The Second-Degree Murder of Raggedy Ann

Raggedy Ann died in a freak microwaving accident. Call me callous, but it was not until I was well into adulthood that I was reminded of this tragic event.

In fact, only as I sorted through old toys for charity, did sight of the Brother Raggedy unleash the ugly, terrifying truth I had blocked out for so many years.

His sister Ann would not be among these bags and boxes.

Raggedy Ann was dead.

Ann and Andy had been a rather mismatched set from the beginning. Ann was a tall girl-- lean, lanky, and towering above her brother.

Together they looked like a stuffed Sonny and Cher. And, following the tradition, it was Ann who got all the attention.

Ann also suffered from female pattern baldness. So my mother would dutifully re-wig her with whatever color yarn she had handy.

By my kindergarten year, Ann looked less like Cher and more like Courtney Love-- a sticky, smeared, and faded strawberry-blond.

Then she succumbed to further indignity, when Grandpa sat on her.

I can admit it now; it was my frantic attempt to save her from smothering (the Aged Relative was not known for his exemplary hygiene) that inadvertently detached her arm, and triggered her true downward spiral.

I waited fearfully, while Mom put Ann in rehab. Under her skillful hands, Ann was stitched-up, washed, coiffed, detoxed and just about ready to begin life anew. I was overjoyed.

But Ann was also still drenched. A day went by... another... and repeated tumbles in the dryer, and even summer sunbathing on the porch, didn't encourage her ultimate recovery. I was five and I was anxious.

And that’s when Mom decided to speed-dry her in the microwave.

I should emphasize that in the mid-70s, microwaves were still rare and mysterious things. Shadowy and mystical... Akin to Sea Monkeys, StarWars and the high-tech visual delights of Atari Pong.

Mom's logic was that if a microwave could cook a baked potato in seven minutes, it could surely dry some cotton hussy with sporadic alopecia. And it might have worked, too. Only, see, microwaves cook from the inside out and Ann’s insides were, we later learned, sawdust.

Black smoke pouring from the appliance signaled the beginning of the end for our Ann.

In seconds, our dining room smelled like a bonfire. Flames shot from Raggedy Ann’s chest, licking the microwave’s inner roof. The smoke detector squawked like a dying goose. Mom shrieked, tossed baking soda on the doll and patted her down like Kurt Russell in Backdraft. Ann was carried out smoldering.

My mother made a final, noble attempt to resuscitate Raggedy Ann. A denim patch went over the spot where the fatal heartburn had taken place. And we went through the motions of redrawing her facial features with magic marker.

But she still reeked of burnt wood and scorched cotton. And her face was just wet enough so that her markered lips bled into a crooked, post-mortem sneer.

It was time to face facts: Raggedy Ann was no more. We put her in a grocery bag and I watched from the window as Mom set her out with the trash.

I never got another Ann. It would have been disrespectful. But when the Adult Me picked up Andy and added him to the donation bag, I had to wonder...

How on earth did I ever explain to him that his sister, who went in for a simple makeover procedure, ended up dead and dumped at the side of the road?

To this day he probably figures it was a mob hit.

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Shutterbug Pop and the Runaway Train

I've been thinking of getting a video camera.

Of course, knowing me, I will likely end up spending less time using it to capture meaningful holiday moments and unique historical attractions-- and more time figuring out how to do stop-animation film of, say, Marshmallow Peeps staging an Easter-time jailbreak or something.

But to each his own.

The thought of the video camera, however, brought back memories of the last real family trip my parents and I took together-- a trip to Disney, in my 17th summer...

And how the Frontierland roller coaster made a, er, lasting impression on my Pop.

I believe I mentioned last week that during the 80s, my father had a very high-tech video camera. Which meant it was roughly the size of a Victorian steamer trunk for a six-month voyage. And this being my last trip with the folks before permanently flying the nest, the Pop was determined to document ALL the memories using this fine example of technology.

So, as we passed through Frontierland, and waited in line for the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad ride, my father decided that it would be pretty cool to film being on the ride.

