Welcome 2018!!

We are proud to announce that Winter Street Writers turns five years old in January!  It is amazing how we have grown and morphed as a group over these past five years. The start of 2017 brought changes as some of our members have moved on to pursue other opportunities. We wish them much success with their future endeavors! This year we also welcomed our newest member, author Terri McFadden.  Her talent and enthusiasm have made her a wonderful addition.

Our writers have had a productive year. While we all continue to write and contribute to our blog, our writers have also written for the Historic Beverly newsletter, and the photo history book A Park for the Ages: Beverly’s Lynch Park. We have also submitted to Alfred Hitchcock Magazine and Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul. We again hosted a writing workshop in May. The eagerness of our participants was infectious and made for a fun filled creative Saturday.

Once again, we would like to thank the Beverly Public Library for allowing us to use their facility as our home base. We especially want to thank all of YOU, our readers and the over 460 followers of our Facebook page! If any of you are in the downtown Beverly area, come find our Winter Street Writers brick in Ellis Square.

We wish everyone a happy, healthy and creative 2018!!

Winter Street Writers

Gail, Beth, Liz, Lauraine, and Terri

Early Morning

Sometimes
A full moon contradicts itself
And gives clarity, not illusion.

The mid-tide is so still
That its water reflects
Both the clouds and clear sky above.

Three student sailboats sit up straight,
Tied to a square of pier.
The bows point forward,
Up, and out to the open sea.


--Liz Ciampa, 2017.

A Few More Reindeer

by Beth Alexander Walsh

Bea sat at her small kitchen table while her daughter, June, put her groceries away. It was a far cry from the large farmhouse table that commanded her old kitchen. Her life had become an endless stream of downsizing since her husband had died three years ago. A four- bedroom house full of furniture pared down to a lonely single bed in her bedroom and whatever else would fit into her senior living apartment with the remaining split up between June, her grandchildren and the Salvation Army. The only new item in the apartment was the large TV that her son-in-law attached to the wall to compliment her new life in her new home. Bea, however, saw her new home as the last stepping stone between her old home and a nursing facility or death. She hoped it would be the latter. The new TV, however, turned out to be a great idea. It was how she kept track of time. Good Morning America with breakfast, Kelly and Ryan while she did her dishes, and those God-awful women on The View after she washed up, dressed and made her bed. She dozed during soap operas awakening in time for Judge Judy until dinner, which consisted of whatever June had purchased and stocked in her fridge on Saturdays.

     “Do you want me to put your laundry away? Mom?”

Bea looked up at her daughter trying to decide about laundry. She used to do all this stuff…laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning.  June had offered to help until she got settled, which was eight months ago.

     “No, just leave it on the couch. I’ll take care of it. “Bea replied, knowing she had until the following Saturday to complete the job.

     “I saw a Girl Scout troop in the activity room downstairs setting up to make Christmas ornaments with the residents on my way up here. Do you want to go down and check it out?”

 Bea frowned.

     “Why would I want to make ornaments when I don’t even have a Christmas tree!”

      “You have some decorations in your storage locker downstairs along with a table top tree. I could help you bring everything up today,” June urged.

       “The decorations are a waste of time and effort. No one is going to see them.”

June studied her mother and knew it was futile to argue. She collected the dirty laundry from the hamper along with the reusable grocery bags.

     “At least walk me downstairs to my car to get some fresh air. You can get your mail on the way back.”

Bea grunted and pulled herself up from the table, while her daughter grabbed both their coats from the front closet. She then stood silent in the elevator as her daughter talked about Christmas shopping and new recipes and work parties. She buttoned her coat against the wind in the parking lot as she followed her daughter to the car. June kissed her mother goodbye and promised to call the next day. Bea went back inside to the row of mailboxes outside of the activity room. She shuffled through several days of mail, dropping the unwanted into the recycling bin nearby. A small girl in a white shirt, jeans and a Brownie vest came bustling her way.

     “Hi. I’m Zoey Jordan with Brownie Troop 14. Would you like to do some crafts with us?”

     Bea looked down at the girl’s vest ambitiously covered in badges.

     “No thank you. I need to get back up to my apartment.”

 Zoey held up a candy cane dressed as a reindeer with pipe cleaner antlers, googly eyes and a pompom red nose.

    “Well, you can take this to put on your tree.”

     “No, thank you,” Bea replied, “I don’t have a tree.”

     “Oh! Do you have a menorah?” Zoey asked eagerly.

     “No. I’m not Jewish. I just don’t have a Christmas tree.”

      “What’s your name?” Zoey asked and Bea pondered where this conversation was going.

      “My name is Bea.”  Zoey’s eyes widened.

      “Like a bumble bee?”

       “Bea is short for Beatrice.”  Zoey seemed satisfied with that answer.

       “Okay Bea. I’m going to get my mom to see if we can get you a Christmas tree.”

Zoey ran into the activity room before she could answer, so Bea bolted for the elevator hoping to escape the little Brownie.

She probably needs to earn a ‘Helping Old People” badge, Bea thought as she kept pushing the elevator button willing the doors to open.

    “Bea?”

Bea turned to see a tall woman with curly brown hair and eyes to match. She was the adult version of the Brownie standing next to her.

     “Zoey tells me you’re in need of a Christmas tree. We have an extra table top tree that we could give you. I’m Marilyn Jordan by the way.”

Bea reluctantly shook her hand.

     “I really don’t need a tree. In fact, I already have one in my locker in the basement. It’s such a bother to put up and no one is really going to see it anyway.”

