Buried Treasure

by Gail Balentine

When I was growing up, a common expression in my house was, “Wait till the dust settles”. I used to wonder where it all settled. On moving day, when I went up to my parents’ attic, I found out. Dust covered boxes, bags, and trunks of every shape and size.

My parents, sister Patty, and brother Alan had each declined to help me sort through the things up there. Mom couldn’t maneuver the stairs with her arthritic hip, Dad was too busy elsewhere, Patty had no interest in the past since her divorce, and Alan wanted to wrap up at the house quickly and get back to the work he’d brought home. Just getting him to the house today had been tough. Their collective attitude was that the movers could pitch it all since it was useless junk and they already had their hands full downstairs.

After two hours, with my back aching and my resolve weakening, I had only managed to create a huge stack of boxes for the dumpster. I went downstairs for iced tea and sympathy, getting only the former. Patty delighted in pointing out that everybody had told me the attic was the last stop before the dump.

Alan and my father came back upstairs with me and helped remove the boxes, which cleared space in the center. Next I went to an old steamer trunk, wedged in a corner. It was filled with clothes that must have belonged to my mother “back in the day”. I dragged it out to the middle of the room. Behind it I was a large box of art supplies my sister used to hold dear. Dried up paints and matted brushes covered a sketchbook. When I opened it, it was filled with drawings of animals and someone with a huge nose that I feared was supposed to be me. That box went into the middle, too, and I got that tingle of excitement that tells me the idea I was forming was right.

I went searching for a particular item and found it four boxes later. When Alan was 10 years old, Dad and he spent an entire summer building a three foot sailboat; it was beautiful and sleek in the water until a remote-controlled speedboat rammed into it. Alan had been so bereft that he refused to listen to assurances that it could be fixed. After a few days of trying to reason with him, Dad packed the boat away in the attic and nobody ever mentioned it again.

At lunchtime, I walked into the kitchen to find each person working separately, in silence. I called to them and they turned to see me wearing what I thought was my mother’s prom gown, holding the sailboat in my right hand - good side showing - and the sketch book in my left, opened to a horse in full gallop with muscles that seemed to ripple off the page.

Unfortunately, with both hands full, I couldn’t take a picture to capture the looks on my family’s faces. My mother made a sound somewhere between a laugh and sob as she and Dad stared at the dress. His hand reached over to clasp hers. And Patty? Well, she just grabbed the drawing pad and said, “Damn! I was good!”

But it was Alan that made my eyes tear up. He looked like a child again, that perpetual scowl I hated replaced with a genuine smile.

Before I knew it, everyone was talking at once, laughing, and sharing stories, taking us back to a time before life had thrown us curves that we’d not seen coming.

As her fingers traced the outline of the horse, Patty spoke about how much she’d liked to draw, and Mom mentioned art groups at our local community center. Dad asked Alan if he thought Matt, the first grandchild, might like the boat and plans to fix it began right then.

Mom came over and hugged me. Turns out the dress was the one she wore for her and Dad’s engagement party. We went into the living room, put in an oldies CD, and rooted around in a box until we found the photograph album she wanted. We laughed at how young she and Dad looked that night.

That was how my husband found us when he arrived to help - sitting on the sheet-covered couch looking at pictures, Mom with pink cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes and me with a formal dress over my tee shirt and jeans, socks and sneakers on my feet, and hair filled with cobwebs.

He laughed and said, “Whatcha doin’?”

We replied in tandem, “Treasure hunting!”

*******

Memories of Chocolate

First in many memories of chocolate is thinking:
What a silly ad campaign!
Of course they melt in your hand
Especially since you hold them tight
The hand, warm with anticipation
Of delivering the candy to your tongue.
You never drop any on the floor.

Then there is good dark chocolate
A mahogany aroma that you could sleep in
Cocoa velvet tassels on a high canopy bed
Made up with rich mink pelts joined together
You in an espresso robe of chocolate kisses
Trimmed in silver foil tuxedo lapels and cuffs.

Even the white "chocolate" is good when mixed
With the milk and dark varieties in a homemade cookie
And yes, I use it in my white chocolate cheesecake recipe.
Eaters always ask: what is that? A secret ingredient?


(Ciampa, Liz. What is Left. Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2009. p. 11. Print.)

Favorite Season

by Law Hamilton

Although I claim to love autumn the best,

With its crisp night air and

Warm color on the trees

Those around me will say spring is

My favorite season as the snow melts away

And the green starts to appear.

It is not spring until

I can smell the earth,

Have it beneath my fingernails.

The Perils of Pocketbooks

by Mary Higgins

Why is it that women are the gender carrying a pocketbook? I don’t know about you but I find pocketbooks are a pain. Literally and figuratively. It doesn’t matter how beautiful they are. To me, they are just glamorized storage containers. Mine always dangles from one shoulder to free up my hands. The size bag I need, also knocks things over as I shop for items that inevitably end up being carried inside it. 

