Bill stood at his open closet mumbling and cursing under his breath as he pulled out one pair of pants after the other. He was in a mood that has no definition or perhaps many definitions, none of them good. He was searching for something to wear for the funeral of his twin brother, Jim, who died suddenly on April 2. Had it been anyone else’s funeral, Bill would have just pulled out a suitable pair of pants and a dress shirt, but this was his brother and he said he needed his black suit. He couldn’t find it in the closet and he was getting angry but, of course, the errant suit was not the cause for his consternation. I walked to the closet and spotted the suit immediately. Handing it to Bill, I hugged him and kissed his cheek. As I ironed his shirt I could hear him crying softly. “Why’d you have to go and die, Jim?”
Written forFriday Fictioneers. Greetings, friends. Some of you know, others do not. We had a death in the family last week … my husband’s twin brother passed away on Tuesday. I’ve taken some time off from writing but now I’m ready to return. You may read about our loss here if you are so inclined. Thank you for your thoughts. This is my story today.
It wasn’t in the evening when a calm tide rolls out, nor in the early morning as the glorious sun rises but rather in the middle of the day, just after noon when he crossed the bridge and left us stunned and lost. One minute he was with us …. happy, strong and alive. The next he was gone, in an instant, in the blink of an eye, he crossed the bridge and slipped away. We had no time to prepare, no time to say “Goodbye and fare thee well, brother”. He was just gone, peacefully and silently across the bridge.
Bill & Jim at their childhood home, City Island, The Bronx, NY circa 1950
My husband encouraged me to write today; I didn’t want to …. I felt like I should sit by his side, hold his hand, cry with him but his tears and his grief have not hit home yet.
One minute he’s walking around the house in a daze, the next he’s playing LEGOs with our 4 year old granddaughter. It’s good for her to be here; she’s keeping him distracted.
You see, my darling husband Bill’s twin brother Jim died today around 12:30pm. His wife Lynne went upstairs to their bedroom and found him on the floor. She tried desperately to breathe life into him but he was gone. Just like that, alive one minute and dead the next.
Losing a sibling is so hard; losing an identical twin is unfathomable. I am Bill’s wife but his twin brother was his other half and I say that with nothing but love in my heart. They shared their mother’s womb, their crib, their playpen, their bedroom, their car. They went to school together, worked in the same marina together for many summers. Bill graduated Iona College first in his class; Jim was second. They even failed the army physical together!
They were on polar opposites of the political page and their taste in women couldn’t have been more different but in every other way, they were as one. Of course they looked the same and talked the same, they had the same laugh, the same sense of humor. They loved watching hockey and going fishing together. Now that will never happen again.
If you look at the last photo on the bottom of the page you’ll see them, two little suntanned towheads sitting side by side fishing with their older brother, dad and grandfather. Now everyone in that boat is gone except for my husband, Bill.
All I’m thinking about right now is what a great time Jim and Lynne had last week. They spent the whole week in North Carolina with their son, his wife and two teenage grandchildren. They texted photos of everyone on the boardwalk, arms around each other, looking incredibly happy.
Bill and Jim. The Twins. The Richy Twins. When people saw one, they saw the other. Now there’s only one and nothing from this moment on will ever be the same.
There was never a time when my father didn’t sport a mustache. A thin, elegant line when he was a young man, a bit more pronounced as he grew older but always neat, always refined.
Dressed in his army uniform, he was every bit the matinee idol and it was obvious why Mom fell for him.
When we visited him in Albany Medical Center the morning of his surgery for multiple aneurisms – both abdominal and aortic – his grey hair was neatly combed, mustache trimmed. He was 82 years old and the doctors gave him a bleak 6% chance of surviving the operation. Yet, survive he did.
My sister’s daughter – my father’s eldest grandchild – gave serious thought to postponing her wedding until my father was stronger. He insisted she “do nothing of the kind”. He told us all, in no uncertain terms, that he would never miss his first grandchild’s wedding …. and he didn’t. Dressed to the nines in his tux and bow tie, perfectly groomed silver mustache, we all held our breath as they walked hand in hand onto the dance floor for what would be their last spin together.
When my dad died, we provided the undertaker with a photo for reference. The inexperienced mortician did a lovely job tending Dad but, looking back and forth from the photo to my father at peace his coffin, the undertaker knew something was amiss.
It was the first time any of us had ever seen Dad without his dashing mustache.
Our gracious host Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers is encouraging us to get creative in 100 words or less using this photo as our inspiration. This is my story.
In the 7th grade, ballroom dance class was a rite of passage – a Friday night event that lasted six months, culminating in a semiformal dinner-dance. The boys wore ties and jackets, the girls in party dresses and white gloves. It was not mandatory but if you didn’t sign up, you were snubbed. It was the highlight of the year …. not for the 12-year-old students but rather for their moms.
My son balked but signed up.
“You’ll never regret knowing how to dance”, I told him.
Since then, I’ve seen him dance on two occasions – his wedding and his brother’s.
The layout of Freedomland; I’d forgotten it was in the shape of the US!
Back in 1960, before the first Six Flags opened in Texas, there was Freedomland USA …. a fantastic, 85-acre amusement park with rides, restaurants, attractions, shopping, etc. And one of the things that made this wonderland so amazing was the fact that it was about 20 minutes from my house in The Bronx, NY. We would sit on our front porch at night and watch the fireworks coming from Freedomland.
“What else was so special about the place?”, you ask; well, it was the music hall known as the Moon Bowl!
In an attempt to attract visitors of varying ages, the Moon Bowl featured swing bands from the 1940s and contemporary pop stars. There was a stage and a 15,000 square foot outdoor dance floor. Among the performers who entertained us (and who I saw) were the Count Basie Orchestra, Paul Anka, Bobby Darin, Connie Francis, Bobby Rydell, Chubby Checker and more.
A ticket to Freedomland; check out the price of admission!
Bobby Darin performing at the Moon Bowl
Somewhere in my attic I have many tickets and autographs tucked away with all my Beatles scrapbooks and R&R memorabilia. I was a very lucky girl who got to meet a lot of famous people! Unfortunately, Freedomland USA went belly up after just five seasons but I have memories that will last forever.
Today I am featuring one of the performers I saw at Freedomland, the place where I fell in love with him when I was 10 years old …. the one-and-only Bobby Darin, definitely tops on my list. He can bring me out of a lousy mood or help me chill when I’m feeling stressed out.
There aren’t enough adjectives to describe the incredible talents of Bobby Darin. He was the consummate performer, a one-man show who composed songs, conducted the orchestra, sang different genres of music, danced, played the drums, piano, harmonica and guitar, did impressions, acted in movies and dazzled us with his Sinatra-like charm, mannerisms and sense of humor. My fellow-New Yorker was born Walden Robert Cassotto on May 14, 1936. It was a time when ethnic-sounding names such as his were frowned-upon by music producers; they felt something more white bread Americana would help these performers with strange names go further in the biz so Walden Robert Cassotto became Bobby Darin.
Bobby was only 37 years old when he died .… recurring bouts of rheumatic fever as a child left him with a seriously weakened heart. Believing his time on earth was limited, he lived his life to the fullest, pushing himself to all he could. In 1973, after failing to take antibiotics to protect his heart before a dental visit, Bobby developed sepsis. On December 19, 1973, a four-person surgical team worked for over six hours to repair his damaged heart. In the early morning hours of December 20, Bobby Darin died in the recovery room without regaining consciousness. That day the entertainment world lost one of its brightest stars and my own heart broke a little.
“Mack The Knife” is undoubtedly Bobby Darin’s most famous hit …. a cool, finger-snapping song about the notorious killer, thief and arsonist, Macheath (AKA Mac the Knife). The song was originally written in 1928 for the German dramatic play Die Dreigroschenoper (Threepenny Opera) and sounds totally different than Bobby Darin’s version.
Another one of Bobby’s hits is “Beyond The Sea”, a jazzed-up version of a romantic love song based on the classical piece called “Le Mer” by French composer, lyricist, singer and showman Charles Trenet. The 2004 movie Beyond The Sea was released starring Kevin Spacey in the role of Bobby Darin. In case you only Spacey for his dramatic roles and have never seen him in a musical role, you’re in for a treat. Spacey is a master of impersonations and sang all Bobby Darin’s songs himself. He became Bobby Darin and if you like dramatic biographies with a splash of nightclub routines, you’ll love this movie.
Anything else you want to know about Freedomland, USA or Bobby Darin you can Google or read in Wiki. I’m just so grateful I had a chance to spend my pre-teen years in a place like Freedomland where I got to see Bobby Darin up close and personal and got his autograph. People have asked me “Why don’t you sell some of this stuff? You’ve got a treasure trove packed away.” Yeah, it’s a treasure trove and that’s exactly why I’ll be keeping it for as long as I live.
This is Bobby Darin performing his greatest hit, “Mack The Knife” on the Ed Sullivan Show, May 31, 1959.
Now “Beyond The Sea”, also from the same airing of the Ed Sullivan show.
