ANATOMY
Head & Neck
CRANIAL NERVES: I-Optic, II-Olfactory, III-Oculomotor, IV-Trochlear, V-Trigeminal, VI-Abducens, VII-Facial, VIII-Acoustic (Vestibulocochlear), IX-Glossophrayngeal, X-Vagus, XI-Spinal Accessory, XII-Hypoglossal
On Old Olympus Towering Tops, A Finn And German Viewed Some Hops (older and cleaner)
Oh Oh Oh To Touch And Feel A Girls Vagina And Hymen (newer and, well ...)
Which cranial nerve is Sensory, Motor, or Both- Some Say Marry Money, But My Brother Says Big Breasts Matter More
BRANCHES OF FACIAL NERVE: Temporal, Zygomatic, Buccal, Mandibular, Cervical
Ten Zebras Beat My Cock
Two Zulus buggered my cat –(for the sicker, amongst you!)
You have I nose. You have II eyes. (I - Olfactory; II -- Optic)
Standing Room Only -Exit of branches of trigeminal nerve from the skull S
V1 -Superior orbital fissure, V2 -foramen Rotundum, V3 -foramen Ovale
For the order of nerves that pass through the superior orbital fissure:
"Lazy French Tarts Lie Naked in Anticipation."
(Lacrimal, Frontal, Trochlear, Lateral, Nosociliary, Internal, Abducens)
2 Muscle of mastication- Lateral Lowers- lateral pterygoid is the one that opens the jaw 4 Muscles of Mastication MTPP( which could be read as "Empty Peepee") -masseter, temporal, lateral and medial pterygoids --
Arteries as they come off the external carotid:
Superior thyroid, Ascending pharyngeal, Lingual, Facial, Occipital, Post Auricular, Superficial temporal, Maxillary
Some Anatomists Like Fucking, Others Prefer S & M
Some Angry Lady Figured out PMS
Innervation of Extraocularmotor Muscles: LR6 SO4 3
LR6--Lateral rectus--> VI abductens
SO4--Superior Oblique--> IV Trochlear
3--The remaining 4 eyeball movers = III Oculomotor
ABC'S of the aortic arch!
Aortic arch gives off the Bracheiocephalic trunk,
the left Common Carotid, and the left
Subclavian artery
BRACHIAL PLEXUS: Roots, Trunks, Divisions, Cords, Branches
Robert Taylor Drinks Cold Beer.
CERVICAL SPINAL NERVES:
c345 keeps the phrenic alive (innervation of phrenic nerve) c345 keep the diaphragm alive (innervation of diaphragm)
c5-6-7 raise your arms to heaven (nerve roots of long thoracic nerve innervate serratus anterior)
Cranial Bones Annoying, aren't they? The cranial bones are the PEST OF 6... Parietal, Ethmoid,Sphenoid,Temporal,Occipital,Frontal- 6 ? (6-the number of bones!)
( another one) Old People From Texas Eat Spiders.
LOCATION OF THORACIC DUCT: The duck is between two gooses (duck = thoracic duct) 2 gooses = azyGOUS and esophaGOUS
Cartilages of the Larynx - There are 4 cartilages in the larynx whose initial letters are TEAC (also the brandname of a home stereo). Thyroid, Epiglottis, Arytenoid, Cricoid
Abdomen-Pelvis
INNERVATION OF PENIS:
Parasympathetic puts it up; sympathetic spurts it out
Point , Shoot, Score! (erection, emmision ,ejaculation) Parasympathetic, Sympathetic , Somatomotor
"S2, 3, 4 keep the penis off the floor" Innervation of the penis by branches of the pudental nerve, derived from spinal cord levels S2-4
Structures perforating the esophagus
"At T8 you see, perforates the IVC" (inferior Vena Cava)
the "EsoVagus" pierce T10 (esophagus, vagus nerve)
T12 - red, white and blue (aorta,thoracic duct,azygous vein)
Femoral Sheath (lateral to medial) order of things in thigh -NAVEL
Nerve, Artery, Vein, Empty, Space, Lymphatics
Radial n. innervates the BEST!!!!
Brachioradialis Extensors Supinator Triceps
Course of Ureters
Water runs under the bridge (uterine a. and ductus deferens)
Carotid Sheath-- VAN
Internal Jugular Vein
Common carotid Artery
Vagus Nerve
Dermatomes
C3 is a high turtleneck shirt
T4 is at the nipple
L1 is at the inguinal ligament (or L1 is IL -Inguinal ligament)
Randy Travis Drinks Cold Beer--Brachial plexus
Robert Taylor Drinks Cold Beer
Roots, Trunks, Divisions, Cords, Branches
Bones of the wrist -Scaphoid, Lunate, Triquetrum, Pisiform, Trapezium, Trapezoid, Capitate, Hamate
1. Slowly Lower Tilly's Pants To The Curly Hairs
2. Swifty Lower Tilly's Pants to try coitus here. (the risque version)
3.Scared Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle. (Classic version)
Pelvic Diaphragm
PICOLO(A) -Posterior to anterior
PIriformis
COccygeus
Levator Ani
Pelvic Splanchic-Parasympathetic
Sacral Splanchic-Sympathetic
Armies travel over bridges, the Navy travels under.
(Bridge is the ligament...reference to suprascapular artery and nerve.)
Pad, dab. Dorsal ABduct...Palmar ADduct...interosseous muscles of hand/foot.
Layers of the epidermis-Germinativum or Basale, Spinosum, Granulosum, Lucidum, Corneum
Grandpa Shagging Grandma's Love Child.
Limbic System- the 5 F’s- Feeding, Fighting, Feeling, Flight and Fucking
The 5 sphincters found in the Alimentary Canal are APE OIL:
Anal, Pyloric, Lower Esophogeal, Oddi, and Ileocecum.
Sally Thompson Loves Sex And Pot pie. The branches of the Axillary Artery are: Superior Thoracic, Thoracoacromial, Lateral Thoracic, Subscapular, Anterior Circumflex Humeral, Posterior Circumflex Humeral, and Profunda Brachii.
TIRE- four abdominal muscles -- transversus, internal oblique, rectus abdominus, and external oblique
GFR -Layers of the adrenal:-- Glomerular, Fascicular, Reticular

BIOCHEMISTRY
In the Phasted State Phosphorylate
Phosphorylation cascade active when blood glucose low.
Exons expressed, Introns in the trash--DNA expression into mature mRNA
Pyrimidines are CUT from purines.
Pyrimidines are Cytosine, Uracil, Thiamine and are one ring structures.
Purines are double ring structures.
Amino Acids:The ten essential amino acids:
"These Ten Valuable Amino Acids Have Long Preserved Life In Man."
