In memory of Evelyn Rosevina Gomez nee Wilson

Ebba

Her hair a halo silvered by age,
was a vision of great beauty
Her hands though wrinkled and calloused by toil
Often offered love and comfort to me

Her wisdom when shared came from experience,
from an all knowing sage
Her shoulders were bent from the heavy
burdens she'd carried

Her brow weathered and wrinkled by unending strife
Yet her stride never faltered,
and she never once tarried
Nor did she once question her exhausting lot in
this life

Her support and her guidance were freely given
To all those in need of kind, loving hands
There were times she seemed almost driven
By the needs of so many, with such difficult demands

Now those left behind, are faced with her shoes left unfilled
And we remember her fondly with soft smile on our face
For today we give homage to a life too soon stilled
As we affirm that there's none that can ever replace

Our Mother, our Granny, our "Ebba"
Sweet Mamie
Her spirit we sorely and plaintively miss
Thus t'is with untold sorrow we recall fondly
Our days spent together in wondrous bliss

Rosevina



Author's note: This poem is dedicated to my Grandmother who would have celebrated her 76th birthday today, December 18th.

Bless my little kitchen

Bless my little kitchen Lord, I love its' every nook

And bless me as I do my work; Wash pots and pans and cook

May the meals that we prepare each day

Be seasoned from above

With Thine special tenderness and care,

But most of all Thine love

As we partake of earthly foods

On the table Thou hast spread

We'll not forget to thank Thee Lord, For all our daily bread

So bless this little kitchen Lord, And all who enter in

May they find naught but peace and joy, And happiness therein...

Amen

The Bong

Livin' life to it's fullest, partying it up all day, and all night long

Till one day you wake up and see that you were so sadly wrong

The stench of your life had been masked by the smoke from your bong

And now awake, you find yourself in a place where you can't belong

As the haze that had corrupted your mind for too many wasted years

Slowly starts to dissipate and as your vision gradually clears

You see people you thought you might've known, from a life so long ago

Friends you once held dear, have become strangers you don't know

All around you, life is being lived with ostensible happiness

And you see that your own life, is a frightening, desolate mess

The face that's reflected in your mirror can't possibly be you

How could life have passed by so quickly, it simply can't be true!

Your pride, your self, your life, the very essence of your soul

Have faded to a shadow, and you've mysteriously grown old

Too old to come back from the place where your secrets'd been hid

While life passed by without you, while you were being just a "kid"

The piteous excuses that you conveyed to those who once had cared

You believed had covered up the fact that your senses'd been impaired

A river slowly grew between yourself and those you called your peers

For, as valiantly they tried to help, you glibly mocked their fears

Thus; why bother with the struggle to once more fit within the mold

Your spirit's grown too weary, your body too tired, too old

Why bother wear the mask you'd donned to try to fool your peers

Why bother veil the fact that your eyes are now filled with tears

Too many years to count have passed, and your vices own your soul

So why bother deal the cards again; in fact, why not just fold...