     “We’ll help you put it up!!” Zoey announced eagerly.

The elevator doors opened and Marilyn guided Bea in as Zoey pressed the button to the basement.

     “I really don’t want to bother you both. Don’t you have to get back to the activity room?”

     “We were almost done.” Marilyn replied, “It’s no bother at all, besides, what is Christmas without a Christmas tree?”

Bea sighed as they all exited the elevator and made their way to her locker. She now knew that Zoey’s impudence was genetic. She fit the key into the lock and opened the door. In front were an aluminum folding chair for the summer and a foldable cart for carrying groceries and laundry, both of which had yet to be used. She pulled them out and Marilyn and Zoey busied themselves retrieving every box marked Xmas. Zoey then pulled out a candy cane shaped object encased in bubble wrap.

     “What’s this?” she asked.

Bea took the object and carefully pulled the bubble wrap away unveiling an elaborate pinecone wall decoration in the shape of a candy cane with a red and gold bow attached to the neck of the cane.

     “That’s lovely!” Marilyn exclaimed. “Did you make that?”

      “Yes, about 40 years ago. My daughter helped me find the pinecones.” Bea smiled at the memory.

They loaded up the cart and headed to the second floor where Bea’s apartment was located. The elevator doors opened to find Bea’s neighbor Alice in the hallway. Alice looked down at the pine cone candy cane resting in Zoey’s arms.

     “That’s beautiful!” Alice gushed as she entered the elevator. “You’re sure to win the decorated door contest with that.”

     “Oh, I’m not entering any contest.” Bea replied

     “You’re automatically entered if you have something on your door.” Alice waved as the doors closed.

Marilyn and Zoey followed Bea into the apartment and set to work. The Christmas tree was up in minutes, plugged in and ready to decorate. Bea wrapped the tree stand with a multicolored quilted skirt. She then opened a box and pulled out a ceramic lighted tree she had made as a teenager in ceramics class and placed it on her kitchen counter. Next came out two holiday throw pillows which she arranged on the couch. Zoey placed a square box on the kitchen table and looked at Bea for permission to open. Bea smiled and nodded, and Zoey pulled the lid off the box.

   “WOW!” she cried.

Inside the box were a dozen delicate antique glass ornaments. There were bells, and spheres of all sizes and color as well as a long vintage tree topper. Zoey was particularly enamored of an ornament that was in the shape of a child’s face wearing a red hood.

   “That’s my favorite too.” Bea said,” Would you like to find a spot for it?”

Zoey carefully took the ornament and placed it front and center. They quickly placed the rest of the ornaments on the tree and Zoey added her candy cane reindeer last.

    “You need a few more reindeer. I have some downstairs.” Zoey said.

They attached the pine cone decoration to Bea’s door and headed down to the activity room where the troop had finished and were cleaning up. Zoey handed her 3 more candy canes.

   “Merry Christmas Bea!”

   “Thank you, Zoey. Merry Christmas to you too.”

Bea gave them both a hug and watched them walk away. As Bea left the activity center a woman with a clipboard stopped her at the door.

    “You’re Bea Sanders in 207, right?”

    “Yes.”

    “I’m Janet the activities coordinator. I hear you’re a contender for the door decorating contest.”

Bea was nonplussed over the rate at which news traveled in the building. The beehive of busybodies had spread the word in less than an hour.

    “Oh, I’m sure there are better decorations than mine.”

    “I’m so glad I caught up to you. I would love to sign you up for our cookie swap this Thursday at 2.”

     “Oh, I don’t think that would…

    “It is such fun and I bet you have a great family recipe to share.” Janet interrupted.

     “Well I don’t have any ingredients in my kitchen to make something and my daughter…”

     “That’s no problem, you can just sign up to take the bus on Monday at 10 a.m. to the grocery store. I’ll sign you up for now, and if you change your mind you can let me know.” Janet smiled as she turned to her next cookie swap victim.

Bea went to the elevator before anyone else could stop her. She had enough of pushy people for one day. She stopped at her apartment door and admired the decoration that she had not seen in three years. She smiled with pride at the thought of being a contest contender. Once in the apartment, she made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table gazing at her small tree. The lights became brighter as the afternoon sunlight waned, casting a glow on the hanging glass orbs, while the heads of the candy cane reindeers peeked out of the branches. She reached for the calendar on the table along with a pen and scribbled in the Monday square.

Grocery Bus 10 a.m.

     

Untitled

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

As I age I am noticing how often I lose track of names, numbers, messages and many other necessary (or not) items.  Many times I don’t ‘lose’ the aforementioned for any length of time - after a few minutes, hours or days, the thought I lost appears out of the blue.  While speaking with a friend or one of my children, I come out with some non sequitur, as in,”her name was Priscilla”...as if they know what I’m talking about. I know it is the name I was at such a loss to remember a few hours earlier. They may raise an eyebrow.  I tell them, “another brain freeze” if they are near my age or, “just you wait” if young.

Anyone who knows me knows my former love of shopping: food, furniture and clothing. I had energy galore and was able to accomplish many errands in record time. Now, heaven forbid, after making the lists, remembering to collect the coupons, my glasses, smart phone, keys, water bottle and, oh yes, a sweater or jacket (some stores are as cold as meat lockers), I manage to get out, and on my way within 15-20 minutes.

