Happy New Year!

The Winter Street Writers have had a busy 2016!

While our writers continue to write, and publish on our blog, we have also written for the Beverly Historical Society Chronicle, attended the Newburyport Literary Festival and submitted our works to various online and print publications.  We were also thrilled to welcome four talented writers as guests to our blog as well as several finalists from the 20^th Annual Teen Poetry Contest sponsored by the Beverly Public Library.

Our reach to other community writers continued this fall when we hosted the very first Winter Street Writers Workshop! It was great fun writing alongside the enthusiastic group that attended. We look forward to hosting more events in the future.

On a sad note, 2016 also brought the loss of our dear friend and fellow writer Ken Roy. Ken brought much joy to our meetings and when he shared his stories, it was easy to see the rambunctious young man he was in his youth. We will miss his humility and humor.

We would like to thank the Beverly Public Library for their continued support and use of their facilities. We especially want to thank all of YOU, our readers, and the over 420 followers of our Facebook page!

In January of 2017, the Winter Street Writers turns four years old. We have seen many changes and growth in our group and in our writing these last four years, and look forward to more progress and an increased connection to our community and other North Shore writers in the future.

We wish everyone a happy, healthy and creative New Year!

With Appreciation,

The Winter Street Writers

Her New Journey

by Gail Balentine

Searching for causes of her internal strife

Was a journey that took much time from her life.

Always trying to figure her feelings out

Constantly plagued with fears and self-doubt.

After many false starts and stops she now sees

With all that endless searching she was trapped, not free.

Her new journey involves learning to deal,

With whatever is happening and whatever is real.

She heeds the advice a whispered prayer supplies,

And accepts or changes, whichever applies.

This approach brings her more periods of calm,

Peaceful moments providing her soul with healing balm.

Waiting

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

We wait to be born,

We wait to die,

We wait for seasons,

Moonglow and sunrise.

When Mary waited for Jesus’ birth,

The shepherds waited for signs from earth.

The Magi waited for stars in the sky,

We wait for redemption to save our lives. 

There are times for waiting or moving on,

When life arrives, revealing dawn.

Our laughter rings the sound of joy;

Magical words: It’s a girl! It’s a boy!

Upgrades

by Beth Alexander Walsh

    

  I recently cleaned out a cabinet that housed an old CD/cassette player and receiver, along with boxes of cassette tapes that had not been used in decades. Those tapes were an eclectic bunch. Among the artists were Billy Joel, Elton John, The Eagles, The Pretenders, and Fleetwood Mac whose music would now be deemed “classic” or dare I say “oldies”. I’m not sure why I was saving them since most of the music had been replaced by cd or downloaded to an iPod. There were the swing band cassettes that I purchased for my mother’s 65th birthday party and cannot remember if I even used them. The singalong tapes reminded me of trips in the car with my young children, where our ears hung low; wobbled to and fro and the watermelon grew down by the bay. Even older were the compilation tapes I made while still living in my childhood home. That was a time consuming endeavor of taping from a vinyl record or waiting for that favorite song to be played by Casey Kasem on his Top 40 radio show. My brother and I spent many Saturdays recording our “free” music. I fingered through the box of musical memories while my husband patiently waited for me to conclude that I no longer needed cassette tapes. He then whisked the boxes to the recycling bin before I could change my mind.

     This past year I have been saying good bye to a lot of the obsolete in my life. At the end of last summer, I broke down and bought my first smartphone, but not because I wanted Apple’s latest and greatest. Quite the contrary!  I was very happy with my inexpensive “dumb” phone. My frustrated family and friends trying to include me in group texts however were not, so I gave in. Now I emoji and GIF with the best of them. Shortly after the new phone, I purchased a car with Bluetooth capability. I still have not completely figured out how to program key numbers but I can at least answer my phone.

    Christmas brought a brand-new laptop to replace my beloved six- year old bright pink HP with a seventeen-inch screen. It sputtered and rattled to life each time I turned it on, while constantly being tethered to a wall plug as the battery no longer worked. The new laptop sat in its box for weeks until I had time to overcome the learning curve of how to use it.  That same Christmas we said goodbye to our 2002 tubed Sony TV. The new Sony has twice the screen size and one third of the weight along with Wi-Fi capability.

     For me there is a slight fear of getting a new gadget to figure out. What if this time technology has advanced beyond my capacity to learn? At what point will I be unteachable? So far I have been able to manage, although I probably don’t use or even know all the capability of the electronics I own. My children, thank heavens, have been helpful with filling in my gaps of knowledge.

    As for the rest of the obsolete in my life, I still write dates on a large paper calendar on the side my fridge. I still write checks for paying bills (although that may change soon) and I will never give up my music CDs and vinyl. As for those cassettes in recycling, I snatched back three of them. Please don’t tell my husband!

An Old Saw

by Gail Balentine

I really, really want to eat M&Ms right now, a bagful.

It’s hard, trying to cope with some not-so-good-news. Actually, some bad news.

What to do?

M&Ms would taste good right now.

If I repeat the news over and over, will it make it less scary? Hasn’t worked so far.

M&Ms are my friends.

That old saw ‘Every cloud has a silver lining’, is it true?