In this video, several of the many talents of the fabulous Bobby Darin are put on display. Bobby sings, plays bluesy harmonica, boogies on piano and performs a blistering Gene Krupa style drum solo. Live on the David Frost Show, 1972 …. 18 months before his death.
I hope you enjoyed taking a walk with me down Memory Lane …. not just sharing my fond, girlhood memories of Freedomland but remembering the remarkable Bobby Darin.
Our lovely host, Rochelle, at Friday Fictioneers has offered up this photo prompt to inspire us to write creatively using 100 words or less. This is my 100-word story from days in Montauk.
“Surf rods are the heaviest and longest rods you can get. They’re designed to cast very far distances and pull in heavier fish from breaking waves. Depending on which bait you’re using – worms, squid, bunker – you’ll need to choose the right rig.”
Bill quietly explained to our pre-school boys, blissfully ignoring the fact that the rods were four times taller than them.
“This is a science, boys. You have to be patient and psyche out the fish.” The kiddos were gleefully lost in their mini boxes of Frosted Flakes.
Bill was content; this was cherished father/son time. Pivotal first steps.
Yesterday, as I was driving up into the gated parking lot of a medical facility, I was faced with a dilemma: from my position in the driver’s seat, I was unable to reach the OPEN BUTTON. I stretched as far as I could, with no luck. Finally, I opened my door just a bit, reached out and successfully pushed the button. I closed my door, drove through the now open gate and went in search of a parking spot.
I found a spot quickly and, since we were early, my husband and I stayed in the car for a few minutes chatting. When I reached for my purse, my heart sank and I felt sick to my stomach. My purse wasn’t where I always keep it …. tucked into the space between my seat and the driver’s door. I’m sure you see where this is going. Yes, when I opened my car door to push the button which opens the security gate, I didn’t realize my purse had fallen out of the car!
Thank goodness I immediately figured out what happened and Bill took the short walk to the parking lot entrance to make sure my purse was still there. It was gone and when he returned empty handed, I almost pushed the panic button. Just like most women, my life is in my purse. It’s not big but inside was my cell phone, my wallet with my ID, driver’s license, insurance cards, credit cards and cash. My car key, a pen, lip gloss and Advil are also inside the purse. Not a lot of things but very important things. In fact, some are vital.
I tried to stay calm as Bill went into the lobby of the building to check with the security guard at the front desk. Against all odds, he had my purse in a box beneath his desk; nothing was missing. Bill had to sign for it and when he brought my purse back to me in the parking lot, I thought I would cry with relief.
All this transpired in the course of 10 minutes. Incredible good fortune which could have gone south just as easily and I was reminded of the classic line by Blanche DuBois from “Streetcar Named Desire” about the kindness of strangers. Whoever the person was who found my purse and turned it in to the front desk, I thank them with my whole being. They saved my life today and if that sounds like a ridiculous exaggeration, just think about what it would be like piecing everything together and then try not to push the panic button.
In response to a prompt from Carrot Ranch, write a 99 word story (no more, no less) about an awkward situation.
When I was newly married, my husband and I lived in an apartment building. It was a nice place, quiet, and we only saw the people who lived on our floor.
I’d run into Meg by the elevator every so often; she was extremely pregnant.
This one particular day I saw Meg and realized it had been a while since our last elevator meeting. Noticing her protruding belly, I said “You must be getting close now, eh?”
She stared at me and bluntly responded “I had the baby three weeks ago.”
Eyes darting, mumbling “Congratulations”, I fled the scene!
When I die, I’m going to donate my body to science. Don’t mistake me, I’m not being altruistic. I’m being realistic. Maybe one of those brilliant doctors or scientists can finally figure out what the fuck was wrong with me; I sure as hell haven’t had any luck so far. This long sought-after info won’t be worth a pile of beans to me cos I’ll be dead …. just saying.
There are 168 hours in one week. Just for fun, let’s divide that in half to represent day and night – awake hours vs asleep hours (not very accurate, I know, but you get the picture). Half of 168 is 84. Of those 84 hours, I experience a tingling sensation for about 70 hours per week, maybe more. And it’s not the good kind of tingling. You know what I mean, wink wink.
When the tingling first started, perhaps two years ago, it was fleeting – much like the feeling you get when your foot is about to fall asleep. It was located in the left side of my lower back and traveled down the back of my left thigh to my knee. It was annoying but not horrible. Over time, the tingling spread down to my toes; now it has also begun to travel up into my back, shoulder and neck …. all on the left side. And it is insatiable …. kinda like that feeling I get when I see Colin Farrell. There are few and far between times when I’ll notice the tingling is gone; it’s sheer bliss and feels absolutely magnificent to be at rest. Then it comes back just a couple of hours later. It’s back right now but this time in both legs! Ain’t that a kick in the head!?
I really enjoy walking but haven’t been getting out as much as I’d like. Walking saved me the last time I had a major flare up. Everything just sort of healed itself. I got my strength and stamina back and I was feeling the best I’d felt in quite a while. I need to get back into walking. I know it sounds like a lame excuse but I really don’t enjoy walking when it’s freezing outside and there are no malls nearby to walk in.
Today was like Spring so I went for a short walk; I took it easy and was out for only about 15 minutes. I do not subscribe to the ”no pain, no gain’‘ school of thought; 15 minutes today was quite enough, thank you. After walking, I relaxed in my recliner for a while with an ice pack, just to be on the safe side. I love my recliner. It’s where I make pit stops during the day, when I need a break from housecleaning, cooking, babysitting. I’ll put my feet up and ice my back and neck and it helps.
Lately my head has developed a tendency to tilt to the left; it happens when I’m watching TV or sleeping or checking out the new house being built across the way or sitting at my Mac, as I am right now. When I get really tired or I’ve pushed myself too far, my lower back will start screaming while my left side becomes an angry buzz of tingles. My head will tilt dramatically to the left and I imagine I must look like Marty Feldman, the actor who played Igor in Mel Brooks’ “Young Frankenstein”. (If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll know that’s Eyegor and Fränkenstēēn). I adore Mel Brooks, the last of the real comedic geniuses. At least I have managed to keep my sense of humor through all this physical bullshit.
Now I’m noticing a lovely new development: it’s all but impossible for me to tilt my head to the right! Ain’t that a kick in the head!? It’s either sitting perfectly straight on my shoulders (which is good!) or tilting to the left. There’s a tendon, I think, that is stretched to the max like a big fat fully extended rubber band and it’s tight as a drum. I’m pretty damn sure that’s what’s keeping me from tilting my head to the right. I saw my orthopedist the other day; she felt around my shoulders and said “Jeez, you’re really tight!” Ya think!?!
I’ve had multiple trigger point injections, nerve blocks, epidurals and cortisone shots, all resulting in extremely short term relief. X-Rays, scans and MRIs show a lot of arthritis, spinal stenosis and some funkiness going on with my discs but nothing “remarkable”. How can that be? Ain’t that a freakin’ kick in the head!? Hey! Maybe that’ll set everything straight …. a good kick in the head!
So, here’s the plan: next week I’m going to have another bilateral shot in my lower back in the hope it will “alleviate my discomfort”. If it doesn’t, I’ll have another series of MRIs to see if anything has changed over the 12 months since my last set of MRIs. It will be fantastic if the shot helps but I’m not betting the house on it. One thing is certain: after this upcoming shot, I’m done with injections. I’ve had it so wish me luck! Well, you might be interested in knowing that besides the arthritis/stenosis, there’s not another single thing wrong with me. I’m in perfect health, totally aware of what’s happening to this “vessel” in which I exist. Ain’t that a kick in the head!?
My mister is one of the funniest people I know and we make each other laugh. It’s not always easy keeping a good sense of humor but it helps me get through everything. And to be perfectly honest …. I’m getting really tired of walking around like Igor!
From Mel Brooks’ “Young Frankenstein”, the first meeting of Igor and Dr. Frankenstein:
This is Dean Martin with “Ain’t That A Kick In The Head”
I guessed that something was wrong as soon as I saw the look of shocked disbelief on my husband David’s face.
“Babe, what’s wrong?”
With tears in his eyes David whispered “I lost my wedding ring!”
It was our last night in Cape Cod. After dinner we went for a walk on the beach. There was a lot of seaweed in the ocean from a storm a few days before. We walked along the shore, teasing each other with clumps of seaweed; that’s when the ring must have slipped off his finger. But exactly where we had no idea. We crawled around searching but it was dark and we couldn’t see anything. David was devastated.
“Hon, I know your wedding ring means the world to you but we can always replace it.”
“I know, Jess, but it just won’t be the same.”
Dejected, we returned to our room and went to bed. After hours of trying to get to sleep, I grabbed my laptop and Googled “Will a ring wash ashore after falling in the ocean?”
Almost immediately there was a *ding* on my laptop … a response from “TheRingFinders.com”. It read: “We can help find any lost metallic object on the beach or in the water. Enter your zip code and we’ll get back to you ASAP .”
I entered the zip code for Cape Cod and 10 minutes later I heard from Rick at “RingFinders”. After explaining our situation, Rick said he’d be at our B&B at 7:00 AM to start his search. Thank God for the Internet!
