It’s now one month post op. I have spent a lot of time looking out my bedroom window contemplating the healing transformation of my body and the seasonal metamorphosis as we gently slip from summer into autumn. I had been facing physical limitations as I aged; they have now been compounded by my back surgery. On bad days I curse myself for agreeing to this procedure but I know it was the right choice. Getting back on my feet is taking longer than I anticipated. Like the brittle tree branches that come with autumn, my bones are not what they once were. But now I have a chance to walk among the fallen crimson and golden leaves instead of simply watching them drop from the trees and for that I’m grateful. I am better today than I was two weeks ago and in two more weeks I’ll be better than I am today. It’s a process.
warm burnished tones of autumn as days grow short the earth prepares for new life
For as long as I can remember, music has been in my life in one form or another. There was never a time when I was not singing in a choir or choral group, either in church or school. My family was musical and the house was always alive with radio music, records playing, someone practicing the piano, someone else playing the mandolin, someone tinkering with the guitar, recorder, squeezebox, drums, and everyone singing, singing, singing.
I will always remember my Christmas present when I was 12 years old … a portable record player which my parents repeatedly made very clear was not ‘a toy’. I knew that! The toy phonographs came with Howdy Doody decals or Mickey Mouse ears and were made out of cardboard painted to look like leather or plastic. I had those toy record players which didn’t last very long; this was the real deal. To me, my teal blue General Electric Solid State record player was ‘the Holy Grail’! My parents spent “good money on that thing” and expected me to treat it with respect. What they didn’t predict was how I would worship that suitcase phonograph every day of my life.
This baby had built-in speakers that really blew! And a real diamond tip needle. My older cousin Joseph taught me the proper way to raise and lower the arm and how to safely get the dust off my records. My parents gave me and my sister a weekly allowance and I used most of my money to buy records.
The first 45 to grace my record player was “Da Doo Ron Ron” by the Crystals (which was prophetic because “his name was Bill”!). The early girl groups were my idols; I loved their sound and their lyrics were perfect for young girls with hormones working overtime. Then the Beatles invaded the US and my life was changed forever.
That GE teal blue record player became my best friend and I took very good care of it. After I was married, we had a hi-tech stereo system in the living room but I still kept my phonograph upstairs in the bedroom where we’d listen to romantic tunes like “A Million To One”, “Daddy’s Home”, “I Only Have Eyes For You” and “Ooh Baby Baby”. When our sons were old enough, I handed down my record player to them and now our 15 year old granddaughter has it in her bedroom. Her latest purchase was the soundtrack to Guardians of the Galaxy which is pretty damn cool.
Thanks to Keith Allen for the invitation to write a little something on his new blog. I hope you enjoyed what I had to share today.
The exact year escapes me but it was a long time ago, to be sure. It was the summer we returned from vacation to find our tomatoes had ripened into gorgeous red orbs ready for eating. I could practically smell that grassy-green, spicy-sweet summery aroma. But something seemed wrong, off somehow. I felt like I was not alone in my garden, like I was being watched. Taking a closer look, I discovered disturbingly large caterpillars feasting on our lovely harvest. The bloated green creatures blended in so well with the underside of the leaves, it took a few seconds to register why our crop was full of gaping holes. Probing, boring, ravaging, gorging, hoarding. No tomato was salvaged that summer. Not one. That was the year I stopped planting tomatoes.
garden interlopers devastation signaling summer’s end
Written for Song Lyric Sunday. This week Jim Adams has asked his readers to choose a song that makes them think about life. Here’s mine.
To talk about my featured song, I first need to tell you about my friend, Roberta. She and I had been friends since our sons attended nursery school together, some 44 years ago. Even back then in her early 30s, Roberta had a shock of gorgeous silver-white hair that was always perfectly yet casually coiffed. Just like my grandmother, Roberta’s hair color changed when she was in her 20s and I never saw her with a different color or style.
Roberta’s laugh was one of a kind …. some might call it a cackle …. and you heard her long before you saw her! She rarely took life too seriously and was very forthcoming with her opinions, whether you wanted to hear them or not. I guess you could call her a ‘free spirit’; she lived very much in the moment, often arriving late for appointments because she ran into someone who needed a friend to talk to.
There was never any doubt where you stood with Roberta. If she was pissed off about something, you knew it. She’d speak her mind, clear the air and never mention the issue again. Done and forgotten. But not just forgotten …. forgiven as well. She didn’t hold a grudge; I always thought that was an admirable trait. And she didn’t lie. If anything, she was too honest and her ‘bluntness’ could turn people off. She really didn’t care what people thought about her; life was not a popularity contest. As I said, people always knew exactly how Roberta felt.
She was a devout Catholic, attending Mass every weekend, but she was never showy about it. Roberta and her husband Martin were in charge of the church’s food pantry …. collecting food for families in need …. and not just during the holidays or when a crisis hit but every day of the year …. however, the holidays were very important to Roberta, especially Christmas. That was when she amped up the drive for food, clothes and gifts for needy families in the area, especially the children. In all the years I knew Roberta, I don’t remember anyone else heading up the food pantry except her. She and Martin were special people, far from saints but doing God’s work in an unassuming way.
It came as a terrible blow to everyone when Roberta became dangerously ill almost overnight in August 2014 and was diagnosed with West Nile Virus (for which there is no vaccine or cure although most people recover with proper care). Roberta had an extremely virulent case and within days she lapsed into a coma and never regained consciousness. At one point, she was the only documented case of “death by West Nile Virus” in Westchester County, NY.