Rosevina Halley

November 22, 2006

Mr. Cocker E. Roach

Were you aware of the fact that a cockroach can live ten days without its' head? Is that not absolutely mind-boggling? I mean, come on! Whose Idea was this I'd like to know. I have always had a great hate/fear/paranoia about roaches. We have a very special relationship, the cockroach and I, as you see, I am being stalked by these fearsome creatures. Don't laugh, I assure you, once I am done with this little essay, you might begin to wonder, and perhaps begin to understand my absolute terror when confronted by this horrid, evil insects.
Have you ever seen a roach up close? I don't think that there's any other creature on the face of the earth (although the housefly grosses me out tremendously) that by seeing even a picture of it can cause me to break out into a cold sweat. This phobia begin when I was about twelve years old. I'd always been a tom-boy, and was forever in trouble with my parents when I would return home, with bloodied nose, torn clothes, matted hair, and pretty much mud from head to toe. I was always intrigued by animals and creatures of all sorts. I would examine from top to bottom creatures that I would catch and let loose after my examinations. No animal be it large or small was safe from my ever inquisitive (and I must interject, sometimes healing) ministrations. Even centipedes were no match for me!
There came a day though when my match was found while I was digging beneath our trailerhome, while trying to find out where my rabbit had had her babies. I was bitten by a cockroach, which hardly phased me at first, I simply crushed the little bugger. But by dinner time, I became aware that there was something amiss. For the toe where the roach had bitten me had swollen to humongous proportions and was hot to the touch and hurt like the dickens. At first I was confused, having forgotten about the earlier bite, but it slowly dawned on me that this was the selfsame toe that that roach had chomped on. When I submitted the toe to my parents for their inspection, my father's response was: "That's what you get for muckin' about under the house. Ah tell you a thousand times, now you get a centipede bite! Good for you! You make ya bed, now you just gonna have to lie down in it!" And with a huff, he was off. My mother, poor old soul, tried her best to nurse my "boo-boo" but nothing she did could touch the pain that was steadily intensifying in my now horribly deformed toe. So with her promise of "If it ain't better by morning we gonna go down and see doc", I was sent off to bed. (Luckily my father had not opted to use his "kerosene" cure all!)
I barely slept a wink the whole night, as the pain was growing steadily worse, and though I was afraid to turn on the light to examine my infected digit, I could feel that the size of said extremity was growing to a heretofore unimaginable enormity. I prayed to God like I never did before, I promised all sorts of things. (There came a point that eve, when all my prayers remained unanswered that I even considered offering up my soul to the "other" party). I sat in my bed and watch dark turn to light and saw the new day arrive with a trepiditious feeling in my gut, for I just knew that this day would bring excruciating pain, as my toe was now throbbing and purple, and the size (no joke) of a grapefruit.
When my mother beheld the dreadful condition of my unfortunate digit, she just about swooned in terror. I saw the look on her face, and my angst increased tenfold. For written on her face was the absolute certainty that I had underestimated the severity of the predicament. She swiftly (I never saw Ma move that fast)loaded my up in the car and drove with a speed that Nascar would envy. We arrived at Doc's office in record speed and when Nurse Cynthia saw the offending digit, she immediately and without even cursory remark ushered me into the Doctor's examination room. "Doc, she practically shrieked, You gotta see this! This chile got a toe!" As his back was turned to us, his reply was: "Well, I sure hope she does! In fact, I hope she has ten!" (Good Ol' Doc, ever the comic). The expression on his face, however, abruptly changed from wicked glee to one of amazement when he caught sight of my toe. He looked at me with astonishment and asked: "Now Roosje, what in God's name did you do to your poor toe?"
At this point in this episode, I was beyond words...My eyes teared up and I started to cry in absolute horrified dismay. My mother explained that this was the result of an insect bite. She seemed almost hesitant to relay the exact species of the insect, but Doc persevered and finally was let in on the dirty little secret of Mr. Cocker E. Roach (her name, not mine, for the accountable creepy-crawly). Doc's amazement only seemed to increase as he vociferously proclaimed to all within hearing distance: "Hogwash! Roaches can't bite! Tell us the true story young lady, or you stand to lose your toe, as I won't know which antidote to apply, and be forewarned, the wrong mixture could cause irreparable damage!" Scared now to my very marrow, I stuttered out to Doc that indeed the offending party was a cockroach, it took much doing, but he eventually realized that my story was genuine. At this point he seemed at a total loss. He'd never before dealt with the bite of a roach, Doc was genuinely baffled and wholly at a loss as to the proper treatment of such a bite. He confessed to my mother that he had never believed that roaches could actually bite. Well, my unfortunate digit was the center of attention that day. All manner of prodding and poking commenced, and I, owner of said smarting extremity, was largely ignored. To make a long story short, my toe and I suffered severe difficulties due to that daunting bite, and it came close to amputation as the infection had begun to turn gangrenous. But suffice to say, in all respects Doc saved my poor big toe from the gallows.
This is by no means the only altercation I've had with these malevolent harbingers of plague and pestilence (in my mind anyway). There have been encounters along my travails, too numerous to mention, that have caused me to see this creature as one that is not indigenous to this planet. There is no creature more alien in form, manner or corporeal anatomy that is even close to this "thing". I am absolutely convinced that this creature comes from somewhere outside our realm, and was put here to slowly overcome the human race. I'm sure that you are aware of the fact that it is extremely, if not entirely impossible, to control the overwhelming reproduction of this alien species. They outnumber us by far, and I'm told that one day in the event of any nuclear occurrence, this revolting creature will inherit the earth.
It is thus I leave you. Look not to the stars for the alien encounter. ET? Myth, folklore. The aliens are already amongst us, in the form of the repugnant cockroach.

Author's note: I do not wish in any way to give the impression that my father was an unreasonable or uncaring parent. I believe that his reactions were a defense in his inability to show his concern as is typical to the Caribbean male. Such is woman's role to play. It is an unfortunate cross that we have to bear, and albeit ofttimes grudgingly, we are bearing it.

Let's Get it on - If You Dare!

Allright Ladies and Gentlemen now that I see I have your attention:

Let's take the gloves off!
I'd like to know, once and for all, and please, guys; no holds barred!
I'd like to get down and dirty - get down to the nitty gritty if you will...
Let's talk about the one issue that we all really want to discuss, but
for some perverse, illogical, and yes, assinine reason, we all tippy toe
around, and just don't have the jutzpah to just come out and say what's
on our minds.