Now, I don't know if you're familiar with this ride or not, but it's styled like a runaway train, rolling through jagged Old West mountains and dry desert terrain. And is it fast! Many a set of Mickey Mouse ears-- and a zippity-do-da-dinner-- has been a casualty of this ride.

Having explored this ride previously on a band trip, I was well aware of this fact. But see here's the thing:

My dad is a very intelligent man, but he is not what you'd call "A Listener." I've learned over the years that I have about a five-word limit on my part of any conversation before he's already delving into more important things.

It's sorta like using Twitter. I know I'd better get what I have to say out in the allotted characters or it's all a no-go.

(Now I think about it, I probably became a writer so I could complete full sentences.)

Anyway, so when the Pop was explaining his plan for the Best Family Video Ever, I was getting out phrases like...

"But Pop, this is fast and--"

"Really fast, Pop! I don't think--"

"The curves, you see, are quite--"

"It winds, Pop, centripetal force, and--"


No dice. The five-word limit was still in place.

So as we strapped ourselves into the car-- Dad in the center with the electronic steamer trunk hoisted onto his shoulder-- well, I admit, I felt a certain smug anticipation. I mean, I know why I didn't stop him, but why no one else gave it a shot, I really can't say.

Or why he didn't pay attention to the signs saying "Secure Your Belongings, This is a Super-fast Ride and YOU, Sir, Still Seem to be Holding Very Expensive Recording Equipment."

Some footage apparently is worth the risk.

So the ride began at a nice enough pace. We chugged up the hill, the Pop smiling benevolently at Mom and me with the glow of a cameraman destined for home movie greatness.

And then we got to the top and Pop's whole perspective on the matter shifted.

So did the video camera.

As we roared around the turn-- the sounds of Jethro Tull's Locomotive Breath seemed to come to my ears-- and the camera had decided it would prefer to bow to the forces of physics over the force of one very determined tourist from New Jersey.

It took a feat of astounding strength for my father to even retain his grip on the machine-- so fast were we clattering over the rails, around horseshoe bends, and s-curves, with animatronic buzzards fluttering in wait.

The Pop managed through sheer will alone to force the camera into a spot of relative stability back down into the car, onto his leg. The ride, two thrilling minutes for some-- two terrifying minutes of destruction and potential lawsuits for another-- slowed at the station, the engine letting out a steamy sigh of relief.

My father did, too. We exited and Pop rose, only to notice his upper thigh had taken on a brand new feature...

A Victorian steamer trunk-sized, camera-shaped bruise.

I used my five word allotment:

"Told you it was fast."

Pop didn't find it nearly as funny as I did.

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Bully for Me: The Fourth-Grade Recess Showdown

Bullies. Harry Potter had Dudley Dursley... Ralphie Parker had Scut Farcas… And in terms of these epic battles of Good versus Evil, fought and lost on the Great Playground of Life-- why, me, I had Tanya “Teeny” DeLuca.

Teeny was, in fact, really small. But what she lacked in size, she more than made up for with a troublemaker’s finesse.

Her procedure was like that of a barracuda. This thin fish with razor-sharp choppers slowly, carefully sidles up to its potential meat and then-- BANG!-- shoots in for the kill. Atypical behavior for your average grade-schooler, okay. But this Wild Kingdom episode played itself out over and over again, for myself and every other member of the fourth grade.

Oh yes, no one was truly immune from the torment, the fists, the cornering after class. But it wasn't long before she'd honed in on Yours Truly as one of her extra-special targets.

In retrospect, I can hardly blame her. With braces, glasses, good grades and a chronic case of politeness, I see now that it was just another well-worn scene in this, our natural world. Cheetahs pick off the injured gazelle... Bullies trounce the gangly nerd-girl in the brown plaid and loafers.

It’s the circle of life.

Her first move in class was, as I think back on it, a exercise in Bully Genius. Not surprising, really, because she'd been honing her skills for about two years now on the mean streets of suburban Jersey.

It's good to have a hobby.

This particular day, she'd bided her time until our teacher was out of the room, and then reached across the aisle from her desk to mine, and seized my hand. In a second, she'd dug her fingernail into its surface, deeply enough to make it bleed.