The day I visited Roberta at the nursing home was one I will never forget. Had it not been for her name on the door and her glorious mane of white hair, I would not have recognized my longtime friend; the virus left her body terribly swollen, facial features almost fused together. I sat by her bedside, held her hand and sang a song I had sung many times before. And as I sang to my friend, I saw her eyelid barely flutter and her finger quiver ever so slightly and no one will ever convince me that she was unaware of my presence. Four months later, during Christmas week, Roberta died. It was the perfect time for her to take her leave.
The song I sang to my friend that day in the nursing home was “What A Wonderful World”.
According to Wikipedia, “What A Wonderful World” was written by Bob Thiele and George David Weiss. It was first recorded by Louis Armstrong and released as a single in 1967. In April 1968, it topped the pop chart in the UK but performed poorly in the United States because the president of ABC Records disliked the song’s arrangement and refused to promote it. (There’s more on Wiki about that and it’s pretty interesting.) After the song was heard in the 1987 film Good Morning, Vietnam, it was reissued as a single in 1988 and rose to #32 on the Billboard Hot 100. Louis Armstrong’s recording was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 1999.
Every time I hear this song, I remember Roberta and our last visit together. This is “What A Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong.
LYRICS
I see trees of green Red roses too I see them bloom For me and you And I think to myself What a wonderful world
I see skies of blue And clouds of white The bright blessed day The dark sacred night And I think to myself What a wonderful world
The colors of the rainbow So pretty in the sky Are also on the faces Of people going by I see friends shaking hands Saying, “How do you do?” They’re really saying I love you
I hear babies cry I watch them grow They’ll learn much more Than I’ll ever know And I think to myself What a wonderful world Yes, I think to myself What a wonderful world Ooh, yes
Ten days out from spinal fusion surgery and my lower back still hurts like a bitch on wheels. This is a much more difficult surgery/recovery than I expected; bearing in mind what’s involved …. what has been cut through, ground down, fused together with various types of hardware, and stapled, sutured and bandaged closed …. I should have realized it would not be easy. And my doctor sent me home with Tylenol …. not even extra strength but regular Tylenol. Really?
Getting around the house with a walker, dressing myself and doing basic toilette is not problematic; beyond basic, it’s damn near impossible. What’s not allowed: stomach sleeping, bending or twisting at the waist, lifting anything heavier than 5 pounds. And, apparently, pain medication.
These days, I just about live in my electric recliner, getting up every hour or so to walk around, followed by icing my back. I tried eating my meals in the kitchen with Bill; it’s good to have a change of scenery and some normal time with him. The chairs, however, are not comfortable just yet so we eat together in the living room where there’s an over-large electric recliner with my name on it.
Making myself comfortable in a recliner is easier than in bed but still more difficult than I would have thought; the vertical 6″ incision is centrally located on the small of my back so I’m aware of every movement. There’s always something that hurts, that’s too big or too small, too hard or too soft, flattened out or all scrunched up, or just out of reach. Finding the perfect cushion has been a crusade; thankfully, Bill holds on to everything! Fortunately, once I fall asleep, I’m out for most of the night. Getting out of the recliner in the morning is slow-going as I’m stiffened-up from sleeping all night. It’s a process.
As far as my blogging goes, I’ll write when the mood strikes. I miss you and our camaraderie but my energy and strength are down. It took me two days just to write this! I apologize for not reading or commenting on your posts and I’m sure I’m not going to …. at least not for a while. I’m just not up to it.
Well, that’s the story, kids; taking life one day at a time.
Be good to yourselves. See you on the flip side. 😎
PS – As much as I’d love to hear from you, please try not to compare your own situation to mine or tell me about your dear Aunt Betty who was never the same after her surgery. I know you mean well but we’re all different and heal differently; downer stories don’t help. It’s human nature but a “get well soon!” would be far better and greatly appreciated. Thanks!
Hi, kids! I’m still here … a little worse for wear but hanging on.
It’s been just over one week since my spinal fusion surgery and I’ve asked myself the same question a few dozen times:
“WHY DID I DO THIS??”
I was talking to a friend today about back surgeries and, since my incision is centrally located on my lower back, I feel the pain everywhere regardless of my position or what I’m doing … and it hurts a lot.
Having gone through this herself a few times times, my friend reminded me that back surgery is a major deal and to cut myself some slack. I did what was necessary and recoup is going to be hard but I also need to remember it’s only been one week. I feel pretty dreadful right now but I realize that’s the norm.
“You’re strong … you got this” she said, and she’s right.
Well, on the bright side, I walk around the house with my walker every 90 minutes, then apply ice. I was walking every hour but by the time I finished walking and icing, there was little time to do anything else!
There’s no point in trying to play catch-up with your posts; once I start blogging regularly, I’ll begin reading your posts as well. But I’m not back yet; this is just a note to say “Hi” and to let you know I’m still here! And big hugs to those of you who scoped out my email address. It was really nice to hear from you.
I didn’t want to end this message with a downer of a song so here’s one of my favorites … a classic R&B tune by Booker T. & The M.G.s to help us chill out. It’s called “Green Onions”.
Well, kids, the possibility has become a reality. First thing this morning I will be having back surgery. It’s time; I can’t put it off any longer. Hopefully it won’t be too much of an ordeal but one never knows with these things. I’ll be off WordPress while I recuperate. Comments on this post have been disabled simply because I won’t be able to respond to them as quickly as I’d like and I apologize for that. I’m sure you understand.
