It had been eighteen months since Jean’s parents were killed in a skiing accident in Utah. Their deaths left her alone with no family except for her mother’s estranged younger sister Gloria who lived halfway around the world. When the accident happened, Jean thought of reaching out to Gloria in Australia but she had no way of contacting her. Besides, too many years and no love lost between her mother and aunt dissuaded her from even trying.
Jean could no longer put off the job of cleaning out her parent’s house. She packed up all their clothes as a donation to the Salvation Army and arranged for a pick up. On the floor of her mother’s now empty bedroom closet she discovered a large shoe box; it was full of old family photos.
Jean ignored the box for a few days until curiosity got the best of her. She carried it into the living room, poured herself a glass of wine and started going through the photos. There were the typical family images of her grandparents, her parents and herself – nothing terribly special or interesting.
Jean was about to put the cover back on the box when she noticed a manilla envelope at the very bottom. She pulled it out, unwound the string that kept it closed and emptied the contents onto the coffee table. All that slipped out was a clear plastic sheath from a photo album. There were six pockets on both sides of the sheath and each pocket contained a photo. Twelve images were visible – six on one side and six on the other.
Sipping her wine, Jean examined the photos. The first one was of her mother and Gloria; the remaining photos were only of Gloria. Jean didn’t recognize the place where the photos had been taken and no one else was there. It didn’t take long for Jean to notice that Gloria was pregnant; in each photo her belly appeared larger and larger. The final two photos were of Gloria cradling an infant in her arms. Something made Jean remove those two photos from their plastic covering; written neatly on the back in her mother’s handwriting was “Gloria with her daughter, Jean”.
Jean slowly placed her glass on the table. Of course! It all made sense. That would explain why there were never any photos of her own pregnant mother, no photos of her proud father with his hand on her mother’s expanding belly, no photos of any other children. And, of course, there was the sudden disappearance of Gloria. Jean was an only child and Gloria – the woman she believed to be her aunt – was actually her mother. And who was her father? Jean was sure it could not be the man she thought of as her father; she always believed she never bore even the slightest resemblance to him. She was the spitting image of her mother and her aunt but now, looking at these old photos, she wasn’t so sure. Her whole life felt like a lie.
Jean was reeling with this new information. She paced the room thinking of what she should do next. She briefly wondered what time it was in Australia; she didn’t care. She needed answers. She searched through her mother’s address books until she found a listing for Gloria; who knew after all this time if the number was still the same? It had been 24 years since those photos were taken; she hesitated for a second, then dialed the number.
“Promenaders?” Chrissy looked up from her homework, a confused look on her face. “Wow! Such a weirdword! Wonder what it means.Mom, are you listening to me?”
Julie, Chrissy’s mom, stopped preparing dinner and turned to talk to her daughter. “Yes sweetie, I’m listening. I know the word and you do, too. Just think about it for a minute, Chris. Anything come to mind?”
Chrissy’s face was skewed in a bewildered expression. “It sorta sounds like that weird fruit, the one with all the red seeds in the center which you’re supposed to eat. How bizarre is that … eating seeds? Ya know what I’m talking about, mom?”
Julie laughed. “You’re thinking of pomegranates, Chris! And yes, it’s a little strange but the seeds are really delicious. I’ll get some for you to taste. Now, back to your homework … ‘promenaders’. It’s a word you’ve heard before. Try again.”
Chrissy absentmindedly chewed on her pencil, deep in thought, then smiled as though a huge secret had suddenly been revealed. “I know! Prom-en-ad-ers are teenagers who go to the prom!” And she burst out laughing at her play on words.
“Very clever, Chrissy girl, but not quite right. Wait … you’ve just given me an idea! Let’s see if this jogs your memory.” Julie dashed out of the kitchen and returned with one of Chrissy’s yearbooks. “Remember when everyone took square dancing in 6th grade?”
“Sure, but what does that yearbook have to do with anything, mom? That was, like, ages ago when I was eleven. I’m fourteen now!”
Julie rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know … you’re so very grown up now! Here, humor me and take a look at this picture. It’s from one of the square dances you used to go to. Read the caption.”
Chrissy heaved an exaggerated sigh, took the yearbook from Julie and recited the verse:
*Then you all promenade with the sweet corner maid singing “Oh, Johnny! Oh, Johnny! Oh!”*
Chrissy’s eyes opened wide. “I remember that song! That’s the part of the dance when we strolled around the dance floor. Sooo, that must mean promenaders are people who stroll!”
“There ya go, kiddo! You got it!” Julie exclaimed. “Process of elimination; just some of the ‘smarts’ we acquire as we get older – like grey hair.”
Chrissy jumped off the kitchen stool and raced down the hall to her bedroom.
“Hey … where you off to? Dinner’s almost ready” Julie called out after her.
“I’ll be back in a second, mom. Just checking if I have any grey hair yet!”
Promenaders strolled down the sun-streaked boardwalk of Atlantic City, New Jersey; ladies twirled their parasols while gents tipped their straw hats and stroked their handlebar mustaches as they passed each other for it was Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer, a perfect day with sunshine, blue skies and laughing children!
Margaret Wilson and her boy Sam came from Philadelphia for the fresh sea air, to gaze in awe at the hotels built like fairytale palaces along the seafront and to admire the piers dripping with neon lights, the most famous of which was the Steel Pier, known for its dance bands, water circus and other such attractions; in fact, it was revealed that the renowned composer John Philip Sousa and his band would be performing that very afternoon.
There were barkers selling salt water taffy and cotton candy, minstrel shows, fairgrounds and the famous Diving Horse, specially trained to charge up a 60 foot ramp to a platform atop the Steel Pier where a woman clad in a smattering of sequins leapt onto its back just before it plunged off the pier; horse and rider flew through the air, hitting the water to the applause of delighted throngs waiting below.
But one didn’t have to venture far from the boardwalk to sample less wholesome activities in venues like the Paradise Club where tourists could watch nearly naked women dance to jazz music and, if they wanted something not just risqué but illegal, they could visit the gambling dens and brothels catering to every taste; there was the criminal element, too, with occasional holdups and shoot-outs.
However today was a holiday and the children laughed gleefully as they rode the giant carousel on horses painted pink, yellow, white and green, even the smallest tyke straining to reach the brass ring while their parents strolled in their most fashionable clothes and made small talk; with the start of school the furthest thing from their minds, nothing could spoil a day like today.
Suddenly the cacophony of gun shots rang out and people screamed and scattered as gun-wielding robbers ran from a pawn shop, jumped into a waiting car and took off, bullets flying wildly; a momentary silence overtook the Boardwalk only to be shattered by a piercing wail that rose to the heavens and everyone turned to see Margaret Wilson cradling the body of little Sam, shot in the heart by a stray bullet (in his jacket pocket a folded essay, now stained with innocent blood, entitled “How I Spent My Summer Vacation”); the police arrived, removed mother and child and the band played on.
Written in response to GirlieOnTheEdge and Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt. The rules: six sentences – no more, no less. Punctuation be damned! The magic word this week is CAROUSEL. 🎠
“Course One: Escarole Soup. Course Two: Manicotti and Salad. Gina, what is this – Sunday dinner or a reception for the Pope?”
My girlfriend Gina showed me a copy of the menu her mother had planned for dinner. It was a seven course feast! “Do you eat like this every Sunday?”
“No, silly – only when we have company. This week it’s my dad’s side of the family. There’s a lot a people and mom always says it’s better to have too much food than not enough.”
“Wait a second. There’s going to be other people besides your parents? Like how many?”
Gina started counting on her fingers. “About 18, maybe 20.”
“The first time I meet your parents I’m also going to meet 20 strangers and you didn’t think to warn me??”
“Oh, don’t worry. They’re gonna love you.”
“No. They’ll be employing Sicilian interrogations tactics. They’ll chew me up and spit me out. I’m Irish with blonde hair and pale skin. I don’t stand a chance!”
Gina laughed. “Oh stop exaggerating. We’re not The Mob, ya know. Just a mob!”
And she was right. I couldn’t believe the number of people that descended on her house. They were loud, funny, loving and very welcoming.
Gina’s mom set the table extravagantly, using her best dishes, utensils and glasses. And the food was incredible. Besides the soup, pasta and salad there was fresh baked bread, an antipasto, a huge platter of meatballs and sausages, two roasts, a bunch of vegetables, fennel, fruit, nuts, a slew of desserts I couldn’t pronounce and coffee. Gina’s uncles and male cousins ate like there was no tomorrow and no one stopped talking the entire time – except for Gina’s grandmother who didn’t utter a sound and stared at me with beady eyes the whole day. Honestly, that tiny woman dressed in black from head to toe scared me to death.
As the woman cleared away all traces of dinner, Gina’s dad got up, went to the cupboard and returned with a beautiful box made of highly polished wood with the finest Italian marble inlay. Placing the box on the table, he opened it to reveal an assortment of expensive imported cigars. The men lit up and a bottle of anisette appeared out of nowhere.
Gina’s Uncle Vito produced a deck of cards from his vest pocket. “Ya know how to play Red Dog, Phil?” he asked me.
“Um … it’s Bill, sir. And no, I’m not familiar with the game.”
“Hey, no problem, Irish. We’re gonna teach ya. And don’t look so nervous. We may rob ya but we ain’t gonna kill ya. For some reason our Gina likes ya and if she likes ya, we all likes ya.”
While we played cards, Gina’s cousins Louie and Frankie played their accordions and the women danced; it was the most surreal and unforgettable experience of my life.
I watched as Gina’s grandmother rose from her chair. Slowly she walked over to me and looked me square in the eyes. She grinned and pinched my cheek till it was beet red. And la famiglia howled.
I swear – 53 years later her stamp of approval is still on my face.
Grundy sat in his favorite spot: a dilapidated bench on the boardwalk at Coney Island overlooking Brighton Beach. He was celebrating the sixteenth anniversary of his divorce from Barbara, the “Bitch of Brighton” as he called her. And he was getting drunk as he did every night.
His routine never changed. After his shift at McDonald’s, he’d grab a Big Mac, walk across the street to the Liquor Loft, buy a $7.49 bottle of Old Crow Kentucky Bourbon and a pack of Camel cigarettes, then stroll over to his bench and settle in.
Grundy’s Bench … his home away from home. Well, not literally. Thanks to his cousin Marcy and her husband Phil, he had an actual roof over his head. Grundy was real close to Marcy, growing up together and all, and Phil was as nice as they come, humble but with the bearing of a prince. Grundy lived with them and their three kids and all Marcy asked was for Grundy to cook Sunday dinner for the family. Hell, he’d cook dinner every night for those precious people if he wasn’t always shit-faced after work.
“Pretty sweet deal” Grundy thought as he took a swig of his Old Crow. “I’m a freaking loser, an embarrassment, yet they treat me with a love I don’t deserve.” He had his own room, a TV and Marcy did his laundry. He mostly kept to himself, getting home late. He had the day shift, breakfast and lunch included. The pay was lousy and so was the food but it beat a blank.
How the fuck did he end up here? Carl Grundy, a graduate of The Culinary Institute of America, working in some of the finest restaurants in the world … once one of the best chefs in New York … now a burger flipping drunk in Brooklyn.
