Our Little Secret

by Gail Balentine

Mary Ann called one Sunday morning to chat and mentioned that traffic on her street was heavy - her next door neighbors were selling their house and it was “Open House“ day. I said I’d always wanted to see the inside of that house and was coming over.

Ten minutes later I drove to the quiet neighborhood; we met at Mary Ann’s and went to the open house together.

I had long admired the professionally landscaped outside of the neat little ranch and the inside did not disappoint. The two retired school teachers who’d lived there had decorated each room in soft colors and furnished them with graceful pieces and unique personal touches. 

Mary Ann and I murmured our appreciation as we went from room to room but it was when we entered the back yard that my friend showed an emotional reaction.I heard a huge sigh and turned to see Mary Ann focused on the corner of the manicured yard. Tucked in at the juncture of the side and back fences was a perfectly tapered pine tree. It wasn’t particularly tall, maybe six feet, but I could tell from Mary Ann’s face that there was a story connected to that tree.

We went through the back gate to the front of the house and on the sidewalk, standing near where my car was parked, were two of Mary Ann’s neighbors. The three of them were soon agreeing about how much they would miss their long-time neighbors, Millie Davis and Agnes Morrison. 

Mary Ann nodded toward her Garrison that overlooked the teachers’ back yard from the right side and spoke softly. “Along with the teachers, I’ll miss my little Christmas secret.” We waited expectantly for the story. 

“That first year after we moved in - 30 years ago now - it snowed on the day after Thanksgiving. The girls and I had been so busy doing puzzles and laughing each time we “found Waldo” that we hadn’t noticed. When I went into the dining room to set the dinner table I looked out and saw the soft flakes coming down.

“I called to the kids. Allison and Michele were five and six years old and just tall enough to look out the window and see over the four foot fence. In front of us was a magical sight - the pine tree in the corner of the yard decked out in tiny white lights that shimmered through the soft falling snow.

“Allison said,  “Oh, Mommy, look! It’s a secret Christmas tree!” 

Mary Ann paused for a moment and her voice sounded wistful. “Now it’s my grandchildren’s secret tree when they come for Christmas and I know they’ll miss seeing it.”

Pat, the neighbor whose house was directly behind the teachers’ house cleared her throat and said, “Um, not a total secret, Mary Ann.”

We all turned her way. “Remember when my mother lived with us those last few years?”

Heads nodded.

“Well, she would look down from the second floor window of the bedroom that had become her world and whenever it snowed between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, she’d ask to stay sitting up just a little longer. 

“She loved looking down on what she called her “secret show” - that tree decorated with twinkling lights. One time I asked her why it was so special and she said it took her back to the times when we’d help Dad string lights around a tree at the house I grew up in. Mom laughed as she remembered how every year there seemed to be more tree than lights and how she, my brother and I would tease Dad unmercifully about how it was a contest and the tree won, every time.”

As Pat stopped speaking Barbara, who lived directly across the street, started to laugh.

“Guess what, ladies? Someone else was in on your little secret.”

Mary Ann paused and then snapped her fingers. “Harry!”

“Right! Remember how, after finishing our house, Harry would go get Pete and the two of them would go across the street to shovel? 

“After a while, I noticed that they finished the front quickly but seemed to take forever to do the short distance out to the back door. I asked him about it twice but all he did was smile and say was that it was their little secret. I figured the ladies had given them some spiked punch or something!”

We all laughed.

Mary Ann looked thoughtful when she said, “You know, whenever I tried to thank Agnes, she always changed the subject, like it was nothing.”

Four months later, on the night after Thanksgiving, I got another call from Mary Ann. It was hard to tell if she was laughing, crying or both. When she settled down she told me that, as it turned dark, she’d noticed it was snowing and couldn’t resist going to her dining room window. She’d looked out at the dark yard and felt sad. Just as she was about to turn away, the little tree lit up. It had all the magic of a Disney moment. 

Immediately she was on the phone with her neighbors and they all agreed to meet at the teachers’ former house to say thank you to the new owners.

A pleasant young man, with whom they had each only shared a few words since he and his family had moved in, answered the door, listened to them and shook his head. He explained it was not him they should thank. Agnes and Millie had had two very good offers that were over the asking price for their house. They had been debating over which one to accept when his real estate agent had called to ask if they had made a decision. During the conversation, the agent happened to mention to Agnes that her client hoped to trim the little tree in the back yard with white lights as a Christmas treat for his children. 

