Written for Sunday Whirl Wordle – #738. Our host
is Brenda Warren; her prompt words for this week
are shown below. Here’s where the prompts took me.
fringe, resonance, frill, spin, swimming, images,
fit, spill, trip, reflect, layer, and lingering
Tag: New York
The River Of Dreams
Written for Song Lyric Sunday –
“Naturally Flowing Water”
This is my response to the challenge.
RDP Saturday: terror
Today at RDP, Punam asks us to get
creative with the word ‘terror’. Thanks, Punam!
Here’s where the prompt word took me.
Song Lyric Sunday: Bookends
Written in response to this week’s challenge
for Jim Adams’ Song Lyric Sunday.
Kissing Lake Ontario
Written for dVerse Prosery Monday:
Prosery In the Words of Lisa Bellamy.
Our host Sanaa asks us to write a 144
word story using the quote shown at
the bottom of the page. This is my prose.
That’s Entertainment – Letter J
Welcome back to “That’s Entertainment!” –
The A To Z Challenge.
I hope you enjoy my musical selections.
Let’s see what’s up today!
When It Ends
Written for OLWG #411.
The prompts are shown below.
This is my take.
Peppermint Twist
This is a little piece I wrote a few years ago
for Christmas Eve. Some of you read it back
then. I reworked it for New Year’s Eve and I
like it better than the original. Hope you do, too.
Storm Front
Today in Jim Adams’ post entitled ‘The Seven Seas’,
he has asked us to write about a song that features nautical
terms, words connected with ships, sailing or navigation.
Written for Song Lyric Sunday, this is my choice.
A Secret Chord
This is Week 48 of Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag and we are
being asked to choose a song by a group or solo artist whose
name begins with the letters U, V or W. This is my choice.
Wild Weather Wildflowers
Written for Wordless Wednesday,
where a picture’s worth 1,000 words.
New York Wildflowers in 80ºF October!
Here are my near-drought photos.
A Hoboken Skinny Malink
This is Week 40 of Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag and we are
being asked to choose a song by a group or solo artist whose
name begins with the letters S or T. This is my choice.
With the exception of children, I have yet to meet anyone who has not heard of Frank Sinatra or listened to one of his songs, even in passing. And if you don’t know who Frank Sinatra is, you will probably recognize the names of some of the superstars who sang with him on his highly successful Duets album, artists such as Anita Baker, Tony Bennett, Bono, Natalie Cole, Gloria Estefan, Aretha Franklin, Kenny G, Julio Iglesias, Liza Minnelli, Carly Simon, Barbra Streisand and Luther Vandross. Frank also recorded with popular music sensations Stevie Wonder, Chrissie Hynde, Gladys Knight, Willie Nelson, Elvis, Nancy Sinatra and countless others. And at the age of 54, Sinatra was collaborating with Bob Gaudio, the renowned producer/songwriter behind the genius of the Four Seasons.
Surely some of those names will ring a bell …. and it they don’t, Google them and look up Frank Sinatra while you’re at it because today’s post is a little different. I’m not going to spend my time writing about Frank; instead, I’m going to feature some rare videos by the people who knew him the best followed by a couple of my favorite Sinatra songs. Sit back and enjoy the videos.
Quincy Jones talks about Frank Sinatra and racism in Las Vegas:
Dionne Warwick and Larry King reminisce about Frank Sinatra and Solid Gold:
The best Frank Sinatra story you will ever hear, told by comedian and Frank’s frequent warm-up act, Tom Dreesen:
Dennis Miller tells some funny stories about dinner with Sinatra:
And saving the best for last, this is Richard Burton’s speech about Frank Sinatra:
Now for some music. It would be impossible to play all the Sinatra songs I love so I’m going with four which I think are top notch musically and showcase his incredible talents. Frank was incomparable, as you’ll see in this next video.
This is a live recording of a 1962 concert at Monaco’s Royal Hall; in attendance were Prince Rainier and Princess Grace. The performance was the second night of a two-night charity event to raise money for the United World Colleges Fund. Frank isn’t just singing this song; he’s acting out the story of a guy in a bar who’s hit rock bottom because his girl has left him and the only one around who’ll listen at 2:45 in the morning is the bartender. This is superb storytelling put to music.
Here’s “One For My Baby” live from Monaco, just Frank and a piano.
What kind of New Yorker would I be if I didn’t include Frank’s iconic tribute to my home town? Fuhgeddaboudit! This is “New York, New York”.
Here is an absolutely gorgeous song that recounts the type of girls with whom the singer had relationships at various years in his life. I love this song by Frank; it’s the incredibly lovely and melancholy “It Was A Very Good Year”.
My last song has become synonymous with Frank Sinatra. Other people may have recorded it …. maybe the composer Paul Anka …. but other than him I can’t think of anyone else, not that it matters. I’m really not interested in who else sang it. Even though it’s been said that Sinatra hated this song, it will always belong to him.
Live from Madison Square Garden in NYC, this is “My Way”.
In his six decade career, Frank Sinatra won 11 Grammy Awards, an Oscar for “From Here To Eternity”, and an Emmy Award for “Frank Sinatra: A Man and His Music”. He was honored at the Kennedy Center Honors in 1983, was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by Ronald Reagan in 1985, and the Congressional Gold Medal in 1997. Sinatra possessed one of the best voices of the 20th century. His voice had a broad range and he knew how to make the most of its power, joy, sentimentality, humor and sensuality. He has sold over 150 million records, making him one of the bestselling recording artists of all time. Ironically, he never learned how to read music but had a great ear, a remarkable sense of phrasing and an innate feeling for music. He has left behind an unparalleled catalogue and legacy of music and film.
Big thanks to Glyn for hosting Mixed Music Bag every week. Please be sure to follow the link and check out Glyn’s site.
Thanks for joining me today and spinning some tunes.
See you on the flip side. 😎
NAR©2024
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Propagation of Uncertainty
Written for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt #383
where we are asked to get creative in exactly 80 words using
any form of the required word “calculate”. Here is my flash.
Think about all the calculations involved in bridge building – not the least of which is the maximum weight a bridge can hold at any given time. I’m not a mathematician or an engineer but it’s obvious the answer isn’t one you can get wrong … ever. No guessing allowed! One small miscalculation could spell disaster. Imagine tossing and turning in bed after handing in your numbers to the bridge committee, wondering if the decimal point was in the right place.
NAR©2024
80 Words
This is “The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy) by Simon & Garfunkel.
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Charlie’s Good Tonight, Ain’t He?
Today’s theme at Song Lyric Sunday is
all about songs that feature great drums.
Here are my drumtastic songs.
Much like last week’s group which needed no introduction, the same is true for today’s. If you are a fan who tends to remember little things about your favorite groups, then you’ll have no trouble making the connection between the title of my post and the group I’m featuring today …. The Rolling Stones. Oh, sorry! What I should have said is ‘the drummer I’m featuring today …. Charlie Watts’.
“Charlie’s good tonight, ain’t he?” Mick Jagger famously said those words on the classic Stones’ live album Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out recorded November 27 & 28, 1969 at Madison Square Garden. But some may argue that the late, great Charlie Watts was good every night …. and I’d agree!