True to his word, Rick was already on the beach at 7:00. We ate breakfast on the veranda, never taking our eyes off Rick as he searched everywhere with no luck. It was almost checkout time when he trudged up to the B&B.
“No luck, folks. You’re gonna get socked in traffic if you don’t leave now. I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’m not giving up. I’ll keep in touch with you either way.”
Disheartened, we checked out and loaded up the car. Taking one last look at Rick, we waved goodbye when we realized he wasn’t waving goodbye … he was waving in excitement. He ran up the beach with his arm in the air, hand clenched in a fist.
“I found it, folks! I found your ring” he shouted.
We ran to meet him and he grinned as he placed a wet, sandy ring in David’s hand.
Thering was under 11 inches of water and seaweed!
Overjoyed, David hugged Rick and we asked how much we owed him.
“This is a free service we provide but we gladly accept donations” Rick explained. “Its very rewarding to see the joy on people’s faces when they’re reunited with their precious lost items.”
I don’t remember how much we gave Rick … that’s not important. What I do remember is David glancing at his ring all the way home and smiling.
What an experience and certainly an incredible act of kindness. Thanks, Rick!
Authors Note: Every word of this story is true. David is my son and Jess is my daughter-in-law. Theringfinders.com is a real organization and Rick, a stranger to David and Jess, did them a service they will remember for the rest of their lives. Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction!
As a former children’s choir director, I often rewrote the lyrics to favorite songs.
My days as a lyricist ended after being chastised by a pastor who accused me of ‘lacking imagination’ by using the same melody and ‘simplychanging the words‘.
Today Jim at Song Lyric Sunday is challenging us to choose a song dealing with mental health. This is a double edged sword; it’s wonderful that there are so many songs about this subject to choose from but it’s a shame that there are so many troublesome issues (and troubled souls) to write songs about.
I chose this one because it’s a tremendously uplifting song, I love the group and I feel a personal connection as well. When you’re talking about a song, it’s great to have something that ties you to it. It may not always be something positive but that’s just the way life is. The beautiful thing about music is there’s something for whatever is going on in your life. I hope you enjoy my selection today.
“Mr. Blue Sky” is a song by the Electric Light Orchestra (ELO), featured on the band’s seventh studio album “Out of the Blue” written and produced in 1977 by front man Jeff Lynne. Promotional copies were released on blue vinyl, like the album from which the single was issued. Due to its popularity and frequent use in multiple television shows and movies, it has sometimes been described as ELO’s signature song.
I have loved this song since the first time I heard it. It’s a happy and fun tune about a make-believe superhero, inspired by a silly TV show Jeff Lynne loved as a child. It was recorded with percussion played on a fire extinguisher, for crying out loud, and was so powerful and singable, astronauts would use it as an alarm clock in space! Reaction by critics and the public was a definite thumbs up, calling the tune “truly exhilarating”; the song would go on to be referred to as “the happiest song ever”. Sorry, Pharrell!
In 1977, Jeff Lynne and the other members of ELO rented a place in the Alps to work on music for their new album. Jeff was trying to write songs but the weather was so dark and dreary around him, he went into a funk. So how was it possible for Jeff to have written this fun, happy song?
During a BBC Radio interview, Jeff Lynne gave this account of how it all went down:
“It had been dark, wet and dreary for more than two weeks, and I didn’t come up with a single thing for the new record. I started going to the local pub, getting drunk, and spending more time there than back at the studio with my mates. Here we were in a house in the Alps and I was totally spiritless. I had writer’s block and fell into an ugly depression. Those two weeks felt more like two years! Finally one morning the sun suddenly came out and shone brilliantly. It shook me from my gloom and I felt inspired for the first time in weeks. It was like, ‘Wow, look at those gorgeous mountains, that beautiful sky’! For me that was a sign, a re-awakening, a chance to start over. I was so encouraged and motivated, I wrote “Mr. Blue Sky” and 13 other songs in the next two weeks.”
That’s Jeff’s great story; now here’s my story.
Over a span of 8 years, 2011 to 2019, I had two major surgeries on the same knee. It was not fun but what surgery is?
After operation #1, a total knee revision, I was in a lot of pain and my recuperation did not go well. I fell into a major depression. I lost my appetite, suffered panic attacks and shut myself off from everyone and everything. All I wanted was be left alone and sleep. I was convinced I was going to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life, unable to play with my young grandchildren. I began seeing a psychologist. And I was taking anti-anxiety meds and pain killers.
My husband Bill was my biggest supporter, a shoulder to lean on, my rock. He took me to physical therapy 3 times each week and stayed with me. He drove me to see the psychologist and sat in the waiting room. He took me out for drives just to get me out of the house. He set up FaceTime with our sons. He arranged for someone from the nail salon to come to the house to give me a mani/pedi. He helped me shower and wash my hair. Family and friends brought over prepared meals which Bill warmed up for me, even though I had little interest in eating. He was worried about me, scared for me but never let it show; he was a saint.
One day Bill came into the bedroom and said he had something to show me. He switched on the TV and inserted a DVD; it was the “Concert for George” and it was the first thing in months that held my attention. That’s the day I started listening to music again. Bill and music were the major factors in getting my mental and emotional recovery into motion. I put on my headphones and listened to all my favorite tunes. I started feeling better and eventually got myself to the point where I felt before the urgent need for surgery …. but I still had nagging pain in my knee. X-rays revealed something wrong with my replacement and I needed to have a total revision …. a complete do-over of the first operation. All that suffering between 2011 and 2019 because of something that could and should have been avoided.
The 2nd surgery was in early December 2019, just before Covid. I had great hope this time around but my recovery turned into the perfect storm. A visiting nurse came to see me five times and Bill brought me to have my staples removed. I started physical therapy but that lasted only about two weeks before everything came to a halt. I was left to my own devices as far as physical therapy was concerned and I had a wave of anxiety wash over me thinking “here we go again” …. but this time I sort of knew what to expect. I had an exercise routine from my first round of PT 8 years earlier which I did on my own as best I could. Being your own physical therapist after major surgery is far from ideal. By the grace of God, I did not hurt myself or fall into another depression. Once again music and Bill were my constant companions. I’d also begun to write again.
Long story even longer, when lockdown was lifted, I went back to therapy. That’s how I met the therapist who literally saved my life and I still see him when I have a flare up. Besides being a great therapist, he’s an incredibly good person who loves what he does …. helping people recover and feel better. And he always has music playing during his sessions! If I didn’t have him and Bill, I don’t know where I would be right now. And I’m also no longer taking meds.
Depression is serious business. As hard as it may be, we need to try to let people into our life. We need to talk to someone, anyone who will listen and be a good friend. There’s no shame in being depressed; it’s an illness and needs to be treated as one …. not covered up like a dirty secret.
I’m one of the lucky ones and I have music, my therapist and Bill to thank for helping me on the road to recovery.
Take good care of yourselves, my friends, and try to listen to music every day. Don’t underestimate it’s powers. It’s a balm for your body, mind, heart and soul. It could also mean a new lease on life.
National Depression Hotline – 866-629-4564 for free help, treatment options and support. Call 24/7.
This is “Mr. Blue Sky” by ELO
LYRICS
Sun is shinin’ in the sky There ain’t a cloud in sight It’s stopped rainin’, everybody’s in the play And don’t you know It’s a beautiful new day? Hey
Runnin’ down the avenue See how the sun shines brightly in the city On the streets where once was pity Mr. Blue Sky is living here today, hey
Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why You had to hide away for so long (so long) Where did we go wrong?
Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why You had to hide away for so long (so long) Where did we go wrong?
Hey you with the pretty face Welcome to the human race A celebration, Mr. Blue Sky’s up there waitin’ And today is the day we’ve waited for
Oh, Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why You had to hide away for so long (so long) Where did we go wrong?
Hey there, Mr. Blue We’re so pleased to be with you Look around, see what you do Everybody smiles at you
Hey there, Mr. Blue We’re so pleased to be with you Look around, see what you do Everybody smiles at you
Mr. Blue, you did it right But soon comes Mr. Night creepin’ over Now his hand is on your shoulder Never mind, I’ll remember you this I’ll remember you this way
Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why You had to hide away for so long (so long) Where did we go wrong?
Hey there Mr. Blue (sky) We’re so pleased to be with you (sky) Look around see what you do (blue) Everybody smiles at you
In previous years at this time we’d be covered in a blanket of snow. With that in mind, here’s a story from January 14, 2023 ~ my response to Linda G. Hill’s Just Jot it January 2024 prompt word: “toast”.
A couple of years ago, New York was hit by a major snowstorm. Wearing thick-padded booties, the snow silently tiptoed in while we slept and when we awoke there was a three-foot-deep crystalline blanket everywhere we looked. It was coming down pretty heavy and we could barely see anything in the backyard as we looked out our bedroom window … almost as if someone was standing on our roof shaking out a king size comforter full of feathers. Bill and I stood there for a while taking in the silent beauty of it all, then shuffled into the kitchen to prepare a pot of coffee and a few slices of my homemade banana bread.