“Well, Miss Morrison accepted our offer then and there, with the understanding that I would light that tree every year and not just for my family but for the next door neighbors, too.” He paused, smiled and continued, “We talked about it when we signed papers. She got this knowing kind smile on her face and said ‘That tree with its twinkling Christmas lights has been our little secret for years and I think they just might miss it if it wasn’t there.’ ”

                                                                         *******

Tree photo provided by
http://christmasstockimages.com/free/christmas-trees/slides/snow_covered_tree.htm

A Gift

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

You know you were a gift to me from Sara.  I need to keep you alive - at least for a short time because I would hate to see Sara come by and find you dead.  Do you also know that I do not have a great record when it comes to tending houseplants, or any plants for that matter? 

My only recourse towards having anything green growing in the house, which survives, is cacti, bamboo stalks in water and the Christmas flowering plants...see, I can't even remember their name and no, it is not a poinsettia. Strangely, these tropical imports seem to last a long time yet do not look as spectacular as when fresh. Come Spring, the Christmas bloom is gone and the poor thing looks sick, tired and happy to be tossed.

It would be a great gift to Sara to see you growing healthy and beautiful so please, make every effort to drink that water, bask in the sunlight and eat from the food stick.  I followed the directions for care and stuck it in you....hope it didn't hurt. I would be most grateful for your gift to me.

    

Harmony in Winslet

by Gail Balentine

This July, I published my first novel – Harmony in Winslet. It’s the story of a young woman who must prove her brother innocent of murder in a small town where the past haunts them both, and a world war touches everyone.

Naively, I thought actually writing the book would be the hardest part of the whole process. And, while it’s true that it’s not an easy task to try to keep a story interesting for 300 pages, I found it harder to take the finished product and send it out to the world. You see, before I published on Amazon, the novel belonged to me and my family members and those friends with whom I shared the actual book or details about it. As soon as I released it, I was open to the thoughts and opinions of anyone who read the book. Whoosh! In one minute my heart was on my sleeve and I hoped people would be kind.

As it turns out, so far, it has been a very positive experience. I have heard from family, old friends, and those strangers I worried about could not have been nicer. People are asking for my next book and I’m working on that now. I’m well aware this whole experiment could have gone in a different direction. Family and friends might have struggled to say something positive about a book they did not like and strangers might have responded in a less than kind way. I’ve read some nasty reviews on Amazon.

But, looking back, the point I focus on about this entire process is not actually writing and publishing a book – although I am very happy that I did that. It’s more that I put a lot of time and effort into something and then took a risk. After a lifetime spent trying to play it safe, with only an occasional step out of the safety zone, I took a chance. A big chance. And I’m quite proud of that. 

There are so many ways to test yourself, to grow. You can work your way up through baby steps until you achieve a goal. Maybe you’d like to sing a solo in public, or give a speech to a large group, or have a show featuring your paintings, or run for political office? Maybe you want to switch careers to do something that will help those less fortunate? Or home-school your children? Or whatever it is that calls to you …

I didn’t go from deciding to write a book to publishing. I took writing classes, read books, attended lectures, joined writing groups, gave my manuscript to people to read and acted on their comments and suggestions. I worked at it. And then took a leap of faith. 

And that’s my advice to those who are wondering if they, too, can do something that really matters to them – identify your passion, learn what you need to know to begin, try it, gain experience as you stick with it, and, when needed, take some risks. Best of luck with your endeavors!

Ghost Stories

by Beth Alexander Walsh

Have you seen the ghost of Tom?
Long white bones with the skin all gone.
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh
Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on?

I have always loved a good ghost story.

 I recall the stories told around the campfire at Girl Scout camp, where each story teller tried to out scare the one before with a flashlight lit under our chins for dramatic effect. TV was also a great place for ghost stories. Scooby Doo never disappointed and I loved watching reruns of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir and the Twilight Zone. As a teenager, candles would be lit and the Ouija Board would come out as we called upon spirits to answer our questions, i.e., is Elvis really dead?

The movie theater was also a great place for a good ghost yarn. I’m not talking slasher horror movies or the adaptations of Stephen King novels (with the exception of The Shining). I’m talking real ghosts; spirits from the past trying to connect with humans in the present or disrupting the lives of a family living in a house, like the Amityville Horror. I loved watching Barbara Hershey being chased in The Entity and Carol Ann disappearing into the closet in Poltergeist. Shoeless Joe walking out of a cornfield in Field of Dreams is an image that has stayed with me.  Then there are poor Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense and Nicole Kidman in The Others whose characters don’t realize that they are dead. Some ghost stories could make you laugh like iconic films Beetlejuice and Ghostbusters. Let’s not forget Whoopi, Patrick and Demi in Ghost. No one would ever look at throwing a pot the same way again.

