It's Time... from ACT III

by Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

Lately, she'd been going to wakes and funerals, looking at well-made up dead people, listening to bible passages about shepherds and pastures, singing hymns about amazing grace and Jesus. But it was the verses  about time that always caught her attention, causing her to drift into a drowsy reverie.

She remembered  time when she was little; it was time without clocks; time for lunch! her mother would call; Nap time! Dinner time! Time to pick up your toys! Story time!   Time back then had names, not numbers;  her mother would tell her it was noontime, or night time , snack time,  or bath time. These times, these names really, marked the great expanse that was her day.

She remembered growing up, not so little anymore, when, in school (or was it the nursery school in the church basement?)  that time became numbers.  Learning to tell time at home had been easier than learning to tie her shoes: the big hand is on the 6, the little hand is on  the 2, she'd report to her mother or her sister (never to her father).  Sometimes it was tricky—when both hands were stuck, one on top of the other, time seemed to stand perfectly still. Yet, she realized if she waited a bit, the big hand would jerk away, making the telling easy.  But it was in that school in the basement or maybe it was in kindergarten where she learned that time had different names—not her mother's names but seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Time seemed to be divided up into units,  and somehow collected somewhere. There were weekends and seasons, quarter hours, holidays. But, no matter, time back then  to her was an endless, wide-open field, not fenced in or bordered by trees.She never thought of time gone by or time yet to come—rather, time was a vast Now.

Often, she would watch the classroom clock, white-faced and encased in shiny oak (only much later would she learn it was a Regulator Clock) tick away the minutes, the big black hand clicking noisily  as it jumped from minute to minute. Was she in fifth grade when she actually saw and understood time's passing?

She grew; time passed.  The watch she received for her thirteenth birthday reminded her of the time—if she remembered to wind it; if she didn't, she knew she had lost time, never to regain those minutes again. Sometimes she thought she needed more time, or that her gym teacher's  stop watch was against her,  its time racing forward invisibly without her.  As she approached adulthood, became a grown-up, time took on a profound significance; time became sophisticated, complicated. Watches had batteries, clocks had digital windows instead of faces,  airplanes flew through time zones. Time mattered and she learned to manage it, waste it, wish for more of it.

Growing old and then older she accumulated years as her young ones grew up, and their young ones grew big.  At a funeral,when the minister  read a passage from Ecclesiastes , she understood the power  and the truth of  those words:
       
       To everything there is a season, a time to weep, and a time to laugh...a time to get,
       and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away...a time to be born and
       a time to die.

She would attend other funerals, other wakes, and no doubt, be lost in thought in most of them, but she knew, when her own time came, these were the words that would be read.                   .

It Could Have Been Just Another Date

by Charlotte Savage

t was four o’clock in the afternoon, in the year nineteen hundred and forty eight, when the door bell rang.  I was not dressed for company and there were curlers in my hair; I was still in my robe.  I called to my sister Tess to answer the door.

“Who is it?”  I shouted.

“It’s a package for you,” Tess answered, as she walked into the bedroom.   “A special delivery from a florist.”  She handed me a box wrapped in gold foil and tied with a wide gossamer ribbon that looked like spun gold.

I untied the ribbon and gently opened the box.  Nestled under layers of green tissue paper was a beautiful corsage made of yellow tea roses.  The miniature flowers, which happened to be my favorite, were so exquisite they left me breathless and I hardly believed that they were meant for me--though Joe had asked what color gown I was wearing.

My sister reminded me that it was getting late and I needed to get dressed.  I wore a lavender silk gown, with short puffed sleeves, a heart shaped bodice and slim skirt.  It had been purchased the previous month for a wedding in which I had been the maid of honor.

I placed the corsage on my dressing table and began to pull curlers from my hair while combing it into a short bob with a fringe of bangs on my forehead.  I applied a light dusting of make up, removed my robe and stepped into my lavender gown.  My shoes matched my gown and I wore a string of pearls around my neck and matching earrings.

I had just pinned the corsage to the gown when the door bell rang.  I took a last glance in the mirror and made my grand entrance into the living room just as my date came through the front door.  He stopped, looked me up and down and said, “Wow.”

Joe looked very handsome in his tuxedo and I said “Wow” right back at him.  Though of average height, he was slim, with dark brown curly hair and a winning smile.  His first look of approval when he saw me made me feel very special.