So what happened? Bourbon happened. He wasn’t much of a drinker – an occasional beer – but one night after a particularly ugly argument with Barbara, he surreptitiously chugged a shot of the restaurant’s finest bourbon. It was ambrosia and he had another. Before long it became a ritual, then a habit and finally an addiction. He got caught, fired and the cycle began. Land a new gig, drink their booze, get sacked. Eventually the only job he could get was at Mickey D’s and Old Crow was all he could afford.
Out of nowhere he recalled the words of some televangelist his mother used to watch: “Your decisions cause your circumstances”. Damn straight! He didn’t even realize he was crying. Well, enough reminiscing for one night.
Grundy gave his beloved bench a pat and stood up to begin his walk to Phil and Marcy’s. Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his chest and crumbled to the ground.
“Oh, Lord! I’ve made a fine mess of things” Grundy gasped. “I’m hurting and I want to go home. Mom and Dad are waiting for me.”
He died alone that night, his hands still clutching an empty bottle.
“Did I look at them?! Are you kidding me? Of course I looked at them! They’re phenomenal!! I thought my eyes were gonna bug outta my head!” my brother Paul jokingly remarked to his twin Patrick. I obviously walked in on them in the middle of a private conversation – probably about girls or sports – two subjects constantly on their 15 year old minds. They quickly shuffled the books and papers on Dad’s desk into one big pile, their faces turning red.
“What are you doing here, Penny? Aren’t you supposed to be at math club?” Patrick asked nervously.
“Yes but today’s session was cancelled because our math teacher had a meeting. But what I’m doing here isn’t nearly as interesting as what you’re doing here in Dad’s study.”
Paul and Patrick both started talking at once, turning even brighter red and getting more nervous every second while fiddling with the mound of papers on the desk. “Who, us?” asked Paul. “Nothing much – just the usual. We were talking about some of our favorite ball players … you know like A-Rod, Derek Jeter, Cal Ripken, Roger Clemens.”
“Yeah, that’s right” agreed Patrick. “We were looking at our baseball cards and magazines and comparing stats. No big deal.”
“Oh, is that so?” I challenged. “Then explain to me why you sounded so excited if it was ‘no big deal’and why you’re here in Dad’s study using his desk – which you know is off limits – when all your baseball cards, magazines and what have you are upstairs in your bedroom?”
My brothers started squirming as I continued.
“I know you boys and I’m sure you’re up to something. Where are all your cards? Where are all your magazines? I don’t see anything baseball related at all. So you see by this simple matter of deduction, your lame answers are wrong and my reasoning is right!”
The boys looked at each other, quickly gathered their piles of papers and books and began running to the stairs and the safety of their bedroom. In their haste to get away from me, everything they were holding slipped from their arms and fell to the floor.
And there it was – the thing they were so desperately trying to hide – a copy of Playboy with Farrah Fawcett in all her glory on the cover.
I gasped in righteous indignation. “I’ve never been more ashamed of you two! That’s a filthy sex magazine! Do you know what she is??”
Paul sighed deeply and whispered “She’s a goddess.”
“Yeah, a goddess” repeated Patrick breathlessly.
“She is not a goddess!” I yelled. “She’s a Hollywood bimbo, a floozy … at least that’s what Mom says.”
“I don’t think Dad would agree with that” replied Paul. “After all, it’s his magazine. He’s got quite a collection!”
“Dad’s?!?” My hands flew to my face in shock and all my books fell to the floor.
“Well, what have we here?” quipped Patrick. “Playgirl magazine, Penny? I’m appalled!” Paul pretended to faint.
“Oh, you two think you’re real funny. I bet you won’t be laughing when I tell you it’s Mom’s magazine!”
“Mom’s?!?” the boys shouted in unison. “But she’s … Mom!!”
“Looks like we’re at a standoff, wouldn’t you agree, boys?” I said conspiratorially “Let’s put both these magazines back in the desk where we found them.”
“And no one will be the wiser” agreed Paul.
Just then we heard a loud “AHEM” and spun around to find our parents behind us!
Dad was angry. “Well, it’s obvious you little snoops can’t be trusted. You were caught red-handed and now you’re going to have to pay the price. I’m very disappointed in the three of you. You’re all grounded for two weeks.”
On my way upstairs to my room I heard my parents laughing and Mom teasingly saying “Could you imagine if they found our stash of VHS tapes? Good thing I keep themwell hidden!”
“Oh, you are so right! Come here, my little vixen” Dad replied in a voice that sounded strangely like Ricardo Montalbán.
Denise hosts Six Sentence Stories, where there is one simple rule: stories must be 6 sentences – no more, no less. This week’s prompt word is: SILK
When my sister was born, there was no question what my parents would name her; since both my maternal and paternal grandmothers were named Rose and my maternal and paternal great-grandmothers were named Marie, my sister was given the name Rosemarie – simple, no questions asked.
When I came along four years later, there were no more available grandmother names; of course, my parents could have named me Marie Rose but even they thought that was a bit too cute although I’m sure my grandmothers and great-grandmothers would have done cartwheels over such a name.
The search for a name expanded to include my aunts – a concept which my mother was not thrilled about since she was an only child and there were no aunt names on her side; however there were two paternal aunts, Vincenzina and Francesca and the family feud began – (would I be simply Vincenzina or Francesca or perhaps a combination of the two?) – but the argument grew as to which name would be first and which would be the middle name.
The fighting became so intense, all visitors were told to leave my mother’s hospital room so she could rest but sleep eluded her as names kept spinning around in her head; besides, I didn’t look much like a Vincenzina or a Francesca with my peaches and cream complexion and silk-like platinum blonde hair.
After all our squabbling relatives left the hospital, the night nurse came into my mother’s room; seeing the distressed look on my mother’s face, she asked if there was anything wrong, to which my mother simply replied, “Family nonsense” and the nurse nodded knowingly, saying she understood how family members meant well but could be the cause of much upset, an explanation which pleased my mother greatly, so much so that she was inspired to ask the night nurse a question.
“Excuse me but what is your name?“ and the nurse replied “My name is Nancy … Nancy Ann”; my mother thought that was a lovely name which suited me very well and in the quiet empty room of St. Francis Hospital, my mother happily told the night nurse that was the name she wanted on my birth certificate …. And the rest, my friends is history.
Normally I don’t take the subway to work but I heard there was a bad auto accident backing up traffic for miles on the highway so driving wasn’t an option. My train was already at the station when I arrived. Every seat was taken except for one in the corner. I quickly sat down as the train began filling up with passengers.
Glancing around I caught a glimpse of a man seated about fifteen feet from me reading a newspaper. He looked over in my direction and gave me a big grin, his light blue eyes twinkling. He bore an uncanny resemblance to my late father, Gino, and I was unable to resist smiling back at him. He was well-groomed, wearing a fedora with a white feather neatly tucked into the hatband. He had a thin mustache and I imagined he was a barber like my dad. He went back to reading his newspaper and when he turned the page I was surprised to see it was La Stampa, the Italian newspaper my father used to read.
Suddenly the subway stopped and the lights went out for a few minutes. When they came back on I looked over at the man but he wasn’t there. I looked all around but didn’t see him. We were stuck in a dark tunnel – where could he have gone?
The train started up again and at our next stop many people entered, including two women with five young children; they looked like gypsies. One woman was younger, obviously the mother of the children, and the older woman was their grandmother. The mother protectively held a toddler while the other children clung to her skirt and the grandmother clutched the handle of a baby carriage. The women whispered rapidly in a foreign language as their wide eyes frantically searched the train. They were clearly frightened as though they were running away from someone or something.
The ride was choppy and the children were getting restless; the women tried desperately to quiet them. At the next stop people brusquely shoved their way off and on. Suddenly a swarthy-looking man pushed the old gypsy woman, snatched the baby carriage and dashed out the train just as the doors closed. The hysterical mother screamed what sounded like “My baby! My baby!” but no one paid her any attention. I stood up to see if I could help but the train jerked to a start. I was thrown back into my seat, hitting my head.
The harsh train whistle jolted me and I was amazed to discover I was in my bed; the whistle was my alarm clock. It was only a dream! Sleepily, I shuffled to the door to collect my newspaper, then turned on the tv. Opening the newspaper, my eyes widened in disbelief as I saw the banner – La Stampa – the same paper my father used to read. The date was November 17, 1992, the day my father died.
A voice from the tv roused me from my trance: “A happy ending yesterday for a Romanian woman whose baby was snatched from a crowded subway by her estranged husband. Witnesses directed police to an alley next to “Gino’s Barbershop” where the husband was found hiding behind a dumpster. The baby was reunited with its relieved and very grateful mother.”
There on the screen was the same gypsy family I saw on the train! In the background stood my father’s old barbershop.
Stunned, I dropped the newspaper and slumped onto my bed. So it wasn’t a dream after all! From the corner of my eye I noticed something sticking out of the newspaper. With trembling hands I gently pulled out a white feather.
This house has been my home all my life. I was born in an upstairs bedroom in the middle of an unexpected snowstorm and, with any luck, I’ll die peacefully in my sleep in that same bedroom.
I lived here with my mother, an elementary school librarian, and my dad, a veterinarian. See the red door on the left side of the house? That was the entrance to Sullivan’s Pet Clinic. I always thought dad had the best job in the world – working out of our home caring for animals every day and many nights. Those middle of the night emergency calls were always the worst. I grew up standing by his elbow, engrossed by everything from happy birthings to heartbreaking endings.
Being an only child and a constant figure in the clinic, it was naturally assumed by everyone, including myself, that I would follow in dad’s footsteps. However, that was not to be the case. You see, as much as I loved working with animals, I took the sick and dying aspect of it all very personally; I wasn’t very good at handling the loss. What use is a veterinarian who only treats healthy animals? I might as well be a groomer at PetSmart!
After my second year of college, with no real goal in mind for my life, I dropped out and left home. I found I was adept at quite a few things: I was a carpenter, a pool cleaner, a gardener and a plumber and, while I was good at all those things, none of them brought me the sense of fulfillment I desired. So at the ripe old age of 28 I decided to return home. My parents were overjoyed to see me, of course; however, that thrill diminished rapidly once I told them I had no intention of joining the family practice. My dad made a suggestion: “Find a paying job which will allow you to contribute to the privilege of living in a comfortable house with a roof over your head and food to eat or move out”. I chose the former.
One day while perusing the want ads, I saw a listing for a housepainter. The company was local, the job was full time and since I had dabbled in a little painting at my previous jobs, I applied for, and landed, the position. I was to start the very next day. It wasn’t rocket science but there was skill involved and I enjoyed the work; doing anything with my hands was supremely satisfying. With each brush stroke, time flew by and before I realized it, I was a 46-year-old man married to my dear wife Laurie, the local church secretary. We were the parents of three teenagers – two daughters and a son. Savannah was the eldest at 17; she would be heading off to college next year. Following close behind was Georgia, 16 and Max, 14.