Literature is also full of great ghost stories.  Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart gave me chills the first time I read it. We will never know what happened to Ichabod Crane after being chased by the Headless Horseman in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The most famous ghost of all, in my opinion, is Jacob Marley wearing the chains he forged in life. This Halloween I have decided to add The Turn of the Screw by Henry James to my ghostly reading list.

The last decade I have become more existential and my ghosts have become spirits. I am more thoughtful about what happens when we die and where that energy goes, drawing me to watch John Edwards, Theresa Caputo and Tyler Henry work their medium magic, connecting with loved ones that have passed. These shows command eye rolls from my husband, but I believe that the presence of spirit is around us, especially when we need it the most.

The most wonderful thing about ghost stories is that everyone has one.

Our First and Only Home

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

My husband and I bought our first home three months prior to our wedding in September of 1964, while we were still living with our parents. The sweet garrison colonial sat on an acre plot in Beverly Farms, abutting a salt marsh, the Boston and Maine commuter rail line to Gloucester and a small stretch of unoccupied land beyond the railroad tracks fronting the Atlantic Ocean. Route 127 ran by the front of the house, but we had a big lawn edged with trees which muffled l the traffic noise and sheltered us from the road view.

A small kitchen with a tiny porch entrance on one side, a full bathroom and a small den ran across the back of the house. A small dining room and medium living room bracketed the front entrance; all of this over a full cellar. The stairway upstairs was directly in front of the door.The second floor had two bedrooms and a half bath. Off the top landing, a cut-out deck looked over the marsh and ocean.

My mother-in law’s eagle eye spotted the real estate notice advertising,“close to West Beach” and alerted us to this treasure house. My only desire when my husband asked where I thought we might live was,“Close to a beach, if possible.” One look and we were sold. A lovely couple left the spec house in great condition. Granted, there was no attic space nor garage but we were enamored by the fantastic view over the salt water tidal marsh. We were warned by well-meaning family about possible or probable flooding from the marsh. Although we had yet to have a problem with this, after two daughters arrived quickly, space constraints began to arise.

Looking for larger quarters in the surrounding areas (no way were we leaving the ocean, beach and marsh), we decided to stay put and renovate; multiple enlargements, walls removed to make open space, the deck upstairs remodeled to make two bedrooms as the number three child, our son, had arrived. No loss since the deck turned out to be a sun-baked sauna! Instead, we added a deck to the back of the house off the lower level which gave us more room outdoors and clearer, glorious views from inside and out.

My husband built a foyer onto the front door entrance and reworked the brick pathway to a beautiful bluestone walk. He also built a treehouse on the lower branches of a huge maple tree on the side of the house for the children - a treat for them with its hanging ladder of which I was quite fearful. Boston Globe and North Shore photographer Ulrike Welsch captured the treehouse and our children in an iconic photo!

Two stately weeping willow trees at the top of the driveway, causing problems, are gone, replaced with pretty pear trees. Two apple trees in the backyard on either side of the house have died, but a crab apple tree has survived the fifty-five years here, as we have. Three grown children moved on after college, marriage and work relocations, but now we have our daughters and their families living in Beverly, so they and our four grandchildren are a joy close by. We remain and have become an “uncommon breed” of First and One-and-Only  Home Owners.

Apple Picking

by Sharon Obelsky

 We usually went to Applecrest Farm in Hampton Falls,N.H. the last week of September. If you waited too long into October, the best would be already picked and a lot would be on the ground. The day would dawn clear with just a little touch of cool weather but you knew by afternoon it would be much warmer. It was always best to dress in layers and definitely wear boots, the mud is pretty bad in the orchards. I would wear jeans, socks, boots, tee shirt, sweatshirt hoodie or a light jacket. Paul had a special outfit for this occasion; a flannel plaid shirt, leather vest, cowboy hat and buckle, jeans, cowboy boots and he’d bring his guitar. He always made an effort to talk with the band first and see if he could join in for a few songs. He had a guy from Lynn, Henry the hatter, who custom made his cowboy hat and he found the belt and vest at the Topsfield Fair. We would meet everyone at a certain spot off route 95 going onto route one and continue on together up to Applecrest. 