I arrive at the grocery store, head in and remember that I left my reusable sacks in the car - too bad, next time! Onto the fray. I retrieve my list from my purse and search for the coupons which also remain in the car. Uh oh, never mind, next time!  My list is front and center as I start at the non-perishables. Store items get moved, prices are invisible and help is non-existent. I find some bread and take another look at my list. Oh no, where is the list?  In the carriage?  In my pocket or purse? On the floor below me? It’s gone. I retrace my steps, my head bent, searching the market floor and shelves, all the while cursing under my breath.  Oh  goodness me, I never should have had that extra cup of coffee! Time for a bathroom break .As I return to my carriage (if I can find it), I decide I will cruise the aisles quickly (ha!) and grab what I remember from the list. I praise myself and soldier on...no time for self pity since grocery shopping is not genius work.

A few friendly hints:

• Always try to maintain your composure while shopping.
• Avoid holiday weeks, busy times before a major storm and super sale days.  
• Calmly explain to the customer service employee that you were overcharged, or that the items on sale are not available and it is the first day of said sale, or you would really appreciate talking to the manager.
• No one likes to see a youngster or an oldster having a tantrum especially while the canned music is blaring and the aisles are jammed with customers and stock is piled high waiting to be shelved or to come toppling down upon somebody.

Extra note: There is no title for this story until I remember the great one I had!

Celebration in Savannah

by Gail Balentine

Before the trip to Savannah I was apprehensive. Why? Well, start with flying, continue with the arthritis pain when I walk, add wondering how being that close with family for days would work out, and end with going to a city we’d never been to before with people and food we didn’t know. Put it all together and the anticipation was exciting and nerve-wracking all at once.

Logan airport is not my friend. I find it too big and confusing, but we got through it and onto the plane on time. The captain who we watched enter the cockpit was an older gentleman. My daughter leaned over and said, “Not his first rodeo”, and we both smiled. Right after that, one of our flight attendants came to the front of the plane. She, the captain, and another flight attendant were discussing a passenger (he joined them) who had apparently been quite rude to her. I thought he was going to be leaving the plane immediately, but they straightened it out after he apologized profusely. I admired her self-confidence. It seemed that we were in good hands and with my nerves a bit less frayed, the flight went well.

Getting settled in the hotel was a smooth process and the evening went well. Our first dinner in Savannah – at Paula Deen’s restaurant – was unexpectedly delicious. All the warnings about heavy southern food may be true but we chose the buffet where we could select what we wanted, and it was a perfect introduction to southern hospitality and dining. True southern fried chicken – my mouth waters just thinking about it.

The next morning, I was up and ready early and went downstairs to get a cup of coffee. In one of the restaurants I met a waitress who obviously needed the coffee more than I – she had left her charm somewhere else. Funny thing was, later that day and each time we ate there, she was wonderful. That’s when I remembered that some days I would win no awards for sweetness when I first get up. Just ask my husband.

Savannah is a walking city with many parks, statues, and old trees draped with Spanish Moss. If the city in October was a color, it would be green. Fortunately, along with the charming streets and parks come many benches along the way. The arthritis that had haunted me before going receded into the background. No wonder Forrest Gump looked so comfortable sitting on that park bench talking about his chocolates.

From tour guides to waitresses and waiters to a terrific bartender to bookstore owners (and their two beautiful cats) to the wonderful woman who sang to us at our anniversary celebration dinner, the people we met in Savannah were the kind of people you hope to meet when you’re away from home. Helpful, thoughtful, efficient and able to answer questions and give directions patiently, as if they don’t have to say the same thing a hundred times a day.

On the last day, we went to a museum to pass the time until our return flight. We had no idea we were in for such a treat. Our guide brought Savannah’s role in the American Revolution to life. He had us following him outside, carrying flags, mounting a small hill and taking mock aim at the enemy. He had such a way of bringing you into what he was doing that it would have been no surprise to have a horse and buggy arrive to take us back to the hotel rather than the taxi that did come.

And last, but most emphatically not least, there was family. We have traveled together a lot and mostly it has been great. But, now and then, some not-for-prime-time moments show up – the kind that can throw a wet blanket on things for a while. Not this trip. Our children set out to make this a trip of a lifetime and they succeeded, in style. We had a wonderful time together and so many precious memories.

Of all the wonderful things we saw and did on our trip, the time we spent together was the best of all. It was such a lovely way to celebrate 50 years married.

*****

Serengeti

by Terri McFadden

When we arrived on the Serengeti, it struck me that the word fit what my high school poetry teacher termed onomatopoeia – the formation of words in imitation of natural sounds. It is the most serene place I’ve ever visited – at least at first view. The sound of the wind through the grass is nearly the only noise. Enormous animals, elephants, giraffes, leopards and lions move almost silently through the landscape. Even the herds of wildebeest and zebras chomp silently, their hooves only thundering when frightened by a movement of the occasional predator.

On our visit there in 2016 we were lucky enough to witness the great spring migration of animals through Tanzania. It wasn’t quite what I expected. Certainly, there were large numbers of animals all over the enormous plain, but they didn’t seem to be migrating. Not a purposeful, determined movement, but instead there was a slow and gradual drift of the mixed herds as they ate and walked, ate and walked. It was fascinating to see all these different types of herbivores mingled together. At night, we were told, they would sort themselves into herds of their fellows – zebras with zebras, wildebeest with wildebeest, but in the daytime, this wasn’t so. A peaceable kingdom – at least for the lucky ones.