Men have it so much easier without their need to carry lipstick,mascara, moist towelettes, a hairbrush, a mini-straightening iron, barrettes, elastics, tissues, tampons, sunglasses, flash drives  unpaid bills, stamps to mail them with, paid bills that are on their way to the mailbox, foundation, moisturizer, emergency chocolate and a pen to write with. They simply carry their money in a billfold, wearing their sunglasses on their heads. But they do put down said sunglasses everywhere they go and leave them somewhere 50% of the time but that’s for another story.

Trying to keep my pocketbook organized seems to be an ability I wasn’t given. When that gene was handed out, I was probably in the ladies room. I need too many items; bandaids, batteries, tissues that glom onto my hairbrush creating that fine white lint that deposits on my hair resembling dandruff. It also sheds all over my sunglasses interfering with my ability to see where I’m going. My pocketbook also holds the books that need to be returned to the library, plus the pocket umbrella.

Every pocketbook I’ve ever owned with the exception of those credit-card sized evening bags which are in a category all their own, seems to become the Bermuda Triangle. Things mysteriously disappear and are never seen again. except for empty candy wrappers and receipts. My local CVS always prints out a receipt attached to numerous coupons taking up residence in my pocketbook. Unless the receipts fall out from the overflow at the top, they sit in there replicating, in exponential numbers.

This summer I forget to fasten the sunblock tube and it oozes white, all over the interior, smudging my sunglasses that have that fine coating from the tissue lint. I also glance inside to find my lipstick running around topless. And I’m off running errands, blissfully unaware that everything I touch, including my white slacks, is stained crimson.

Seems there is never a trash barrel available at the moment when I need to dispose of gum or candy wrappers. When I’m in the car, I pocket them beside the door handle but everywhere else, I end up stuffing them into my bag, never remembering to empty it once I return home.

Sometimes it’s the lining in the bag that develops a microscopic tear causing the insanity. Pennies and dimes have a way of shrinking themselves in order to pass through that hole that enlarges to welcome nickels, and quarters and even house keys! Then I arrive at the parking meter fully confident I have enough change, judging from the weight of my bag with its loud jingle, only to discover, no quarters are in sight!.The lining of my pocketbook ate them.

I’m the woman carrying a canvas bag all year long because the leather ones when full, become too heavy for me to lift. They wreak havoc with my shoulder. In every photograph, I’m the woman with her right shoulder hiked up to her earlobe from decades of hoisting a shoulder bag, even though the pocketbook is not even in the picture.

Whenever I get a new pocketbook, I start out with good intentions planning to carry as few items as possible. The latest had a pouch built for my sunglasses, But alongside the keys to the house, the set of keys to my parents’ house, all the loyalty cards to every store I shop - at last count, I have enough to paper a small bathroom with -  plus the sunhat, the rain hat and the rolled up newspaper; I still need a GPS to navigate my way inside it. Standing in line at the checkout, I misplace the sunglasses in a place other than that little pouch. Is it any wonder then, after that one infraction, the sun glass pouch becomes crammed with receipts? They always expire the day before I decide to use them.

I don’t even look at pocketbooks with snap closures so that leaves me with zippered bags. They frequently mis-behave, with the little metal teeth chewing up the lining alongside its sides then becoming stuck at the most inopportune time such as during that interview when I reach in to pull out my resume and try to squeeze it out of a 3 inch opening.

I’d like to have a pocketbook large enough to hold my yoga mat. I’m forever leaving it behind on whatever bench I use after class to put on my shoes. I would design the bag with pockets on either side to hold the water bottle, the energy bar and a change of clothes. I did observe a man removing the contents of his back pack today. Would you believe he was able to scoop its entire contents into one hand? With one hand, I can scoop all those nuts that have escaped the bag of trail mix meandering around in the bottom of my pocketbook.

Mary Higgins All rights reserved August 2015                               

Friends

by Lauraine Lombara

               Friends: lost, added,

Missed, cherished, treasured,

Needy, sore-tried,

Tormenting, frustrating,

Joyful, laughing,

Singing, dancing.

Swimming, tanning,

Cooking, dining.

Crazy years and magic days-

Hugs and glances, nods and kisses-

Sphere of knowing, world of caring,

Speaking, sharing, blabbing,

Crabbing, moaning,

Crying, longing-

Praying: Friends

Excerpt from "An Unusual Memoir"

World Series Stories

by Ken Roy

    This chapter of my memoir contains two short tales that run tangential to baseball’s World Series. I make no claim they rank in the pantheon of baseball lore but they were odd experiences for me so I included them in this memoir. 

