On the Way to Breakfeast...

by Gail Balentine

For the past two years, on the first Saturday of the month, three friends and I have met for breakfast at our local IHOP. We laugh, commiserate about work, life’s ups and downs, and offer unsolicited advice. I love getting together with them and look forward to it each month.

            On a clear, crisp March day I overslept and had to rush. I had been up late the night before and was bleary-eyed but that didn’t bother me. I was always in a great mood on Breakfast Day. As I backed out of the driveway, I saw a red light blink on the car dashboard but got distracted trying to avoid the neighbor’s trash barrel that had blown into the middle of the street and forgot about the light.

            When I pulled up at the end of my street I was surprised by the line of cars going by. Eight o’clock on Saturday was usually pretty quiet. I was trying to think if there was some event going on in town that I had forgotten but the traffic went right out of my head when the noises started.

            A mild clunk, followed by a much louder clang. Oh no, not today! I held my breath but when there were no further noises, I told myself it wasn’t very far to the restaurant, sent up a little prayer, and cut into traffic. Everything was calm and quiet until, as I coasted to a stop at the traffic light, there was a ferocious wrenching sound followed by a loud thud. The radio, the heater, the engine – everything stopped cold.

            The traffic light turned green but I could not move. The lady in the car behind me started honking her horn. I got out of the car, careful to dodge the cars coming from the other direction. That same lady and the two behind her began a symphony of toots. I ignored them and looked under my car. Sure enough, there was my engine, or at least some part of it, laying right on the ground. I never knew your car engine could just drop out like that.

            When the horns continued, I tried to use hand gestures to tell the woman behind me to go around but she shook her head no. I walked over to her car window to explain but she wouldn’t listen. She just kept telling me, loudly, to move my junk heap.

As I turned to leave, I slipped on an oil slick coming from under my car. And when I stood up, I had to use her nice, shiny Cadillac for support, leaving very clear handprints on the white bumper and hood. The man next in line, now too impatient to wait, pulled out to the left around me and promptly hit the first lady’s car because she apparently had decided she had to save her car from me and she swung  out wide at the same time that he moved. A screech of brakes joined the honks when a car coming fast from the other direction saw what was happening. Unfortunately, the car behind him did not see and hit the first car’s bumper.

            By this time, there were so many horns blaring and people out of their cars yelling and pointing, mostly at me, that I couldn’t hear myself think. I reached for my cell phone. There was no charge – it blinked on long enough to tell me I was not going to be able to use it.

            Next came the police siren.   

Two officers got out of the cruiser. One went to the cars heading east and started separating them and taking notes. The other came to me and the people heading west, who were now questioning both my heritage and my IQ.

            I was relieved to see the officer. He said, “Lady, you gotta move this car.”

            Since it was obvious my car was not going anywhere, I assumed he was trying to lighten the mood with a joke. Thinking it was great to show a sense of humor at a time like that, I went along the gag and said, “Yes, well, if I can find my Wonder Woman gear, I’ll do just that.”

            It was the strange way he looked at me when he said, “What did you just say to me?” that made me realize I might have read him wrong.

            From that point on I switched gears and was very respectful, answering his questions, and showing him my license. A tow truck driver arrived in short order, assessed the situation quickly, tapped me on the shoulder and said he was going to try to get my car on his flatbed truck but it might take a while with the engine literally on the ground. I said to do whatever he had to do, I had AAA. I dug around in my purse and handed him the card. He pointed out that it had expired three months earlier. He said he would tow the car to the nearest garage and bill me.

            The officer said he’d give me a ride to the police station to complete the paperwork. I think he was trying to protect me. As I got into the cruiser, the woman from the car behind me yelled, “Look! He’s arresting her!” Several people, more than several actually, started applauding.

            We went to the station. The first thing I did was call my friend Joan to come get me but the call went to messages, which was odd since at that point she had to be sitting at the restaurant, wondering where I was.

            When all the questions on the form had been answered, the officer asked me to sign in several places. Having been taught to never sign anything until you read it first, I started at the top, with the date. I didn’t get any further.

            “Um, officer?” It was hard to talk around the lump in my throat.

            “Yes.”

            “Are you sure about this day and date?”

             “What? Yes, I’m sure. Today is Friday, March ….”