For two nights, we stayed at a safari camp, many miles into the national park. We were greeted by a staff member with glasses of orange juice, refreshing after the bouncing, dusty ride. An open fire and a glass of wine before dinner while watching the sun set were memorable, as was the best dinner we had in Africa (except at our daughter’s house!), several delicious courses all cooked on a two-burner hotplate. Afterward we were escorted to our tents by the staff and warned not to leave them; night time on the Serengeti is a dangerous place. Not so serene when the sun goes down. In fact, we were given whistles to blow in case of an emergency and told more than once not to leave our tents. A staff person would come if needed, but we were told not to whistle for anything but a serious situation, as the savanah is dangerous for them as well.

              After a short peek at the most astounding sky of stars that I’ve ever seen, we entered our tent. There were trillions of lights in that African sky and I could have gazed for hours, but I was too frightened by the warnings about dangerous animals. It was my biggest disappointment of the trip, not watching that sky. Obediently we heeded our guides and retired to our king-size bed. The tent had a shower and toilet, so we were safe for the night. The profound silence and the long day of travel made it easy to fall asleep.

              A few hours later I was awakened by a loud scratching noise at the back of the tent near the bucket shower. I lay there for quite a while, my husband sleeping peacefully beside me. The scratching continued. I’m not a normally a nervous person, but I started worrying. Naturally, I woke Ed. He heard it too, but couldn’t think what to do and reassured me that the canvas was thick and urged me to go back to sleep. Ignoring him, I finally leapt out of bed and dashed to the heavy-duty zippers of the toilet and shower areas. Frantically, I pulled them down, reasoning (sort of) that the critter would have to scratch through two layers of heavy canvas to get at us.

              Neither of us slept for a long time. Finally, I suggested we blow the whistle and reluctantly he agreed. I placed it in my mouth and blew…and nothing. The whistle sounded, but no one came, no one shouted to ask what was wrong. I didn’t have the nerve to do it again, so we took Ed’s advice and finally fell asleep again. By this time too tired to mind the scratching.

              In the morning, I checked the back of the tent and there was no evidence of an animal – at least to my uneducated eyes. No scratch marks on the tent, no scat. The soil was scuffed, but I couldn’t see any footprints. The head of the safari company looked at us uncomprehendingly and shrugged – no idea what it could have been. I was too embarrassed to mention the night-time whistle.

              The great undulating plains of Africa greeted us again that morning, with a pink sunrise and indigo blue sky. On our journey that day we watched a lioness stalking a zebra, which she missed, scattering the herd. We saw a family of cheetahs sitting on a termite hill scanning the horizon for a meal. A sleepy (sated?) hyena lay in the shade of an acacia tree, mouth open, showing her teeth and panting in the heat.

              Not far from the great park’s entrance our driver and guide stopped the truck and pointed. He’d spotted two young cheetahs making their gliding way to what looked like a little family of wildebeests – mother, father and young calf. There was no sign of the herd. In fact, no sign of any other animals at all. The three of them had somehow drifted away while grazing, and now they were alone and hunted.

              We watched, holding our breath, not sure if we should root for the grazers or the cats. It didn’t take long. In silence, the beautiful cheetahs circled the prey, one in one direction the other opposite. The wildebeests finally sensed their peril and bolted. In a flash, the cheetahs attacked. It is hard, even when you see it, to believe flesh and blood and muscle can move that fast; the two acting as one.

The calf was down. The parents stopped running and turned to watch for a moment. And then, with no sound, they turned and trotted off.

True serenity, is I think, an illusion. In this life, we have moments of peace, times of silence, but mostly like the great Serengeti the tumult is there, waiting. And, like the darkness and the light, the tumult will return. Perhaps the only remedy is to sometimes take a chance and gaze on the stars. They are there, waiting.

             

                                                                                

 

 

With the Best of Intentions

We try to avoid

The mistakes of our mothers

Still, we make our own

Then scratch our heads,

Wondering, what now?

 

(Ciampa, Liz.  What is Left.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2009. p. 15. Print.)

Dream Shadow

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

A Shadow at the window peering in.

Man or woman? Mystical jinn?

There's movement when I stare, I think,

Then gone in a moment when I blink.

Is there a parallel to what is in my mind,

When it cannot tell me what it finds?

As it looks - what it may seem...

Maybe, possibly, a dream?

Our 30th Year

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     We have made it. 30 years. Our wedding day seemed a lifetime ago and yet feels like yesterday. We had a spectacular party on a gorgeous September Saturday. A happy day followed by a Hawaiian honeymoon and the beginning of the rest of our lives.

     I married well. My husband was (and is) a hard worker. He literally built our house on nights and weekends while working his full-time job. We started with one toilet and a moving blanket for a door in the downstairs and I carried the dirty dishes upstairs to the bathtub as the kitchen sink had yet to be installed. Our dinners together, when I was not working nights, were eaten in the living room on a hand me down coffee table from my parents. I tried my best to help with painting and staining, but the heavy lifting was always his. It was just the two of us those first four years, as we worked on the house and tried to tame our unruly yard. There were ski weekends away, nights out with friends and family and a few infamous summer parties.

     His construction schedule for our house ramped up when I became pregnant with our first child.We needed actual railings on the stairs instead of the two by fours that kept us from falling from the second floor. I had also told him that I refused to feed a baby at the coffee table and that he needed to finish our dining space. There were bedrooms to build and a bathroom to finish. Babies needed a tub to bathe.  Those nine months passed very quickly, but he got it done. I remember us telling our carpet guy how we needed to install the carpet before the baby came. He dubiously looked at my very large waistline telling us he would do his best three weeks before my due date. The house became presentable (enough) when we took our daughter home from the hospital.

