An Unexpected Performance

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

Four years of twice-yearly concerts presented by a highly accomplished group of students was coming to a close for this grandmother.  My grandson plays tenor sax in a jazz group and concert band, providing his family numerous opportunities to enjoy his talent and love of music.

The finale of the year was a “Pops” concert, newly stationed in an outside amphitheater at his high school.  The evening had become cool and breezy, a welcome relief from the sudden high heat of the past two days. My family and I sat comfortably up close, at tables and chairs positioned near the performers.

The program featured selections from several band and orchestra groups, followed by a Senior Medley - a tradition for the departing seniors and arranged by one of them.  As the beautiful music progressed, the breeze progressed likewise into a mild wind, scattering pages of music clipped to music stands if left unattended for a moment. Even the director’s music took off. The temperature began to fall and everyone felt the chill, especially the girls shivering in their lighter dresses, but all bravely played on.

At the end of the concert, as the director was gathering his music, I and others who had retrieved music pieces in flight, rose to pass them to him...or at least, I tried.  As I walked towards him, I failed to notice the slightly raised podium sitting on the concrete, my excuse being it was the same color as the concrete and the darkened amphitheater was not conducive to keen sight.  One second I was upright, the next, doing a face plant as I tripped on the podium - sending the music, my phone and glasses flying.  I lay flat on the cement, a little dazed and a lot embarrassed.  

My family and a helpful gentleman near me came running and carefully raised me to my feet. I was amazed I had not broken any bones, nor my glasses nor phone. I felt a bit bruised but had not a scratch. The next day, however, my left jaw looked like I had been given a left hook!  Of course, I was a bit shocked and annoyed that I was such a klutz, but sat quietly for the remainder of the eve.  

I feel the concert was a tremendous finale for the high school music season and more so for all the seniors.  I know it is a night I shall always remember, and my family shall also have an unexpected performance to critique!

Memorial Day

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     My first memory of Memorial Day was as a first grader at the Gleason School in West Medford. It was the early seventies and our teacher, Mrs. Wallace, would start preparing our class weeks before the ceremony we would attend, instructing us on our musical selections, but more importantly the solemn meaning of the event. We learned about the history of our fallen soldiers and how crucial it was to remember their sacrifice. We practiced getting in line in our classroom and standing perfectly still and quiet until Mrs. Wallace gestured for us to sing. I took this ceremony very seriously and wanted to do my best not only for all our lost veterans but also for my Dad, who served in the Navy in WWII and my grandfather, who served our country in WWI.

     The week of the ceremony was our chance to practice with the rest of the school. We all filed out to the asphalt playground and took our assigned places. The first grade stood in front of the sixth graders, and we were told that they would be our partners walking to the cemetery next door to our school. The fifth grade was paired with the second and the fourth grade with the third. We all stood in uniform lines flanked by our teachers making sure we remained in place and that there was no talking. Various students were picked to do readings and petitions and the sixth grade sang a complicated piece with harmonies and provided two trumpeters to play Taps. It was at least a dozen times that we formed our lines, like little soldiers marching towards our own battle.

   On the day of the ceremony, my mother helped me clip purple lilacs from the bush in our backyard to put in the coffee can I had wrapped in tin foil the day before. We put some stones in the bottom of the can to steady it and wrapped the stems of the lilacs in wet paper towels to keep them moist. When I arrived at school I was amazed at the sea of lilacs in the hallways with the occasional bouquet of late blooming tulips. The heady sweet smell of all those lilacs was dizzying. We had to take special care to keep the flowers away from the door of our first-grade class as Mrs. Wallace was highly allergic to them.

    When it was time for the ceremony we again made our formation in the school yard and then row by row with flowers in hand, we departed for the Oak Grove Cemetery with our student partners. The only sound of our journey was the scuffle of sneakers and shoes on the sidewalk as we quietly made our way through the cemetery gates.  We stopped in front of the WWII Memorial and placed the flowers at our feet. The graves had all been decorated with small American flags and there were lines of veterans to one side, some sitting and some standing, along with a color guard in front. We opened our ceremony with the Star-Spangled Banner and in between the veteran speeches and our own readings and petitions was our rendition of God Bless America. Finally, it was time to place our flowers on the soldier’s graves. We were still partnered with our sixth graders so the job would be completed in a timely and silent manner. Our school trumpeter then played Taps which was answered in echo by another trumpeter in the distance. Although I knew it would be happening, the guns fired in salute made me jump. At last we sang our final song of Let There Be Peace on Earth and the ceremony ended. Our walk back to school was boisterous now that we were relieved of our solemn duties and we were all rewarded with popsicles in our classroom for our hard work.    

      There were other ceremonies and parades that took place in my city on Memorial Day, but none made the lasting impression of the sacrifices of our military than those six years I stood near the graves of those fallen soldiers with my fellow elementary students.

Your silent tents of green
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been.
The memory shall be ours.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    

    

Way Back

by Gail Balentine

          There is often curiosity among would-be writers, and readers in general, regarding how a writer decides what to write about. Almost anything can spark your imagination, but a tried-and-true method used by many writers is called a ‘writer’s prompt’. These are words, phrases, or beginnings to stories designed to stimulate a creative response. Here’s how one prompt worked for me.