            Friday?

            It would be later that evening, as I consoled myself with the idea that the whole incident was behind me, that a friend called and I learned I was a ‘star’. Someone had obviously videoed my exchange with the officer and my Wonder Woman joke was a smash hit on You Tube - 1,457 hits and counting.

                                                                                    *****

Going Home

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

The aroma of food cooking or the lingering odor of particular notes from garlic, olive oil, meat - braised or grilled - or maybe tomato sauce, greeted you as you entered the foyer of my  parents’ home.

Step into the hallway and as you glance into the living room, you see the familiar pieces of worn furniture: a comfy old sofa, two wooden side tables topped with marble and upon each a brass lamp, a beige wool area rug highly praised by my Mom, and a Queen Anne style chair upholstered in red faux leather with brass studs outlining the edge...the star of the room.  Flower pots sit on the window ledge unobstructed by the drapes and sheers to the sides.

Go along the hall to the kitchen with its scrubbed and shiny waxed linoleum floor. There is a sturdy wooden table and chairs that fill most of the room leaving little space around the sink, stove and refrigerator. Counter-top area is also scarce, but here is where, in confined quarters, wondrous food of gourmet quality is prepared by my father and mother and served with love and pride - the heritage of their native Italy.

The kitchen is where the family broke bread, shared stories, drank wine and welcomed any and all. Relatives, friends, neighbors and strangers; acceptance of everyone was paramount and the 

generosity of meager means always forthcoming.  My mother would say, ”Antonio, we always have bread and cheese to feed people. Don’t get so upset about a few more at the table.” The love shown here was related and retold by all, with remarks of “Remember when...”, “That meal was so delicious”, “Your parents are very warm and welcoming as is your home”.  

Our house is gone now, my parents deceased; yet going home, even in memory, brings a wonderful feeling of love and warmth to my soul.

Clouds

by Beth Alexander Walsh

My cloud is full. At least that’s what my iPhone has been telling me for the past year and a half.  I am with Joni Mitchell, “I really don’t know clouds at all.”  I asked my daughter where I could find my cloud and then googled later when I forgot what she said. Google sent me to my settings and apparently my cloud is mostly filled with pictures, and it appears that most of the pictures are of my dog. I keep saving those pictures for an Instagram account dedicated to the dog but I never seem to post them. Also, she’s a very cute dog.

When researching how to unclog my cloud it occurred to me that I have a very messy digital life. I take the time to unclutter my house every day. I sort through mail. I recycle newspapers, glass and plastic. I take the time to clean out the closets, pantry and refrigerator, but I have done nothing to clean up my digital life. I still have my last computer afraid to recycle in case I may need something from it. It has not been fired up in 3 years. That brings me to my new laptop (which actually isn’t that new). It is filled with pictures and artwork that have been posted on blogs many years past. I have apps on my phone that I have no idea what they do and how they got there. I’m also ashamed to admit that I have over 1300 emails that have not made it to the trash pile.

2020 is the year I am taking out the trash, digitally speaking. Unsubscribe will be my new motto as I clean up my email and delete old contacts. Bookmarks and downloads will be scrubbed from my PC and I will power up my old pink laptop for the last time and officially say goodbye. Questionable apps will be removed from my phone and I will go through those hundreds of pictures. I will make space in my cloud for more memories to come. You never know when the dog might want a selfie.

Happy New Year

Welcome 2020!

It is hard to believe that Winter Street Writers is turning seven years old this month! We would like to thank the Beverly Public Library for continuing to allow us to use their facility as our home base. We would also like to thank our 575 followers on our Facebook Page who continue to read and comment on our humble little blog, We hope you all continue to follow us.

Gail Balentine has had a busy 2019! After finishing writing her first novel and researching different avenues in publishing, we are thrilled that in July, Harmony in Winslet became available on Amazon in print and e-book form. She has been learning the ins and outs of marketing and promoting her novel and was recently featured in the Museum Enrichment Series at the Lynn Museum and Historical Society.  We can't wait to find out what is in store for Jane Harmony in Gail's next novel.

