Charles Pendelton
      © 2008 Marty Langdon
Chapter 32 (1971) pt 2

                                                                             1971


It was midday on Saturday, March 27, 1971, and for some unknown reason
I found myself staring at the Mastercrafters coffee pot clock in the kitchen.
I always liked this perky gold clock fashioned to resemble a coffee pot. The
blinking orange light on top made it look like it was constantly percolating.
Sometimes I would just stare at it. The time now read twelve forty.

“Are you goin’ over to see Harmony anytime soon today?” asked my father.

“Not until four o’clock, when she comes back from the hair salon.”

“Good, then you’re coming with me, so get ready.”

“Where are we going?” I inquired, in a lackadaisical tone.

“Never mind that, just get ready.”

My mother was too busy cleaning the house to be
interested in anything else, so the two of us left.

The first stop was to see my uncle Bob at the VFW Post in Oakwood Heights.
Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was that everyone in there was smoking.
There were nickel slot machines, cigarette vending machines that didn’t care
how old you were, and other assorted whammies. As the draft beer flowed
into small glasses, and shots were thrown back and slammed down,
Auld Lang Syne would soon commence.

“Here,” said my father, handing me a dollar’s worth of nickels,
“go play the slot machine.”

As I walked through an ever-growing cloud of smoke from old war veterans
rehashing their tales of glory, I could almost see my mom at the bar with my
dad. Chain-smoking menthol cigarettes and casually sipping a cocktail, while
patiently waiting for the effects of the inebriant to make her more sociable.

Sitting down in a cracked and dingy chair, the color of butterscotch, I inserted
the first nickel. My heart pounded as I gently pulled the handle on the fancy gold
plated Rol-A-Top machine. Anticipation was in full swing the moment the wheels
began to spin. A plum, some cherries, and a lemon would reveal nothing worthwhile.

After losing the money, a fella came over to me and said, “Here you go kid.”
I thanked him for the five nickels and proceeded to play without any hesitation.
Some people arose from their chairs to arrange themselves around me. They
watched as I pulled the handle. Nothing. Then again, and again, and again.
It was on the very last nickel, that I hit the jackpot.

Everyone jumps up in amazement yelling and screaming.


Suddenly, the man who had given me the winning nickel
pushed me aside and said, “Thanks a lot, kid. You did good.”

As he tried to reclaim his winnings, my father said,
“In a pig’s prick it’s your money.”

When the man made a comment concerning my father and his mother,
my uncle Bob and three of his friends began pummeling the man to no
end and dragged him out the back door. It was kind of strange that none
of them came back, but even stranger was the fact that I never saw that
man again in the neighborhood. Even so, it would be no great loss,
I thought, if he packed his things and moved to Florida.

By the time we exited the VFW Post, it seemed as though the boundaries
of time had shifted. The shuttered windows created an element of nighttime,
and even though I only had soda pop, it still kind of felt like I had just walked
out of a beer hall in the early morning hours. I guess with the lights turned on
in there and losing all conception of time passing in the outside world, it was
a bit disorienting to step out into the sunlight. As my father turned on the
ignition, I asked him if we were going home.

“Not yet, son. I have to see my accountant.”

“Oh no,” I thought, “we’re going to Fusco.”

                                                                                                                
Pg 165
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As my father pulled away, I couldn't help but grimace
. Judging by the last time I was
there, i
t was not going to be pleasant. Watching Dad park the car on the street, and
feed the meter, I was quite reluctant to leave the vehicle. “Let's go,” was all he said,
and I complied. Pushing down on the door lock of the old gold 1965 Buick Riviera,
I gently slammed the door closed.

Entering the office of the dreaded tax preparer, I didn’t think it would be that bad.

“Come on in Rich, is that your boy?
You’re getting bigger and bigger each time I see you.”

Mr. Fusco was in his late sixties and was never seen without a Candela cigar in his
mouth. Every time we entered, it smelled like a plantation burning, only this time it
was worse. If I got yellow lungs from the VFW Post, then I would be coming home
with black lungs from this place.