Recently, when I drove my car into a crowded parking lot, I needed to do quite a bit of maneuvering to get it parked, safe from opening and closing doors. As I shut off the engine, I breathed a sigh of relief and then heard a small voice from way, way back in my mind say, “All done!”. That voice stirred up long-stored memories.

The next day, I saw the following prompt: When the kids were small …. and I knew exactly what I was going to write about.

When our oldest daughter was very young, she would say “All done!” Whether it was her playing with a toy and then wanting to go on to something else or eating a meal, she signaled the end of the event with a simple “All done.” As she grew up, she always saw to details and finished whatever she started, so we teased her as a teenager by calling her ‘Julie McCoy’, after the cruise director character on Love Boat. Today, at home and work, she is an organizer in every sense of the word. Coincidence?

Our second daughter’s first word was “Hi!” and she said it to everybody – family, strangers, cats, dogs, goldfish. Since she had bright red hair and huge blue eyes that grabbed attention, most people stopped and spoke to her when she spoke to them. It got to a point where I had to leave her home with my husband when I wanted to run a quick errand. She has always been involved in group activities and, if you asked her today to describe herself, the words “people person” would pop up first. Are we born a certain way?

I was curious to see how our son would differ from his sisters. What would his first/favorite word be? Well, surprise, surprise, there was no special word or words. He was then, and is today, very quiet. Often, I’d wonder if he was really paying attention at all. Today, I don’t have to wonder because, when we talk about specific events or people in the past, he uses his razor-sharp wit to share specific, insightful details that I, as a writer, wish I had noted or described in that way. From where do these core basics come? And how?

Hard to believe some days, but I was a ‘kid’ once, too. My mother told me that when I was an infant I slept for long periods, woke to eat, and then slept again with very little awake time or fussing in-between. The love of food is definitely still there. Not sure about the ‘little’ fussing –  I certainly have my days. The thing I wonder about wistfully is the ease with which I slept then as I deal with frequent insomnia today.

Prompts can help you recall the past, give you a method of sorting out how you feel about an issue, send you off on a new fictional adventure, help you notice – really notice – something you pass by every day. Where they take you is limited only by your imagination. Here’s one for you: I love the color _______ because _____. Try writing a response to the prompt – you might enjoy it!

******           

            

Looking at Your Beach
(From the end of our street)

How is that I am still here,
But feel removed,

And you still feel so close,
As if you were standing by my side?


--Liz Ciampa, 2013

"Salem Street" Courtesy of City of Boston Archives

A Memory of the North End

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

This Spring, I attended the fabulous wedding of my cousin Gus’s great granddaughter, held in Gloucester, where relatives and friends gathered for a happy celebration.  It brought back tender memories of growing up in Boston with visits to the North End.  Cousin Gus, my father’s first cousin and his wife, Rachela, and their three children lived on the third floor of an apartment building on Cross Street. For me, growing up in South Boston among predominantly Irish-American families and a few Polish, Lithuanian and Italian-American families, going to the North End was like going to Italy. My parents spoke Italian to my two brothers and me when we were at home and we answered in English, so when we visited our cousins or friends from Italy, Italian was mainly spoken. The babble outside and inside my cousin’s house was a staccato of familiar words and sounds, very unlike what we heard in our neighborhood.

We kids would lean out the window and watch a parade of shoppers haggling with the fish merchant, Giuffre’s, on the corner of Cross and Salem Streets. They would be toting huge cloth bags (talk about being green early on!) filled to bulging with their fruits and vegetables, plus loaves of freshly baked breads peeking out of paper bags in their arms.  Going for a walk was a feast for the senses - pass the salumeria (grocery/deli) and salivate for a fabulous sandwich of prosciutto, salami, mortadella, mozzarella or provolone cheese and all the condiments (gourmet fare now); smell the pizza and yeasty aromas of the bakeries; breathe the scent of freshly ground coffee; sniff the briny odors of the myriad seafoods, artfully displayed on wooden tables - all this appealing to the eyes as well as the nose, then reaching perfection when tasted.

After my cousins moved to Cambridge, I only went to the North End occasionally, visiting family friends or shopping with my father at the stalls at Haymarket and Faneuil Hall. A major treat was eating pizza at the original Pizzeria Regina on Thatcher Street.  I was baptized at Sacred Heart Church in North Square, which I always loved stopping in to light a candle and say a prayer.

Gus and his family were our only “real” cousin in America. We spent many vacations, holiday visits and day trips with Gus, Rachela and all the children, having so much fun we used to say  it was sinful!  Laughter abounded, happiness reigned and we were all joined in the joy of family.

My brothers, my “younger” cousins and I are now the elders, the first line, matriarchs and patriarchs of this clan here. I hope we do as good a job as our parents did and provide a  loving caring, close family for our children and grandchildren who deserve the best, handed down to us from our dedicated parents who came to America to find a dream.  They gave their best to give us the best they could.