Every morning my father would walk with me to the bus stop and wait for the school bus. No matter the weather, he never missed a day. Once I was safely on my way to school, he would go to work at the bagel store right on the corner by the bus stop.
Dad was a widower raising me on his own. My mother died from a fever when I was still an infant and I donβt have any memories of her. We had no other family nearby and dad did everything himself. I never heard him complain and I knew I was loved. Dad always packed small bagel pieces in my lunch bag; he sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon and I giggled when he told me they were the βbagel holesβ.
Next door to the bagel store was a shoe repair shop. A young woman sat in the window busily attaching new soles onto worn shoes. Sometimes she would stitch together a tattered handbag; I liked to watch her work, her fingers deftly plying the leather and pulling the needle through.
The shoe lady never looked up from her work but I could tell she was beautiful. She had dark brown hair that fell over her shoulders and long eyelashes. I asked my father if he thought she was pretty but he said he hadnβt noticed.
One morning during a rainstorm, we stood under the awning of the shoe shop. I watched the lady in the window and this time my dad watched her, too. She must have become aware of our presence and she looked up at us. I donβt know if it was a thunderclap or some other force of nature but when her eyes met my dadβs, the shopβs big front window shook and the lights inside flickered.
The next morning on our way to the bus stop, I noticed dad was carrying a worn pair of shoes β and he was softly humming. I said nothing but my heart began to dance. Together we walked into the shoe repair shop and the lady smiled shyly at us. She was indeed very beautiful. Dad handed her his shoes and asked if they could be repaired. Their fingers touched and neither one pulled away. The lady said dadβs shoes would be ready in four days.
Each morning after that as we waited for the bus we would smile and wave at the lady in the window. Sheβd smile and wave back, her gaze lingering on my fatherβs handsome face. On the afternoon of day four dad picked up his repaired shoes. He surprised the lady by giving her a bag of warm bagel holes sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. The shoe lady peeked into the bag and laughed gaily, saying she never had such a treat. She and my dad smiled radiantly at each other for a long time.
That was chapter one of our happily ever after. Now every morning both my dad and the shoe lady walk with me to the bus stop; he holds my right hand and she holds my left. From the bus window I watch them walk to work, their heads close together and their fingers intertwined, and my heart does a little dance.
The house is quiet tonight. Eerily quiet. All the lights are off and only the glow of candles shines dimly through the curtained windows, performing a ballet of shadows on the walls and ceiling. Every so often a door softly opens, barely perceptible murmurings are audible, then the door gently closes. Intermittent muted sobbing creeps up from the parlor.
I sit on my bed huddled under a blanket, a tiny flashlight flickering a pale yellow beam on my diary as I jot down my memories of the day. I must be quiet; my mother will be very upset with me if she discovers I’m still awake at this late hour.
My window is open just enough to let in some fresh air. The distinct smell of cigarette smoke wafts up into my room. I peek out to see my motherβs uncles sitting on the back steps silently smoking their unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes. Their black armbands are starkly visible against their plain starched white shirts.
I tip-toe across the length of my bedroom, praying the old wooden floorboards beneath the well-worn rug will not creak. Ever so slowly I turn the glass doorknob; the hallway is dark. I can detect a muted light downstairs and I scurry nearer to the staircase railing for a better look. I sit there hugging my knees for a long time; there is no movement on the lower level. Just as I am about to descend the stairs, a giant amorphous outline begins approaching the parlor. The huge silhouette is frightening but only momentarily as it slowly becomes smaller and eventually reveals itself to be the profile of my mother draped from head to knees in a long lace shawl. She stands just outside the parlor for a moment fidgeting with her handkerchief, then enters the room, quietly sliding closed the heavy pocket doors.
A few hours earlier the ambience of the house was much different, still subdued but active as delivery men and acquaintances paying their respects came and went. My mother and her aunts labored in the kitchen like silent worker bees, preparing trays of food for the constant flow of visitors. My father, along with my motherβs uncles, directed the traffic of floral deliveries and positioned the many arrangements throughout the parlor. And we children sat quietly on the two enormous matching sofas along the side walls, eyes downcast, confused and uncharacteristically subdued. Occasionally we would glance toward the walnut casket resting atop a platform in the center of the room and quickly look away. Around 6:00 we were quietly whisked away into the dining room where we silently ate our evening meal, then returned to the parlor to continue our vigil.
There seemed to be a never-ending flow of people, a soft parade of mourners entering my house. Veiled women dabbed their eyes and men removed their hats, heads bowed. This stream flowed seamlessly from 2:00 in the afternoon until 9:30 that evening, many people lingering to reflect while others stayed only minutes. The priest arrived shortly after 9:30; he spoke softly in our native Sicilian dialect, offering prayers and words of consolation. When he was finished, everyone except my mother’s aunts and uncles departed. My little cousins, some no longer able to stay awake, were carried home and my sister and I were shooed off to our bedrooms upstairs.
It had been a long and sorrowful day. Mada Rana, the family matriarch, had died.
Her name was Maria Giuliano and she was my great-grandmother. We called her Mada Rana, our abbreviated version of the Italian Mamma Grande or Big Mamma. Mada Rana was a Sicilian immigrant, mother of six, grandmother of 16 (including my mother) and great-grandmother of 27. Her husband Giovanni died long ago when my mother was still a very young child and Mada Rana remained a widow for the rest of her life.
Heavy-set and of medium height, she had the appearance of being stoic and unapproachable but her blue eyes danced whenever the children were around. Like magic, she would produce homemade cookies from her apron pockets and sneak them to us behind her back, pressing her fingers to her lips signaling us to keep her secret.
At one time or another most of the family lived in the same apartment building on 153rd Street and Third Avenue in the Melrose section of The Bronx. In time all Mada Ranaβs children married and had families of their own. Mada Rana never lived by herself; her children were happy to take turns providing a home for her until she eventually moved into our house with my parents, sister and me. That was where she held court over the family meal every Sunday. Our house was large and well-appointed, filled with the noisy sounds of children laughing, women cooking and men excitedly playing cards. And there was music, always music. Mada Rana’s bedroom was on the first floor near the parlor and that’s where she died, surrounded by her loved ones.
Tonight the house is silent and the intense perfume of flowers hangs heavy in the air. As is the tradition, Mada Rana lay in repose in the center of the house; she wore a dress of deep purple to compliment the lilac velvet lining of her casket, her rosary beads secure in her hands.
Tomorrow morning we will say our last goodbyes to our beloved matriarch. Our cars will slowly follow a horse drawn carriage to St. Raymondβs Cemetery where Mada Rana will be laid to rest with her beloved Giovanni. It has been firmly explained to the children that everyone will kiss Mada Ranaβs forehead as a final sign of respect; my stomach is in knots thinking about kissing a dead person. The concept is frightening and I donβt want to do it but I must.
I will forever hold dear countless memories of Mada Rana β her larger-than-life presence at the dinner table, her silver hair pulled in a bun, black stockings rolled down below her knees, the house-dresses she wore inside and the ubiquitous black mourning ensemble she wore when in public, the rapid-fire way she would roll home-made cavatelli one after the other off a small grooved paddle, her muted prayers as she devoutly recited her rosary, the way she closed her eyes and smiled when Caruso sang.
I will never be able to erase from my mind the overwhelming smell of flowers in the parlor during her wake, the sound of dirt and pebbles pelting her casket or the cold, waxy feel of her forehead under my quivering lips. My dreams were filled with those recollections for years and sometimes still haunt my sleep.
This recording was made in September 1920, less than a year before Caruso’s death. His health was failing and the recording equipment was, by our standards, primitive. Despite all that, the power and beauty of his voice remain unmatched.
This is a follow-up to my January 2021 story, “On The Way”. To see how it all began, click here first: https://wp.me/pc3LSm-yr
Tom Delaney sat alone at his favorite bar sipping his third bourbon. Life had quickly gone down the shitter a few months ago when he bet big time on a βsure thingβ that didnβt pan out. That was one of Tomβs biggest faults; he was always looking for the money angle, whether legit or not. Now here he was, a 38-year-old washed up ex PI with a huge chip on his shoulder, a failed marriage and no money.
When the bartender announced closing time, Tom grudgingly slid off his stool and made his way to his car. He took Route 718 toward a friendβs cabin which he was using until he got his life on track.
The weather was changing and when the fog rolls in, driving on 718 gets hairy. He wasnβt on the road very long when he found himself in pea soup conditions. Suddenly a deer appeared out of nowhere and Tom swerved, coming to a screeching stop. After a brief standoff, the deer gracefully bounded down the steep edge and disappeared into the thick woods.
Shaken, Tom settled himself in his car. The glow of the headlights revealed a shiny object in the thicket below. Being a curious type, Tom drove his car closer to the edge, grabbed a flashlight from the backseat and gingerly made his way down the side of the bluff settling on a heavily overgrown landing about 15 feet below. He walked around for a few minutes before his foot came in contact with something hard. Crouching for a better look, he discovered a battered helmet with the weather-beaten orange and black βKTMβ emblem of a bicycle manufacturer.
Disappointed that his find wasnβt something valuable, Tom stood up to leave. He took a few steps and heard a strange βcrunchβ under his shoe. Shining his flashlight on his foot, Tom couldnβt believe what was buried under the leaves and debris.
βHoly shit! Itβs a human skeleton! Poor guy must have ridden his bike off the road. Wonder where his bicycle is? What have we here?β Tom moved some leaves out of the way and discovered a waist bag which he took. Maybe heβd get lucky and find some money in the bag. Deciding to investigate a little more, Tom eventually came across the bicycle caught up in a large bush. It was a mangled mess, certainly of no value to him; nearby was a moldy leather jacket. Tom snagged the jacket and went through the pockets; nothing. Noticing a zippered inner compartment, he found an iPhone inside. Slipping the phone into his rear pocket, Tom climbed up to his car and drove off. He left with that uneasy, suspicious feeling heβd get while working on a case. Old habits die hard.
Once home, Tom emptied the contents of the waist bag: assorted crap, a wallet and an iPhone. βHmm. Two iPhones. Why would one person need two cells? There had to be two people there that night. What the hell happened? Was this the scene of an accident or a crime?β Tomβs PI sixth sense was really kicking in now.
Both phones were wet. Drying them off, Tom placed the phones and SIM cards in two separate Ziploc bags filled with silica gel packets he had stockpiled. Theyβd have to dry out a day or two. Next he went through the wallet: $47 which he immediately pocketed, an expired debit card and a driverβs license. The license was issued to Joseph Barnes, 312 Ogden Drive, Sparta, NJ. β a 90-minute drive from the cabin.
Tom broke out his own phone and Googled βJoseph Barnes, Sparta, NJβ; it took a little while then BINGO! There it was β a missing person flyer dated January 2021. Last known location was Bethlehem, PA β a few miles from the cabin. There was a phone number to call. A picture of Joseph on a bike holding a KTM helmet smiled at Tom; the same face was on the driverβs license.