With no ventilation in the room, it was like walking into a gas chamber. How can I
even begin to explain this to the children of today? And how could he even see the
papers sprawled across his desk, I wondered? Perhaps it was the vintage green
and gold table lamp that helped him see the fine print. I was as polite as I could be,
but my stomach was churning to retch all over that wonderful rug. The rug I was
never able to see, but could feel. After thirty minutes of enduring torment, we left.

Sure, my chest felt a little tight, but I would get over it.
I was becoming a man, after all, and having the resiliency
to defeat all odds would slowly propel me into adulthood.

Harmony arrived home earlier than expected, and I just so happened

to be sitting on my front steps as she came strolling down the block.
As soon as I saw her, I got up and began walking over to greet her.

“Hey,” she exclaimed cordially as I approached her.

“Hi hon,” I said, before realizing what had come out of my mouth.

“What did you just say to me?” Harmony replied
in a tone of both astonishment and loathing.
 
As my mouth opened, my heart fluttered,
and I allowed the words to flow out in disorder.

“I said, hi Harm, short for Harmony, but I knew I shouldn’t have said it
because it’s not right to abbreviate your name, and I wasn’t going to
say it at all, but it just kind of slipped out, and I promise to never. . .”

“Stop,” said Harmony abruptly, holding up a finger to halt my spiel while
staring at me in disillusionment. As we watched each other silently,
I froze
and could not seem to move.


“I really like your hair,” I said to her disbelief.
“It’s so curly now, it almost makes you look like a different person.”

Harmony smiled wholeheartedly, and appeared to forget the whole matter.
Or perhaps, she was trying to convince herself into believing she actually could.

Watching her cling to the leather strap of her brown tapestried fringe bag,
that was slung around her shoulder, I could detect her insecurity.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said.
“Would you like to help me do some work around the house?”

“Sure,” I responded. “Like what?”

“Like cleaning the dishes, washing and folding clothes,
mopping and waxing the floor. Stuff like that.”

“I’d love to help you with your chores.” I said enthusiastically.

“Are you serious?”

With adoring eyes, I looked into hers and with the straightest
face possible, said, “As serious as a heart attack.”

“Aaaaaaah,” Harmony shrieked in laughter that she concealed
by covering her mouth with her two hands. “Oh my God, you’re
adorable,” she said lovingly, and we strolled inside like two best
friends who would never allow anything to come between them.

                                                                                                                 Pg 166
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the mighty hands of time began to unwind into the future,
I soon found that a month had passed.

It was Saturday, April 24, when I knocked on Harmony’s front door. She yelled
from the top window for me to come around the side. As I approached the side
door, I heard a progression of footsteps. The door then opened, and she quietly
escorted me in. The first thing that caught my eye, as always was that fancy
daybed in the parlor. It looked like a surrealistic couch with accentuated pillows
that shined like yellow gold. The overall appearance made it look like it belonged
in another century. An even stranger-looking couch, which she called a settee,
was situated at the far end of the living room.

Beside the kitchen table, there was a mahogany inlaid late Victorian antique
chiffonier displaying exactly twenty-three assorted dishes. Some old and some
new. There were plates bearing portraits of people at social affairs, along with
numerous floral designs. One piece of a dinnerware set that was delicately
laden with gold leaf, while the rest were almost too beautiful to describe.


“Can you excuse me a moment?” Harmony asked.
“I need to run upstairs for something.”

“Sure,” I said, and continued eyeing the magnificent arrangement of long
discarded dishware that had now captured my attention. Being a growing
boy filled with curiosity, I decided to look around the kitchen, just to see if
anything had changed since the last time I was here, which was yesterday
afternoon. To the left of the counter and on top of the antique chopping block,
which stood like a small table, I spotted a small box of Cream of Wheat.

It
looked so odd there that it made the whole room feel out of place.

At that moment, I thought, how strange is this?
Harmony eating the same food we eat.

