Where I'm From

by Katie Waxdal
Grade 7

I am from pink and purple dresses and skirts
From baby dolls and teddy bears
I am from picture books and paintings
From songs without words

I am from talking on the playground
From sharing secrets and causing mischief
I am from ridiculous fights and "He started it"
Form copying your every move

I am from backstage
I am from tech rehearsals and last minute repairs
I am from doing my homework in the wardrobe room and
     touching the props
From eating lunches with the crew

I am from Nirvana and Green Day
From memorizing lyrics but not knowing what they mean
I am from changing my taste
From hiding from the auto tuned voices without knowing it

I am from eyeliner and lipstick
From skinny jeans and band T-shirts
I am from dyed hair and the necklaces piled on top of each
     other
From beat up converse and worn leather boots

I am from sarcasm and inside jokes
From staying up until four in the morning and sleeping until
     nine
I am from hilarious failures and truthfulness
From stupid puns and uncontrollable laughter

I am from music notes and four counts
From seven AM band practice
I am from drum kits and noise cancelling headphones
From never going back to the basics

I am from a sweet Pitbull
From learning to walk by her side and showing people how
     nice she was
I am from a crazy little puppy
From taking care of him from the beginning and teaching my family how

I am from pentagrams and moons
From meditations in the forest and solitude by the pond
I am from incense and candles
From staying up to light a fire and singing in the moonlight

I am from a homemade deck and a cute little yard
From Friday movie nights and card games
I am from home cooked meals and ice cream
From the little blue house with more plants than pavement.

(Honorable Mention Finalist, 20th Annual Teen Poetry Contest, Beverly Public Library, 32 Essex Street, Beverly, Massachusetts. Readings & Awards Ceremony, April 26, 2016.)

The Tattoo

by Gail Balentine

It was a perfect summer day, filled with sun and warm breezes. I had decided to break up my usual Saturday routine of errands and paperwork and steal an hour at the beach. Lucky enough to find a spot among the colorful blankets and chairs, I sat down to enjoy the novelty of being without chores.

When I turned to my right and looked at the woman lying next to me, the red rose tattooed on her ankle grabbed my attention. It was delicate, lovely and frightening, all at once. Although I admired it, my mind immediately ticked off the reasons why I’d never let a stranger mark my body for life. What if the needle wasn’t clean? What if I changed my mind later? What if ….? I turned away to look at the ocean but the tattoo drew my gaze back like a magnet.

“It doesn’t hurt much, you know.”

I jumped at the sound of her voice and raised my eyes to look at her face. She was smiling so I smiled back.

“I saw you looking at my rose. When I had it done I thought only I would enjoy it - I had no idea how many other people would like it, too.”

“How’d you know I liked it?” I said.

The woman laughed. “I’ve seen it many times. First comes the smile and then the furrowed brows as people silently tell themselves: Not me, I couldn’t do that.”

I laughed and nodded.

As she stood, the blonde lady asked, “Would you like to walk along the water’s edge for a while?”

I left my towel in the sand and joined her.

“My name is June,” she said.

“I’m Charlene.” We began to walk. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, have you ever regretted getting the tattoo?”

“Not for a minute.” We stopped short as two toddlers sprinted in front of us on their way to the ocean, followed closely by a harried-looking mother who mumbled an apology.

June paused to watch the children intently for a few minutes. When we continued walking her manner had changed to more thoughtful. “I was sick most of the time as a child and lived in the world of books. No running at the beach for me. I’m happy for them to have this time.”

          I thought about it a minute and replied, “Yes, these kids are lucky. My summers were filled with overnight camps and schedules. I don’t remember much fun. I remember rules.”

After a few minutes, still curious about the tattoo, I asked, “What was it that made you decide to get the tattoo?”

“About six years ago I suddenly realized I wasn’t happy or sad - I was stuck in neutral. I lived with my parents in my spotlessly clean room, brought home extra assignments, had few friends, and did nothing new. When, the very next day, I overheard a colleague describe me as “The Boss’ Kiss-up” to a new employee, that did it.”

“Did what?” I asked.

“I moved out of my parents’ house, stopped taking work home, and signed up for an Archeology class. A month later, when a friend from the class suggested we get tattoos, without hesitating I said Yes, just as I did when the guy I was seeing said Let’s try that roller coaster on for size!”