If so, what’s the good thing here? How do I even find it?

What if I try asking: what good, no matter how small, comes out of this?

Actually, M&Ms are not really my friends. Yes, of course they taste wonderful, but then they stay firmly attached to my waistline – forever.

Yes, there is something small that’s good – I now know what was not seen before.

So, if I had not received this ‘bad news’, then I never would have noticed this ‘good thing’ about the situation. Right? Yes, that’s true.

Maybe the good doesn’t outweigh the bad, but thinking about everything from a different perspective brings up new options. Always good to have options.

M&Ms are great, but better eaten when a few are delightful and can be savored, then when I gulp them down in a frenzy.

Funny how those old sayings, often taken for granted, really were born of experience and hard-won wisdom.

Think I’ll save the M&Ms, mix in a few with nuts and raisins, and have them for a snack later - after I choose an option and follow through on it.

*****

My Italian Uncle

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

           I’ll always remember my “Uncle” Ernest.  He’s really my father’s cousin who came from impoverished Italy after WW II to work in our bountiful land.  He lived with my family sporadically for eight years.  I was only five but I can still picture him coming home afternoons with a bag full of fruit, different each time, depending on the season. I would climb onto his lap and with glee, dig my fist into the bag to see if there were bright tangerines, sweet strawberries, firm green grapes  or that bewitching pomegranate which we called an Indian Apple with its maze of cherry red seeds.   As I ate my fruit, I listened, wide-eyed, to stories of his farm in the Taro valley of Emilia-Romagna, with its views of the Apennine Mountains or to humorous anecdotes of the miller’s daughter, my mother, Laura.

           

         I was very proud of my Zio, which is Italian for uncle.  He was tall and stalwart with thick brown hair, tender brown eyes, an aquiline nose and a mouth on which a smile ever played. Zio was always very well dressed. He never scolded me and I always knew in my heart how much he loved me.

      

         I remember the many excursions we took. On a sunny spring Sunday, he would bring me to the Boston Common where the full-bloomed tulips transformed the gardens into a picture print of Holland. The thrill of riding beside him on the fairyland Swan Boats under the romantic bridges, around the miniature island, feeding the scrawny  ducks and scaring off the fat-bellied pigeons is revived when I walk through now.  In autumn, we would visit the Franklin Park Zoo and spend a delightful time shuffling through crackling leaves from one mysterious cage to another, with one of my hands clutching his and the other balancing peanuts, ice cream or Cracker Jacks. Finally, we would reach the monkey cage where Zio would pick me up and raise me higher than anyone so I could easily watch their antics.

        

       Whenever we have minestrone soup, the homemade aroma brings back his memory for it was a standard ritual for he and my mother to fuss over the thickness of the broth.

        

       Whenever I see a man flinch and squirm from being tickled, I think of him and how I wouldstealthily steal in back of him, then quickly run my small fingers up his side and escape, helter-skelter so he couldn’t catch me, but he invariably did and I would roll with gales of laughter and scream many “I give ups”.

           

       The years passed quickly for my beloved Zio and the sad words my mother told me about his need to return to his family caused me much heartbreak. I recall not believing her and trying to convince myself that he would never go. One of the saddest times in my life was the night he left South Station for New York, there to board the ship. The memory is so lucid, it seems as if I just returned from the crowded, noisy station with milling people, pushing porters and steaming trains. Zio said his good-byes to friends and then to my family. Lastly, he took me, sobbing from my father’s arms. I tried, incoherently, to make him promise to return one day. Not until the train started chugging did he painfully say he would. He knew then that he would not, but I lived on that kind answer for many years.

         

      Now, it would be up to me to visit him as he was getting old and could not return. Every time he wrote, my mother  would read his letters to me and I would go back to the days which my Zio made into a treasury of memories. Sadly, I was not able to visit him before he died but the joy he brought me lives on.

I wrote this story in 1959. Fifty-seven years later, the memory of my Zio still abides with me.

Charter Schools vs Public Schools

by Charlotte Savage

“Please hurry Mom; we want to get to school early.” These were the pleas I heard from my two grandsons when visiting their home in the 1990’s.   

My younger grandson attended an elementary charter School and the elder was enrolled in a charter high school.   The schools were half an hour from each other and equal distance from their home. I was extremely proud of their parents for making the commitment to drive their children to schools in the opposite direction from where they worked.  The parents also made the commitment to be active in the committees overseeing these schools.

It was the same for my friend’s granddaughter. The child did poorly in public school but excelled in a charter school.  

Prior to my elder grandson entering a charter high school his parents literally pulled him out of bed each morning and forced him to go to school. However, once enrolled in the charter school, he was awake and ready to leave for school without a wake-up call. His charter high school years were happy ones and made a big difference in his demeanor both in and out of school. 

My younger grandson, enrolled in an elementary charter school, was just as enthusiastic about his classes. Invited to attend my grandson’s recital, I arrived promptly at noon. At first I drove past the building.  It had torn window shades and looked in disrepair.  The interior of the school was even more shocking; it was literally falling apart. This charter school occupied an old elementary school the city deemed beyond refurbishing. Instead the city had built a new elementary school elsewhere. 