If that’s the case, then maybe we’re not so different at all.

                                        Tartans of Lavender Lane - You, baby, you



I quickly glanced at the newspaper on the table and saw there was a mass march
planned for today at the nation’s capital. People were protesting North America’s
involvement in the war in Indochina, and in the hope that by everyone banding
together, the antiwar group would succeed in finding some resolve.




                                 *They wouldn't*


                             The Exotics - Fire engine red


Even the Black Panthers had shown solidarity by letting the world
know it wasn’t our fight, but their words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

All the protest signs raised and propaganda leaflets handed out
by the truckload, did nothing to change their decision. And even
though the war was almost over, it felt like it had just begun.

It was a fight we couldn’t win.
A war they couldn’t glorify.




                                    Barry Mcguire - Eve of destruction                 

                                 And yet, that poor man.

With a face no one could ever forget would be etched in history.
One who had to carry all the blame, and in fact, all the heartache.
A man who had to resolve the headaches left by his predecessors.
Such hardship should never have been wrought upon his shoulders.

                    Oh, laugh if you may at his caricature,
                        where the political satiric broods.
                       For if memory serves me correctly,
                        that man did the best he could.

Yes, our president tried earnestly to rectify wrongs, but was labeled a murderer
nonetheless. And even though he would soon pull the plug on the Vietnam war,
no one could erase the recordings of the soon-to-be infamous Watergate scandal.



As Harmony returned, I could see from a distance, how she struggled

to get her hair just right, before gracefully removing the plastic-coated
metal hair clip from between her lips and attaching it in place.


                                                                                                                 Pg 167
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




Like a gentle breeze, she sauntered into the kitchen where I sat, glancing over the
morning paper. I could now smell her perfume, where before I could not. And as
she walked around me slowly, her wonderful essence emitted a lingering scent,
evocative of lilacs intermingled with fruit. Just observing her sashaying about,
I would have to say that Harmony was undeniably sporting her femininity.

Together we sat at her kitchen table and talked about the weather, the neighborhood

and people in general. We talked about our family members and our ancestral history,
and we laughed. I was Irish, Austrian, and Italian with a wee hint of Scottish going way
back. While Harmony, on the other hand was Indian, Filipino, and Colombian. She said
her mom, Jacinthe, grew up in this house, having immigrated from Colombia at a very
early age. She was a young woman of twenty-four when she met Raj, the love of her
life, but had no idea anything would transpire that day.

“As my mother told me, she was waiting to get on the elevator. When it opened,
a man rushed out as she was rushing in, and they collided. She fell right on her
ass. When he knelt down and looked into her eyes, that was it. She was in love,
and in six short months they were engaged. So deeply in love are they still.”

“Unlike my parents,” I uttered.


In the spring of 1952, Harmony was born.

For the first twelve years of her life, Harmony lived in the Dhar district of Madhya
Pradesh in Central India with her father’s family. In the little town of Pithampur,
Raj learned from his parents how to manage and operate the textile mill, while
Jacinthe got to know Raj’s fairly large community of relatives.



The intricately woven city had its share of industrial revenue being
produced daily, but still had its unproductive ne’er do wells lurking
within its primitive architecture shaking the change cup.



By the year Harmony turned twelve, her parents were struggling to keep
the profit margins up with a second textile mill, and she was sent to reside
with her Aunt Sofia in Alameda, California. There being no other way. To my
knowledge, Harmony was never forthcoming on the details of her mother.

Harmony was always kind to me for that was her nature.
Never did she come off as being fake or condescending
in any way. No, she was too scrupulous for that.

On weekday mornings, Harmony would walk up to the bus stop on Hylan Boulevard.
There she would take the R103 into Stapleton, where she worked at her biological
brother’s antique furniture store from seven to four in the afternoon. She would get
the place ready before tending to customers, ringing people up, or placing specialty
orders for rare merchandise over the telephone.