Everyone loved Charlie. He was, of course, a highly regarded drummer but he was much more. A true gentleman, he was reserved and diplomatic, soft spoken, a teetotaler and a sharp dressed man. He was a loyal bandmate, husband and father who hated touring and being away from home. He didn’t have a drum kit at home because the noise was too much for his wife so the only times he played were at the studio or while performing.
Charlie Watts was the Rolling Stones’ drummer for 60 years when he passed away in August 2021 at the age of 80. A blues enthusiast enlisted by the band’s founder, Brian Jones, Charlie was a solid presence in that most turbulent of bands. A man blessed with infinite patience, he claimed on the occasion of the Stones’ 25th anniversary that his career had been “5 years of work and 20 years of hanging around”. Nice job if you can get it! And when it came to work, Charlie always delivered.
I’ve chosen two songs for you today which I believe showcase Charlie’s talents very well. The first one is from 1969 and is a biography loosely based on American Albert DeSalvo who confessed to being the Boston Strangler. We all know the song as “Midnight Rambler”. Keith Richards has referred to this number as “a blues opera” adding that nobody else but he and Mick Jagger could have written it.
One notable 1969 performance (running just over nine minutes) is the video I’ve selected to play today. It was captured for the 1970 album Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! and was re-released on the 1971 compilation album Hot Rocks 1964-1971. This rendition features Mick Taylor on lead guitar, in addition to Jagger, Richards, Wyman and Watts. Seeing this song performed live at MSG was like a blues marathon and featured one of the finest moments between Mick at the front of the stage and Charlie at the rear …. an unforgettable show.
Live audio from MSG, this is “Midnight Rambler” by the Rolling Stones.
Lyrics
I’m a-talkin’ ’bout the midnight rambler
Everybody got to go
Well I’m a-talkin’ ’bout the midnight gambler
The one you never seen before
I’m sighin’ down the wind so sadly
A-listen and you’ll hear me moan
Well I’m a talkin’ ’bout the midnight gambler
And everybody got to go
(Yeah c’mon)
Talkin’ ’bout the midnight gambler
The one you never seen before
I’m talkin’ ’bout the midnight rambler
Did you see me jump the garden wall
I don’t give you a hoot of warning
A-dressed up in my black cat cloak
I don’t see the light of the morning
I’ll split the time the cock’rel crows
I’m tellin’ ’bout the midnight rambler
Well, honey, it’s no rock ‘n’ roll show
Well, I’m a-talkin’ ’bout the midnight gambler
And everybody got to go
Oh, don’t do that
Well, you heard about the Boston
Honey, it’s not one of those
Talkin’ ’bout the midnight, shit!
Did you see me jump bedroom door
I’m called the hit and run raper, in anger
Or just a knife sharpened, tippy toe
Or just a shoot ’em dead, brainbell jongleur
Everybody got to go
If you ever meet the midnight rambler
And he’s prowlin’ down your marble hall
And he’s pouncin’ like a proud black panther
You should say, I told you so
If you listen for the midnight rambler
Play it easy, easy, as you go
I’ll go smash down all your plate glass windows
Put my fist through your stairway doors
Well I’m a-talkin’ bout the midnight rambler
The one you never seen before
Well I’m a-talkin’ bout the midnight rambler
And did you see me jump your garden wall
And if you ever catch the Midnight Rambler
Steal your mistress from under your nose
Go easy with your cold fanged anger
I’ll stick my knife right down your throat baby, and it hurts
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Keith Richards / Mick Jagger
Midnight Rambler lyrics © Abkco Music Inc.
My second song today is an all-time favorite. There’s no denying that the Stones have recorded a lot of great tunes, many of which have gone on to be hits. Some fall into the category of classic mega-hits; this is one of those tunes. Brian Jones is on this recording, bringing the exotic sitar, but it’s Charlie Watts that’s the jittery heartbeat of this enduring piece of rock history.
The song is “Paint It Black“, a major chart success for the Stones, remaining 11 weeks (including two at #1) on the US Billboard Hot 100, and 10 weeks (including one atop the chart) on the Record Retailer chart in the UK. It was the band’s third #1 single in the US and sixth in the UK. The song also topped charts in Canada and the Netherlands.
“Paint It Black” was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 2018 and Rolling Stone magazine ranked the song #213 on their list of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time. In 2011, the song was added to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s list of “The Songs that Shaped Rock & Roll.
This is the legendary “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones. Lyrics are provided on screen.
Big thanks to Jim Adams for hosting another great Song Lyric Sunday this week. Be sure to check out Jim’s site.
Thanks for stopping by. See you on the flip side. 😎
NAR©2024
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Just A Spoonful
Written for Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag week #26
where we are asked to write about a song by a group
or solo singer beginning with the letter K or L.
The Lovin’ Spoonful was an American band formed in 1964 by singer John Sebastian with guitarist Zal Yanovsky, drummer Joe Butler and bassist Steve Boone, cementing the quartet’s official lineup.
While they were a band that blossomed from the Greenwich Village folk scene in the 1960s, the group’s name was inspired by the blues song, “Coffee Blues” …. the classic song by Mississippi John Hurt. The song supposedly has a deeper, more suggestive meaning if listened to closely enough.
“Coffee Blues” was always a big crowd pleaser because of Mississippi John Hurt’s particularly innocent delivery and his guileless way of presenting it. His audience was frequently filled with beautiful college women …. a group for which he always had appeal.
By 1969, after only five short years together, The Lovin’ Spoonful called it quits. In those few years as a group, the band had amassed a number of hits, including “Summer in the City”, “Do You Believe In Magic?” “Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?” and “Daydream”.
My first featured song today and favorite Lovin’ Spoonful song is “Summer in the City”, a classic rock number that captures the excitement, energy, and heat of a bustling urban summer. The song opens with a distinctive drumbeat that immediately sets the tone for the fast-paced tempo and catchy melody. John Sebastian’s smooth, soulful voice sings about the hustle and bustle of the city streets, with the sound of car horns and sirens in the background adding to the urban ambiance. As the song progresses, Sebastian describes the heat and humidity of the city, urging listeners to “stay cool” amidst the oppressive weather. The chorus features a memorable hook that perfectly captures the vibe of a city summer: “Hot town, summer in the city/Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty.”
Overall, “Summer in the City” is a quintessential summer anthem that has stood the test of time, evoking the excitement and chaos of city life during the hottest months of the year.
This is “Summer In The City” by the Lovin’ Spoonful
My second-favorite song by the Lovin’ Spoonful is “Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?”, a catchy and lighthearted pop song that explores the dilemma of choosing between two potential love interests. The song opens with a bouncy guitar riff and John Sebastian’s playful singing, setting the tone for a fun and flirtatious track.
The lyrics describe the difficulty of making a choice between two people, with Sebastian asking: “Did you ever have to make up your mind?/Pick up on one and leave the other behind?” The song captures the excitement and confusion of young love, while offering advice on how to navigate this tricky situation: “One of these days you know you gotta make up your mind/But you better decide before you run out of time.”
