Holiday Help

by Beth Alexander Walsh

The holidays are here.

Will my list ever end?

The cards are on the counter,

with no time to send.

The tree is in the corner,

naked to the eye.

The presents are not wrapped,

and I need to bake a pie.

My list keeps on growing

as I stand in one more line.

Should I look for the perfect present

or would a gift card be just fine?

I forgot to book the groomer

so, the dog’s hair won’t be tame.

I also skipped the hairdresser;

dog and I will look the same.

My bank account is dipping and

my head is beginning to ache.

There are no visions of sugarplums,

only cookies I need to bake.

Tree needles cover the floor and

the house could use some cleaning.

I should be making merry and

find some Christmas meaning.

So, Santa I am begging

for you to send some aide.

Send me at least two elves

Or several Merry Maids!

Wishing everyone a SIMPLE and joyous holiday!

Things That Go Bump in the Night...

by Gail Balentine

It was cold and late and the snow was three feet deep. Nobody had been able to make it for my Christmas Eve party and there was no way that I would get to my daughter’s house for Christmas morning. Bah, humbug.

            I’d just headed toward the front door to turn off the outside lights when I heard a sound, muffled and undecipherable, but definitely a sound that didn’t belong. Perfect, a Christmas break-in? Well, he’ll get a present he’s not expecting from me! My baseball bat was in the closet. I got it and headed toward the living room.

All the lights were out except for the tree so I figured I’d startle whoever was there when I switched on the overheads. The room lit up only to find - nobody. It’s not a big room, not too many places to hide. I looked behind furniture and the tree. It was then that I realized the noise was coming from the fireplace. A critter of some kind stuck maybe?

            I tiptoed over to the chimney, feeling more than a little foolish, still all dressed up but now with a bat accessory. I bent over and that’s when I saw it, a foot – or rather a black boot – hanging down. Then there was a large puff of black soot that blew right in my face as a voice yelled clearly: “Oh no … help …ouch!”

            Coughing and sputtering, I reached out only to grab a handful of fur. When I could see, there was someone’s very round, very red velvet-covered backside trying to wiggle out onto my hearth. I was so stunned I forgot to be afraid and helped tug him out, the result of which was me pancaked on the floor beneath no less than what appeared to be jolly old St. Nick himself!

            “What the …” I pushed to get him off me and, with more agility than I thought he’d have, he jumped up and then gallantly helped me up. Before we could speak, a huge thud brought a bag crashing down onto the now scattered logs Santa had landed on, and toys spilled everywhere.

            There I was almost eye-to-eye – he’s not a tall man – with Santa Claus. He was grinning, eyes crinkling at the edges, cheeks black with soot, the what used-to-be-white fur of his suit now black. I couldn’t help it, I started laughing and so did he.

            “Well, that was some entrance Martha, wasn’t it?”

            Hearing my first name was instantly sobering. “How do you know my name and who … who are you really?” In a flash I’d decided he was a thief with a sick sense of humor. I looked for my bat.

            “Why of course I know your name, I used to go to your house when you were a child. I was sad the year Mary Ellen Polanski told you I didn’t exist and you believed her. I don’t go when children don’t believe in me.”

            I gasped. How could he possibly know about Mary Ellen? “You really are Santa Claus?!”

            “Yes, my dear, and I’m running late. I was stuck in your chimney for a while. By the way, it needs cleaning. And speaking of that …”  He looked down at his suit. It was a mess.

            We went to the back hallway and I helped him out of his coat. His red long johns were fine, no soot. I directed him toward the bathroom and proceeded to brush his coat and hat vigorously out the back door. The soot came off easily and I admired how soft and warm the suit was. The thought came to me that if I told anyone I had cleaned Santa Claus’ suit on Christmas Eve, they would shuffle me off somewhere with speed. I laughed again and it felt good.

            When he came back, he looked like all the Hallmark pictures I had ever seen of him – snowy white hair and beard, rosy cheeks, glasses low on his nose, and a belly that jiggled – reminding me that I now had a jiggle or two, myself. He quickly dressed and we went back into the living room.

            “May I ask you a question?” I said.

            His right eye quirked up. “You want to know why I’m here tonight – when none of your guests could get here and you don’t think you can go to your daughter’s house tomorrow?” He rummaged in his sack as he waited for me to answer him.

            “Well, yes, that’s exactly what I was wondering.”

            “Here it is!” He pulled out of the sack a beautiful, genuine Tiny Tears doll dressed in a pink and white dress with white shoes. It was identical to the one I had found under our Christmas tree so many years ago.

            “Oh!” was all I could manage to say.