(Threonine, Tryptophan, Valine, Arginine, Histidine, Lysine, Phenylalanine, Leucine, Isoleucine, Methionine)
INsulin gets sugar INto cells- (Excess sugar is removed via urine.The Romans noticed bees attracted to the urine of diabetics and coined the term "diabetes" to describe the overflow of sugar.)
GOAT FLAP- Eight hormones: Growth hormone, Oxytocin, Adenocorticotropin, Thyroid stimulating hormone, Follicle stimulating hormone, Leutinizing hormone (interstitial cell stimulating hormone in males), Anti-diruetic(Vasopressin), and Prolactin
(shhhh.... also Melatonin!)
PHARMACOLOGY
Morphine excites men, but sedates cats.
One heart two lungs--beta receptor activity
Beta-1 primarily on heart; airway is beta-2 receptors
CLINICAL
Meckel’s diverticulum- rule of 2’s
2 inches long,
2 feet from the ileocecal valve,
2% of the population
commonlly presents in the first 2 years of life
may contain 2 types of epithelial tissue
Pheochromocytoma-rule of 10s:
10% malignant
10% Bilateral
10% extraadrenal
10% calcified
10% children
10% familial
* discussed 10 times more often than actually seen
Aphasia
"BROKen aphasia" (Broca’s aphasia-broken speech)
"Wordys aphasia" (Wernicke’s aphasia- wordy, but making no sense)
GET SMASH'D--Causes of Acute pancreatitis
Gallstones, Ethanol, Trauma, Steroids, Mumps, Autoimmune(PAN), Scorpion bites, Hyperlipidemia, Drugs(azathioprine, diuretics)
(Multiple endocrine neoplasia) Each of the MENs is a
disease of three or two letters plus a feature.
"MEN I" is a disease of the 3 Ps (pituitary, parathyroid and pancreas)
plus adrenal cortex.
"MEN II " is a disease of the two Cs (carcinoma of the thyroid and
catacholamines [pheochromocytoma]) plus parathyroid for MEN IIa or
mucocutaneous neuromas for MEN IIb (aka MEN III).
Acute pneumonia caused by Pyogenic bacteria--PMN infiltrate
Acute pneumonia caused by Miscellaneous microbes --Mononuclear infiltrate
Takayasu's diz = pulseless diz, therefore when you have
Takayasu's, I can't Tak'a yu pulse.
Argyll-Robertson Pupil--syphilitic pupil (AKA "Prostitute's pupil" - Accommodates, but doesn't react )
Accommodation reflex present, Pupillary reflex absent
CAGE--alcohol use screening
1. Have you ever felt it necessary to CUT DOWN on your drinking?
2. Has anyone ever told you they were ANNOYED by your drinking?
3. Have you ever felt GUILTY about your drinking?
4. Have you ever felt the need to have a drink in the morning for an EYE OPENER?
P-Q-R-S-T--eliciting and HPI and exploring symptoms
P--palliative or provocative factors for the pain
Q--quality of pain(burning, stabbing, aching, etc.)
R--region of body affected
S--severity of pain(usually 1-10 scale)
T--timing of pain(eg.-after meals, in the morning, etc.)
The five W's--post-operative fever
Wind--pneumonia, atelectasis
Water--urinary tract infection
Wound--wound infections
Wonderdrugs--especially anesthesia
Walking--walking can help reduce deep vein thromboses and pulmonary embolus
ACID or "Anna Cycled Immediately Downhill"
classification of hypersensitivity reactions
Type I - Anaphylaxis
Type II - Cytotoxic-mediated
Type III - Immune-complex
Type IV - Delayed hypersensitivity
WBC Count:
"Never Let Momma Eat Beans(60, 30, 6, 3, 1)
Neutrophils 60% Lymphocytes 30% Monocytes 6% Eosinophils 3% Basophils 1%
A-P-G-A-R:
A - appearance (color)
P - pulse (heart rate)
G - grimmace (reflex, irritability)
A - activity (muscle tone)
R - respiratory effort
Predisposing Conditions for Pulmonary Embolism: TOM SCHREPFER
T--trauma
O--obesity
M--malignancy
S--surgery
C--cardiac disease
H--hospitalization
R--rest (bed-bound)
E--estrogen, pregnancy, post-partum
P--past hx
F--fracture
E--elderly
R--road trip
The 4 P's of arterial Occlusion: pain pallor pulselessness paresthesias
The 4 T's of Anterior Mediastinal Mass:Thyroid tumor,Thymoma,Teratoma, Terrible Lymphoma
Comments? Errors? Omissions? Additions! email me- David Goldenberg M.D.
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JOKES!!!
Ma was in the kitchen fiddling around when she hollers out- "Pa! You need to go out and fix the outhouse!"Pa replies, "There ain't nuthin wrong with the outhouse."Ma yells back, "Yes there is, now git out there and fix it.So Pa mosies out to the outhouse, looks around and yells back, "Ma! There ain't nuthin wrong with the outhouse! "Ma replies, "Stick yur head in the hole!"Pa yells back, "I ain't stickin my head in that hole!"Ma says,"Ya have to stick yur head in the hole to see what to fix."So with that, Pa sticks his head in the hole, looks around and yells back, "Ma! There ain't nuthin wrong with this outhouse!" Ma hollers back, "Now take your head out of the hole!"Pa proceeds to pull his head out of the hole, then starts yelling, "Ma! Help! My beard is stuck in the cracks in the toilet seat!"To which Ma replies, "Hurt's, don't it ?!"

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"Letter to My Daughter"
My first published short story when I was quite young... this story appeared in the January, 1984 issue of Redbook

Dear Anne, I have been aching ever since our fight last night. It's not that I don't like Peter or that I have anything against your moving in with him, I just wanted to be sure that he was right, that he was good enough for you.
But you called me jealous, selfish. Well, maybe there is a little of that too -- you have to understand that you and I, we've been through a lot together. There was a time when you were all I had.
After I left for work today, I felt alone. Of all the days for you to be moving out, I thought, why today, in this weather? The snow was coming down hard. As I walked to work I thought of you putting your clothes and books into boxes, not speaking to me. In the office I couldn't do anything but stare out the window into the snow. When I came home, Martha suggested I might feel better if I wrote and tried to tell all I was feeling.
Do you remember how you used to have dreams -- bad dreams -- of a big black bird flying in your room? And when you called I'd come in, turn on the light, open the window and say, "Begone, you bird! Anne has to sleep!" Then I'd tuck you in again, close the window and turn off the light. You'd be asleep before I was out of your room.
You do remember, because I have heard you tell friends the story, and I have heard you laugh. I want to tell you now about Grandpa and the cheesecake because it too should be something to hold in your memory. And maybe it will help you understand how I feel about you.