That’s the story, my friends. See you on the flip side. 😎
Best always
~ Nancy
This is the R.E.M. song “Everybody Hurts” performed by Joe Cocker.
LYRICS
When your day is long And the night, the night is yours alone When you’re sure you’ve had enough Of this life, well hang on
Don’t let yourself go ‘Cause everybody cries Everybody hurts sometimes
Sometimes everything is wrong Now it’s time to sing along
When your day is night alone (hold on, hold on) If you feel like letting go (hold on) If you think you’ve had too much Of this life, well hang on
‘Cause everybody hurts Take comfort in your friends Everybody hurts
Don’t throw your hand, oh no Don’t throw your hand If you feel like you’re alone No, no, no, you are not alone
If you’re on your own in this life The days and nights are long When you think you’ve had too much Of this life to hang on
Well, everybody hurts sometimes Everybody cries Everybody hurts, sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes So hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on
Gemelli pasta. Gemelli is the Italian word for ‘twins’
Resemblance can be a freaky thing. Supposedly everyone has a doppelgänger; someone out there is a duplicate of you with your mother’s eyes, your father’s nose and that annoying mole you’ve always wanted to have removed. We might even have several pairs of clones walking around, each totally unaware of the other’s existence.
It’s been said the longer people have a pet, the more they begin to resemble that pet. Dogs have been matched by strangers to their owners time and time again. The same is true for people; have you ever seen a long-married couple who now look like a set of bookends?
I have many relatives in Italy and Sicily; my family has always said one particular cousin and I have looked like each other since birth. We were born days apart and are called “I Gemelli” … “The Twins”. The first time my cousin Franco and I met, we just stared at each other in fascination. I think Franco and I do bear a strong resemblance however his eyes are blue while mine are green and he’s got a lot more facial hair than I do! LOL! And we have the same Sicilian nose!
My cousin Franco and me
The other day I wrote about my best friend Debby and how alike we are, not just our personalities but our physical appearance as well. One of my WP friends was quite interested in my story and left several comments and questions. I promised I’d write a little bit more about me and Debby … two unrelated women who could pass for sisters, perhaps twins at times.
I can’t explain how these things happen but events at my son’s wedding a few years ago proved the old saying true: fact is stranger than fiction.
There were a lot people at the wedding … family, friends, coworkers. My sister, Rosemarie, was there as was my friend Debby. The time arrived during the wedding reception for a family photo session. The music was playing, people were dancing and milling about. Janet, the wedding photographer, was scrambling around trying to wrangle immediate family members for photos. Craning her neck for a better look into the crowded room, Janet turned to me in surprise and said, “You’ve been holding out on me!”
I had no idea what Janet was talking about and asked her what she meant. She replied, “I know your husband has a twin brother but I had no idea you have a twin sister!”
This conversation went back and forth for a little while … me trying to convince Janet that I didn’t have a twin sister and Janet insisting I did! Of course, Janet was talking about Debby! I laughed and said to her “I really hate to burst your twin bubble but she’s not my sister; she’s my best friend.” When I spotted Rosemarie on the dance floor, I said to Janet, “See the woman in the cream-colored dress? She’s my sister.” I guess I really couldn’t blame Janet; even my new daughter-in-law’s relatives thought the same thing. To make matters more confusing, Debby and I were wearing the same dress (totally unplanned)! Mine was deep purple while hers was dark blue.
It took a lot of convincing for Janet to finally accept the fact that Debby wasn’t my sister and that Rosemarie was. I guess the idea of two sets of twins in the same room was just too exciting for Janet … a missed photo op! I wonder if the same people who matched the pet owners with their dogs would match me and Debby as sisters?
You be the judge.
Me (L) and Debby on Halloween
At the wedding.
Two brunettes with summer tans.
Twins? Maybe, maybe not, but the resemblance is strong….
Eastern-most Long Island, New York. A little village called Montauk. “The End”, according to locals. Drive to the tip of the peninsula, walk a few steps and you’re in the Atlantic Ocean … literally.
1984 was our first visit. “Let’s go out for a weekend. If we don’t like it, we won’t go back.” Famous last words. We stayed at a no frills family motel on the beach; it was paradise.
Step outside the motel and watch your toes disappear into the sand. Big pool filled with sunburned families having the time of their lives. Huge towels and colorful umbrellas cover the beach.
An old salt regales us with tales about the first German U-boats arriving off Montauk in June, 1942. Psyched, we ride our bikes to the lighthouse where we discover WWII bunkers buried deep in the woods.
Montauk’s pizza place and ice cream joint are constantly busy. Drive five minutes west on ‘the stretch’ to a place known simply as “LUNCH” for a mouth-watering lobster roll or puffers and chips.
At night little fires dot the beach, glowing and crackling. Kids stab marshmallows with long sticks and plunge them into the flames for a gooey sweet treat that won’t be eaten again till next summer. Our boys’ hair is sun-streaked, skin bronzed, feet perpetually coated in sand. They’re happy as clams.
In time we started renting a house with a pool; vacations lasted six weeks; 35+ years of unforgettable family memories made, Montauk style.
The Memory Motel has been a fixture in Montauk since the mid-1920s. When the Rolling Stones were out at the east end, they would visit the bar at the motel for some heavy drinking, dancing, shooting pool, tussling, scuffling, and playing the only piano in town until sunrise.
