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August 9, 2005

Volume 5, Issue 9

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Tell us about mother Marinda.

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Marinda was the daughter of a wealthy merchant from Hyderabad, an old Moghul family. Muslims adrift in a sea of Hindus, they clung steadfastly to their faith.

Educated in the best schools of the subcontinent, she eventually found her way to America, where she married the scion of a venerable spice trading family. Their marriage, somewhat surprisingly for those days, was fruitful and happy despite the initial cultural gulf.

Ah, the life they had together, these two. Travel, banquets, culture.

But the dawn of the Flapper Era was too much for her, a devout Muslim done in by Bathtub Djinn.

Posted by: Elisson at August 9, 2005 8:21 AM · Permalink

Momma Marinda had no truck with last names. She said my dad took her daddy's when he knocked her up, but never gave her another. "It's not like there's any other Marinda's in this town."

Plenty of Jim's, though. And nobody could just call me 'Jim.' As a kid I was Little Jim. Then I plumped up, becoming Fat Jim. Lost the weight, but tangled with the law so often I got called Jailhouse Jimmy. Then I joined the Army. I came back, whole, so since then I've been Lucky Jim. Now momma's gone, Lucky'll do for a last name.

Posted by: Jeff R. at August 9, 2005 9:47 AM · Permalink

Miranda was an unassuming looking librarian from the Bronx in New York, who took her work at the Herman Melville Library very seriously.

She was a ferocious guardian of the place in which she worked for over fifty years. She began as a book-cutter, moving into retail at a very young age. She began selling off parts of the library wholesale in the 90’s and by the roaring twenties she was poised for greatness.

On May 5th, 1922 construction of Yankee stadium was begun on the site of her library, and that was the day she took her own life.

Posted by: reelcobra at August 9, 2005 4:16 PM · Permalink

Marinda was my mother. She was a strict woman who kept a tidy house. No dust settled on the furniture. Clothing went into the hamper, the dresser – folded neatly, of course! – or the incinerator. She often lectured us on the importance of neatness. “After I’m gone,” she’d say, “I don’t want people to say I raised a bunch of slobs.”

When she did pass on in ’22, we had a little fun. We made sure her grave marker was just a bit askew. We were not surprised, however, when the ground appeared to settle, and the marker’s alignment was corrected.

Posted by: No One of Consequence at August 9, 2005 8:21 PM · Permalink

"Mother Marinda's grave is upset," said Dougan. "Look sharp."

"Was she, like, a nun?" asked Joker.

"Man, shut up."

"Quiet," Seffie said. She raised her rifle and pointed it into the woods bordering the small manor. "Two."

Dougan and Joker flanked her. Now I heard it, too - shuffling, and the quiet crunch of mouth on bone.

We approached. Mother Marinda was eating what appeared to be her grandson, who was only thrashing a little, now. Seffie clucked her tongue and fired twice.

"Ah, Mother Marinda, who were you?" asked Joker. Joker was the philosophical one.

"Man, shut up," said Dougan.

Posted by: G-Do at August 9, 2005 8:43 PM · Permalink

Ah, poor Marinda ! You are long gone from where and when I knew you . Your stone has faded and your grave gone to seed . It seems like only yesterday we walked hand in hand and made plans for our future.
Now . looking back on it all , I see clearly that it never would have worked out well for either of us.
Remembering that day, 83 years ago , seems like it was only yesterday. It was unbearably hot , abnormal for a spring day. I recall being so thirsty.

Actually , I'm thirsty right now.

I wonder what blood type your grandaughter is??

Posted by: drackip at August 10, 2005 3:12 AM · Permalink