Holding on with the power of a constrictor, she worked feverishly to rub her pencil point neatly into the wound while I struggled.

"There!" she hissed, smile peeling back over glistening white predator teeth. "I put lead in there! You have lead poisoning now! You're going to die."

"Oh no! Lead poisoning!" I cried, cradling my arm as she released it. I recall wondering whether the school nurse had an antidote for that... Or for the death thing. I could see the silvery graphite there in the wound, imagining particle by particle seeping into my blood. I cried and mourned my untimely demise. I'd had such big plans. And now they were gone, snuffed out at age 8 by lead poisoning.

"And if you tell, you'll really get it," she warned.

Worse than death by lead poisoning? Oh good gravy, did the tortures ever end?

I spent the rest of the day not feeling very well, convincing myself it was the poison seeping into my system, and too afraid to tell anyone what happened. By evening, my mom had set me straight about that whole pencil graphite not actually being lead issue. And my world seemed a brighter, cheerier place once more. In the world of Kiddom, trauma could wash away like chalk paintings in summer rain.

But Teeny, oh, she wasn't done with me yet. Later that week she cornered me on the playground with a couple of hulking sixth graders at her side, pummeling me with foul words I’d never heard before. Every couple of days thereafter brought brand new perils.

Then the tide turned in one single day.

Recess had never actually been much fun, even when it wasn't Bully Season. Because the school was afraid of some kid getting injured on the playground and being sued, they ripped out all the swing sets and jungle gyms so we wouldn't hurt ourselves. We also weren't allowed to run, use balls, bats, or other sports equipment, play hopscotch, jump rope or climb the trees...

They considered wrapping us all in bubble wrap, but were concerned about heat rashes.

Cards were forbidden because it was gambling. An out-of-control set of jacks could poke out an eye.

This left us wandering around the macadam like a bunch of laid-off union workers-- bored, surly, and looking for anything to liven things up a little.

Josette and I would pretend we were characters from Star Wars or The Dukes of Hazzard-- pretty much anyone less likely than we were to have their lunch money stolen-- and hope we were invisible.

But Teeny's keen graphite-colored eyes could see.

I don't know what it was exactly that set her off this day. The offending glint off my bottle lenses in the sun? The haughty snap of my elastic argyle knee socks? The overconfident rattle of the metal lunchbox in my hand?

But Teeny DeLuca was ready to rumble.

She cornered me at the flagpole, pushing, and spitting out filthy names like tobacco juice, which I was convinced she chewed in her off-hours. And as I looked down at her contorted little mug sneering up at me, suddenly I realized...

This wasn't fair. I didn't deserve this.

Just because I got good grades, and wore thrift store clothes, and couldn't see, and had crooked teeth, and stringy hair and maybe wasn't exactly the social butterfly of Classroom 18, it didn't mean I had no right to exist...

Just because I didn't have dock worker epithets... or fists of fury... or a bunch of sixth graders with anger management issues ready to back me up, didn't mean I had to take this...

I mean, what did I have?

I had a durable, metal "Dukes of Hazzard" lunchbox.

Ah, that wonderful, wonderful sound! The glorious clatter of lunchbox on outstretched fist. The contact made her cold, marble-like eyes fly open wide with shock and renewed rage. She tried again, knuckles flying, but for every punch—wham! The Dukes struck again.

This battle-- Teeny versus the Dukes went on and on-- possibly until our fourth grade moving-up ceremony. By this point, a crowd had formed around us and Teeny was beginning to realize their overall sentiments were not exactly on her side.

"You put down that lunchbox and fight fair!" she spat, anger and now fear creeping into her voice.

But I’d put up my Dukes for the first time in my life, and I wasn't stopping now.

Then suddenly my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Ciccetti was there, guiding me away. Someone else had a hold of Teeny, who was kicking and struggling, still ready to finish the round.

The bell rang and we were officially sent to our corners.

I heard words like "suspension" soar over the crowd like a paper airplane. And that's when I started to cry. Not only would I have suspension for fighting in school, but my lunchbox was dented. My parents were not going to take kindly to this. First lead poisoning, and then public execution. All before I was ten.

And to think I’d shown such promise.