Tom spent most of the following day at Wind Creek Casino in Bethlehem playing the penny slots with Joseph Barnesβ $47. He was on a roll and left the casino with $100 in his pocket. Tom couldnβt wait any longer and anxiously drove home to see if he could get the iPhones up and running. He took the phones out of the bags, inserted the SIM cards and turned them on; both phones started up. To Tomβs amazement, neither phone needed a passcode. As he suspected, one phone belonged to Joseph Barnes; the other belonged to someone named David Stapleton from Allentown, PA.
βDavid, David, David. Why were you on Route 718 that night and what did you do to Joseph Barnes?β thought Tom.
Tom realized that after 14 months David Stapleton could be anywhere with a different phone number but there was only one way to find out. After his win at the casino, he was feeling lucky. This could be the big break he was waiting for.
Slipping Davidβs phone into his pocket, Tom drove to his favorite bar. On the corner was an old phone booth with a pay telephone β the untraceable kind. Tom opened ‘Settings’ on David’s iPhone; there were two different phone numbers for David. Tom hesitated for a minute thinking about his days as a PI. Instinct took over, suggesting he ignore the first number on David’s phone and go for the second one. Tom reasoned that the first number was likely David’s cell number; there was a chance the second number was for a business, a house or a place where David used to work β anything that might provide a clue. It was worth a shot. After all, Tom wasn’t looking to talk to David just yet; all he wanted was a lead. Tom dropped two quarters into the public phone slot and dialed the second number on David’s cell. The call was answered on the third ring.
βHi. This is Dave at Stapleton Plumbing and Heating in Allentown. We’re closed now but will reopen at 8 AM. Please call back then.β
Pay dirt! Tom Delaney may be down but he wasnβt out! He’d head back to the cabin and Google David’s business, maybe get an address. This called for a little celebration β some company at the bar with his old friend Jim Beam. Sipping his drink, Tom could practically smell the shakedown money he’d be raking in.
As he drove home from the bar, the ubiquitous late night fog rolled in. Tom was momentarily blinded by a pair of oncoming headlights and swerved right to avoid a collision. He turned the steering wheel sharply and his car plowed through bushes, bounced off trees and crash-landed upside down at the bottom of the cliff before it burst into flames.
Poor Tom. Just when things were starting to look up. Karmaβs a bitch.
When I first saw him I thought I was hallucinating. Was this a real person or a fear-induced illusion? I knew I had to remain perfectly still and quiet. My life depended on it.
I had no idea how long Iβd been there β certainly long enough for my skin to have turned red, my mouth parched, my lips cracked. I remember being stung and bitten by insects and digging my nails into the palms of my hands to keep from crying out.
I recall now! We were picking flowers and berries in a sun-filled field; we had been following a stream and unknowingly wandered far from home. I caught sight of a bush hidden deep in a shady area. The plant was heavy with ripe blackberries and I couldnβt resist running to the bush, happily filling my bucket with the deep purple fruit.
I was busy plucking berries when I heard screams β not the usual giddy, playful squeals of young girls but awful shrieks of terror. I started to run back only to see my three sisters encircled by a group of Indians. The men were hulking and menacing, blocking the girlβs attempts to flee. They wore breechcloths across their midsection, moccasins and no shirts. Their faces were painted and their heads were shaved except for a center strip of upright long hair. They were the dreaded Mohawk.
They tugged the girlβs long blonde hair, poked them with sticks and tore at their starched white dresses. I wanted to shout out but was too afraid. How could I be such a coward? At 15, I was the eldest; I was supposed to protect them!
I crouched behind the berry bush and as quietly as possible covered myself with leaves and thorny stems. I peeked through my shelter and watched in horror as my sisterβs dresses were crudely ripped from their innocent little bodies, torn pieces crammed into their mouths to silence their panicked shrieks. I wept silently as my sisters were held down and repeatedly raped. My heart shattered into a million splinters as they were ruthlessly slaughtered.
Long after the screams stopped, I remained motionless, eyes tightly shut. It doesnβt seem possible but I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke it was dusk, the Mohawk were gone and there was no sign of my sisters. The field was serene, as though nothing had happened. Where were my parents and the others we lived with? Why hadnβt anyone come looking for us? A terrifying thought came to me, chilling me to my very core: βDid the Mohawk attack our settlement?Did they kill my parents, too?” I wept bitterly until I drifted off to sleep.
A bright streak of early morning sunlight hit my face and my eyes flew open. Thatβs when I saw him.
He was tall, muscular and tan with long glossy black hair. He wore a fringed vest and long pants made of animal hide. His face was free of paint or tattoos and he looked to be about 20 years old. His features were handsome and peaceful; I knew he was not Mohawk.
A small fire burned nearby and in the time it would normally take me to plait my hair, he proficiently butchered and dressed a deer. He tossed the entrails into the fire, coated the deer in a thick layer of salt paste and wrapped it in canvas. Rising from his squatting position, he tied the carcass onto his horse, washed himself with water he had retrieved from the stream, then doused the fire.
A large bird flew into the bush where I was hiding. Startled, I accidentally kicked my pail of blackberries making a loud clanging sound. The brave quickly turned in my direction, drawing a knife tied to his leg. He crept closer, scanning the area intently. In only a few seconds he spotted me.
I freed myself from the thorny bush and ran into the dense forest but I was no match for the swift warrior. I screamed as he quickly scooped me up by my waist but instead of manhandling me, he made soft hushing sounds and my fears started to subside. He whispered soothingly and did not fight me. I felt a calmness come over me; I stopped resisting and slumped like a rag doll in his strong arms.
He sat me down in the open field and gave me food and water; I stared straight ahead, unblinking, eating and drinking as in a trance. As I ate, he cleaned the cuts and scratches on my face, arms and legs with a dampened cloth. He spoke a language I did not understand but found comforting.
He stood up, offering me his hand. I felt safe with him; if he was going to harm me he would have done so by now. I had unanswered questions about my parents and friends and I turned, heading in the direction of my home; he followed, walking beside his horse. As we drew near, faint wisps of smoke appeared in the sky and the smell of death hung in the still air. He motioned me to stop. Alone, he entered the settlement; when he returned, I knew. He knelt before me and sadly shook his head βnoβ. In his hand was my sisterβs little doll. I fell to the ground, my mouth forming silent screams. I had no more tears left to cry.
I did not struggle when he picked me up and placed me on his horse. He smoothly jumped up and sat behind me. I buried my head in his chest, allowing sleep to overtake me.
We rode for three days and when we stopped to rest, we stayed close by each other’s side. I learned his name and he learned mine. My home and family were gone and he was all I had left in the world now. I know he realized and accepted that. He became my protector.
On day four we reached the massive waterfalls. I could barely see the longhouses on the other side of the river. He pointed and said the first word I understood: βHomeβ. He held me closely as we gingerly crossed the narrow bridge above the rapids.
When we reached the other side, his people ran to greet us; they were cheerful and welcoming and they chanted songs of thanksgiving. The women gently guided me inside; after bathing me, they wove my flaxen hair into intricate braids, soothed my sunburned skin with fragrant oils and dressed me in a beaded tunic of pale yellow. A feast was prepared in honor of their brother who had safely returned. There was much talking and laughing and I was embraced as one of their own.
That night when he came to our marriage bed my only thought was βI am home.β
Are you ready to cast off the winter doldrums and rejoin the land of the living? I know I am! Although daylight has been lasting a bit longer each day, the change is imperceptible. However, tomorrow here in The States we will turn our clocks ahead one hour as Daylight Saving Time begins. Spring ahead, fall back. Losing that one precious hour of sleep will be worth it just to close the door on Old Man Winter.
It seems the older I get the less I like cold weather. Iβve never been a fan of winter, not even as a child. While all the other kids were sledding and skating, Iβd be watching them from my window under a cozy blanket drinking hot cocoa. Not much has changed! I’m a βbeach bumβ, not a βsnow bunnyβ and much prefer walking into the surf than trudging through the drifts.
Winter is when everything turns grey and fades away. The birds fly south and the trees go bare. The deserted playground swings get tossed about in the cold wind and wisps of smoke spiral out from chimney tops as families enjoy the warmth of their fireplaces.
It takes forever for people to get dressed to go outside β donning boots, parkas, scarves, hats and gloves β then they make a mad dash from the house to the car and another dash when they arrive at their destination, hoping they don’t suffer a “mad dash ass smash” in their icy haste. Believe me β the ‘slip-sliding away’ happens and it ain’t pretty! How about the hundreds of people waiting for public transportation? Fur-lined hoods pulled up over their heads, faces red and chafed, lips cracked and sore, noses dripping and eyes tearing from the wind. Talk about βyour huddled masses yearning to breathe freeβ!
In just another week spring will arrive. Before long, boots will be replaced with sandals, snowsuits with bathing suits, winter skis with water skis, hot chocolate with lemonade, sleds with bicycles, snowballs with baseballs and winter mittens with gardening gloves.
March winds bring April showers and April showers bring May flowers. Is there anything lovelier than a sunny day in spring? The birds have returned and are chirping their little hearts out. The resilient crocuses and daffodils have popped up through the defrosting earth and tiny buds are forming on the trees. Now is the time for planting seeds and saplings that were started months ago inside warm houses. The sky is clear, the sun is shining and thereβs just a hint of a breeze. Couples walk hand-in-hand through the park and the playgrounds have come back to life. Children pitch tents in their backyards and dads grill the first hot dogs of the season.
Iβve often said I donβt like February; itβs the shortest month but to me it feels like the longest and the loneliest. Now March is here and it came in more like a lamb than a lion with temps in the 40s and only a slight breeze.
Youβll get no complaining from me β not yet, anyway. But it’s still early; why, it’s not even April. Just wait for the blazing summer sun, the mad dashes to our cars to blast the AC, the scalding hot sand at the beach, the highways jammed with people escaping the city for a week at the shore, the lines at the ice cream stands, the agony of a blistering sunburn and the howling dog days of August.
When will autumn get here? Thereβs just no pleasing some people!
Angry mobs stormed the front and back doors, yelling and wielding crowbars, guns and other weapons. The sound of breaking glass preceded the screeching alarm β another βsmash-and-grabβ incident that had become so prevalent in shopping centers across the US and the Bradbury Mall was no exception. This time it was the exclusive HermΓ¨s shop located three stores down from the Cinnabon where Estrella worked.
βEveryone into the storage room. Now!β barked Jeff, Estrellaβs boss.
βJeff, is this really necessary?β Estrella countered. βBy the time we get everyone in the back room, those thugs will be gone. Theyβre not interested in us.β
βEstrella, Iβm not going to argue with you. Get Rosita and go into the storage room now. You too, Carlos and Eddie. Everyone β letβs go.β
Rosita screamed as gunshots rang out, bullets pinging loudly off the steel beams in the plaza. Shoppers scattered for safety, the cacophony of yelling, gunfire and shattering glass filling the mall. As Estrella guided Rosita into the back room, she caught a glimpse of one of the looters. She recognized him as Ozzy, a gang member who hung around the bodega near her apartment. “Desgracia! Worthless garbage!” she spat out.
Once everyone was safely inside the storage area, Jeff locked the heavy metal door. Breathlessly, he slid down onto the floor. No one said a word. Rosita trembled in the corner of the little room while Estrella comforted her. Eddie and Carlos sat on boxes staring at the floor. No matter how many times these incidents happened, no one knew what to do but everyone had the same two questions: why were these lootings being allowed to continue and was it worth going to work every day?