 In spite of the condition of this school, I observed happy, smiling, enthusiastic children who appeared to enjoy every moment of the time they spent there.

After visits to these charter schools, I questioned my son about the teaching differences between public school and charter schools. “What makes a charter school so special?” 

My son explained that the rules for public schools are dictated by each state. The schools have to follow a particular curriculum, which is sometimes modified by the local School Committee. While these public schools have advanced placement classes for the very bright student, those children that march to a different drummer are easily left behind-- even though their IQ might be on a similar or higher level than the advanced children in public schools.

I also learned that a charter school focuses on a particular forum such as music, technology, trade skills, etc. Each charter school is very different from the other and if the student is fortunate to find a school that specializes in his/her interests, it becomes a perfect match. 

After observing children of different ages participating in these schools, I saw that charter schools give their instructors free reign to challenge their students to excel in all subjects-- not just the subject that the student has a sincere interest in. It is a far superior method of teaching children. I am bewildered as to why state reps and school committees are not working diligently to change the way they operate the present public school system. We would not be voting on a referendum on charter schools if the school committees were doing their job and hiring principals from charter schools to assist them in revamping our present public school system.    

Unfortunately, it appears that bureaucracy is the culprit.    We probably wouldn’t have a need for charter schools if public schools were more progressive.   It seems the duplication of education is the fault of people who are managing the money of public schools; it is not the fault of the charter schools.  Until the red tape is resolved there is definitely a need for charter schools.  The first charter school to open in the United States was in 1992.  You would think in the twenty-four years that charter schools have been successful that school committees and teacher’s unions would have had their wake up call. It isn’t fancier schools children desire, but innovative teachers who are given the freedom to make learning so much fun.    I will vote for more charter schools in November because I found it amazing that my grandchildren woke their parents up, urging them to leave for school early, so that not one moment of their school day was wasted. 

© 2016 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved

Frances

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     It was an unseasonably warm October day and I delighted in the incongruence of falling leaves and flip flops as I ran my errands, while keeping track of the time to beat the school bus. I made it home with time to spare and pulled up in front of the garage to unload my groceries. As I juggled the bags and reached for the door, I saw a man’s head pass by the window. At least I thought it was a man’s head. I dropped my bags and stood back, unsure if I had actually seen something and if I should call the police. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse but instead of dialing I reached for the door. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and then peered inside. Towards the back of the garage was a sturdy figure, at least six feet tall. My heart raced as I stepped through the doorway and I soon realized the tall figure was a woman! She was wearing elastic waist jeans and a flowered sweatshirt with a polo shirt underneath. Her hair was cropped short, the color of dishwater with grey strands interspersed.  She was mumbling while rocking back and forth in sneakers.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

     She looked at me in confusion and said “It’s not here.” I immediately recognized that confused blank stare. My mother had passed away the previous year from Alzheimer’s and I had been her primary caregiver for five years.

“What is your name?’

“Fran.”

“What is your last name?”

“Fran—Cess.”

“Where do you live Frances?”

    Her silence told me that my question was futile and I studied her face. Sweat was pouring from her forehead and dripping into her eyes and I wondered how far she had walked and how long she had been standing in my garage. I silently chastised the person who not only let her wander off but also dressed her in far too many layers for such a warm day. I told her to stay put and quickly went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and some paper towels, and then went back into the garage.

‘How about we step outside and sit on the porch in the shade?”

     I took her hand in mine, marveling at its size while studying the bright shade of pink polish on her nails. I guided her out the door and coaxed her into sitting on my front steps. After blotting her face with the paper towels, I handed her the water, relieved that she knew what to do with it. Then I called 911.

“Hello 911.”

“Hi, I have a woman that wandered into my garage with dementia. She says her name is Frances but she can’t tell me her last…”

     The operator interrupted, confirmed my address and told me an officer would be there in less than five minutes. Apparently, there was a search party for Frances. I asked Frances if she was feeling better. The water was half gone and her cheeks were less flushed. The cruiser pulled into the driveway seconds later, and the officer jumped out.

“Her husband is frantic.” He said.

     I asked him where she lived and was comforted to know it was less than a ten-minute walk away. The officer approached Frances and she recoiled in fear, another emotion I had dealt with in the past.

“Frances, would you like to go home to see your family?” I soothed. 

She did not answer but I could tell she was considering what I was saying.

“This nice man will give you a ride home.”

     I held out my hand and she took it, pushing herself up from the porch step and following me to the cruiser while the officer held open the back door. I helped her into the seat, and handed her the water bottle.

“It was nice meeting you Frances.”

     The officer jumped in the driver’s seat and they were both off without a goodbye.

     Later when I told family and friends my story, they all chastised me for opening that garage door and not dialing 911. I don’t know what made me open that door, but I know that I was never afraid. Immediately after Frances left my driveway I felt my mother’s presence. I knew she had guided Frances to my garage knowing that she would be taken care of, while simultaneously saying hello and thank you to me.

Gratitude

by Gail Balentine

With all the negative attitudes and events that we encounter on a daily basis these days, I am grateful for a very positive encounter that happened recently.