The instant we were done making breakfast, the lights went out. There was no point in trekking down to the basement to check the circuit breakers; we knew the area had experienced a power outage. We sat in the kitchen by the still-hot radiator enjoying our coffee and warm toasty bread, a pale white glow from the snow enveloping every room in the house. Before retreating to the living room, I poured our pot of coffee into a thermos to stay hot for a few hours.
I went to the closet and brought down Bill’s emergency hand-crank radio with LED flashlight, AM/FM stations including the NOAH weather channel, a power bank of phone chargers and USB ports. This baby would serve us just fine until the power was restored. In the meantime Bill ventured out to the frozen tundra of the screened-in porch to retrieve some logs for the fireplace.
Bill got a nice fire going while I set up the radio on the table between our recliners. The phone chargers and USB ports were lifesavers; we were able to keep our cell batteries from dying and my laptop going so I could work on my stories. I was even able to plug in my new electric blanket which used a handy dandy USB port. Bill marveled at the technology of the little red radio and only bemoaned one design flaw – there was no TV.
We were happily ensconced in our recliners enjoying our little haven. All was silent outside except for an occasional gust of wind and every so often we’d spot a blue jay out our front window picking berries off the holly bush. I think we must have dozed off for a bit when we were roused by the harsh sound of steady scraping. We listened for a few seconds, then realized someone was outside shoveling the snow. We peered out the window to see our two little neighbors, six-year-old twins Jackson and Connor, shoveling our front path. At least that’s who we figured they were; it was impossible to tell by the way they were bundled up.
We sat back in our chairs, sipping our coffee and listening to the steady scrape-scraping of the boys’ shovels. Closer and closer the sound came; now they were clearing the steps leading to our front door. The adagio of their shovels was replaced by a sharp staccato knocking on our front door. I sank deeper into my blanket while Bill went to get some money to pay the enterprising kids, delighted that he didn’t have to shovel our front path himself. He opened the heavy wooden door and stood just inside the glass storm door to settle up accounts. Jackson and Connor stood on the front porch leaning on their shovels; toothless grins, cherry-red faces and sparkling blue eyes glistened in the still-rapidly falling snow which clung to their long blonde eyelashes.
“We cleared your path for you, Mr. Richy!” they proudly declared in unison, looking over their shoulders to admire their handiwork which was now covered by a fresh ½” of new snow. They looked back at Bill, staring up at him for his approval, their faces sporting the goofiest, most irresistible smiles imaginable.
“I see that, boys, and a fine job it is, too” replied Bill. “So tell me, what’s your going rate?“
With furrowed brows and crinkled noses the twins eloquently asked “Huh??”
“How much do I owe you for shoveling our path?” Bill asked in a way they could understand.
Very matter-of-factly with absolutely no sign of embarrassment or regret, the boys announced “Oh, we’re not allowed to accept money. Our mom and dad said we have to do good deeds.”
“Hold that thought, boys, and don’t go anywhere.”
Bill scurried back into the living room. “Are you hearing any of this conversation?” he asked me, clearly incredulous. “A concept like that in this day and age is mind-blowing!”
“Well, what’s your game plan?” I asked, knowing Bill always had a plan brewing.
“My game plan? Why, I’m going to pay those boys for a job well done and toss in a few packs of Pokémon cards just for good measure!” He was downright gleeful.
Bill scurried back to the boys and, opening the door just a crack to keep the cold out, shoved $20 and two packs of cards into their pockets.
The boys immediately started to put up a fuss about taking the money but Bill told them to stash it in their piggy banks for a rainy day and if their dad had a problem with it, he was more than welcome to come over and talk about it. With new-found treasures in their pockets, the toothless twosome raced home to show their friends their unexpected booty. Their little friends cheered loudly at the sight of the boy’s riches. Even their dad came out to see what the hubbub was all about.
The big financial deal now settled, Bill sat back in his recliner and sighed contentedly.
“You’re such a soft touch” I teased. “You’re rather pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I am!” he replied. “Listen, I’m all for good deeds but when I was their age, I was out shoveling snow and I know it’s hard work. Those kids did a damn good job. If their dad objects to them getting paid, I’ll just tell him to think of it as a tip for his two fine sons. I can’t believe he’d have a problem with that.”
Well, it came as no big surprise when the twins soon returned and began shoveling the snow off our driveway – and this time they had reinforcements. Their momma didn’t raise no dummies! You haven’t lived until you’ve seen five six-year-olds shoveling one driveway like their little lives depended on it.
“Better get your wallet out, Rockefeller. They’re back and they brought company” I laughed.
Bill may have unwittingly created a couple of monsters; during the spring the twins started going door-to-door pulling a wagon behind them. They were selling rocks! I’m reasonably certain their parents did not give permission for their budding business venture because it ended as abruptly as it started. Too bad; I’m sure they had the rock-selling market cornered. Very entrepreneurial kids; even Warren Buffett had to start somewhere!
Well, kind of a pity when you think about it. The boys scrubbed those rocks until they glistened in the sparkling sunlight. They really were impressive-looking rocks – there’s no denying that – but they were still just rocks, not exactly a priceless commodity.
Yesterday’s prompt from Sadje for Just Jot it January 2024. Here’s my tardy but heartfelt reply. ☕️ 🥯
With Humble Gratitude For my husband Who, every morning, Without hesitation, Brings me my coffee in bed. Sometimes he’ll bring a warm bagel. I couldn’t ask for anything more! With humble gratitude for my husband.
This is the Manhattan Transfer with “I Love Coffee, I Love Tea”. And I love Bill!
Dectina Refrain: This refrain is written as follows: 1st line – 1 syllable, 2nd line – 2 syllables 3rd line – 3 syllables, and so on for 9 lines; the 10th line is comprised of the first four lines as one stand-alone line.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story and include the word “task”. This is my response.
Not having practiced the piano at all that one week, I called my instructor who was waiting for me at the church and declared into the phone “Mrs. Ridgeway, it’s Nancy and I can’t make it to my lesson today because it’s raining”; I was quite proud of myself for coming up with such a creative and foolproof excuse.
In her clipped New England-accented voice, Mrs. Ridgeway replied “You’re not a sugar cube and won’t melt in the rain”, then went on to say “Surely you have an umbrella you can use”; I was quick to inform her that I had left my umbrella on the school bus, adding that no one was at home with me to lend me an umbrella and my mother didn’t approve of me walking unprotected in the rain to which my piano teacher replied “Well then, I’ll just come to your house for your lesson”.
You could have knocked me over with a feather because I certainly was not expecting that response and, true to her word, ten minutes later Mrs. Ridgeway appeared at my front door, ready for the task at hand; I dilly-dallied as long as I could looking for my book of Schirmer’s Library of Musical Classics – Selected Piano Masterpieces, setting up my metronome, cracking my knuckles and swinging my arms a la Ed Norton and shifting butt cheeks searching for the most comfortable position until Mrs. Ridgeway’s patience reached the breaking point and she barked “Enough!” which nearly made me jump off the piano bench in a panic.
Shaking like the last leaf on a branch in a windstorm, I opened my lesson book to the appropriate page and began playing Beethoven’s Für Elise while Mrs. Ridgeway sat next to me, staring over my shoulder and glaring; I played as though I was wearing boxing gloves and, being the master sleuth that she was, Mrs. Ridgeway saw right through my brilliant plot.
Angrier than my sister the day she discovered I had ripped off all the heads on her Barbie dolls, Mrs. Ridgeway exclaimed I had wasted her valuable time and she doubled my lessons for the next week which would have been tolerable if she hadn’t reported to my mother who got so mad because of my lack of responsibility, she withheld my allowance for the next two weeks and took away my TV privileges …. even Dr. Kildare.
This is what Für Elise is supposed to sound like; you’ll notice Lang Lang is not wearing boxing gloves (but I bet he’d sound just as good even if he was).
The incomparable Jackie Gleason and Art Carney in a clip from the Honeymooners – Suwanee River. How could I possibly resist?
Rochelle from Friday Fictioneers gave us the photo below while Denise from Six Sentence Stories provided the prompt word “jingle”. This is my response, a union of two prompts, in a 100-word, six-sentence story.*
When she became pregnant the following year, they were ecstatic; their son was born in 1941, the most beautiful baby anyone ever saw – golden curls, plump cheeks as rosy as apple blossoms.
He was a delightful child who brought incredible joy into their lives.
In 1942 the baby was diagnosed with nephritis; incurable, the doctor said and they were left heartbroken.
In the blink of an eye between Jingle Bells and Auld Lang Syne, their baby silently passed away.
The young couple was devastated; they never celebrated new year’s eve again.
*This story is true; the young mother and father were my parents, their baby boy was the brother I never knew. Six weeks after their baby died, my father was drafted and spent his entire tour of duty fighting in Europe during WWII while my mother was left alone without a husband, without a baby. It wasmany years before I understood the ineffable emotional toll this had on their lives and why we never celebrated New Year’s Eve.