Ah yes, finally! My evil plan is unfolding...What...? You thought you
were getting a free ride? Nice little stories on life in the Caribbean?
What am I, your entertainment director? As if! Okay, okay, just
kidding, I shall continue on with my little stories, but this is just
an aside. A project...Yeah, yeah, that's it, a project, I swear, it's a homework assignment (Hah!). I've noticed the seemingly (and I hope genuine) interest in my site and I've gotten tons of responses and feedback on my stories, but for some
odd and inexplicable reason (!?), my comments section is very bare. Cobwebs
are growing people! Let's get a discussion going, shall we? So here's
my topic....Of course it would have to be something that just "gets my
goat", otherwise, how mundane, trivial, boooring, how....blah". So here goes, and if the gents are a little red in the face, or p'd off after reading this "rant", then by all means, let's talk abouddit!!! Be a man!

The Uneven Scales:

Call me foolish, or even an ignorant ass if that's how you choose to see it, but this whole double standard crap really gets me riled! Why, I say, WHY? In this modern day and age, and as far as we've come as the "INTELLIGENT SPECIES", do we still have to deal with this backwards, foolish, contemptible and wholly unfair issue? To think! Women have as much to offer as men do (realistically, we kinda tip the scales, admit it guys!). We have become an indespensible force in the workplace, we are (at times singlehandedly, and without support of "the powers that be" I give you Mr. G. Bush for one blatant example) running governments, we go to war, yes, even into combat (I erroneosly forgot to mention Clinton - Go Hilary!).

In a remarkably short period of time, women have come into their own, and you have to admit...We've kicked some serious ass! Yet without a doubt the majority of women that I know today tend to try to please their man, even, at times to their detrmiment or discomfort. I have seen it, and have probably subconciously probably even endorsed this vile and reprehensible trait in my daughter's upbringing. Regretfully I have to admit, to myself most of all; I talk the talk, but when it comes to the walk, I found that I've developed this horrible, odd limp. A twisted, bruised and painful sprain. I've faltered in my otherwise determined and precise gait. Why? What is the underlying cause that has brought about this unreasonable fear that women (some women, I'm in no way alledgeing or assuming that all women suffer from this perverse affliction) have of losing their man's love, attention and/or approval?

Do men feel anything that is even remotely similar to this wretched curse? If they have, I have not seen it, and of late I've been paying very close attention. Seriously guys, own up, you can be totally anonymous if you need to be (I promise I won't tell, Scout's honor!) There are Enquiring minds that want, no, NEED to know. Yeah yeah, you pay us glib lip service, but when the push gets right down to the shove, you know in your evil little minds that the balance is unequal.

I can't vouch for how it works in the rest of the world, but down here in the Caribbean, it sucks to be me! I know firsthand from experience, that there are women who are living in much worse and at times dangerous conditions, women who have absolutely no choice but to put up with varied abuses inflicted on them by those who claim to love and want to protect them. I have a theory on that... If you are up to the challenge, I can clarify and elucidate on my personal theories, and trust me....You won't be bored... :). As the yung'uns is sayin' these days: "Been there, done that."

So, Guys, Gals...Let's get it on, shall we? I DARE YOU!!! Comments?

The Simple Fisherman

His hands, calloused and rugged; blisters worn thin by time and toil,

repeat this morn the rites oft played out by his forefathers,

so many mornings, too numerous to count.
The pull of muscles stretching to take up the slack of the rope that
seems to have no end...Pull - Heave! This timeless
tempo repeats in a monotone as solemn as a dirge.
Silence envelops the small craft; as thick as a fog, broken only by the
soft slap of waves on wood.

At long last - Lo! The prize is in sight.
The dark secret depths slowly, painstakingly offer up with great
reluctance the precious treasure from the abyss.
Awesome gems; colorful as the rainbow, a cornocupia! Once hidden in the
depths below, they now tempt dawn's frail light.

Goddess Eve slowly rises from her cradle on the Eastern Horizon and
banishes proud Luna, mistress of the night to her abode in the West.
His precious cargo safely nestled in the hold, his workworn hands now
man the oars of the humble vessel and weary eyes turn towards shore,
and the long journey home... The oars fall into the familiar rythm
seemingly effortlessly, and the boat glides slowly yet ever surely
towards the shores of home.

He knows that anxious eyes are searching the horizon in eager
anticipation of his arrival, but his mind touches not on such mundane
matters; his thoughts only on the fall and the beat of the oars gripped
tightly in his hands. His aim to conquer the rising waves whose
constant pull at his boat cause him to strain.

At last the strand is breached. His hunched and aching back at last
finds release from the pain and toil of his labors, and he stands
upright and glories in the absence of aches.
Varied greedy hands fumble in haste to take hold of any part of the
treasure that is within their reach, to lay claim to the bounty that
lies within the hull of the tiny "ship".

All the while he sits in
amused silence and smiles patiently.
The cloying hands quieten suddenly - as though sated by their
conquests and small victorious claims. They offer up as though with an
afterthought; coins to him as though to soothe his loss of the bounty
he'd worked so hard to attain.
His hold is empty, yet a crooked smile graces his weathered face, as
the coins tinkle merrily in his pockets. The hop in his stride gives
evidence of his joy with life, and his stride gives lie to his apparent
age. Though wearied from his struggles of this morn, his fruitful
journey gives meaning to his course.