Overall, “Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?” is a fun and upbeat song that captures the excitement and confusion of young love. It’s a timeless classic that continues to resonate with listeners of all ages, offering a lighthearted perspective on the challenges of navigating the complexities of romance.
This is “Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind?” by the Lovin’ Spoonful.
Before ending I thought it might be fun to feature “Coffee Blues”, the song from which the Lovin’ Spoonful got their name. That’s all I’m going to say about the song; let’s see if you can figure out what makes it so suggestive a song.
This is “Coffee Blues” by Mississippi John Hurt
Big thanks to Glyn for hosting Mixed Music Bag every week.
Thanks for joining me today and spinning some tunes.
See you on the flip side. 😎
NAR©2024
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
The Caper: A Six
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are
challenged to incorporate the prompt word “move”
into a story of exactly six sentences. Here’s my six.
He looked real good so I made my move and walked right up to him, kissing him long and hard on the lips. He pulled me close, groaning as his hands slid up my dress and I could tell he was more than happy to see me, if you get my drift.
“Listen, baby”, he said sotto voce, “I had a nice gig dealing at a casino up in Buffalo and I made some serious moola running a fool-proof scam; I’m dealing here tonight so if you and me were to double up, we could make a killing.”
It sounded dangerous and exciting. I nibbled his ear and reached between his legs, giving him an approving squeeze, and whispered “I’m in”.
“Work first, then I’ll show you how much I missed you” he promised as I knocked on the door; the peephole opened and immediately slid closed, then the door cracked an inch and we were quickly ushered into a back room heavy with the scent of leather, cigars and money.
NAR©2024
This is “Rags To Riches” by Bony Bennett
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Move Over!
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday where
we are asked to feature the word “move”. Here’s my stream.
Here it is …. the so-called unofficial start of summer …. and we’re celebrating Memorial Day once again in my neck of the woods – Southern Westchester County in New York. In case you’re not familiar with the area, Manhattan is about a 45-minute drive south – far enough away for us to be in the suburbs but close enough to get into NYC for a show or dinner if we want to. We’re approximately an hour from Jones Beach heading east out to Long Island and 2 hours from the Catskill Mountains up north.
We’re in a nice spot and we’ve loved living here for 45+ years but we often bring up the topic of making a move. And why would we do that if it’s so nice here? Two big reasons: stupid-high property taxes and ever-increasing congestion.
Our little village was exactly that when we moved here; now the population has exploded and every family member old enough to drive has a car. We live on a very quiet cul de sac and never think about the congestion in town until we actually have to go to town. What used to be a 5 minute drive to the supermarket or post office is now triple that (or more) because of the number of cars, trucks and school buses on the move .… and let’s not even start talking about road work! There’s construction everywhere we look and some of it takes years to accomplish. By then, it’s time to start repairs again! Move it!
So, if we did decide to leave New York, the big question is …. where would we move to? I have no idea! It seems like everyone complains about the same problems of high taxes and too much congestion no matter where they live. Besides, the physical act of clearing out the house, packing up, moving and relocating at this stage of our lives is daunting; I can barely manage packing for vacation!
Things to think about, for sure. For now, I think I’ll move out onto the deck, sit in my lounge chair, drink my iced tea and listen to the birds. Bill will light the grill around 2PM; now that you know where I live, c’mon over!
It’s time to roll out some Nat King Cole and “Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer”!
NAR©2024
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Blessed
Written for dVerse Poetics – May 7, 2024 –
Pilgrimage, Wandering and Walkabout
Did you ever find yourself in a situation that was so intense, everything around you ceased to exist? It’s an extraordinary feeling, one that’s difficult to explain without using every adverb and adjective and superlative in the English language.
The date was October 5, 1995 – a most inauspicious day – and yet I remember every detail of the events of that evening almost 30 years ago. At the time I was quite active in my church as a choir member, leader of song, and director of the children’s choir. Our adult choir was one of the best in the county and we were selected by Cardinal O’Connor of New York to sing for His Holiness Pope John Paul II during his visit to St. Joseph’s Seminary in Yonkers, New York. When the Cardinal requests someone’s services, it is an honor and should be treated as such.
For those of you old enough to remember Pope John Paul II, he was universally beloved and is now Saint John Paul II after his beatification on May 1, 2011. He possessed a spirituality that is rare among men, a divine nature of love, peace, kindness and forgiveness.
On that October day in ‘95, in the evening after vespers, it was arranged for John Paul II to have a walkabout around the grounds of the seminary. It was then that I had the greatest honor of my life .… to meet His Holiness and to receive his blessing. The moment I placed my hand in his and looked into his most serene and forgiving blue eyes, I knew I was in the presence of a divine being. There is no other way to describe how I felt other than to say it was rapturous; I had never felt that way before or since.
I have led a charmed life when it comes to meeting famous people …. just a matter of being in the right place at the right time …. but there is nothing that will ever surpass this encounter.
Time and events have a way of changing our perspective and I am no longer a member of the Catholic Church; however, my break from Catholicism has not and never will change the events of October 5, 1995 nor how I felt that day. It is something that will remain with me until my final days on earth.
NAR©2024
This is Kenny Chesney with “Song For The Saints”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Chances Are
Rachel and Paul had been together for six years. They assumed one day they would marry, have kids – the whole nine yards – but life has a funny way of taking twists and turns. Their romance and dreams just fizzled out but they remained very close and relied on each other for guidance – from the job scene to the dating game.
One night Rachel texted Paul: “Hey, babe. Ella & Sam set us up with blind dates for Fri. U in?”
Paul: “Y not? No plans anyway!”
Rachel: “Great! Emilio’s @ 7. Glad U R my back-up!”
Paul: “Ditto, babe! C U there.”
Both kicked themselves for calling the other “babe”. Old habits.
Friday night the foursome met at Emilio’s. While checking-out their prospective dates, Paul and Rachel exchanged alarmed glances; her eyes were screaming “WTF!” It was the fastest dinner in the history of Emilio’s restaurant.
As soon as Paul got home, he called Rachel: “What was that?!“
Rachel howled: “A TOTAL FREAK SHOW!! Your date was downright scary! She looked like Vampira and I swear her eyes were red! And what was up with that black cape – with a hood, for Christ’s sake? Did you notice her steak? It wasn’t rare; it was raw and practically throbbing!”
“And what about YOUR date?!” Paul exclaimed. “Wrist-to-neck tattoos, eyebrow, nose and lip piercings, boots with spikes and a “Carcass” t-shirt! He downed a bottle of beer in two gulps and belched like a bloody Viking!”
“I’ll never let Sam and Ella play matchmakers again. I’m sure they thought it was hysterical” Rachel quipped. “Anyway, my mother set me up with her friend’s cousin’s son, “The Doctor”, for next Saturday …. on Valentine’s Day, for Pete’s sake! If you get a date maybe we can try this again.”
“Sure. Nothing could be as bad as tonight” Paul replied. “I’ll call ya.”
A few days later Paul called to say he had a date for Saturday – a friend of a friend. “But she said “drinks only” and she’ll take a taxi.”
“Ok, fine, with me, but if it turns into another debacle like that last date, we all go our separate ways.”