Jeff spoke softly. βListen, folks. I know this is taking a toll on everyone and Iβm just as frightened as you but itβs my responsibility to take care of you. The security guards arenβt allowed to carry guns and theyβre in as much danger as we are, probably more. We canβt take risks; we all have families waiting for us at home so weβre just going to have to take cover in here whenever this happens. No arguments. And always remember to take your cell phones with you. Comprende?β Everyone nodded in agreement.
After a while an announcement came over the mallβs PA system informing everyone that the situation was under control. Jeff asked his workers to help clean up, then they could go home; he lightly squeezed Rosita’s hand, assuring her he’d drive her home. Estrella complained vociferously about the βsmash-and-grabsβ, saying it was βa disgrace for these animals to carry on like this, spreading fear and endangering peopleβs lives, while no one did anything to stop them!β Frightened, tired and sad, she left the shop in tears.
Estrellaβs car was parked in the municipal garage below the mall. She decided to use the winding ramp down to the employee parking level instead of riding the elevator or using the enclosed stairwell. As she walked she heard glass breaking; the looters were back. Thankfully she was on her way out. Suddenly a car alarm went off and Estrella realized the sound of breaking glass was car windows being smashed β cars in the garage.
There it was again. And again. And again! The smashing became louder, faster, closer. Someone was in the garage and they were following her. Estrella quickened her step and the crashing sounds kept pace. She could see her car at the end of the ramp and broke into a run, desperately rummaging through her purse searching for her keys. She could hear the footsteps now. At last her fingers locked around the remote and she frantically pushed all the buttons until her car lights flashed and the rear hatch opened. Running for her life, she swung open the driverβs seat door, madly pushing the buttons to close the hatch and lock the doors. Shifting into ‘drive’, she sped out of the garage swerving wildly.
Estrella drove as fast as she could until the mall was no longer visible in her rearview mirror. She gradually slowed down and stopped as the traffic light changed to red. Her heart began to beat regularly and she exhaled. βIβm never going back there againβ she said out loud.
The light turned green and she continued to her apartment. Pulling into a parking spot, she turned off the ignition and reached for her purse. Her blood ran cold as she felt a jagged piece of glass at her throat. Ozzy’s familiar gruff voice whispered in her ear βNo, chica. You definitely are not.β
It was unseasonably warm for November; the sun was brilliant with only a few wispy clouds scattered here and there, but the autumn leaves swirling in the wind were a reminder that winter was just around the corner.
I decided to take a walk in the nature trail near my house. I didnβt like leaving my elderly mother home alone for too long but she was having one of her lucid days and insisted sheβd be fine at home doing some sewing.
I wasnβt gone long when it started getting cloudy and cold. As I walked up the front path, I spotted my mother sitting in her rocking chair on the porch. She was busy at work, her sewing basket by her side.
βMom, itβs cold. Come inside and Iβll put on the kettle for tea.β
My mother looked up and smiled sweetly but her eyes were blank; I could tell she didnβt know who I was.
βOh, I couldnβt possibly do that. I need to stay here. You see, Iβm waiting for someone and I have to finish my mendingβ she replied.
βWho are you waiting for?β I asked quietly, dreading her answer.
βMy husband. The war is over and heβll be coming home very soon.”
It was then that I noticed mom was repairing the zipper on my late fatherβs WWII bomber jacket. Little by little, day by day, Mom slipped deeper into another era β a time long gone but fresh in her mind as though it all happened just yesterday.
So yesterday was my birthday. Another trip around the sun. I’m not telling my age but here’s a hint: I was a teenager, albeit a young one, when I saw The Beatles at Shea Stadium in 1965.
So what knowledge have I amassed over the years? Plenty, but there’s still room for growth!
I give great advice but rarely listen to my own. That’s a work in constant progress.
I’ve been told I can be intimidating; I like to think of it as having a big personality and being outgoing. Show me a stage and I’ll sing you a song or two or ten.
I have a big heart and wear it on my sleeve. My mouth is just as big as my heart. I say what’s on my mind, tell the truth but try not to hurt anyone’s feelings in the process. I’m not always successful and there has been collateral damage. No excuses.
I have no use for liars, manipulators or abusers of any kind.
I’m not offended if a man opens the door for me, offers me a seat or tells me I look pretty. Men are not the enemy. Perhaps having two sons has made me somewhat biased on that subject but there you have it. Some of my female friends won’t like what I just said. I’ll survive.
I work very well under pressure but can be as lazy as fuck when I want to be.
I curse but never in front of my grandchildren; they will hear enough of that in school, tv and online; they don’t need to hear it from me.
I have an addictive personality and need to rein it in sometimes.
I love writing and think I’m pretty good at it. And I love music but draw the line at Rush.
When I love it’s with my whole being and I have very few regrets β except that one debacle of a date with Martin Kovach. Maybe I’ll write a story about that. Don’t worry; it’s a comedy.
I’m smart and funny (and humble) but I make mistakes frequently and with great flourish. I’m confident, even when making mistakes, and love an audience. Not everyone likes me; no worries β the feeling is mutual. I’m not going to turn myself into a pretzel to get someone to like me; this is it, folks.
I’m usually happy but mostly content. Believe me, you’ll know when I’m unhappy or mad.
If you’re looking for someone to be on your trivia team, I’m your gal. But don’t ever ask me a math question. Seriously. I have the dubious distinction of being the only student in my school (that I’m aware of) to be excused from algebra and allowed to double up on English. The anguish on the part of myself and my teachers just wasn’t worth it.
One drink will make me comfortably numb; two drinks and I’m pretty much drunk. When I was dating, I’d order sloe gin fizzes because they were tasty but they made me drunk and sick to my stomach. I threw up at the end of almost every date with Bill but he married me anyway.
I love my family unconditionally. You think you’ll never love anyone more than your spouse … then you have children and that theory goes right out the window. Then you have grandchildren. Fugetaboutit! These are my baby’s babies β a mind-blowing concept β and I adore them.
I’m proud of my Sicilian heritage. I love the United States but I’m heartbroken and frustrated over what’s happening here.
There’s nothing wrong with saying “no”. My heart and mind are young; my joints not so much so if I say “no” it’s not because I don’t want to; it’s because I’m tired and achy. I’ve got the scars to prove it.
There’s also nothing wrong with saying “I love you” – not to strangers; that’s just weird. But if there’s someone in your life who means the world to you, tell them you love them. Some people get scared when you say “I love you”; it makes them nervous and that’s a shame. Maybe if we all said it more often the world wouldn’t be in the mess it’s in.
I have a lot of friends but just a handful of really good, close friends. That’s ok; life isn’t a popularity contest.
When all else fails, listen to The Beatles. Peace and love really are all you need and in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make.
Abigail had been waiting for this night for a long time. She was excited to be going to the gala with Charlie and she had a feeling something special was going to happen.
Charlie came into Abigailβs life six years ago and theyβd been inseparable ever since. She loved him very much and knew he loved her, too. Charlie was wonderful to Abigailβs mother Evelyn and that meant everything to her.
Abigail knew as soon as she met Charlie that he was βthe oneβ. On the other hand, her mother was not easily swayed. Evelyn was an excellent judge of character, possessing the uncanny ability of sizing someone up rather quickly. It took a few times being with Charlie before she felt the same way Abigail did. He was truly a wonderful man.
Together Abigail and her mother chose the ideal dress and Evelyn surprised Abigail with her great-grandmotherβs delicate seed pearl necklace. Evelyn knew in her heart this was a special night for Charlie and Abigail; she didnβt want to leave anything to chance.
As Abigail finished dressing for the dance, she heard Charlie and her mother talking downstairs. βHeβs here!β she thought happily, concerned that work would delay him as it frequently did. Abigail gracefully descended the stairs, her feet barely touching the carpeted steps. She was a vision of perfection in her pale pink floor-length dress and Charlie looked more handsome than ever in his three-piece charcoal grey suit, matching tie and pale pink shirt β a hint from Evelyn, no doubt.
With a dramatic flourish Charlie produced a wrist corsage from behind his back and slipped in onto Abigailβs arm. βYour favorite, sweetheart β Lilies of the Valleyβ Charlie said with a smile. Abigailβs fingers lightly touched the delicate flowers. βOh, Charlie! Theyβre beautiful and they smell heavenly.β
Watching the duo, Evelynβs eyes sparkled with joy; she was so happy for her daughter. βYou two look fabulous. You know, Charlie, this may be the perfect night to finally pop the questionβ she teased.
βWhy, you must have read my mindβ Charlie declared.
Abigailβs eyes widened as Charlie got down on one knee. He held her hand and said βAbby, I love you very much. Fate brought us together six years ago and I want to make it official. Please say βyesβ and make me the happiest man on earth. Will you allow me to adopt you?β
βDoes that mean youβll be my daddy now?β ten-year-old Abigail asked excitedly.
βYes, it does, Abbyβ Charlie replied with a grin.
βDaddy and Mommyβ Evelyn added and hugged her husbandβs arm as tears of joy tricked down her face.
βYES!β squealed Abigail, her fists pumping the air wildly. βThis is the best night ever! Iβve been wanting a real daddy forever! I canβt wait to tell my friends at the father-daughter dance tonight!β
Abigail ran to Charlie, threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. βI love you so much, Daddy! Can we go to the dance now?β
Thereβs a feeling you get when a relationship is about to end. It sort of sneaks up on you like ivy climbing up a tree trunk. You see it starting but itβs nothing terribly worrisome; then it slowly starts working its way up the trunk until it overtakes the tree. Itβs got a strangle-hold on that poor tree, suffocating it. It doesnβt matter if itβs a mighty oak or a frail mimosa; the ivy will win out every time.
Thatβs the feeling I now had for Jeremy and I donβt know why. I just knew it was time to break things off. That was clear; what wasnβt clear was how I was going to tell him.
Itβs not as though we started off like a couple of teenagers on a hormone rush. Ours was a gradual connection much like our disconnection. We had chemistry. We could make each other laugh. We liked the same music, the same food, the same movies. We could talk at length or enjoy a quiet, lazy Sunday afternoon. We had incredible sex and a lot of it.
Jeremy gave me a braided love knot bracelet; I accepted it because it was pretty and didnβt feel as permanent as a ring.
We talked about moving in together but it never happened. Now Iβm glad we didnβt; that would have made things so much harder. It was good to come and go as we pleased; now I found we were doing that less and less. I donβt believe it was deliberate; we just started drifting apart. Everything gradually slowed down and cooled off. I realized at some point I had finally exhaled and I was no longer suffocating.
We spent a cool Spring afternoon sitting on a bench at the beach. Watching the waves rolling in and falling back, I knew the time had come. Quietly I told Jeremy what I was feeling and he slowly nodded in agreement. I think he was glad the pressure was off him. I started to remove my bracelet but Jeremy refused to take it back.
I slowly walked away and took the long route home through the park. It had begun to drizzle. I stared down at the pavement as I walked. Just then I came upon a dead bird at my feet. I stood there staring at the poor little finch; he must have fallen out of his nest. I took a few tissues from my pocket, wrapped them around the bird and carefully picked him up; he was still warm, his tiny body limp.