 One time I remember videotaping our ride up the road that leads to the farm. Paul was driving and we had our song from John Denver, “Take Me Home Country Roads”. There were beautiful, typical New England homes, wood clapboard with colored shutters and bright doors, some red with pumpkins and corn husks at the doorway. There were rock walls lining their yards from the road, American flags hanging from poles or posts off the houses and big old barns and white picket fences. The line of cars would start as soon as we turned off route 1 and winded its way to the farm. We’d pull into the parking lots, per se, for actually they were fields that had already been harvested. 

We’d unload and set out to the spot to pay for bags to be used for the apples we’d pick. On the way, we’d stop off at the band stage and of course they welcomed Paul to join them after we got our apples. 

There were hay-wagons to ride out to the orchards and it was fun bouncing and jouncing along the muddy fields. I always picked the Cortland apples, they were the best for pies that I made from my great grandmother Abby’s recipe. We’d have everyone back for coffee, pie and ice cream later. Paul had made this special picker that reached higher up in the trees where we couldn’t reach, he should have patented it like the pooper scooper he had made before they were invented. 

After putting the apples back in our cars and shedding a layer, since it had gotten warmer, we would head back to the festival, now in full swing. Paul would now grab his guitar and join the group on stage and we’d all sing along and clap to the music. Afterwards there would be hot apple cider and warm cider doughnuts. What a gorgeous September day it had turned out to be, with white puffy clouds, deep blue sky, with a touch of summer fighting off the chilly hint of fall to come that we had felt earlier. The stage would be decorated with cornstalks, ribbons, pots of fall mums and pumpkins.

 We all would drive back to our house, the guys would go down cellar to play some darts and the girls and kids would stay up in the kitchen. We’d make a couple of pies, filling the house with the wonderful smell of apples and the anticipation of the slices to come. The girls would bring their pie pans so they could bring one home with them. I always had this feeling of contentment after days like these. I read something once, “ I’d like a do over”. It fit for a day like this one, a day filled with good times, good friends and good weather

Septemeber

by Gail Balentine

“Sigh … there goes another summer, Snoopy!”

-       Charlie Brown

Where did the summer go? A familiar question and the responses vary. Time passes quickly, especially when we’re trying to cram in lots of warm-weather fun – trips near and far, get-togethers with family and friends, the beach, barbecues, corn on the cob, strawberry shortcake, and maybe a summer book or two. Or, for the more ambitious, warm-weather projects, gardens, or house repairs.

However we filled our days, we’re moving quickly toward Fall now. It’s been a long time since I attended school, but when I think September I want to rush out and buy notebooks and pens. No matter, I still want to start something. Unfortunately, I have too many examples in my house of September Starts and November Abandons.

So what can we look forward to as the seasons change? Let’s see, there will still be some warm days and cool nights – comfortable “sweater weather”. Topsfield Fair, Church Fairs and the Springfield Exposition. Cider donuts, apple pies, sparkling red, orange and golden leaves rippling in the breeze. Kids off to school and activities. Football. Long holiday weekends and, of course, Thanksgiving.On reflection, it seems to me that if we have to say goodbye to summer, New England is a wonderful place to do it!

“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting                                         

and autumn a mosaic of them all.”

-       Stanley Horowitz

  

Summer Wear

by Beth Alexander Walsh

At the beginning of the summer I did something I haven’t done in years. I bought a pair of white pants. Capri length to be exact. They were on the JC Penny website on sale and I had a coupon. They were just begging to be purchased. For the longest time I shied away from the white. Darker colors could hide a multitude of ample sins that have I have collected over the past two decades. There was also the risk of white. I would be a walking bullseye for BBQ sauce, red wine or any other stain that would become impenetrable by the hardiest of laundry detergents.

The first time I wore the white, my dog jumped up and placed two paws on my thigh in hopes of me sharing my scrambled eggs. She had just been outside and the outside was on my pants in the shape of paw prints. The pants had been on less than thirty minutes. As I changed into the darker pair of pants, I made rules about the white. I would wear on special occasions. I would put them on right before the special occasion. I would take them off as soon as the special occasion was over.