            Years ago, when I was managing a surgical nursing unit, a young, bright, eager-to-learn nurse worked for me for about nine months. She was like a human sponge, absorbing all she could, and then asking challenging questions that I tried to answer, with varying levels of success. Throughout my career, I was fortunate to be in positions where helping new nurses learn was part of my job and, with Carol, it was easier than most. There was no question in my mind that she had a great nursing career ahead of her and I enjoyed my time working with her. Our career paths went in different directions, but a gift she gave me when I stopped being her manager sits on my bureau and so I have thought of her over the years, even into my retirement.

            Recently, I stayed with a relative in the pre-surgical area of a local hospital, not the one where I used to work. It was a busy place with all beds filled but the staff were friendly and efficient, explaining everything before they did it. Each member of the surgical team came in, introduced themselves, and asked the many questions necessary before any procedure. I found the changes in how surgical preparations are now done fascinating and tried to absorb everything.

One nurse (women in surgical scrubs and caps really do look different than when they are dressed in out-of-work clothes or even uniforms) recognized the last name on the chart, looked up from where she had been reading, saw me and smiled. I knew that face. She came closer and barely said her first name before I knew exactly who she was. I could feel my own grin spread on my face. I had been right about her future - not only had Carol gone on to gain further experience in larger hospitals, but she had taken the added training required to become a Nurse Anesthetist.  And, best of all for us, she would be in the operating room with my relative! I felt relief gently wash over me like a warm shower. For days I had been listing in my mind the reasons – all valid - to believe that everything would go well, but once I saw her, I knew it would.

            I doubt that Carol realizes the difference her presence made, but I do. I doubt many of us realize the impact we have on others, and they on us, but in today’s world I think that taking the time to appreciate the positive influences or occurrences in our lives is especially important. I thanked her for her generous gift – peace of mind.

                                                                

  ******

Autumn Haiku


1.
The wind whinnies, raw.
Dry leaves curl on brown limbs
That reach toward the house.


2.
It is October:
The ocean changes from blue
To steel-grey and cold.


3.
The roses struggle
Their last chance to bloom and shine
Plum, pink, velvet red.


(Ciampa, Liz.  Good for Everyday Use.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2012. p. 21. Print.)

Mailbox

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

       
   She stood at the mailbox, staring at the letter addressed to her as if it came from outer space. She saw it was not presort bulk mail and there was no return address.  Walking back to the house that she bought a few years ago, she felt the finish of the envelope.  It was mid-weight, more ivory than white in color, and she supposed it was a bit pricier than common stationery.

              Her life now was her own – simple and frugal – and if asked, she might admit she was lonely at times, but it was her choice.  There were moments she missed: her years as daughter, wife, mother,

friend.  So many of her family and friends were gone now – moved afar, died, relationships finished.  No one had contacted her since she moved.  She was content to be free of obligations.

              This letter was vexing and intriguing at the same time. Should she open it or just toss it away?   It didn’t appear to be a legal document as it was not typed but precisely handwritten in ink, but she did not recognize the script. She wondered if the postmark would provide a clue.  Entering her house, she turned on a bright lamp and donned her readers to discern the date and originating post office location.  Foiled by a blurred postmark, she threw it on the counter. She decided to leave it overnight and make her decision in the morning.  

The Whole Picture

by Charlotte Savage

      I once read, “A picture is worth a thousand words,” and I heartily believe that to be true as seen in the picture above.

               
     It was in November of 2015 that I flew into Texas to visit my son Barry, his wife Gail, my granddaughter Jamie, and her two children Hailey age nine and William who was seven.   

              
     Arriving at the airport I wondered if my great-grandchildren would remember me.  I hadn’t seen them for two years.    Perhaps Hailey might—but I questioned if William would.

             
     Gail, accompanied by Hailey and William met me inside the airport.   I was amazed at how much Hailey and William had grown.   Hailey, tall for her age, was very slim with long flowing blond hair while William had brown hair and long lashes covering large expressive eyes.  I asked if they remembered me.

                 
    “I remember you,” said William, “we played games the last time you visited us and we had lots of fun.”    Hailey nodded in agreement.

               
     On the drive home the children sang a song for me naming all of the United States.  William proudly announced he could even do them backwards-- which he did-- with a little help from his sister.  I learned that they had a sleep--over at their Grammy’s house every Thursday night, the night their mom worked late. Since it was Thursday we would all be together until Grammy drove them to school the next morning. 

               
     When we arrived at their home, my daughter–in-law Gail reminded the children they needed  to do their next day’s homework before dinner.  Since it was close to the dinner hour Gail worked with Hailey on her English homework while I helped William with his arithmetic.  Because William was taught math by a different method than I, he showed me his method.  It didn’t take me long to realize William was using neither method.   He mostly did the addition and subtraction in his head--probably because he has so much energy to expend that anything that was time consuming would not hold his attention for very long.   He explained that his teacher required him to show how he got the answer; so first he figured the answer in his head and then he went back and made little circles to represent each number and then counted the circles to prove his answer.

               
     Hailey on the other hand had a lot more patience and completed her work in a timely manner. Grammy allowed them free time to draw or paint once their homework was completed. Something they both enjoyed doing.