Arrangements were made to meet at The Aviary in Central Park. Rachel’s date was Wesley, an OB/GYN. He was handsome, tan and suave. Paul’s date was Ginger, a salesgirl at Victoria’s Secret with modeling/acting ambitions. She was a vivacious redhead with mischievous green eyes.
The hostess seated them at a semi-circular booth; Ginger smoothly slid in between Wesley and Paul. With each sip of her martini Ginger inched closer to Wesley, asking risqué questions about his practice which he was more than happy to answer. Before long they were blatantly flirting, leaving Paul and Rachel dumbfounded. Giggling, Ginger excused herself to use “the little girl’s room”. The trio sat in awkward silence until Wesley’s pager beeped. He announced he had an emergency at the hospital, apologized and left.
“Well, there’s no point in me hanging around” Rachel said glumly. “Ginger should be back any second and three’s a crowd.”
As Rachel got up to leave she glanced out the window and saw Wesley and Ginger getting into his car. “What the hell? Paul! We’ve been dumped …. on Valentine’s Day!”
Paul and Rachel started the slow walk of rejection through Central Park. He jokingly bumped her shoulder with his.
“There’s a hockey game on tonight. Any chance you wanna watch?” Paul asked.
She bumped him back.
“Why not? I don’t have any plans now, anyway” Rachel sighed.
NAR©2024
This is Johnny Mathis with “Chances Are”
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR © 2017-present.
Reminiscing
This is my first time doing a quadrille.
Written for dVerse Quadrille.
My husband grew up
on an island;
perhaps that’s why
he’s a man
unto himself.
At the end
of each street
was a lagoon
stretching out
into the ocean.
He reminisces that
a childhood on
City Island
was the best way
to grow up.
NAR©2024
44 Words
This is “Sleepy Lagoon” by Henry Mancini
DAYS OF RAIN
The early morning air was thick with the smell of rain, the stillness almost suffocating. I was determined to finish my walk and get back home before the storm hit. Still on the historic Leatherstocking Trail which snakes its way through the woods near the old train station, I had about a mile to go.
There was an alien look about the sky, otherworldly and menacing. Tenebrous clouds, clumsy and swollen like an over-full bladder, partially obscured a series of long, jagged slashes of coppery-red. I was reminded of the familiar adage:
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.”
Nothing about this day bode well.
I stopped to tie back my hair and pull the hood of my jacket over my head, securing it snugly with the drawstring. A few rumbles of thunder warned me not to dawdle; there would be no stopping this rain.
The threat of the approaching nor’easter brought with it the unwelcome promise of flooding – a frequent visitor in these low-lying areas of the Hudson Valley.
I quickened my pace, the only sound the muffled slap of my sneakers hitting the leaf-strewn path.
An impressive bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a barrage of thunder. By now my indignant left knee was barking ferociously and I cursed for having walked so far.
My house finally came into view. The rain started as I climbed the steps to my front door; a forlorn train whistle howled in the distance.
NAR © 2023
250 words
NB – As I am writing this, New York, the place I call home, is in a State of Emergency due to unrelenting rainstorms and severe flooding. This rain is the worst we’ve had in years. Four continuous days of rain last week and now this. The saturated ground cannot hold any more water and it has nowhere to go but up. Exhausted from bailing out our basement, we finally gave up, defeated. No matter what we do, the water will always win.
THE WARMTH OF THE SUN
When I was an infant, my parents decided our small apartment in Manhattan was no place to raise two little daughters. The following day they set off on their search for a house in The Bronx. Back then living in The Bronx was a lot different than it is now. Crime was practically nonexistent; drug dealers weren’t openly operating out of school playgrounds, storefronts weren’t gated and padlocked and families were not shattered by drive-by shootings.
The Bronx was like a country village with farms dotting the neighborhoods of Baychester, Kingsbridge, Morrisania, Riverdale and others. People raised sheep, goats and chickens. Gardens were abundant with homegrown fruit and vegetables. It was a different world, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. Life was peaceful.
My parents bought a new semi-attached two family house spacious enough for the four of us and my maternal grandparents. We had a nice piece of corner property and a large backyard perfect for my grandfather’s grapevines and fruit trees and my mother’s vegetable garden.
My grandmother was a sickly woman, having been ill since my mother was only 12 years old. Nonna was not quite bedridden but spent a fair amount of time inside in bed or looking out the window. My mother was her caregiver; when the weather was nice, she would wrap a blanket around Nonna, making her comfortable in a lounge chair in the backyard.
Nonna’s ‘job‘ was to rock my carriage as I napped outside. Since she was not strong enough to carry me, my grandmother delighted in being able to help my mother in this small way. Nonna relished being outside in our quiet backyard watching my grandfather tending the garden; the warmth of the sun on her frail body renewed her spirit and magically brought a glow back to her face.
It was the first Labor Day in our new home and I napped in my baby carriage while Nonna sat in her chair gently rocking me. I began to stir and when I opened my eyes, I saw my grandmother’s smiling face looking down at me. Her doe-like eyes twinkled as she sang an old Italian lullaby, “Ninna Ninna”.
It may be difficult to comprehend that a little one just seven months of age could have such clear and distinct memories. I can recall my grandmother’s happy face smiling at me, her dark brown eyes shining. The poignant song and Nonna’s expressive voice always had a mysterious way of calming me and I would drift back to sleep. Those days in our peaceful backyard are tenderly stored in my mind.
My grandmother passed away six years later; the special bond we shared is something I will treasure forever.
NAR © 2023
A LITTLE RAY OF LIGHT
This is a work of fiction.
In no way is it meant to be
derogatory or insensitive to
any peoples’ ethnicity.
I do not share any of the
disparaging words or sentiments
within this story.
NAR
It was a blazing hot day in August of 1971. Sweaty air conditioners were working overtime, filling the streets of Manhattan with an unrelenting drone. I was in the elevator of my apartment building having just returned from physical therapy. There were four other people in the elevator – a plumber, a mid-twenties hippie chick I knew only as “Rain”, elderly and bitter Abe Morris and a very pregnant Asian woman I didn’t know.
Abe made a big show of moving away from the Asian woman, spitting out the words “savage gooks!” Abe was angry and grieving the recent death of his son in Vietnam. Someone had to pay; why not the only Asian in the elevator? Abe always had some wise-ass comment about the fact that I’m black and relished every opportunity to say something hurtful about my missing arm. Today his vitriol was directed elsewhere. Ignorant, bigoted man.
The doors closed and we began our slow ascent. Old buildings, temperamental elevators and a heatwave – a bad combination. Somewhere between floors 3 and 4 the elevator jolted to a stop. Before Abe could utter a curse word, the elevator churned back to life, coughed and stopped again with an ominous screech. Except for a few groans no one said anything. I pushed the alarm button and reached for the elevator’s emergency phone. Halfway through my call the electricity went out, the AC shut off and my phone connection died. Blackness engulfed us and it started getting uncomfortably warm.