            “I seem to remember a doll like this and a play bassinet way back when - do you?” My eyes filled as I nodded. “Well, just because I don’t come every year doesn’t mean I don’t check on my ‘older children’ now and again. And you’ve had a tough year.” He reached out and patted me on the shoulder gently. “A ruined party and Christmas without Sarah is not the way to end it off. I thought you could give the doll to your granddaughter and since she’s seven, like you were when I gave you yours, the two of you will enjoy playing with this one together.”

            I reached out, touched the box and could have easily been transported back to my childhood except for his voice urging me on.

            “Now, you need to hurry and get dressed for the trip. We have stops to make but we should get to Sarah’s house just as they wake up. I’ll leave you at the end of the walk and you can ring the bell.”

            “But … how?” Then I thought of his sleigh and reindeer and pinched myself. Since it hurt and I didn’t wake up, I ran upstairs, dressed warmly, and came back down to find him eating the cookies I still left out each Christmas. I put on my coat, grabbed the shopping bag full of presents for my family and the precious Tiny Tears doll, and then stopped short as he headed toward the front door.

            “Aren’t we going up the chimney?” I asked. I was getting into the spirit of the thing now.

            “Martha,” he looked at me over his glasses and said in a very patronizing voice, “Do be realistic. If I couldn’t fit coming down the chimney, how am I going to fit going up?” He shook his head.

            We went out front and he summoned the reindeer. Rudolph’s nose cast a red glow on the snow on my front lawn as Santa and I hopped into the warm, snuggly sled.

            “When they ask how I got there in the middle of a snowstorm, what am I to say?”
            “The truth. Tell them Santa stopped by your house, picked you up, and brought you there. Smile each time they ask and don’t change a word of your story. They will eventually stop asking how and instead start talking about the year grandma came for Christmas by sleigh.” I knew he was right.

            Santa looked at me and said, “Do you want to say it this time?”

            Bells jingled as we leapt into the air and I called out:

“Ho, Ho, Ho and a Merry Christmas!”

A Fully Functioning Feline

by Terri McFadden

Demanding, aloof, funny and affectionate – any cat lover has seen these characteristics and more in their beautiful friends. Often embodied in a single, sleek feline. Somehow the cat stories from my family that have stuck with me the longest are about a lovely, black cat named Theo. He was a singular fellow – the characteristics mentioned above - demanding, aloof and funny fit him well. As to affectionate, not so much. This was a cat who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it from the humans he chose to live with.

He was born to a free cat mother. Our son and his friends found her and a litter of kittens on Brackenberry Beach and without asking, brought one of the tiny critters to our house. We hadn’t had a cat in several years and I had decided that I didn’t need another animal in the house, what with four children and a dog. But I was charmed by the small animal bounding over the living room furniture and it made me smile that the little mite had exactly the same black coloring and white toes as our dog, Sasha. With a little trepidation (I’d had some rather destructive cats) I agreed he could move in. A lengthy discussion on a proper name ensued – our youngest pushed hard for Paws, roundly rejected by our eldest, who didn’t like “a body part name”. The ‘music’ the cat made my husband think of a black jazz musician that he liked; why not call the cat Theo? The name stuck.

Previous cats, despite furniture clawing and litter-tray missing, had all been lap-cats. Not so Theo. He rarely deigned to visit any of the six laps available to him of an evening. When he did however, the recipient, while honored, knew he or she was required to sit perfectly still. If you moved or (worse yet) absentmindedly rubbed an ear or chin, you could be sure you would first get an angry green glare. Moving or rubbing a second time usually brought a lightning fast nip. Eventually I realized that Theo didn’t expect his furniture to move, let alone rub his head. Understandable, if you thought of it that way. How would you feel if your sofa shifted underneath you or reached up an arm to pat you on the head?

Theo turned out to be the easiest cat I’d ever owned…I’ll revise that…ever shared a home with. When he wanted to go out he scratched the door, quite gently. Unless of course, the human in the room didn’t respond quickly enough. When he wanted to eat he meowed in the kitchen next to the drawer where the can-opener was kept. And meowed and meowed. We moved pretty smartly to his jazzy tune.

When Theo was about eight years old, our son was home from college and we were going away for the weekend. Ross agreed to feed and keep the litter clean, as no one else would be available. Although the cat preferred to be outdoors, he was fastidious and would use a litter box if absolutely necessary. When we returned, our son had gone back to school. As we climbed the stairs to the second floor the pungent aroma of cat urine greeted us. A small wet spot adorned our bed – on my side. But far worse was to be found in Ross’s room. Suffice to say the mattress had to be discarded. At first, I feared that our black prince was ill. However, it turned out that the porch door, where the litter box was waiting, had not been propped open. Both the human servants were blamed, but punishment was meted out as was only fair for the transgressions involved. Theo was nothing if not a fair judge.