One late summer afternoon while having our traditional Sunday dinner at my parent’s house, my folks stunned us with the news that they were going to retire and move south. Hard as it was for dad to believe, he could not find anyone willing to take over his practice without also buying the house. Sullivan’s Pet Clinic unceremoniously closed its doors and my wife and I and the kids moved into my childhood home. We bid farewell to my parents and locked the door to the clinic, promising we would do our best to find someone who wanted to take over dad’s practice. Unlike my father, I had no problem renting the clinic while my family lived in the main house. Still no one expressed an interest in the practice.
On a rare Saturday off from work, I threw myself into sprucing up the yard. I grabbed the necessary gardening equipment and “invited” the three couch potatoes playing video games to join me. After much grousing and a bit of bribery we were hard at work pulling weeds and pruning dead branches. After a scant five minutes, Savannah let out a squeal and called me over, informing me “there something stuck in one of the azalea bushes” and she was “pretty sure it was alive”. At first I didn’t see anything but upon closer inspection I found that Savannah was right. Mixed in and almost undiscernible among the reddish blossoms was a female cardinal. She was obviously wounded, her left wing hanging uselessly and a small bloody wound on her breast.
Instincts that had been dormant for years arose and came rushing at me like a locomotive. I yelled for the other two kids to run into the garage to get a shoe box and some of my clean painting cloths. They were quick in their return and with gloved hands I gently plucked the wounded bird from the bush, placed her in the cloth-lined box and began walking her into the house. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted something bright red flitting from branch to branch, whistling an unanswered call, and I knew it had to be the wounded cardinal’s mate.
Fumbling through a maze of pens, clips and rubber bands in my dad’s old rolltop desk, I finally found the keys to the abandoned pet clinic. Unlocking the door I was amazed to see my wife Laurie had kept the place clean and organized and I made a mental note to thank her when she returned home.
“First order of business is to assess the bird’s wounds, especially the spot where there’s blood” I announced to my kids in a voice that sounded eerily like my father’s. I asked Savannah to find gauze pads and apply light pressure to the bird’s wound while Max used his phone to search for info on broken wings. When Savannah told me the blood from the puncture was dry, my dad’s voice quietly whispered in my ear not to dislodge the clot; doing so could cause the bird to bleed out. Savannah applied a dab of Neosporin around the wound, replaced the dressing and wrapped a long strip of clean cloth around it, securing it with a small piece of surgical tape.
“There’s a ton of stuff here on caring for a wounded bird” Max shouted triumphantly, waving his cell phone over his head. I read what he found and quickly assessed what we needed to do.
“Ok, we need to fill a hot water bottle to keep the bird warm and a long strip of cloth to wrap around her wing and body. We all worked together efficiently and our patient seemed to sense we were trying to help her. Savannah placed the hot water bottle under the bird and put the box near the window in the sun.
“We did good, guys! Let’s just leave the bird to rest and we’ll check her in a little while.” I started walking toward the door that led to the main house when Savannah called out to me.
“Dad, we can’t keep calling her ‘the bird’. She needsa name. How about ‘Lady C’?” she asked. And we all agreed that was a good name.
When Laurie got home from work, we told her about our adventure with Lady C. “Sounds to me like all those years at your dad’s side is what really got you through this.” I had to admit it – Laurie was right and I felt a pang of remorse for never following in dad’s footsteps.
As we talked, Laurie looked over my shoulder out the window. “There’s a male cardinal flitting around out there. I’ll bet you that’s Mr. C wondering where his lady is.” That’s when I remembered spotting the bright red cardinal earlier in the day.
After dinner we went back into the clinic; Lady C was resting comfortably. Georgia replaced the hot water bottle for a fresh one and on the way out I thought I heard a tap-tap-tapping sound by the window. When I turned to look, nothing was there.
Days went by and Lady C continued to heal beautifully. Her little chest wound was now unnoticeable, covered by new feathers, and her wing was in fine working order. During the whole of her convalescence, Mr. C could be seen in our trees, on our back deck and even on the windowsill looking into the clinic. He must have been the one tapping on the window weeks ago.
At last the time came to let Lady C go free. We removed her wrappings one last time and watched as she hopped around the inside of the shoe box which had been her home for the last few weeks. I reached for our little patient and Savannah stopped me. “Can I do it, please?” Of course, my answer was yes.
We brought Lady C outside and placed her on the wood railing around our deck. Slowly we backed away and in no time at all Mr. C came swooping in, landing next to his lady. They began chirping to each other and sweetly canoodling, completely oblivious of their audience. Then, as one, they flew off into the trees.
Time went by and every so often we’d see the cardinal couple flying around the yard and visiting our feeders. Then they disappeared, gone for a new life somewhere, happy together. A few months went by and then one morning, just as the weather was beginning to change, we heard a clatter of that distinct cardinal chirping. When we peeked outside the window, we saw Mr. & Lady C … and their fledgling twins.
Savannah turned to me, her eyes shining brightly. “Dad, I’ve made a decision. I want to go to veterinary school and follow in Grandpa’s footsteps.”
I hugged my daughter tightly. “Let’s call Grandpa; he’ll be so happy and proud to hear your news.”
I suddenly realized I was grinning like a kid, full of excitement. It was a great feeling.
Saying “Hello” is so much sweeter than saying “Goodbye”.
Hello to a new year, new beginnings, new friends and new memories to be made.
Goodbye to 2022; it was not a stellar year for many of us.
Change was in the forefront last year; changing our habits, our attitudes, our priorities is not easy but it is often good and usually necessary. I chose to make some difficult changes; I was indecisive and flip-flopped many times but ultimately got my act together and made the necessary adjustments in my life. I cut ties with a few people which, while being profoundly difficult, proved to be for the best. I will miss those people but I will not allow them to influence my life.
There were losses, especially one that will forever leave a void. That was the passing of a dear old friend, a tremendous shock and extreme sadness for everyone who knew him. Rest easy, Jean-Michel; there is no doubt in my mind that you are singing with the choir of angels.
Health issues were a concern for us again this year. Arthritis has found a nice home for itself in most of my joints; it’s not fun watching yourself slowing down and being unable to do the things that once came so easily. Through our communication, I discovered that many of you are enduring the same pain; it was eye-opening and humbling to hear of the great discomfort you’re experiencing. I’m doing whatever it takes to keep myself from turning into the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. If only WD40 worked on people! I have a fabulous physical therapist who has brought me out of the depths of pain before and is doing so again. Thank God for you and your magic hands, Dr. Wonda!
Good times and serendipitous events occurred as well during 2022. I made a lot of new friends on WordPress, had my work published several times and will be joining forces on an exciting project with one of my new friends who is now a very good friend. I’ve never had a writing ‘partner’ before so this new side venture should be interesting and fun. This is not in place of my website; I won’t stop writing stories and will never abandon my baby, The Elephant’s Trunk!
Over the years I have been blessed more times than I can count so there’s no point dwelling on the negatives and what-ifs. I thank God for my amazing Bill, our beautiful family and incredible in-laws. Truly dear friends are a rare commodity; I’m so very thankful for the few everlasting bonds of friendship that have been formed over the years. We came perilously close to losing a family member as recently as ten days ago. With a multitude of prayers and God guiding the doctor’s hands, she is now on the road to recovery. Marie, we love you and are so grateful to have you back with us. And soon you will get to see Colette again!
And now for you, my dear WordPress friends. Sincere thanks for reading my stories, my labors of love. I appreciate you, all your “likes” and comments, but most of all I delight in our camaraderie. We are a family of writers, poets, artists, cooks, musicians, comedians, deep thinkers and visionaries, all bringing joy and entertainment to others while living our own dreams, whether grand or modest. Thank you for allowing me into your world.
I wish you all a happy, safe, healthy, blessed and fulfilling year ahead. Take good care and be well always. And may all your wishes and dreams come true!
Born two days before Christmas in 2002 at the same time in the same hospital were two beautiful baby boys. Both had gossamer flaxen hair and skin the color of edelweiss. The nurses marveled at their incredible likeness, remarking in their sing-song Irish accents “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, would ya look at that! These babes could be twins!”
One baby was born to the king and queen of high society, Carlton and Evelyn Winslow of the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The couple were like bookends – fair skin, blond hair and hazel eyes. The Winslow’s luxurious penthouse was located across the street from Mercy Hospital. Evelyn was having tea with friends in her comfortable library at home when she suddenly went into labor.
The other baby was the illegitimate son of Rosa Guarinos, an impoverished cleaning lady from the slums of Harlem. Her complexion was creamy, hair golden brown and eyes of green like her ancestors from ancient Persia. Rosa was sweeping the floors of Ken’s Tailoring, the little shop in Harlem where she worked when her water broke. Her kindly boss Ken Siegel carefully escorted her to Mercy Hospital.
It was fate that brought these two women from such divergent stations in life to the same hospital on the same winter’s night. Hours later both women had given birth to sons.
Five days later on December 28th the new mothers were discharged from the hospital. Evelyn and Carlton Winslow brought Maxwell home to their posh apartment where his elaborately decorated nursery awaited him. A specially trained nanny took care of Maxwell’s every need while the waitstaff plumped Evelyn’s pillows and served her breakfast in bed.
Ken drove Rosa and her baby Victor home to her basement apartment in Harlem. He offered his help getting Rosa and Victor settled but she declined saying he had already done so much for them. There was a mattress on the floor in one corner of the basement on which Rosa dozed restlessly while her infant son slept in an old borrowed cradle. The bathroom consisted of a toilet bowl and a sink where Rosa washed herself with a sponge, shivering in the cold December night. She breastfed Victor and cooked simple meals for herself on a hotplate.
The identical babies grew into identical toddlers. The Winslows celebrated Maxwell’s first birthday with a spectacular party at Tavern on the Green attended by their many acquaintances. Rosa and Victor marked his first birthday with a simple cake shared by Ken and a handful of trusted friends.
Shortly after Victor’s birthday, Ken proposed marriage to Rosa; he had always been in love with her and Rosa knew he was a kind and decent man. She cared deeply for him and believed in time she would grow to love him. They got married and the family moved uptown where Ken had acquired a larger space and expanded his small tailoring shop into a successful men’s clothing store. Their lives improved significantly and they were very content.
The years went by; Maxwell and Victor were now teenagers, entirely unaware of the other’s existence. Though they lived just two miles apart, the large and busy city allowed them to lead separate lives. They attended different schools and their paths never crossed. They were both happy, well-adjusted boys with many friends yet sometimes they both felt an unusual void in their lives – something neither one could understand or easily dismiss.
One day between Christmas and the new year Carlton brought Maxwell to Ken Siegel’s shop to buy a new suit for his son’s 18th birthday.
“We’re closing early today, Mr. Winslow – it’s a family matter. I’m sorry but I must ask you to come back tomorrow” Ken stated nervously when Carlton and Maxwell entered the shop.
“Oh, come on, Ken. You always make time for me” replied Carlton in his usual condescending manner. “I brought my son Maxwell in for a suit for his birthday. Are you trying to get rid of us?”
“I’m sorry but I have something personal to attend to. I really must close now!” Ken insisted.
But it was too late for just then Victor and Rosa emerged from the back room; they were laughing happily and Rosa held a small cake with a single candle. When the two teenage boys came face to face, a silence fell over the shop. They stared at each other in a strange sort of amused bewilderment, unable to deny or explain their identical appearance.