You were six years old when I brought you to New York. I was desperate. I didn't have a job and I didn't know what to do. It was difficult for me to return to my parent's; without you, I never would have. Without you, I would have missed so much.
You see, Anne, I left home when I was quite young, the age you are now. I wanted to make it on my own, to be strong and brave. Like most people, I wanted adventure. I traveled a lot; I had a few adventures and many misadventures; I discovered that I wasn't very strong or very brave; and more than anything else, I found that I didn't want to be alone. I learned that I wasn't unique, that I needed a place for myself and that I needed others. I stopped traveling when I was nineteen and in Montana.
You were born in Montana, in Missoula. Your mother first saw me when I was working in a cafe as a dishwasher. She told me that she would come in and eat breakfast just to see me, through the window in the kitchen door, washing dishes. It took her quite a few breakfasts before she got up the nerve to speak to me. The rest happened quickly.
It was spring. Snow in the mornings, rain in the afternoon, stars at night. You must see a Montana spring someday. The valleys turn green while the mountains are still white. The rivers become loud with fast water. The blossoming cottonwoods, the wildflowers -- all the smells -- infect the air with a good madness. You were born out of some of that madness, some of the best of it.
Your mother didn't leave you. This I have to tell you, this you must know -- she left me. I was twenty two, you were two, she was twenty. Maybe she decided that all the numbers were against the number three. Maybe she fell in love with me because of the stories I told her, and maybe she just wanted the adventure of living her own stories. I heard from her only once after she left, about a year later. Just a short letter, a note. I didn't keep that letter - it hurt too much to even hold it - but I couldn't help but keep the words: "Sam, I'm sorry. Take care of Anne. Feed her well. Tell her lots of things. Make her laugh, the way you made me laugh. You and Anne, deserve better than me. Love, Maggie."
If I had had money, perhaps I would have found her, but I never even tried. These things happen, and not just to you and me, so we must never let ourselves feel freakish for them. This I know, though: Your mother loved you.
So we ended up in New York after a sad four years. Even though I tried to keep you laughing, you missed her at least as much as I did.
It had been nine years since I went away. When I left, I thought I'd return only if I was returning proud. A romantic fantasy of coming home rich and wise, of shaking hands with the father who had driven me out, of hugging my mother, of being able to show them both how strong and good I had become - that was the fantasy I had left home with when I was sixteen. Instead, at twenty-six I was hungry, broke, with no fantasies at all. I didn't return with nothing, though. Not by a long shot. I didn't fully realize it then, but I had come home with a treasure. You.
It was snowing the night we got in. They didn't know that we were coming. They didn't even know that Maggie had left us. You were coughing, and all you had eaten that day were a few candy bars a garage attendant in Pennsylvania had given us. I hadn't eaten anything in two days. Dad answered the door in his bathrobe, more asleep than awake, and the first thing he said was, "Do you have any idea what time it is?" Of course he let us in, but it was nearly as cold in that kitchen, while we waited for Mom to wake up, as it had been along the side of the highway. You looked at the dolls, made from rags and yarn, sitting on top of the cupboards and fridge. You asked Dad whose they were and he said, "Those are Florie's." "Who is Florie?" you asked, and he said nothing, too ashamed of me even to acknowledge a tie to you. Or maybe he was just too tired to answer.
I smile as I write, remembering how you, hungry, sick and exhausted, said to Mom as she came into the kitchen, "Oh, you must be Florie, my grandma," before she even had a chance to get her glasses on, before she even saw you. You won her over right away, telling her about our adventures and asking her about her handmade dolls and telling her how great a dad I was. I didn't feel like a great dad then, being too broke even to have bought a bus ticket - no, I felt like a rotten dad - but you won me over too.
And then you turned to Dad again and said, "I don't know your name. Mine's Anne. You must be grandpa." Oh, but he was tough. Do you remember how he answered you? All gruffness and rudeness - "I must be" - and how he got up and went back to bed without another glance at you, Mom or me?
He was a bitter man in many ways. A hard life had made him sullen. I don't know what tragedies had happened - whether he and Mom had lost children before me (I'm and only child too, Anne) or what.
this is what you must remember: that I told you, when we were cold and waiting for someone to give us a ride, that the best food in the world was hot cheesecake. I told you that most people didn't know what "good" was and ate their cheesecake cold, but that we, when we got to New York, were going to have hot cheesecake. I told you that your grandpa made the best hot cheesecake in the world, and that he would make a huge pan of it just for you, so much hot cheesecake that you would be in cheesecake heaven. What you didn't know was this: I remembered my father making cheesecake only once; that cheesecake was the best food I had ever had; and I didn't think for an instant that my father would make you hot cheesecake or anything else.
I thought about my father's cheesecake because I had been terribly hungry, as you were. I told you about it because... who knows? Because the thought of hot cheesecake while shivering beside a wintry highway was such a good thought that I needed to share it with you. Maybe.
You were sick during our first week in New York. You slept a lot while you got better, and I was out looking for work and then working long hours, and there are a few times, those first few months, that are hazy. Maybe you remember that time better than I do. I know you and Mom spent a lot of hours together. Dad stayed away from us. He'd come home, covered with cement dust, and take off his clothes in the hallway. It was a routine. While he was in the shower Mom would vacuum his work clothes, and she would vacuum up the trail of white dust to the shower. Maybe you asked him why he was dusty; maybe you asked him about his job. Did he tell you that he worked in a masonry factory where huge machines mixed dry cement and filled hundred pound sacks with the stuff? Did he tell you that he was so big and his arms were so strong because he loaded those heavy sacks all day, year after year, into trucks? You must have asked him something, because I remember the day I came home from my job and saw him tossing you into the air, throwing you nearly to the ceiling, and catching you. He tossed you like a sack of cement but he caught you more gently than he ever would have caught a sack, and you were laughing.
He was still gruff, but I began to notice that he was different. We'd all sit down together and he'd talk a little. Just a few words here and there, about the weather - looks like more snow - or about the meal - good bread - but mostly it was you who talked. You talked about everything., and sometimes when you were catching your breath, he'd tell you to eat more, and damned if I didn't see the faint lines of a smile on his face.
Even though I had my feet firmly planted soon after we arrived in New York, you were nearly ten before I met Martha and the three of us moved into our own place. You should understand that you and I stayed with your grandparents for so long because we wanted to. It wasn't because I owed them my presence that we stayed; we stayed because there was love in their apartment. Even as a little girl you always had a way that inspired - that's the word - everyone around you to want to love you. You made grandpa want to do things for you, and he did, and he discovered that he wasn't too old or too hopeless to be human again. Anne, it was all your doing. It was you who chased out the bleakness from that small apartment, just as I had chased out the black bird from your room.