I carried the lifeless bird home and retrieved a small spade from my gardening tools on the back porch. It began raining a little heavier as I dug a deep hole beneath the tidy row of boxwoods; there I buried the bird. Before filling his grave with dirt, I took off Jeremyβs bracelet and placed it across the broken wings.
My face was wet; I couldnβt tell if it was the rain or my tears.
I stood at the bedroom window staring at the devastation caused by the previous nightβs ice storm. My wife Patrice is going to be crushed when she seeβs what happened during the night β Mother Nature at her fiercest. I heard Patrice stirring in bed.
βGlenn, Itβs so early. Watcha looking at?β she asked sleepily.
βWe had a pretty bad storm last night. Itβs not good, hon. We lost some treesβ I replied.
Patrice threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, feet skimming the rug searching for discarded slippers. βNot Red. Please donβt say we lost Red.β Her voice was pleading as she spoke of the redwood sapling she planted 30 years ago when we first moved into our little farmhouse in Colorado. Over the years Red had grown to a majestic height, his branches reaching out to the sky as if in prayer.
I wanted to shout “Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes” but I knew Iβd be asking her to do the impossible. Instead, I reached my hand out to my wife. Holding tightly onto my hand like a child learning how to walk, she took a few tentative steps toward the window. Patrice gasped loudly and she buried her face in her hands. Then the tears came. She cried inconsolably for what seemed an eternity. I held her and let her cry; this was not something carelessly brushed aside or easily forgotten.
Finally her sobs lessened and with a broken heart and a cracking voice she exclaimed βPoor Red! How I loved that beautiful old tree. Look at him now, laying there like a toppled monument.β Patrice yanked a few tissues from the box on our nightstand, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.
βOh Glenn, I wouldnβt blame you if you thought I was being ridiculous. I canβt help it; Iβm totally shattered.β
We sat on the bed side by side and I put a consoling arm around my wifeβs trembling shoulders. I kissed her hair and spoke tenderly: “There’s no shame in mourning the loss of a tree. It’s not silly. It is, after all, a living thing. Does it feel pain when a leaf is plucked or a branch broken? Does it thirstily lap the rain after a dry spell? Does it feel your heartbeat as you rest a weary back against its old, sturdy trunk? Does it cry when cut down? How dare we presume that it does not. Some time ago, a round slice cut from the trunk of a fallen tree was placed on a record player, just like a vinyl LP; the rings of the tree were like the grooves in an album. When the stereo needle was placed on the tree rings and the volume turned up, the most beautiful and haunting sounds emerged β sounds only a living thing could make. Who are we to say a tree cannot feel? Yes, my love, it’s fitting to mourn.β
(Though the actual sliced pieces of the tree do not have qualities of sound in piano form, the converted record player analyzes the tree rings for their thickness, rate of growth and strength. It maps that data and outputs it as piano music through the stereo as captured here.)
Iβm a romantic soul. I love the idea of love, being in love and being loved. Iβm Italian β being passionate comes naturally to me. I love my family and my friends. Itβs a feeling deep inside me and I donβt care who knows. In fact, I want them to know! I wear my heart on my sleeve and Iβve been hurt because of that vulnerability but Iβd rather love and risk being hurt than go around being an unfeeling, grumpy-ass sourpuss full of apathy, ennui and angst.
Loving goes beyond the love of people. I love writing, food, a quiet Saturday morning, the smell of coffee, a good movie, music, animals, feeling the sun on my face on a warm spring day, the sound of my grandchildren laughing, my husband who would do anything for me, spending time with cherished friends both near and far.
While flowers are lovely, they wither and die. Chocolate is heavenly but it lasts longer on my hips than on my lips! I enjoy sharing a good bottle of wine and meaningful conversation with someone I care about. I adore a dirty joke, a sentimental song and reading my friend’s poetry.
And why are people so afraid to say βI love youβ? Guys β admit it; it gives you the cold sweats. Loving someone isnβt the same as being in love with someone. We often take the easy way out and send little messages like βLuv ya!β or βI β€οΈ youβ. Some of us canβt even bring ourselves to say the word βloveβ.
Whatβs this fascination with loving things? You hear people say βI love my car.β βI love Starbucks.β βI love my new phone.β βI love these shoes.β βI love that restaurant.β βI love that show.β Sure, these things bring us pleasure but we can live without them and they sure as hell donβt love us back.
What I canβt live without are the special people in my life, the people who call you up just to say βHi. How are you?” and end with “I love youβ without expecting anything in return except maybe hearing βI’ve missed you! I love you, too.β
Chances are if you’re reading this it’s because you enjoy the things I write about and that makes me very happy. If my writing can bring you pleasure, make you think, smile, laugh or cry, then I’ve done my job. Thank you for taking the time to read this and listening to the song below; it’s one of my favorites.
I think the idea of Valentineβs Day is grand; it’s sweet and sexy and over-the-top crazy romantic. It’s all about love. Wouldnβt it be amazing if everyday was Valentineβs Day?
The year was 1980. My husband Frank and I were excited to be back in Italy to celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary and Frankβs 30th birthday. Frank was a big sports fan so the timing couldnβt have been better; we would be in Rome for the Italian Golf Open at the prestigious Acquasanta Golf Club.
Founded in 1903 by British Embassy workers, Acquasanta is the oldest golf course in Italy and one of the most memorable places to play anywhere in the world. The club is located along the Appian Way, just a few kilometers from the heart of Rome. The views of the ruins of ancient Roman aqueducts on the front nine are nothing short of spectacular. We planned to spend a beautiful day walking the roughs and watching the tournament; in the evening we would celebrate Frankβs birthday in the elegant dining room.
Fate brought us together in 1974 when we both signed up for a backpacking tour of Europe. We had seats next to each other on the flight from New York and we hit it off great. We were both Italian; Frank spoke the language fluently while I barely knew enough to put a sentence together. The in-flight movie was The Godfather and Frank delighted in translating much of the dialogue for me.
Neither of us knew anyone else on the tour so we spent all our time together, sharing the stories of our lives. We enjoyed each otherβs company and found we had much in common. By the time the tour was over, we were in love. We tied the knot in New York in 1975 and now we were back in the place where it all began.
Our first day at Acquasanta was fantastic; the sky was clear, the sun shining and the temperature mild. The place was busy but not overly crowded and everyone looked quite pleased to be there. Smiling, friendly people greeted us with βCiao! Come stai oggi?β.
We decided to stop at one of the concession stands for a bite to eat; a few bistro tables and chairs were set up for spectators to sit quietly without distracting the players or disturbing the other visitors. Everywhere we looked the scenery was breathtaking with Mediterranean pines, cypresses and eucalyptus trees dotting the undulating terrain.
As I glanced around enjoying the view I couldnβt help noticing a group of men running in the opposite direction of the greens. More and more people joined the group; curious, Frank and I followed. As we got closer we saw a gorgeous young woman wearing a bikini; the sash she wore revealed she was Miss Italy 1980. There was a sign where she stood and a long line of eager men of all ages.
Frank suddenly started roaring with laughter. I asked him what was so funny; he pointed to the sign, doubled over with laughter as tears ran down his face. Practically hyperventilating, he managed to gasp out the words βIt seems they got the translations wrong. What it really says is βFor good luck, Miss Italy will kiss your ballsβ. It should say βkiss your golf ballsβ!β
I guess they made those men an offer they couldnβt refuse!
My mama was a wild child living on the wrong side of the tracks in the middle of Nowhere, USA. Her parents were AWOL most of the time and didnβt give a ratβs ass about my mama. She grew up faster than any baby girl should have to and learned at an early age how to cast a glancing spell at the male population.
By the age of 15 she was pregnant with me. My mama messed around with so many men, she couldnβt even begin to guess who my father was. The promise of a million dollars or the threat of a gun to her head and mama still wouldnβt be able to name my daddy. The guys she hooked up with didnβt hang around for long and none of them was man enough to fess up anyway. Mama had sex, not relationships.
Mamaβs only friend was Faye, another lost soul who lived the same impulsive lifestyle. By the time Faye was 16 she already had two babies so it was only natural that she be the one to help my mama when she went into labor. Nobody else gave a goddamn.
Faye lived in an abandoned motel which was home to a few hapless drifters. She did her best to keep the place as habitable as possible. Two dresser drawers with thin cushions served as beds for Fayeβs babies. Faye was no whore and never took a dime from her gentlemen friends, only accepting candy, stockings or a small bottle of White Shoulders.
There wasnβt much Faye could do about her bed β a discarded Petri dish of a mattress. Whenever she could do laundry, sheβd wash the one and only sheet she had. In-between washings sheβd just flip the sheet over. Thatβs where my mama labored with me for two long days. Faye told mama to grab the sides of the mattress. βI wonβt lie to you about the pain, honβ she warned. βHang on, this is going to hurt. A lot.”
My mama screamed and cried and cursed; Faye never left her side. A couple of curious women from the next room would pop their heads in but it was just Faye and my mama on their own. Finally, when it was time, Faye gently drew me out and cleaned me up before giving me to my mama.
The cops knew about the motel but as long as there were no illegal activities, they turned a blind eye. They even arranged for the utilities to stay on β better than having people living in the streets just because they were down on their luck. Every week the local pastor and church youth group would drop off food, toiletries, diapers and detergent. Thankfully there were some people willing to lend a helping hand.
Everyone said I was the most beautiful child theyβd ever seen. My face and green eyes were identical to my mamaβs but her hair was straight and blonde, her skin like cream while my hair was a cloud of dusky curls, my skin the shade of warm butterscotch. My coloring divulged my fatherβs race, nothing more.
We stayed with Faye until we started cramping her style, then we moved into an adjacent room. The adjoining door made things convenient; mama and Faye took turns babysitting when the other had company. Mama used a drawer for my bed, just like Faye did.
When you live in an environment like mine, itβs hard not to be influenced. I saw and heard things no kid should and before I realized it, it became ingrained in my soul. By the time I was 13, lots of mamaβs boyfriends were checking me out and I liked it.
One steamy summer day, mama was next door putting highlights in Fayeβs hair. I was alone resting on the bed when Hal showed up. I liked him; he came by often to see mama. Hal asked me where mama was and I told him. He sat on the bed stroking my hair. I smiled and gave him that look mama always gave her men. Hal slid the straps of my sundress down my arms, revealing my breasts. He gently touched one, then the other. He kissed one, then the other and I got a warm feeling down low in my belly. I arched my back and moaned softly. Hal slipped off my panties and sat me on his lap; there was a momentary sharp pain. I learned what to do at my mamaβs knee and it was good.
There was one man whoβd come around the motel; heβd sit in his big fancy car looking out the window. He never left the car except the one day he saw me sitting outside on the stoop. He came over, gave me a peppermint candy and said I was the most gorgeous thing heβd ever seen. He asked what I was doing living in that dump. He said with his know-how and my looks I could make lots of money, live like a queen in a big fine house and never want for anything ever again.