That's what ran through my head as Mr. Ciccetti escorted me into the school. He held the door for me, as I walked through the threshold to certain doom, tears streaming down my face and speckling my steamed-up glasses.

I remember how he smelled warmly of cologne as he leaned down and asked me just one single question:

"Did you really hit her?"

"Yeah," I breathed in-between hitching sobs.

His mustache rippled a bit, finally turning up at the ends. "Good."


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Magic Fingers Ma and the Quest for the Mega Blender

"Was the dark of the moon on the sixth of June in a Kenworth pulling logs... Cab-over Pete with a reefer on, and a Jimmy hauling hogs..."

Ah, the well-metered poetry of "Convoy"! How I remember C.W. McCall singing those words out through my parents' crackling AM radio. Dad was never able to tune in his usual classical music on our vacations, so "Convoy" was a sure sign of summer. A sign of the long, wonderful drive from Northern New Jersey down to Cape May in the white-and-blue Dodge Family Wagon.

The Family Wagon... I did love that vehicle.

Thinking back now, that camper was likely the precursor for the Transformers. Everything in it became something else. The two bench rows of seats flipped and spun to become a dining booth... Add a few pieces stowed inside the seats-- and voila!-- a kitchen table. Curtains snapped into place for privacy. And me-- a five-year-old, more flexible me--well, I stowed myself away in the rafters each night in a loft bed that pulled out to overlook the grandeur that was portable vacation-a-rama.

The camper had gas burners-- nothing like Mom's normal, coffee-toned electric stove back home. A propane smell filled the air, which signaled bacon, fried in an actual pan instead of by that new microwave technology. Real bacon, too, not the assembled bacon wannabe of Sizzlean that Mom often tried to slip by us. It crunched and then melted in the mouth, salty and sweet.

I was also allowed a particular and usually-forbidden delicacy during this time: tiny boxes of sugary cereals. Froot Loops, Coco Krispies and Apple Jacks were my biggest temptations-- ones that every other week of the year-- like Pixie Stix-- meant inevitable death. (And from the way my mother normally spoke about them, that cereal-induced death could be as early as age 10.)

The grocery shopping alone was a week of Camping Nirvana in Kidville.

But Cape May promised so much more than gas-stove bacon and verboten sugar-death cereal. Cape May was the location of forty finely-aligned lanes of home-grown Jersey ski-ball... The very lanes which one particular summer empowered my mom's quest to win the mother of all blenders.

After checking into the campground, finding a suitable spot, and hanging up the handmade sign that staked our claim from future invaders-- one small step for the Thorson clan, one giant step for cheap lodging-- we headed ocean-side, to the Promenade.

The boardwalk there and I, we had a love-hate relationship at this time. I reveled in the chinging bells and music of the arcade... Thrilled to the prospect of getting fresh Archie comics at the newsstand... And savored the rich, heavy aroma that poured from Morrows Nut House...

But I was eternally suspicious of the cracks between the boards that made up the walk itself.

It seemed to me, being able to peer down between my small, flip-flopped feet and through the planks to the waves bursting below, that anyone my size was an absolute goner. Having watched enough Warner Brothers cartoons, I felt I had a sound grasp of physics, and knew deep in my heart I would pour through the boards of the boardwalk into the ocean below. Lost forever.

For the longest time my parents had no idea what the problem was. But to me, every trip to the boardwalk involved elaborate weeping over my impending separation from my family (and my watery grave in Davy Jones' locker), followed by a terror-stricken dash into the safer concrete floor of the arcade.

But oh, the arcade! It was like Dorothy stepping from grim, black-and-white Kansas into glorious technicolor Oz. Shining quarters sat in stacks under great plastic bubbles, just waiting for a single coin to topple them into winnings. Stuffed Snoopys and tiny glass animals hoped to be snatched by skill, luck and silver claws. Pinball games rattled. Lights flashed. Allowances were won and lost.

And there, along the prize counter, up on one of the shelves, that is when my mother laid eyes on it. The high-powered six-speed blender with multiple-chopping blades in Colonial Harvest Orange... A must-have for frothy summer beverages and a wide variety of guest-pleasing dips.