Carlton gasped in shock when he saw Rosa and she became faint; they had not laid eyes on each other in a very long time. Ken rushed to Rosa’s side and whispered “I’m sorry, my darling. I tried to get rid of them.I never wanted him to see you or Victor. I failed you.”
Rosa reached up and tenderly caressed her husband’s face, now wet with tears. “Oh, my sweet husband. This day was inevitable and you are not to blame” Rosa replied softly.
Gathering all his courage, Ken stood up proudly and spoke directly to Carlton. “Mr. Winslow, as you know twenty years ago I ran a small tailoring shop in Harlem. Rosa worked as my assistant, sewing and ironing in that tiny shop … but you knew that because you came there often. Eventually I was able to acquire this lovely store and you became one of my regular customers. After Victor was born, I asked Rosa to marry me and we have been together for seventeen years. Mr. Winslow, Victor is my adopted son and he’s very precious to me. I love Victor and Rosa dearly; we are a family. But even someone as self-centered and obtuse as yourself would know at first glance that both Victor and Maxwell are your biological sons.”
Clearly stunned by this information, Carlton stammered “Rosa, why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”
“Because you were married and your wife was also pregnant. You would never have supported us or accepted us as your family” Rosa cried.
“But you deprived me of a son and Victor of a father! I could have provided for him.” Carlton argued.
Ken loudly slammed his hand against the front desk, startling everyone. “Victor is MY son. I am the one who lovingly and happily provided for him and Rosa!” he shouted. “You would never have done so even if you knew about Victor. You and your kind are selfish and spineless; you have money but you have no respect or dignity. Now, I must insist that you leave and never bother us again!”
“Victor” Carlton said haltingly, “I didn’t know. You have to believe I would have done the right thing by you and your mother. You’re a bright boy; surely you can see that.”
Victor simply stared impassively at Carlton, the father he never knew, and said nothing. Finally, when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm. “Mr. Winslow, you know nothing about me. Please do not dare to insinuate yourself into my life or the lives of my parents.”
Victor’s words stung and Carlton was taken aback. “Maxwell” he said angrily. “It’s best we leave here, son. Let’s go home. Now!”
“No, father. After all I just heard, there’s no way I’m leaving now. You can turn your back and walk away but I can’t” Maxwell replied. “I just found a missing piece of my life. I’m going to stay and get to know my brother, if that’s ok with Mr. and Mrs. Siegel.“
Rosa and Ken looked at each other and nodded in agreement. “You’re always welcome here, Maxwell” said Ken.
Carlton was furious but he made no attempt to reach out to his sons. Instead, he angrily left the store and began walking home, wondering how he would explain this to Evelyn. It wasn’t going to be easy but he’d figure something out. He always did.
It wasn’t often that we received a package from Sicily, so when one arrived that Tuesday afternoon between Christmas and the new year of 1964, we were all very excited.
The family sat around the kitchen table as my mother painstakingly opened the brown paper, being careful not to tear the stamps which my father would place into one of his leather-bound albums. Finally the outer wrapping was removed, revealing a plain white box. My mother slid the cover off the box to find a card sitting atop pillows of tissue paper. Prolonging the excitement, she read the card silently to herself, then aloud, translating into English:
“Dearest Concetta. We noticed how much you admired this while you were here on vacation. You left without buying it so here it is as a memento of your time spent with us. We hope you enjoy it as much now as you did then. With love – Cousins Paolo and Enza.”
Slowly, carefully, Mom removed the tissue to reveal the most beautiful music box I had ever seen. It was a miniature violin, made of highly lacquered ebony with mother of pearl inlay. We all sat in wonder as my mother gently wound the music box, then placed it on the table as an ancient Sicilian folk song began to play. It was wondrous and I immediately fell in love.
Cradling it tenderly in her hands, my mother moved the violin into the living room and placed it on the marble coffee table where it became the glistening centerpiece of the room.
Several times each day I would wind up the music box to listen to the hauntingly beautiful tune. I never tired of the glorious melody and treated the violin like a treasure, always careful not to over-wind it. I listened, mesmerized, as the music slowed down and the final note was played. It was my delight for many years and I imagined it being mine one day.
Decades later when my mom passed away, a few of her cherished items were placed in her coffin and buried with her … a small tin of pink sand from Bermuda where she and Dad honeymooned, a little toy horse which belonged to her precious firstborn who passed away at the age of two and, unbeknown to me, the magical violin music box.
I grieved the passing of my beloved mother. I mourned the loss of that treasured music box … the first, last and only violin I would ever have. But now, during the lull between Christmas and New Year’s Day, I remember that Tuesday in 1964 when that violin entered our lives … and I smile.
Grandma Lila and I always had a closeness few people get to experience in their lives.
My mother Zoey learned she was pregnant with me when she was 14 years old – too young to drive and too old to play with dolls. The boy she said was the father did what any teenager would do in that situation; he denied everything and bailed on her.
Abortion was not open for discussion. Grandma Lila told my mother in no uncertain terms that getting pregnant was irresponsible but ending a baby’s life was unforgivable. As far as Grandma was concerned Zoey had two choices: she could stay home and help earn money by doing work with her – sewing pearls and little bows on ladies panties – or go back to school until it was time for her baby to be born. She’d rather die than be seen in her condition so Zoey opted to say home with Grandma.
Even though it was the lesser of two evils, as far as my mother was concerned staying home was like being in prison. She and Grandma Lila sewed for hours while watching soap operas, cleaned the house and cooked meals. Zoey didn’t go out and never saw her friends. She got bigger and more uncomfortable with each passing month and couldn’t wait for the pregnancy to be over. Finally on a chilly November morning just before Thanksgiving Zoey’s water broke and Grandma Lila brought her to the hospital. Zoey was in labor for almost two days when the doctor finally decided to do a C-section. Then the unthinkable happened: there were “complications” and my mother bled out. She died in the delivery room.
Grandma Lila was devastated at the loss of her only child. My mother never had the chance to see me, hold me or delight in that new baby scent. When I was placed in my Grandma’s arms, she swore to protect me for the rest of her days. She took me home and held me tight as she settled in her rocking chair, her soft woolen shawl draped over us both. That’s where our bond began, wrapped in a shawl delicately fragranced by the hint of gardenias from Grandma Lila’s perfume, Evening in Paris.
From day one Grandma Lila was my champion. It was she who fed and bathed me, watched me take my first steps and sat up with me all night when I had scarlet fever. We baked cookies, played in the backyard sprinkler and laughed together watching I Love Lucy. Grandma put me on the school bus in the morning and greeted me every afternoon when I got home. She took me to piano lessons, Girl Scouts and soccer practice. Grandma was there for every concert, spelling bee and sports event. As I got older she sweetly explained the “birds and bees”, careful to answer only the questions I asked and not overwhelm me with too much information.
When I started dating, Grandma Lila would give me a little wink if she approved of the boy or a rub of her nose if she didn’t but she never interfered. Then I met Steve and she told me he was “a real keeper”. Steve asked for Grandma’s blessing before he proposed to me and she walked me down the aisle on my wedding day. And she was the first to hold our daughter Jenna just hours after she was born.
Months turned into years and Grandma Lila started spending more time in her rocking chair wrapped in her beloved woolen shawl and looking out the window. She was old and frail now but the thought of putting her in a nursing home never crossed our minds. Steve and I took care of her until the very end, just as she took care of me for so many years. I began wrapping Grandma’s shawl around my shoulders as I sat on the sofa watching TV; it brought me comfort and sweet memories of my life with her.
It was right after Thanksgiving, just a few months after Grandma passed away, when I returned home from shopping and was struck by the familiar fragrance of gardenias wafting through the house. Maybe Steve surprised me with flowers but gardenias blossomed in spring and summer, not late fall. As I walked by the living room I saw Grandma’s shawl wasn’t on the sofa where I left it; I found it draped over her old rocking chair and neither Steve nor Jenna had moved it. I picked up the shawl and held it to my face, inhaling the fresh scent of Evening in Paris. Tears filled my eyes; I knew that Grandma Lila had visited us that day. I miss her so very much.
The family watching the NY Boulders in Pamona, NY 7/3/2022
Thank God for the United States of America! I love my country and even though I may not always agree with whoever happens to be in office at any particular time, it’s still the greatest country in the world.
But as much as I love the good old USA, it can’t compare to the love I have for my family. You already know Colette; here are my other grands – Mckenna, Lucan and Wyatt, with my son Bill and daughter-in-law Dawn. Along with 2 cats named Lemon & Lime and Lady, a St. Bernard, they are the epitome of the all-American hard-working, churchgoing, well-adjusted, happy and loving family. We’re blessed to live only 15 minutes away but still don’t see them nearly enough. They’re young and busy; we’re old and tired! There’s no keeping up with this crew!
Let’s start with 13-year-old Mckenna, my blue-haired prolific author and voracious reader. It’s been my honor to feature her here on my site as a guest writer; please check out her work. Mckenna is your typical teenager with a zillion friends running from one activity to another. She was a Girl Scout and heavily involved in taekwondo. She has taken lessons in cello, clarinet and saxophone, does fencing, swimming, dramatics, sports and is a big WWE fan. I’m proud to say she’s also on the honor roll. Besides being beautiful and funny, she’s adventurous, bold, daring and quite dramatic. She’s a really good “kid” and will be successful in anything she chooses to do.
Lucan. What can I say about Lucan? He’s our joke-telling, Pokemon-collecting, dinosaur-loving 11-year-old gamer with a shock of blonde hair and big blue eyes that can (and have) gotten him out of a few scrapes. That said, he’s also the class clown and will most likely be the first one to come home from school with a black eye (and I mean that in the most loving and lighthearted way possible). He’s the one who decided years ago he wanted a buzz-cut on one side of his head and long hair on the other – and the look suits him perfectly. Luc could be a model and I see him in that iconic Norman Rockwell painting of the boy in a baseball uniform. He plays trumpet and does all sorts of sports, did taekwondo for years and is a good student. He may be skinny as a bean pole but you know when Lucan is in the house!
Wyatt is our 9-year-old charmer with rich brown hair, sparkling eyes, a devilish smile and sweet personality. A few years after his brother got his personalized haircut, Wy followed suit and now has the same look. Like his sister and brother, Wyatt studied taekwondo for a long time, loves watching WWE wrestling, collecting Pokemon cards and playing video games. Wyatt is also a big NY Rangers fan, like his Grampy. Wy is currently taking guitar lessons and devouring books. He’s always loved LEGOs, cars and trucks ever since he was a little Wy Guy and enjoys going to monster truck rallies. Along with Lucan, he’s in the Boy Scouts and loves going on overnight camping trips with Dad and the boys in his troop. A bit subdued and shy, Wyatt has a delightful personality and good sense of humor. He may be quiet but when push comes to shove, Wyatt can be a little bulldog!
I love these kids so much! They get in trouble sometimes with their parents like all kids but they’re good kids, good students, love to read, do what they’re told (eventually lol) and help out at home. And after living through COVID they have learned to be a little more patient, accepting and to roll with the punches. Being separated from family and friends and having to do remote schooling for so long took a toll on them but they’re resilient.
That doesn’t just happen; they have two great parents who cherish them, provide for them, talk to them and educate them.