          I wondered what it would take for me to make so many changes? And what would happen if I did?

“Did you enjoy all those things?” I asked.

“My own place and less work at home, definitely. Archeology was fun to learn about. The tattoo, yes, the roller coaster, no.” She bent down and picked up a pink shell. “Charlene, for 25 years, whenever something new came up, my motto was: I can’t because. For the past six years, it’s been: Why not? And unless I come up with a very good reason, I do it.”

We turned at that point and headed back toward our blankets in silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

June gathered her things, hesitated before leaving, and then said, “Look, the tattoo has come to symbolize a transformation for me. It may be sky-diving or learning how to speak Chinese for someone else, I don’t know. But I do know I would have missed out on a lot if I hadn’t found the courage to try new things.”

With a smile she walked away, leaving me with much more than an hour by the ocean. My friends were always asking me to just try Sushi. I grinned as I dialed the phone, telling myself you had to start somewhere.

                                                                                                  *****                     

Jenness Pond, New Hampshire

by Lauraine Alberetti Lambara

Sweet pond water ripples toward the shore,

calling me into the cool, spring-fed delight

of crystal clear ablution.

Soon the summer visitors will arrive and the water,

calm as glass in early morn, will begin to rush to and fro

as the current pulls boaters and swimmers with it.

But now, at dawn, men and women, alone or by twos, are silent,

engrossed in meditative stance in their boats, holding fishing poles.

Their quiet passage by the dock surprises me.

It is time to pray, to ponder, to plan,

with no interruptions to the serious centering of self.

Only the mournful loon breaks the silence.

For Christine

November 22, 1965 - June 1, 2011

                                             

                                          I see you in spring flowers,

And hear you in thunderous rain.

I feel you in the wind of sails

Over waves you used to tame.

I think of you as the leaves are changing

And feel the chill of fall.

I miss your funny emails

And your comments on my wall.

I hear your laughter in my ear

Over one of my silly tales.

A mocking glint in your eye

A smile that never fails.

                                I think of you when a new song plays

And hope that you hear it too.

I think of you in the books I read

Wanting to share their stories with you.

I think of all the trips we’ve made

And laughing in the grass.

I think of all the meals we shared

Sad to see they all have passed.

Living in the here and now

Not to squander moments in haste

Are the lessons that I learned from

Your silent strength and grace

I am forever grateful for your friendship

And though we are apart

You will always have your hand print

Planted firmly on my heart.

 

Bubbie's Kitchen on the Sabbath

by Charlotte Savage

Today, Friday, is a day of preparation for the Sabbath in my Grandmother’s home, the center of her universe. 

The parlor is freshly vacuumed, furniture polished, her lace curtains are hand laundered and dried on stretchers in the sun.

The huge black kitchen stove is newly polished, its chrome trim buffed to a mirror finish.  The linoleum floor washed and waxed; then covered with yesterday’s newspapers to keep it clean.

Bubbie is dressed in a freshly laundered starched and ironed house dress; she covers her ample body with a large apron while preparing for our Sabbath dinner.

On the back burner of the stove is a huge pot of chicken soup. Our family commonly refers to chicken soup as ‘Bubbie’s Jewish Penicillin’.  The soup is chock full of carrots, celery, onions, and parsnip. Other than the Sabbath, or other special holidays, it is served to us in steaming bowls at the first sign of a cough or a sneeze.

Chicken stuffed with her delicious bread and apple stuffing is roasting in the oven. Carrot Tzimmes, a casserole made with carrots, sweet and white potatoes, flank steak and slightly sweetened with honey slowly simmers on the stove. Meanwhile, Bubbie sautés liver and onions and boils eggs in preparation for making chopped liver in her wooden bowl.

Bubbie is widely acclaimed for her Strudel, a delicious pastry made with a mixture of three different kinds of jams, chopped walnuts, raisins, cinnamon and sugar.  Bubbie rolls the dough paper thin in the same manner as a jelly roll and sprinkles it with cinnamon and sugar; the jam and nuts are spread on last, a mouthwatering delicate pastry.

A Compote of prunes, apricots and yellow and black raisins laced with cinnamon and lemon completes Bubbie’s homemade remedy to keep everyone regular.