It’s time once again for The Unicorn Challenge. Our mission: to write a story in 250 words or less in response to the photo prompt. This is my story and I’m sticking to it. 🦖 🎄 🦕
When our son was still in elementary school, he demonstrated a great ability and clever imagination for art. He had a penchant for cartoon characters of his own creation which he drew on his book covers and all over his school notebooks.
My husband and I encouraged his artwork and we kept him well-stocked in supplies, including a drafting table, paints and copious amounts of drawing pads. His main character was a T-rex called “Monstroid” …. a Jurassic lawman who was not above getting down and dirty.
When our son was about twelve years old, he asked permission to paint Monstroid on his bedroom wall. I had no problem with that; I’d rather he paint his own wall than someone else’s. Thirty-something years ago, graffiti was considered vandalism, not the street art it has become today.
The story of Monstroid grew in my son’s head, along with other dinosaurs, friend and foe alike. It got to the point where every wall in his room was covered with his creations; dinosaurs grazed on one wall while epic prehistoric battle scenes appeared on another wall. I didn’t mind; the boy was hurting no one and I would never suppress his natural ability for art …. just as I would never squash our other son’s talent for music.
Our son is now a television cameraman – another form of art. However, he never lost his love of painting and Monstroid is alive and well on the bedroom walls of each of his three kids.
Fandango gave us a Story Starter prompt and Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story, being as creative with punctuation as we dare. This is my answer to Fan’s prompt and Girlie’s challenge. Enjoy! 🎶🎶🎶
One day when I was about nine years old, I was home with my mother when there was a knock on our door and when I answered it, I was very surprised to see Dottie Pessin – our pudgy-handed neighbor from around the corner who rarely made an appearance – standing there in her perpetually stained housecoat, carrying a thin, flat brown paper bag, hair in curlers, and declaring “Oh, Nancy, I’m soglad you’re home from school because I have something for you and I’d like to come in to show you.”
Well, it wasn’t every day that someone came to our door unannounced bearing gifts for me for no reason under the sun, so I was not about to turn Dottie away (I was no fool, even back then), but my mother had now joined us and was somewhat suspicious about this strange, unexpected visit and asked Dottie to explain herself, to which Dottie replied “I was out shopping when I came across this album of kid’s songs and I immediately thought of Nancy, so I bought it hoping she would like it” and clapping her pudgy hands added “I’m very anxious for her reaction so let’s give it a listen.”
Now, I don’t mind telling you this surprised the hell out of me and pleased me no end because I was already madly in love with everything about music and could barely contain my excitement as I reached for my little record player with the image of Brenda Lee on the lid; Dottie apparently shared my enthusiasm and as the music played she kept asking me “Do you like it? Do you like it?” to which I had to admit I did indeed like it very much (seeing as how I was a kid listening to an album of kid’s songs – what’s not to like?).
We listened to one side of the album and, as I was flipping it over to listen to the other side, Dottie exclaimed “Oh, I’m so pleased you like the album but I just noticed the time and the “Edge Of Night” is coming on in 15 minutes so I’m going to take the record back now and be on my way”; my mother, ever in She-Wolf mode, saw the confused and let-down look on my face and was damn well taken aback herself by that strange and sudden announcement by Dottie …. after all, the album was supposed to be a gift …. and my mother questioned Dottie in no uncertain terms “Just what the hell do you mean you’ll take Nancy’s gift back, Dottie?”
Without an apparent thought for others nor the slightest bit of remorse or worry …. not about my mother’s sizzling Sicilian volcano temper nor the sadness building in my eyes …. Dottie replied “Oh, this isn’t a gift for Nancy;I bought this for my friend’s daughter who’s the same age as Nancy, but since I don’t know anything about little girls (never having had any myself) and the things they like, I wanted to run it by Nancy first to get her opinion, just to make sure it was a good gift and my friend’s daughter wouldn’t be disappointed”, and with that, Dottie Pessin …. our pudgy-handed neighbor from around the corner who rarely made an appearance …. patted the curlers in her hair, took her thin, flat brown paper bag with the album of kid’s songs inside, held it tightly against her perpetually stained housecoat and bounced out our house like the giant green Grinchhelium balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade without so much as a pudgy-handed wave or a glance over her shoulder to spy a regret-filled teardrop fall onto my purple Daisy Duck sweater (because all the other girls wore Minnie Mouse sweaters and I was never like all the other girls).
Now, you may be asking yourself “Could something this bizarre really be true and how could that woman screw with a little girl’s feelings like that?” and I will tell you that it most certainly is true – every pitiful word; I have no idea how someone could be so unaware and insensitive (unless they have their head so far up their ass they can smell Brylcreem) but, after 60-plus years, I still remember that surreal afternoon with Dottie Pessin like it was yesterday and, being a smart cookie for a 9 year old, I had the same thought about Dottie back then as I have this very moment: “What a stupid bitch!” 🌋
This is the Rolling Stones performing “Bitch” …. as if anything else would do!
It’s time to celebrate Birthday Thursdays over at The Rhythm Section. No fuss, no muss – just wall-to-wall music. Stop by for some cake and sympathy! 🎂 https://rhythmsection.blog/
Sixty-something years had passed since that night on Amagansett Beach but the twins and their younger sister had never forgotten.
Their cousin, Susie, had been with them that night. She was the only one who didn’t run from the strange fluorescent orbs as they hovered above the shore. She was imprisoned, locked in place, arms reaching heavenward.
Susie was never the same after that night. Only ten years later, she died of unknown causes.
Now there were new reports of luminous globes suspended over the waters of Amagansett Beach; the twins and their sister felt an inexplicable compulsion to return.
Author’s Note: This story is based on true events experienced by my husband, his twin brother, their sister and their cousin when they were pre-teens. After that night, they never again discussed the mysterious and frightening incident. Quite a few years later during the course of conversation, they were shocked to discover they all had the same disturbing recurring dreams.
“It’s a nice house, don’t you think, Virginia? The property is a decent size. And the fresh air! Just what the doctor ordered.”
Finding the perfect house for his ailing wife was first and foremost on Edgar’s mind.
Encouragingly, he continued: “It’s quite affordable at $5 a month! Downstairs there’s one bedroom, the parlor and a nice kitchen which your mother will put to good use. And upstairs is another bedroom for us with my very own writing niche.”
From their carriage Virginia smiled at her husband, covering her mouth with a handkerchief as the deep cough began again. Edgar hurried to her side and she stared lovingly into his eyes. “Yes, my dear. I think we will be very happy here.”
“Then it’s settled! I’ll finalize the rental while you rest here.” Before returning to the cottage Edgar covered Virginia with a blanket to protect her from the cool April breeze.
Sitting in the carriage with her mother, Virginia gazed at the cottage. “A lovely little home for the three of us, Mother.” Closing her eyes, Virginia pictured their caged songbirds on the porch, a rocking chair nearby where she could rest in the sun and work on her needlepoint.
“Virginia, I’ve been waiting for you“
Opening her eyes, Virginia asked her mother to repeat what she just said, but Maria assured her she had said nothing. Again Virginia closed her eyes and again she heard the gentle voice in her ear.
“Virginia, welcome home”
An unusual peace came over Virginia as she realized it was the cottage whispering to her. “My lovely forever home”, she thought.
They moved in on a beautiful day in May of 1846 and they were happy there. In the evenings after eating a modest meal prepared by Maria, Edgar worked on his poem “Eulalie” while the family cat sprawled across his shoulders and Virginia dozed by the fireplace.
How Virginia glowed with happiness that gloriously sunny day as Edgar proudly displayed the etched wooden signpost which read “POE COTTAGE”.
But even with constant care, sunshine and fresh air, Virginia’s consumption became worse, her waif-like body wracked with fits of coughing.
In January Virginia’s health began to fail rapidly. Edgar stayed by her side day and night, reading to her, until at last on January 30, Virginia heard the whispering cottage beckoning her.
She died peacefully that night in Edgar’s warm embrace as he softly recited –
“This maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.”
Author’s Note: The Poe Cottage is the former home of American writer Edgar Allan Poe. It is located on Kingsbridge Road and the Grand Concourse in the Fordham neighborhood of The Bronx, New York, a short distance from its original location and about 20 minutes from the house where I grew up. I was privileged to visit Poe’s house many times. The cottage is now located in the northern part of Poe Park and is part of the Historic House Trust, listed on the National Register Of Historic Places, administered by The Bronx County Historical Society since 1975. It is believed to have been built in 1797.
It’s all new Birthday Thursdays at The Rhythm Section. No talk, no fuss, no muss. Just wall-to-wall music! Stop by and check it out! 🎂 https://rhythmsection.blog/
“Grammy, come see our new homework room. Daddy painted the walls for us. Come look!”
My grandchildren tug at my arms, leading me into their newly decorated room. There were three workstations for them to do their schoolwork, shelves lined with books and a big old wooden chest filled with treasures.
The underwater scenes my son painted were wondrous; honestly, the theme didn’t matter.
It was the memories that came flooding back to me from thirty years ago when he painted the walls of his own room with cartoon characters he created.
The other night I was sound asleep when I gradually became aware of a noise somewhere in the background of my mind. I could tell it wasn’t an intruder … nothing so threatening or invasive as that. It was more of an ambient sound; it came and went and I was only vaguely aware of it – just enough to ambush my slumber.