              
     After dinner Hailey told me she had a surprise for me.  It was a picture she had drawn of the two of us.  It showed a young child with straight hair wearing a dress and that of an adult with very short curly hair wearing earrings and we were holding hands and smiling.   It was the nicest welcome I had ever received and it was so appreciated.  I looked at my nine year old great--granddaughter in awe; though I am an artist I tend to paint pictures of flowers and landscapes.   Hailey had actually captured us in a simple pencil drawing.

               
     I told Hailey that I would treasure her gift forever and it would be framed and hung when I returned home.  I suggested that she sign her art because that is what true artists do.   Her little pixie face showed delight as she carefully printed her name.

               
     In the weeks that followed I had the opportunity to spend quality time with these two great--grandchildren.  On the weekend the children asked my son Barry to take them to the bug park.  I wondered what a bug park was.  Arriving at a children’s playground a mile from his home the answer was obvious.  There was a miniature car with room for two children to sit inside it.  The car was built in the replica of a lady bug.  It moved from side to side and circled around as they shifted their weight.  They never got tired of riding on it. When it was time to leave they would ask if they could have a turn on the swings.  They would call out to Barry—“Push harder, Papa Bear”-- as he pushed them higher and higher.  Barry like his dad is a Pied Piper that all children love to be with.

               
     I truly enjoyed William’s happy, energetic demeanor, the way he was at ease with both friends and strangers alike whom he chatted with constantly no matter where we went.   Even more so, I enjoyed watching the interplay between Hailey and her little brother.   I saw how Hailey often played the big sister and was very kind and patient to her younger brother.  I also saw the respect that William showed for Hailey.   Whenever he didn’t understand something he went to her for the answer and if her answer was too brief they would sit side by side and discuss the subject further.  Sometimes they searched the internet together if William had more questions.

               
     Before I returned home, some five weeks later, I asked William how it felt to have an older sister looking out for him.   He didn’t answer me right away; he thought about it for a couple of minutes.   Finally he responded, “It’s nice to have an older sister most of the time; the only time it isn’t fun is when Hailey gets too bossy-- and she tends to be bossy a lot.”   Then he gave me one of his innocent disarming smiles that he uses whenever he is teasing his sister.     I chuckled and told my adorable great-grandson that I had heard similar complaints from my own little brother when I was younger.   The incredulous look William gave me was---you mean you were once as young as me!

               
     However, it was followed by a quick wink from William--which told me that he knew I understood him –and that, in fact, I got the whole picture! 

2016 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved

               

September

by Beth Alexander Walsh

September is industrious.

It is harvests and stacks of firewood.

It is work and school.

It is new notebooks and backpacks and boxes of crayons.

It is dodgeball and hopscotch and jump rope.

It is Girl Scouts and Cub Scouts and soccer.

It is reading and writing and arithmetic.

It is afternoons in the library and Scholastic book orders.

It is marching band and football games.

It is shoes and socks and sweaters.

It is deciding how long you can last without turning the heat on.

It is apples and pumpkins and stew simmering on the stove.

It is structure and purpose.

It is learning and reinvention.

Industrious is September.

Kenneth J. Roy

November 1, 1935 - July 19, 2016

Remembering Ken

When I want to describe someone I’ve met, there are many words I can select but one that I rarely use is charming. Yet that’s the first word that comes to mind when I think of Ken - an exceptional word for an exceptional man.

It was about three years ago when I saw a notice in the Beverly Public Library’s newsletter about a writing group that Liz Ciampa was forming. I immediately marked the date on my calendar, arrived early when the time came, and that first day is when I met Ken. Over the three years since, it’s been a pleasure to learn about writing with him and to share some of the details of our lives through our writing. His was a full, interesting life and flashes of the fun-loving, devil-may-care young man that he was at one time came through in his work. In our group he laughed easily, especially at himself; he had the confidence to say when he knew something and admit when he didn’t; and although he didn’t always understand what one of us was trying to say in a piece we wrote, he never put us or the work down. When you are a writing group member, an important and helpful activity is critiquing each other’s work by offering constructive suggestions for improvement. Ken, however, was not a man to delve into sentence structure, punctuation, or any of the other details involved in writing. Nope. He either told you he didn’t understand the work or gave you a thumbs up. I swear I walked on air the day he gave me two thumbs up for one of my stories.

The second year our group was together, we had a party at Beth’s house during our summer break. All the women brought food. Ken, our token male, brought small boxes of Godiva chocolates for his ‘girls’. I was so touched that I took the small silver heart that was part of the wrapping and slipped in onto my key ring; there it still is and there it will stay, because I smile and think of him each time I look at it.

I miss Ken. The world is a sadder place without that twinkle, that wit, that generosity of spirit that was part of my friend, Ken Roy. 

Gail Balentine

     I always looked forward to the days when Ken would read his stories. It was easy to see the rambunctious young man he once was in his Cuban and Californian escapades. When he finished reading his work, we always had questions for him and he would happily expound on his shenanigans leaving out the risque details. He would say he didn’t want to go “too blue” around us ladies.  Ken was always eager to participate in our group and his self- deprecating humor brought joy to our meetings. We always appreciated his male viewpoint and I think he quite enjoyed his status of being “the thorn among all us roses.”  I am certain that Ken had many more stories to write, I only wish he were still here to share them. 

