A forthcoming book published by Guideposts is entitled: Jest Patriotic (Let There Be Laughter Series) It will include pp 72-75 of Help! There's A Tigress In The House.
Proposed date of publication: May 2007.

This is true of a person’s mind. If not exercised regularly, soon it will get weaker and weaker and can’t be relied upon to remember a next-door-neighbor’s name, a brother’s birthday, or an appointment with the dermatologist.

So that’s why I write, to stimulate my thought processes. Writing does help. After a few weeks chained to my word processor, I now can tell you who lives next door. It’s . . . a . . . you know, good-old-what’s-her name. My brother’s birthday is sometime in April, or is it May? And, whoops! my dermatologist appointment was yesterday. Well, anyway, I write because I like to.

Actually, I’ve written all kinds of stuff most of my life. A few hundred of my articles have been published in magazines and newspapers. But I know that people just read ‘em and toss ‘em. One or two friends have saved a column or two. Copies of my tigress piece, the title essay of this book, have been tucked away in a few drawers. That piece has been around longer than most of the others. It has found its way into newspapers in several states, and also in Canada and even in India. In India the editors gave me a different first name in my by-line. Kamakshi. That’s so the people of India wouldn’t realize it was written by a foreigner.

In this book I have gathered some of my published essays, or minute memories, and have added a few more. I purposely made them short for quick reading. In book form, perhaps my words won’t get thrown away so soon. I hope they’ll get to snuggle in the bookcase with Jane Austen and Ernest Hemingway. You know, like a donkey running in the Kentucky Derby.

The individual sketches are meant to be read one or two at a time. You might keep them in your bathroom reading rack or take them to bed to promote sleep. Most of the essays are light, but some may lean toward the emotional. Hope the mixture is congenial like peanut butter and jam. I’ve written about a solemnizer, a suit that’s way worn (wearied by traveling), birds who hate heavy metal music, and a squirrel in the furnace, plus more bits of this and that. I’ve tried to have something for everybody over 50. But it’s okay, too, if younger people read this book.

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   I've read that a tigress will protect her own territory with all her striped might. She will not let another animal trespass her lair without a fight. And if provoked, the cat will bellow a roar that can be heard for two miles.

Click back cover for full image.

Such a tigress once lived at my house. When her territory was invaded, she fought for her rights, and she roared a terrible roar.

I was that tigress. I turned into a defensive, unpleasant beast when my husband retired.

Before that event, I had been the epitome of a happy homemaker. I had overcome the depression of seeing all my little birdies fly from the nest, and at last enjoyed the freedom of quiet solitude. I reveled in sleep-late mornings, low-cal lunches and hobby-laden afternoons. I was an idol of independence and a queen of my palace.

In the meantime, high on the 18th floor of a downtown tower, my husband ruled his own white-collar kingdom. He cracked the whip over a herd of accountants and secretaries. Long after sundown, he came home too exhausted to whisper any more orders. So many debits and credits still whirled behind his furrowed brow that he didn't fret about dust on top of the refrigerator or un-ironed sheets on the beds. He plopped his weary body into a recliner and snored through the late-night news.

Each morning my husband awoke ready to take command of his office empire. At the same time, he let me blindly believe I was in control of my home space.

Then the retirement gun sounded. My husband turned around three times, barked his last order and left his empty oak desk silhouetted in the sunset. He stalked into my territory like a Cheetah with blunt claws. He was there to stay morning and noon and afternoon and night. He was there to be in charge.

In a flash, my balmy rain forest became a wild jungle. My pink complexion tightened into tension stripes. My teeth bared and my roar sounded. I felt invaded, trapped.

A stormy aura clouded our home for about a month. Then I realized that if our marriage was to endure, something had to be done. I had to shed my beastly attitude, but I had to let my husband know why my fur was frayed. He and I needed to communicate openly about both our needs. We had to make some ground rules for our now-jointly-managed lair. Once these guidelines were established, I slowly turned back into the purring kitten I once had been.

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Helen Glissmeyer is a freelance journalist who has published a few hundred articles in local and national newspapers and magazines. One article, her title essay in this book, was published in India and Canada, as well as several states in the United States. Helen also has published The Right Knight and the Wrong Daze" a book of poetry "for children and grownups they know." After receiving numerous awards for her writing over the years, she was named "Writer of the Year" by the League of Utah Writers in 2002. She resides in Holladay, Utah, with her retired husband, and has two sons, two daughters and 13 grandchildren.

Retirement and Reminiscence

Help! There’s a Tigress in the House

Let the Good Chimes Roll

Along the Ridge the Riding is Smooth

Do We Really Know Each Other?

How to Feel Young

The Mystery of the Wayworn Suit

Pipe Peeper’s Peril

Listen My Children and You Shall Hear

Keep the Bottles, Not the Stories Quiet

Good-bye Fu Fu

How About a 30-Hour Day?

Charms of Music

Opera is Painless

Quiet Conflict

Unhappily Healed

Savored Sentiment

The Patchwork Curtain

Let the Paper Do the Talking

Surviving Surgery of the Kitchen

Matter of Taste

Perpetual Journey

Sweet (and Spicy) Dreams

The Uninvited

The Most Sincere Pageant

A Gift to Remember

Thanksgiving Then and Now

Wedding Wonders and Woes

Heartache or Happiness

Quest for the Question

Stop the Train, I Want to Get Off

Am I, or Am I Not?

Claim to Fame

The Last Word