As dusk approaches, I, her granddaughter arrive early to set the large oval table, a table that is Bubbie’s work area by day; now this same table is adorned with Bubbie’s spotless white linen tablecloth, gleaming silver, crystal wine goblets and best china that is saved for the Sabbath and other special occasions. The symbolic Challah, the braided bread, is covered with an embroidered linen cloth until the meal is served.

Children, grandchildren, and guests arrive before sundown and are seated at the table.  Bubbie places her silk shawl over her gray hair, her face aglow in the light from the candles as she welcomes in the Sabbath; while giving thanks to God that these candles bring light into her home and joy into her life.

Zadie, my grandfather, sits at the head of the table.  He is a short chubby man with a fringe of gray hair, a baker by trade, with a gentle voice and eyes that light up when he sees his grandchildren. He calls me ‘Mamala,’ a term of endearment.  I am named after his mother.  The Challah, which he has brought home from the bakery where he is employed, will be used in the traditional Ha Motzi, the ritual of thanking God for the bread on his table. Breaking off a large piece of Challah, he tears off a small piece for himself and then passes the larger piece around the table for all to share.

Holding his silver goblet high, the goblet given to him in Poland when he was a thirteen year old Bar Mitzvah boy, he recites the prayer thanking God for the fruit of the vine. We all lift our glasses in unison gratefully acknowledging our gratitude to God for the food we are about to partake in and the gift of the Sabbath.

The sumptuous meal is served while our families chat about current events and family matters.  Occasionally there is a reference to a remembrance of my grandparent’s childhood days in Poland when they sat at their parent’s table.  Bubbie’s table is always warm and comforting at any time--but especially so on the Sabbath.

Dessert is served and Zadie chants another prayer of Thanks to God, for the food he has provided for his family.  Holding his wine glass high once again, he shouts the joyful words “Good Shabbos.” (Peace to all on the Sabbath.)  

“Good Shabbos” rings out from adults and children alike as together we share the joy of the Sabbath around the big oval table in my Bubbie’s kitchen.

An excerpt from: 

An Unusual Memoir

Hell's Angels: A Free Car Repair

by Ken Roy

"Another day in paradise". At least that’s what I thought, living in Santa Clara Valley back in the early 60’s. We had near perfect weather, apricot orchards everywhere, minimal traffic congestion, and it was just a great place to live. I went there on a business trip twenty years later and hardly recognized anything. New highways were everywhere with endless electronics companies on every street corner and the orchards had disappeared. A brief moment of sadness overtook me, as it seemed this paradise was gone forever. I can’t imagine what it’s like today with its transformation to Silicon Valley. Oh well, change is the price of the often quixotic future.

I bought an Austin Healey Sprite once it was clear that my ‘better half" had taken sole possession of the family car. The Sprite was truly a joy to drive and a tune up was relatively cheap and easy. Not like today’s cars, where you lift up the hood and probably can't identify anything more than the engine. The perfect car for California living.

Since my wife was taking classes at the local college, I had plenty of free time to indulge one of my favorite pastimes, which was to drive on the Skyline. This is a road high in the Santa Cruz Mountains; a roller coaster with all kinds of dips, curves, straight-aways and minimal traffic: perfect for "pretend" sports car racing. One day I was cruising along at a good clip when my little Healey decided to quit running. Luckily it happened near a turnoff and I just coasted to a stop.

As I was pondering what to do next, a terrifying roar of motorcycle engines overtook the peace and quiet. When I looked, there were at least a couple dozen motorcycles bearing down the Skyline toward me. I was somewhat mesmerized by the scene, but waved, shrugged and gave a comic rising of my palms. In retrospect, this gesture probably implied I needed help. To my surprise and shock they pulled to a stop next to my car. It didn’t occur to me that I might have a problem until I noticed they all were wearing leather jackets clearly marked "HELLS ANGELS, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA". I knew of the club's reputation but never thought much about it. To me, their activities had been on another planet. But not today, maybe I was in for some trouble on this day in "paradise".

On many drives in the mountains, I often would pass a band of motorcycles flying the Hells Angels colors. They were a grungy looking bunch but never a threatening issue for me. From what I knew, they were usually going somewhere to drink too much and cause pain to themselves and probably to anyone else who crossed their path. Today they were up close, looking pretty rough, and most were in need of a shave and a bath. One guy caught my eye and sent a shiver down my spine. He had a cowering evil stare that was very unnerving. It seemed like his eyes were too close together and capable of producing a death ray if he was so inclined. Another biker had a strange body odor that I picked up from several feet away. A revolting smell, that almost brought tears to my eyes. Several others, with various tattoos and missing teeth, looked at me like I was their next meal. I kept my mouth shut, being in a state of shock and sheer fright. Taking off running was not an option since there was no place to go. When the lead guy got off his bike and approached my car, I’m thinking, "What’s he got in mind?"