Beth Alexander Walsh

Ken was an original member of the Winter Street Writers and sole male.  He was a treasured addition to our writing group and not the least bit intimidated by all the females.   Ken lived the life of a scientist with the talent of a crackerjack “teller of tales—stories to leave my family.”  Those stories, many of which are in the archives of the WSW Blog are eclectic and intriguing, filled with off-beat characters, humor and exciting real events in his life.  He was a renaissance gentleman, caring, respectful and humble.  He shall be missed!    Rest in peace Ken, dear friend. Condolences to his family and friends,

Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

Winter Street Writers

Creative Writing Workshop

Saturday, October 15th 

10a.m. to 2 p.m.

Beverly Public Library/Sohier Room

This workshop is free, 

limited to 12 participants and registration is required. 

To register, please email Liz Ciampa at erc7@comcast.net.

Are you looking for a place and time for creative writing practice? In this free workshop, participants will explore the art and craft of writing. We will use unique creative writing prompts to keep that pen moving. Writers are encouraged (but not required) to collaborate and to share their work, and there is no critique. Participants will leave this workshop with short pieces that may be expanded upon and utilized within current projects, as well a inspiration for future writing.

Bring own bag lunch. Water and light snacks provided.

The Art of Losing

by Marion Bailey

A few weeks ago I lost my address book, the entire record of my social world.  I realize address books are going the way of the dinosaurs - why write down an address in a book when you can type it into a device.  But I grew up in a world without computers:  recording the addresses  and telephone numbers  of the important people in my life was the height of organization. I owned my first book in my early twenties.  Now seventy I’ve owned four or five different books, approximately a different book for each decade of my life.

I had owned this record of my social life for at least ten years, because I remember carefully transferring  names from my previous book while my father watched;  he was the model for carefully kept records, and he died more than ten years ago. My book was not in good shape:  the carefully chosen cloth cover, with a Biblical theme, was ripped, pages were loosened.  I knew I had to replace the book but it was a daunting task, transferring a lifetime of connections into a new book.

I used to read my address book to review the history of my life. My daughters in their twenties and thirties moved around.  Different addresses and phone numbers were carefully recorded and crossed out when they went to a new place. One daughter went to college and graduate school in the mid-west, lived in Japan, later moved to New York City for a first job and her own apartment. Another daughter worked at an outdoor school in Maryland, moved to New Hampshire for a master’s degree, to Vermont for a teaching job and back to Massachusetts where she now teaches.

My friend Bill’s name was recorded; he died of cancer several years ago.  Seeing his address and telephone number reminded me of how much I loved and missed him. My father’s trajectory at the end of his life was in the book:  first his Long Island address, next the move to Florida, finally the Beverly address where he moved to be close to Ed and me.

   Before my father died he gave me his address book, the record of his long and full life. I had the task of calling my father’s friends and family to tell them of his death.  Because everyone was listed in his book, calling was easy.  I’ve kept his book because it’s  a record of his life.  Once in a while I look through it;  I’m always amazed and heartened by the richness of the life recorded there.

How did I lose my address book?  I was rushing.  Although I knew it was foolish to take it out of the house, I did.  I needed my sister-in-law’s address in Arizona to mail her a  Christmas  present.  After the post office, I walked to the supermarket with the book under my arm. The last I saw of it was when I went through the checkout line — the book was safely in the child’s seat of the supermarket carriage.  I went back a few hours later when I realized it was gone.  No one in the grocery store had seen it.  The book had vanished into thin air.

I felt naked without it.  I had no record of my life:  it was as if friends and family had disappeared.  Even my daughters’ peripatetic lives were lost to me.  A few days later I searched for a replacement.  I found only one  in the different stores I looked –- obviously people are not using address books anymore.  Names, addresses, phone numbers are all stored electronically.  There are no more cross outs, just deletions.  If a friend dies, it’s easy to delete him from your IPhone.

My new book is glaringly white, a loose-leaf, with a sticker on the inside back cover giving a phone number if I want to order more pages.  Will this company still be in business if  I ever need new pages.  I doubt it.  I started to reconstruct my new book, address by address.  Luckily it was two weeks before Christmas so many return addresses  were on cards sent to me.  I made a few phone calls to get more addresses.  I even found new addresses on email.

I began to like my new book.  My life looked orderly.  Each entry was carefully entered with a lot of white space on the page.  No cross-outs, no blurred ink, no torn pages, no painful names of friends I don’t see anymore.  There is a feeling of lightness, of going forward, a fresh beginning.  I would have held on to my old book if I hadn’t lost it, but I can see the benefits of letting  go, starting over on a clean page. Besides, I still have my father’s address book.  When I first lost my book I kept thinking of the lines in Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “One Art”

The art of losing isn’t hard to master

So many things seem filled with the intent

To be lost that their loss is no disaster


Marion Bailey taught English in a high school in New York City and at North Shore Community College for thirty-four years.  "The Art of Losing" can be found in Marion's self- published book Looking Over the Fence.

