Category Archives: Christianity

Marshall’s.

“Oh, God. My God. How excellent is Thy Name, in all the earth.”
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Among his endless list of attributes, the new boyfriend has a far more evolved sense of style than the woman he calls his, these days. He’s left for the evening, calling back a shopping spree for later on tomorrow but, as the evening wanes, something fixates me: the Persian blue print maxi dress at Marshall’s he’d selected last week that just didn’t fit. Maybe I could alter it, like mum always did, he’d suggested – reminding us both that we still had a long way to go before we could say we truly knew each other.
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Finally, I can resist the compulsion no longer. After sufficient Reese Cup consumption, I jump into the car at, what, 8:50pm? and, cruise all the way up Peach Street in the increasing dark to the Best Buy plaza.
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Marshall’s. Where the dressing room lighting is so flattering, you buy everything you try on. Unlike Gabriel’s where, even though the merchandise was designer fare, the sight of yourself under poorly directed, cheap fluorescence made you break down and cry and go home with nothing. Gabriel’s is out of business, is anybody surprised; Marshall’s lights are still on. The place is mercifully empty. I love slow close hour; you get the whole room to yourself.
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Sure enough, as expected, the dresses are no longer in the front rack. Marshall’s. They know how to mix it up. I look around. Over by windbreakers and sportswear, a stash of flowing fabric beckons.
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No Persian print.
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The girl with the laniard and the perfect skin tells me all the rack rounds have dresses. I am nothing if not tenacious. Me, the spider with the suction cups for fingers, I am.
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Thwap, thwap through the rack. Several other deep blues – stripes; solids, with flirty bodices. Suddenly, could it be, I see the Persian. Glory Hal, there it is – in a.l.l. t.h.r.e.e. s.i.z.e.s (S;M;L). I grab eight hung garments and drag ass to the fitting rooms.
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In the immensely enhancing golden glow of the Marshall’s ethos, it takes me only as long as dress on dress off; seventeen minutes later, four dresses, and three sets sleepwear/clearance, I am beating the clock to the check out.
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Now, why does the lone, spectacled African American beauty behind the counter look familiar? Do I dare ask her the Usual Question? Have I not struck out at least twice in a week with that socially jarring: “WEREN’T YOU MY STUDENT??” No; I would let her be. This was go time. I was the Purchasing Person at 9:15pm on Thursday. This was go time.
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Patiently, and with grace, she gathers all my hangers and my garments and my TJMax Reward Card Application because she is just that good, and then she says it.
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“Didn’t you teach at Grover Cleveland?”
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DANG, how’d I miss this one?? I am slipping, for sure. Old Ms. Scanzillo never overlooks a single one, especially not the stand outs. Hearing her name, it all comes rushing in like it always does, because it always does, every face, every personality, every student, all four thousand of them.
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Tamara Baker.
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Fourth grade violinist.
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Front row. Top of the class, always on it. A real future.
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And, she says it, too. “I always wanted to continue, but there was nobody to teach me.”
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I am already there. She graduates this year, from high school. And, this summer, there will be a violin in her hands again. I am already there. No student of mine gets passed over. Not by God Almighty.
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***
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Last week, adult student, Title I Reading specialist Kim, yearned for a string quartet. Was there anybody? I knew an attorney she heard me say, a violist, named Zanita. We’d look into it.
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The next day, driving up the hill to Sacred Heart auditorium, I’d prepared to cast my vote in the local Primary. Again, the room was mine, only one other person outside of the staff at table. And, behind that table sat Elva who, every year, greeted me with the reminder that we’d played in the Jr Phil string section together back in high school. But, might I be interested? This year, her piano trio needed a ‘cellist.
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Who was the violist?
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“Zanita”,  said…..well…..God.
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~~~
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Kismet. Serendipity. The Persian blue print, size S, fits. The boyfriend, who comes to me again tomorrow like a bolt just like he did a bit shy of nine weeks earlier, after twenty five years distance and nearly five years of increasing resignation that life is meant to be lived out alone unto death, will embody the surprise, too. Somehow, and only by our Creator, even the hairs on our heads are all numbered.
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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  5/18/17      All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Be a good person. Thanks.
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littlebarefeetblog.com

Watch What Happens.


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[*THIS was the post that disappeared. Let’s see if it sticks, round #2.]

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No fiction to anyone, we live in an increasingly hostile world.

The Information Highway has opened up access to far more than the latest navigation options; rather, because anybody can now say anything – even fabricating and mobilizing back up witness to their cause – be it noble or nefarious what is borne is a sea of data, swarmed by both predator and prey.

So, how does one ascertain the truth?

Suppose we borrow from the tactician.

Remember an old movie, “The Sting”, starring Paul Newman and Robert Redford?

The criminal mind is, to varying degrees, shrewd; stealthy; meticulous; even rash. But, the criminal? In spite of his or her level of sheer intelligence, human weakness is never more easily manifest – and, can be capitalized upon to productive end.

Should one seek to prove out the actions of a suspect, one need only create a scenario. Choose as the setting a work of fiction, being sure to include key, identifiable facts known only to the guilty; in this way, only the incriminated will know for sure what is being portrayed. To these, the story becomes a revelation.

The novels of Tom Clancy, et al, come to mind, here, as do numerous Hollywood blockbuster thrillers. To quote “Fats” Waller, in “Ain’t Misbehavin'” : “One nevah knows, do one?”

Awhile ago, I published another chapter in my series’ category, Short Stories. After leaving the piece up for a couple days, I pulled it.

Interesting things began to happen.

First, a certain individual promptly extracted from all contact with me on social media.
Then, the individual’s extended associates behaved strangely; though the time stamps showed evidence of their having been viewed, chat messages were ignored. No further voluntary contact with myself was made by any but one of them.

In fact only one, solitary associated player has maintained any communication with me since, said one at a very great distance from the rest, though closest to me emotionally.

Now, the most useful aspect of logic is its immoveability.

Were one innocent, of any implicated actions discovered in a work of alleged fiction, one might simply respond not at all; conversely, should one believe one’s actions to be exposed, one might set about – either voluntarily, or subconsciously – to react.

The scientific method is loosely applied, in this case, but serves our cause fairly.

The Bible says: “Be sure your sin will find you out.” This holy admonishment merely provides caption; those who know full well what they do are already branded.

And, these need no story to tell the tale.
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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo   12/29/16     — All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for your respect. Judge not, lest ye be judged. Selah.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Mystery.

 

“For, unto us, a child is born; unto us, a Son is given. And, the government shall be upon his shoulders. And, his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Almighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.”

“For behold, I show you a mystery; for we shall all be changed, in the twinkling of an eye….”

Blessed Christmas, everyone.

May the mystery speak to us all.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo     12/24/16   littlebarefeetblog.com