That evening, as my husband and I watched TV, the cat scratched to go out. I rose and opened the door. He exited. I sat again, got comfortable and resumed watching the show. Mere minutes passed. As was his way, Theo flung himself, full-body on the exterior screen door. (His ‘let me in’ was always perfectly clear.) My husband rose, opened the door. Cat in. Giving us a clear-eyed look, he turned and raised one paw and scratched again. Sighing I got up and let him out. He vanished into the night, evidently satisfied that the door openers were once again working properly.

A few years later we moved to the mountains of North Carolina. I was fearful that the coyotes and foxes would make short work of this city cat. I remember thinking, ‘it’s a big house, he can explore it, at least for a few weeks’. The long journey had subdued the feisty animal and that first night he curled in a corner of our bedroom and fell asleep. In the middle of the night a commotion roused us. Turning on the light we saw our joyful cat, happily tossing a desiccated mouse from paw to paw. You could almost hear him say how much he loved his new country home; hunting had never been such a breeze back in Massachusetts.

The evening after our arrival, Theo scratched at the door leading to the yard. I ignored him. He subsided and I thought he was settling to a new, less active way of life. Minutes went by. Unseen by me he had circled the living room, silently slipped behind my chair and clawed the brand-new, brown leather. Never in his life had he clawed the furniture. Recognizing the inevitable, I got up, called the dog and we made a little parade behind Theo to the front door. I opened it, he turned right, padding across the grass. We followed. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and hissed. Loudly. His meaning was crystal clear: “I’m a fully-functioning feline. Leave me alone!”

I was sure that was the end of his imperious highness. Surely, he would become dinner for some larger carnivore. When we retired long after dark, he hadn’t returned and I comforted myself that I’d only done what he wanted. I couldn’t force him to be a different sort of cat – a housecat. Sadly, I just hoped his end had been swift.

About three in the morning a soft scratching could be heard on the door to the deck off our bedroom. Somehow Theo had figured out which was our bedroom – I’d let him out on the opposite side of the house at ground level. He came up a long flight of steps to the deck after his adventures in the new and beckoning countryside.  Clearly, he was a match for any wild mountain carnivore. A fully functioning feline and a very happy fellow indeed.

Camp Kiwanis

There Are Places I Remember 

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

I hear the Beatles singing, “There are places I remember”  and my memories return to when I was in my early preteen years. These places were a touchstone to recall very happy times discovering new parts of Massachusetts and new experiences.  

We lived in South Boston and had cousins in Cambridge. Our  parents were offered a beach house in Onset to rent for a week at a discount, as it belonged to a co-worker of my father. Off we went...parents, my three cousins, my two brothers and I. Of course we had to take lots of food, so both families, unaware of what the other had specifically brought, arrived with two large hams. Suffice it to say, aside from wonderful romps into Onset Bay, games and walks to get ice cream cones, we subsisted on ham in every iteration, at every meal.  No use asking what’s for dinner, lunch or breakfast, the answer was always HAM. Ham and eggs, ham sandwiches, ham with sides for dinner..our parents were good cooks so each meal was good but boy were we tired of ham after that week. We get a laughing fit each time my cousins or my family would recall Onset...the ham week.

Another outing as a youngster was to a family camp our close friends were building in Marlboro. Driving there seemed to take hours and I was a car sick prone child so it was a difficult ride but I made it without incident. The rustic, unfinished, but livable house was on a little pond where we could swim, which I loved to do.  I also relished taking care of two younger boys at the camp, grandsons of the owners. I played games, took short walks around the perimeter of the house and thoroughly enjoyed my supervisory role as the babysitter.

A few years later, now a ten year old, I was a Camp Fire Girl and the leader convinced my mother that I would enjoy going to summer camp outside the city in bucolic, at the time anyway, Hanson. Off I went to Camp Kiwanis for a week, the only girl from our troop to go, never having been away from home that long.  A family friend, a bachelor who always had a new, expensive car drove us and I did manage to have him stop so I could use the shoulder on the road before I soiled his car. My stomach was not quite normal even afterwards as I was quite nervous about the whole ordeal ahead. I acclimated easily and remember passing swimming tests, learning to canoe and archery lessons, craft sessions. There was singing around campfires; “Come to Camp Kiwanis where the green grass grows”, Kumbaya, and other ditties, discovering “smores” and Spam at the dining hall…a ”what kind of meat is this?” moment. I can’t remember the girls I met there, only that I had a very happy time but I was happier to be back home.

My parents belonged to the Italian Cisalpina Society in Boston which fostered community among the Italian immigrants from the North of Italy..Cis Alpine. I remember fondly dances in a hall in South. Boston, not far from our home, where families gathered a few times a year to eat, drink, dance and socialize with relatives and friends from the greater Boston area who may not have been in contact often with each other. An orchestra played and dance we did. I learned waltzes, foxtrots, tangos and polkas, watching and dancing with my father, mother and brothers. I still remember the music, the singing, even the Italian lyrics.