Epiphany

by Tom Holland

February 21st, 2001

I woke up in a bed at High Point Detox in Plymouth, MA ready (terrified) to start my day. This was to be the first day in 6 years that I wa...s going to not go to a clinic window, give my name, receive a dixie cup filled with 100mg of methadone mixed with orange tang, drink it and be able to function for the next 24 hours. I had spent the past 5 days weening from 100mg to 5mg and I knew that my next 30 days would be torture, mentally and physically.

6 days prior I had been living in a $100 a week motel room paid for by my Mother in Hyannis. I had to walk the streets picking up cans to get enough money to buy a pack of Camel straights and a little Debbie snack cake as my meal for the day. This had become my life, this was all I had left and I realized just how far down I had taken myself. I went from a traveler of the world seeing amazing places, meeting incredible people and experiencing one of a kind moments to this...

I knew at that moment, at my lowest point in life that there had to be something more. I was always told that Heroin addicts were losers, that we didn't have a chance to recover. I believed them because for the prior 15 years I never could recover. My attempts were always half-hearted at best anyways, usually results of some jackpot I'd got myself into and not because I truly wanted to change. I knew something was different this time though. I had an epiphany while I was pulling the plastic tag around the top of the short cigarette pack and tearing the silver folded paper off of those Camels, that I had a greater purpose in life and something needed to change. I had felt it growing in me for a while now this total discontent with my lifestyle, the people around me, the choices I continued to make. I sat on Main St watching normal people go about their day and I was so jealous. I just wanted to be one of them to go about MY day routinely, to stop and talk to the guy in the suit and discuss whatever they were talking about in whatever crazy language I thought they must speak. I saw parents with kids and I felt a twinge of jealousy deep inside my gut, that I had lost something unidentifiable yet wonderful and that was a new, weird feeling.

I always thought I was free, that I was above everyone else because I was "living" and not tied down to a place, a person or a thing. I had such a grandiose and superior feeling about myself and my purpose. I always thought I was special, that I was meant for something bigger and greater. I thought I was meant to change the world, that people would know me and remember my name. At the time plenty of people knew my name but it was not spoken with joy, I was a name reviled by the many I had hurt along the way. All of these people, all of the loss, all of the regret flooded into me with each drag of my Camel non-filter and I knew I had to do something!

I found the number to High Point Detox and when I called I think I may have stammered and hesitantly spoke the words "I need help" I know every muscle in my body fought the urge to slam the phone down in fear and run straight back to what I knew best and because of that I heard the woman say "We have one bed and if you call me at 8am tomorrow and can get here it's yours." This wave of relief came over me and I knew at that moment this was what I wanted, this was the first step to a new life. I called my Mother and asked her if she'd bring me the next morning and the saint that she is my mom took another day off from work to pick me up and drop me off. More than likely she was thinking the whole time that yet again this will be a temporary delay before the inevitable phone call she'll receive in the middle of the night saying that I like so many of my friends before me overdosed and died. What she didn't know was this time was different, that I was different. I made a choice before walking in the door to High Point that this time I knew that if I had any chance at all of overcoming my addiction that I had to ask for help, shut up and listen and most importantly to do whatever anyone that knew better than me told me because I knew nothing about this new life and so that's what I did...that's what I do.

Fifteen years later I haven't found the need to pick up a drink or a drug and my life is beyond wonderful! I am here today because I made a commitment to listen to others that know more than me. I am here today because my family has supported me throughout my journey. My wife and kids have never seen me take a drink and I pray they never will. I am here today because of my belief in a power greater than myself and I am able to release the burden of controlling the world to that power and I can just focus on what is in my control that day and it is liberating.
As I look back and reflect on those darkest days I realize that I was correct when I believed I had a higher purpose in life, that I was going to change the world and people would know my name. I just had no idea at the time that the name I'd be known as and remembered by in the world was "Dad".

February 21st, 2016
(I have never mentioned what my addiction was to in public, I always just say I don't drink. I must admit I am not totally comfortable with my decision to do so this morning, I am always very private and protective of this because of the stigma that comes with Heroin Addiction but I feel today more than anytime in the past people need to hear from us who have seen the other side of addiction and known a better life. This addiction is tearing apart our kids, our friends, our family and I hope that maybe if one person sees it's possible than it's worth it to share something so private with others.)

We Are Quiet

by Lucy Sinclair

Grade 11

Now the muted music comes on warm
I lean back in my seat and watch the stars
In brake lights and in roadside signs
With half-closed sleeping eyes
I hold my mother's fingertips
and fall into the night

(Honorable Mention Finalist, 20th Annual Teen Poetry Contest, Beverly Public Library, 32 Essex Street, Beverly, Massachusetts. Readings & Awards Ceremony, April 26, 2016.)

Readying for War

by Terri McFadden

Round and round the playroom we marched, a platoon of small children, my sisters and cousins, the creaky oak floor adding rhythm to our song: “You’re in the army now, you’re not behind the plow, you’ll never get rich by digging a ditch, you’re in the army now!”  This is one of my earliest memories; I was just three or four and proud that I had learned the words and tune of this song from the Second World War.