It was 1965, a big year – my sister’s graduation, the Beatles concert and our trip to Sicily.
We spent a day at Mom’s cousin Concetta’s farmhouse outside Agrigento. Goats, sheep and a donkey grazed in the field among the olive trees. Chickens scurried around the barnyard like drunken spinning tops. They were extremely entertaining – our favorite.
We hung out with the animals all morning. In the afternoon we drove to Agrigento to explore the shops.
Upon returning to Concetta’s, we sat down for dinner. Pasta to start, of course. When she brought out the roast chickens, we burst into tears.
Here are three ridiculously talented Sicilian guys from Palermo playing a tune called “The Chicken”. They are Matteo Mancuso (guitar), Riccardo Oliva (bass) and Salvatore Lima (drums). Enjoy this one.
Sometimes in life you make a connection with another person and you know right away it’s special. That happened to me 40 years ago on the day we moved into our new house.
We weren’t moving very far – just about a quarter mile from where we were living. That’s the wonderful thing about this little town; no one wants to leave! It’s quaint, friendly, clean and quiet with it’s beautiful harbor full of ships bobbing peacefully on small waves.
Moving day arrived and the crew was busy getting our boxes loaded for shipping to the new house. My husband stayed behind making sure all went smoothly while I headed over to the new house with our two small sons to wait for the moving vans.
We were sitting on the floor of our empty house playing a game when someone knocked on the door. It was our new neighbor, Debby, who came over to introduce herself. When she saw us sitting on the floor, she insisted we go over to her place which was right next door. When I explained that I was waiting for the moving vans to arrive, Debby said I’d have a clear view of my house from her comfortable sofa. I didn’t need any more convincing and agreed to go over.
When we walked into Debby’s house, the first thing I noticed were the numerous framed photos of large fishing ships, most of them with her husband grinning and displaying a huge fish. I thought how nice it would be for my husband to have a fellow fisherman living next door.
Debby and I started talking and it was as easy and natural as rain. We had so much in common, it felt like we’d known each other all our lives. She also had two young sons and my boys had instant friends. We talked non-stop while I waited for the movers to show up; by the time the vans arrived, a great friendship had been formed and is still going strong. We’ve been through bad hair days, secrets, laughs, tears, vacations, runs to the emergency room, weddings, flooded basements, missing cats, birthdays, Covid, lots of wine, illness, school fairs, Christmases and devastating deaths.
It’s so nice when you have neighbors you get along with; it’s priceless when you have a great relationship like mine and Debby’s. We’re very close and so much alike, people think we’re sisters. If I need to cry or share a laugh, Deb’s the first one I call. The same is true for her. We are each others best friend, two women lucky to have this amazing “soulship” to carry us through the calm and choppy waters of life.
This ovi poem is based on a horrible rollover accident from 2001 in which my husband and I were involved. The photo above is what was left of my car. I believe in God and I’m sure he was watching over us. It’s been 23 years but I still have dreams of that day.
So, I was on the road early this morning and there was a good deal of traffic. Fortunately, the long version of “Light My Fire” came on SiriusXM followed by a Rush yawn-athon. I won’t inflict Rush on you but here are the Doors. Knock yourselves out, kids!
Today at Song Lyric Sunday, Jim has asked us to choose a song that begins with the same letter as our first name. For me that would be the letter N. Here is my song.
L-R Nancy Sinatra Jr, Frank Sinatra Sr, Nancy Sinatra Sr, Frank Sinatra Jr; in front Tina Sinatra, 1948
When I say “here is my song” I really mean MY song. From the time I was a baby and able to understand a few words, this song was special to me. As I got older it became even more special … particularly when my dad would sing it. There are a lot of memories attached to this song; I honestly thought it was written for me and that Frank Sinatra was singing it directly to me. You may recall from another of my posts that my dad hated Sinatra; this may be the only song by Frank that Dad liked. My sister Rosemarie really hated my song because she didn’t like any of HER songs; she’d whine that her songs weren’t as pretty and personal as mine and she’d get annoyed every time it was played. But the thing she hated the most was the line “sorry for you, she has no sister”! I guess I can’t blame her for that!
Have you figured out what my song is? Since it was made popular by Frank Sinatra most people wrongly assumed the song was composed specifically for his daughter. Well, that was a pretty big clue so you must know the answer by now! My song choice for today’s Song Lyric Sunday is “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)”.
The music for the song was composed in 1942 by Jimmy Van Heusen with lyrics written by comedian/lyricist Phil Silvers; it was originally called “Bessie (With the Laughing Face)”. Bessie? Who the hell was Bessie? Well, back in 1942 there was a famous lyricist named Johnny Burke who was married to our mysterious Bessie. Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers wrote the song for their friend Johnny Burke as a surprise for his wife Bessie’s birthday.
All the women at Bessie Burke’s birthday party loved the song so much, they started requesting that it be sung at their parties as well. Apparently Frank Sinatra wasn’t at any of those parties because when his friends Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers sang the song as “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)” at little Nancy Sinatra’s birthday party, Frank broke down and cried, thinking it had been written especially for his daughter! Johnny Burke, Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers wisely didn’t correct him.
In 1944, Frank Sinatra recorded the song as “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)” and it became a fan favorite. When I was born several years later, the song became a favorite in our house as well.