To my complete surprise, in a gruff but friendly tone, he said, "Need some help?"

My fear factor subsided somewhat and I stammered out, "Shhuuuure, the car just quit running."

"Let me take a look," he replied.

He strolled over to the car and within a few moments, the hood was up. Before I could catch my breath, he right away noticed that the throttle linkage was off the carburetor. He snapped it back in place and told me to start the car. It roared back to life. I thanked him profusely and offered him some money for his help.

He looked at me in a strange way and said, "Forget it". We shook hands and no more was said as I prayed they would quickly leave. My prayers were answered as he got on his Harley and they all took off in a cloud of noise.

I always wondered if this was Sonny Barger, the notorious leader of the Oakland Hells Angels. It must have been since as his legend grew it became known that the Angels partied at Ken Kesey's (author of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest") home in La Honda, which was on the Skyline and a mecca for the drug-fueled lifestyle of the 60’s.

Anyway, I sure was thankful for my free car repair.

The Nicest People

by Gail Balentine

On a frigid Sunday in February, we planned a short trip to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston to see a specific exhibit. Knowing the museum gets crowded later in the morning on weekends, we arrived just after the doors opened and had the exhibit mostly to ourselves to enjoy at a leisurely pace, followed by an early lunch at the museum’s café. It was a pleasant, relaxing morning, until we started to leave for home.

Since it was so cold, Lisa went for the car while Dave and I waited inside at the Fenway Entrance. Sure enough, we watched as the Sunday crowds began arriving. I heard a cell phone ring and, thinking it was mine, reached into my pocket. Nothing. I checked my other pocket and purse. No phone. Deciding I must have left it on the café table, I told Dave I’d be right back and headed for the café. I passed the line for the coat check-in that was now long and soon found myself dodging baby carriages. By the time I arrived at the turn for the café it was hidden by a flood of people coming from the Huntington Avenue entrance and I missed it.

My claustrophobia kicked in and I felt like I was being swamped by a giant wave so, as soon as possible, I turned right and passed through several exhibit halls that were a bit less crowded. But, after about ten minutes of being bumped and jostled, none of three doorways looked familiar and I realized I had absolutely no idea how to get back. I searched for a guard but could not find one. I must have looked lost because a very tall man stopped and asked me something but, due to his thick accent, I could not understand a word. He seemed to want to help but when he pointed to his handheld map, I think he said, “What floor this?” Clearly he was as lost as me. A second man, who’d been watching us, tapped me on the arm, pointed behind us and said, “Sign”. I thanked them all as well as I could, and headed toward the sign until I found a familiar door and beyond that, the information area. I felt pure relief until I saw Dave standing there, looking more than a bit frustrated.

I knew he had questions, but I just shook my head, handed him my purse, and pointed to the café. He reminded me Lisa was waiting and I fairly ran the short distance. I checked with the cafe manager - no phone found. At that point I began thinking about all the information I keep on that phone and found the nerve somehow to interrupt the four total strangers now trying to enjoy their lunch at the same table where we’d been seated. When I explained what’d happened, they all reacted immediately, standing up and looking around and under the table. Both women assured me they had misplaced their phones, more than once. After a few minutes, one man asked if I wanted him to call my phone. With a mock serious expression, his friend said, “You may not want to give him that number, he’s an insurance salesman.”

The salesman called my phone and walked around the cafe, listening. Again, nothing. Just as hope was flagging, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Dave held my handbag aloft and said, “It’s vibrating.” To give him credit, that’s all he said. And yes, the missing phone was at the bottom of my purse - turned screen down, blue case showing, covered by a notebook the exact shade of blue. Embarrassed, I thanked everybody and started to leave. Then I turned back and, with a nod in my husband’s direction, I said to the salesman, “I might need that life insurance after all.”

As we drove home, we all marveled at how many caring people had been willing to help a stranger that day. With today’s negative headlines, it’s sometimes easy to forget that there are some very nice people out there.

                                                                             *****