This man wasn’t telling me anything new. I smiled just like I smiled at Hal. The man smiled back and lifted my chin. He studied my face intently and said I’d do very nicely. This pompous ass actually thought I needed his know-how; he was mistaken. I already knew how. All I wanted was a ticket out of here, to live my life doing what I was good at and to make lots of money. Let this fool think whatever he wanted to think; he would learn soon enough that I knew exactly what I was doing.
Two days later the man in the big fancy car came back. He opened the car door; I slowly walked over and slid in. Glancing up at my motel room window, I saw my mama staring down at us. When Hal sidled up behind her, she laughed gaily, turned her back and fell into his arms.
Mama had set the stage for me and now I was ready for the show to begin.
She sat at her indestructible Singer factory sewing machine, hands flying like an octopus knitting a scarf. Β
I peeked around the corner into her sewing room. Without lifting her head, she sensed my presence. βWhat is it, principessa?β she asked.
βCan we go to Post Arrow?β The little family diner with a few kiddie rides was one of my favorite places to go. Weβd get pastrami sandwiches, fries and ride the bumper cars, Ferris wheel and carousel β heaven on earth for an 8-year-old kid.
Without missing a stitch, my mother replied βCara, canβt you see how much work I have left to do? Besides, dinner is already in the oven.β
I stood on the threshold saying nothing. My mother knew I was there but kept sewing at warp speed. When she looked up, she saw my red, swollen eyes and tear-stained face. Her usual stern expression softened a bit. βIf I finish my work maybe we will go on Saturdayβ and she returned to the task at hand.
I drew a big red circle around Saturday on my calendar. Two days to wait.
First thing on Saturday I asked my mother about going to Post Arrow. Again she said βmaybeβ; she had to deliver her finished projects to the shop first.
Hours went by. I kept vigil at the window until my mother returned. She looked up at me and grinning, motioned me to come down.
βAndiamo, cara! Go get your daddy. Now we have some fun!β
I freely admit I enjoy a good nap The ones that overtake me so easily Slip-sliding away in Morpheusβ lap Asleep like a babe oh so peacefully
Sometimes I feel my eyes closing Iβm aware of the droop of my chin Thereβs no harm in a wee bit of dozing Itβs no big deal and I freely give in
I can doze off at the drop of a hat While watching TV or having a read I stretch and purr like a contented cat And it didnβt take any Xanax or weed
I fall asleep in the usual places In church, on a plane or a bus Staring at all the other yawning faces It happens to every last one of us
I fall asleep on a massage bed Or while getting a spa pedicure Transported someplace out of my head Where everythingβs blissful and sure
Iβd nod off in math class when I was a teen Something thatβs frowned on in school Iβd sit in the back and was never once seen Algebra was so boring and I was too cool
One day I fell asleep at the seashore When I awoke I was red as a beet In all of my life I was never so sore Couldn’t even cover myself with a sheet
Then came the days of pulling all-nighters Iβd party till dawn and then crash Drawn to the lovers, the dreamers and writers Trying my best not to do something rash
Up all night meant sleeping all day My life became quite a mixed jumble If you want to dance, the piper you pay Either slow down or stumble and tumble
Falling in love is like falling asleep Sometimes taking you quite by surprise Along came a guy and I fell really deep Married and pregnant in the blink of an eye
A baby in the house requires much work Feeding and bathing and cleaning up poo I am many things but I am no jerk When my baby had a nap I did too
Having children brings so many joys You love them with your whole heart It matters not whether girlies or boys Your worries begin right from the start
Children are little for only so long The teen years come round awfully fast I cannot sleep; could something be wrong? Theyβre out and their curfew has past
The kids are no more, theyβre all fully grown And youβre proud that you did your best Theyβre happily married with kids of their own And you think now it’s your time to rest
Sorry but it really doesnβt work that way Youβve been blessed with a couple of grands Your kids are so busy with work every day And the care of their babes is now in your hands
Itβs not bad at all if you just use your head When the grand-babies nap so do you At night you sleep peacefully tucked in your bed Cos youβve done the best job you could do
My husband Sam and I were hosting our usual Friday night dinner with friends, something weβve been doing for several years. Sam is a psychology professor at NYU and I manage Dahliaβs, an eponymously named floral shop.
Our weekly dinner companions are Claude and his wife Piper who own a small eclectic bookstore called The Paper Trail and Austin and Rebecca who have been engaged for seven years. Rebecca is a music teacher at a private school in Manhattan and Austin is a graphic designer. We keep asking them βWhenβs the big day?β but neither one seems to be in a rush.
Our dinner conversations are always lively, touching on a variety of topics. This particular evening, Sam said βI asked my class this question today: βIf you had to choose between being deaf or being blind, which would you choose?β Now, my friends, Iβd like to know how you would answer that question.β My husband β ever the provocateur! Perhaps thatβs what I find so stimulating about him.
Well, no big surprise, no one said anything for a moment; this was a profound question. I finally decided to break the ice by responding. βFor me, as a florist, I would have to say Iβd choose to be deaf. I need to see the arrangements Iβm creating, which color flowers go well together, the best bouquets to match bridesmaidβs dresses, even something as simple as placing flowers in the right vase. I wouldnβt have to hear the bell on the shopβs front door or the telephone ring; both can be hooked up to a light to get my attention. And customers could always email or text me with their orders. Why, I could even communicate with my customers via tablets in the shop. Iβd still be able to see and smell all the beautiful flowers, meet my customerβs expectations and take pride in my creations.β
Spurred on by my answer, Austin chimed in. βExactly! I totally agree with Dahlia. In the field of graphic design, I would be incapable of working without the ability to see. These days there are so many electronic devices we can use to communicate; I donβt think being deaf would interfere with my life or my work at all.β
Immediately Rebecca countered what we said. βI get where the two of you are coming from but I could never teach music if I were deaf. Iβd be able to place my fingers on the correct piano keys or strum the right strings on a guitar because Iβve been making music all my life. Itβs second nature to me. But I wouldnβt want to exist without the sound of music, to hear my students playing, to correct their mistakes or praise their achievements. It would be impossible for me to conduct an orchestra, not knowing if the violins should be a little louder or the bassoons pianissimo. Austin, if you were deaf, you wouldnβt hear the wedding march when I walk down the aisle or hear me say the words βI doβ.β
Austin was quick to reply. βAs long as I could see your radiant face in your gorgeous wedding gown carrying the beautiful bouquet designed by Dahlia, thatβs all that would matter. And as far as hearing you say βI doβ, I would read your luscious lips before tenderly kissing my new bride.β
We all laughed as Sam exclaimed βNice save, Austin! Claude and Piper, weβve yet to hear from you. Whatβs your poison β deaf or blind?β
As if on cue, both Claude and Piper declared their answers at the same time; he said βDeafβ; she said βBlindβ. They stared at each other in bewilderment and the rest of us couldnβt help but laugh at the expressions on their faces. Of course Sam had to keep the game going by saying βAt last! Some controversy, a little gasoline on the fire of our conversation. Letβs keep this ball rolling!β and he poured everyone a fresh glass of wine.
Claude cleared his throat. βPiper, mon cher, we own a bookstore! How can you possibly say you would choose blindness over deafness? Mon Dieu! Have you forgotten how we bonded at that little book shop in Paris β¦ what was the name? Ah! La Manoeuvre! We both reached for the same book of poetry by Paul Eluard and when our eyes met I knew I could never look away.ββ
βOh, my darling Claude. I could never forget La Manoeuvre. You read poetry to me and time stood still. It was as though we were the only people in that shop. Our love for books is why we bought The Paper Trail; that store is our baby. I know each book on every shelf and have read most of them. The feel of the paper, the smell of the leather-bound first editions, hearing you read to me β I do not need sight to love a book.β
Piper and Claude moved closer to each other and embraced, momentarily forgetting they were not alone. They kissed, then pulled away, embarrassed. Piper blushed and gave a breathless laugh.
βClaude, do you remember the books I had in my bag the day we first met?β Piper asked.
Claude nodded and said βOui. One was βWuthering Heightsβ in Braille and the other was French sign language. They were for your parents.β
Piper looked around the room at the rest of us and explained. βMy mother is blind and my father is deaf. Somehow they never had trouble communicating; I suppose they spoke the silent language of love. Thatβs why I was so passionate about having a Braille section in our bookstore. Also, there is new technology to help both blind and deaf people enjoy a movie or television.β
Turning to Claude, Piper said βAs long as I can hear your voice, it doesnβt matter if I never see another thing again.β
We all felt a little in awe of Piper at that moment. We sipped our wine, captivated by the sounds of silence.
If you’re looking for something really great to read, I suggest these wonderful books of short stories by my friend and mentor, Simon J. Wood. In addition to Simon’s previous three books, his three new ones are: Letters from Reuben and Other Stories: 40 Little Tales of Mirth, The Window Crackβd and Other Stories: 40 Little Tales of Horror and the Supranatural, and Flash Friction: 72 Little Stories. Simon’s three new books are available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback format while his three original books are also available on audio format. Some are scary, some are funny, some are ironic, some are romantic and all are fabulous. They are highly recommended and if you choose a paperback version you’ll find they are of a very fine quality, too! Click HERE to see all titles on Amazon. Simon’s website, To Cut a Short Story Short, can be found at simonjwood.wordpress.com.
PS – I’ve never had a book dedicated to me before. Really quite lovely! βΊοΈ
It’s a new year! I love new years. I love the fact that I’ll be leaving a whole year behind me, no matter if it was good, bad or so-so. I like that kind of closure, the feeling of starting over again and having a fresh year ahead of me filled with new chances and new experiences.
Let’s start our new year with hearts full of thankfulness and hope, leaving all the unhappiness behind us and having faith for a better tomorrow.
A new year means a new chapter. I hope 2022 is an incredible part of your story.
Did you ever wonder how New Yearβs resolutions began? I never really gave it much thought so I checked it out and learned it was a religious thing, not to be confused with a βreligious experienceβ. Those I know about!
The omniscient Wikipedia tells us the ancient Babylonians are said to have been the first people to make New Yearβs resolutions some 4,000 years ago. They were also the first to hold recorded celebrations in honor of the new year. During a massive 12-day religious festival, the Babylonians crowned a new king or reaffirmed their loyalty to the reigning king. They also made promises to the gods to pay their debts and return any objects they had borrowed (much like religion and politics today). If the Babylonians kept to their word, their gods would bestow favor on them for the coming year. If not, they would fall out of the godsβ favor β a place no one wanted to be. Babylonia, however, was short-lived; the empire fell apart and reverted to a small kingdom for several centuries.
Hmm, so much for grandiose gestures and so-called good intentions.
I never saw the point in proclaiming a resolution on New Yearβs Eve for all to hear when I knew there was a damn good chance I wasn’t going to keep it. Why put so much pressure on myself? Thatβs not being negative; itβs being realistic. Besides, no one really cares about someone elseβs resolution unless it involves them.
The truth is, Iβm actually pretty happy with the way I am. That said, it doesnβt mean I wonβt try to improve whatever needs improving; just like Jell-O, thereβs always room for improvement. Could I be a better person, do more for others, be more productive? Sure β who couldnβt?