The recurring sound eventually roused me completely from my sleep. Asking myself “What is that?”, I elbowed my snoring husband and was rewarded with a prolonged, irritated grunt. Whispering his name and tapping him on the shoulder did nothing so I was forced to use the bicep shove.
“Honey! There’s a noise and it won’t stop. I think it may be coming from the bathroom.”
“GRLBRTH! Probly tlet. Jgl hndl” was my husband’s alien-sounding response. Being fluent in S.I. (Sleepus Interruptus), I had no trouble translating. I padded into the bathroom and jiggled the toilet handle, per my husband’s instructions. I listened to the water run for a bit, then stop. Quiet was restored.
All of a sudden, something felt like it darted by me and I was momentarily startled. Cautiously I found my way to the bedroom door, and peeked into the hall; without my glasses I could only make out blurred images but nothing seemed amiss. Satisfied all was as it should be, I turned back into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar to allow for the air to circulate on this cool September night.
I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up around my face. Just as I was about to slip back into the arms of Morpheus, the noise returned and I did an eye roll behind my closed lids. Reluctant to leave my cozy cocoon a second time, I chose the wait-and-see option. Eventually the sounds stopped and I fell back to sleep.
Like the soft beat of a tom-tom on a far-away island, the distant yet persistent swooshing sound once more made its presence known. My shoulders sagged and I sighed deeply; a grim realization set in – sleeplessness had won out. I felt cheated, gypped out of a decent night’s stay in The Land of Nod.
As I lay there becoming increasingly annoyed, another vexing fact occurred to me: today was the beginning of a long holiday weekend. The odds of contacting a plumber, let alone finding one willing to come to the house, would be slim at best.
I sat up in bed, my back resting against the cushy pillows, as my vision gradually became accustomed to the dimness of the pre-dawn hour. Squinting through sandy eyes, I barely made out an ethereal shadow in the bathroom; it was the Night Stalker – of that I was certain. I reached for my glasses and the creature’s image came into clear view. She looked directly into my eyes and intentionally, deliberately choosing to defy me, stretched out her arm.
What happened next was something I had never witnessed before; I stared in amazement. Part of me was amused, just slightly. Reaching for a paperback book on my nightstand, I heaved it in the general direction of the offender in the bathroom. The book missed its mark and succeeded only in knocking several items to the floor.
“You little bitch,” I hissed.
She jumped off the toilet and strolled away indifferently, typically ignoring my existence.
It’s all new Birthday Thursdays at The Rhythm Section. No talk, no fuss, no muss. Just wall-to-wall music! Stop by and check it out! 🎂 https://rhythmsection.blog/
“Well, hello there. I’m Big Blue. And you? Ah, a pleasure to meet you, Reader. Please have a seat, get comfortable and let me tell you a little about myself.
My family and I were purchased in 1964 by Nancy’s parents, Vito and Connie Schembre, for their home in the Bronx. Oh, we didn’t look anything like I do now! No, our upholstery was a green and gold velvet paisley which looked very elegant with the marble coffee table and white rug in the formal living room on the first floor. The only time The Schembres used the upstairs dining and living rooms was when special company came by.
Connie kept a beautiful house, immaculately clean from top to bottom. Like most Italian households, the basement was where the family really lived; it was fully furnished with a kitchen, dining area, bathroom and tv section. Connie had a nice sewing room where she spent many hours making costumes for school plays, clothes for her daughters and custom order dresses for a small clientele of local upper class women. And Vito had a workshop in the back where he’d make homemade wine and tinker with things that needed fixing which somehow never got fixed.
My parents were joined at the hip and formed one expansive sofa; my big sister was a loveseat and my twin brother and I recliners. Connie liked the fact that my brother and I were called “wall huggers” which meant our back stayed close to the wall and we didn’t sprawl out all over the place when in the reclining position. Why, we didn’t even look like your typical recliner.
The four of us together were just too much furniture for the formal living room so it was decided that I would join the more casual furniture downstairs in the tv section. When Connie wasn’t sewing at her old factory Singer, she enjoyed knitting in her rocking chair while Vito liked a good doze in his overstuffed armchair. Seventeen-year-old Rosemarie loved her bean bag chair (a hideous thing!) and I got to be 13-year-old Nancy’s chair! I couldn’t have been happier and neither could she; it was a big step up from a bunch of pillows tossed on the floor!
From my vantage point I could see everything that happened in the basement – Vito listening to opera, Connie frying her tantalizing meatballs every Sunday morning, the girls doing their homework at the kitchen table. I had a front row seat for every tv show the family watched. In fact, the only time Nancy didn’t sit on me with her legs comfortably stretched out was the time she sat on the floor five inches from the tv to watch the Beatles live on the Ed Sullivan Show.
Oh, the memories! I snuck a peek when Rosemarie made out with her first boyfriend Billy Mack. I held back tears of pain when Connie meticulously stitched my torn seam. And I was the only one in the basement that morning when Nancy sat at the kitchen table one hour before her wedding in her gown dunking Oreos into a tall glass of milk! How I wish I had a picture of that!
Then in 1977 the day came when the Schembres decided to move to a smaller house upstate. As a set, my parents, sister, brother and I were much too large for the new house and were placed on the curb for either someone to take home or to be picked up by the trash collectors. It was terrifying for me; the thought of going to strangers or being picked up for the trash was unbearable. At the last minute Nancy’s husband Bill picked me up and put me in their van. I was overjoyed to be going to live at Nancy’s house! I also overheard that one of Connie’s friends took the rest of my family for her son who had just gotten married and needed furniture. What could have been the worst day of my life turned into the best!
Now I have a really cool coat of soft blue leather and reside very comfortably in Nancy’s Beatles room. And Nancy spends hours sitting on me with her legs comfortably stretched out writing her stories. I tell you, dear Reader, things couldn’t be better! I’m so happy and I feel fine!
“Why don’t you invite Tony Bennett to the wedding?”
That’s something you might expect to hear Barbra Streisand or Billy Joel say – certainly not me! But I did make that suggestion and here’s how it all came about.
It was probably around 2004 when my son, Bill, first met Tony Bennett. I say “first” because Bill had the pleasure of working with Tony numerous times … at the tree lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center, the Grammy Awards and other gigs.
You see, Bill’s been a teleprompter for a lot of years; he’s had the great opportunity of working with celebrities ranging from Paul McCartney to Big Bird. His jobs are as varied as crayons in a jumbo Crayola box and just as colorful. I’m not going to bore you with names but the list is impressive. That’s how Bill met Tony.
These gigs – many of which are live – don’t happen in just one take. The crew and the performers (or “talent”, as they’re known in the business) can wind up spending a great deal of time on the set. Some talent remain aloof; others, like Tony Bennett, are the type to pull up a chair in the lounge and eat lunch with the crew.
Now I don’t want to brag but I raised a good son. Bill is a hard worker, agreeable, unassuming, pleasant, attractive and funny. Tony and Bill enjoyed working with each other very much – so much so that when Tony was asked to perform at the tree lighting again the following year, he requesting my son by name.
During down time at a rehearsal in 2007, Bill was talking about his upcoming wedding and Tony happened to be within earshot. He came over to congratulate Bill and they talked about “things” for a while. Tony wished Bill “a happy life”, shook his hand and that was that – until I found out about it that night. And I said what any mom would say:
“Why don’t you invite Tony Bennett to the wedding? He just might say ‘yes’.”
I gave Bill an invitation for him to give Tony the next day. He took it and placed it in his backpack. Well, let’s just say my son is a bit more circumspect than me; he opted not to impose on Tony and did not extend the invitation. I was a bit bummed out but it was Bill’s decision to make, not mine.
Still … can you just imagine what a gas it would have been if Tony Bennett had come to my son’s wedding?
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.
I wrote this story about 3 years ago and was going to repost it for Fandango’s One Word challenge which was “reasonable”. When I read through the whole thing, I couldn’t help noticing Fandango’s “like” at the end and a couple of comments we exchanged. Genius that I am, I quickly reasoned I must have submitted this for another one of Fandango’s word challenges so instead of going that route again, I thought “Why not share it with everyone?”. This is a letter from a mature me to a much younger me. I hope you enjoy what I had to say.PS: You’ll see I mentioned someone named Steven Tallarico; go ahead and Google him.I think you’ll be surprised to learn who he really is.
Top L: my family circa 1961 (I’m the shrimp) Botton L: me all glammed up, maybe 8 yrs ago R: me, 1974, Hampton Bays cool chic days
Did you ever wish you could go back in time to when you were five years old? That’s a reasonable age – old enough to grasp the difference between right and wrong yet young enough to be just a kid having lots of fun; not on the cusp of adulthood so it’s probably a good idea to try not to muck it all up.
If I, a seventy-something-year-old woman could write a letter to my five-year-old self, I might say something like this:
“Hey, you!