The Society also sponsored picnics every summer at a grove in Billerica. I don’t recall the name  but I do remember well the pine trees, wooden picnic tables and benches, a good sized gazebo with a wooden floor for the dancing throughout the afternoon, a small pond which was not appealing for swimming(to me anyway), but fishing was attempted by some. A major focus of the gatherings was the food! Every family made and brought multiple dishes, salads, breads, desserts, wine and beer. Lasagne and cannelloni, among the pasta specialties, rice timbales, risotto, roasted beef, veal, pork and chicken in every Italian manner possible, antipasti and cooked vegetables served warm or cold, tortas of vegetables, crostatas of peaches, apples, berries, dried stewed fruits, cookies. There was never a dearth of mouth watering, delicious and  home-made food. Not a ham in sight!  Everyone shared so we tasted and ate and danced away the calories. Singing continued after the small, live combo departed and as the day began to wane we all packed up, cleaned the area and set out, sated, tired, but oh so happy.  Another treasured memory. Another place I remember quite distinctly. So when I hear the song, my heart is warmed.

Bob, Lauraine, Joe, Marlboro July 1949

Thanksgiving Dinner

by Beth Alexander Walsh

Over twenty-five years ago, after our mother sold our childhood home, I hosted my first Thanksgiving dinner.   My mother had entrusted me the family china and her stuffing recipe along with explicit instructions on how to properly cook the turkey. My two daughters, both toddlers at the time, helped me make napkin holders out of toilet paper rolls and popcorn kernels, along with turkey centerpieces of Styrofoam and colored feathers. The house was dusted, vacuumed and toys banished to their chest. A new table cloth was purchased for the table adjacent to the kitchen and an old one was borrowed for the folding table and chairs set up in the living room. Both tables were set and ready for candles to be lit and water and wine to be poured. All I needed were the guests.

Cocktails and appetizers went swimmingly! There are six Alexander children and when we get together with our extended families, we are a boisterous lot. The turkey was cooked to perfection and my husband carved enough for two platters to go on each table along with all the fixings. I then uttered the words that would forever dictate every Thanksgiving forward.

“Everyone can sit wherever they want.”

The men (or should I say boys) all made a beeline for the table in the living room that had a great view of the thirty-inch console TV. They proceeded to remove the centerpieces and candles, to have an unobstructed view, and turned on the TV to whatever football game happened to be playing. Every Thanksgiving onward became a battle of the sexes.

The following year, the same thing happened. The boys ran to the living room, but I had the foresight to hide the remote.  The food I slaved over for days was not going to compete with football.

The year after that we just set the table to accommodate the boys in the other room. We girls were starting to realize the benefits of a “women only” table. It was also the year my son was born, and given that he was a baby, I sat him in his usual spot in his high chair next to me. My husband immediately picked him up, highchair and all and moved him to sit with the men. Our son was destined to male only Thanksgiving dinner for the foreseeable future.

And so, it continued. The girls enjoyed the fine china, fancy silverware and crystal glasses set on a festive table cloth. Grace would be recited before the meal and we would each state what we were thankful for that year. Classical music or Christmas carols would be lightly playing in the background. We were the evolved table. The boys saw no benefit in saying grace or doting on thankfulness. The task at hand was to tackle the food piled high on their mismatched plates. The banter yelled back and forth was to say the least, entertaining.

This year our tradition will be different as our guest list has dwindled. My brother and his extended family will be spending Thanksgiving at Children’s Hospital where his 5 year- old granddaughter is receiving in-patient care for Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. She has requested her “Paw’s” ham and knowing the many aunts, uncles and grandparents that support this family there will be an amazing feast to be shared with all at the hospital. Those celebrating in my home will unite at one table and take a moment to send love and healing thoughts to those gathering in Boston and give thanks for all we have and each other.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

by Charlotte Savage

The doorbell rang, it was September of 1988, just before Rosh Hashonah., the beginning of our new year. I had been painting pictures for a little over two years when Rose, a member of my synagogue dropped off the gift I had won at a sisterhood meeting. Perhaps she hadn't heard me when I said I was re-donating it for the next meeting. From the doorway she saw my easel and the picture I was painting. She said she hadn't known I was an artist-- could she see what I was painting. As she admired my work I learned that she and her husband had been searching for over a year for a painting to put in the living room of their new condo. She asked if I would be willing to paint a picture for them. I told her that the picture on the easel was to be a wedding gift requested by my nephew and his fiance; I hadn't thought about painting for profit. My excuse being I didn't have professional grade paints and perhaps not qualified since my only training had been in an art class with twenty other people at a senior center. Rose said that she loved the painting on my easel and would be happy with whatever grade paint I was using. She had no idea what kind of painting she wanted other than she liked flowers.

