Criteser

Jerry Criteser, currently retired, is now devoting his time to writing when not eating, gardening, reading, gardening, and traveling. He has lived in East Alton, Illinois, for thirty-eight years now with his partner, Alberto. Jerry writes a great deal about medieval England. Space travel is a favorite theme also. He has his degree from Greenville College. He published his first book, Rambles, three years ago. His heroes are Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu, Harper Lee, and Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. In these troubled times, Jerry says if he had to give anyone advice, it would definitely be to use good grammar and read the classics.

Book preview

THE EGG (PAGE 1)

Can we cynics prove that there are no soft and secret places where magic meets moments in time, mixes, then vanishes like smoke?

I awoke early, before five o’clock because I was cold. I wondered if the furnace had gone out. I had cleaned the monster, checked the filter and turned it on the day before. It had not. I forgot and left the thermostat on fifty-five degrees, so with a simple turn it clicked, whirred, then came on. I felt more comfortable but had to sigh in anticipation of six long dreadful months of dreary weather now, and high electric bills. The sky began to lighten; the newspaper was already on the sidewalk. It was the first chilly dawn of this season, a too-early dawn of another dismal day.

Without thinking, I walked out of the living room into the hallway and stood silently by Mama’s bedroom door, pushing it open slightly, listening to hear her breathe, or to see her chest rise and fall in the half-light. It was, I realized, a virtual ritual I performed every morning and did it without thinking about it. She’s old now, past eighty, shaky, somewhat senile. She’s just not that well any more. Her coordination and memory, at times, seem non-existent, but there are two things she retains intact: her vocal chords remain, tirelessly, and she was and is Russian - not just Russian, but as she describes herself, a grand old imperial Russian. Those words beat in my brain as if they were the beat, beating, thrum, thrumming of a drum I’ve heard for almost fifty years. Grand old imperial Russian.

NOT she will add one of the Soviet kind, spitting it out with a dismissive and emphatic flick of her hand. She wears it and wears it as a blessing, but I carry it and carry it.

I’ve heard them all before. Each of her stories I’ve heard over and over down the years until I know each word, each inflection, each intake of breath for effect, each rise of voice and hand outstretched to emphasize a point emphasized a thousand times. I’ve heard grand dukes and grand duchesses all my life. I’m almost glad they were all slaughtered off in the revolution. I’m sorry I feel this way, but they no longer entertain, if indeed they ever did. I guess they did when I was a little boy, but I’ve had to endure the nightly torture of her tales since then. If old Stalin had his secret police, Mama has her one thousand and one Russian nights.

I had a motive this morning. One I had thought about many times before. I knew that I’d have to pay and probably pay dearly for my decision. Mama has had a small golden jeweled egg for most of her life, anyway, since she was young. She hid It in her old ragged coat as she and Gram moved to France and then brought it over here in the same old coat after she and Pa had gotten married. I simply had to sell her egg and try to get as much money as I could get for it.

The letter which came in the mail yesterday made the decision for me: […although we’ve tried to keep costs down, it is with regret that we must raise your premiums again. However, we are happy to be able to assure you that we can retain these rates for the next six months.] Does anyone understand why they call them premium? Four hundred and eighty-six dollars and ten cents for two months of the least insurance coverage possible!

I hoped that Mama hadn’t moved her egg into her little marble night table because the door squeaks when it’s opened; but no, it was there on the shelf of her glass-fronted cabinet along the wall by the door. I should have felt some doubt … or felt something … but I didn’t, and quickly slid the tiny treasure deep into my pocket. As I turned to leave the scene of the crime, I could imagine what she would say, despite my explanations Sasha, gdye moye yaytso?, Where’s my egg? Fortunately, I wouldn’t be here when she awakened and discovered her loss. The pleasure of appeasing her would fall to my wife.

THE EGG (Page 2)

I could hear her, too, and see her as I heard her, sighing deeply with the strained look of the professional martyr." Sasha, how could you do this to me … leave before she got up and cover up your trail … how could you …? She doesn’t work. I wish I could understand her. I work in my shop; I help her when I am at home. All I’ve asked her to do was keep house, raise our kids, and now, help with Mama

Now she has an ulcer; she guzzles antacids and smokes cigarettes.

It’s your mother’s fault, she says. She means well, but she’s driving me totally insane. The endless smokes are driving me insane. I asked her if she’d ever kissed a woman who smoked and she snapped Don’t be disgusting!

You ought to try it. You’re right. It is disgusting.

I’ll never understand her. She helps with Mama and has an ulcer. I have to live with both of them and I don’t. They sit here and I work.

Sasha …! My heart jumped. My God, Mama’s awakened and has missed her egg. She hadn’t. My wife was in the kitchen and had misplaced the tea bags.

"They’re in the little jelly jar on top of the stove. I