Smiling, welcoming faces eagerly await his return - no thoughts of
treasure or coin sullies their innocent emotions...True love awaits him
at the end of this, his final leg of the ritual.

Dedicated to my father....the simple fisherman.(Claudius Allen Halley Sr.)

The Dream

I was having a terrible vicious nightmare

This odious dream to last for a year

I struggled in vain to wake to the light

But the dream carried on, thus did my plight

With each renewed effort to free it's grasp on my soul

The nightmare grew stronger, and but tightened its hold

Finally too weary, grown to weak from the war

I succumbed to my victor, and struggled no more

'Twas this act that freed me; at last I could rise
But dawn's light revealed to my tear laden eyes

What I'd thought was a sick twisted trick of my mind

Was in fact the real horror...as I awoke to find
The place at my side where my love always stood

Was now dismally vacant...

and my heart turned to wood

The Lamentable Lapses of our Local Labor Laws

My hand trembles, as I sit here with certain foreboding; intending to relate my outrageous, ongoing and seemingly never-ending challenges with a simple matter at our illustrious labor office. The repercussions of this public airing of my quandary may yet prove to be my undoing, and I’m sure it will follow me with resolve for many days, months, (years? Egad!) to come. Yet, I feel I have no other alternative than to display and hope for (dare I dream?) an evaluation of the frustratingly sluggish and appallingly inadequate efforts of aforementioned organization. I hesitate in using the proper noun as I wouldn’t want to recklessly waken the giant from his cavalier slumber.

I had hoped to be brief and to the point, but alas! My tale is no tea time anecdote, so sit back, get comfortable, and … welcome to my world!

The Lamentable Lapses of our Local Labor Laws

My ex-husband and I have a small, yet thriving business. A two man operation, if you will. I run the office, he runs the sales. Now, having decided to take the plunge and expand our little “Mom and Pop” operation, we searched and found what we believed to be a unique product that we could offer to St. Maarten, and eventually the Caribbean at large at a quite attractive price. We searched and searched, but could find no local talent that would be able to provide the services that we required. So, off we went abroad to find such just an artist to fulfill our ambitious and hopefully lucrative dreams for out modest operation searching far and wide for a considerable time, when we thankfully stumbled upon two artisans who were ideally suited to our requirements. Our needs were simple: we needed workers who were willing to relocate for a contracted period in which they would provide knowledge of the craft we would be introducing to the local market, and who would also be willing to teach interested locals who were keen to learn said trade. These gentlemen would work for no more than two years, and return from whence they came, leaving behind a number of talented tradesmen, who would hopefully be employed by our company.

Now, being law abiding and honest citizens, we approached the proper governmental department to query what the requisites were for employing immigrant workers. We were given a list (with the unconditional essentials neatly highlighted) and were told to fill out a job vacancy request. We graciously filled out the applications, which were to be advertised somewhere amidst the echelons of this department for a period of six weeks. After this period had passed, and no qualified laborer could be found locally, we were then to submit our request for foreign laborers. Okay, we thought, six weeks. Not too bad really. Slightly disheartening, but not an devastating setback. Forms filled out, we returned to work, marking off on our calendar the date of the expiration of this vacancy request.

Six weeks passed by with swiftness, and the day arrived for our return to finally submit the necessary paperwork which would initiate the process for work permits for our foreign workers. Up to our elbows in copies of birth certificates, marriage licenses, conduct of behavior etc etc etc. we worked our way through, all the while eyeing the light at the end of the tunnel with optimism. Our fees paid, all paperwork submitted, we were told that we were now going to have to wait for another three months to receive the decision to our petition. Oh well, we thought, in for the penny, in for the pound. So wait we did…and wait…and wait. Finally losing (just a wee bit) of our patience, we decided to check up on our petition (six months having gone by). Apprehensively, with hat in hand we once again presented ourselves to the “oh so overworked” offices, our intention merely to provide a gentle reminder of our pending request. To our absolute horror, we discovered that our request could not be found! No record of any such transaction! Luckily, having dealt with similar agencies previously, I had made countless copies of all the documentation and kept a file in a safe (non-governmental) fire proof filing cabinet, with a combination lock for extra security.

Foreseeing yet another regrettable and unnecessary delay in this “simple” process, I dejectedly returned home to retrieve my colossal file. Upon my return to the office, I was simply dumbfounded to discover that “I” was remiss in leaving the originals at the office, for they only ever kept copies, as the originals were to be presented at another office (some colored building it seems), and as I was the party at fault, I would simply have to have new original documentation sent from the worker’s originating country. I prayed for strength, I prayed for patience, and I fervently prayed that the machete would stay put under the bed! Having been taught to meekly wait and murmur not, I once again submitted the required documentation and proceeded to do just that. This time though, the originals could not be removed from my tightly clenched fist without the aid of a mighty crowbar.