This is “Nancy” by Frank Sinatra
Lyrics
If I don’t see her each day, I miss her Gee, what a thrill each time I kiss her Believe me, I’ve got a case On Nancy with the laughin’ face She takes the winter and makes it summer But summer could take some lessons from her Picture a tomboy in lace That’s Nancy with the laughin’ face Did you ever hear mission bells ringin’? Well, she’ll give you the very same glow When she speaks you would think it was singin’ Just hear her say hello I swear to goodness you can’t resist her Sorry for you, she has no sister No angel could replace Nancy with the laughin’ face
Keep Betty Grable, Lamour and Turner She makes my heart a charcoal burner It’s heaven when I embrace My Nancy with the laughin’ face
Today’s theme at Song Lyric Sunday is all about songs that feature great guitar riffs. Here’s my response. 🎸
My featured song today has one of the most recognizable and oft-played riffs in rock ’n’ roll history – solid, simple and catchy as hell. And yet, as Deep Purple singer Ian Gillan once said, “Smoke On The Watermight never have been released”, because initially the band didn’t think of it as anything special.
In the winter of 1971, when Purple began work on the Machine Head album in Montreux, Switzerland, guitarist Ritchie Blackmore played the riff in their first jam session, and as Gillan recalled: “We didn’t make a big deal out of it. It was just another riff. We didn’t work on the arrangement – it was a jam.”
But by the end of the recording sessions they came up short of material, and so, in Gillan’s words, “We dug out that jam and put vocals to it.” Blackmore played his Strat and was plugged into – as far as Gillan could recall – “a Vox AC30 and/or a Marshall”. Over that mighty riff, the singer told the true story of how the Montreux casino – where Purple had been scheduled to record – burned down in a fire that started during a Frank Zappa concert. The lyrics “someone stupid with a flare gun burned the place to the ground” were born and with that, a deathless rock classic was created.
This is “Smoke On The Water” by Deep Purple.
Lyrics
We all came out to Montreux On the Lake Geneva shoreline To make records with a mobile, yeah We didn’t have much time now
Frank Zappa and the Mothers Were at the best place around But some stupid with a flare gun Burned the place to the ground
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky (Smoke) on the water, you guys are great
They burned down the gambling house It died with an awful sound Funky Claude was running in and out He was pulling kids out the ground now
When it all was over Find another place Swiss time was running out It seemed that we would lose the race
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky Smoke on the water
Burn it down
We ended up at the Grand Hotel It was empty, cold and bare The Rolling truck Stones thing just outside Huh, making our music there now
With a few red lights and a few old beds We made a place to sweat No matter what we get out of this I know, I know we’ll never forget
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky Smoke on the water (I can’t hear anything)
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are encouraged to write something creative in 250 words or less, using the photo below as inspiration. Here’s my story.
Covered in filth and mange, the horde of dogs and cats that survived the hurricane were crammed into military vans. Those once long-haired canines with soft billowy fur now resembled stone creatures encased in a shell of thick crust. Scrawny, flea-ridden cats no longer purred contentedly but howled in fear. Muscular pit bulls were reduced to skeletons, the outlines of ribcages clearly visible in emaciated bodies.
The relentless rain caused the levees to burst, resulting in flooding; homeowners lost everything. Many scrambled to their roofs in a desperate attempt to save themselves while others tried swimming to safety. Those lucky enough to own a rowboat floated on the flood waters, dragging people into their boats along the way.
A state of emergency was declared; first responders worked ceaselessly. Overlong, the levees were rebuilt and people relocated.
Tragically, family pets were forgotten in the frenzy or deliberately left behind. When the waters subsided weeks later, they were found chained to fences and porch railings. Some had climbed up trees or hidden themselves away in the attics of abandoned houses. They were scared, starving, sick. Innumerable were dead.
Helpless, hopeless pets were brought to makeshift hospitals. With unbelievable patience, veterinarians treated every surviving animal, gently cutting away matted crusty fur, administering antibiotics and vaccines, providing food and water, bringing those nearly dead back to life. The doctors never rested; they desperately hoped to save more than they did but the struggle was too great. Too many innocents didn’t stand a chance.
Written for Friday Fictioneers where we are encouraged to get creative by writing a story of no more than 100 words using this photo as our inspiration. Here is my 100 word story.
It was the summer of ’59 and I was going to spend July and August with my cousins at the shore. I’d been packing since my last day of school, finishing two days before taking off.
The following morning I awoke with fever, sore throat, bumpy tongue and a facial rash. Scarlet fever, the doctor said. The disease was highly contagious. I was prescribed antibiotics and my parents were warned to keep me home.
My summer plans were abruptly cancelled; I was dejected. All I could do was watch my friends playing, my nose pressed up against the window screen.
When I was a very small child, one of my older cousins was suffering from a case of consumption, also know as tuberculosis. She was 16 years old and literally wasting away from this disease once called the “Great White Plague” due to the extremely pale complexion of those afflicted.
My cousin was always cold, requiring multiple blankets to keep warm, and time outside in the sun and fresh air, especially during the spring and summer. She was either in bed or reclining on a chaise lounge near the window in the parlor.
She looked like death. To the school age children in the house, this was a frightening time and they glanced at her with pity and wariness. They also avoided her, which was not very kind; some of them stayed away by spending extra time practicing their penmanship lessons and math sums.