Abe started cursing and banging the walls, all the while ranting “goddamn fucking dinks – I hate them!” The plumber was praying in what sounded like Russian while Rain softly hummed “Let It Be”. I tried unsuccessfully to pry open the doors and reminded everyone that at least part of our emergency call went through so help had to be on its way. It was then that I became aware of low guttural moans coming from the Asian woman; in a language I recognized as Vietnamese, she gasped that the baby was coming.
I asked the plumber if he had a flashlight, which he did. Turning it on, he handed it to me and everyone calmed down just a bit. Amazing what a little ray of light can do. With her back to the wall, the pregnant woman slid down and eased herself onto the floor. I told her I understood Vietnamese from my days as a medic in Nam. I said my name was Jim; her name was Thanh. We talked softly as Abe carried on about his son who died in the war – “And for what?? This slant??” he screamed. The plumber became more agitated and Rain sat by him holding his hand.
With ragged breaths and dry lips, Thanh told me she married an American soldier in early November 1970 and he brought her back to live in the U.S. with his parents. After two weeks he returned to Vietnam; he was killed November 21st in Operation Ivory Coast. Thanh soon learned she was pregnant. Relations with her in-laws became strained and she moved into my apartment building with her cousin.
As we sat waiting, I thought of that November day. I remembered a soldier who flung himself on me as I worked in the MASH unit. He was blown to bits while I only lost my arm. That young hero was someone’s son, a friend, perhaps a brother; he could have even been Thanh’s husband.
Suddenly Abe lost it; he stood and yelled racial slurs at both me Thanh. The plumber sobbed while Rain tried to calm him. I yelled for everyone to “shut up!” And that’s when we heard faint voices.
“Anyone in there?”
“Roger that! We’re down here! Five people, one woman in labor!” I shouted and was rewarded with a resounding “HUA!”
Haltingly the doors were pried open and a rescue ladder was lowered into the elevator. Abe headed straight for the ladder; I stopped the selfish bastard in his tracks.
“The pregnant lady goes first.”
Abe called me “a no good spook” and blindly took a swing at me; even with my disability I was able to easily block him. I grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to the floor where he sat, head in hands, repeating what must have been his son’s name. I pitied the man but he was not the only person in pain.
With my assistance, Thanh gingerly made her way up the ladder; she was pulled out of the elevator and the EMTs rushed her to the hospital. The rest of us slowly climbed to safety.
When I emerged into the lobby of my building, I found one of Thanh’s shoes. Call it whatever you want but in that moment I knew I had to get to her.
NAR © 2023
NEW YORK STATE OF TERROR
Death was on Julia Rubino’s mind a lot during 1976.
Automatic negative thoughts (or ANTS as she called them) started crawling around her brain months earlier when she first heard about the mysterious murders in New York City.
The killer openly taunted the police; seeking misplaced attention and public veneration, he wrote rambling and ambiguous letters to journalist Jimmy Breslin who printed them in his column in The Daily News. In his letters the murderer sometimes referenced a cult, hinting that the killings were a rite of passage. Other times he claimed a demonic dog owned by his neighbor Sam spoke to him demanding the blood of pretty young girls.
All the victims were females with long dark hair; as a college student with shoulder-length brunette curls, Julia felt particularly vulnerable. When she told her parents she wanted to cut her hair and dye it blonde, they said she was over-reacting. Julia’s boyfriend Steve told her she was being ridiculous, that there was nothing to worry about. He said they were safe in their little town of New Rochelle. Violent crimes like that only happened in dangerous urban locations, not quiet Westchester County.
On date nights, Julia and Steve often drove to the Glen Island Beach parking lot in New Rochelle; it was a popular make-out spot and the police very rarely patrolled the area or bothered the couples parked there. When Julia told Steve she didn’t want to go parking any more, he got pissed off. Tearfully she told him the murders were making her afraid of her own shadow. She reminded him that the killings always involved two victims – young women and their boyfriends parked in cars. She couldn’t shake the notion that something terrible was going to happen to them.
Steve argued that Julia was being paranoid and they had no other choice if they wanted to be alone. They had no privacy living at home with their parents and Julia refused to go to a motel saying it made her feel sleazy. Frustrated, Steve yelled at her to calm down and get a grip. Afraid of losing him, Julia begrudgingly decided they had only one option if they wanted to be alone and that was the dark parking lot of Glen Island Beach.
On July 29 things took an unexpected and shocking turn; the first murders in Westchester County occurred. This time the killer’s MO was different and left the police wondering if the shootings were done by the same individual or a copy-cat killer. The victims were two girls sitting in a car in a well-lit area – not a girl and her boyfriend in a dark parking lot.
The two women were nurses Jody Valenti and Donna Lauria. They had been sitting in Jody’s double-parked Oldsmobile outside Donna’s house talking about their night out at a New Rochelle disco. When Donna opened the car door to get out, a man suddenly approached. Pulling out a gun, he crouched down and opened fire. Donna was killed instantly but Jody survived. The attack happened quickly, however, Jody was able to give a description of the assailant. It matched that of the shooter of the previous killings.
Westchester County residents were panic-stricken, especially Julia. Police urged everyone to stay vigilant and refrain from sitting in parked cars. Julia considered dropping out of college and staying at home until the murderous madman was caught; her parents convinced her it was irrational to completely cut oneself off from the world. No one understood how scared she was, especially now that the murders were much closer to home. She felt like she had a target painted on her back. Every young woman felt the same way; our lives were being controlled by an unknown killer and our own fears.
For more than a year the killer held the citizens of New York captive. On the night of August 10, 1977, the state of terror finally ended. After a brief but intense shootout, the murderer was apprehended at his Yonkers apartment, ironically just minutes from Westchester Community College where Julia was a student. Julia could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever her reasons were, she had a feeling deep in her gut that if the killer had not been caught, she would have eventually ended up on his list of victims. That is something that will remain unanswered forever.
Dear readers – Julia Rubino, her boyfriend Steve and her parents are fictional characters I created for this story; everything else written here is true and accurate. I know this because I lived through it and was as terrified as everyone else.
In August it will be 46 years since that historic arrest. The notorious killer is David Berkowitz, known around the world as Son of Sam. Berkowitz pled guilty to all the shootings; six people were killed and seven wounded, some horribly. His weapon of choice was a .44 caliber Bulldog revolver gun.
On the day after his sentencing, Berkowitz was taken first to Sing Sing prison in Ossining, NY, then to the upstate Clinton Correctional Facility for psychiatric and physical examinations. Two more months were spent at the Central New York Psychiatric Center before his admission to the infamous Attica Correctional Facility. Berkowitz served about a decade in Attica until he was relocated to Sullivan Correctional Facility in Fallsburg, where he remained for many years. He is now housed at Shawangunk Correctional Facility which is located in Wallkill, Ulster County.
Berkowitz described his life in Attica as “a living hell, a nightmare” – as it should be; no one is more deserving.