Finally word came after much meek and humble waiting. Anxiously we opened the long awaited missive with high hopes and expectations, only to discover that our petition had been denied! Regrettably this rejection was most likely caused by our uninformed oversight of the inclusion of particular supplementary perquisites that lawfully count as remuneration. This being the case, the net salary fell short of the required minimum for foreign labor (note: the salary we quoted in our request was slightly above local minimum wage for a manual laborer). Once again, proverbial hat in hand, we darkened the doorway of our now almost second home, in the hopes that with the simple explanation of our lack of knowledge for appropriate diction and the compulsory inclusions of “extras” et al, we would somehow be able to penetrate the thick, dense fog that hovers in these, our civil service enterprises. Perhaps, with some stroke of hopeful (though most likely improbable) luck, some civil, solicitous Samaritan who had been on sabbatical on our previous visits would take pity on our plight, and seek to aid us in our seemingly hopeless quandary. Regrettably, similitude and the luck of the damned continued to be our devoted comrade, our unsolicited shadow. No offerings of advice, no assistance in how to proceed henceforth. At a loss of further options, we decided to seek the counsel of our elected officials at the Government Building. Luckily, the commissioner of labor had an opening just a few days later and we quickly made an appointment to have a meeting..

I’m not the kind to laud any of our elected officials, far from it! Those who know me are all too aware of my constant condemnation of the often imperceptive and usually ill advised “boo-boos” of our nominated politicians. This particular day however, proved to be an awakening and a reassessment of these, our chosen leaders. The treatment I received in the office of our commissioner of labor was above reproach. His ante-room was crowded as several people were waiting either to see the commissioner, or were communicating their varied grievances to the harried (and my heartfelt commiserations were genuine) personal aides and secretaries. No rolling of the eyes, no filing of the nails, and For Real And For True…no solitaire games on the computer desktops! I was met with genuine respect, and although the wait proved to be almost unbearable, the fact that I was not ignored by the aides of the commissioner gave me the courage to sit still and wait. Upon entry to his office, I was a little surprised. I had expected an ostentatious office, certainly a room of larger dimensions. To my (thankfully masked) surprise, what I discovered was an office with an average sized desk and two guest chairs facing the commissioner. The room was barely large enough to hold even these conventional furnishings. The only shows of pride that I could see displayed were some sculptures and paintings that gave the viewer the understanding that Mr. Laveist took his heritage seriously in that they were so prominently and proudly displayed on his walls and cabinets.

The commissioner put paid to my past comments on Governments failure in responding to the needs of the residents, and hardly had the time to bid them good-day, much less to try to solve an issue of such epic (in our minds anyway) proportions. I was pleasantly surprised, in that the Commissioner made it his central concern that fateful day, and called up the lamentable labor location previously mentioned and tried to come to some understanding of the whole affair.

It was with obvious regret that we were informed that we would have to now appeal our denied application to the Executive Council. To cut to the chase..We appealed, we won. Well, that was almost two years ago, but I’m quite pleased to say that our foreign workers have arrived on our shores, soon to commence on our new endeavor. Suffice to say that there are nightmares galore when we consider that soon the work permits will have to be renewed…..!

Description for the dreaded "Yaws"

One of my readers was kind enough to look up the description for Yaws, a disease that I wrote about in one of my previous posts. I thank him from the bottom of my heart for this. I thought maybe I should share it with those of you who are curious as to its' definition:

Yaws is an infectious tropical disease caused by the spirochete (spiral shaped) bacterium known as Treponema pertenue. The disease presents in three stages of which the first and second are easily treated. The third, however, may involve complex changes to the bones in many parts of the body. The first stage is characterized by the appearance of small, painless bumps on the skin that group together and grow until they resemble a strawberry. The skin may break open, forming an ulcer. The second stage (usually starting several weeks or months after the first) presents with a crispy, crunchy rash that may cover arms, legs, buttocks and/or face. If the bottoms of the feet are involved, walking is painful and the stage is known as "crab yaws." Stage 3 yaws involves the long bones, joints, and/or skin. Yaws is very common in tropical areas of the world but rare in the United States. It is not a sexually transmitted disease.

Again, Thank You Joe, whoever and wherever you are. I can now sleep at night....

What's all this virus and malware stuff about?

Idle Hands are the Devil's Workshop

I'd really love for someone to explain it all to me - in detail - what the virus and malware and spyware etc. programs that are the greatest negative issue on the internet today are all about. I basically understand the spyware - it's so that (producers/sales) can "tag" you and see what you're looking at online and rate you. This is so that they can send material to you that would be most tempting and would generally cause you to spend money online. Or it's someone who wants to know your personal details which can be used in various manners i.e. identity theft, fraud etc. Your computer can also be used as an "alias" so that some hacker can use your ip address to perform any manner of harmful or illegal actions.

