Night & Morning

by Terri McFadden

                                                     Weight of uncertainty,

                                       Restless on my heart

                                       Cold desperation

                                       Fear

                                                      give way...

                                       to Trust, Hope and

                                                   Love

                                       

Election Day

by Terri McFadden

In the already very long runup to the 2020 elections, much has been written about the importance of casting a vote, making it easier to vote, early voting and much more. One idea floating around the internet is actually a throw-back in our history – that is making election day a holiday.

Two hundred years ago election day in Massachusetts was part of a week-long celebration held at the end of May. Long before Memorial Day, which was established after the Civil War, many events were held to celebrate the gift of the vote. Although women were not given this right until 1920, they too enjoyed the holiday, attending dances and cooking and baking special food, including the election day cake. Politicians made speeches and some hoped to swing the vote their way by providing plenty of rum – a long-time tradition, dating back to England long before Massachusetts was established.

What is today Beverly City Hall was, at the time, the home of millionaire Israel Thorndike. He had a famous garden, surrounded by a poled fence. Like most gardens of the time it was practical, with many fruit trees, but he also had his garden planted with flowers, a new trend. Children took delight in peering through the fence to gaze at the tulips and other flowers, during this springtime holiday.

Both children and adults enjoyed riding the “flying horses”, what we call a merry-go-round. Several of these were set up each year on Spring Street in the Montserrat section of Beverly. In addition, the owner, Mr. Gardner, had other amusements to please the crowd and did a brisk business selling “molasses gingerbread”, rolls and beans. The food was washed down with mineral water, found on the property, and believed to have strong medicinal properties. 

Both foot races and horse races were common entertainments for the men, with wagers and heavy drinking enhancing the experience. This was much to the displeasure of many of the townspeople who were members of local temperance societies.

In 1825 it was decided by the leaders of the three militia groups that they needed to improve the performance of their units. During election week they staged a battle between one group, dressed as Indians and the rest of the men. The Indians “raided” houses in town, “stealing” jonny cakes baking on hearths and “attacking” locals when they could. With his wagon full of gingerbread and beans Mr. Gardner was riding along Colon Street when the Indians pounced. Although he laid about him with his whip, eventually their numbers prevailed and Mr. Gardner told them that “he agreed to be taken prisoner, but he didn’t agree to be killed.” Although the combatants didn’t use lead shot, they did charge their muskets with black powder. The noise was deafening and the haze made it difficult for the townspeople who followed the soldiers to see the action. When the mock battle concluded a parade through town was enjoyed by all. It was led by a band consisting of bugles, French horn, clarinets, flutes, and snare drums with the “portly” bass drummer leading the way. Local historian Warren Prince reported it was “soul stirring music” which took the people “right off their feet.”

Gradually over the years the celebrations of the week of election day diminished. By mid-century Robert Rantoul noted that although the young people still enjoyed a dance and most families ate an election day cake, all the other traditions had slipped away.  When the Federal government made the first Tuesday in November the official day to go to the polls, the states followed suit, signaling the end of a holiday which had long celebrated the right to vote.

Ocean Blue

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

I love my ocean blue,

Sweeping, salty, a sparkly jewel,

A must for sailing, swimming, basking…

Meditation for the asking.

But, filled with plastic refuse,

Disasters made by man…

Oil spills and garbage fills,

We need to take a stand!

Let’s make a pact to keep it clean; this can be our goal.

A thought before we leave a mess or litter that befouls.

Slowly does the change occur, yet if we try -

It can be done, for sure.

Identity Theft

by Lina Rehal

In the mid 80’s, I was a young housewife and mother. My days were filled with cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping and laundry. I drove the kids to and from wherever they needed to go, participated in bake sales, attended PTA meetings and never missed a Little League game. I tended to the family pets, coordinated birthday parties and planned the family vacations. I was a nurse, teacher and disciplinarian. That was what I had become.

My husband was a contractor. He coached Pop Warner Football and was the “go to” person for the kids when I said “no” to something they wanted. At that time, he was building forty-three houses in a sub-division close to where we lived. Every day, he worked with his crew at the site.

Once the first few homes were sold, the families moved in. It began to look more like a neighborhood than a construction site. The children of those first families watched him dig giant holes with heavy machinery and asked him countless questions. He was a part of their new surroundings. They all liked him and called him by his first name.

I usually dropped by several times a week to check on the progress of the project. I took pictures and chatted with some of the neighbors.

One day, as I was driving down the newly paved street, some kids rode past me on their bikes.

“Hi, Mrs. Ralph,” they all yelled in unison.