I know it's silly, but I always wondered if she was ever thinking of me.
Probably not, but it occupied a good portion of my brain to ponder that notion.



“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” Harmony once told me, as she bumped my nose with
her finger. This got my heart stirring for affection. Would anything become of it?
I didn't know, but I prayed to God every night that He would bring us closer together.

I had no idea what love was all about, but I knew it had something to do with the
way two people kissed. First, I needed to get that special kiss from her, but how?

It seemed I would just have to bide my time and wait for the ineludible moment when
she would be most susceptible to my affections. Only then could I make my move.

                                                    The Trophies - With a love

Harmony was always singing for me as she played her acoustic guitar, and
that made me feel good, but what I really wanted was for her to sing to me.

To feel that bond of togetherness.
That heartfelt cloying of over-exaggerated needs.

I think it’s called love.

During the course of the next few months, Harmony often said, I was like her
younger brother, and she could never know how much that troubled me deep
down inside. I wanted our friendship to be something more than a love that is
found between siblings, but I was totally clueless when it came to the dynamics
of love. I knew only what I saw. Because of this, I fretted in silence, growing ever
more discouraged by the day. Wondering if perhaps she would find someone her
own age to love. A realization so terrifying, it would have undoubtedly hurled me
over the edge to certain death.

                                          
Chuck Conlon - Won't you say yes to me, girl

                                                                                                                 Pg 168
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Aside from her physical attributes, I was enthralled in the very makeup of her own
individual characteristics. So appealing was this lady to my senses. How a gentle
woman with unembellished beauty could mesmerize my world and take hold of my
very soul, was the mystery of mysteries for me at the time. Unbeknownst to her,
she had gone as far as to open my eyes up to feelings so unique and incredibly
real, that I literally reveled in the thought of waking up in the morning.

Not only was her external beauty encaptivating, but her personality
and wit, charming. Besides, she wasn’t a prude. As a matter of fact,
she just so happened to be the coolest woman in all of Staten Island.


                                      Johnny and The Appolos - In love with you

Apart from all this, I loved that wild accent of hers. It was a cross between
Spanish and Indian, and every time she spoke, she had my full attention.

Even if she didn’t say a word, I could spend the remainder of each day
just observing how she moved about the rooms. With a body so petite
and curvaceous, and a smile that could stop my heart from beating,
I would have offered up my very existence for but one loving kiss.

A child I may very well have been indeed, but around Harmony,
I felt more like a man trapped inside a boy’s body.



               So helpless. So yearning to love and feel loved by her that
               I would forfeit all childish joys in a vain attempt to become
               something I knew I could never be.

                                               W
orthy of her love.

                                     The Lost Chords - I want to be her man



As a child, I knew she would not be able to love me,
but I refused to give up hope.


God if only she could reach out and give me a sign or a signal, I could
interpret. An opportunity for me to take charge of the situation somehow.
Then I would use it to the best of my abilities to win her love.

“Show me baby, I’m right here.”
 
Who was I kidding?
I had never even kissed a girl, let alone persuade her
into a sultry affair I had no idea of consummating.

Even after we paddle tongues, then what?



Quixotic tales of love and longing filled my head
and immediately began to empower my universe.



This was more than a carnal attraction.
It was adoration in its purest form.
The sentiment of all rapture.


No one could know the torment that burned deep inside me.
The yearning that rose to the surface whenever I heard her voice.

There was a day where I can vividly recall having an intimate
discussion
about her accent. Aside from speaking several
Indian dialects, she was
quite fluent in Spanish. As our pleasant conversation was progressing,
and as my inhibitions were being quelled, Harmony must have felt
some intense need to question my curiosity. 


“Does my accent offend you in any way?” she asked,
in a tone one might imply as being defensive.

“No,” I said sharply, “it’s what makes you, you.”

She then laughed and said, “You should hear my niece, Pooja.
If you were talking to her on the phone, you would swear she’s a blonde.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, she has no accent at all.”

“Holy Mackerel,” I said aloud while thinking, that is just so wrong.