But what I don't get is the absolute useless and pointless malware that is being sent out simply to cause your computer to crash, or that erases your data files, causing the user to want to bang his/her head against the wall. Is this not absolute idiocy? How can one possibly gain satisfaction by simply sending out these programs to try to destroy someone else's hard work? Is this not simply insanity run amok? And there's obviously quite a bit of Looney Toons runnin' about out there, as the abundance of this malware shows.

The time that it takes out of one's busy schedule in order to scan and disinfect your computer daily (yes, I do it daily!) is a time consuming exercise that some users can ill afford. If you are in any way connected with work online, you know how tedious it is to have to spend this time uploading new spyware definitions and virus info. updates, scanning and debugging, that could otherwise be used by lucrative (legal) activities.

Seriously people (if you are one of these Evil Adolescent Miscreants") Get A Life, fer cryin' out loud! Enough with the childish pranks. Like we don't have enough to worry about with the serious criminals out to get us. We have to put up with your insanity too?

Oy Vey! Gimme a break already!

The Money Tree

Regardless of your “neck of the woods”, I’m quite sure the money tree tale is one that is well known to you. Too many times to count I’ve heard that phrase offered up for any variety of requests. “Mom, Dad, I need a new copybook”: “What; you think I got a money tree growin’ in the back yard?”. Time and again this was the oft echoed response to all and sundry. Now, one particular afternoon, my younger brother happened upon some silver coins (collectors items, mind you) in one of our parents “off limits” drawers. Thirty guilders (one guilder being equivalent to US$ .55). Our mother had been saving these coins for God knows how many years and was quite protective of these coins, as she had carefully and prudently collected them over a period of years.

My little brother upon discovering this immense treasure, decided to embark upon a feat that heretofore had never been accomplished; being an entrepreneur at heart, he decided that he would become the richest man/boy on St. Maarten. Keeping his delicious secret close to heart, he embarked upon the natural sequence of the “money tree” theory.

Appropriating the treasured coins during our parents’ absence one afternoon, and with nary a word to my sister or me, he surreptitiously absconded with the treasured bounty. Not one soul missed the stash until many a week later. My mother, while going through the “off limits” drawer discovered the deficit of her treasured swag, and with a hiss and a shriek (to be compared to the illustrious banshee) summoned my father to witness the dearth of said collection. My mother; is was and always will be a woman of infinite unfathomable wisdom. Always the conciliator, never the disciplinarian, (my father filled that particular appointment exceptionally well) was quick to repudiate the possibility that her progeny might be the perpetrator of this callous misdeed. My father, however, being ever the misanthropist had disparate opinions. Nevertheless, he allowed my mother’s belief to sway his view for once.

It was thus that the ominous family meeting was called to order. When a family meeting was called in our household, there was never any discussion of “unsatisfactory grades” or “birds of a feather” or any such mundane balderdash. The very idea of a discussion of a family vacation was simply ludicrous (one summer we were rudely awakened at 5:00 a.m. with: get dressed! We’re off to Disney World!). The entire family’s presence was simply an assurance that the guilty party were present and conspicuous to the scrutiny of my father’s wary eye. Twitch not lest ye feel the bite of the switch! Many a time I’d been found guilty of some uncommitted transgression by my simple fear of the punishment that would be administered. The fear of reprisal only increased when the offense was unidentified, for the merest flicker or blink of the eye was usually judged to be a sign of guilt. And woe be unto the fidgeters (I always made a point of taking a trip to the ladies at the mere hint of a family meeting).

Did I mention the entrepreneurial spirit of my brother? Did I also mention that this boy was con to the bone? At the unveiling of the offense, this young man sat there (I believe he was 9 or 10 years old at the time) and didn’t even blink an eye! No twitching, no fidgeting, ice wouldn’t have melted on this kid. My younger sister at the time was still a little damp behind the ears and simply couldn’t be bothered with all this nonsense, and in her usual fashion was off in a world of her own (probably dreaming of ponies, a tale best told later…) and I, in my usual guilty fashion sat in my usual tremulous state with an obtuse hope of being overlooked.

It was apparent to all that on this occasion my father was a little preoccupied, for his punishment was not to be instantly meted out as was the norm. Instead, a much appreciated reprieve was granted so that we could “think it over and do the right thing”
Family meeting over, us siblings gathered in the back yard to discuss and determine the exact foundation of this accusation. Both my brother and sister seemed nonplussed as to the grounds, my brother in particular showing astonishment at this unwarranted indictment. I was skeptical at first, but his bewilderment ultimately came across as genuine.

Och ye of little acumen! It was not until just before nightfall that my brother’s puckish deeds were confessed. In an aside my brother professed quite vehemently; “yeah, just wait till that tree bear fruit, I bet you he go be sorry den!”