I asked Rose if I could visit her condo and see what she had in her living room; which turned out to be floral drapes that went the width of sliding doors plus she had vases of artificial flowers on the tables near her couch. The couch and arm chairs were white, as were her walls. She definitely liked flowers. However, I suggested she already had enough flowers in the room.

The following week I showed her and her husband a picture I found in a calendar of Monet paintings. The painting had grass and trees in the foreground, a river, with houses on the far shore, and mountains in back of the houses. The size canvas needed above her long couch was 36 inches by 24 inches. With the deposit she gave me I went directly to the art store and purchased professional grade paints, new brushes and a canvas.

At first I struggled with the painting, I hadn't worked on a canvas of that size before. An artist friend visiting my home saw my confusion and suggested I paint it exactly like Monet did and then go back and make it my own painting, which turned out to be an excellent idea. The second suggestion he made was to enter the wedding gift painting in an art show and to my surprise it won a first prize ribbon. This helped a lot to build up confidence to copy a Monet painting.

I called Rose when the picture was almost finished and asked for a swatch of her floral drapes. Into the leaves of the trees in the foreground and the mountains in background I painted the colors seen on her drapes. My study of interior decorating and design, when in real estate, actually helped me in my painting.

On the completion of Rose's painting a couple of months later I delivered it to her house. She was going to have it framed according to her own taste. As she handed me a check I told her that if at any time she felt the painting not to her liking I would buy it back for the $500.00 she had paid me. She was a member of my synagogue and I wanted to make sure I had a satisfied client.

A few months later I received a call from Rose. Had I seen the show Sixty Minutes the previous evening, it featured Monet paintings? It seems Japanese people were buying copies of Monet paintings and paying as much as $10,000.00 for a copy. She hadn't realized what a bargain she had got and she and her husband and all her family really loved the painting. Something I was very pleased to hear.

Several years passed and Rose and her husband moved down to Florida permanently. She was bringing the painting with her in their car to make sure it did not get damaged. I reminded her that if it did not fit into her décor I would buy it back; she shook her head no. Over the years she returned to Massachusetts and the synagogue for Rosh Hashonah services and each year she would greet me with the words “you can't have it” then laughed and wished me a happy and healthy new year.

It was the very first painting that I had sold and it has been a constant source of pride to know that my painting had brought Rose and her husband so much joy over these many years. Her confidence in me, the joy she showed for the painting was the kind of gift that never stops.

This past September Rose was not part of the congregation, we could not wish each other joy in the new year. However, her memory lives on in my heart and mind because I will never lose my appreciation for a lady who had so much trust in me as to buy that very first painting. It is a gift that keeps on giving.

© 2018charlotte savage all rights reserved

Independence

by Terri McFadden

She was two-tone. Deep forest green body, soft cream color top. A year older than me, she was a gift for my 16^th birthday. My dad bought her at auction, beat up and in great need of attention. My brother worked on her for a year, fixing the engine, stripping old paint and repainting.

A Jeep. A best friend. Independence. I wouldn’t have to ask to drive the Buick LeSabre or the yellow LTD – monsters both. I had my own wheels. First, however, I had to learn to drive a stick. And stick it was. A long metal pole, with a worn black knob was the stick-shift, with a smaller stick to engage the four-wheel drive. The day after my birthday, with Dad behind the wheel, we drove up the hill to the big parking lot at the junior high school. Dad stopped the Jeep and pulled the hand-brake with a screech. He jumped out and I took his place. We slammed the tinny doors in unison. He gave me the lesson. “Left pedal: Clutch, Middle Pedal: Brake, Right Pedal: Gas. Push in the clutch, give a little gas, release clutch. Go.” I…went….jerked forward. Engine died. “Hell’s Fire Terri! Let it out slow.” It took some time, but I learned and then did I go!

Her top speed on the highway, was 45 mph. I only took her that fast once and her scream of protest still rings in my ears. On the few times we ventured on the main roads, to go roller skating in Latrobe, or to the teen “night club” to dance, I kept her to a sedate 40. Even VW Beetle’s zoomed past us. She also wasn’t happy in a rain storm. She had just one windshield wiper, operated by hand by the driver – or a willing passenger leaning over – swish, swish. Her heater let out occasional little wisps of heat on a cold day – just for the driver’s feet.

However, the highway wasn’t her home and winter wasn’t her favorite time of year. Her place was the mountains surrounding our little town, muddy spring through bright fall. Dirt roads and off-road treks with my girlfriends. That’s where my Jeep was most at home. On a Friday night I’d pick up some of my friends. Ginny, Nettie, Debbie, and Sharon would cram into the bare metal interior, the minimum padding in the rear made the front passenger seat coveted. Off we’d go.