Our bucolic little town couldn’t have been more peaceful, yet we seemed to be surrounded by echoes of past and future wars.  All the fathers we knew had served in World War II and we’d hear occasional stories from them, nothing gruesome, usually funny.  But somehow we knew that they had been involved in something terrible. They marched with our grandfathers, many of whom were veterans of WW I, in parades on Memorial Day and Armistice Day. On a regular basis the radio announcer would tell us the station was testing its emergency warning system and a shrill sound would be heard for a minute, and then the voice would tell us what we should do “…in the event of a real emergency”.  In school we participated in air-raid drills.  The shrieking alarm would go off and we would hustle out of the classroom and hunker down in the hallway on our knees with our arms covering our heads.  Our teachers stressed the importance of walking quickly – NOT RUNNING, so everyone would make it to safety. We were told this was to get us as fast as possible to the windowless hall, out of the way of the flying shards of glass that would follow the bombs dropping on our tiny town.  No explanations were offered as to why the “enemy” might wish to destroy us – I don’t think we knew who the “enemy” was. 

The neighborhood where I lived for my first nine years was built on a series of hills, a former farm.  The old farmhouse and barn were near the bottom and that was where my grandparents lived.  Streets were laid out in rows, one above the other and lined with little post-war houses.  When I was nine my family moved to a new house, about a mile away.  A mile isn’t much, but was huge to me.  In my old neighborhood I was surrounded by kids my own age, and nearly all of them were related to me.  Anytime of the day it was easy to skip outdoors and find someone to play dodge ball or Red Rover to ride bikes or to go sledding in the nearby fields.

Our new house was much larger, with an enormous yard, formerly a field on another old farm and set just above a lovely woodland of 16 acres. That we needed the room there was no doubt.  Our family had grown from five children to seven when my mother gave birth to two daughters just a year apart, making the tally six girls and one boy. It was a lively household. I loved the new house, but at first hated the isolation of the almost empty sub-division that my father was in the process of developing.  There were no children around for me to play with, except my elder sisters or my next younger sister.  Somehow this never seemed to work as I was not especially athletic like the sister three years older and the sister five years younger was too much a baby for me to want to spend much time with her.  I had great admiration for my eldest sister, but at five years older than me, she had no time or interest in entertaining me.  I was thrown on my own a great deal and discovered that I loved the woods, stream and pond below our house, roaming far and wide, imagining the Indians who had lived there, the dinosaurs that had ranged there, spotting the occasional fairy.  My active imagination became my best friend.

Soon after my dad built our house he’d added, as he described it, a present for all of us, something to keep us safe from enemy attack. One night after dinner he led us all out to the side yard, beyond the barn where our two horses, Suzy and Molly stood in their stalls munching hay.  Dad pulled open the double door steel bulkhead that stood alone, apparently unattached to anything, and gestured for us to head down the steep stairs.  At the bottom was a concrete room, lined with bunk beds.  At the far end was a tiny kitchen, with canned goods neatly stacked.  Jugs of water stood ready.  Blankets were folded on each bunk.  A stall at the back hid a toilet.  All the comforts of home!  I don’t know what the rest of the family thought, but I was appalled.  At age ten, the thought of being stuck inside that gray bunker with all my siblings and my parents was almost as terrifying as being blown away by the A-bomb.  I had eventually learned from overheard conversations who the enemy was and what would probably happen to us. 

About that time I started having a recurring dream.  In it I stood looking at our house, or rather where our house used to be.  It was gone, though the huge double-trunked maple and the oak that graced the front yard were always intact.  There were no sounds, no people in the dream. Everything was gone except, oddly, the living room drapes.  Those green and white drapes always survived, lying on the gracefully on the ground – and me.  It was the aloneness that always seemed terrifying to me.  It was, after all, almost unimaginable to be truly alone, what with my large family and school classes which had 35 or more students.  Although it had taken some time to adjust to the move, I’d grown to love the solitude and I always felt a little guilty enjoying it so much.  Perhaps that is why being alone in the dream was so frightening – I feared I would get my wish.

In October of 1962 I was looking forward to my 12^th birthday.  As was my usual habit, when I could manage it, I was watching TV by myself.  My sisters usually watched television with my mother in her bedroom.  My father spent the evenings working or reading in the living room.  My brother was away at college.  So it wasn’t all that difficult to slip into the TV room and watch my favorite shows without having to argue about which of the three stations to turn to.  That night my program was interrupted by some newsman and I was furious. Then he introduced the President of the United States.  At first I didn’t understand what he was talking about, I just kept hoping my show would return.  It didn’t.  Without even meaning to, I started to pay attention to President Kennedy’s words.  It began to seem to me that the bomb shelter in the yard might get used after all.

Terri McFadden has been writing since she was nine years old when she submitted her first story to Jack and Jill Magazine. (She experienced her first rejection at the same time, a sad introduction into the world of writing and publishing!)  In the years since Terri has written a novel, Han, set in 19^th century Korea and many non-fiction pieces written for EBSCO and the Beverly Historical Society where she is employed as the director of research and education.  Currently she is working on a novel based on the life of Juno Larcom, a slave in 18^th century Beverly and a personal memoir.