It seems that my little brother, in his entrepreneurial spirit, and with the oft mentioned money tree; had decided to use my mother’s silver coins to plant this wondrous tree. He could be seen watering this tree (or spot on the ground) liberally each day in congruence with my mother’s watering of her plants. To his credit, that mound of dirt was watered for a much longer time than I gave him credit for. It was not until the opening of baseball season that his much anticipated money tree was put to rest.

My brother Claudius Allen Halley is my hero. Though short his time on earth, he made use of it in ways unimagined. His life was cut short at the tender age of 26. That which he aspired to be, he surpassed in every sense of the word. Allen – wither thou goeth, soon I too shall follow, light the path for me….Rosevina

No Thief by Trade (Oswald's story)

We going back to that casino dung yonda, and we gonna check out who winnin and who cashin’ out and tekkin big money home. Den we gonna follow them ‘n see if dey walk dong the road a li’l bit. If dey walk you gone follow dem and hole dem up down a ways, and mek sure yuh wear de damn mask dis time. While you busy wid dem, ah gon run and get de cyar – don’t forget ta take de watch and jewelry too. Ah gon pick yuh up when yuh done. But you gon hafta run fast fast, cuz ah ain’ gone stop de cyah, but ah gon be sure to slow dong. Jus run and jump in fast. Now don’ be stupid an’ forget de mask dis time. Lord Jesus have mercy ‘s like a gah hole he hand, big man like he. Ah swear ah getting’ too old for dis shit!

All the while Oswald was fervently praying that his father would get distracted with the slots as was his wont and not notice if there were any big cash outs. He made silent promises with God that the waitresses would be free with the the drinks and that the bartenders were suddenly afflicted with heavy handedness. God forgive him, but he prayed that every single player would crap out – lose big time!

The cashier was conveniently located between two rows of slot machines - his fathers’ favorite kind – penny slots. Clarence strutted up to the cashier with his usual swagger, and as though Rockefeller reincarnated purchased a whole two dollars worth of nickels for the machines. He handed Oswald a roll of coins with a disdainful sneer and mutely pointed him towards the machine situated to the left of the cashier and whispered; “now, only play one at a time eh…We gotta make this money last a good while, OK? Oswald nodded his agreement and slowly walked over to the slot machine his father had indicated. He broke open his roll and obediently put only one coin in the slot, counting to five slowly before he pulled the lever. After about the fourth pull, Oswald lost sense of where he was, and what he was supposed to be doing, as once again, he started daydreaming.

Oswald was far away in dreamland when he heard an excited yelling coming from his right. A crowd had mysteriously gathered around some lucky fool who’d obviously won a large amount of money as they were all shouting Bravo! Good for you! It was at this point that Oswald heard: “Oswald!!! Boy, get yuh scrawny ass over heh to see wha ya daddy done gone and do!” Ohnononono was all that Oswald could think in absolute dismay, what has he done now? The crowd made way for Oswald to approach his father’s side, and to his great surprise his father was proudly standing in front of the winning Jackpot Machine repeating to all who would listen: “Ah jus had a feelin’ in me gut dat tonite was gon be me lucky night. Ah wuz telling mah boy so all de way dong from tong. Heh, look ‘im deh, ask ‘im if tain’ true!” All heads turned simultaneously to where Oswald was standing, who was trying his utmost to become invisible. “Boy, don’ just stand deh like a dam fool! Go look see if yuh cyan fine wannadem machine cashout fellas! Lewwe cash out quick an’ get de hell outta here.

Oswald was only too happy to get out of the spotlight that was growing brighter and hotter around his father. He quickly found an attendant and advised him that his father wished to collect his jackpot. The attendant smelling a possible big tip, hastened over to where he could hear Clarence singing to the top of his lungs, not caring that his falsetto was oh-so-slightly off key.

Clarence made rather short work of the attendant’s duties, hurrying him along at every tick of the clock. He didn’t bother thanking the young man, much less tip him. Almost dancing a jig in his glee at winning, he proceeded to the cashier’s cage and handed her his printout from the machine. She raised her eyebrows in surprise when she glanced down at the amount. “Would you like me to have a check made out for you sir?” Clarence stepped back as though he’d been physically assaulted, “A check? A check? You is mad woman! Gimme me dam money cyash! Tain’ cash ah give yuh when ah buy meh coins? Ah don wan no piece a paper dat look like paper, but when you bank widdit, it bouncin’ up and dong like a dam kangaroo! Ah wan cold hard cash! An ah checkin’ yuh good fa any false moves. Ah wan every dam cent, cuz ti moin!”

“But sir, this is a substantial amount of money, aren’t you afraid to be walking around with all this cash? Surely a check would be safer, I assure you the casino can stand for it!” “Chups” was Clarence’s insolent reply to her plea. “Jus gimme de money woman. Me an meh heh can carry an’ proteck it jus fine!” Shaking her head in disgust at his refusal to listen to reason, she shrugged. “Very well sir, I just have to go to the safe in back for a minute to compensate your win.” “Yeh, yeh yeh, jus hurry it up cauz ah ain’ got all night, aright?”