As I sit here this moment, I can honestly say I canβt think of a single New Yearβs resolution I made that I kept. In fact, Iβll take that one step further: I canβt think of a single New Yearβs resolution I ever made β and if I did make one, it couldnβt have meant much because Iβd surely remember, no?
To everyone who makes a resolution tonight and sticks with it, I say βCongrats to you!β. To those who arenβt as successful, welcome to the club β the human league. Itβs a large group and youβre in the fine company of those with good intentions.
As for me, I resolve not to make any resolutions; I can be sure I wonβt disappoint myself or others. I will, however, strive to be a decent person, treat others with the respect they deserve, lend a helping hand whenever Iβm able and β for crying out loud β be honest. Letβs face it; there are some people who lie when the truth would serve them better!
The last two years have been incredibly challenging for everyone; still, there are growing reasons to be optimistic that our fortitude will be rewarded. So hereβs hoping we all have a grand New Yearβs Eve and emerge in 2022 in good health and full of resolve to bounce back stronger than ever.
To all my friends and fellow writers β I send you warm wishes for a very blessed and Merry Christmas. I hope we will create wonderful memories that we will share and cherish forever. May your hearts be filled with love and your homes with joy for years to come. Have a safe, healthy and happy Christmas! π
Preface:Β All this month I gave a lot of thought to writing theΒ βGreatΒ American Christmas Storyβ. I began more drafts than I can count andΒ deletedΒ them all; I just wasnβt feeling it. When my grandchildren began asking if Santa was real, I remembered the true story of an 8-year-old girl named Virginia O’Hanlon who wrote a letter to her local newspaper asking that very question. The newspaper’s editor, Francis Pharcellus Church, felt compelled to respond to Virginia’s letter in the form of a feature article. His ‘letter’ to Virginia contains an amazing message, a poignant gift to share with young and old alike. It’s an inspiring response and truly makes one stop, think and assess what’s important in life.
I realized that’s exactly what I wanted to convey in my story but Mr. Church beat me to it and in a much more eloquent way.
I hope during this holiday season you’ve had a chance to reflect on some cherished Christmas memories. There are so many magical moments during Christmas that really do make it the most wonderful time of the year. Isnβt it a pity the special and unique love we feel for one another during Christmas starts to evaporate shortly after the holidays?
Life is often not fair nor is it easy. Thereβs a lot of discord in the world, too much hatred, unhappiness and suffering. Sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other can be a monumental task, especially after the last two years. We need something to cling to, to believe in and to help us remember what Christmas was like when we were 8-years-old.
I hope you find Mr. Church’s response to Virginia’s question enlightening, captivating and heartwarming. This is how it appeared in The New York Sun on September 21, 1897; I think youβll agree it’s as appropriate and meaningful today as it was 124 years ago.
It was a picture-perfect day just before Christmas, 2001; not a cloud in the sky. My husband Bill and I were returning from a two-night stay at Foxwoods, a casino located in Ledyard, Connecticut. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive and we were enjoying the scenery and each otherβs company. We fared well at the tables and were in good spirits, listening to the radio and discussing where we should stop for lunch. It was a fun get-away before the rush of Christmas.
The ride was smooth β clear sailing as far as we could see. I was driving at a fairly decent clip in the middle lane of a three-lane highway. As we rounded a slight bend in the road, we were startled to find the traffic had come to a stand-still. My vantage point had been cut off and I was completely caught off guard. Bill yelled “Watch out!” and I slammed on the brakes of my RAV4 hoping to avoid hitting any cars in front of me. In doing so, I swerved wildly and the rear end of my car fish-tailed out to the right. The car was now at a 45ΒΊ angle. I was able to avoid crashing into any cars in front of me and I struggled to straighten out my car but the guy behind me came barrelling down the highway, slamming full force into the driverβs side rear quarter panel of my car.
Unless youβve experienced a crash of that magnitude, itβs impossible to describe the impact; I never felt pressure like that before and it’s easy to see how the force could result in someone sustaining severe whiplash, a broken neck or worse. At that moment everything switched to slow motion, like we were floating in space. Acting on reflex, Bill raised his right arm above his head to protect himself.
We glanced at each other quizzically with that WTF look in our eyes as my car rolled over once, twice, three times then landed upright with a mighty thud like a miniature Sherman Tank on the right shoulder of the highway. Itβs miraculous that no other cars hit us as we rolled over to the side of the road. How the hell did my car manage to land on its tires? Thank God it did; I canβt imagine what it would have been like landing upside down, the roof smashed in, dangling from our seat belts. What seemed like an eternity probably took all of five seconds. The guy who hit us was stranded in the middle of the highway, the front end of his car smashed in. We learned later that his car was a rental and the driver had no insurance.
Immediately upon settling, there was a tremendous whooshing sound as the sunroof caved in on us; we were showered with fragments of glass, dirt and gravel which the car must have scooped up as it rolled over. The safety glass of the windshield was totally shattered but did not fall apart or crumble into the car, seemingly held together by some sort of invisible industrial-strength tape. My only injury was a whacked left knee, probably because I had a death grip on the steering wheel the entire time. Bill wasnβt so lucky; his raised hand did little to protect him. His head was cut and bleeding and the index finger of his raised hand had a deep gash. His hand had also been badly jammed as we rolled over, sending shock waves of intense pain from his fingers all the way up his arm, into his shoulder and neck.
To say we were stunned would be a huge understatement. This was something we saw on TV; it didn’t happen to us. We became aware of the high-pitched “beep beep” of a tractor trailer truck approaching us in reverse. The truck driver witnessed the accident, pulled off the road and backed up to see if we were alright. Of all the vehicles on the road at that moment, only one person stopped to check on us. Jumping out of the cab of his rig, the trucker told us not to move while he called for help.
Within minutes we were surrounded by police cars, fire engines and ambulances. The doors of my RAV had to be pried open so we could be extricated safely; I was able to walk to the ambulance but Bill was strapped onto a gurney. He was covered with a blanket, still unable to lower his arm. It was a surreal sight watching him being lifted into the ambulance and I heard him yell out in pain as his fingers brushed against the roof of the vehicle. I didn’t even look back at my car as we were whisked away to a local hospital.
After being examined, I was told I had no serious injuries but Bill needed X-rays and an MRI. The cut on his head was stapled and bandaged; his lacerated finger was sutured and placed in a finger splint. The MRI revealed a pinched nerve which was preventing him from lowering his arm. The poor guy was in agony and the doctors talked about keeping him overnight. The last thing Bill wanted was to be admitted to an unfamiliar hospital and he made that perfectly clear to me and the doctors. They insisted he stay for at least a few hours for observation but after that, if they thought he was stable enough for the ride back to New York, they would not keep him against his will. Bill was worried about me but I assured him I was fine. He asked me where my car was and I feebly replied that I didn’t know. Thatβs when I realized I needed to take action; first on the list was to track down my wrecked car and all our belongings.
I was running on nothing but shock and adrenaline; the only reason I didnβt collapse from the trauma was because I knew I had to get things done. I must have looked a mess with ripped clothes and my hair full of road debris but I didn’t care. Itβs amazing what’s important and what isn’t when your back is against the wall; it’s called survival.
The first thing I did was call the police station to find out where my car had been towed; all our luggage, including the money we won at the casino, was in the car along with the usual stuff people keep in their vehicles – everything from important car documents to extra packets of ketchup. Once I found out where my car was impounded, I asked someone at the nurse’s station for the phone number of a taxi company to take me to the salvage yard. When the taxi showed up, I was more than a little surprised to see it was a stretch limo. The driver told me he had a lot of upcoming jobs transporting people to and from Christmas events and he had just picked up the limousine.
When we arrived at the junk yard, I explained to the people in the tiny cubicle of an office who I was and why I was there; I was greeted with shocked silence and slack-jawed expressions. Finally the hush was broken when the manager pointed out the window to my RAV4 and said βYou mean to tell me thatβs your car? We didnβt think anyone walked away from that accident!β
We walked over to what was once my beautiful car. What I saw before me was a heap of mangled metal and broken glass. Had it not been for my ‘vanity plates’, I would not have believed that was my car. I stared at the wreckage in bewilderment; how were we alive?
Once the reality hit me, my knees buckled and I held onto the car to steady myself. The people from the junk yard gathered several boxes for me and the taxi driver helped me get everything out of the car. He removed my license plates and checked all the compartments to make sure we got everything. I don’t know how much I could have done without him. Satisfied that the car was empty, the driver loaded the boxes into the trunk of the limo and we returned to the hospital.
On the ride back I told the driver, whose name I found out was Yosef, about the accident and that Bill was hurt, unable to lower his arm. Yosef asked me where we lived and how I planned to get home. When I told him I hadnβt thought about that yet, he offered to drive us home. What?! It was almost three hours to New York and another three hours back, but he didn’t balk. He said it was the perfect solution; all our stuff from my car was already in the limo and there was plenty of room for Bill to lie down comfortably on the spacious sofa-like seat in the back.
This man, a total stranger, was willing to wait as long as it took to get us safely home. I accepted his kind offer and slumped down onto a chair in the hospital waiting room. I had to call our sons at home to tell them what happened. They were understandably concerned and wanted to drive up to Connecticut to bring us home but I told them it was all arranged; I just wanted them to stay put and be safe. I didnβt even realize Yosef had disappeared until he returned with a bagel and a cup of coffee for me. I couldnβt believe how kind that man was and I thanked him saying the food would help with my pounding headache. As if by magic, Yosef produced a couple of Advil. I looked up at him and he was smiling, one gold tooth sparkling in the bright hospital lights. At that moment he looked just like a guardian angel.
I must have dozed off in the waiting room. When I woke up I was under a warm blanket, my head resting on a soft pillow β definitely not hospital issue. A bit dazed, I glanced around the room; there was Yosef sitting in the corner, talking on his cell phone. He saw me and gave a little wave. I ran my hand over the blanket, my eyes asking if he had provided it; Yosef smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I silently mouthed the words βthank youβ and held my clenched fist against my heart.
I checked my phone, surprised to see that four hours had gone by. A nurse came into the waiting room; I recognized her as one of the nurses who had been taking care of Bill. She asked me to go with her and I followed her to one of the many curtained-off beds in the ER. Bill was lying on his back, his arm still up but bent at the elbow with his bandaged hand behind his head. The doctor explained to me that he gave Bill a strong shot of Demerol and a muscle relaxant. He was able to gently manipulate Billβs arm into a more comfortable position but he would need physical therapy to gain full range of motion. By the look on Billβs face, it was obvious the meds were doing their job; he was pretty out of it. The doctor gave me two prescriptions to have filled when we returned home and said that Bill was free to go. He also advised me to get the prescriptions filled as soon as possible; Bill would definitely be needing them once the initial dose began to wear off.
With some assistance Bill was able to get into a wheelchair and escorted to the ER waiting room where Yosef greeted us. It wasnβt easy but we managed to make Bill comfortable in the spacious rear section of the limo; even in his drugged condition he was impressed with the car. There were bottles of water in the mini-fridge and more of Yosefβs blankets and pillows to make the ride home as cushioned as possible. Once we knew Bill was secure, we began our journey back.