Summer nights we’d take sleeping bags and a little food and we’d head up to the Ridge or Laurel Mountain, or to our farm ten miles out of town. We go off-road or let a dirt road see where it would lead us. One memorable night we drove through a grove of saplings and couldn’t get out. Forward, back, forward, back, forward back, I tried my best to ram my way through the tiny forest. Finally the poor Jeep gave out entirely and we had a very long walk back to town. Next day Dad and I made our way up the mountain to where the Jeep waited patiently. He took one look at the engine and said I’d broken the fan belt. Easily fixed. I was so relieved; I feared I’d killed my friend. My father was so nice about it too. He understood. Love of vehicles and the independence they offered was something we shared.

My senior year is a series of snap-shots in my mind. Driving to school and picking up my best friend Janice on the way – no more walking to the bus, shared with screaming kids two or three years younger. Driving around town with my dog, Patrick, a 150-pound Irish wolfhound sitting on the back seat. What a showoff – and I don’t mean Patrick!

There were scary times as well. Once I negotiated a hair-pin turn and started up a steep hill. With only a little power, Jeep slipped backwards, down the hill. We drifted across the road, toward another steep hill. I thought we were doomed. At the last minute the brakes engaged and we rested, one wheel over the edge.

It was a short-lived love affair. I headed for college and freshmen weren’t allowed cars. My Jeep stayed safely at home. During Christmas break I again drove her around, visiting friends, reliving memories. In June I returned home again. The Jeep was not in sight. I asked my father where she was parked. He sold her, he said. Had he sold my horse, Molly or Patrick, I couldn’t have been more upset. (But my mother would have saved them!) Dad had had a good offer, he said. No one was around to drive her, he said. Gina didn’t have her license yet, he said. I said nothing.

The Jeep gave me a lot in a year and half. I let her go, but I kept her memory. She meant freedom. In the decades since, no machine has had that impact on me. The means to choose, to go where and when you want. Independence. Never under estimate its value.

Fun with Mother Goose

by Lauraine Lombara Alberetti

Taking a walk alone, I started reciting nursery rhymes and songs.  However, I found I could only remember a first line and maybe a second but beyond that, I made up a few more lines.  I had fun doing this and thought it might also be fun as a game for children(or adults) who knew these rhymes, to make up disparate endings. If they rhyme, that’s fine but anything should be acceptable...it would solely be a creative mind-expanding, fun exercise/game.

Here are a few I created:  (with acknowledgement and thanks  to Mother Goose).

Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water,

A storm came on, it was full of hail and

What a ruckus it made in the pail!

A tisket a tasket, I found a yellow basket,

I piled a bunch of flowers in

And took them for a little spin.

Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John,

Went to bed with his trousers on.

One foot in and one foot out,

What is this all about?

Little boy blue come blow your horn,

The sheep’s in the meadow,

The cow’s in the corn.

Where has the boy blue gone? It’s not the time to sleep,

If you don’t work, you don’t reap!

Jack Spratt could eat no fat,

His wife could eat no lean.

They each were fat and skinny,

And nothing in between.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

Good thing the sun had baked him,

He didn’t ooze at all.

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,

Eating her curds and whey.

Along came a spider, who sat down beside her,

And said, “What a mighty fine day!”

Wee Willie Winkie,

Runs through the town,

Upstairs, downstairs, in his nightgown.

Naughty Willie Winkie,

He better not trip…

We wouldn’t want to see his nightgown rip.

Leaves

by Beth Alexander Walsh

Orange, red and yellow

toppling like floating fire

falling from limbs

Rustling, crunching;

an autumn percussion

performed beneath my feet

Swirling, twirling,

dancing to music

only the wind knows

A brief display

before dormancy

and winter’s slumber

The Early Bird Special

by Charlotte Savage

I met my boyfriend Milton in 1998.  He lived in Century village, Boca Raton. When I first went down to visit him I learned of the early bird dinners which usually began at four o'clock.  However, I liked to swim in the late afternoon and not be dressing for dinner at three p.m.    Instead I went grocery shopping and cooked our meals leaving the weekends open to dine out around seven p.m.  In the beginning the ladies in his building were very friendly to me, asking me to play cards with them or join them for tea in their condo.   However as the weeks went by these ladies became less and less friendly.  I couldn't imagine what I had done to alienate them.

Then one afternoon when I was relaxing on a lounge chair at the pool, with my hat covering most of my face, I was almost asleep when Milton came down to chat with his friends.  They were sitting a short distance from where I was resting.  I heard him bragging about what a great cook I was.   He described our dinner the night before which was homemade mushroom barley soup with a lamb base and that he had never tasted anything so delicious in his life before.  

 The men were for the most part silent until one of the wives joined them.  Then her husband asked Milton to describe my menu from the night before to his wife.  When Milton finished, the gentleman asked his wife why Milt's girlfriend found it convenient to cook for him, while his wife of forty years insisted he be dressed at three p.m. to go to the early bird special.  