At least twice each week my great-aunt Chesaria would stop by to administer her special “tonic”, light a candle and leave her mark on my cousin. The ritual never changed: first a dose of the safe-for-human-consumption red berry juice from the sumac plant. Next, Aunt Chesaria would draw a birdcage in blue ink on both of my cousin’s earlobes. The door to the birdcage was always drawn in the open position which allowed the evil spirits in my cousin’s body to find their way out. Finally, my great-aunt would light a tea candle and place it on my cousin’s chest to draw out the congestion. She would close the curtains and leave my cousin in the darkened room to allow her potions to do their magic.
Who knows if any of this strange “medicine” worked; our parents clung to the phrase “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts”. My cousin eventually recovered, because of or in spite of Aunt Chesaria’s administrations. She was never a robust woman after her ailment but she married and was healthy enough to give birth to nine children in just 12 years. She welcomed more than 40 grandchildren and a batch of great-grandchildren before passing away at the age of 86 just two years ago.
As a rule, Aunt Chesaria was summoned whenever anyone in the family or immediate vicinity became ill. She drew birdcages on my own earlobes during every childhood malady. But the question that remains unanswered is “Who took care of Aunt Chesaria when she became ill?” No one is around to fill in the blanks so I can only assume there was a witch doctor of sorts living in my neighborhood …. perhaps a black magic woman from Sumatra residing in the unassuming borough of The Bronx!
Presumptuous? Possibly. But fascinating, nonetheless.
The idea of Father’s Day was first conceived by Sonora Smart Dodd, a loving daughter from Spokane, Washington. It was also inspired by Mother’s Day as Dodd wanted a day to honor her father as well. William Jackson Smart was a Civil War veteran and single-handedly raised Sonora and her siblings after the death of their mother.
My dad was a Sicilian immigrant who came to the US by boat in 1930 at the age of 15. He arrived with his father and two brothers … one older and the other younger. His mother and sister remained in Sicily for another few years; according to my grandfather, “America is no place for a woman”.
None of them spoke a word of English.
My father was an apprentice shoemaker in Sicily who took up barbering after getting settled in Brooklyn, NY. His good looks and charm endeared him to many people and he was liked by everyone.
It was my dad’s boss at the barbershop who gave him a brilliant piece of advice. As was his habit, my father bought the Italian newspaper every day to read during his down time at work. One day the boss said to him in Italian “Hey, Vito! If you ever hope to speak English, do yourself a favor and start buying the New York Times every day and read it from front to back.” My father realized the importance of that advice and started buying the NY Times the very next day. With the added help of his English-speaking customers, he became fluent in English and lost his accent with no formal schooling. One of the proudest moments in his life was completing the NY Times crossword puzzle … in ink!
Dad became a US citizen and eventually landed a job with the post office. He was a US Army veteran who drove a jeep throughout Europe during WWII without ever having earned a driver’s license. He never did get his license and never drove again after his stint in the army.
My father loved music, especially opera, and I was exposed to classical music and opera at a very early age. The basics in life were Dad’s tenets … family, God, country, his job, providing a roof over our heads, food on the table and a good education. He was also the fun-loving one, with Mom always busy “cleaning up his messes”.
Dad loved people and entertaining in our home. He would often invite people for dinner without clearing it with Mom first. No wonder she was always pissed off! Dad was often in trouble for that and I found that devilish quality one of his most endearing traits. He truly meant no harm. He was a good and decent man who loved and was loved in return. And in the end can any of us want more than that?
Happy Father’s Day to all my guys on WordPress. I hope your day is as special as you are.
There was a boy named Danny who sat directly in front of me in 5th grade. He had a perpetual case of ringworm which fascinated and repulsed me at the same time.
His beautiful black hair had been shaved to expose the circular rash on the back of his head. I imagined microscopic critters chasing each other around that stubbly maze.
The theory was that Danny caught the fungus while hunting frogs in the boggy bullrushes; somehow that didn’t make it any less gross.
I never could understand boys and their frog fetishes. Everyone knows that’s where warts come from!
Yesterday was our anniversary, wed 52 years. No partynecessary.
None of our friends who married around the same time are still together. How sad is that?
People have asked “What’s the secret to a long and happy marriage?” For us it’s pretty simple: respect, communication, honesty, having a sense of humor.
When you combine those ingredients, love happens. You can manage the lows and celebrate the peaks, watch the dawns and the sunsets, walk hand-in-hand through the ordinary and make it extraordinary.
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday where we are asked to start our piece with a question. Bonus points have been hinted at if we also end our piece with a question. Here is my questionable stream based on a conversation I had with my husband.
“What would you say if I decided to let my hair go natural? You know, go grey?”
“I’d have to ask why you would want to do that. You always take great pride in looking younger than you are. Wouldn’t grey hair make you look older?”
“Well, I’m not sure we can toss a blanket over all women with grey hair and say they look older. There are other factors that come into play. I’ve always had great skin. Won’t I still have great skinif I go grey? How can I just arbitrarily assume I will look older?”
“Ok, I’ll give you that much. You can’t assume you will definitely look older. You’ve told me how much you like the color of your hair. I’m surprised you’re suddenly considering changing it. Where is this coming from?”
“Honestly, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It would be so much easier not having to color my hair and get highlights every couple of months. Besides, when we were at your sister’s house the other day, I was the only woman who still colors her hair.”
“And you were the best looking one at the table!”
“You have to say that; I’m your wife! Your sister’s grey hair looks gorgeous. I know women who’d kill to have her color.”
“But there’s no guarantee you’ll end up with the same color, is there?”
“Well, no …. I suppose not. But my colorist is so talented, I just know she’d do a great job transitioning my hair.”