Mrs. Ralph! They think of me as Mrs. Ralph, I said out loud to myself.

I suddenly realized that I had no identity of my own anymore. I had become an extension of my husband. When did that happen?

Up until that moment, I hadn’t given it much thought.

When I got home, I started thinking about the girl I used to be and wondering what had happened to her. I remembered how she loved to dance, listen to music and go the movies with her friends. Memories of the young carefree woman who worked as a secretary before she got married and her dreams of a knight in shining armor flashed through my mind. Somehow, she had faded into a corner of my memory bank as I transitioned into a woman whose identity had been stolen by time. My knight traded his white horse in for a front-end loader. My dreams had turned into fairy dust.

For the next couple of hours, I looked at old photo albums and dragged out my high school yearbook. I found the girl I remembered on the pages of those old books. I laughed at the clothes and hairstyles, before returning my memories to their place in the hall closet.

Later that night, when I read the children a bedtime story and watched them slowly drift off to sleep, my identity crisis passed. I realized that being a wife and mother was exactly what I wanted to be at that time in my life. I was happy in that role. I had achieved my most important dream.

Indie author, Lina Rehal resides north of Boston with her husband. She has been writing short stories, essays and poetry most of her life. After a successful career as an executive secretary and an office manager, she is now living her dream of crafting romance novels. Her four published works include, Carousel Kisses, a collection of nostalgic stories, October In New York, a novella, Loving Daniel, her first full-length novel and Jillie & Sam, her latest seasoned romance. She is hoping to self-publish two more novels later in 2019.

Perfect Moments

by Beth Alexander Walsh

I have a picture as my background on my computer that I consider a perfect moment. We were in Napa Valley for our thirtieth wedding anniversary visiting various vineyards. I had spent hours researching, booking and making our itinerary months in advance. We were half way through our second day of sipping wine when my husband received a text from a friend, telling him we must visit Pride Mountain Vineyards and bring a picnic lunch. My husband was immediately keen on visiting the next day. I explained to him that we already had reservations elsewhere and most likely couldn’t get in on such short notice. I was also a bit annoyed that he wanted to change an itinerary that I had spent so much time on and that he had approved. I finally gave in and called the vineyard and much to my surprise they had room for us to attend the tour the next morning. I cancelled our previous plans and then asked my husband to stop at a grocery store for our picnic lunch before going back to our hotel. He replied that we didn’t need to do the picnic part and didn’t feel like stopping. My terse response was that we were going to HIS vineyard and we WOULD be taking a picnic lunch. He obliged and we stopped and picked up a few dubious looking premade salads.

The next morning, we headed out to the vineyard which was almost an hour away from our hotel. I was still slightly perturbed that we would not be visiting the other destinations that I had booked. The ascent to the summit left me breathless, not only because of the views along the way but the narrow winding roads had me grabbing the roof handles in the car. We made it to the top in one piece and climbed the stairs into a very ordinary looking building. Our tour guide turned out to be from Massachusetts and she gave us a taste of their Viognier wine. To this day it is still one of the best tasting white wines I have ever had. The tour was typical of many that we had taken and I wondered if we should have kept to our original schedule. At the end of the tour, the guide took us through huge double doors to an outside deck and astonishing views of the mountain, vines, and valley. We bought several bottles of wine to ship home and asked for a chilled bottle of the Viognier and directions to the picnic area. They supplied us with a basket with plates, napkins, cutlery and of course wine glasses. We made our way to an even more stunning view and sat quietly eating our meager salads, which now tasted as fantastic as our wine and vista. Our change in schedule became a perfect moment and we loathed to have it end.

I have been lucky to have many picture-perfect moments in my life. Our wedding day. Eating fish on a deck overlooking the ocean on Maui during our honeymoon. The first pictures of our babies soon after they were born. Standing at the rim of the Grand Canyon with our children. The innumerable photo opportunities at Disney World and the countless sunsets from land and sea.

It is the ordinary moments in my mind’s eye (and heart), however, that I find to be the most extraordinary. The many private moments a husband and wife share. Feeding an infant in the quiet of the night where it feels like there is no one else on earth besides us. The sublimity of every dog that has graced my life. Vacations at the lake when that good kind of tired sets in from swimming, snorkeling and fishing all day and you fall into easy satisfying sleep. Weekends away with friends or family where my jaw aches from laughing too much. Sometimes it is just sitting on the deck watching the birds come and go from the feeder. They are all perfect moments where time has stopped and my mind is present for the gifts before me. The beautiful part of perfect moments is that they happen every day, you just have to stop and notice them.