When Harmony was happy, she could be heard mildly humming
a melody or singing a song as she dusted the furniture or cleaned
up. I asked her why she didn’t have a boyfriend and told her that
a woman as beautiful as her should have a boyfriend.

Not only was I testing the waters in my own little way,
but I had to be absolutely certain, beyond a shadow
of a doubt that there would be no rivalry.

At first, she laughed, and then she responded in a serious tone.

“Men are such a drag,” she said.
“They’re like ‘little boys’ who only know how to take and not give.”

In a huff, I sprung up and walked over to the couch,
my disgust etched in a scowl.

“I’m sorry,” said Harmony giggling as she followed me. “It wasn’t
a personal reference. You’re so sweet for listening to my ramblings.
A man would’ve said, shut up already.”

As she sat down next to me on the couch, I reached for her hand and held it.
She then moved in closer to me and sighed. I think in some way she knew I
was pining, for later that evening she asked me a very personal question.

“And I want the truth,” she said. “How do you feel about me?”

Like a complete fool, I said, “You’re like a big sister to me.”

I could have went home and stabbed myself.

“Are you sure about that?”

I hesitated before saying, “Yeah,” in a sad tone while looking down at the floor.

“Okay then,” said Harmony with a smile, and brought out two ice cold bottles of Nedick’s.


Upon tasting it, I replied, “It’s like sweet orange soda without the fizz.”

She chuckled loudly and told me it was orange drink.

It was so crisp and refreshing, it instantly became my beverage of choice.


          
                                                        Maywood - Just a little bit of love




As I sat beside her on that couch sipping my orange drink, I felt turned on,
but I was too young to be turned on. What the hell was a “turn on” anyway?

Maybe it was the feeling in the middle of my chest that felt like batteries
charging. I think they were overcharging because I started shivering.

Yes, I was indeed turned on.

                                                                                                                 Pg 169
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Every day without fail, I would pay Harmony a visit. If I didn’t see her at least
once
a day, then I would think of her all night long, and would not be able to sleep.

By
the end of August, she gave me the key to her side door and told me not to lose it.



“If you lose this key,” she said to me in a stern but loving voice, “I will remove
your pants, put you across my knee and spank you with the palm of this hand.”

She held her hand out so I could get a good look at it. This is the hand, I thought.
The hand she is going to use on me, and I just looked at it. Every line was so
exquisitely drawn, that I fell into a trance.

The palm of her hand was so shiny I could almost see a reflection, and my circuitry
was
beginning to overload. Whether or not she applied facial cream earlier, I did
not know,
but there was just something so sensuously arousing about it, I thought
my heart was going
to give out. I wanted that hand around my entire face. Her
fingers to move across my lips,
how they almost seemed to glisten in the light
the room was conveying. I was paralyzed
with apprehension as I pleaded
from the depths of my meek, trembling spirit.


Hold me, kiss me, I love you.

I started to feel so weak and powerless, and wished she would just do it already.
I wanted so badly to bring my mouth over to her hand and kiss it, but I went numb.
As I was preparing to run my fingers on top of hers, she whispered in my ear with
her breath like fire, “You never know. You might even like it.”

Her exhalatory scent, very reminiscent of a tray of warm cinnamon buns found my
nostrils. I was in the throes of a lovesick stupor and fading fast. In a way, it was like
how a risqué paperback novel can tantalize a hopeless kid into reading it simply by
applying a scantily-clad vixen on the cover, with hopes of finding salacious imagery
and offbeat content within its pages. Only in this scenario, I was the main character.

I looked up into those beautiful brown eyes of hers and everything went black.



                                      The Barons - That's what I need your love for


I awoke on the couch (settee) to find her laughing about this.

“You’ve really got to stop doing that,” she said hysterically.