Lauraine Lombara's  poem Italian Poppy was recently paired with a photograph by Law Hamilton in the exhibit In Your Mother's Tongue; A Word and Image Dialogue at the Griffin Museum of Photography. You can read Lauraine's poem and see Law's photo here: 

https://winterstreetwriters.blogspot.com/2014/08/italian-poppy-by-lauraine-alberetti.html

Beth Walsh continues to be the administrator of the Winter Street Writer blog and Facebook page. She is enjoying her new role as the Site Manager for the Meals on Wheels program for the City of Beverly and the senior lunch program for Beverly Council on Aging.

A new year is always cause for reflection. The start of a new decade makes us ponder what lies ahead for us long term. What changes will we see in the world of technology, our environment, local and world politics and the arts by 2030? Here's to the new year (and decade) ahead. May it be happy, healthy and creative!

Our Little Secret

by Gail Balentine

Mary Ann called one Sunday morning to chat and mentioned that traffic on her street was heavy - her next door neighbors were selling their house and it was “Open House“ day. I said I’d always wanted to see the inside of that house and was coming over.

Ten minutes later I drove to the quiet neighborhood; we met at Mary Ann’s and went to the open house together.

I had long admired the professionally landscaped outside of the neat little ranch and the inside did not disappoint. The two retired school teachers who’d lived there had decorated each room in soft colors and furnished them with graceful pieces and unique personal touches. 

Mary Ann and I murmured our appreciation as we went from room to room but it was when we entered the back yard that my friend showed an emotional reaction.I heard a huge sigh and turned to see Mary Ann focused on the corner of the manicured yard. Tucked in at the juncture of the side and back fences was a perfectly tapered pine tree. It wasn’t particularly tall, maybe six feet, but I could tell from Mary Ann’s face that there was a story connected to that tree.

We went through the back gate to the front of the house and on the sidewalk, standing near where my car was parked, were two of Mary Ann’s neighbors. The three of them were soon agreeing about how much they would miss their long-time neighbors, Millie Davis and Agnes Morrison. 

Mary Ann nodded toward her Garrison that overlooked the teachers’ back yard from the right side and spoke softly. “Along with the teachers, I’ll miss my little Christmas secret.” We waited expectantly for the story. 

“That first year after we moved in - 30 years ago now - it snowed on the day after Thanksgiving. The girls and I had been so busy doing puzzles and laughing each time we “found Waldo” that we hadn’t noticed. When I went into the dining room to set the dinner table I looked out and saw the soft flakes coming down.

“I called to the kids. Allison and Michele were five and six years old and just tall enough to look out the window and see over the four foot fence. In front of us was a magical sight - the pine tree in the corner of the yard decked out in tiny white lights that shimmered through the soft falling snow.

“Allison said,  “Oh, Mommy, look! It’s a secret Christmas tree!” 

Mary Ann paused for a moment and her voice sounded wistful. “Now it’s my grandchildren’s secret tree when they come for Christmas and I know they’ll miss seeing it.”

Pat, the neighbor whose house was directly behind the teachers’ house cleared her throat and said, “Um, not a total secret, Mary Ann.”

We all turned her way. “Remember when my mother lived with us those last few years?”

Heads nodded.

“Well, she would look down from the second floor window of the bedroom that had become her world and whenever it snowed between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, she’d ask to stay sitting up just a little longer. 

“She loved looking down on what she called her “secret show” - that tree decorated with twinkling lights. One time I asked her why it was so special and she said it took her back to the times when we’d help Dad string lights around a tree at the house I grew up in. Mom laughed as she remembered how every year there seemed to be more tree than lights and how she, my brother and I would tease Dad unmercifully about how it was a contest and the tree won, every time.”

As Pat stopped speaking Barbara, who lived directly across the street, started to laugh.

“Guess what, ladies? Someone else was in on your little secret.”

Mary Ann paused and then snapped her fingers. “Harry!”

“Right! Remember how, after finishing our house, Harry would go get Pete and the two of them would go across the street to shovel? 

“After a while, I noticed that they finished the front quickly but seemed to take forever to do the short distance out to the back door. I asked him about it twice but all he did was smile and say was that it was their little secret. I figured the ladies had given them some spiked punch or something!”

We all laughed.

Mary Ann looked thoughtful when she said, “You know, whenever I tried to thank Agnes, she always changed the subject, like it was nothing.”