So I shouldn't have been surprised when I came home one evening and you ran up to me and said, "Grandpa is making hot cheesecake!" But I was. For sure enough, there he was, my big father, wearing an apron over his bathrobe, egg cartons, milk bottle and cream cheese wrappers all around him, a mixing bowl in front of him, a large spoon in his hand, making a hot cheesecake.
"Come on Anne," he said, "We're going to add eggs now." You ran to him and hugged his knees, and he lifted you up to let you crack the eggs. I had to go into the shower and turn it on so I could cry.
Martha is asleep now. Outside, the snow has stopped. It looks calm out there, soft and quiet. I've been sitting here writing for so long that it has grown late; by now, you're all moved in with Peter, and from across the city I think I can feel how happy you are.
I've never written to you before - never had to, whenever you were away I knew you'd be back with me soon. Can a father stay friends with his only child when she's grown and left home? Let's try, Anne.
Your Dad.

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© 2003 Steve S. Saroff
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Wildhorse Island
originally published in Redbook magazine, September 1986
When Clara and I first came to this part of the country in 1969, land was cheap. We had spent a week driving around up North, and on our way back to Iowa we came through and decided to retire here: Flathead Lake, Montana, the east side. It was the end of summer and the cherry crop had already been picked, but we fell in love with the orchards, the way they go right down to the shore, and the way that the mountains look, so close. "Sam," Clara said to me, "wouldn't it be a fine thing to live here, like a vacation all year long?"
We stayed at the state campground for five days, and that was Clara's base of operations. From there she planned, made notes and used the pay phone to call real estate agents, landowners and, finally, the Jerognsons, who sold us this place -- a ramshackle dock, an old wooden house and four acres of cherry trees. It took all our savings, and, of course, we had to sell our house in Des Moines.
The kids didn't mind. Why should they have? Sue was living in New York then and John in Houston. "It will be a great place for us all to get together in the summer," Clara said on the phone when we broke the news to them. "You can help your father with the cherry harvest," she told John. "Sue," she said when she called New York, "you'll love the lake. It's beautifully clear."
We both knew about winters, but our first one was rough. The cold didn't bother us -- we were prepared for it -- but the isolation did. The road was snowed in much of the time, and most of the people we had met in the summer moved away for the winter. Clara and I made big fires in the stove, played a lot of cards and planned what we would do with our four acres of cherries.
That spring, when the blossoms came out and the breezes off of the lake were fresh and warm, I felt like a kid again. Clara and I were only fifty, but we had both worked many hard years; we were happy that spring. I read books on orchard management, built a tool shed, pruned the trees, repaired the dock. Clara made friends with all the neighbors up and down the lake for miles -- she wasn't going to spend another winter alone with me as her only card partner -- and she fixed up the house, put in a garden, made herself a home. When the weather started to get hot, we spent the afternoons on the dock sipping lemonade, feeling smug and comfortable. Sometimes, when it was especially hot, we swam in the lake, and the water was so cold that we could only stay in for a few minutes at a time.
The harvest that first summer was a good one. Most aren't. Usually it rains at the wrong time, just before the harvest; then all the cherries swell and split, and the yellow jackets come out and swarm over the rotting fruit. Or it doesn't rain enough and the cherries never get full and sweet. Our first harvest, though, was perfect. I got good help, and since four acres is small for an orchard around here, it was all picked quickly while the price was high.
We made money that first season, and Clara canned many, many quarts of cherries and cherry jam. "In February we'll open one of these jars," she said, "and turn some chilly, gray morning into summer." Most of her jars, though, she wrapped in crumpled newspaper. Then she put them in boxes and sent them to New York and Texas. By the end of summer, when most of the neighbors were boarding up their windows and getting ready to leave for their winter homes, the kids still hadn't visited. "They're busy, Sam," she said to me while she put boxes on the counter at the post office, quarts of Montana summer about to be sent thousands of miles. "They'll make it out next year."
They came out sooner though, that very winter, the second winter. They came for Clara's funeral, when the road was icy, the edges of the lake frozen, and the cherry trees bowed with snow. I don't remember their visit well. I was in a bad way, spending most of my time at the kitchen table. When the kids left, I hardly noticed except that the house was colder. I often forgot to go outside for wood, and the fire died out sometimes.
One cold morning I woke in the dark and felt how alone I was; gone was the warm and familiar sound of Clara breathing next to me. I got out of bed and went to my table and sat down. Shivering there, I watched the stars fade, while out on the lake, dawn came up over Wildhorse Island. It looked out of place, like a ragged tooth. Clara and I had planned many times to make the six-mile trip to the island, but we never went. It was always something we thought the kids would like. Lots of local legends about the place: abandoned mines and homesteads, ghosts haunting certain coves, and the horses. The island had once been the home of a great herd of them. We were going to explore -- rent a boat, take a picnic lunch, look for the horses -- and then go back again with the kids, but we never did. Things got in the way. Small things, like the weather and the wind that seemed to stir the lake into a rough sea each time we got ready to go -- and the large thing, the cancer that first put Clara in bed, and then killed her.
I nearly sold the place after that and moved back to Iowa, but the friends Clara had cultivated in the summer came and visited. "Just checking up on you," Joe Sandish would say as he stomped the snow off his boots and let himself in. He'd always throw an armload of wood into the stove and exclaim, "It's a cold one today, sure enough," and we'd play cards for a spell and I would be glad for his company, for his friendship.
Another orchard owner, my age to the year, and a man whose eyes sparkled when he laughed, Joe helped me through that winter. And there were others besides Joe. George Evers, Patrick Duffy, Sheila Maloney -- they all came and visited with me, and even before spring I had stopped thinking about moving out. "This is my home now," I thought then. I still do.
Clara has been gone for more than fifteen years now. Since then I've seen a lot of harvests, good and bad. This season is at its peak now, and it's one of the rare, good ones. I will make money this year. The cherries are full, bright and sweet. The trees are at the best they've been since Clara and I came here. "Careful planning and work always pay off," she used to say. The pruning I've done, the work I've seen to, combined with this good weather -- yes, I'm glad I stayed. Clara would still be young enough to enjoy it if she were alive to see how the orchard looks today. The only trouble is my help this year, though I didn't have much choice. With all the orchards doing well, with so much fruit to pick, I was lucky to get the help I did.
They drove off the main road, down to my place, one week ago. I had a sign up, "Pickers Needed." I told them I paid top wage and that all the ladders were good ones: no broken rungs or wobbly legs. I showed them were they should park and where they could set up their tent.