The irate wife answered, "Well if forty years of cooking isn't good enough for you then I think it's high time you found yourself a new girlfriend because if you want to eat with me--I will be at the early bird special." She left the pool in a huff.

That evening I had a little talk with Milton and suggested that he not be bragging about my cooking to his buddies because otherwise I would be the one not cooking and he would be the one getting dressed for the early bird special. 

Milt came to the conclusion that silence was golden and it wasn't too long before these ladies were once again my friends.

2018 Charlotte Savage, all rights reserved.

Tree Hugger

by Mary Ellen Gambutti

Christmas in Tokyo, 1962, Dad packed his Air Force blue B-4 bag for temporary duty in the Philippines. Three days later, my Swedish classmate, Ingrid, whose diplomat family lived near our city school, visited me to lunch and play in our military dependent community. Bored with dolls, we donned jackets, and went out into the crisp air.

                                         

In the gnarled embrace of a crabapple out our kitchen door that summer, I had lounged and read. A tall girl, I could easily grasp a low branch, lift my long legs up and over a limb, and hoist into the friendly shaded comfort of the fruit tree.

Below a grassy slope, I rambled and dreamed among tall trees. In this sacred space among arboreal spirits, adjacent to a high-banked stone wall that undulated at the edge of Meiji Shrine, I was a woodland child; a hugger of trees on the firm earth that hugs and supports kindred species. I relished warm bark, familiar feel of leaf and twig, and the shelter of a cathedral canopy.

Our Washington Heights houses were built in 1949 on Imperial parade grounds. Japanese gardeners-guards maintained these manicured groves that spilled over the wall from the forest planted in Emperor Meiji’s honor.

Ingrid warned me not to—she, the wiser and worldlier of us eleven year olds--but a leaning black pine dared me dash up its slanted profile, like a playground slide. Once up, I must lower myself ten feet with no assistance from side branches, while my worried friend attended below. A quick reversal, a twist, drop; my left ankle wrenched.

He heard my piercing cries, and a khaki-garbed caretaker trotted toward us. Concerned and consoling, he radioed “help” to military police. Ingrid spoke perfect Japanese, and pointed up the

steep lawn toward my house. The gentle man hoisted me to his back, and slung me over his diminutive frame. I wailed in agony. My long legs dangled, my broken ankle hung. He lugged me; a gangly, pigtailed American girl, up the slope, and across our kitchen threshold. Mom pointed to a chair and chided me for putting the kind man out of his way. I moaned and thrashed while we waited for the ambulance. Ingrid--responsible and mature--summarized the accident to Mom, departed down the hill, along the stone wall to the main gate, where she hailed a taxi home.

Three weeks after Christmas, Dad was home, and I was back in school with crutches. Five weeks from my fall, I graduated to a rubber-heeled cast, ready to play kickball, and a full eight weeks after, I was released of my burden.

I recall the insult of a second ankle turn the following summer; the painful reminder my healing was not complete, when Ingrid and I played catch in her driveway. Her blue eyes widened, and her empathetic gasp revealed her dread of another emergency in my company.

Mary Ellen writes about her life as an Air Force daughter, search and reunion with her birth family, her gardening career, and her survival of a stroke at mid-life. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Gravel Magazine, Wildflower Muse, The Remembered Arts Journal, The Vignette Review, Modern Creative Life, Halcyon Days, The Book Ends Review, Nature Writing, Haibun Today, PostCard Shorts, Memoir Magazine, Borrowed Solace, Thousand and One Stories, StoryLand Literary Review, CarpeArte and SoftCartel. Her memoir chapbook is 'Stroke Story, My Journey There and Back." She and her husband live in Sarasota, Florida, with their rescued Chihuahua, Max.

https://ibisandhibiscusmelwrites.blogspot.com/?m=1

Creative People 

by Gail Balentine

Who is a creative person?   According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, creative means “marked by the ability or power to bring (something) into existence”. Other words for creative include: “gifted, clever, imaginative, innovative, inspired, or inventive.”

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that each of us is creative in our own way and often in more ways than one. However, many of us do not give ourselves credit for being creative - we think creative is a word only to describe artists. It isn’t.

Creative people:
… find innovative solutions for difficult problems.

… inspire people with poetry.

… provide a warm, welcoming atmosphere for their guests.

… write stories so entertaining you can get lost in them on a rainy afternoon.

… create new recipes by combining unusual ingredients.

… build practical pieces of furniture that are also lovely to look at.

… practice a swing over and over until the club behaves like an extension of the hand.

… raise children to be thoughtful, caring people in an ever-changing, challenging world.