“Now I’m confused. If you want to stop coloring your hair, what does your colorist have to do with any of this?”
“My colorist will add some grey to my hair …. like getting highlightsonly they’d be grey instead of blonde. She’d gradually add more until my hair is completely grey, then I can naturally let my grey roots grow out.”
“Seem’s like an awful lot of work to me. Why not just stop coloring your hair and let nature take it’s course?”
“That’s a terrible idea! It’ll take forever and look awful growing out!”
“Well, if you’re convinced this is what you want, I’m not going to stop you.”
“I’m not at all convinced this is what I want; that’s why I asked you in the first place.”
“Ok, then my answer to your question is ‘Don’t go gray. I love your hair color the way it is.”
“Well, I’ll have to give that more thought. What do you think about me cutting my hair?”
But …. let’s get real! Where did the time go and how did she get so big?
Our youngest grandchild, 4-year-old Colette, is not a wee one any longer. Of course, we’ve noticed some of the clothes we keep for her at our house have gotten snug but now she can help herself to anything in the refrigerator, open the latch on the gate leading to the front yard without any assistance and we’ve had to make some adjustments to her car seat. However, nothing brings home how much she’s grown in nine months like these two side-by-side photos.
Back in September on the first day of nursery school, she was a giddy little tyke bubbling with enthusiasm and now she’s a beautiful little girl looking so very mature and confident, pictured on the last day of school on June 5.
Colette’s on a steady course to independence …. dressing and showering by herself (with some careful supervision), using a “grown up” drinking glass instead of one with a lid and straw, calling her parents “Mom & Dad” instead of “Mommy & Daddy”, and a bunch of little changes we see on a regular basis.
Our son drops her off for us to babysit each week on Tuesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday; now that she’s able to do so much on her own, it’s a lot easier for us but sometimes we sure do miss that giggly, squirmy toddler! Time is going far too fast.
She’ll always be our little Kukla, no matter how old she gets; that’s something no amount of time will ever change!
Written for Six Sentence Story where Denise encourages us to get creative in just six sentences incorporating the word “engagement”. Here’s my six.
The idea of my parents chaperoning me to the beach that night was mortifying but I figured I had to suck it up if there was a ghost of a chance of having any fun during this vacation in Surf City, so that night my mother, father and I went for a stroll on the beach, me hanging back about ten feet or so hoping the cool bonfire kids would think I was by myself; music was playing and marshmallows were roasting on long sticks …. everyone was tan and blonde and beautiful …. and that’s when I saw him …. he looked just like Edd ‘Kookie’ Byrnes from ’77 Sunset Strip’ and when he glanced up as we walked by and smiled, I fell hopelessly in love.
Thankfully, my parents quietly observed the group without their usual compulsion to make conversation and, satisfied what they saw wasn’t a remake of “Reefer Madness”, sat for a while high on a dune delighting in the reflection of the moon on the water; when it was time to go, the three of us walked back to the beach house …. but not before I had a chance to look over my shoulder and give Edd a little wave; he grinned and waved back (I was in heaven) and I knew I had to go to the next bonfire – alone.
I guess being out in the sun all day must have fried my parent’s brains because, when I nonchalantly asked them the next night if I could walk down to the bonfire by myself for a little while, they actually agreed; all I could think about was seeing Edd again and how relieved I felt that my older sister considered herself “too mature for ateeny-bopper beach party” and didn’t want to tag along.
The group was friendly and waved me over so, as casually as possible, I headed straight for Edd and sat down next to him and someone handed me a cold beer …. my first ever .… which I liked quite a bit; the kids were into Jan and Dean and The Beach Boys …. I was a Beatles girl but I wasn’t going to let that get in the way …. and by the end of the night, Edd and I were holding hands and agreed to meet again the following night.
That was the most blissful week of my young life …. lots of kissing and petting …. professions of love …. an “engagement ring” fashioned from a Bud Lite pull tab …. but we didn’t go beyond 2nd base; in all my 16 years, I’d never been as happy or excited to be with someone as I was with Edd.
At the end of the week we exchanged phone numbers and promised to call each other but that didn’t happened and it’s ok …. I never really thought it would …. I’m content with the memory; one thing I’m sure of is none of my friends will ever be able to say they spent a week making out on the beach with Edd ‘Kookie’ Byrnes.
Written for Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag Week #23 where the theme is ‘songs by a group or solo singer beginning with the letter K or L’.Here’s my group.
Photo: GAB Archive/Redferns
Wickedly satirical, wryly observant and fiercely independent, the Kinks ran counter even to the counterculture! While other major 60s bands were on drug-fueled psychedelic jam sessions, the Kinks kept their focus close to home. They dissected England with witty, literate lyrics set to pop-rock that gained them a cult following that only grows.
While we could never be called cult-followers, Bill and I are huge Kinks fans and saw them perform in concert more times than any other group. The Kinks have left an unimpeachable legacy of classic songs, many of which formed the building blocks of popular music as we know it today.
Founded in 1964 in Muswell Hill, North London, by brothers Ray and Dave Davies, the Kinks first gained prominence on the heels of the well-received and highly influential single “You Really Got Me”. The group originally consisted of lead singer/guitarist Ray Davies, lead guitarist Dave Davies, bassist Pete Quaife and drummer Mick Avory. Quaife left [twice] in the late 1960s and Avory left in 1984 as the result of a long-running dispute with Dave Davies, leaving only Ray and Dave as the core of the original group.