     The next five years were a flurry of activity. Our family grew from two to five. Our tenth anniversary came and went, barely acknowledged as the pressing needs of our children came first. Now outnumbered we became tactical conspirators joining forces to raise our little cherubs. It was good to have an ally.

    By our 20^th anniversary there was much to celebrate. Our life was full and rich. There had been trips to Disney, the Grand Canyon and Vegas. (Yes, we took our kids to Vegas!) There were summers on the beach and on the lake. There were cookouts and fire pits and marshmallows and annual camping trips to Vermont with friends and family. There were plays and concerts and sporting events. There were Easter egg hunts, Trick or Treating, visits from Santa and the tooth fairy, and the anticipation of the next Harry Potter book. There was much pride and joy and laughter. Our children have made life more vibrant and us better people.

     Our marriage has not always been easy because life is not easy. We have endured the agony of sick and dying parents. We have been devastated by the loss of too many friends gone too soon. There have been miscommunications and misunderstandings. Harsh words were sometimes followed with days of silence. I have had moments when I thought I was too good for this man only to feel I was unworthy of his love a month later. We are human and flawed but are wholeheartedly connected in love and faith in each other.  I have learned in these 30 years that I don’t have to like the same TV shows, books, music or movies. It is okay for our hobbies and social groups to be different. Keeping balance of who we are individually makes us stronger as a couple.

     Our 30^th anniversary was spent on a ten-day trip to California. The last time we were away alone together for that length of time was our honeymoon.  We are slightly different people from then. We are a little slower, grayer and sporting a few more pounds. I am more appreciative of this vacation than I was of our honeymoon. It was hard earned and every moment was savored by us both. He still opens doors for me and grabs my hand when we cross the street. It is now again just the two of us anticipating what our future has in store and I am thankful we are together to continue that journey.

  

The Bookstore

by Gail Balentine

Two Years Ago

Jake left that morning on a business trip. I smiled at the airport but we both knew I hated it when he was gone. You’d think a writer would enjoy the solitude but I didn’t, especially since I had begun questioning whether I was meant to be a writer at all.

I’d heard there was going to be a new bookstore downtown and decided to see if it had opened yet so I could pick up something to read while Jake was away. I loved the name of the shop: Real Life Books   –where stories and life blend.

A bell tinkled as I entered and the young woman behind the counter smiled. The store was cozy, with bookshelves and tables artfully arranged, as well as several chairs gathered near a fireplace whose mantel was lined with pictures of literary characters – I could see Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter, Hercule Poirot and Superman from where I stood. I felt at ease and grinned, knowing they would get much business from me. 

When I’d started writing with the serious goal of publishing, I had developed a ritual for my visits to a book store. Fiction is arranged by the author’s last name, so I go over to the G’s and look for my name, knowing it’s not yet there. Silly habit, but I do it anyway. I dutifully scanned the end of the F’s and came to the beginning of the G’s – and there I was, Sarah Garnett. What? Someone else published with my name? With heart pounding, I removed the book from the shelf. The title of the book was And What Now? Fortunately, there was a chair right there at the end of the aisle. I needed to sit down.

When I opened the book and started reading, I could feel the blood drain from my face. It was a story, yes, but not fiction. It was written in the first person and began with my birth, my parents, and older brother. I flipped through the next chapters to see schools I had attended, friends’ names, and Jake. It continued through college, my struggles with writing, and stopped when I entered the bookstore that morning. The written words filled almost the first one-third of the book. The rest of the chapters were blank. 

I dropped the book, as if it were on fire. My head spun and thinking was not possible. I’m not sure how long I sat there before the woman from the register came over to where I was sitting, picked up the book, and asked if I was all right. All right? Is insane all right?

No, I told her. I was not. My words tripped over each other as I hurriedly explained about the book and its contents. She glanced at the book and back at me. And then she asked me if I had fallen, or hit my head.

“Look at that book. What do you see?”

Very calmly, she said, “The Gift by Julie Garwood.”

I stood, grabbed the book, and left the shop, without stopping to pay. Once at home, I locked the doors, ignored my phone, and tried for hours to figure out what was happening. Every time I looked over at the book sitting on the table, I shrunk deeper into the chair. I didn’t eat, sat up all night in the dark, and got angry. I waited until 9:45 AM. Real Life Books opened at 10 AM and I was determined to find out what was happening to me.

When I got there, an older woman opened the door and ushered me in. She seemed to be expecting me. She led me to the chairs near the fireplace and said, “I assume you have some questions.”

Everything about her was calm – her voice, the way she sat in the chair, erect yet comfortable-looking. There was not a hair out of place. Her clothes were soft – a lavender silk blouse, matching wool skirt. A strand of pearls. Her hair was white but I could picture it jet-black and long. I shook myself back to my problem.

“Do you know about the book I found on the shelf yesterday?”

“Of course,” she smiled, “I put it there for you.”

“You what? But the other woman …”

“She couldn’t see what you saw.” She said this as casually as if talking about the weather.

I decided to try a different approach. “We’ve never met, how did you know I would come to the store?”

“It was never a question of if, Mrs. Garnett, only when.”

A customer needed help. She rang in the sale and returned, with a tray holding tea cups, milk, sugar, and several small muffins. It had started to rain and when she turned on the light near us, a soft rosy glow enveloped where we sat.