The girl ruined the first bucket of cherries she picked, pulling the fruit from the stems, opening a hole to let the rot in. I said, "That's all right, I'll use those for jam." And his first bucket was nearly as bad, because he left the twin leaves on each stem, making more work than it was worth to go back and pick them all off. So I said, "Look you two, come here," and I asked them if they had ever picked fruit before, and of course, they hadn't. I should have told them then to beat it, that a peak year is not the time to learn about fruit picking, but I didn't. I let them stay, partly because I wasn't sure that I could find other help, and partly because I've become an old fool living alone out here.
Each year the help is new; the same people never come back. Fruit pickers are like that, I've learned. Migrants, mostly poor, mostly young, they aren't looking for a home. I've always worked along with them, and I've learned a lot over the years. Most seasons, though, it has taken two days to pick what good fruit there's been, so before I've had time to get to know any of my help, they've been paid and are gone, moving on to harvests in Washington and Oregon.
But this year is different. The three of us, Leslie, Ralph -- those are their names -- and I, have been working together all week and we talk. Ralph, the son of an Army officer, lived in many places growing up. He's told me stories about packing and moving and how, finally, his mother had enough and went off without explanation, leaving Ralph with his father. "I had to call him 'sir.' But it was a good childhood. I was never bored." Ralph is twenty-one, a year older than Leslie, whom he loves. And Leslie, she loves Ralph. New, fresh, neither of them really knows yet what to do -- they're still shy with each other, unsure. But when I happen to see them talking, when they don't think I'm listening, I know ... I'm not so old that I can't remember what love sounds like, and I'm glad that I didn't send them away just because they didn't know about fruit.
The first night they were here I went up to check on them before going to sleep. I wanted to make sure their camp fire was under control. They had pitched their tent in the old access road between the orchard and the south woods. Their fire was still burning -- a small, safe fire -- and I smelled its rich, piney smoke as I came up on them. When I got close, I stopped. They hadn't heard me. They were talking quietly and didn't need me there. Something, though, kept me from turning and walking away. I listened for maybe a minute. What they were talking about was simple and dear: preserving fruit. Leslie was telling Ralph how it was done, and he was listening. They were sitting together close to the fire, with their backs toward me. Ralph was holding her, his chin resting on her head, and I could tell they were both staring into the embers, letting the dying firelight touch them. I heard Leslie say, "We'll have to make preserves form some of these. We might get sick of cherries now, but this winter we'll be glad for them." Ralph answered her, "You can teach me." She turned her face up to his and they kissed and I went back to the house.
On my way I remembered how Clara taught me to preserve fruit when we lived in Iowa. It had seemed such an easy skill. Fruit, sugar, pectin. Now though, the cherries and jam I preserve each summer rarely have the flavor that Clara's did. It's only those rare batches I send away.
Leslie told me how they met. Only one month ago, in Missoula, she was awakened by a strange sound. She looked out her bedroom window and in the backyard, half hidden under a hedge, was Ralph, wrapped in a green sleeping bag, a pack next to his head, snoring loudly. "He was obviously a bum," she told me, as she reached clumsily for cherries with one hand, clutching the ladder with the other. So she called the police. "It was a stupid thing to do," she said, smiling and climbing down the ladder to empty her bucket, "but I didn't have the nerve to talk to him myself." She saw from her window how politely her backyard bum apologized to the policeman who woke him up, saying that he didn't mean any harm, was just passing through and had been tired. The she listened to the policeman telling Ralph how sorry he was to have to ask him to leave, but since someone had complained he had no choice. "Well, I figured if this guy could make a cop feel guilty, then he couldn't be a bad person, and besides, I felt rotten." So, as the police car slunk down the alley and as Ralph was just swinging his pack on, Leslie called out to him and took her turn at apologizing. They talked for a while. He was on his way to Seattle to look for work. He had a friend there. Then she invited him inside for breakfast, and that's as much as she told me.
Later, though, Ralph mentioned that coming up to Flathead Lake for the cherry season had been his idea. He had convinced Leslie to quit her job. "She deserves better," he said to me, "than to work for next to nothing, inside all day with an idiot for a boss."
I laughed then and said to Ralph, "At least here she's not working inside," and he laughed too. They've become good workers, actually. They pick fruit slowly because they're new at it. Not like the workers who've been traveling the harvest line since the time they were born. Leslie and Ralph pick slowly because they are still in awe of the fruit, concerned with each cherry. And, of course, they're slow because they often stop to look at each other, to laugh, and to take swimming breaks in the lake, rinsing the sweat and the dust away.
At the end of their second day here Ralph knocked on my door and asked if I had tools and lumber. He wanted to build a frame to hold the large cherry boxes off the ground, so the fruit wouldn't have so far to fall. That way fewer cherries would get bruised. A good idea. He had it built before dark, and I realized then that the boy was no bum. And yesterday he sketched a plan to bring lake water up to the orchard, drawing the details of a small windmill, telling me that I could build it cheaply with mostly salvaged parts. As I listened to him, I remembered how he had watched the sailboats on the lake and asked if they were out often. And I thought he was only thinking of sailing.
But Joe dropped by this evening and noticed how much of my crop still needs to be picked. "Sam, you should hire more workers. The price is going to start dropping soon." Joe's orchard is large; I pass it each day as I drive the boxes of cherries to the shipping and canning center just up the shore a few miles. Joe's orchard is almost picked clean. He has twenty pickers who nearly run up and down the ladders.
I listened to his advice, agreed, but knew that I didn't want to hire more help, even if I could find it. And Joe, friend that he is, seemed to read my thoughts, because he said, "Maybe there's no need to rush. Maybe the price will stay high this year." We stopped talking about the crop then and both of us looked out across the lake. We were standing on the dock and the sun had just gone down behind the mountains. The water was black and smooth. Nighthawks swooped close to us, catching the few mosquitoes that come out at sunset. Joe waved his arm, pointing to Wildhorse Island. "You know, all my years here, I've never taken the time to get over there," he began. "They say there are only three horses left. They say they're all mares. Sam, you and me should take a boat over someday soon."
Once on the phone, Clara and I tried to tell the kids about the island. When we told John about the horses, he said, "I saw horses in Iowa." When we told Sue about the ruins, she said, "There are enough abandoned buildings in New York. I don't need to see more." So tonight I answered Joe, "Yes, we should get over to the Island." And then I described the windmill I am going to build -- and he understood that I wasn't changing the subject -- and I talked about my children, how proud of them I have felt, and how disappointed too. In the dark this evening, talking long after the island and even the lake had disappeared, Joe said, "Some places, maybe, are for looking back and remembering; some places aren't for children." And I agreed and remembered the winter when Clara died; how the children had come and gone. I spent long hours then staring out the window, across the lake and, when night came, I stared at my own reflection in the window, as if at a stranger, a dim, flat image of a person I though I knew. I felt that I had lost everything, my wife, my children, the familiar places I had known for years, and that what I had instead was a hermitage in old age, a strange place where I was alone. That winter I was bitter, putting blame on anything I could. My sorrow was the sudden disease that killed Clara, the doctors who were unable to stop it, the wintertime with its long nights, my children who seemed unwilling to love me. But tonight, in this cool darkness after a hot day, sitting here instead of sleeping, I can look at a reflection in the same window, and this time it is of a person I know.
It's my help this year. They hardly know what they're doing, they're almost reckless. I listen to what they tell me and most of it is about what's to come. Even if only a few of their dreams turn out, they'll still be doing fine. They have plans with each other: plans for long hikes and for good jobs and land and children. The same breathless sort of plans that Clara and I shared -- not fruit picking, but looking forward. The same way Sue, with her husband, and John, with his wife, started. And tonight I remember how busy it is planning, how wonderful too. Tonight I forgive my helpers this year who are picking a cherry crop slowly, and I forgive my children who almost never visit. There will be time. Other crops, more visits.
Joe and I are going to the island. It's our plan. I want to find a bluff on it where I can stand and look back. I want to see how this place looks from a distance, from across the water. I want to imagine that Clara might be seeing me in the same way, looking at all I've done, seeing that I still have plans.
#
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THE GAZEBO The sun was beautiful as it's brightness cast across the ocean. Not a cloud in the sky on this day would be allowed. The sea gulls listlessly flew across the sky, taking peeks at the crowd as it grew. The moment was soon to arrive. Everyone gathered around, happiness and joy in their eyes. Everything was pretty and just so perfect. All that dreams are made of. The chairs were a perfect white. The ribbons and bows, the exact color she had requested, that pretty shade of purple almost into a fuschia. Ribbons and lace flowed from chair to chair. Flowers had been selected for their beauty as well as their heavenly scent. Every May she'd patiently wait for their bloom. This year they were ready just in time. She had always dreamed of having Lilacs. From her bedroom window she could see the ocean mist the sides of the cliff with each wave. Setting little rainbows across the horizon. Surely someone above was giving them HIS blessing. In her room, all her best friends and family were buzzing around her like bees to their queen. No need was too great and nothing was left until perfect. The moment was soon arriving she knew, as one by one, everyone left her there to gaze out at the scene she would soon be the center of. Checking herself one last time in the mirror, her hair was perfect. All swept up in little ringlets. She had on just a touch of make-up and his favorite perfume. Picking up the garter she held it in her hand as she thought of his delight when he'd see she was wearing the stockings he loved so much. Placing it carefully on in place, she then began to look at her gown. She smiled to herself, she was wearing the gown she'd always envisioned herself to wear. The dress made her look like the princess he always liked to call her. Making her way through the house, she finally reached the entrance and pausing as her dear brother took her arm to begin the journey. At first she notices the people all admiring her, some smiling, happy for her. And others wiping tears of joy away. Her gaze then drifts off to the people so carefully chosen to be there beside them. And just beyond that she can see the Gazebo… She'd dreamt of this for such a long time. It was so pretty. White lace was draped in waves all around the Gazebo. Near each pillar there was a small gathering of flowers, hand picked that morning and a pretty ribbon to tie them together. Inside the Gazebo, was what her attention was really focused on. She noticed the Pastor standing there with his Bible in hand ready to begin. Ready to unite these two souls, that already had a union man could not begin to explain. Slowly her deep eyes drifted to the man standing beside the Pastor. He was dressed so handsomely. A black tux with tails was what he wore. Handsome and tall was he. She could see his big cheeky smile even from where she stood. He was standing there holding his hands before him. She could see in his eyes, he was anticipating their first night together. Hearing the tender notes of the song begin, she's unable to hold herself back anymore. She begins to walk tiny steps to the man she has loved for so long. Each step feels as though it's taking an eternity. Slowly, she is stepping closer to him, when suddenly with a jump… Something jolts her and she stirs, feeling disoriented with her surroundings she reaches out and finds all she can feel are her pillows. Sitting up she begins to realize it's all been a dream. A familiar dream she hasn't been able to shake. Laying her head softly back to the pillow, she tries to sleep. Letting the tears flow softly down her cheek as the dream lingers on.
From what I see, I am nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing has happened to me my whole life that hasn't happened to nearly everybody else on this planet. Except that I met Brian. Being in his arms were some of the happiest times I had ever experienced. I could look deep into his eyes and be enchanted forever. Being with him changed my soul. I felt his love prying apart the hard shell of shyness that encircled me. His trust, his love and his support for me lifted me from the earth and gently sent me into the clouds. He cast off the chains I had given myself. Through him I learned a new insight about the world. It was as if a tall, dark mountain had stood in front of me, and out of nowhere, he provided the wings to fly over it. We met at my work. We started dating each other and seeing more and more of each other every day, not knowing that we were falling in love. Soon we became a couple. Our relationship was everything it should have been, almost as if our time together had been written for a novel. We grew closer and closer during the school year. We would go to the movies, go out to eat, go shopping and most of all be with each other for a long time. I could hardly sleep at night, just anticipating the next time I would see him and the upcoming weekend we would be together. I shared everything with him, even things I kept from my family and my best friend. Realization From what I see, I am nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing has happened to me my whole life that hasn't happened to nearly everybody else on this planet. Except that I met Brian. Being in his arms were some of the happiest times I had ever experienced. I could look deep into his eyes and be enchanted forever. Being with him changed my soul. I felt his love prying apart the hard shell of shyness that encircled me. His trust, his love and his support for me lifted me from the earth and gently sent me into the clouds. He cast off the chains I had given myself. Through him I learned a new insight about the world. It was as if a tall, dark mountain had stood in front of me, and out of nowhere, he provided the wings to fly over it. We met at my work. We started dating each other and seeing more and more of each other every day, not knowing that we were falling in love. Soon we became a couple. Our relationship was everything it should have been, almost as if our time together had been written for a novel. We grew closer and closer during the school year. We would go to the movies, go out to eat, go shopping and most of all be with each other for a long time. I could hardly sleep at night, just anticipating the next time I would see him and the upcoming weekend we would be together. I shared everything with him, even things I kept from my family and my best friend. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Just like every other day, I went to school, saw Brian and came home. I was in my own little world, living a fairytale life, when my parents called me in their room, and told my brother to go outside to watch T.V. "Sit down Minal." My dad said, with a disappointment in his voice. I looked at my mother mother. We exchanged a bazaar look. My parents had found a picture of Brian and I. His arm was around me in the picture. We were sitting right next to each other. From where I come from girls are not even allowed to have guy friends. In our culture we have arrange marriages. You first get married and then learn to fall in love. Love before marriage is forbidden. We have to marry someone who is Indian, not only that but he/she must be from the same cast as you are, or the society doesn't accept you. I saw my parents holding the picture that they had found in my purse. My heart was beating faster by the seconds. I didn't know what to say. "Who is this guy? Why is his arm around you? Where did you meet him? How far have you gone with him? Are you pregnant?" My parents started asking questions, and they jumped to conclusions without knowing the full facts. The fact that Brian is white made them even angrier with me. "How could you do this to us? You let us down. You were our pride." My mother said, with tears in her eyes. I hurt them. I lied to them, just like every other time I had, when I went to go see him. "Mom, I am NOT pregnant. I wouldn't do anything to let you guys down. I met him at Shannon's birthday party, and I took a picture with him." They were still upset with me, for the fact that I had taken a picture with a guy. I had let them down. My father raised his voice, "Do you know what this means? Do you know what would happen if anyone of our relatives were to find out about this? I would be kicked out of this society. Do you know what my friends and relatives think about you?" They thought that I was this perfect Indian girl, who doesn't go to the parties, doesn't associate with guys, and believes in Hinduism. It really hurt me when my mother said that I had let them down. While ripping the picture into thousand pieces, my mother said, "This is it. It's going to end right here. We have given you too much freedom. No more hanging out with friends! No phone calls! Your friends are not Indian and they are bad influence on you. Go to school and work, and stay home, till we find a nice husband for you. Now go to bed!" They took away all my privileges after that. I apologized and promised them that I would not do anything to let them down ever again. I couldn't sleep at night. I cried the whole night. My world had turned upside down. I kept thinking about everything that had just happened. I realized that our cultures differed. There was no way that our Indian society would accept Brian and I together. No matter how much I loved him, it didn't matter. He is white and by Bhagvat Gita (Indian Bible) I am not allowed to be with someone who is not Indian. I couldn't do this to him or my parents. I realized that I am Indian and I always will be, there was nothing I could have done to change that, and I didn't have the strength to hurt my parents again. I knew I had to sacrifice my love for my parents' happiness. The following day, I went to Brian's house, and told him what had happened. I also told him that my parents would never accept him in my life. I broke up with him. The words wouldn't come out of my mouth; I had to force them out of me. We said good-bye to each other. Tears came out of my eyes. He dropped me off at work. I just sat outside by my car and cried for about 2 hours. "How could I let him just walk out of my life?" I asked myself. Nothing felt right. I felt so empty inside. I couldn't take it. I knew I wanted to see him one last time. I was hurting. I got in the car. I drove there as fast as possible. I knocked on the door. No one answered. I let myself in. He wasn't in his room; I checked every room in the house. Finally, I saw him sitting outside by the swimming pool, with a confused look on him face. He looked deeply hurt. I couldn't do this to him. I went running in the backyard. I told him to just hold me. When he held me, it felt so right and safe in his arms. I didn't want to let him go. I told him I couldn't live with out him, and I asked him to take me back in his life. Without hesitating, Brian said "My doors will always be open for you. " I told him that the reason I had broken up with him was because I didn't want to hurt him later down in the road. "By God, I love you Brian. But later down in the road if we get serious, I can't be with you. I have to marry the person whom my parents pick out for me." I said, with tears in my eyes. I had told Brian about the situation when we first started seeing each other, but I didn't know that it would actually come to this point. Brian held my face and said, " I knew what I was getting myself into, when I first met you. You still have few years before your parents marry you off. Maybe you will change your mind by then." All I knew was that I needed him in my life, and I was willing to go through anything to be with him. I couldn't loose him at any cost. We have been together for nine months. We have our ups and downs. Sometimes we fight and don't get along, for us that's right and sometimes it's wrong, but in our hearts we both know that we'll always love each other. Ever since that day my parents haven't found anything. Every day I pray to God, I ask him to help me make the right decisions in life. I ask him to give me strength and courage to stand up for myself, and most of all I ask him to help me not to hurt the people that I love and care for the most.

fiction love stories

THE GAZEBO The sun was beautiful as it's brightness cast across the ocean. Not a cloud in the sky on this day would be allowed. The sea gulls listlessly flew across the sky, taking peeks at the crowd as it grew. The moment was soon to arrive. Everyone gathered around, happiness and joy in their eyes. Everything was pretty and just so perfect. All that dreams are made of. The chairs were a perfect white. The ribbons and bows, the exact color she had requested, that pretty shade of purple almost into a fuschia. Ribbons and lace flowed from chair to chair. Flowers had been selected for their beauty as well as their heavenly scent. Every May she'd patiently wait for their bloom. This year they were ready just in time. She had always dreamed of having Lilacs. From her bedroom window she could see the ocean mist the sides of the cliff with each wave. Setting little rainbows across the horizon. Surely someone above was giving them HIS blessing. In her room, all her best friends and family were buzzing around her like bees to their queen. No need was too great and nothing was left until perfect. The moment was soon arriving she knew, as one by one, everyone left her there to gaze out at the scene she would soon be the center of. Checking herself one last time in the mirror, her hair was perfect. All swept up in little ringlets. She had on just a touch of make-up and his favorite perfume. Picking up the garter she held it in her hand as she thought of his delight when he'd see she was wearing the stockings he loved so much. Placing it carefully on in place, she then began to look at her gown. She smiled to herself, she was wearing the gown she'd always envisioned herself to wear. The dress made her look like the princess he always liked to call her. Making her way through the house, she finally reached the entrance and pausing as her dear brother took her arm to begin the journey. At first she notices the people all admiring her, some smiling, happy for her. And others wiping tears of joy away. Her gaze then drifts off to the people so carefully chosen to be there beside them. And just beyond that she can see the Gazebo… She'd dreamt of this for such a long time. It was so pretty. White lace was draped in waves all around the Gazebo. Near each pillar there was a small gathering of flowers, hand picked that morning and a pretty ribbon to tie them together. Inside the Gazebo, was what her attention was really focused on. She noticed the Pastor standing there with his Bible in hand ready to begin. Ready to unite these two souls, that already had a union man could not begin to explain. Slowly her deep eyes drifted to the man standing beside the Pastor. He was dressed so handsomely. A black tux with tails was what he wore. Handsome and tall was he. She could see his big cheeky smile even from where she stood. He was standing there holding his hands before him. She could see in his eyes, he was anticipating their first night together. Hearing the tender notes of the song begin, she's unable to hold herself back anymore. She begins to walk tiny steps to the man she has loved for so long. Each step feels as though it's taking an eternity. Slowly, she is stepping closer to him, when suddenly with a jump… Something jolts her and she stirs, feeling disoriented with her surroundings she reaches out and finds all she can feel are her pillows. Sitting up she begins to realize it's all been a dream. A familiar dream she hasn't been able to shake. Laying her head softly back to the pillow, she tries to sleep. Letting the tears flow softly down her cheek as the dream lingers on.
From what I see, I am nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing has happened to me my whole life that hasn't happened to nearly everybody else on this planet. Except that I met Brian. Being in his arms were some of the happiest times I had ever experienced. I could look deep into his eyes and be enchanted forever. Being with him changed my soul. I felt his love prying apart the hard shell of shyness that encircled me. His trust, his love and his support for me lifted me from the earth and gently sent me into the clouds. He cast off the chains I had given myself. Through him I learned a new insight about the world. It was as if a tall, dark mountain had stood in front of me, and out of nowhere, he provided the wings to fly over it. We met at my work. We started dating each other and seeing more and more of each other every day, not knowing that we were falling in love. Soon we became a couple. Our relationship was everything it should have been, almost as if our time together had been written for a novel. We grew closer and closer during the school year. We would go to the movies, go out to eat, go shopping and most of all be with each other for a long time. I could hardly sleep at night, just anticipating the next time I would see him and the upcoming weekend we would be together. I shared everything with him, even things I kept from my family and my best friend. Realization From what I see, I am nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing has happened to me my whole life that hasn't happened to nearly everybody else on this planet. Except that I met Brian. Being in his arms were some of the happiest times I had ever experienced. I could look deep into his eyes and be enchanted forever. Being with him changed my soul. I felt his love prying apart the hard shell of shyness that encircled me. His trust, his love and his support for me lifted me from the earth and gently sent me into the clouds. He cast off the chains I had given myself. Through him I learned a new insight about the world. It was as if a tall, dark mountain had stood in front of me, and out of nowhere, he provided the wings to fly over it. We met at my work. We started dating each other and seeing more and more of each other every day, not knowing that we were falling in love. Soon we became a couple. Our relationship was everything it should have been, almost as if our time together had been written for a novel. We grew closer and closer during the school year. We would go to the movies, go out to eat, go shopping and most of all be with each other for a long time. I could hardly sleep at night, just anticipating the next time I would see him and the upcoming weekend we would be together. I shared everything with him, even things I kept from my family and my best friend. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. Just like every other day, I went to school, saw Brian and came home. I was in my own little world, living a fairytale life, when my parents called me in their room, and told my brother to go outside to watch T.V. "Sit down Minal." My dad said, with a disappointment in his voice. I looked at my mother mother. We exchanged a bazaar look. My parents had found a picture of Brian and I. His arm was around me in the picture. We were sitting right next to each other. From where I come from girls are not even allowed to have guy friends. In our culture we have arrange marriages. You first get married and then learn to fall in love. Love before marriage is forbidden. We have to marry someone who is Indian, not only that but he/she must be from the same cast as you are, or the society doesn't accept you. I saw my parents holding the picture that they had found in my purse. My heart was beating faster by the seconds. I didn't know what to say. "Who is this guy? Why is his arm around you? Where did you meet him? How far have you gone with him? Are you pregnant?" My parents started asking questions, and they jumped to conclusions without knowing the full facts. The fact that Brian is white made them even angrier with me. "How could you do this to us? You let us down. You were our pride." My mother said, with tears in her eyes. I hurt them. I lied to them, just like every other time I had, when I went to go see him. "Mom, I am NOT pregnant. I wouldn't do anything to let you guys down. I met him at Shannon's birthday party, and I took a picture with him." They were still upset with me, for the fact that I had taken a picture with a guy. I had let them down. My father raised his voice, "Do you know what this means? Do you know what would happen if anyone of our relatives were to find out about this? I would be kicked out of this society. Do you know what my friends and relatives think about you?" They thought that I was this perfect Indian girl, who doesn't go to the parties, doesn't associate with guys, and believes in Hinduism. It really hurt me when my mother said that I had let them down. While ripping the picture into thousand pieces, my mother said, "This is it. It's going to end right here. We have given you too much freedom. No more hanging out with friends! No phone calls! Your friends are not Indian and they are bad influence on you. Go to school and work, and stay home, till we find a nice husband for you. Now go to bed!" They took away all my privileges after that. I apologized and promised them that I would not do anything to let them down ever again. I couldn't sleep at night. I cried the whole night. My world had turned upside down. I kept thinking about everything that had just happened. I realized that our cultures differed. There was no way that our Indian society would accept Brian and I together. No matter how much I loved him, it didn't matter. He is white and by Bhagvat Gita (Indian Bible) I am not allowed to be with someone who is not Indian. I couldn't do this to him or my parents. I realized that I am Indian and I always will be, there was nothing I could have done to change that, and I didn't have the strength to hurt my parents again. I knew I had to sacrifice my love for my parents' happiness. The following day, I went to Brian's house, and told him what had happened. I also told him that my parents would never accept him in my life. I broke up with him. The words wouldn't come out of my mouth; I had to force them out of me. We said good-bye to each other. Tears came out of my eyes. He dropped me off at work. I just sat outside by my car and cried for about 2 hours. "How could I let him just walk out of my life?" I asked myself. Nothing felt right. I felt so empty inside. I couldn't take it. I knew I wanted to see him one last time. I was hurting. I got in the car. I drove there as fast as possible. I knocked on the door. No one answered. I let myself in. He wasn't in his room; I checked every room in the house. Finally, I saw him sitting outside by the swimming pool, with a confused look on him face. He looked deeply hurt. I couldn't do this to him. I went running in the backyard. I told him to just hold me. When he held me, it felt so right and safe in his arms. I didn't want to let him go. I told him I couldn't live with out him, and I asked him to take me back in his life. Without hesitating, Brian said "My doors will always be open for you. " I told him that the reason I had broken up with him was because I didn't want to hurt him later down in the road. "By God, I love you Brian. But later down in the road if we get serious, I can't be with you. I have to marry the person whom my parents pick out for me." I said, with tears in my eyes. I had told Brian about the situation when we first started seeing each other, but I didn't know that it would actually come to this point. Brian held my face and said, " I knew what I was getting myself into, when I first met you. You still have few years before your parents marry you off. Maybe you will change your mind by then." All I knew was that I needed him in my life, and I was willing to go through anything to be with him. I couldn't loose him at any cost. We have been together for nine months. We have our ups and downs. Sometimes we fight and don't get along, for us that's right and sometimes it's wrong, but in our hearts we both know that we'll always love each other. Ever since that day my parents haven't found anything. Every day I pray to God, I ask him to help me make the right decisions in life. I ask him to give me strength and courage to stand up for myself, and most of all I ask him to help me not to hurt the people that I love and care for the most.