Bill is a teleprompter who has worked with everyone from Paul McCartney to Big Bird. Fortunately he didn’t miss much work during COVID and is probably the most tested person I know! Dawn is a pediatric nurse and office manager of the medical company where she works. She didn’t miss a day of work during COVID, sitting in front of her computer for 12-15 hours every day locating medicine, equipment, masks, dealing with patients, conducting Zoom meetings, brainstorming with fellow nurses and doctors, hiring new personnel and opening remote offices in every state in the US. Just like all people in the medical profession, her job is vital and sadly under-appreciated.
Dawn is without a doubt one of the best moms I know. She’s like the Energizer Bunny who just keeps going no matter what. Family comes first. Period. Many times Bill has to work on holidays or well into the night. Dawn always makes sure the kids have something to do or somewhere to go to keep them happy and occupied. She plans wonderful get-aways like whale watching in Maine, visiting Niagara Falls, hiking in Bear Mountain or day trips walking on the beach, fishing on Grampy’s boat or going to see the local NY Boulders baseball team.
I don’t know – call it luck or whatever name you can think of but we’ve been blessed with a loving and happy family. Thank you, God, for all your many blessings.
Rosa Scalia was born in 1896 in the tiny Sicilian village of Cattolica Eraclea in the Province of Agrigento. The village, which was founded in medieval times, is situated in the valley of the Plàtani River, a 64-mile-long natural thing of beauty which feeds into the Mediterranean Sea.
Surrounded by high chalky mountains, the valley has a bountiful production of grapes, olives, almonds, pistachios, honey, citrus plantations as well as cattle breeding and sheep farming.
These ancient mountains with their numerous caves and tunnels are fortresses and castles for young boys at play, secret rendezvous destinations for lovers and even hideouts for bandits and highwaymen.
When the almond trees blossom in Sicily, it is a glorious sight. Throughout February the trees dotting the cool green hills are bedecked in lacy blossoms. Almonds are ready for harvesting between the end of July and the beginning of September.
This was the happiest time of year for Rosa. Every morning during the summer it was the 14-year-old girl’s job to walk by the chalky mountains to harvest almonds. Her supplies consisted of two huge baskets, a long-handled broom and a sheet. The Sicilian sun was strong so to keep cool during her day of hard work Rosa would wear sandals, a long cotton skirt, a thin white peasant blouse and a straw hat concealing her lustrous raven curls. Tied around her waist was a sack with her lunch – fruit, cheese and a water skin.
Thanks to their protective shells, harvesting almonds was not difficult but it did require hours of manual activity. Rosa would begin by spreading her sheet under the almond tree, then shake the branches of the tree by hitting them with the broom until the almonds fell onto the sheet. She would then pour the contents of the sheet into her baskets, moving from one tree to the next until the baskets were full.
Before beginning her laborious walk back to her village, Rosa would grab the back hem of her long skirt, pull it forward between her legs and tuck it into the front waistband transforming the skirt into knee-length pantaloons. Rosa would then shake the debris off the sheet, fold it into a thick ‘scarf’ and drape it over her neck and shoulders to act as a cushion for her delicate skin. Hanging one full basket on each end of the broom handle, she would carefully balance it across her shoulders, grasping the pole firmly with her hands on both sides of her neck.
Rosa walked deliberately, her sylphlike hips swaying with each step. Her sheer blouse became translucent as beads of sweat trickled down her neck, chest and back. On the tender cusp of womanhood, Rosa was unaware of how desirable she could look at times. She continued her journey, peaceful and content with another day’s work.
However, this day was different for unknown danger lurked inside the caves of the mountains as Rosa innocently walked by.
In need of a rest, Rosa paused in the shade of a sprawling olive tree and carefully lowered the heavy baskets to the ground. Before she knew what was happening, two ruffians emerged from a nearby cave, whistling and taunting as they encircled her. One pinned her arms behind her back while the other tore at her paper-thin blouse revealing her developing breasts. Her hat was tossed to the ground and long black hair cascaded around her lovely face. The men were encouraged by Rosa’s beauty and grinned lasciviously at her naked and writhing torso as she fought their advances.
One wretch roughly groped Rosa’s breasts while the other who held her arms behind her back reached around to cover her mouth, but Rosa was able to let out a loud scream. Her cry ricocheted off the mountains and echoed loudly, powerful enough to reach the ears of a young man returning home to Cattolica Eraclea with his flock of sheep. His name was Francesco Schembre.
Well acquainted with the area, Francesco knew the shriek was not far away. He commanded his sheepdog Dante to hunt down the source of the scream while he followed as quickly as possible. A second dog, Rico, helped to keep the sheep moving along. Francesco reached for the shotgun which he always carried over his shoulder in case of a wolf attack so he was well prepared for whatever awaited him.
Meanwhile, Rosa was struggling for her life. She grew weaker by the minute and one attacker pinned her to the ground while the other dropped his pants. Just then the man’s eyes bulged in his head and he screamed in agony as Dante sunk his fangs into the would-be rapist’s dangling testicles and would not let go.
Francesco fired his gun once into the air and Dante released his clench. Both men quickly unhanded Rosa and began scrambling down the path, however they were no match for Dante and Rico. The fearless dogs jumped on the men’s backs and knocked them to the ground.
Francesco tied the attacker’s together and pulled their pants down around their ankles as the growling dogs stood by, teeth bared. Francesco commanded his faithful dogs to stand their guard. He then ran to Rosa who by this time had regained her wits. The feisty young woman had wrapped the sheet around her exposed chest and tucked it securely into her skirt. Francesco and Rosa walked back to the men who were still cowering in fear of the dogs, their shaking hands protecting their precious private parts.
The two men were still tied together as Francesco adjusted their pants around their waists. He demanded both men to pick up a heavy basket of almonds and start walking – no easy task. Francesco kept his shotgun aimed at them while Dante and Rico herded the sheep.
They were quite a sight as they walked into the village; Francesco quickly explained what happened although it was obvious to everyone. Rosa’s mother ran to her and embraced her, tearfully kissing her face while her father thanked Francesco profusely for protecting his daughter. The highwaymen were quickly taken into custody before the villagers could turn on them.
In the months that followed, Francesco and Rosa’s relationship blossomed and they fell in love. They were married one year later and began a family. The young couple had five children – one daughter and four sons. One of their sons, Vito, would eventually become my father.
Francesco and Rosa Schembre were my grandparents and this is the story of how our family started long ago and far away in the village of Cattolica Eraclea.
Written in memory of my grandparents, parents and many relatives, some gone a long time and others recently departed. May they rest in peace.
My beautiful granddaughter, just one month from her 13th birthday, discovered the blues and turned into a rock star with a brave new attitude – and I couldn’t love her more for it! Truth be told, she always had confidence and bravado; now she’s just braver and newer with a whole lot more attitude. She is the epitome of cool.
Mckenna made a bold move, something many of us would vacillate over for weeks on end. Why, it takes me forever to decide whether I want fries with that or not! She’s in middle school now – that’s big league! She was ready to take on the challenge. She’s been ready for this change for a while now and Mom at last gave the thumbs up. (Kudos to Mom for holding out as long as she did.)
This kid. My first grandchild. My first baby’s first baby – quite a mind-blowing concept, isn’t it? I’ve said this many times: “You think you can never love anyone or anything more than your children … until you have grandchildren”. Those of you who are grandparents know what I mean; if you’re not, I hope you get to experience that relationship sometime in your life.
Every grandparent thinks their grandchildren are the best things since the potato peeler. I’ve never heard any friend of mine say “My grand kids are real pains in the butt and I wish they’d just leave me the hell alone!” Well, think about the long lonely months just a couple of years ago when we could only see our grandchildren through the front windows of their houses because of a little thing called COVID. We’d make signs proclaiming our love, drop off groceries or birthday presents and blow kisses. Mckenna went through a rough time back then; most kids did. What the children must have been thinking! My daughter-in law is a fantastic pediatric nurse and a great Mom; she had a handle on things and knew how to explain to the kids what was going on but they still worried. Seeing us whenever we could drop by was one thing; not being with us was quite another and kids have huge imaginations. The first time we were allowed to be physically together, Mckenna hugged me for close to ten minutes and wouldn’t let go. And I didn’t want her to let go.
Mckenna will always hold a special place in my heart, not just because she’s my first grandchild but because she’s a fabulous person. When she was an infant her Mom would drop her off at our house so we could babysit. Mom always said “Please don’t let her nap on you; put her in her crib.” I nodded and proceeded to let Mckenna nap on my shoulder, sometimes up to three hours. That was a real bonding experience for me and Mckenna. Don’t tell Mom; that’s our little secret.
Mckenna’s a great student, active in a variety of sports, plays several musical instruments, is in drama club and probably tons of other stuff this aging brain of mine cannot remember. She has lots of friends and loves to read and write stories (Check out her guest posts here on my site; one of her stories got more ‘likes’ in one day than any of mine! That’s my girl!). She loves music, Harry Potter, WWE Wrestling, nail polish, Junior Mints and jewelry but is not beyond getting on the floor with her younger brothers and playing with their huge LEGO collection. You know, all teen girl stuff.
And speaking of her brothers, she loves them, too, but there are those days when all they have to do is breathe a bit too loudly and she turns on them like a she-wolf. You know, all teen girl stuff.
What can I say other than I love this kid – excuse me, this young lady. I hope I can be just like her when I grow up!
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 don’t 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 ‘bagel holes’.
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 hadn’t 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 don’t know if it was a thunderclap or some other force of nature but when her eyes met my dad’s, the shop’s 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 – 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 dad’s 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. She’d smile and wave back, her gaze lingering on my father’s 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.
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 – 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 – 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 – a mind-blowing concept – 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.
I freely admit I enjoy a good nap The ones that overtake me so easily Slip-sliding away in Morpheus’ lap Asleep like a babe oh so peacefully
Sometimes I feel my eyes closing I’m aware of the droop of my chin There’s no harm in a wee bit of dozing It’s 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 didn’t 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 everything’s blissful and sure
I’d nod off in math class when I was a teen Something that’s frowned on in school I’d 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 I’d 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? They’re out and their curfew has past
The kids are no more, they’re all fully grown And you’re proud that you did your best They’re happily married with kids of their own And you think now it’s your time to rest
Sorry but it really doesn’t work that way You’ve 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
It’s 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 you’ve done the best job you could do
It was 7:00 AM when Jason Peterson’s cell rang. Reaching for the phone he saw the call was from Dr. Philip Zane. Jason froze. How long had it been since he last heard from Dr. Zane – twelve, possibly thirteen years? He hoped never to hear from him again. With great reluctance he answered the call.
“Dr. Zane. It’s been a long time. I assume there’s been a development.” Jason said with a strange combination of indifference and dread.
“Yes, Jason. Your father is showing signs of coming out of his coma. Considering the circumstances, I thought you’d want to be here when he wakes up” was the doctor’s response.
The only news Jason wanted to hear was that his father was finally dead. But no! The bastard refused to give up without a fight, damn him! Calming himself, Jason said “Thank you for the update, doctor. Please let me know when my father is fully conscious. ‘Considering the circumstances’ as you said, I want to be the first person to see my father when he‘s conscious. I’m sure you understand. Goodbye.”