I confess, I wasn’t thinking at this point. I had expected a strenuous denial on her part and was not prepared for her actual response. Anger left me, taking my energy with it.

“Where did you get the book?” I asked. My hands shook as I brought the teacup to my lips.

“They come in the mail, in plain brown wrapping paper and, before you ask, I have no idea who sends them.” She stared at me over her teacup, dark brown eyes that noticed every detail.

“They?”

“There have been 10 so far. One a year.”

“And the others, were they also unfinished biographies?” She nodded. “Were they all writers?”

She listed eight authors whose first published works had made the New York Times Bestseller List over the past eight years. The other two names I did not recognize.

“Wait a minute. Are you saying that you gave each of these people a book like this,” I waved mine, “and that made them best-selling authors?”

She put down her teacup, leaned forward, and said, “The books didn’t turn them into great writers. There was no advice given, no effort to teach. They already had the skills they needed, as do you. But - seeing their lives in print, and all the blank pages ahead, helped them believe in themselves and start on the road to fill the rest of ‘their book’ with those things that mattered to them. For eight of them, that was to complete their first novel. For two of them, it was changing careers.”

I stood to leave, speechless, until I got to the front door. Then I said, “What do I owe you for the book?”

“A signed copy of your first novel.” She pointed to an antique curio cabinet in the corner. There were eight familiar books behind glass, with room for more.

The sun came out as I stepped outside.

Yesterday

Jake received a promotion and we moved out of state very shortly after my visit to Real Life Books. I never spoke about the bookstore or what happened there to anyone, even Jake. I did, however, keep on writing. We were back in town to visit friends and to allow me to bring my about-to-be-published novel to the shop.

When I got there, it was nice to see that everything seemed the same, except for scattered balloons and a Grand Opening sign. I waited in line and when it was my turn, I asked the man at the register about the signs. He said it was indeed their opening. He went on to say that they had expected to open two years ago but there had been a series of delays in converting the space from a curio shop on one side and a cobbler’s shop on the other to a bookstore. Finally, they had purchased the furniture and shelves from the two places, knocked down the wall between, refinished the floors and wall, and I was looking at the result. He laughed and said that you could still smell boot polish on rainy days.

I had prepared myself that anything could happen when I walked into the shop, so I did not get upset at his answer. Long ago, I had decided it didn’t matter where the inspiration for me to write came from, just that it was there. I told him I had returned to town to bring in a copy of my first book. He was very pleased and said he’d been wondering about where to display local authors’ work.

Taking another quick look around, I did notice one changed detail and called to him as I neared the door.

“Perhaps you could remove the cups and saucers from the curio cabinet over there and put copies of books written by someone from this area on the shelves.”

He looked over at the cabinet, smiled at me, and said, “What a great idea!” 

The bell overhead tinkled as I quietly closed the door.

*****

All the Girls Were Getting Married

by Terri McFadden

My paternal grandparents didn’t have a happy alliance. They didn’t fight, to my knowledge, but were at best indifferent to each other. They lived in a five-room house and never even sat down in the same room at the same time. He had his two rooms, she had hers, she fed him in the kitchen and had her own meal on a TV tray in the living room. As a little child, I didn’t think much about this; as children do I accepted what I saw without question.

I was close to my grandmother – Grandma Sweeney we all called her – her name was Jessie Huston Sweeney.  She was born on a farm in western Pennsylvania in 1887, one of two girls. She and her sister married two brothers. Jessie married Samuel Hartman Sweeney - always called Hart - and Nora married his brother Ed.

Sometime in the mid 1960s, when I was 15 or 16 I became curious about the cold relationship between my grandparents. I asked my grandmother: “Why did you marry him?” She was a straightforward, no nonsense kind of woman and she answered simply, “All the girls were getting married and he asked.” 

A world away from her girlhood was mine. I had possibilities, choices – she was constricted by the times in a way that I couldn’t possibly understand. In some ways her childhood didn’t seem terribly different from my own, but in other ways it was vastly different. She had attended a small, one-room school with 25 or 30 pupils of all ages. I went to an elementary school in a building built just five years before I started first grade, crammed with baby boomers, 35 or more to a room.

The farm where Jessie grew up was just ten miles from the small town of Ligonier where I spent my childhood. Her home was a log structure of four rooms built in the early 19^th century, with no running water, lit by kerosene lamps. Mine was a brand-new brick split level house with five bedrooms, a play room, TV room and a shuffle board court in the basement. But both of us had extended family nearby; grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles were all available and get-togethers were common. Church was important in both our young lives, which we attended with strict Presbyterian regularity.

I expected, along with my siblings and friends, to go to college and prepare for a career. As a female, my choices were somewhat limited – girls could be teachers, secretaries, stewardesses or nurses, and of course, mothers – but I had choices.

I don’t remember when I learned that Grandma had once been a schoolteacher, but I was proud of that fact. It was confusing to me that she had earned her teaching certificate not in four years, but in a four-month course. Jessie finished 8^th grade at the one room school in the village of Fairfield and then attended a “summer course” at Indiana Pennsylvania Normal School. It cost $4.50. She began teaching at a one-room school not too far from her family farm, though in horse and buggy days, it was still too far for her to live at home. Instead she boarded with the family of one of her students.