NAR © 2023
Please follow me today
In The Groove
as the scariness continues.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
THE IMMIGRANTS
Francesco glanced down from his perch 60 stories above the streets of New York City; that translated into roughly 900 feet in the air. As he ate lunch, he talked casually to his companion, Giuseppe, who sat across from him on a ledge about four feet away. Francesco lit a Camel cigarette, tossed the box of matches to Giuseppe and both men lounged on their beds of steel. Francesco took a long drag on his cigarette, keeping his eyes open to maintain his balance on the 18-inch-wide metal plank. A whistle blew, its shrill notes informing the men that lunchtime was over.
Giuseppe pitched the matches back to Francesco. They rose to their feet, now old pros at this daily death-defying ballet they performed. When they first arrived in America, they learned very quickly that the jobs of police officers, firemen or train engineers were not meant for them; those positions were reserved for the Irish and English immigrants. The Italians and others who didn’t speak English were forced into manual labor – jobs in construction or sanitation where grunting and nodding were the main forms of communication. They took pride in their work, the resulting cathedrals and skyscrapers testaments to their skill and determination.
An errant gust of wind made its presence known; it swirled around the men’s feet and scooped up the wrappings from lunch, tossing the papers about before they slowly drifted out of sight. Both men held on to a nearby vertical beam, silently waiting until the wind stilled.
Looking below at the large wind flag, the men saw that it was white; it was safe to continue working. A yellow flag meant to exercise extreme caution while red indicated dangerous weather conditions. The crew worked through many different elements, but if a red flag was up, no one climbed the beams.
There were no harnesses to prevent a catastrophic fall, no safety nets should someone slip … nothing to protect the men, to save them. All they had to help them scale the beams were ropes dangling from above, good balance and guts.
Calmness restored, the men strapped on their tool belts containing welder’s gloves, hammers and tongs. A pulley system was used to hoist beams and buckets filled with iron rivets in white hot coals. Using their tongs, the men removed the rivets one by one from the coals, inserted them into holes in the beams and hammered them into place. After every hole was filled, the men climbed up to the next level and repeated the process.
When the end-of-work whistle blew, Giuseppe reached for the rope to begin the long, slow descent to solid ground. A slight misjudgment caused him to lose his footing and he slid off the beam like a marionette whose strings had been severed. Francesco yelled out in horror “No, Giuseppe, no!!” as he tried in vain to grab his friend’s arm. The crew watched in stunned disbelief as Giuseppe fell headlong to the sidewalk far below, his screams echoing throughout the canyon of steel.
Francesco slumped over, his head in his hands, silently weeping as a single mournful thought invaded his mind: he didn’t even know Giuseppe’s last name.
NAR © 2023
Please tune in today
for a very special
In The Groove.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
LOCK IT UP
Misky whispered in my ear,
“Uber story”.
Here’s one from three years ago.
🚗
Finding himself suddenly unemployed, Omar anguished over supporting his family – not just his wife and kids but his parents back in Somalia. One would think having a biomedical engineering degree would open many doors for him but the job search proved more difficult than Omar imagined. His wife Waris was trained as a midwife and she was willing to go back to work but Omar was too proud to allow her to be the only breadwinner in the family. He would find work if it was the last thing he did. Waris encouraged him to look outside his comfort zone; it was then that he saw the ad in Craig’s List:
Drive With Uber – Be Your Own Boss.
For information call 888-555-BOSS
Omar called the number; a man with a strange accent anwered. “UberBoss” was all he said.
“Um, yes” replied Omar haltingly. “I’m calling about the ad.”
“Email your phone number and driver’s license to uberboss@hotmail.com. We’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it? Don’t I need to take a test or something?” Omar asked.
“Look, buddy. You want the job or do you want to play 20 questions?” the man replied sarcastically.
“Yes, I’m interested, but what is the pay, please?” inquired Omar.
The man sighed impatiently. “$25 an hour; UberBoss gets 20% commission.”
Omar was stunned. “That seems a bit exorbitant!”
“That’s the going rate, buddy. Take it or leave it” was the gruff response.
Considering he currently had no income, Omar accepted.
“Ok, buddy. Someone will call you.” Click. Within the hour Omar received his first assignment.
♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟ ♟
A woman was waiting for Omar; she wore a burka and only her eyes were visible. She signaled Omar to roll down the window, handed him a thick envelope and quickly walked away without saying a word. Taped to the envelope was a key and instructions which read: “100 Hester Street, Locker #57. Unlock padlock, remove backpack, leave envelope and key, snap padlock shut.”
The destination was a YMCA. Upon entering the building, Omar spotted a hallway with a row of lockers. He found #57, opened the padlock, removed the backpack, placed the envelope and key inside the locker and snapped the lock shut.
The backpack had a tag with an address, locker number and key attached; this had to be his next destination. It turned out to be a bus depot and the locker contained a thick envelope just like the one the woman had given him earlier. Omar determined he had to remove the envelope and replace it with the backpack from the previous locker. He tossed in the key and secured the lock.
This routine continued for six hours at which point Omar received a text from UberBoss requesting his PayPal address. He was advised that his work was finished for the day and he would get a new assignment in the morning. Omar complied and shortly after he received another text, this time from PayPal informing him of a new deposit in his account.
The days were tiring and monotonous. Omar’s ass was sore from driving all around town and he didn’t speak to a single person all day. Being an Uber driver was not what he thought it would be; he was just some tool in a game of hide and seek. But he’d been at it for three weeks and had accumulated more money in his PayPal account than he had in a long time.
Omar was getting very curious about the contents of the envelopes and backpacks but they were tightly sealed – except for today. Noticing a small tear in the envelope, Omar used his pocket knife to finesse the opening just a bit. Peeking inside he saw stacks of neatly bound $100 bills and the hooded eyes of Benjamin Franklin staring back at him.
Omar considered his next move for about five seconds. He drove to the address on the envelope, ripped off the key and shoved the envelope under the front seat of his car. Driving to his destination he located the locker, grabbed the backpack and snapped the lock. Whatever was in these packs had to be very valuable.
As he sped home Omar knew he was taking a huge risk but it was worth it for Waris and his family. He laughed excitedly at the prospect of financial freedom and the more he laughed the faster he drove. The sound of screaming sirens brought Omar back to reality; a police car was chasing him. He was forced off the road and commanded to step out of the car. While looking through the car the police found the envelope full of money. They also found a backpack crammed with bricks of cocaine.
Omar’s world came crashing down around him and he desperately proclaimed his innocence, to no avail. He was handcuffed and hauled away on the spot. Omar never saw the video text that came from UberBoss: “Big mistake, Buddy! Say bye bye.”
At the same moment back at Omar’s house a frantic Waris was tearfully staring down the barrel of the UberBoss’s gun.
NAR © 2020
Catch me today
In The Groove.
https://rhythmsection.blog/
IT RUNS IN THE FAMILY
Originally, the Chelsea Piers evening boat tour was scheduled to depart at 6:00 PM but was cancelled due to dense fog. Disappointed, Emma consulted her tour guidebook for something else to do. She read:
THE VORTEX. NOT YOUR FATHER’S WATERING HOLE.
LOCATED AT 15 CHRISTOPHER STREET
IN THE HEART OF CHELSEA.
SMOKING PROHIBITED IN ACCORDANCE WITH
THE NEW YORK CLEAN INDOOR AIR ACT.
OTHER THAN THAT, ANYTHING GOES!