Gregory Peterson had been in a coma ever since Jason bashed in his head that night of unspeakable horror in the Peterson house.
Jason was only fifteen when he called the police in a state of panic screaming out for help. His family was dead, butchered by his father, Gregory. When the police arrived at the house, they discovered four people savagely murdered, an unconscious man crumpled on the floor and Jason locked in the basement. The victims were taken to the morgue, the injured man transported to a high security hospital and Jason brought down to the police station.
The detectives sat in stunned silence as Jason described the events of that night:
“I was at Mike and Dan Kelly’s house smoking weed. Mike and Dan got really stoned and passed out around 1:00 so I left. When I got home I found everybody dead. My grandma and little brother Jake were tied to chairs. They’d both been shot in the head. My mom and sister Janice were on the sofa. They were naked and beaten so bad I could barely recognize them. They’d been raped, too. My dad just stood in the middle of the room, staring straight ahead like a crazed animal. He was clutching a huge bloody wrench.
Then he saw me and snapped to life. He came at me like a wild man swinging that wrench. All I could do was run, try to get out of his way. I stumbled and fell on top of Janice. Her blood was all over me and I scrambled away as fast as I could. I saw the gun on the floor and dove for it. I pointed it at my dad but it jammed. I threw the gun at him and he lunged at me but the wrench slipped out of his hands. I grabbed it and swung at him. He was gonna kill me, too, just like he killed all of them. I had to do something to protect myself so I bashed him over the head. I hit him pretty hard and he went down. I dropped the wrench and ran to the basement. I locked myself in and called 911. It was horrible, a nightmare. How could he do something so awful?”
And he broke down, sobbing.
After checking out Jason’s story with the Kellys, the police saw no reason to detain him. The dead were buried, Jason moved in with relatives and Gregory languished in a coma. The years went by.
Three days after the call from Dr. Zane, Jason heard from him again. Gregory was conscious and speaking but repeating only one word: “Jason”.
It was evening at the hospital, that twilight time when patients sleep and hospital staff chat quietly. A bored policeman sat outside Gregory’s room, dozing. He checked Jason’s visitor’s pass, did a cursory pat-down and told him he could go in. Gregory was asleep, neatly tucked in and handcuffed to the bed rails. In the dim light he looked old and frail. Jason flipped the switch flooding the room with light.
Abruptly awakened, Gregory mumbled his disapproval. Approaching the bed Jason could see the apprehension in his father’s eyes as he focused on his son’s sneering face.
Bending close so that their faces were just inches apart, Jason whispered menacingly “I wish you died that night, old man, just like everyone else.I should have finished you off. That was sloppy of me. Think how much easier if would have been without having this to deal with all these years. Well, we can’t have you spilling the beans now, can we?” Jason removed his cell phone from his pocket, the same one he used to call the police that grisly night. Smugly he thought how stupid the police were not asking to see his phone. It was laughable but then again his performance down at the station was magnificent. By the time he was finished every cop wanted to hug him and make all the terrifying images go away. Smugly he showed his father one selfie after the other; each one was of Jason standing over the bodies of his family, his victims. The final images were graphic videos of Jason raping his mother and sister. Too bad their mouths were taped shut; he would have love to have heard their screams.
With each photo Jason grinned as Gregory became more and more agitated, his breathing labored and his eyes bugging as his face turned crimson. He opened his mouth to cry out but only silence filled the room.
“What a shame to remove such works of art” Jason said as he deliberately deleted each photo, unfazed by the fact that Gregory was in extreme distress. He smiled coldly as his father died before his eyes. If only he could have bashed in his head just one more time.
Slipping into character, Jason strolled to the door of his father’s room and flung it open, screaming out for help.
Quick. When was the last time in the past 16 months you felt truly happy, safe from the perils all around, free to travel, visit your family or even simply take a walk?
Oh, there were happy days but they were few and fleeting. For me and my husband it was the day our grandchild was born. I remember anxiously arriving at White Plains Hospital to meet our precious granddaughter. She, an innocent, peaceful, beautiful little soul completely dependent on family for every aspect of her life. We saw her exactly twice in the hospital before she was whisked away to the safety of her loving home. That was February 2020, just as COVID hit, and we didn’t see her again until May. We were among the lucky ones; in light of what was about to unfold, three months was nothing.
Think back to the time you brought your first baby home. Many of us had the wise and caring help of our parents to guide us and pitch in when we needed encouragement or just a break. We had friends to run to the store for formula or diapers, family to help cook meals and do the laundry.
Now imagine as first-time parents bringing your baby home and you are stricken with an unknown and dangerous virus. That’s what happened to our son and his wife. They couldn’t believe what was happening to them but being a doctor herself, our daughter-in-law had to face reality; they obviously contracted COVID while she was in the hospital. She broke out in a cold, damp sweat fearing the worst, praying for the best. New parents, both sick with what was now categorized as a pandemic; could anything be more horrifying? Would they be ok? Would the baby be ok? Would they survive when so many around them were dying?
Thankfully they had mild cases of this scourge that raged like wildfire from north to south and east to west. They managed to get by while masked family members delivered bags of groceries and supplies, rang the bell and left. Our son would hold the baby up to the window as we waved and blew kisses, mouthing the words “I love you“. We would make the slow walk back to our car and cry – heartbroken that we couldn’t be with them yet thankful that – so far – we were all well. We all found ourselves praying more than ever before. Our son and his wife made it through the most terrifying period of their lives. They regained their health, the baby thrived and their faith was strengthened.
Finally that day in May arrived when we all agreed that our isolationist lifestyle and carefulness allowed us to visit our granddaughter. We were overcome with joy and thankfulness. There were more than a few tears shed that day.
As time went by how many people lost their businesses, homes, jobs, loved ones or their own lives? And through all this I am constantly reminded that there is a higher being protecting us. If we lose sight of that, we lose everything.
Our healthy son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter
One of the first things I noticed about the house across the street was the candle in an upstairs window.
It was December 1980 – two weeks before Christmas – and we had just moved into our new home. My mom quickly located the boxes marked ‘CHRISTMAS LIGHTS’ and put my dad to work decorating outside. When he was done every house on the street was aglow except for the one with the solitary candle.
I was fascinated by that candle; it was lit twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. When I told my dad I was afraid the house would burn down, he assured me that the candle was either electric or battery-operated; the ‘flame’ didn’t flicker and the candle never melted. That made me feel a lot better.
About a week later there was a knock on our front door. Mom answered and I scurried along behind her, anxious to see who was visiting us for the first time. Standing on the front porch was a chubby little old lady with silver hair, twinkling eyes and rosy cheeks and I couldn’t resist blurting out “Are you Mrs. Claus?” She chuckled a bit saying no, she was Mrs. Granger from across the street and had come to bring us an angel food cake as a welcoming gift. Mom introduced herself and invited Mrs. Granger inside but she declined saying “perhaps another time”. Before she left I told her my name was Eleanor and I had just turned ten on December 1. She smiled slightly at us but there was sadness in her eyes.
Mrs. Granger’s angel food cake sat on one of her beautiful Spode Christmas plates. Mom said we should return the plate on Christmas Day brimming with sugar cookies, which is exactly what we did. We rang the bell and mom apologized for showing up unannounced, adding that she hoped we weren’t interrupting her Christmas festivities.
“No, dear. Not at all. I was just preparing myself one of those frozen TV dinners – turkey, for a special treat.” Mom made polite small talk while I glanced around the living room. There wasn’t a single Christmas decoration in sight, not even a card. A fading ember in the fireplace made me think that Mrs. Granger was probably very lonely.
I suddenly found myself asking the question: “Mrs. Granger, why is there a candle in the window upstairs?”
Mom gave me a withering look as Mrs. Granger slowly walked to the sofa and slumped down. I felt awful when she started crying, dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. Mom sat next to her and held her hand, not speaking.
In hushed tones Mrs. Granger told us her story: she married late in life and was blessed with a son, Edward. Her husband died in an accident when Edward was three years old and she raised the boy by herself. When the U.S. entered the Vietnam War, Edward enlisted; he was declared MIA on December 1, 1970 and she hadn’t heard a word in the ten years since then. The candle in the window was her way of holding vigil for Edward, steadfastly waiting for any news. We sat together for a few minutes, then Mrs. Granger politely said she wanted to be alone. Silently we left. It was then that I understood why she looked so sad when I told her my birthday – the dreadful day her son went missing.
Two days later mom returned to Mrs. Granger’s. She apologized for the intrusion on Christmas Day and said we hoped she would join us for New Year’s Day dinner. Mrs. Granger said gently “No, dear. I haven’t celebrated a new year since Edward disappeared.”
All week I thought about Mrs. Granger. Our New Year’s Day table was set for three, sparkling with mom’s best dishes, silverware and crystal glasses. I sat in the bay window watching the lightly falling snow; then I noticed the candle in the window of Mrs. Granger’s house was not lit.
“Mom!” I gasped. “The candle is out.”
Mom, dad and I walked across the street on leaden feet. Mom rapped softly on the door; we could see a dim glow coming from the fireplace. One more knock and the door opened slightly; Mrs. Granger appeared, her face wet with tears.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Granger?” mom inquired with obvious concern in her voice.
“Oh, my dear! My mind has been preoccupied all day” she replied, her voice trembling. “You see, I received some news today.”
Mrs. Granger turned and walked back inside, leaving the door ajar; apprehensively we followed her. By the fireplace stood a smiling soldier; her long-lost son Edward had finally returned home.
Attribution of my fear to all things nautical haunted me for years. The cause of this anxiety seemed so near – that feeling you get when a word is on the tip of your tongue but the answer is just out of reach. I finally solved the puzzle quite by accident one day while in an elevator. The song “Tara’s Theme” from “Gone With the Wind” was playing and suddenly the floodgates opened and so many memories came rushing back to me.
When I was a child my family enjoyed watching a television show called “Million Dollar Movie”; the music I heard in the elevator happened to be the theme for that show! The format was to feature popular movies which would run for an entire week, airing twice nightly; after one week a new movie would be shown. For some reason many of the films were scary and rather traumatizing for an impressionable ten year old.
One of the first movies I recall was “Creature From the Black Lagoon”, a dark tale of a strange prehistoric beast that lurked in the depths of the Amazonian jungle. I would scream and huddle close to my father every time the creature appeared on the screen.
Then there was “Journey to the Center of the Earth” about a deranged professor/explorer who led his intrepid party on an expedition in search of the mythical buried city of Atlantis. It was rife with monsters, evil sorcerers and dangerous crystalline mines. I would have nightmares about being trapped under water in one of those mines; I’d wake up in a cold sweat yet I couldn’t resist watching the movie whenever it was shown.
An annual family favorite was “The Ten Commandments” – a cinematic masterpiece by Cecil B. DeMille. As a kid I loved Bible movies! Moses and the Israelites were fleeing Egypt with Rameses and the Egyptian charioteers hot on their heels. Upon reaching the Red Sea, Moses raised his arms and commanded the waters to part, leaving a clear dry path for the Israelites. Taking advantage of the opening, Rameses ordered his troops to continue their pursuit. Suddenly the waters began to churn and roil. Waves as tall as mountains came crashing down on the Egyptian soldiers, swallowing them up like children’s toys. While it was unquestionably one of the most spectacular special effects of all time, the only thing I could think about was how terrifying it must be to find oneself drowning, knowing that death was inevitable and imminent.