Joe was not someone I knew well.  We had dated a few times prior to my inviting him to my prom.  I knew he worked with his dad in their salvage business but he wasn’t much of a talker.  However, besides being handsome he was also the only one of my dates who owned a car.

We picked up another couple on the way to the Prom and arrived at the high school with a few moments to spare.   Most of my close friends had gathered near the entrance and I introduced them to Joe.

As we entering the Gym, now colorfully decorated in balloons and crepe paper, the orchestra began to play and the band leader invited everyone to dance.   Soon the dance floor was filled with twirling figures of girls in a rainbow of colored gowns and the young men in black tuxedos.  The hours flew by as we danced to popular songs of that era including Vaughn Monroe’s ‘Embraceable You’ and ‘It’s only a Paper Moon.’   I discovered Joe was an accomplished dancer and that made it all the more special.  We stopped now and then for some sweet punch and chatter.

After the prom the four of us went to a restaurant.  We girls were still starry eyed from going to our first Prom and we discussed the fun of the promenade as well as the honors bestowed on the President of our class and the crowning of the prettiest girl.

It was not until Joe and I arrived back at my home and we were sitting on the porch swing that he told me how special this evening had been for him.   I learned that he had enlisted in the navy during WWII leaving for basic training before the end of his senior year and he had not been able to attend his school prom. This evening had been every bit as meaningful for him as it had been for me and with a hug and a kiss on the cheek he thanked me for a memorable evening; just as my mother turned on the porch light.

Copyright 2015 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved.

January Walk

By Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

I wonder on a winter walk

When temperatures fall low.

No soul is seen about the town,

Though there’s no sleet or snow.

Perhaps the frost has sealed the doors

Of each and every home.

A voice within the warmth of hearth begs:

“Stay, don’t go and roam.”

But I did go and trod the streets

And felt the frisky cold

That bit my lips, my nose and cheeks –

How dare I be so bold!

Winter

by Beth Alexander Walsh

      

 Winter and I are having a hard time. It isn't something specific that He's done, but the decades of small transgressions have added up, raising my resentment while the temperature drops, or the forecast of snow is more than two inches. I'm especially annoyed with meteorologists who get excited at the mere hint of an impending storm, although my beef really isn't with them, it's with Winter.

    
He is a lothario in December, seducing me with that first blanket of snow, shadowing the trees and sparkling in the moonlight. Winter takes me on a cozy honeymoon, as I sit in front of a roaring fire wearing a jaunty new scarf. I take pictures of that first snow, pure and white, casting the world into snow globe perfection, and granting white Christmas wishes. By mid January however, Winter is leaving the toilet seat up and dirty socks on the floor. The honeymoon is now over, and He gives me a litany of chores. I am shoveling, salting and scraping as He nips at my nose, trying my patience. At the market, solidarity is found in the weary eyes of fellow shoppers, as we stock up on milk and bread. Hostility is imminent in February as I climb over dingy snowbanks with my traitorous snow loving dog, shivering as she sprays the landscape yellow. My surliness escalates, along with cabin fever, at Facebook friends who post pictures of cocktail laden hands on sunny beaches. By then, I have had it with Winter!

   
There once was a time when Winter and I were the best of friends. In grade school, I remember praying to Him for assistance in canceling school. I would listen to the radio, willing the announcer to call out “MEDFORD”, officially giving ownership of the day to snow, and out into the snow I went!. There were wars to wage, with arsenals of snowballs tucked behind shored up bunkers. We would skate, sled and build snowmen until our fingers were frozen through two pairs of wet mittens, or late afternoon darkness made activities too treacherous. In later years, there were energetic days of skiing, finished off with beer and board games. Even after marriage, I still enjoyed Winter through the eyes of my children, showing off my snow angel prowess and skating on our own backyard pond. Now, my wish is to escape Winter's clutches and join all the snowbirds as they head south.

 
My animosity starts to thaw around March, when I sit down with my pile of seed catalogs. Curling up under a blanket, I flip through the pages and dream of sun kissed tomatoes and rows of vibrant zinnias. When the crocusus make their way through the receding snow, I rejoice, knowing I have survived Winter's captivity and will soon find freedom with my new best friend...Spring!