With Ray’s songwriting skills, Dave’s impressive guitar work and Mick Avory’s tight and steady drumming, the band became one of the best and most significant groups of British pop and the “British Invasion”, lasting longer than any of their peers, apart from the Rolling Stones. Their catalogue of songs has been covered by Van Halen, The Pretenders, The Black Keys, The Stranglers, Queens of the Stone Age and many more.
So, what about all those concerts we went to? Bill helped me with this list as I didn’t think I would have remembered all the dates …. and I didn’t! The 1st time we saw the Kinks was in October, 1969, at our old stomping grounds, the Fillmore East. The 2nd time was June, 1970, at the Capitol Theater in Port Chester, NY; that was a great show which also featured Grand Funk Railroad and Mott The Hoople. In November, 1971, we saw the Kinks at Carnegie Hall and then again at Stony Brook University where they shared the stage with Yes. Our 5th Kinks concert was again at Carnegie Hall in March, 1972, and later that year we saw them two more times …. once with the Beach Boys at the Nassau Coliseum (fun!) and again at the Felt Forum of Madison Square Garden. The 8th time seeing the Kinks was with Argent in March of ’73 at St. John’s University. In 1974 we saw them for the 9th time, again at the Felt Forum. Our 10th and final Kinks concert took place at Hofstra University in May, 1977. I was pregnant with our first child and we decided it was time to settle down and act responsibly. That’s 10 performances in 8 years; not bad!
As you can imagine, it’s very difficult to choose one Kinks’ song as my all-time favorite …. so I won’t. Here are three songs I really like a lot so turn up the volume and settle in.
#1 – Ray Davies claimed that he was inspired to write “Lola” after Kinks manager Robert Wace spent a night in Paris dancing with a cross-dresser. The lyrics to this one are so deliciously clever and can be interpreted a couple of different ways. “Lola” reached #1 on the UK Singles Chart and #9 on the Billboard Hot 100. The track has since become one of the Kinks’ most popular songs and was ranked #386 on Rolling Stones’ 2021 edition of “The 500 Greatest Songs Of All Time”. This is ”Lola”:
#2 – There’s not a single thing wrong with this beautiful and melancholy tribute to the stars of Hollywood’s Silver Screen. Record World called “Celluloid Heroes” one of Ray Davies’ finest compositions, however it failed to chart. That doesn’t matter one bit to me; it still is a fabulous song! This is “Celluloid Heroes”:
#3 – Released in August, 1964, “You Really Got Me” went to #1 on the UK singles chart and later in the year to #7 on the US charts. The track is taken from the Kinks’ self-titled album The Kinks. This is “You Really Got Me”:
My husband is as easy going as can be, so when he makes a request, I try my best to oblige. Last night he asked for Sunday pasta with meatballs. How could I refuse?
Homemade pasta with all the trimmings is something I can do with my eyes closed but when I first started out in the kitchen as a new bride, I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I had watched my mother cook for years but it’s a whole different ballgame when you’re on your own.
I’ll never forget the first time I tried to make Sunday pasta. Reading my mother’s recipe was no help. This is exactly what she wrote:
For your pasta dough mix flour and eggs, water when you need, pinch salt, oil maybe.
That’s it. No measurements, no amounts, nothing definitive. Her meatball recipe was no better:
Chopped meat, eggs, some salt & pepper, handful parmigiano, another handful breadcrumbs, dice onion, parsley, oregano, glass of water.
A GLASS OF WATER! Which glass? What size? At this point my eyes were frantically scanning the kitchen for a glass! I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I’m sure my mother never referred to a recipe in her life so she had no idea how to write one!
Just then it hit me and I had a vision of my mother in her kitchen. She always used a Flintstone’s Jelly Jar as her water glass when cooking; she said it was the perfect size. All I had to do was find an equivalent measure and I’d be good.
I eventually mastered the art of Sunday pasta with meatballs but I sure do wish I had my mom’s jelly jar .… for old times’ sake, you know?
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are given a word, in this case ‘lift’, and asked to incorporate it into a story of no more than six sentences. This is my true story of family.
“Mangia il cibo sul tuo piatto, Concetta, o lo mangerai dal pavimento” – (“Eat the food on your plate, Concetta, or you will eat it off the floor.”)
Without changing her expression or taking her huge brown eyes off her father Domenico’s face, three year old Concetta picked up a meatball, extended her arm over the side of her highchair and very calmly let it drop to the floor.
Silence.
Everyone sat in suspended animation as Domenico deliberately put down his knife and fork and removed the napkin which was tucked into the neck of his shirt; slowly he stood up, walked behind Concetta’s chair, grabbed the back of her dress and lifted her up.
Holding her feet with his other hand, Domenico lowered Concetta’s face to the floor until her mouth touched the meatball; she tried to turn away, but Domenico pushed her face into the food, forcing her to take the meatball into her mouth, then, satisfied, he sat her back in her highchair, returned to his seat and resumed eating while Concetta languidly chewed what was in her mouth.
Hesitantly, self-consciously, everyone resumed eating and talking except Concetta’s mother Rosa who sat watching her daughter closely; at the end of the meal as the women cleared the table, Rosa placed a napkin over her defiant daughter’s mouth so she could spit out the uneaten meatball and whispered in her ear “Mai più, Concetta; obbedisci a tuo padre!” – (“Never again, Concetta; obey your father!”)
The Elephant's Trunk 