"It's perfect! And it's the same shade of orange as the kitchen!"

I didn't mention it, but it also matched the livingroom, diningroom, den, entryway and upstairs bathroom. Mom was a devout supporter of the Colonial harvest.

"It's 2,000 tickets," my father said reading the sign below it.

I imagine the man could just SEE the quarters from his paycheck rolling away. Dad has never been very fond of spending money on unnecessary things like... say... lunch, even. I mean, this is a man whose motto is, "Seven Ritz crackers and that's all you need." He's very specific about it, too. Not six, not eight. Seven. Unless, of course, someone else is buying.

So, the idea of trying to earn 2,000 tickets for anything he wouldn't directly be using himself had to have almost given him chest pains.

"Don't they have these in the store?"

"Well, not like this," said my mother, eyes aglow. "This one is in Colonial Harvest Orange."

"So you mentioned."

And thus it was determined. Over the course of the week, we would earn enough tickets for Mom to take home that Colonial Harvest Orange beauty. Oh, the dips she envisioned. Oh, the patés, and other French words I couldn't spell because I was hooked on phonics.

So, during the day, we would spend our time in the shining sun of the beach...

Or picking through the Cape May diamonds (these polished quartz stones that washed on the shore because of a quarry all the way in Delaware)...

Or visiting the lighthouse...

Or strolling through antique shops...

Or convincing me that the Day of The Triffids film I saw on television did NOT mean that the trees of the campground were going to uproot themselves and eat us alive...

(Now that I think about it, there seemed to be just peril around every corner to my five-year -old self...)

This is how we spent our days. But our evenings -- oh, our evenings! They were spent on the quest for the Holy Grail of Countertop Appliances. Playing ski-ball.

Mom was a dynamo with a ski-ball. Petite and with a good arm, Mom's underhand throw rivaled the greatest Ski-ball champions of the day. She had a real technique, Mom did. A one-kneed dip timed perfectly with her swing, and a smooth release that let that ball roll straight to that sweet 50-point ring.

Me, well, it wasn't more than a round or so into our endeavor that it became clear I was a serious liability for my team. It was another case of misunderstood physics for me, and no amount of instruction was going to turn me into a big ticket-winner.

Quarters went through me like Yoo-hoo.

So this newbie ski-baller was reassigned to the spectator spot, gnawing on red licorice whips from the Nut House and cheering them on from the peanut gallery.

Night after night, my parents worked to rack up the tickets. They tried some other games there-- catapulting coins to shower other coins off ledges-- but after some experimentation, Dad proclaimed the games were rigged.

So back to the Ski-Ball they went, deft... devoted... determined.

After a few days, my mother was developing ski-ballers wrist and knee, probably some little-discussed version of carpal tunnel. I admit, I was starting to lose both my appreciation for the sport myself, and I'd already re-read Veronica's shameless ploys for Archie's attention a hundred times as I waited.

But as with all vacation, the days dissolved like Pop Rocks... Sweet, surprising, and gone too soon. My mind was already focused on the drive home and the possibility of a once-a-year hot-dog from Stewart's Root Beer Stand. I could taste that roasted, garlicy hot dog, and the smooth creamy root beer-- a delicious combination destined to make me good and queasy about five miles on down the road.

And Mom began the final count of the tickets. She had a system, counting in twos for speed. "488, 490, 492..." Five-hundred. She'd made about 500 tickets, not enough to take home that shining orange facilitator of avant-garde cuisine.

How could you work so hard for something, and not get even close, we wondered? Perhaps Dad was right. Perhaps it was rigged.

So my parents let me choose some little glass poodles from the display case... A mother poodle with two poodle puppies on a chain. Then they gave the rest of their tickets to some other family.

The wife had a certain look in her eye that was familiar. On the top shelf, there was this Crock-Pot in California Avocado that she just couldn't live without.

I walked the planks a final time, and we made our way back to the Family Wagon. I wondered vaguely whether those French poodles knew anything about paté.


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Driving Miss Crazy

I ended up behind a Student Driver today. Poor kid was going about 15 miles an hour, with even the exhaust spewing the stench of sweat, PowerAde and terror.