“Hmm. Now that’s intriguing” Emma thought “and it’s nearby.”
Just a short walk later and Emma arrived at The Vortex, a secluded and rather alluring place. Finding a seat at the bar, she ordered a dirty martini. Reflected in the mirror behind the bar was the image of a retro-looking poster. Sliding off her barstool, she casually walked up to the poster for a better look. She snapped a photo and returned to the bar.
More people were coming in now – an intriguing and diverse patchwork of ethnicity, race and sexual orientation. Emma found it all so exciting and very New York! When the bartender brought her drink, she commented on how electric yet relaxing the atmosphere was and asked “Can you tell me something about that poster?”
“Sure! It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he replied. “The Vortex is an edgy and somewhat somber play written by the literary giant, Noël Coward. It premiered in London in 1924 garnering Coward great critical and financial success. It’s a story about a nymphomaniac socialite and her cocaine-addicted son. Many thought the drug was a cover for homosexuality. As you can imagine, it was considered pretty shocking back then. Rumor has it that Princess Margaret owned the original poster for a while. She was a free spirit and loved a good lampoon, especially those directed at the upper classes and British aristocracy.”
“Wow! You certainly know a lot about that poster! It’s all very fascinating!” Emma exclaimed. “Something tells me there’s more to the story.”
“Oh, there is” the barkeep agreed. “During the run of “The Vortex”, Noël Coward met an American director and producer named Jack Wilson. They ran with the same crowd where drugs, booze and same-sex relationships were prevalent. Wilson became Coward’s business manager and lover. We thought ‘The Vortex’ was a cool name for the bar. My mother recently brought that poster to me; it looks great there, doesn’t it?”
“It does! Sounds like you might have a personal connection to this story” Emma suggested.
“Yeah, in a circuitous way I do. My great-great-grandmother was once a chorus girl and she got on famously with Jack Wilson – so much so that she and her husband named their first baby Jack Wilson Morrow and asked Jack to be the baby’s godfather. The tradition continued through the years; lots of my relatives were named Jack Wilson so-and-so. In fact, my name is Jack Wilson Connors.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jack Wilson Connors” Emma laughed as she extended her hand. “I’m Emma Peterson Kennedy and you have officially blown my mind with that great story!”
“I like you, Emma Peterson Kennedy! Always nice making new friends. How about another drink – on the house?”
Emma blushed a little and said “Yes, I’d love one.”
While Jack was preparing Emma’s drink, all sorts of thoughts were running through her head … ‘He’s cute, friendly, great personality and no wedding ring. It’s been far too long since I went out with a really nice guy who didn’t have a lot of excess personal baggage. He likes me, he seems interested. I wonder – should I? What have I got to lose?’
“For my lovely new friend, Emma. One perfect dirty martini” Jack said with a flourish. “I hope I get to see a lot more of you.” His engaging smile revealed two incredibly delightful dimples that melted Emma’s heart on the spot.
Trying to sound nonchalant, Emma said “You know, Jack, it says here on the poster that there’s a performance of “The Vortex” tomorrow night. If you’re not working, how about we make it a date?”
“I’d really love to see the play with you, Emma” Jack said “but my husband and I already have plans for tomorrow night.”
“Husband!? Oh my God, Jack! I’m so sorry! This is so embarrassing. I didn’t realize………”
“That I’m gay? No worries, Emma. It runs in the family.”
NAR © 2023
I have a brand new post for you today
At The Movies in The Rhythm Section.
Why not stop by a take a took?
https://rhythmsection.blog/
MISTY
It was one of those stormy evenings, the kind of weather that could make people think twice about venturing out into the elements. But “The Divine One”, the legendary Sarah Vaugan, was set to perform at the Blue Note.
Founder and owner Danny Bensusan’s business policy was well known: book big-name acts into a classy place with an elegant atmosphere and great food and the place would be packed night after night. That’s exactly what he managed to do and the Blue Note soon became the city’s premier jazz club.
I’d been working as a coat check girl at the Blue Note for a couple of months when I was “discovered”, if one could even call it that. The crew was cleaning up after the final show, me in the “Lost and Found” section of the coat room. It always amazed me how people could leave behind such things as mink coats and solid gold cigarette lighters! Were they that drunk or was money no object for the elite slumming it in “The Village”?
Well, there I was, stashing a forgotten cashmere scarf into the bin, absentmindedly singing ‘Misty’, when I heard a friendly voice behind me.
“Hey, you been holding out on me, kid? You’re singing like an angel back here!” It was Danny. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Michelle” I replied, tapping my name tag with long red fingernails. “Michelle Grant.”
Pointing his index finger and winking, Danny clicked his tongue at me as if we were in cahoots over some kind of secret pact and walked off.
About two weeks later I got called into Danny’s office – something that never happened. I thought for sure I was getting canned but that wasn’t the case. Danny offered me a singing gig as a member of the group that performed with the house band. It was nothing special – just singing ballads while the people danced and dined – but it got me out of the coat check room and on stage. I also got a nice little increase in my paycheck and the clientele started recognizing me as one of the singers. I got to hang out with some pretty big names back then: Lionel Hampton, Carmen McRae, Oscar Peterson and the one-and-only Ray Charles who Danny booked for a full week every year.
So there we were on this particularly nasty night, ears glued to the weather report on the radio, hoping people would still come out in this February snowstorm ….. and we were not disappointed. Slowly the house filled up with fans eager to hear Sarah Vaughan. Danny was beaming, grinning from ear to ear. This was going to be a night to remember. There was just one little hiccup: Sarah Vaughan was nowhere in sight.
Danny kept pacing back and forth, checking his watch every minute. I could see him starting to sweat. Then the call came in: “The Divine One” and her crew were stuck in snow on the FDR Drive! They said they’d get there “as soon as they could” but who knew when that would be?
By now the natives were getting restless and calling out for the show to begin. Danny grabbed me by the elbow and said “It’s up to you, kid. Stall ’em as long as you can. Just get out there, sing something and act like everything’s okay.” Before I could object, Danny shoved me onto the stage; hundreds of eyes stared at me like “Who the hell is this chick?”
I stared back like a deer in headlights; you could hear a pin drop. Even the waiters stopped working. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Danny gesturing for me to get the show started.
I walked up to the mike with feigned confidence and in a hushed tone that got everyone’s attention said “Good evening and welcome to the Blue Note. I’m Michelle Grant and this is ‘Misty’.”
The audience gasped; that was Sarah Vaughan’s signature song. Even Danny and the piano man, Erwin “Sweetness” Brown, looked up in stunned disbelief. I sang the all-too-familiar first three words, “Look at me”, a cappella and “Sweetness” joined in just like we planned it that way.
I sang like my life depended on it and I guess, in a way, it did. When I was done the place was silent, then all hell broke loose, everyone standing on their feet cheering and applauding. I was floored, thrilled that they liked me that much! I twirled around in delight and that’s when I saw “The Divine One” standing about 10 feet behind me. Reality slapped me in the face; the people weren’t applauding for me; they were cheering the arrival of Sarah Vaughan.