There’s a ginormous amount of ‘stuff’ that you’re gonna have to deal with in life so listen up:
• Everything you’ll ever need to know you’ll learn in kindergarten so pay attention. • Follow the Golden Rule, obey the Ten Commandments and listen to the Beatles because life really is about peace, love and understanding. • Mom and Dad aren’t the enemy; they’re doing the best they can so cut them some slack.
Right now you’re having the time of your young life. Your days are pretty much planned out. Mom does all the work and there aren’t a lot of demands on you. It’s mostly playing, eating, napping, doing a chore or two, sleeping; repeat tomorrow. Life is good and you’re a happy kid.
Sometimes, though, you’re gonna be so sad all you wanna do is cry and that’s ok; even big people cry. You won’t be sad forever. Other times you’re gonna get so mad you just wanna hit somebody, but that isn’t a good reaction – except if it’s Willie Casa; he’s the bully who lives three houses down. So when he hits you over the head with that plastic gun of his, you’re gonna bop him in the nose. And you know what? He’ll never bully you again.
Speaking of noses, yours is ok right now but in a few years it’s gonna turn into a real honker and you’re not gonna like it. You’ll get teased some and it’ll hurt. But hang in there because the most important guy in your life won’t care about that at all. He thinks you look like Sophia Loren and that’s a good thing. Besides, I know a good plastic surgeon.
Mom isn’t comfortable talking about a lot of personal stuff and you’re gonna wake up one morning to discover you’re body’s changing. It happens to all girls and while some of it is pretty yucky, most of it is really amazing. Let’s just say God knows what he’s doing and you’re gonna turn out ok.
When you’re about 13 somebody cool is gonna enter your life, coming and going for a couple of years. He’s a 16-year-old beanpole named Steven Tallarico – Google him. You might feel like kicking yourself because you didn’t run off with him but your whole life would have turned out differently and probably not for the best. Don’t worry. In 1968 you’re gonna go on a blind date and that guy will change your life forever and in the best ways imaginable.
You’re gonna make a lot of mistakes; everybody does. It doesn’t matter who you are in this giant world – you’re gonna screw up and believe me some of your booboos are doozies. You’re gonna hurt people and when the dust settles all you can do is apologize and try to make things right. The important thing is to own your mistakes and take responsibility.
Responsibility. Accountability. Big words with important meanings and so easy to overlook. They’re gonna be important to you and believe me, kid, there’s nothing wrong with that. People won’t always act the way you want them to; try to remember just because YOU think someone should act a certain way doesn’t mean it’s the right way for them. Let it go because it’s wrong to force people to do anything. And don’t let others force you.
Don’t be afraid to smile and make friends but don’t blindly trust people you don’t know. And if something doesn’t feel right, don’t do it. If somebody scares you, scream your head off and run like hell because there are some bad people out there. But there are also a lot of wonderful people and most of the time you’ll be able to see the difference. Sometimes you won’t and people will hurt you. Shame on them! Cut your losses and move on; it’s their problem, not yours.
Nobody’s life is perfect, not even yours. You can own a lot of great stuff but if you don’t have a loving family and friends then you don’t have anything. You will be greatly blessed in more ways than you can count – not by the wonderful things YOU do but by the wonderful people in your life.
Some things I’ve learned along the way: • Listen to Mom and Dad; they really do know more than you (especially about Woodstock!). • Go easy with the blue eye shadow; it’s not a great look. And watch out for sloe gin fizzes; they have a way of sneaking up on you and knocking you on your ass. • Be a friend, lend a hand and don’t judge; you never know what someone may be going through. • Be respectful – not only of others but of yourself. • The popular thing isn’t always the right thing and the right thing isn’t always the popular thing. That’s a tough one. • If you say you’re gonna do something, do it. Be responsible (see above). • Don’t be afraid to show your emotions and let people know how much you care; it’s how you know you’re alive. • Be flexible. Things don’t always go as planned. • You’re gonna have your heart broken more than a few times and you’re gonna break some hearts, too. It sucks but that’s just the way life is. • Don’t be late. Period. You can’t control the weather or traffic but you can anticipate it. • Don’t lie or make excuses. Not only does it show poor character – it’s too hard to remember all your tall tales. The truth always comes out. • Smoking is not cool so cut it out. It’s a disgusting and expensive habit. • Listen to the Beatles as much as you can; not only is their music just about the best you’ll ever hear, you’ll learn a lot from what they have to say. • Just be a decent person; it’s really not that difficult.
And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make.
Our picture challenge – what do you see when you look at this photo. This one was very difficult and painful for me to write.
Oh, my precious niece. Welcome to the family! I’ve waited so long to meet you and now you’re here.
I’ve longed to hold a little girl in my arms, to breath in that sweet baby smell.
You have two little cousins – my boys. They’re a bit older than you and they’ll protect you always, just as they would have protected their own sisters.
Yes, little one, I almost had baby girls, three in fact; it just wasn’t meant to be. The daughters I desperately wanted but never had. My body just couldn’t hold on to them.
They’re safe in heaven so don’t cry, my love; I cried enough to last a lifetime.
Now it’s time to say good night. Have no fear, sweet girl. I’ll always hold on to you.
This weekend our challenge is to write a poem or story in exactly 95 words incorporating the word “opera”. Please see the challenge link below the video.
About 20 years ago I discovered my son David could sing. He had been out at a karaoke bar and I heard he “blew the roof off the place” singing an Iron Maiden song.
Well, that was enough for me. When I heard him sing I was stunned. I convinced him to join me in our church choir. He soon became lead tenor and joined several opera companies.
Since COVID, David has not performed. You can be sure once he’s back on stage his dad and I will be right there in the front row.
NB – David is The Wandering Minstrel. This is the entire operetta starting at David’s entrance point. Please do not feel compelled to watch the entire show; however, if you do, I hope you enjoy the renaissance version of Il Mikado!
It was a picture-perfect day just before Christmas, 2001; not a cloud in the sky. My husband Bill and I were returning from a two-night stay at Foxwoods, a casino located in Ledyard, Connecticut. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive and we were enjoying the scenery and each other’s company. We fared well at the tables and were in good spirits, listening to the radio and discussing where we should stop for lunch. It was a fun get-away before the rush of Christmas.
The ride was smooth – clear sailing as far as we could see. I was driving at a fairly decent clip in the middle lane of a three-lane highway. As we rounded a slight bend in the road, we were startled to find the traffic had come to a stand-still. My vantage point had been cut off and I was completely caught off guard. Bill yelled “Watch out!” and I slammed on the brakes of my RAV4 hoping to avoid hitting any cars in front of me. In doing so, I swerved wildly and the rear end of my car fish-tailed out to the right. The car was now at a 45º angle. I was able to avoid crashing into any cars in front of me and I struggled to straighten out my car but the guy behind me came barrelling down the highway, slamming full force into the driver’s side rear quarter panel of my car.
Unless you’ve experienced a crash of that magnitude, it’s impossible to describe the impact; I never felt pressure like that before and it’s easy to see how the force could result in someone sustaining severe whiplash, a broken neck or worse. At that moment everything switched to slow motion, like we were floating in space. Acting on reflex, Bill raised his right arm above his head to protect himself.
We glanced at each other quizzically with that WTF look in our eyes as my car rolled over once, twice, three times then landed upright with a mighty thud like a miniature Sherman Tank on the right shoulder of the highway. It’s miraculous that no other cars hit us as we rolled over to the side of the road. How the hell did my car manage to land on its tires? Thank God it did; I can’t imagine what it would have been like landing upside down, the roof smashed in, dangling from our seat belts. What seemed like an eternity probably took all of five seconds. The guy who hit us was stranded in the middle of the highway, the front end of his car smashed in. We learned later that his car was a rental and the driver had no insurance.
Immediately upon settling, there was a tremendous whooshing sound as the sunroof caved in on us; we were showered with fragments of glass, dirt and gravel which the car must have scooped up as it rolled over. The safety glass of the windshield was totally shattered but did not fall apart or crumble into the car, seemingly held together by some sort of invisible industrial-strength tape. My only injury was a whacked left knee, probably because I had a death grip on the steering wheel the entire time. Bill wasn’t so lucky; his raised hand did little to protect him. His head was cut and bleeding and the index finger of his raised hand had a deep gash. His hand had also been badly jammed as we rolled over, sending shock waves of intense pain from his fingers all the way up his arm, into his shoulder and neck.
To say we were stunned would be a huge understatement. This was something we saw on TV; it didn’t happen to us. We became aware of the high-pitched “beep beep” of a tractor trailer truck approaching us in reverse. The truck driver witnessed the accident, pulled off the road and backed up to see if we were alright. Of all the vehicles on the road at that moment, only one person stopped to check on us. Jumping out of the cab of his rig, the trucker told us not to move while he called for help.
Within minutes we were surrounded by police cars, fire engines and ambulances. The doors of my RAV had to be pried open so we could be extricated safely; I was able to walk to the ambulance but Bill was strapped onto a gurney. He was covered with a blanket, still unable to lower his arm. It was a surreal sight watching him being lifted into the ambulance and I heard him yell out in pain as his fingers brushed against the roof of the vehicle. I didn’t even look back at my car as we were whisked away to a local hospital.