I smiled, for I was no longer embarrassed. In fact, I was so “turned on” by
the whole thing, I got my very first erection. Of course, I didn’t know what
to do with this erection, so when Harmony looked away, I just pushed it
down, so to speak with my hands crisscrossed. Kind of like the way you
would perform CPR on a chest. Whenever I was alone, I would think
about what she had said to me. I would then begin to imagine us in all
types of scenarios, which ended in her having to use that hand on me.

I was becoming obsessed by it and could not figure it out.


Would I like it?

Would it hurt?
If it hurt,
then how could I like it?
Ah yes, my little brain was working. . . Overtime.


That night, while I sat at the dinner table with Mom and Dad, I found
myself staring at seven Brussels sprouts in a dish. My parents knew
I hated certain vegetables, and yet they insisted I eat them.

Why were they so cruel?




“You're not leavin' this table until every vegetable on that plate is gone.
I'm watchin' ya, so don't start.”
my father retorted.

                                                                                                                 Pg 170
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Tonight, however, there would be no animosity at the dinner table, for I was
going to
try a simple mind over matter experiment. In my thoughts, I could
clearly envision my parents boarding a plane. I could see it high in the sky
going toward its destination. They are no longer in the United States and will
soon be soon touring the wonderful city of Paris, France. Harmony is now in
charge of me. Let’s see, my parents have implemented a number of rules and
have given Harmony strict orders that she has been instructed to follow.


The most important rule of all is I must finish my Brussels sprouts. Under
no circumstance is there to be any leniency. In my mind, I could imagine
Harmony sitting next to me. Gingerly she leans over to whisper in my ear,
“Do you honestly want to see how hard my sexy hand can slap?

I’ll leave handprints all over your entire body, and you’ll cry like a baby.
Do you want me to make you cry? If you don’t finish every last one, I am
going to stand you up, remove your pants and crack you.”

As I began to chew on the Brussels sprout, all that bitter liquid filled my
mouth, and the first thing that came to mind was turpentine. Just knowing
what was going to happen to me if I didn’t eat them, far outweighed any
nausea, which accompanied me eating them. As I devoured the first one,
my heart was beating so strangely, it was getting me aroused.

Could this be love?

The effect of the terrible vegetable had indeed turned into something of an
aphrodisiac, which had in turn, turned everything around for the better.

“My God,” I thought, “what is happening to me?”



“Are you all right?” questioned my mom who was sitting
across from me at the table. “You seem out of breath.”

Due to the difficulty in swallowing what tasted like poison, my face began to
flush causing an increase in both heartbeat and heart rate. Mom swiftly sprang
into action by jumping up and pressing two fingers upon the carotid artery in my
neck. I must have been breathing quite heavily for her to become that concerned.

“His heart is beating a mile a minute. He’s having an allergic reaction.
Can you breathe?” Questioned Mother.
“There’s no swelling.”

That was the last time I was ever forced to eat Brussels sprouts.

I don't know what I would have done,
had I been left to myself in that state.


Another month had passed, and it was starting to get chilly out. October was here, and
it was a Friday. I came home from school eager to see Harmony and went inside. I put
away my schoolbooks and poured a glass of apple juice before going back outside.

With enthusiasm, I left my house and walked across the street before remembering my
mother was waiting for a very important letter. I then walked back across the street and
opened the mailbox to find two pieces of mail in there. Since one was addressed to my
father, I didn’t feel it warranted another trip inside the house, so I casually placed the
letter back in the mailbox. The second piece of mail was addressed to Harmony and
had been tossed in there by accident. I later found out it was a monthly payment for
her living expenses to ensure she would not default on her payments.

Letter in hand, I proceeded once again to cross the street.



Looking both ways and ever watchful of speeding cars.

After unlocking the side door, I walked in and leisurely removed
a bottle of orange Nedick’s from the refrigerator. Turning on the
television, I checked to see if anything of interest would come on.

I then took off my shoes and waited for my beautiful friend to arrive.
Occasionally, she would leave a sweater draped across the chair that
I would take with me to the couch. I’d hold it close to my body and
breathe in her scent, mingled with the smell of her fading perfume.