Water and all its dangers played a major role in most of the movies that caused me great anxiety. I never had a close encounter with drowning so I just chalked it up to an inexplicable phobia; somehow coming to that realization eased my mind. Years later when my parents invited the family on a cruise to the Bahamas, I admit to having some trepidation but it was our first cruise and my parents were very excited.
Our ship was enormous – the equivalent of a floating resort. Everything we could possibly want or need was available to us from bowling to casinos to Broadway musicals. It was perfect – until we ran into stormy weather which forced everyone inside. I was feeling rather uneasy so I decided to stay in my cabin and relax. Turning on the tv I settled in to watch the movie of the night which happened to be “TITANIC”!! Are you kidding me?! What programming idiot thought that was a good choice?? I spent the last two days of the cruise in my cabin!
That cruise experience pushed me over the H2O edge and I didn’t go anywhere near the water for a while. Who could blame me? That didn’t last long, though; being a true Pisces, I can’t stay on dry land for too long. I’d be like a fish out of water!
When I was a toddler my family moved to City Island, a little place in the Bronx, New York. And when I say little, I’m not kidding – 1.5 miles long by 0.5 miles wide. There was one main street and the houses were on the narrow side streets, each with a small beach at the end. Just about every day we would play for hours on the beach at the end of our street. As far as I’m concerned there was no better place for a kid to grow up.
My Granddad “Pops” was a retired commercial fisherman and he taught us the ropes. We learned how to tie knots, cut bait, fillet a fish and just about everything there was to know about boats. Every weekend we’d row over to Sullivan’s Marina where Pops’ fishing boat “Sea Devil” was docked and spend the day fishing … mostly. I can still remember him scolding us when we dawdled: “Hey, you clowns! Fish or cut bait!”
When we were first learning how to cast our rods there wasn’t a single time that Pops didn’t get stuck by an errant hook. Our collection of his favorite curse words grew on a weekly basis. So many memories of days on the “Devil” like the time my brother sliced off the tip of his finger while cutting bait or when the anchor chain snapped and we drifted until someone gave us a tow.
But nothing compared to that Saturday in April. The sun was blazing and it was extremely hot for a Spring morning. My Dad had the rare Saturday off because it was Easter weekend so he joined us. It was me, my two brothers, Dad and Pops crammed into a rowboat headed for Sea Devil.
I don’t know if it was the heat or the dormancy of the day but the fish weren’t biting. We were sweating bullets and out of bait. That’s when Pops noticed the dark clouds in the distance and figured we better just count our losses and head home.
We climbed into the rowboat, Dad and Pops manning the oars. The sun was obscured by clouds and there was an eerie stillness around us. We heard roars of thunder and Pops and Dad rowed faster. We heard it before we saw it … pouring rain, strong winds and swelling waves. They rowed like madmen but not fast enough. Suddenly we were engulfed in a raging storm and a giant wave crashed into us, picked up the rowboat and flung us into the water.
The fast-moving rains headed toward shore and the waves quickly subsided. By some miracle we were all alive and the boat was floating upside down. Pops and Dad scooped us up in their arms and swam to the boat. Uprighting it was impossible so they dove under it to find that precious pocket of air.
“Hold onto the seats, boys, and keep your heads above water. Dad and I are going back out and we’ll push this boat to shore” instructed Pops. We clung to the seats for dear life while Pops and Dad struggled with the boat. After what seemed like an eternity they felt the sand beneath their feet and the air pocket became bigger. Eventually we also felt the sand beneath our feet and we all carried the boat to shore … to safety.
That was almost 65 years ago and I’ve never forgotten that day though it didn’t stop me from going back out to sea. I have a boat and love fishing. And every time I’m cutting bait I’m thinking of Pops.
Newly married financier Alexander Eaton and his wife Margaret had recently moved into their lavish estate in the Beacon Hill section of Boston. As was the Eaton family tradition, Alexander’s father Samuel presented the young couple with what had become a treasured family heirloom – an impressive painting of the ship The Mayflower. The painting had been in the family for generations and had been authenticated as an original oil on canvas created in 1630 by Sarah Eaton, Samuel’s ancestor and a passenger aboard The Mayflower. The painting itself was magnificent but it was the impressive ebony frame with 24 carat gold stenciled details that was the pièce de résistance.
Alexander and Margaret proudly displayed the painting above the marble fireplace in the grand ballroom of their mansion. It was the focal point of every soirée held at Eaton Manor, especially during the festive Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons and at the debutante ball of Alexander and Margaret’s only child Constance. Alexander imagined hosting a grand fete when Constance graduated from Harvard – another Eaton Family tradition – but that was still a few years away.
Alexander was furious when Constance chose to attend Boston College over Harvard. While there she caught the eye of Tom Stewart, a nice guy from a middle class family but Tom kept his distance thinking Constance was a spoiled rich girl. Constance proved Tom wrong when she asked him out for coffee and surprised him when she said he should call her Connie instead of “that pretentious-sounding Constance”.
Tom and Connie fell in love, became teachers and got married. The idealistic young couple were determined to make it on their own and refused any money from her parents. Connie’s father angrily renounced her but her mother insisted The Mayflower tradition be continued and passed the painting on to the couple. Tom and Connie reluctantly accepted and chose to hang it on the rear wall of the den where it wasn’t quite so obvious. Connie knew they really didn’t need the extravagant painting and all it was worth; she had been secretly saving money every month for whatever unforeseen circumstance might come their way. Their rebellious eighteen year old daughter Ivy disapproved of the ostentatious painting “and all it represented”. She preferred to hide herself away in her room listening to The Concert for Bangladesh.
Ivy was working as a barista at Starbucks when she met Will Connors, an aspiring musician. They started dating and one night at dinner she announced to her parents that she wasn’t interested in going to college and planned to move in with Will. Tom asked how she intended to survive on a barista’s salary. Ivy shrugged and replied “we’ll manage”. Tom and Connie knew trying to dissuade Ivy would only make matters worse so they begrudgingly gave their blessing.
The following month Ivy moved into Will’s tiny studio apartment and Connie happily presented them with The Mayflower. Ivy was furious but Connie pleaded with her to accept it as a housewarming gift. “Change the frame to a plain one but please take it” Connie said. Ivy put the painting in a closet where it stayed for a few months. Finally she decided it was hers to do with as she wished and tossed it in a garbage dumpster.
Little did Ivy know that Connie had removed the rear panel of the frame and meticulously replaced it after taping an envelope to the back of the painting containing all the money she had saved – one hundred crisp $100 bills – meant to help the struggling couple. Maybe Ivy should have changed the frame after all.
“Papers! Not one, not two but three papers all due on Monday!” exclaimed Charlie in exasperation. “One on the assassination of JFK, another on the Scopes Trial and…..”
“Let me guess” interrupted Charlie’s sister Erica. “A 1,000 word book report on ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’.”
“How could you possibly know that?!” questioned a puzzled Charlie. “You must be psychic!”
Erica laughed. “Hardly! Mr. Cavanaugh hasn’t changed his assignments in years. I bet he still says the same thing.”
Brother and sister looked at each other trying not to laugh as they simultaneously did their best Mr. Cavanaugh impersonations – “Remember class, the quantity of your work is second only to the quality!”
Erica and Charlie cracked up laughing.
“Well, kiddo, good thing our folks are at the cabin this weekend and I’m going to Six Flags with Kate. You’ll have plenty of peace and quiet to get all your work done. Good luck, bro!” Erica laughed as she waved goodbye to Charlie.
“I’m gonna need it!” he groaned. “My grades haven’t been very good lately.”
Charlie went to the den where he and Erica always did their homework. First he read his emails, then went on Facebook, YouTube and TikTok. Bored, Charlie started looking through the drawers of the desk. There were recipes, catalogs, magazines and at the bottom of the pile was a binder marked “My Junior Year” in Erica’s handwriting.
“Hmm … I wonder?” Charlie asked himself. He looked through Erica’s binder and found a tab that read ‘ESSAYS‘.
“Sweet!” Charlie exclaimed. “Let’s see what we have here.”
With anticipation he ran his finger down the list of Erica’s essays, his eyes almost bugging out of his head when he spotted ‘JFK Assassination’. Further down the list he found ‘The Scopes Trial’.
“This is too good to be true!” Charlie exclaimed. “Two out of the three essays I need are here! I’m sure Erica’s book reports are here, too … fingers crossed.”
Sure enough Charlie found another label which read ‘BOOK REPORTS’. Pouring over the titles, he shouted “Bingo! There you are! ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. Three for three!” This was an incredible find. Charlie wondered if Erica even remembered her binder was there.
Taking all three of Erica’s assignments, Charlie sat at the computer station where he scanned and forwarded all the papers to himself. He then changed the dates, margins and fonts so his work wouldn’t look identical to Erica’s. Finally, changing her name to his, he printed out the papers, returned the originals to the binder and shoved it back under the pile.
“Done!” he crowed, feeling quite pleased with himself. “And I didn’t have to do any work!“
Charlie spent the rest of the weekend hanging out with his friends and watching movies on Netflix. On Monday he confidently turned in his assignments. On Friday Mr. Cavanaugh handed Charlie a large folder. To his shock inside were his reports as well as copies of Erica’s reports. All Erica’s papers were marked with a big red ‘F’; his were marked ‘CF’.
“Obviously you had no idea that I save all my students work. You also did not know that Erica failed her assignments” Mr. Cavanaugh reprimanded Charlie. “By copying her work you not only cheated, you failed. Therefore, I’ve given you the grade of ‘CF’ – ‘C’ for ‘Cheating’ and ‘F’ for ‘Fail’. Your parents have already been informed of this. I hope you have learned your lesson – the lazy student will cheat and malinger and by doing so will always fail.”
Charlie felt sick to his stomach; he never saw this coming. How could he have been so stupid? He didn’t notice that none of Erica’s papers were graded; they were just copies of her work and not the actual reports she handed in. Charlie knew his parents were going to be furious with him. It was bad enough that Erica failed; he cheated and failed.
“No point in putting off the inevitable any longer. Time to go home and face the consequences” Charlie thought as he dejectedly walked out of the classroom.
Mr. Cavanaugh shook his head. “There’s one every year.When will they ever learn?”
“Grundy, you old son of a bitch! What the hell are you doing here?” exclaimed Ian Simms.
“Same as you, Ian, and your brother, Carter. Attending the reading of your father’s will. May he rest in peace.
“Carter, look who’s here!” declared Ian to his twin. “It’s the one and only Grundy!”
“It’s been a while, Grundy. I can’t even recall the last time I saw you” remarked Carter.
“I believe it was your sixteenth birthday – the day before your mother deserted your father and shipped both of you off to military school.”
“You know, Grundy, there was a time when you showed a bit more respect to me and my brother. You used to call me ‘Master Carter’ and my brother ‘Master Ian’ – back when you were my father’s lowly valet.”