After being examined, I was told I had no serious injuries but Bill needed X-rays and an MRI. The cut on his head was stapled and bandaged; his lacerated finger was sutured and placed in a finger splint. The MRI revealed a pinched nerve which was preventing him from lowering his arm. The poor guy was in agony and the doctors talked about keeping him overnight. The last thing Bill wanted was to be admitted to an unfamiliar hospital and he made that perfectly clear to me and the doctors. They insisted he stay for at least a few hours for observation but after that, if they thought he was stable enough for the ride back to New York, they would not keep him against his will. Bill was worried about me but I assured him I was fine. He asked me where my car was and I feebly replied that I didn’t know. That’s when I realized I needed to take action; first on the list was to track down my wrecked car and all our belongings.
I was running on nothing but shock and adrenaline; the only reason I didn’t collapse from the trauma was because I knew I had to get things done. I must have looked a mess with ripped clothes and my hair full of road debris but I didn’t care. It’s amazing what’s important and what isn’t when your back is against the wall; it’s called survival.
The first thing I did was call the police station to find out where my car had been towed; all our luggage, including the money we won at the casino, was in the car along with the usual stuff people keep in their vehicles – everything from important car documents to extra packets of ketchup. Once I found out where my car was impounded, I asked someone at the nurse’s station for the phone number of a taxi company to take me to the salvage yard. When the taxi showed up, I was more than a little surprised to see it was a stretch limo. The driver told me he had a lot of upcoming jobs transporting people to and from Christmas events and he had just picked up the limousine.
When we arrived at the junk yard, I explained to the people in the tiny cubicle of an office who I was and why I was there; I was greeted with shocked silence and slack-jawed expressions. Finally the hush was broken when the manager pointed out the window to my RAV4 and said “You mean to tell me that’s your car? We didn’t think anyone walked away from that accident!”
We walked over to what was once my beautiful car. What I saw before me was a heap of mangled metal and broken glass. Had it not been for my ‘vanity plates’, I would not have believed that was my car. I stared at the wreckage in bewilderment; how were we alive?
Once the reality hit me, my knees buckled and I held onto the car to steady myself. The people from the junk yard gathered several boxes for me and the taxi driver helped me get everything out of the car. He removed my license plates and checked all the compartments to make sure we got everything. I don’t know how much I could have done without him. Satisfied that the car was empty, the driver loaded the boxes into the trunk of the limo and we returned to the hospital.
On the ride back I told the driver, whose name I found out was Yosef, about the accident and that Bill was hurt, unable to lower his arm. Yosef asked me where we lived and how I planned to get home. When I told him I hadn’t thought about that yet, he offered to drive us home. What?! It was almost three hours to New York and another three hours back, but he didn’t balk. He said it was the perfect solution; all our stuff from my car was already in the limo and there was plenty of room for Bill to lie down comfortably on the spacious sofa-like seat in the back.
This man, a total stranger, was willing to wait as long as it took to get us safely home. I accepted his kind offer and slumped down onto a chair in the hospital waiting room. I had to call our sons at home to tell them what happened. They were understandably concerned and wanted to drive up to Connecticut to bring us home but I told them it was all arranged; I just wanted them to stay put and be safe. I didn’t even realize Yosef had disappeared until he returned with a bagel and a cup of coffee for me. I couldn’t believe how kind that man was and I thanked him saying the food would help with my pounding headache. As if by magic, Yosef produced a couple of Advil. I looked up at him and he was smiling, one gold tooth sparkling in the bright hospital lights. At that moment he looked just like a guardian angel.
I must have dozed off in the waiting room. When I woke up I was under a warm blanket, my head resting on a soft pillow – definitely not hospital issue. A bit dazed, I glanced around the room; there was Yosef sitting in the corner, talking on his cell phone. He saw me and gave a little wave. I ran my hand over the blanket, my eyes asking if he had provided it; Yosef smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I silently mouthed the words “thank you” and held my clenched fist against my heart.
I checked my phone, surprised to see that four hours had gone by. A nurse came into the waiting room; I recognized her as one of the nurses who had been taking care of Bill. She asked me to go with her and I followed her to one of the many curtained-off beds in the ER. Bill was lying on his back, his arm still up but bent at the elbow with his bandaged hand behind his head. The doctor explained to me that he gave Bill a strong shot of Demerol and a muscle relaxant. He was able to gently manipulate Bill’s arm into a more comfortable position but he would need physical therapy to gain full range of motion. By the look on Bill’s face, it was obvious the meds were doing their job; he was pretty out of it. The doctor gave me two prescriptions to have filled when we returned home and said that Bill was free to go. He also advised me to get the prescriptions filled as soon as possible; Bill would definitely be needing them once the initial dose began to wear off.
With some assistance Bill was able to get into a wheelchair and escorted to the ER waiting room where Yosef greeted us. It wasn’t easy but we managed to make Bill comfortable in the spacious rear section of the limo; even in his drugged condition he was impressed with the car. There were bottles of water in the mini-fridge and more of Yosef’s blankets and pillows to make the ride home as cushioned as possible. Once we knew Bill was secure, we began our journey back.
Yosef suggested we stop at the nearest CVS Pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled. Since the meds were “controlled substances”, the script would only be valid in the issuing state; I wouldn’t be able to get Bill’s meds in New York – something I didn’t think of. Once again Yosef came to my rescue and we stopped at CVS before continuing our trip.
We rode in silence for a little while, then I thanked Yosef for the blankets and pillows. He said “it was nothing”; he had gone home while I was napping in the ER, told his wife Zeynep what was going on and she insisted he take the pillows and blankets with him. That gave me an opening to find out a little more about this Good Samaritan who crossed my path that day.
Yosef and Zeynep were married for only a short time when the Iraqi Kurdish Civil war broke out in 1994. He talked quietly about the war and the horrors he witnessed. He swore that if he and his bride made it out safely he would strive to help anyone in need whenever he could. With the assistance of American forces, he and Zeynep were able to escape their town of Diyarbakir in Turkey. They made it to Greece, then on through Italy, France and finally to England where Zeynep had relatives in Birmingham. They stayed in England for several months, then decided to emigrate to The States, settling in Connecticut. The couple found work in a small Turkish restaurant and when Zeynep became pregnant and could no longer work, Yosef took on a second job as a taxi driver. He said they had two little girls – Aiyla and Esana – the treasures of his life.
Just then my stomach growled and I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat all day except a bagel and coffee. Yosef said there was a basket with some food in the back of the limo and I should help myself. Zeynep had prepared black olives, hummus, ekmek flatbread and a thermos of black tea. Yosef said it was the perfect food for travelers – something that was easy to carry and provided sustenance as well as comfort. I sat near Bill and ate my meal with gratitude for this stranger who found me at a time when I desperately needed help.
I asked Yosef what his name meant; he replied “God increases”. How very fitting. He went on to say that Zeynep meant “precious gem”, Esana meant “safeguard” and Aiyla meant “moonlight”. I scribbled everything Yosef told me on a paper napkin. Maybe it was my imagination working overtime or the fact that Christmas was just days away but those names made me think of the birth of Jesus and what Christmas was really all about.
Yosef asked me the meaning of our names; I explained that Bill was short for William which meant “strong-willed warrior” and my name, Nancy, meant “filled with grace”. Yosef thought they suited us; I thought that day they couldn’t have been more appropriate.
The ride was uneventful and time passed quickly. Before I knew it, Yosef had delivered us safely home. Together with the help of my sons, Yosef managed to get Bill from the car into the house. Bill was awake now but groggy and he reached for Yosef’s hand. With a voice heavy with emotion Bill whispered “Thank you for everything”. Smiling, Yosef nodded and wished Bill well.
My sons brought the boxes into our house and I walked with Yosef to his car. I took some money out of my coat pocket to pay him for everything he had done – if one could even put a price on all he did. He covered my hands with his saying “No, please. Idid not do this for money. I truly believe there was a reason I received your call for help – to aid you in your time of distress. Seeing you safely home is all the reward I need.” I was overcome with emotion and humility and I impulsively hugged Yosef. I wasn’t at all embarrassed by my actions or that my face was streaked with tears of gratitude.
I croaked out a heartfelt “Thank you, Yosef. God bless you and your family. Merry Christmas”. He smiled and replied “God’s blessings on you, Nancy filled with grace”.
I stood outside my house as Yosef drove away, watching the taillights of the limo disappear down the street. I looked up at the pale moon; to the north was a dazzlingly bright star shining in the black sky.
It was a cold night but my heart was glowing. I truly felt like “Nancy filled with grace”.
What was left of my car
This is a true account of a terrifying situation; we will never forget that accident 20 years ago today. God was watching over us.
A big shout-out to the caring trucker, whoever you are. Huge thanks to all the incredible emergency and medical personnel who cared for us.
Blessings upon blessings forever to Yosef, Zeynep, Ailya and Esana. Yosef – there are no adequate words to express our gratitude. You are a giant among men.
Sincere good wishes to all who read this. May you have a wondrous Christmas!
The Elephant's Trunk 