Yosef suggested we stop at the nearest CVS Pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled. Since the meds were βcontrolled substancesβ, the script would only be valid in the issuing state; I wouldnβt be able to get Billβs meds in New York β something I didnβt think of. Once again Yosef came to my rescue and we stopped at CVS before continuing our trip.
We rode in silence for a little while, then I thanked Yosef for the blankets and pillows. He said βit was nothingβ; he had gone home while I was napping in the ER, told his wife Zeynep what was going on and she insisted he take the pillows and blankets with him. That gave me an opening to find out a little more about this Good Samaritan who crossed my path that day.
Yosef and Zeynep were married for only a short time when the Iraqi Kurdish Civil war broke out in 1994. He talked quietly about the war and the horrors he witnessed. He swore that if he and his bride made it out safely he would strive to help anyone in need whenever he could. With the assistance of American forces, he and Zeynep were able to escape their town of Diyarbakir in Turkey. They made it to Greece, then on through Italy, France and finally to England where Zeynep had relatives in Birmingham. They stayed in England for several months, then decided to emigrate to The States, settling in Connecticut. The couple found work in a small Turkish restaurant and when Zeynep became pregnant and could no longer work, Yosef took on a second job as a taxi driver. He said they had two little girls β Aiyla and Esana β the treasures of his life.
Just then my stomach growled and I realized I hadnβt had anything to eat all day except a bagel and coffee. Yosef said there was a basket with some food in the back of the limo and I should help myself. Zeynep had prepared black olives, hummus, ekmek flatbread and a thermos of black tea. Yosef said it was the perfect food for travelers β something that was easy to carry and provided sustenance as well as comfort. I sat near Bill and ate my meal with gratitude for this stranger who found me at a time when I desperately needed help.
I asked Yosef what his name meant; he replied βGod increasesβ. How very fitting. He went on to say that Zeynep meant βprecious gemβ, Esana meant βsafeguardβ and Aiyla meant βmoonlightβ. I scribbled everything Yosef told me on a paper napkin. Maybe it was my imagination working overtime or the fact that Christmas was just days away but those names made me think of the birth of Jesus and what Christmas was really all about.
Yosef asked me the meaning of our names; I explained that Bill was short for William which meant βstrong-willed warriorβ and my name, Nancy, meant βfilled with graceβ. Yosef thought they suited us; I thought that day they couldnβt have been more appropriate.
The ride was uneventful and time passed quickly. Before I knew it, Yosef had delivered us safely home. Together with the help of my sons, Yosef managed to get Bill from the car into the house. Bill was awake now but groggy and he reached for Yosefβs hand. With a voice heavy with emotion Bill whispered βThank you for everythingβ. Smiling, Yosef nodded and wished Bill well.
My sons brought the boxes into our house and I walked with Yosef to his car. I took some money out of my coat pocket to pay him for everything he had done β if one could even put a price on all he did. He covered my hands with his saying βNo, please. Idid not do this for money. I truly believe there was a reason I received your call for help β to aid you in your time of distress. Seeing you safely home is all the reward I need.β I was overcome with emotion and humility and I impulsively hugged Yosef. I wasnβt at all embarrassed by my actions or that my face was streaked with tears of gratitude.
I croaked out a heartfelt βThank you, Yosef. God bless you and your family. Merry Christmasβ. He smiled and replied βGodβs blessings on you, Nancy filled with graceβ.
I stood outside my house as Yosef drove away, watching the taillights of the limo disappear down the street. I looked up at the pale moon; to the north was a dazzlingly bright star shining in the black sky.
It was a cold night but my heart was glowing. I truly felt like “Nancy filled with grace”.
What was left of my car
This is a true account of a terrifying situation; we will never forget that accident 20 years ago today. God was watching over us.
A big shout-out to the caring trucker, whoever you are. Huge thanks to all the incredible emergency and medical personnel who cared for us.
Blessings upon blessings forever to Yosef, Zeynep, Ailya and Esana. Yosef β there are no adequate words to express our gratitude. You are a giant among men.
Sincere good wishes to all who read this. May you have a wondrous Christmas!
βBoard the chopper immediately, Eliza! This is our last chance to make it out of here and get to our safe house on the island. Get in now, woman!β Sidney Longstreet screamed at his wife over the roaring of the helicopter blades.
Eliza glared at her husband; sheβd had enough of his misguided and imperious representation of women as weak, mindless, shallow creatures in need of a man to rescue them from every situation, no matter how monumental or trivial.
βYear after year Iβve put up with your supercilious attitude. Youβre a pompous idiot, Sidney, and I refuse to take orders from you ever again. You can take all your medals and degrees and honors and shove them up your ass!β
Sidneyβs veins bulged out of his neck and his face turned purple. The bitch always had a facile tongue but this time she crossed the line, embarrassing him in front of his pilot, crew and most of all, his lovely secretary, Claire Bliss. His mind strayed briefly as he thought of Miss Bliss and how perfectly her name suited her. Did Eliza have any clue of their office dalliances? Well, the fuck if she did! Their very existence was now in jeopardy and he was getting out with or without his wife.
βHow dare you talk to me that way! You were nothing but a guttersnipe from Liverpool when I first noticed you. I was the only one who saw a pittance of hope for you β even with your unintelligible Scouse accent hawking flowers on the docks.β
βSidney, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss how you transformed me into a proper lady. As you keep pointing out, attack is imminent. Iβm not leaving here so just take your darling Bliss with you and get the hell out of here. And by the way, Iβm keeping the diamonds and furs. When this siege is over, I wonβt need you or your money. Now go! I can just make out the sounds of their approach.β
Sidney barely glanced at Eliza as he slid closed the chopper door, giving the pilot the signal to take off. βSheβs sealed her own fate. If they find her sheβll be done for. May God help her. Come Claire, sit beside me. Youβre safe with me.β Despite everything, Sidney had to admit to himself that Eliza had more fortitude than he did.
Once the chopper was far enough away, Eliza could hear the invaders approaching. She ran into the house and bolted the door, quickly closing all the curtains and turning off the lights. She then entered a hidden wall panel and descended the three flights of stairs to the wine cellar, making sure all the doors were locked behind her.
The underground room was stocked better than delivery day at Tesco! Eliza could live comfortably there for months, perhaps even a year. In addition to all the food and drinks she could possibly need, there was a small stove, refrigerator, bathroom, a comfortable bed, television, internet, heaters and fans. Every amenity was at her disposal. All she had to do was stay calm and quiet.
As if that wasnβt enough, Sidney arranged for the construction of a tunnel which was a means of escape should any intruders make it through the three flights of metal doors into the wine cellar. Eliza patted the pocket of her jeans for the tenth time to make sure she had her cell phone.
She became aware of the faint sound of vehicles approaching and doors slamming. Eliza could hear muffled voices but couldnβt make out a single word. Suddenly there was pounding on the front door and she heard the bellow that made her blood run cold:
βELIZA! Lizzie, wer are ya? Itβs yer dad and mam, Aunty Mimsy and yer cousins Beth, Maureen, Colin and Lil Mick come for the month. Are ya βome? Did ya ferget we was cominβ? Sid, ya bastard. Wer are ya?β
Elizaβs father turned to his wife and said βThere be norra βere and no sign oβ their cars.β
His wife shrugged indifferently. βGorra cob on, Tom? Fancy a bit of brekkie in town then? I reckon we can come back later, see if they be βere.β If not we’ll just bugger off.Who needs ’em?”
βYeah, sound one, Helen.” Tom spat on the ground. “LIZZIE! Wer are ya, yer fuckinβ Majesty?! We’ll be back!”
Eliza lit a cigarette, flipped on the radio and reclined on the bed. She had no illusions her low-life, demanding, unwelcome family gave a damn about her. She was nothing but their meal ticket. She also knew they’d get good and pissed at the local pub, eventually give up and head home to Liverpool.
Sidney would be in for quite a shock when he discovers the divorce papers waiting for him at the safe house. Eliza’s attorneys did their homework well and had plenty of dirt on Sidney; he’d never contest the divorce and she’d be living a very comfortable life β or perhaps she should say “Blissful”.
βCome in here please, Connor!β I called out to my son.
Connor came bounding into the kitchen. βWhatβs up, Mom?β
βHave you seen the bag of frozen French fries and the burgers we just bought?β
βNot since we left the store. Arenβt they in that bag on the floor by the fridge with all the other frozen stuff?β
βNoβ I replied. βI just looked through the bag. Funny, I could have sworn they were right on top. You know, this happened the other day; Dad couldnβt find the box of donuts or the hot dogs.β
βDid you check the receipts, Mom?β
βYes. Everything was listed, even the missing food. Dad said he was going to call Costco but Iβm not sure he did. They obviously forgot to pack those items.β
βYeah, that store was super busy; I can see how they might have overlooked something. Well, good luck, Mom. If I can help let me know.β
βActually Connor, there is something you can do for me when you have a minute. Thereβs a box of old photos you can bring down from the third-floor storage room.β
βSure, Mom, but I was heading over to Joeyβs to play video games for a while. OK if I bring the box down when I get home?β
I gave him a βthumbs upβ.
I texted my husband to see if he had called Costco; he replied with an eye-roll emoji and wrote that he totally forgot about calling. βOK, no worries. Iβll handle itβ I texted back. Now to call the store about my dilemma.
After speaking to a couple of people and being put on hold several times, I was assured nothing was left behind at the store. The manager said I could bring in my receipts and theyβd issue a refund. That was fine with me but it still didnβt explain what happened to our lost items.
When Connor came home, he went straight into the den to watch TV. βExcuse me, bud. Arenβt you forgetting something?” He looked at me with a blank face. “My photos?β
Smacking his forehead and groaning, Connor headed upstairs. βAnd donβt forget to walk the dog!β I called after him.
Not even a minute went by before I heard Connor yelling for me.
βMom! Come up here β quick!β
I raced up the stairs.
βWhatβs wrong? Are you OK?β I asked nervously.
βIβm fine, Mom. I heard noises in here; check this out.β
We entered a guest bathroom which we never used.
βLook what I foundβ he said. Balanced on the edge of the bathtub was our missing bag of French fries β half-eaten.
βWhatβs going on here?β
βTake a look.β Connor drew back the shower curtain. Peering over the edge of the tub was our golden retriever, Rebel, moaning. Surrounding him were the empty packages of all our missing food. He look at us with those big sad doggy eyes.
βOh, Rebel! What have you done?β I didnβt know if I should laugh or cry. βYou little thief! Poor baby. Sounds like you gave yourself a nasty bellyache. Cβmon boy, letβs get you to the vet. It’s gonna be OK.β
Her skin is the color of peaches and cream, soft as a cygnet’s downy feathers. Sleepy eyes gazed up at him, sparkling like the icy blue waters of a glistening lake. His heart melted as her pouty rosebud mouth smiled sweetly. Strawberry blonde hair framed her head, caressing her perfect face. He held her in his arms and kissed her eyes, her nose and her cheeks. His lips brushed lightly against her ears and he delicately nuzzled her neck. At that moment he knew he would never love another as deeply and tenderly as his precious newborn baby girl.
To all my WordPress friends, whether here in The States or scattered around the globe, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving. After all, no matter who we are or where we are, there’s always something to be thankful for!