When she began to share stories about her teaching days I came to realize just how different her experiences were from my own. It seemed strange to me that all ages were in taught in the same room and that she was barely a year older than her oldest pupil. Our school was well heated and comfortable, while she remembered a wood-stove which, on very cold days, the children would take turns standing close to in order to keep from freezing. Older boys in my day might get an afternoon job at the Tastee Freeze or the local grocery store; we girls earned our 50 cents an hour by babysitting. The boys that Grandma taught, “checked their traps” before school and sometimes came to class smelling of skunk. All of the boys and girls had to help on their family farms.

She described what she taught her students. The students learned to read and to write and to “cypher”. They had frequent spelling bees and mental math contests. They memorized poetry and geography. I never commented on her poor grammar, though I wondered how she could have been a teacher and not understood when to use don’t or doesn’t – as in “He don’t need to go to the store.”

When she married my grandfather in 1903 she gave up the school, having taught just one year. She had to quit her job – married women weren’t allowed to teach. She may not have even given it a thought; she always seemed to me to be a person who accepted what was.  Also, as a farmer’s wife, she had a job at the farm. Likely the young couple couldn’t have managed without her assistance at home.

Their life wasn’t easy. My grandfather wasn’t a particularly good farmer and she had to do much to make ends meet. They had pretty much given up the hope that there would be children, when after nearly eight years of marriage, she gave birth to a boy they called Braden.  Braden lived just six years. He contracted diphtheria, a killer we don’t think about today, thanks to inoculations. Her mother, who lived nearby came to help nurse him. “He seemed much better”, my grandmother told me more than 50 years after his death. She had gone outside to the garden and her mother was with the little boy. “My mother said he sat up and started clawing at his throat.” He died a few minutes later. I cried for that little uncle I’d never known. It was the first time I understood that children died. 

In 1923, she and my grandfather bought a piece of property in Ligonier. My father had been born in 1920 and a few years after that that Grandma suffered a severe sunstroke. She could no longer handle the heavy work that farm life entailed so they moved into town. The agricultural depression of that decade kept the farm in the family; there were no buyers for the rolling 80 acres. Although my family is grateful that the land has stayed in the family for more than 200 years, not selling it made life very difficult for my grandparents.

While my grandfather sold farm machinery at the local International Harvester, there wasn’t enough income to support the family of four. They had several ways to bring in extra money. They kept chickens and sold fresh eggs. On Saturdays Granddad would slaughter the Sunday-dinner chickens. Grandma would clean and pluck them and then she would take the fresh birds to her customers, traveling on the train from Ligoner to Latrobe to Derry late on Saturday afternoon.  She came to hate those chickens. In later years any sort of bird that might come to the table she called “fowell”, somehow elongating the word so that it sounded truly disgusting. My mother always heated a slice or two of ham for Grandma on Thanksgiving, because she wouldn’t eat turkey.

A large garden provided vegetables for the table and jars of beans and tomatoes were joined each August by delicious apple butter and peach preserves. The bounty must not have always held however. I recall hearing stories of meals that consisted of nothing but cabbage soup.

Today the Sweeney home might be called a poor one, but they didn’t seem to see it that way. There were so many people worse off and my grandmother was a generous woman. Their home became one of those places that the thousands of men on the move during the Great Depression knew about through word of mouth. You could get a good meal at the Sweeney’s house on Fairfield Street. In addition to keeping boarders and selling eggs and chickens, Grandma made and sold ladies undergarments, tended her large garden and generally kept going. She never really stopped working in all her 92 years. On her death-bed she remarked that the peaches were ripe and if someone would fetch a peck and a paring knife she’d have something to do to keep her occupied.

When I was in my teens she would call on me to come and help her with the heavy housework. After the chores in the “forenoon”, mopping floors, cleaning woodwork and so on, she would cook us a substantial “dinner” – she never used the word lunch.  We’d eat fried pork chops or meatloaf, mashed potatoes, homemade bread and apple sauce and she would talk about the “boys” she knew who went off to World War II or memories of her childhood, where “they had less, but were more content than now days”. After I got my drivers license she called on me often to take her on errands. Only once did I balk and I must have let her know I didn’t want to spend my Saturday driving her around. It was the only time in my life that I saw her angry. 

One of those Saturdays she taught me how to bake bread. She was a small woman, and smaller in her old age with a severe stoop.  At 5’2” I topped her by a head. That morning she made up ten pounds of flour into what would become a dozen delicious loaves. She used an old refrigerator crisper drawer to mix the dough. Initially she asked me to mix it, and at first, I did okay. But as the dough got stiffer, I could barely make a dent in it. She took over, kneading and kneading that mass of dough until it was smooth, the severe arthritis in her knobby hands didn’t hold her back at all.

Years later, after her death, my father sent me her “receipts”, her recipes.  In my hand writing I found my notes of that day of bread making. I remembered asking her for the recipe and she was surprised as she didn’t bother to use one for bread. She told me what she was adding and I wrote it down. Evidently, I left it behind that day, but she had saved it, tucking inside her favorite cookbook. A message for me from the past.

I remember that while we let the bread rise we talked – me asking questions about her life and Grandma answering through stories of a very different time. The three risings and baking took all day. At the end of that Saturday I drove her all over town where we delivered the still warm, home-made bread to friends and family – to their delight and to my unforgettable memories.

*The photographs are of Jessie Huston Sweeney and her sister Nora about 1890 and as adults with their mother, Sarah Huston.

 

 

New England Autumn

Cold snap.

Heat wave.

Apple crisp?

Or sweet sorbet?

Who knows when

& who knows whether

The weather men'll

Explain this away?