The first time I actually made it out of the house with the white pants was at a family get together. I got compliments on my attire, and I managed not to spill anything on myself during the entire gathering. I was loving my new white pants. As soon as they came out of the laundry, I would think about when I could wear them next. They went on several dinners, a few music venues, a night out with friends and of course vacation. Then, in a blink of an eye, it was Labor Day weekend. I wore the pants to an outdoor bar with my husband and our pup. She of course put her paws on my thigh adding a grey streak of parking lot gravel on the bright white material. My pants were having a déjà vu moment. I was unperturbed by the assault because I knew that this was the last outing for “white” and then I got sad. Not only was summer over but on reflection I surmised that I had worn my pants less than a dozen times over the season. They had spent more time hanging in my closet waiting for a special occasion than on my body.

Why do we wait to use items we purport to love?

Both my mother and mother-in-law had new towels in a closet for when company might be staying. They were never used. Not once. My mother’s towels got passed to my nieces and nephews going off to college. I wish she could have enjoyed them herself.

I am making some new rules.

Use the towels. Wear the good jewelry. Eat off the nice plates. Wear the damn white pants.

Alle Benchoff

Shore Country Day School

Grade 8

Night

Sonnet

Unlucky cat black fills the silent sky

The color of absolute emptiness

Freezing cold air lets out a subtle cry

From the house comes one light, a friendliness

One world goes to sleep, another one wakes

Owl flies, 'coon steals, bat blends with silent sky

And the moon lives alone and his heart breaks

He has no escape he can't even die

He watches the light, the one from the house

And this one light is the last one awake

The light is me, awake late like a mouse

These hours, like thin glass, I'm about to break

The night is empty, yet the night is full.

Fight through the night and you will see the light

Gareth Buhl

Waring School

Grade 12

Looking in at an Old Friend’s Wake

I fumble at my tie knot

Wavering between

Respectful and breathless.

Aware that I know no one here

Except the widow

And the boys,

I wait quietly in line

And bite my fingernails.

In the corpse-room (what is it called?)

Relatives stand as islands,

I tread water,

Visitor, voyeur,

Between them

Alone.

Do they feel throttled also

By charcoal tiles

Waves of slate curtains

And grey landscapes?

I heard drowning is peaceful—

This is not.

I wish her clumsy wishes,

Wait watery and useless

Choked at the closed casket, uncertain.

There’s a bible and knee-rests

But I’m not a catholic.  

I don’t pray.

A look over my shoulder: countless

In line await approach.

So I pass on.

Neither of the boys cry,

In their eyes is not him but

Bloated slack face and

Slate hands, briny

Battered washed up blue

Bruised and brackish.

Light and distant,

I can silently slip into sun

And air.

I do.

(Take a story with me,

Leave a body behind)

Inside they still tread water.

Jordie Cornfield

Waring School

Grade 8

sleepy, gold cliches

You’re a tired cliche

A red rose or

A yellow sun

That’s dripping

In broken promises

And jumped-to

Conclusions.

You’re a love song

That belt-outs something like

‘You’re the only reason I wrote this song,

When you’re here, nothing’s wrong’

Something must be wrong, though

If the artist is depending on

Another person for

Their happiness and satisfaction.

Or a RomCom movie where

Girl likes boy, boy likes another girl

Who’s blonde or rich or both

And by the end of the movie,

Miraculously,

The original awkward girl who had

A make-over halfway

Through the movie

And the cool jock whose main goal in life

Is a basketball scholarship to UCLA

are together.

You’re a tired cliche

That I’m sick of hearing

On and on and on.

You’re the girl wearing pink

Or the boy wearing blue

You’re everything everyone hates

But they don’t know anything else.

Their heads too small,

Or their pants too tight

Somehow the oxygen

Can’t reach the part of their

Brain that’s groping for the button

That tells them to

Run, run, run.

But my head is the right size

And my dress is floral and pretty.

So I can see

That you’re a tired cliche

You’re a diamond in the rough

Or something weird like that.

It’s a small world,

So many people like you.

Ah, to be young and foolish

That’s a cliche too.

It’s kind of sad

But,

Only if you’re old,

An old soul, you’d know

All that glitters is not gold.

Elizabeth Patrick

Waring School

Grade 12

Oranges

At christmas time the box arrives,

same as last year same as next.

The cheap wood, with one dimensional colors;

Orange and Green. Together, simple depictions of

“Florida’s Freshest.” Telling us what we already know.

The box alerts me to my carelessness,

Reminds me of my grandmother, far away.

She thinks of me frequently,

I think of her many fewer days.

When we rip open the box my siblings and I,

Some green paper strips fall to the floor.

They fight over strawberry candy, scarce in fake grass packaging.

An Orange is enough for me.