I wanted to get off that stage as fast as I could but Sarah took my hands in hers and smiled broadly. She hugged me like a proud mama on her daughter’s wedding day and whispered in my ear “Nice job, honey – but you do know ‘Misty’ is MY song, don’t you? And you ain’t ever gonna sing it again, except maybe in the privacy of your shower! Ain’t that right, sugar?”
I nodded mutely.
“Now, what’s your name, honey?” Sarah asked.
I whispered my name and before I had a chance to scramble off the stage, Sarah turned me around to face the audience and raised my arm up in the air like a champion. “How about showing some love to my protégé, Michelle Grant? She took a pretty big leap of faith tonight by jumping into my shoes. That takes guts and I admire her.”
And the people went wild but this time they were clapping for me!
NAR © 2023
FIRENZE, MI AMOR
Image used with permission by photographer
My husband Dan had recently been offered a two-year assignment in the Firenze branch office of his company. It was the opportunity of a lifetime which couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient point in our lives. We’d been married for six years and now a few loose ends were starting to fall into place for us.
After months of gut-wrenching indecision, we believed the time was right to start a family; the spectacular apartment overlooking Central Park became available and our bid was accepted; my art gallery had taken off and was written up in Aesthetica Magazine, drawing the attention of the world-famous artist Klaus Voormann who stopped by one day out of the blue. I was shocked when he proposed the idea of exhibiting one of his original drawings for a month or two and even more surprised when he showed me photos of the artwork he wanted to display – the cover of The Beatles album, Revolver.
No, this was not the time to pack up and move to Italy but even with all the amazing events balancing precariously on the pinnacle of our lives, how could I ask Dan to turn down this dream assignment? I couldn’t. After all, it was only for two years.
We were able to sublet our spectacular apartment overlooking Central Park; I regretfully left Klaus Voormann in the hands of my capable gallery manager and with ineffably heavy hearts we put our hopes and plans for a baby on hold – at least for the immediate future. With very mixed emotions we left New York for our new life in Firenze.
My husband’s company arranged for our living accommodations in an exquisite apartment overlooking the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio. During the first couple of weeks of our stay, I busied myself becoming familiar with our new home. There were endless shops and museums to occupy my time but I could only do so much sight-seeing. Unbelievable as it might sound, I soon found myself becoming bored in one of the most fascinating cities in the world.
To make matters worse, Dan was assigned to the Padua office for one week. Located 140 miles north of Florence, he clearly couldn’t commute. He’d have to stay there and I wasn’t allowed to go with him. I had trouble sleeping while Dan was away and found myself waking up at the ungodly hour of 4:00 AM. I’d make a pot of coffee and write in my journal until the city yawned and brushed the sleep dust from her eyes.
One particular morning I was feeling unusually lost, my journal sitting on the desk mocking me. Coffee cup in hand, I went out to the balcony to breathe in the early morning air when I spotted a man walking down the street. I wasn’t too far away but I couldn’t clearly see his face. He wore a fedora-type hat and long black coat, his gloved hands by his side. Perhaps, like me, he was also having trouble sleeping. There were a couple of things about this scene that struck me as ordinary yet peculiar: the man’s casual way of walking indicated he wasn’t in a rush but he kept his eyes straight ahead, never glancing from side to side. There were also no signs of activity anywhere in the city, not even a ripple in the water. The man continued walking until he was no longer in view and I soon forgot about him.
The next morning the man was back, again carrying himself in the same determined yet unhurried manner. He reminded me of a character in a film noire detective movie. I found myself becoming more intrigued. When I saw him approaching on the third morning, I quickly grabbed my Nikon and snapped a photo. After three days of this routine, I decided I clearly needed to find a project I could sink my teeth into, something creative. While visiting the Uffizi Gallery later that morning, I discovered many types of art courses were offered there. I registered for photography, a subject I knew a little about. It was also one of the few classes that included day trips. All I needed was my camera.
Dan finally returned from Padua and after a romantic weekend reunion, he was off to work and I headed to the Uffizi. There were only four other people in the class – a married German couple and two Irish nuns. As I gazed out the window, a man’s voice as deep and mellow as a glass of montepulciano resonated throughout the room. I turned to see someone familiar – the man I had spotted walking by the Ponte Vecchio! He was quite handsome with light hazel eyes and a shock of black hair. He introduced himself as Leone – not Mister or Doctor or Professor – just Leone, our instructor.
The course was interesting, the scenery breathtaking and the teacher took his job very seriously. I was enjoying the class but, as I told Dan, it could have been a bit more fun. Leone was all business. That’s why I was totally surprised that rainy Tuesday when I was the only one who showed up for class and Leone suggested we wrap up early and get a bite to eat.
We went to a café in the Uffizi and for the first time the impersonal teacher relaxed; I truly enjoyed his company and when our conversation turned to my gallery in New York, Leone was very impressed. During lunch I got a text from Dan saying there was a business dinner he couldn’t get out of and would be home late. Curious about the disgruntled look on my face, Leone asked if anything was wrong. I explained the situation and he said it must be fate, the perfect opportunity for me to see his studio. I was grateful for the diversion.
Leone’s studio was simply but elegantly decorated. The walls were covered with his stunning photos, all black and whites, each one a masterpiece. His work consisted solely of portraits; this surprised me considering all the beautiful sights in Italy. Leone said faces had much more interesting stories to tell than places and asked if he could take a few photos of me. I was a bit reluctant but flattered and so I agreed. It was there in the back room of his studio where our affair began.
In the eight years since Dan and I met, I had been with no one else. I had no idea how monotonous and unimaginative our sex life had become. My affair with Leone was dynamic, passionate, electrifying. We were ravenous when we were together and starving when we were apart. Our relationship became extreme. Leone brought out my wildly sexual, erotic side; there was nothing we wouldn’t do to give each other pleasure. The more we saw each other the more we wanted each other. Our affair became all-consuming and never diminished for the 20 months we were together. Twenty months! I had friends whose marriages didn’t last 20 months.
Always in the forefront of my mind was the fact that Dan and I would be returning to New York and for the first time during my affair with Leone I became afraid. There was more going on than sex. There were deep feelings. There was affection. There was love. That was never supposed to happen.
Two weeks before Dan and I left for New York I told my lover I would never see him again and even though it killed me, I ended our affair. One week later Leone sent me a text which read “I think about you too much”.
Why can’t I stop loving him? Why can’t I stop this hunger inside me? I wanted him so much but I desperately did not want to hurt my husband. Dan was such a good and decent man. He didn’t deserve any of this. I was in love with two men and it had to end.
Dan and I returned to New York. We moved back into our spectacular apartment overlooking Central Park. I resumed ownership of my fabulous art gallery and added two new photographs – one of the Ponte Vecchio and another of a man with light hazel eyes and a shock of black hair.
We settled into our usual routine. We got comfortable in our apartment and talked about having a baby. It was like nothing had changed in the two years we were away but everything had changed.
Exactly one month after leaving Italy, I found out I was pregnant. Firenze, mi amor!
NAR © 2023
THE MISSING PIECE
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.
NAR © 2019
The Elephant's Trunk 