Four months later, on the night after Thanksgiving, I got another call from Mary Ann. It was hard to tell if she was laughing, crying or both. When she settled down she told me that, as it turned dark, she’d noticed it was snowing and couldn’t resist going to her dining room window. She’d looked out at the dark yard and felt sad. Just as she was about to turn away, the little tree lit up. It had all the magic of a Disney moment. 

Immediately she was on the phone with her neighbors and they all agreed to meet at the teachers’ former house to say thank you to the new owners.

A pleasant young man, with whom they had each only shared a few words since he and his family had moved in, answered the door, listened to them and shook his head. He explained it was not him they should thank. Agnes and Millie had had two very good offers that were over the asking price for their house. They had been debating over which one to accept when his real estate agent had called to ask if they had made a decision. During the conversation, the agent happened to mention to Agnes that her client hoped to trim the little tree in the back yard with white lights as a Christmas treat for his children. 

“Well, Miss Morrison accepted our offer then and there, with the understanding that I would light that tree every year and not just for my family but for the next door neighbors, too.” He paused, smiled and continued, “We talked about it when we signed papers. She got this knowing kind smile on her face and said ‘That tree with its twinkling Christmas lights has been our little secret for years and I think they just might miss it if it wasn’t there.’ ”

                                                                         *******

Tree photo provided by
http://christmasstockimages.com/free/christmas-trees/slides/snow_covered_tree.htm

A Gift

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

You know you were a gift to me from Sara.  I need to keep you alive - at least for a short time because I would hate to see Sara come by and find you dead.  Do you also know that I do not have a great record when it comes to tending houseplants, or any plants for that matter? 

My only recourse towards having anything green growing in the house, which survives, is cacti, bamboo stalks in water and the Christmas flowering plants...see, I can't even remember their name and no, it is not a poinsettia. Strangely, these tropical imports seem to last a long time yet do not look as spectacular as when fresh. Come Spring, the Christmas bloom is gone and the poor thing looks sick, tired and happy to be tossed.

It would be a great gift to Sara to see you growing healthy and beautiful so please, make every effort to drink that water, bask in the sunlight and eat from the food stick.  I followed the directions for care and stuck it in you....hope it didn't hurt. I would be most grateful for your gift to me.

    

Harmony in Winslet

by Gail Balentine

This July, I published my first novel – Harmony in Winslet. It’s the story of a young woman who must prove her brother innocent of murder in a small town where the past haunts them both, and a world war touches everyone.

Naively, I thought actually writing the book would be the hardest part of the whole process. And, while it’s true that it’s not an easy task to try to keep a story interesting for 300 pages, I found it harder to take the finished product and send it out to the world. You see, before I published on Amazon, the novel belonged to me and my family members and those friends with whom I shared the actual book or details about it. As soon as I released it, I was open to the thoughts and opinions of anyone who read the book. Whoosh! In one minute my heart was on my sleeve and I hoped people would be kind.

As it turns out, so far, it has been a very positive experience. I have heard from family, old friends, and those strangers I worried about could not have been nicer. People are asking for my next book and I’m working on that now. I’m well aware this whole experiment could have gone in a different direction. Family and friends might have struggled to say something positive about a book they did not like and strangers might have responded in a less than kind way. I’ve read some nasty reviews on Amazon.

But, looking back, the point I focus on about this entire process is not actually writing and publishing a book – although I am very happy that I did that. It’s more that I put a lot of time and effort into something and then took a risk. After a lifetime spent trying to play it safe, with only an occasional step out of the safety zone, I took a chance. A big chance. And I’m quite proud of that. 

There are so many ways to test yourself, to grow. You can work your way up through baby steps until you achieve a goal. Maybe you’d like to sing a solo in public, or give a speech to a large group, or have a show featuring your paintings, or run for political office? Maybe you want to switch careers to do something that will help those less fortunate? Or home-school your children? Or whatever it is that calls to you …

I didn’t go from deciding to write a book to publishing. I took writing classes, read books, attended lectures, joined writing groups, gave my manuscript to people to read and acted on their comments and suggestions. I worked at it. And then took a leap of faith. 

And that’s my advice to those who are wondering if they, too, can do something that really matters to them – identify your passion, learn what you need to know to begin, try it, gain experience as you stick with it, and, when needed, take some risks. Best of luck with your endeavors!