One Time Treasures

by Gail Balentine

My husband and I recently stopped at Bootstraps* to donate some gently used clothing. After completing that, instead of leaving and heading onto our next errand as usual, we started to browse a bit and quickly became absorbed. I noticed that there were objects people had donated that were similar or identical to objects we own and use – glassware, serving dishes, a table, some jewelry.

That’s when I realized that this thrift shop and others like them must hold many once-prized possessions. My mind went on to wonder why these items were at the shop instead of still in the homes of the people who purchased or were given them. Was there a downsizing of living space and just no room for them anymore? Did some come from estates? Did someone go on a cleaning jag and, as the professional organizers recommend, eliminate things that hadn’t been used in the past year? Did someone just grow tired of them?

I saw a simple white stoneware pitcher with green trim sitting alone on a table. As soon as picked it up, my mind filled with images of a farm, with rolling green hills that sparkled in the sunshine, and a long wooden table filled with men, women and children, all talking at once, in front of a stone farmhouse. There were platters piled high with food and carafes of wine. The pitcher was there, too, used to pour thick, fresh milk. It was passed to the women preparing meals for their children. I could almost smell the grass, hear snippets of conversation in a lilting language, and, in the distance, see cows grazing. It was a wonderful, too-brief interlude.

I turned the pitcher over and on the bottom was a stamped crest, with the words Digoin Grespots France around it in a ring, and the artisan’s signature. A $4.00 price tag had been attached, for what I had come to regard as a once-loved item. We bought it and brought it home, where it sits on our dining room table, waiting to be filled with fresh summer flowers. The lovely pitcher has a new life and a new family to treasure it.

*From the Beverly Bootstraps website: Beverly Bootstraps provides critical resources to families and individuals so they may achieve self-sufficiency.  We offer emergency and long-term assistance including: access to food, housing stability, adult and youth education, counseling and advocacy.  We are community funded and supported.

Photo courtesy of 

https://www.maxpixel.net/Mountain-Bike-Bike-Highway-Riding-The-Scenery-763449

Glare

by Rob Dinsmoor

I felt as if I were getting away with something and that I might ultimately have to pay for it. 

It was, after all, January in Massachusetts and it should have been downright frigid out, but it wasn’t.  It was in the high 60s, and so I decided to ride my bike to and from the gym to take advantage of the sun and balmy air.  And yet, something was amiss.  Very amiss.

As the North Shore grew increasingly populated and congested with traffic, I learned to trust my instincts while on the road.  I would watch drivers to see whether they made eye contact, or whether they were on the cell phones, dealing with kids in the back seat, borderline comatose, or otherwise distracted.  I even learned to forecast pretty accurately when they were about to turn—whether their blinkers were on due to absent-mindedness or whether they were really planning to turn.  My mind and body were on hyper-vigilance mode.

It was only 3:30 in the afternoon but the sun wasn’t where it was supposed to be.  Not on a beautiful summer day as this one seemed to be.  It was low on the horizon.  In fact, in another hour or so, it would be dusk.  As for right now, it was shining directly from the West, making my eyes squint to look at it.

I never liked to ride my bike when there was this much glare, because it obscured drivers’ vision and made bicycling especially dangerous.  I always made it a point to get home before the sun started to get low.  Fortunately, I figured that, since I was going East, I would be okay.  The sun was behind me, and behind the cars that were on my side of the road, so they would be less likely to get blinded and skim me off into a ditch.

But what about--?

Before I could really finish that thought, it materialized.  Without warning, an oncoming car made a left turn right in front of me.  I hit the brakes hard, almost hard enough to go over the handlebars, but the car and I came very, very close to each other-- so close I could see the woman in the passenger’s seat gape at me and scream.

The car continued its left turn into the driveway of an assisted living facility to my right.  I could see activity inside the car as it stopped and started fitfully on its way down the driveway.  For a moment, I just stood there on my bike, dumbstruck, but then I realized I was in the middle of my lane, and pulled over to the side of the road.  The car, a big white SUV, was stopped dead in the driveway.

I was shaking but took deep breaths to calm myself down.  Yes, I had come very close to getting hit, to getting permanently maimed or killed.  The danger was now past.  I looked over at the car again to see whether anyone was getting out.  No one was, but the man who was driving appeared to be arguing with the woman in the passenger’s seat.  Did I need to talk with the man?  If so, what did I hope to accomplish?  The man already knew he had made an error by not looking carefully enough before making the left turn.  If he were likely to forget, the woman would undoubtedly remind him.

With a neutral face, I raised my hand as a kind of acknowledgment that I was okay, and rode on.

Robert Dinsmoor has published hundreds of articles on health and medicine as well as pieces for Games, Paper, National Lampoon, and Nickelodeon Magazine and scripts for Nickelodeon and MTV.  He has written fictive memoirs titled Tales of the Troupe, The Yoga Divas and Other Stories, and You Can Leave Anytime and co-authored a children’s picture book called Does Dixie Like Me?  His short story “Kundalini Yoga at the YMCA” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Spring Snow

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

In fluffy mounds, stark white snow puffs over ground like a new duvet

blanketing crocus, tulip and jonquil from the harsh winds of March

Night brings rain to whisk off their shield

Sunshine of April’s morn will lift their spirits

reborn of spring’s caress