     The World Series of 1975 was between the Boston Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds. I was living in Peabody, Massachusetts and had never gotten closer to a World Series game than my TV. As luck would have it, my neighbor gave me a call saying he had an extra ticket and asked if I was interested. This was a no brainer. It was game 6 and a must win for the Sox or the Series was over. It promised to be an epic battle and it didn’t disappoint. 

    

     It was an absolutely gorgeous October evening and perfect for night baseball. I always loved these games at Fenway, as it always seemed to have this marvelous glow when you were inside the park. Sort of magical when you consider the buzz of the crowd and the general excitement that accompanies a World Series game 6.

     We grabbed a hot dog and beer and settled into our seats along the first base line, just beyond the “Pesky Pole”. As the game proceeded the crowd was getting quiet and it began to look like “lights out” for the Sox as they trailed 6-to-3 in the bottom of the eighth inning. I guess fate stepped in, in the person of Bernie Carbo, as he hit a three run dinger and the game was tied. The crowd woke up and went nuts. It was a brand new game and it went back and forth until the bottom of the twelfth inning. Up came Carlton Fisk who responded with the game-ending walk-off homer and the crowd went nuts again. 

    Here’s the punch line for me in this saga. I diligently watched the entire game and then decided to go for beer in the twelfth inning (they still sold beer the entire game back in 1975). While waiting in line, I heard this incredible roar, the result of Fisk’s homer. I missed what turned into an iconic moment in baseball, as Fisk famously willed the ball fair over the Green Monster in left field to win game 6. TV replays of this moment tirelessly remind me where I was, even to this day. To top it off, with all the crazy excitement, returning to my seat, I managed to spill the beers on myself. My one and only World Series game had a fantastic finish but not for me. 

     My second World Series tale involves the 1991 Series between the Minnesota Twins and the Atlanta Braves. It so happened that my son Andrew was a buddy with a kid named Paul Sorrento and they graduated high school together. Paul was a terrific athlete and went on to play baseball with Cleveland, Minnesota and Tampa Bay in his career. At the time, he was playing for the Twins. A few days before the Series started he called Andrew about arranging game tickets in Minnesota. Instead of Andrew, I happened to pick up the phone. We chatted for a moment and Paul mentioned he probably would only be used as a pinch hitter since he was the backup first baseman. I wished him the best and went on in jest to make an outrageous prediction. I posed that he’d be pinch hit with two out, bottom of the ninth, in the seventh game and hit a dinger to win it all. We had a laugh at this and hung up. 

    Well, the Series goes to the seventh game in Minnesota and I was at home alone watching when in the bottom of the ninth inning, with two outs; you guessed it. Up came Paul as a pinch hitter. I almost wet myself thinking of my prediction. If he hit a homer, the Twins win, he would be a legend in Minnesota, and I would be a “legend in my own mind”. I would have a baseball tale to bore people with forever. His at bat was pretty intense for me as he took some mighty swings and fouled off several pitches before striking out. It’s an understatement to say I was bummed out when this happened. It was not the finish I had predicted or even prayed for. The next inning the Twins went on to win the game and the Series. Paul got his World Series ring and I still had a tale to bore my friends with-even with the wrong ending

Reach for the Sky

by Charlotte Savage

It was a small blue spruce,

The prettiest of all pine trees.

Discovered in an Ipswich garden center,

a dwarf amid giants.

We planted it in the corner of our yard.

 Anticipating that someday its branches

 would fill an empty expanse of land,

 while muffling the traffic on our main street.

“Plant it as deep as the top of the roots,” said the salesman.                

My husband and I dug through hard packed rock and dirt

to just the right depth,

on a sweltering, sticky, ninety degree day.

“Fertilize it, give it lots of water,” he had directed.

We followed his instructions to the nth degree.

My husband fetching fertilizer from the garage;

While I filled the hole with water.

We carefully placed the tree into the ground,

cutting the burlap surrounding its roots.

It stood three feet tall

the blue-green branches perfectly spaced.

Two weeks later I discovered

brown tipped needles blanketing the ground beneath the tree;

Its branches sadly drooped,

I knew it was dying.

Panicking, I thought to save it.

I hurried to the garage for more fertilizer; 

Discovered weed killer sitting on top of the bag of fertilizer.

Instantly I knew the tree was not dying; my husband had killed it!

No one thought to pull the dead tree trunk out of the ground

It was two inches in diameter and

just tall enough for our thirteen year old son to jump over it

on his way to school each day.

Five years passed, the beginning of yet another spring.

The trunk of the tree suddenly sprouted buds!

Within a month the buds were tiny branches.

The beginnings of pine needles could be seen.

Now fifty years later,

The tree’s expanse fills the entire corner of our land,

Its massive height towers over our two story house;

the branches sagging under the weight of its pine cones.

This magnificent blue spruce

is  living  proof

That adversity can be conquered;

Like the sky, it has no boundaries.

©2015 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved