I’m posting a few paragraphs of my short story, No Green Eyed Monster. It’s autobiographical and tells of my childhood, of love that doing the best it can, with the best of intentions isn’t always the answer.
I don’t remember my first home. I’ve heard a lot about it. A big apartment with a pretty good sized yard. My mother didn’t like it because it was mostly driveway. I only remember leaving it behind. My sister was getting ready for first grade and my parents wanted us to go to a good school.
We moved to Cumberland. This home I remember well. Both my parents had dropped out of school. They married young. Mom was just sixteen, father only three years older. They saved every penny they could and bought a converted hunting shack. In my memory it was beautiful. There were four of us. My sister and I shared a bedroom. My parents had the only other one. The bathroom was an add on. Unfortunately this meant the pipes were outside and froze when the weather got cold enough. I can still see my mother emptying out the chamber pot. No matter how miserable the job she always came in smiling. For her children she would do whatever it took. We didn’t have a bathtub or shower. The farmers sink in the kitchen worked well enough. My sister outgrew it first. I remember the first day she went to school, leaving me behind. I wanted to go and didn’t understand when my sister came home crying.
I watched the glass cookie jar. I didn’t understand why Mom was putting her every spare dollar in the jar. When it went from clear to green, we went shopping. It was my turn to go to school. It didn’t take me long to find out why my sister cried. Poor is not something to brag about.
Debra Zannelli Author 