He really wasnβt a king; he was the mayor. Well, in truth, he wasnβt even the mayor. His name was Joe Montalbano and he was a royal pain in the ass.
Joe and his wife Pauline were one of the first couples to purchase a house on my street when they were built in 1960. They had a large piece of corner property β plenty of space for their precocious son Joe, Jr. to run around.
Joe was one of those guys who knew everyone and their business and they in turn knew him. A retired firefighter, there wasnβt a store owner, restaurateur or town official who didnβt know Joe. He belonged to the Knights of Columbus, the Kiwanis Club, the local beach club, the town pool, the Italian/American Society and the bocce team. He was a scout leader, coached Little League and marched in every parade. He also attended monthly town meetings and made his opinions known loud and clear. Joe had a lot of opinions.
Joe was the self-appointed inspector of our street. He would drive around in his maroon Bonneville doing 5 miles per hour checking every house for scofflaws. Now if Joe was doing this as some sort of community watch program to protect our little street, well that would have been fine. But that was not what motivated Joe. He was a busybody looking to make trouble wherever he could. Joe wasn’t happy unless he made his neighbors miserable.
If someone was doing a little home improvement, perhaps putting in a patio or cutting down a tree, that person better have a permit taped to the window and all the necessary papers in order. Joe would go out of his way to schmooze it up with the homeowners, make seemingly friendly small-talk and if everything wasnβt kosher, heβd sniff it out and report it to the town supervisor. Nice, right?
So, letβs say the poor schmo didnβt have a permit. Heβd have to tear down any new construction he did on his own, apply for a permit and pay a hefty fine. Then if any new construction was approved, heβd have to hire someone to do the job and end up paying out the nose for work he could have done himself! But wait. If the construction wasn’t approved, then everything would come to a screeching halt anyway. And God forbid the building examiner found some unauthorized work that had been done years before; it would all have to come down. Good bye to that ‘illegal‘ den the family has been enjoying the last ten years. Thanks, Joe!
Once β and only once β I parked my car in front of my house facing the wrong direction. I wasn’t going to stay long; just enough time to use the bathroom and gather my dry cleaning. I couldnβt have been inside more than ten minutes when I noticed a police car out front. I ran outside but he cop was just pulling away and he had left me an unpleasant surprise β a ticket for βcar facing wrong way while parkedβ. Who even knew that was a law? Apparently it is and I broke it to the tune of $150! Thanks, Joe!
Letβs talk about garbage for a minute. Collection days on my street are Monday and Thursday; weβre supposed to put our trash out in the morning on those days. God help the person who put their garbage out the night before! Good old snitch Joe would call the sanitation department. You can bet your sweet ass that person would get a serious reprimand and have to drag their trash back into the house. And if it happened again, a lovely fine would be doled out instead of a warning. Thanks again, inspector!
Everyone likes a little party occasionally, am I right? The Fourth of July, Super Bowl, graduation; these are times to celebrate. Invite some friends over, fire up the grill, have a few drinks, play a little music, talk, laugh, maybe even do some karaoke β thatβs what people do at parties. Now, thereβs a cut-off time for noise in the neighborhood; everything needs to end by 11:00 PM. So let’s say youβre on the front porch saying farewell to the last of your guests and itβs 11:08. Guess who pulls up in front of your house β Officer Krupke with his little ticket book and a big shit-eating grin, thatβs who. βIs there a problem, officer?β you ask innocently. βDisturbing the peace by breaking the town noise ordinance” the cop replies as he taps his watch and hands you a summons. “You have a good night now.” You donβt have to ask who ratted you out; he must have all official phone numbers on speed dial.
Thatβs what Joe did; he went out of his way to make his neighborβs lives miserable, all in the name of due diligence. Nice guy, that Joe.
So, years later when Joe finally kicked the bucket, everyone except the people who lived on our street went into mourning. The funeral was worthy of Vito Corleone! The fire department, the police department, the Knights of Columbus, the Kiwanis Club and the bocce team pulled out all the stops and paid for the biggest funeral with the longest limos, the most flowers and best catering the town could provide.
But our little street was cheerful as usual β not that we were necessarily happy that Joe was dead β oh, no no no! It was more a sense of relief knowing βInspector Montalbanoβ wasnβt breathing down our necks β¦ or anywhere else, for that matter.
Well, that sense of sweet relief lasted about a week. Thatβs when we saw the familiar maroon Bonneville crawling down the street at 5 miles per hour. And who was behind the wheel? Why, it was Joe, Jr.
November 11th is Veteran’s Day in the United States. For much of the rest of the world and especially in Europe, it is Armistice Day, the day that marks the end of World War I. On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918 when the armistice was signed, over 20million people hadlost their lives.
I am humbled and honored to present to you a guest post by my friend, Paul Griffiths β The Birkenhead Poet. Dedicated to the young boys who lost their lives, he calls it “Shot At Dawn”; I call it perfection.
Shot at Dawn
I was not yet sixteen when I joined the army. I wanted to fight. To do my bit for King and Country, to be on the side of right. Both my brothers had signed up so I lied to my dear old mum. I even forged her signature; I was foolish young and dumb.
From fifteen years to nineteen years I aged overnight. I sailed right through the boot camp, I was so eager to fight. The things that I know now I wish I knew back then. I was too full of bullshit and bravado wanting to be one of the men.
I was a big lad for my age but I wasn’t very bright. Why didn’t I listen to my Mother? My Mother was always right. I thought I was born to be a hero, to wear medals on my chest. Instead I am nothing but cannon fodder damned with all the rest.
I soon lost my rose-tinted glasses; they got trampled in the mud. At the sight of so many bodies, all this carnage and the blood. I’m freezing cold and hungry, too tired and scared to even sleep. I’ve been on sentry duty now for the last two weeks.
I’d never heard anything like it when the enemy barrage fell. Hiding like a rat under the ground β it was three nights of living hell. The ground shook all around us and I was terrified. A shell exploded right above the trench top, we were all buried alive.
My eardrums were bursting, my mouth was full of clay. Please God, come and save me. Don’t let me die this way. Then I heard the sergeant in the darkness counting who had died. When he finally called my name out, I broke down and cried.
I don’t know how long I was buried down there; it felt like an eternity. When they finally dug me out of that hell hole something died inside me. My days collided in on themselves; I was in a total daze. I felt confused and frightened lost in the fog of war’s damned malaise.
The Captain wasn’t bothered about me; he just didn’t want to hear. He sent me back to the front line with a bollocking and a flea in my ear. Sergeant said “If you want to be a hero lad, now you’ll get your chance. The orders are just in, we are pushing forward for the big advance.”
All I could do was find a quiet corner to sit alone and weep. I couldn’t function properly anymore, I’d cry myself to sleep. I told the Captain how old I really was; he didn’t care about my age. He said he could only go off what was written on my signup page.
I was scared sick to the pit of my stomach, I was absolutely terrified. Thinking back to the day I signed up, wishing that I never lied. I knew what lay above the trench top and it was worse than bad. The Sergeant said “Don’t be scared, son. Keep your chin up lad”.
As the Sergeant took a little look above the safety of the parapet A bullet hit him right between the eye’s; it must have his name on it. He fell back right on top of me; man, he nearly knocked me out. I was pinned down under his dead weight, I couldn’t move about.
By the time I wriggled free of him the other guys had gone. To be mowed down by machine guns, all I could do was look on. Then I heard the Captain screaming, calling out my name. He called me a damn young coward to my eternal shame.
I tried to explain about the Sergeant and getting stuck in the mud. The Captain was deaf to any reasoning, my excuse did me no good. Captain put me on field arrest and I was immediately taken off the line. I was told my court martial hearing was to be held in four days time.
I told the panel my true age, about my actions and exactly what I did. They said I was just another lying coward who had run away and hid. The verdict they passed was guilty, the sentence was death. I screamed for mercy to deaf ears until I couldn’t catch my breath.
The weight of the world sat on my narrow shoulders. I was all alone. Knowing I will never see my Mother again or my family back at home. It rained all week relentlessly but the sun rose on that fateful morn. Today is to be my last day on earth; I will be shot at dawn.
I felt the warm sun on my face but the air was bitterly cold. They marched to a post against a wall and tied on my blindfold. My body shook uncontrollably with fear. I was absolutely terrified. Innocent yet guilty and about to be shot by my own side.
I prayed to God to save me, to give me a second chance. When I heard those words “Ready, Aim” β I’m sorry, I pissed my pants. I didn’t hear that final word of “Fire!” I don’t think I felt any pain As bullets tore through my body time and time again.
I died branded a coward, my service forever put to shame. To be remembered as a black mark on my family’s good name. The records show I died aged twenty though I’d barely turned sixteen. Labeled as a coward in the great war; but what does cowardice really mean?
Parish, New York β a sleepy little town about 20 miles from Oswego, just about kissing Lake Ontario. The place I once called home.I was born in Parish and lived there until it became too small for me or maybe I just got too damn disillusioned.
I was the only child of Ron and Betty Cooper. Dad never said he was disappointed that I was a girl but I knew he really wanted a son. Mom named me Carly Grace. Dad never called me Carly; I was always βCarlβ to him. I didnβt mind too much but mom always said it was a heartless thing for him to do β a constant reminder that she couldnβt give him a son.
We lived in a tiny house in the middle of nowhere. Dad would sleep most of the day and go to work after dinner. He was a bartender at Floydβs Place in the town of Mexico, about seven miles from Parish. College kids from Oswego would bring their dates to Floydβs Place; it was a dive but dad did a good job keeping their tankards full all night.
I remember having to be very quiet during the day so dad could sleep. Mom kept me busy in the kitchen; she was a terrific baker and taught me how to make homemade bread.
Both my parents were heavy smokers. Even when mom was baking sheβd have a Marlboro dangling from her lips. Well, mom got cancer and softly, peacefully passed away the night before I turned 13; to this day the smell of freshly baked bread reminds me of her.
It wasnβt long before dad hooked up with Paulette Garrison, a nurse whoβd stop by the bar every night after her shift. Dad started staying at Pauletteβs place in Mexico and by the time I was fifteen I was pretty much living on my own.
Memorial Day weekend rolled around and dad brought Paulette back to our house. I was looking forward to a cook-out and fireworks but dad and Paulette only came out of the bedroom for beer and cigarettes. That Saturday night I packed a few things in momβs old suitcase, took her address book, whatever money I could find and softly left my home in Parish.
When I arrived at Grand Central Station, I called momβs cousin Rita in The Bronx. She didnβt hesitate for a second, taking me into her home and caring for me like I was her own daughter. She also gave me a job in her bakery on Arthur Avenue. When Rita retired she put me in charge and I eventually became the owner.
Nine years went by when I got a call out of the blue. It was Paulette letting me know my dad had died β three weeks ago! There was certainly no love lost between us but I felt I should drive up to say farewell.
I stood at my fatherβs grave feeling nothing but the cold wind stinging my face. Softly I turned and left Parish behind me forever.
Written for Linda G. HillβsΒ Stream of Consciousness SaturdayΒ prompt. Linda has asked us to use the word βhomeβ as a noun, a verb, an adjective, or an adverb.
The Elephant's Trunk 