Why are people creative?  People are creative to accomplish goals, to produce something aesthetically pleasing, to share their thoughts and feelings, to solve problems, to overcome physical limits, to use their intellect, to improve their lives, to invent something new, and more.

What stops us from creating? There are as many answers as there are people to that question but a frequent one seems to be that we stop ourselves.

The right side of our brain is the creative, emotional, intuitive side, while the left side is the logical, scientific, and often critical side. The left side should override the right when there is danger, when gathering knowledge, when a procedure must be followed; but, for creativity, it is best when they work in tandem. How?

You will develop your own method, but some of the steps to include may be:

… thinking about what you want to do and why it appeals to you (right brain);

… determining what information or materials you need (left brain);

… identifying the steps you need to take (left brain);

… giving whatever it is a try, taking it out of the “I’d love to …” phase and actually doing it (pure right brain). … then looking it over and tweaking it, if needed.

What if people don’t use their creativity? Well, then, the world loses some beauty, entertainment, unique expressions of thought, innovative solutions to problems, or positive inspiration. And what about us? When we are not letting our creativity free, we lose some of the joy with which life has gifted us, we lose that sense of something well-done, we don’t encourage others and we will not reach our full potential. Everybody loses.

So, why not do something fun/creative that you’ve been wanting to do but held back? As the saying goes, try it - you might like it. Take dancing lessons, learn to cook Hungarian Goulash, look at a problem as a challenge rather than an obstacle, write that book, map out that dream vacation, book a whole day at a spa with a friend, learn to play golf or take up chess. Enjoy, share, but most of all, be your creative self.

Beach Walk

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

Walking the beach very early on a summer morning, there is a solid, inky blue sky, slowly

creeping toward the coast and turning a paler blue. Not a cloud in view - an attic sky, an

unretrievable day, a consecrated day. The cool water is calm, gently lapping the shore and I 

am having a transcendent beginning as I make my way. I am the sole human; only the 

shore birds are sharing the open expanse of sand and sky.

The quiet is welcome...a time to think and enjoy nature - the sea, sky, birds, dunes and 

trees.  Far out on the water, there is one lobster boat gliding toward the pots and two 

sailboats trying to catch some wind.

In a few hours, the beach will be filled. Summer is short and winter is long.  The need for 

sun and sand is appealing and restorative for those of us living in the Northeast.  I find a 

few small stones, one tiny piece of the elusive blue beach glass and an interesting shard of 

pottery.  All enough to carry in my hands; treasures to add to my collections.

The Someday Rooms

by Beth Alexander Walsh

For several years they were a blank canvas. Two rooms of unpainted plaster walls and plywood flooring along with a small bath missing all its fixtures. These were the someday rooms. The rooms that would be finished as soon as the rest of the house was finished. No small task given that the job fell to my husband after work and on weekends.

When I got pregnant with our first child, our someday rooms were still on the back burner. Installing stair railings and a kitchen floor made much more sense and we already had a not-quite finished room close to our bedroom that was perfectly fine for our newborn. She was unaware of the lack of décor. When our daughter turned six months old, I found out I was expecting again. Our someday had a timetable; nine months.

The walls were painted and a bathtub installed to bathe small children. The carpet was laid a few weeks before my due date. My husband created built in desks and shelved alcoves in each room for books to be collected and homework to be done someday in the future. Before the cribs were moved into each room, I put giant Sesame Street stickers on my one-year old’s wall along with a giant border strip of the alphabet, while her newborn sister received Muppet Babies on her wall. The girls enjoyed their solitary space until baby brother was born. Bunk beds were set up for the girls and our son enjoyed his bedroom in which all things Toy Story ruled.

When the girls were preteen we became acutely aware that they would each need their own space if we were all to survive their teen years. Our basement, which was earmarked to someday become a recreation room with a bar and sauna, was framed for a bedroom and bath for our first born. She loved having her own floor away from siblings and annoying parents.  When the girls left for college, I would occasionally go and sit in their rooms; seemingly in suspended animation waiting for their occupant to return. When our oldest moved to China, our now teenage son wasted no time in moving his belongings to the basement, effectively putting two floors of distance between us and him.

For the first time in twenty-five years we had an empty room that would someday become a guest room, and I got to remake that room to suit me. The alcove became a walk-in closet and the wall color and bedding were of my choosing. A painting that I had purchased years ago came out of storage and a beautiful bureau built by my husband now had a home devoid of nail polish and the drinking glasses of the former residents. The room was immaculate and ready for guests.

Recently my oldest stayed with us for a few weeks while she was transitioning from the west coast to the east coast. In less than twenty-four hours there were clothes on the floor and a perpetually unmade bed reminiscent of the last time she stayed with us. The clutter finally left with her move to New York and the room restored to its pristine state but I hope that someday she will soon be back. I think I prefer that lived in look.