The clerk entered a large steel door which was located to the rear of the cage, mumbling to herself something about a fool and his money soon being parted. Clarence clearly heard her mutterings, but was simply in too good a mood to respond. He struggled to contain his impatience at the delay in getting his hands on the cash, but had no alternative but to wait, as the cashier was safely ensconced in her gilded cage, safely out of reach. “Ah jus hope she ain’ in de back deh printin’ up no funny money, Boy ah would be vex!” Oswald couldn’t help but chuckle at his father’s statement. “Yuh laugh? T’ would be hell tuh pay if she gimme any ah da dam Monopoly money yuh hear?” But the cashier luckily returned to the cage before his father could gather up enough steam to progress with his rantings any further.


Author’s note: I have included a link to my definitions of some words that some readers might find difficult to understand. I am in no way making any suppositions or judgments by this action; I am simply trying to make the story more pleasing for those readers who have problems in “translating” our bad English.

Slumber nae too soundly

Slumber nae too soundly ere that limpid, insiduous beast of darkness should slither 'cross the threshold of thine doorway and do away with the goodness that resides within thine heart.
Blissful sleep doth oft repair the worries and hurts of the wakeful hours, but in the comforting arms of sleep the soul lays bare and open to the torments of the beast.

Thus I plead with thee to leave no room for trespass unto these thine sacred grounds...for one can never truly trust the dark to succor or protect thee from its evil grasp.

We are but wilted flowers in the path of its ill mannered altruisms and demonic persuasions.
For in slumber the beast takes hold of our meek and pliable will and bends it as butter freshly churned.
And like lambs to the proverbial slaughter we meekly tread, all the while knowing of the horrors that lay ahead.

Bah! Fie! I say unto this beast; get thee hence and away from my sight ere I summon the wrath of the gods upon thine head.
I shall call forth the winds from the four corners of the earth to flatten thee down to thine knees.
I shall wake the waters of the oceans to wash thee away as in the time of Noah and his great ark.
I shall cause the sun to scorch thine head so that it would shrivel and aught that would remain of it would be burnt remnants...

Alas, these are but words of bluster, filled with righteous indignation, made up of naught but hot and gaseous airs.
For I am aware in my deepest most secret soul of souls that at the onset of the first shadow of darkness, quivering I shall lay in the thrall of the threat of the beasts' imminent arrival to the doorway of my peaceful reveries.
Thus shall the nightly megrims be brought about as the liquid dark struggles to possess my very essence.

Thus it is with heavy heart and dragging step that I trudge toward the scene of my ultimate vanquishing.
Mayhap this eve my whispered pleas will at last be heard, allowing me to rest unencumbered while embraced by blissful carefree dreams...
Mayhap the beast shall rest this eve....

Living in Paradise

Living in Paradise is not all it's cracked up to be. There's the heat, the constant humidity. There's the unfair practices at the workplace. There's sexual harassment and abuse. There's the belief that women are substandard...Or just plain "fair game" and that we should "take that and cool it". Well I've had it! I'm tired, worn, weary, washed out and fed up with it already. The Caribbean woman is the center of the household, and whether or not she applied for the job, she somehow gets handed the "woman's work". "Woman's work" usually entails anything in the house beyond the front door. If a sock goes missing, she should know where it is. If a stomach is growling it is her duty to fill it. If the floor needs sweeping/mopping, well...I won't digress further. Suffice to say that all the bill paying, cleaning, cooking, washing or anything that goes on in the home is her job. The children's faith, education, etiquette and manners are to be taken care of by her, and if she should have difficulties in dealing with them, well then, that was her choice, wasn't it?The man goes to work, comes home, flops down on the sofa/bed/hammock and expects that his mate should manage everything that goes on in the home. Regardless of whether she herself works or not. His meals are to be cooked and served (don't even think of him going near that kitchen stove or sink. A broom? What in God's name is that? "Woman! You see me look like a maid?" This ritual it seems has been handed down through the generations, and has somehow been ingrained into the Caribbean Woman's psyche. I know firsthand, because you see, I am a Caribbean woman. You somehow end up feeling guilty if something goes wrong in the household. There is a burden that is carried on our shoulders as though a cross to suffer, yet we compliantly go along with it, why? Why should we be humble and meek and not stand up for our rights? Don't get me wrong now, I love St. Maarten. I love the beauty of the Caribbean and her peoples. There is an inexplicable joy in the day to day lives of the average Caribbean person (usually more pronounced around carnival time) and we are a people with playful mischievousness in our blood, which can be gleaned from our music, literature and basic way of life. Life could be so much better if we could get our (in)significant others to rise up to the challenge: Be a "Caribbean (wo)MAN!!!!