It reminded me of my own early driving days, and a particular trip where I returned home, not entirely sure I’d ever be allowed IN Canada again.

See, I’d learned to drive during my senior year of high school, taught by my mother. Now, I do believe Mom had my best interest at heart. But what a shy, nervous, overachieving nerd-girl like myself needed was a guiding hand… a calm voice… a vote of confidence.

And Mom’s guiding hands were mostly busy clinging to the door-handle while her voice shrieked, “Do you SEE THAT STOP SIGN?! STOP! STOP!!! For the love of Mike, STAAAAHHHHHP!!!!”

This usually started about halfway down the driveway.

So I went off to college with a license, but with very little real driving experience…

Also, a small eye twitch, when I’d hear someone say the word “stop.”

And when I graduated college, I got a job, as luck would have it, not far from my apartment. REALLY not far from my apartment. Like, I could see the office building, if I stood in my bathtub on tiptoes and peered out the window.

I was at that job about four years before the company moved locations and I suddenly had to have a car. So I took some driving lessons from AAA as a refresher, and was surprised to learn their teaching techniques varied quite a bit from my mother’s own unique style.

I’d only had my car about a week, when my supervisor decided that, great! Since I was going to this tradeshow to set up the corporate booth-- and since shipping a booth meant you could never be sure the booth wouldn’t accidentally be sent to Zimbabwe--I could just drive the booth to the show.

DRIVE the booth…

In a several ton moving vehicle…

An SUV, specifically…

Five hours north…

To Toronto.

You know: the one in Canada... A whole other country.

I said, “Okay, I’ll do it,” hoping he didn’t notice my eye starting to twitch. And I learned I’d be driving with a coworker, to help with the booth cases.

It concerned me somewhat that the coworker had children to support.

Or as I was thinking of them at the time, “the bereaved orphans.”

Well, my coworker ended up driving about half of the way before we stopped for gas, and she suggested I take the wheel the rest of the way into Toronto.

And once again, I didn’t want to admit the idea of driving this large, unfamiliar automobile on a road where there were, like, OTHER LIFEFORMS was somewhat of a concern to me considering my skill level.

So I got behind the wheel. Things were actually going very well on our way into Toronto. We joked, we listened to the radio, and two and a half hours went by with me not killing so much as a moth in the grill.

I was feeling good.

Then came the hotel parking garage. Or as I shall call it, my Waterloo.

Yes, my coworker had agreed to have the booth cases taken into the exposition hall, while I parked the SUV. And such was my relief over having made it into Toronto so smoothly—not so much as missing an exit—that I was already thinking happy thoughts of dinner.

Little did I know that the parking garage required you to take a ticket first. So I pulled in, and realized I was a bit too far away to reach the ticket. I opened my door and stepped a leg out of the car, to grab it and…

My foot slipped off the brake.

Did I mention that it was an underground parking garage, where there was a bit of a, well, SLOPE DOWN?

Oh, there was.

And so, the car began to roll forward, me half-in, half-out of the car. And there I was, being dragged alongside this SUV in the middle of a parking garage in the Great White North, while my coworker was waiting for me, having a glass of wine in the plush hotel lounge.

Just after I drove through the wooden arm barrier, I managed to get the vehicle to come to a stop-- my leg bleeding, one shoe lost, the driver’s side mirror bashed, and the wooden arm in splinters on the ground.

The next twenty minutes involved me tearfully explaining to some parking authority officers-- who my mind over the years has recorded as Mounted Police-- what exactly had happened that caused damage to the City of Toronto’s property.

Not knowing the local laws, I recall wondering if you could be ejected from Canada for this sort of thing.

Well, the Mounties were actually really nice to me. Probably because I was bleeding on their concrete and I only had one shoe. So they wrote up the accident and didn’t put me in the pokey over the cost of the arm or anything.

After locating my errant footwear, I headed up to the lounge. My coworker eyed me and said, “What took you so long?” I was limping a little and still bleeding, with eyeliner and mascara streaked into circles under my eyes.

I sat down and ordered a Molson, eye twitching. "The drivers around here are crazy ."


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