“Yes indeed – when you behaved like the spoiled crowned princes of Palm Springs. I’d say we’re on equal footing now, Carter.”
“Watch your mouth, old man” snarled Carter. “Remember you were just a servant!”
“Were being the operative word. Here’s your father’s attorney now. Let’s get on with this, shall we?”
“Good afternoon, everyone. Please be seated. I’m Lester Garrison, Mr. Simms’ attorney, and we’re gathered here today for the reading of his will. All right then, let’s begin.” Garrison cleared his throat:
• “I, Franklin Theodore Simms, being of sound mind and body declare this to be my last will and testament.
• To my former wife, Gloria Morrow Simms, I leave a dildo so she can go fuck herself. I’m sure she didn’t have the decency to attend today but there was never anything decent about her.
• To my sons Carter and Ian I leave both the amount of $19.79 which represents the year you were born. Perhaps if you had bothered to call or visit me just one time in the past 24 years the amount would be substantially higher; however that is not the case. You reap what you sow, boys.
• To the San Diego Zoo I leave $2.5 million dollars because animals are infinitely nicer than humans.
• The remainder of my estate, all my worldly possessions and $18.5 million dollars I leave to my one true friend – Samuel Grundy. Sam, you were never just my valet; you were my brother. You were the only one who remained when my family abandoned me. And when I became sick, you cared for me, refusing any income. We spent many hours in the garden by the weeping willow tree playing chess, sharing memories, baring our souls.
• A note to my sons: if you hadn’t been so self-centered you would have known Mr. Grundy’s first name. Instead you treated him like chattel and called him simply ‘Grundy’. Shame on you both!
• My lawyer already knows that I don’t want a funeral. I’m to be cremated and my ashes buried under the old willow tree where I spent my final days with Samuel Grundy.
• See you at the tree, Sam. The rest of you ingrates can go to hell.”
“Manga il cibo sul tuo piatto, Sophia, o lo mangerai dal pavimento.”
(“Eat the food on your dish, Sophia, or you will eat it off the floor.”)
Without changing her expression or taking her huge brown eyes off her father Vincenzo’s face, three year old Sophia picked up a meatball, extended her arm over the side of her high chair and very calmly let it drop to the floor.
Silence. Everyone sat in suspended animation as Vincenzo deliberately put down his knife and fork and removed the napkin which was tucked into the neck of his shirt. Slowly he stood up, went behind Sophia’s chair and grabbed the back of her dress. He lifted her up and holding her feet with his other hand, lowered her face to the floor. Sophia’s mouth touched the meatball and she turned her face away, but Vincenzo pushed her face into the food, forcing her to take it into her mouth. Satisfied, he sat her back in her chair, returned to his seat and resumed eating. Sophia languidly chewed the meatball.
Hesitantly everyone resumed eating except Sophia’s mother Francesca who sat watching her daughter. At the end of the meal as the women cleared the table, Francesca placed a napkin over her daughter’s mouth so she could dispose of the uneaten meatball. “Mai più, Sophia. Fai il tuo dovere!” Francesca said. (“Never again, Sophia. Do your duty!”)
Francesca was a frail woman and as Sophia grew she helped her while Vincenzo worked 12 hours a day on construction. When Sophia was 11, Francesca came down with a terrible case of scarlet fever which affected her heart and kidneys and left her housebound. Early every morning Sophia would cook breakfast for the family and pack lunch for her father before she left for school. At lunchtime she would come home to check on Francesca and make something for them to eat before going back to school. After school she would stop at the pharmacy to buy Francesca’s medicine. Sometimes she would surprise her mother with a piece of her favorite candy. First she would care for her mother, then cook dinner before her father came home from work. When dinner was finished she would do her homework and get ready for bed. Since Francesca was sick, Vincenzo slept in Sophia’s room while she slept on the small sofa. It was the right thing to do – her duty – because her father worked so hard and needed his rest.
Eventually the family began struggling financially. Vincenzo decided that it would be best if Sophia left school and took a job in a sewing factory. Sophia would have preferred to stay in school, but she knew it was her duty to help the family. Francesca’s sisters would take turns checking on her while Sophia was at work. Occasionally they would bring food but they all had large families and were struggling themselves. Sophia still woke up very early to make breakfast and prepare lunch for herself, Vincenzo and Francesca. She worked from 8:00 until 6:00, then came home to cook dinner, clean up and care for her mother. It was a hard life but Sophia knew it was her duty.
Sophia was an excellent seamstress and her work was always done quickly and perfectly. In the time it took the others to sew one blouse, she completed four. And because her work was beyond compare, she earned more money. She was promoted to making dresses and suits and the other girls were jealous, calling her “your majesty” and “princess”. One girl was so envious of Sophia she began working hurriedly and carelessly, accidentally cutting off most her pinky with the large shears. It was not Sophia’s fault but everyone treated her like it was.
One Sunday after Mass Sophia’s cousin Gaetano introduced her to his friend Paolo Rossi. By now Sophia was 20 and had never been on a date. She was too busy doing her duty. The young couple were immediately attracted to each other, began dating and married in 1940, just after the start of the war. One year later their first baby was born and fortunately men with children were not being drafted so Paolo was able to remain at home. Tragically, the baby developed nephritis and died at the age of two – and a grieving father, now childless, was drafted.
Sophia was devastated; no husband, no baby. She devoted all her time to caring for Francesca. The days were grim but thankfully Paolo returned home safely and two more babies followed – healthy girls. The young family, Francesca and Vincenzo moved to a house in the Bronx and Paolo found work in a mechanic’s shop while Sophia stayed at home with the girls and her mother. Five years later Francesca died and Vincenzo became ill. Of course the ever-dutiful Sophia cared for him until his death.
In 1970 Paolo suffered his first heart attack. Three more followed over the years. He developed aortic and abdominal aneurysms and struggled with emphysema and bronchitis until his death in 1996. Sophia cared for him as a dutiful wife for all those years.
Dear readers, in case you haven’t realized by now I was one of those little baby girls born to Sophia and Paolo. Throughout my childhood and youth, my mother was constantly busy cleaning, cooking, sewing. She was a dutiful mother and took very good care of us, but I never felt a true mother’s love.
The first time I met my boyfriend’s mother, she was ironing. She immediately stopped her work, brewed a pot of coffee and placed a crumb cake on the table. We sat and talked for hours. That was an afternoon of fun and laughter and I felt the love in that room. I married that boy whose mother did everything out of love, not out of a sense of duty.
Sophia died in 2010. On her headstone was intricately carved her life-long creed: “FAI IL TUO DOVERE”.
My cousin MaryAnne was finally getting married which meant my mother, sister Elisa and I had to go shopping for new dresses and shoes. When shopping day finally arrived we all climbed into Mom’s car – even Dad who followed us everywhere.
So off we went to Macy’s, happily chatting about what kind of dresses we wanted to get – grown up ones this time. Dad said maybe he’d look for a new suit but Mom reminded him he had a perfectly good one reserved for weddings and funerals. Maybe a new shirt and tie but that’s it. We weren’t the Rockefeller’s after all. Dad grumbled something and Mom informed him that she would happily turn the car around and take him home. She was in charge and we knew today was going to go her way. The rest of the ride to the store was quiet and sullen.
Finally Mom pulled into the parking lot and we excitedly jumped out, running for the entrance. “No running!” Mom screamed after us. “This is a fine department store and you are to act like young ladies at all times. And we stay together. No wandering off. Is that understood?” And we hung our heads and mumbled “Yes, Mom.”
Once inside, Mom told Dad to meet us back there in exactly one hour and off he went to the men’s department. Mom, Elisa and I went to the elevator to get to the 2nd Floor. The elevator was being serviced so we had to take the escalator, but the up escalator was also being serviced.
“Well, isn’t this dandy?!” my mother huffed. “How are we supposed to get upstairs?”
The repair man replied “Up the down escalator. Just walk up and jump off. See – everyone’s doing it.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. I’m not doing that. We’ll just have to come back another day.”
“No, please!” we pleaded. “We’re here already. Come on – we’ll help you.”
Reluctantly Mom agreed. We stepped onto the down escalator and started climbing up. It was actually quite easy – until we got to the top. Elisa and I jumped off but Mom couldn’t do it. This stoic, practical, fearless woman suddenly looked like a hamster on a wheel, all the while screeching “Help me! Help me!”
No matter how many times we told her to just stand still and ride the escalator down, she just didn’t get it. People kept jumping by her like gazelles on the Serengeti while she huffed and puffed, treading water. Elisa and I got on the escalator, held Mom’s arms to keep her steady and rode down to safety on the 1st Floor. Mom was mortified.
Smoothing out her dress, Mom walked to where Dad was dutifully waiting for us. “Perfect timing! Did you girls have fun?”
Mom gave Dad the most withering look . “This store has definitely gone downhill. We will not be coming back here any time soon. We’re going home. Everyone to the car. Now!”
Within the four walls of a hut in Wingdale, NY there once resided a couple, recluses who kept to themselves. It’s said that everyone has a story and this couple was no exception.
Many years ago as young newlyweds they longed for a child but were not able to conceive. They sought the advice of seers, gypsies, magicians and an astronomer. They were given advice, told to try this method and that, including eating a stew made with boiled lentils, cows liver and tomatoes and a tea made with the branches of the nettle plant.
The couple tried for years without success when suddenly the wife, now middle-aged, found she was pregnant. The thrilled couple consulted the seers, gypsies, magicians and astronomers who told them the wife was too old and the babe would not survive. But survive it did and grew inside its mother, causing her great discomfort, malformation and pain. Finally the time arrived for the birth and the midwife was called.
The wife labored for hours and the baby’s head finally began to crown. As more of the head began to emerge, the midwife screamed in terror and ran from the hut, leaving the couple alone to deliver their baby.
Trepidatiously, the husband took the midwife’s place and immediately recoiled in fear and disgust. The wife pleaded for her husband to pull the baby from her body but the babe was so repugnant, he refused. Reaching down between her legs, the wife grabbed hold and her eyes filled with fear as her hands touched the baby’s body for the first time. When her next contraction came she pulled until the babe was finally free. Asking her husband to bring the lantern closer so she could see the infant, the new mother gasped and cried out in horror and sorrow.
The poor babe was grotesque for directly on the top of his forehead grew a large second head. The eyes were fused closed and the mouth was a mere slit. Oddly enough, the boy’s ‘normal’ head was beautifully shaped with extremely handsome features.
“Toss it into the hearth” the husband demanded “and we will say he died at birth.”
“I will not” exclaimed the wife.
Her husband stared at the floor, then without looking back, he left the hut, heading to the tavern to drown his sorrows. Word of the birth had already reached the town but the father informed everyone that the baby had died. After a few hours and filled with remorse, he returned to the hut only to find his wife and baby gone. In the morning he went searching for his wife and baby but never found them. Eventually he died, a broken man.
No trace was ever found of the mother or baby. Possibly they died. Maybe they were befriended by a traveling circus. Perhaps they were apprehended and brought to the Wingdale Psychiatric Hospital. To this day the life of the pitiful and mysterious family remains just that – a pitiful mystery.
The Elephant's Trunk 