 

 

--Liz Ciampa, 2017. Photo courtesy Liz Ciampa.

Beach Recycle

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

Debris tossed up on the shore after a summer Nor'easter lies bleaching in the sun. The
flotsam and jetsam of pieces of wood of varying size and shape twisted within strands of
seaweed are among the more interesting.

Driftwood is appealing with its colorations of gray, white and silver, alone or in combinations. Nature recycles her castoffs as I fill my arms with a few samples of eye-catching beauty. Perhaps I will lay them along the end table next to a plant, or leave them on the floor in the house or out on the deck alongside the found natural sponge and some of my stone collection. It's my idea of decorating - easy enough to do, personal and quite affordable.

I feel if we look to our bounty of nature with its inherent wonder and beauty, we may recycle what we find gratis in our midst rather than in stores filled with manufactured objects which we buy, quickly tire and then dispose indiscriminately.

Our lives, like nature, are precious beautiful and rare. Let us not waste either.

Back to School

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     

      I was going through the Sunday paper in August and came across all the back to school ads and I laughed. Out loud. LOL! This was the first time in 22 years that my husband and I did not have to help prepare for someone to go back to school.

     There were no pens, paper, notebooks and ink to buy. We did not have to inventory whether last year’s XL dorm sheets, towels and shower caddy were in serviceable condition. There were no trips to try on shoes and jeans or buying socks and underwear in bulk because, let’s face it, doing laundry in college is usually an act of desperation. There were no cleaning products to buy (not that they always got used) or stacks of paper products and snacks to last until Thanksgiving. We did not purchase toiletries, which is just a cute word for the two-page list brought to CVS that is the equivalent of a car payment at checkout.

     There were no boxes stacked in the living room weeks before the big moving day. We did not have to play Tetris with said boxes to properly load the car, with hopes of still being able to use our rearview mirror and then deciding the side mirrors were just fine. We also did not have to silently pray while driving a car packed to the gunwales, that the fourth- floor dorm room had an elevator in the building to move the mini fridge into its new home. There was no flurry of trips from the car to the room and then unpacking as much as our student would allow. (Parents need not linger).

     None of that happened this year. 

    

     That doesn’t mean that we have not enjoyed the 22 years of back to school adventures. Our memories, helped along with a parcel of photographs are all intact. There was the first backpack bought for our oldest daughter in the shape of a turtle to take her papers home from preschool. The next year our middle daughter got her own backpack, eager to follow her in her sister’s footsteps. Finally, four years later their baby brother made his way to preschool rendering our house silent for a few hours every morning. There were back to school haircuts, braids and bows, and new shoes kept in boxes until that very first day.  Homework and book reports turned into term papers, finals and SAT’s. Some of those years contained soccer balls and cleats while others incorporated musical instruments and Model UN trips.

      It was busy, exhausting, hopeful, enraging, exhilarating, tear-filled, and joyful. Sometimes those emotions happened all in one day. Every year brought the same cycle, yet every year brought change and a new level of independence for our children. Parenthood is not for the faint of heart because parenting always comes from the heart…and our hearts have been very full.

     Speaking of independence, my husband and I are celebrating ours. Labor Day Weekend now has a whole new meaning for us!

And Time Passed

by Gail Balentine

When I was a child I loved horses and I wanted to write about that,

      But there was school and games and things to do, and time passed.

When I grew older, life was a kaleidoscope of opportunities, and I wanted to write about that,

      But everything was a rush, there was so much to experience and learn, and time passed.

Being a young wife and new mother was challenging and I wanted to write about that,

     But I was so busy keeping up with the kids, work and house, and time passed.

During middle age, work was more demanding, family health issues were almost overwhelming, the kids left for college and to set up their own lives and I wanted to write about that,

      But at the end of each day it seemed there was no energy left, and time passed.

Now I am retired and writing both fiction and non-fiction. I would also love to write memoirs, to share with my children exactly how I felt and what I thought as life’s events occurred. I want to write about that,

      But I have no place to go to find that information, except memories that are fading and blurring. I’m sad that I did not take just a few minutes out of my days to capture thoughts and feelings about the precious people and events that have made up my life, before time passed.

Winter Street Writers

Creative Writing Workshop

Thursday, October 12th

6:30-8:30 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 to bring an original short piece (1-2 pages) for workshopping and feedback.

 Water and light snacks provided.

2nd Place

Middle School-Shore Country Day School

Grade 8

The Star Charts

by Sarah Kennedy

The charts on heavy paper

made into stories by words unknown

The lines scratched on ancient walls,

to inspire, and to mystify

On the deck over the cruel sea,

they lit the way for progress

And the gash of stars that swept a path

were for so many a way home

So who are we to fathom

the depths of what they show?

They are our ally, always watching

and our most enigmatic mystery

For what do we know of lights in the sky? 

3rd Place

Middle School-Waring School

Grade 8

Middle

by Cole Cunningham

Flowers stay bright forever,

At least I think.

And that grey rat gnawing at my head

Stays there, at least I think.

I can only tell by the stink of his stained teeth.

I can’t get flowers out of my head.

I guess the grey rat enjoys that.

The Netherlands is probably full of grey rats.

Still, my mouth is turning to a windmill.

And my neck, topsoil.

Among all this, I’m just fine.

Nothing worries me, at least I think.

My head grows long stems,

And becomes laced with red and orange.

Thorny roses, and biting tulips.

Grey rats flock to me.

And people skate on the dikes in my head.