It comforted me in a way that made me feel somehow closer
to her, though I usually put it back before she came home.

That heavenly fragrance always reminded me of pears.

                                  The Hysterics - Why should you treat me this way

                                                                                                                 Pg 171
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Harmony had said to me, on more than one occasion, that she was
going to teach me as much as she could about the opposite sex, and
by the time I was of age, I would be able to get any girl I wanted.

The only problem was I wanted her.

That night when she returned home, she sat me down and calmly
went over all the little idiosyncrasies women have that men need
to put more emphasis on understanding.

“When a woman is going through her cycle, it is very important that
you treat her extra kindly, because her hormone level goes crazy.
Sorry, our emotional state becomes disrupted. You do know what
I’m talking about right?”

Without saying a word, I shook my head side to side and that alone
indicated I had no clue as to the question she was asking me.

“Okay, then I will explain it to you. . .”

                                                      *And she did*


“Why do you think we spend so much time in the bathroom, and so much
time shopping for clothes? It is because we are trying to look good for you,
so we take our time, and we try to make sure everything is perfect, and for
this we are criticized. Or do you think we are doing it only for ourselves?

That is why you must never rush us.
Relax and don’t be so self absorbed.

Show us that you care, and that you love us by telling us how beautiful our
hair looks or complement our appearance. Men can never say that enough.
Make sure you notice when she is trying to ‘proudly display’ a new pair of
shoes for you or even sunglasses, for that matter. The problem with most
men is that they become overly confident when they get too familiar with
us
(or) when they get too comfortable in a relationship, they think they
can
abuse us by taking advantage of our good nature.

                                    Don’t ever.


                        *Now pointing her exquisite finger at me*


Harmony went on as I listened happily to everything she said. Eventually,
I knew I was going to apply all this knowledge, but to whom, I thought?

                                        God please, let it be her.

                                          Billy & The Kids - Do you need me?




When it came down to love, Harmony knew more about men at nineteen
than they could hope to know about themselves in a lifetime. In addition
to having a gift for remembering everything she saw and heard, she had
a heart that overflowed with love. Only she had no one to give it to.

                                              Thee - Time with me

Before these short lessons in love, I would listen very carefully to everything
she said about her busy day, trying hard to be the adult I thought she wanted.
Afterwards, we would go back to the couch and watch a show or two before
I had to go home. This went on for the remainder of the year.

                          Teddy & The Pandas - We can't go on this way

                                                                                                                 Pg 172
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Reviews for Chapter 32



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PG 167) Cream of Wheat Inn by Edward V. Brewer - http://tinyurl.com/kjfbcjw

PG 167) Duality of Humanity #1
by Shepard Fairey
- http://www.obeygiant.com/

PG 167) The Black Panther Party Newsletter by Emory Douglas

PG 167) Nixon poster

PG 168) Rani with her jewellery box
by Gopal Khetanchi - http://tinyurl.com/lol4w9h

PG 168) Village women poster


PG 168) A wash painting
by
Badri Nath Arya - http://tinyurl.com/ky7m9xh

PG 168) Body language
by Angela Bentley Fife
- http://tinyurl.com/mfj8vej

PG 169) Unborn Ideas
by Catrin Welz-Stein - http://tinyurl.com/kpojoyf


PG 169) The muse
by
Heidi Taillefer - http://tinyurl.com/kcr28ta

PG 169) Goofy kid
by Frederic Varady
- http://tinyurl.com/kz27brb

PG 169) Together in eternity
by Elizabeth Silk - http://tinyurl.com/lrqq2xq

PG 169) Nedick's advertisement
circa 1959 - http://tinyurl.com/kfo4pua

PG 170) Key of love
by Vladimir Kush - http://vladimirkush.com/

PG 171) Family evening
by Karen Aghamian - http://tinyurl.com/lso54ug


PG 171) Spanking illustration


PG 170) Vintage educational classroom poster
circa 1966

PG 172) The invisible lover