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.

Grand

by Gail Balentine

“Aren't I old enough now to know what it is you do when you go away, Grand?”

I had known when Miranda was born on the night of the Harvest Moon that it would be her who took my place. And on her part, she had known there was something different about me even before she could speak. As she grew older, when I traveled she asked pointed questions about my trips and since part of my ‘gift’ is that I cannot lie, I made sure we were alone when I answered her. She knew I went places and helped people – strangers – but that was all she knew.

The child held her body tight as a bowstring, ready to let an arrow fly any minute. Perhaps she was right, it was time. It was necessary to take her education slowly, however, at a pace she could absorb. I looked down into two brown eyes, like deep pools of melted chocolate, so much like my own.

Now none of my three children knew of my activities. My husband may have suspected but I’m not sure. No, this ‘gift’ is passed from grandmother to grandchild, with no effect on the children of the women who have it. I learned from my Grand and would eventually pass it on to Miranda. To the rest of my family, I always have been and would remain simply Mom.

“Sit down, Miranda, and rest yourself. I will tell you what I know but I fear it will not answer all your questions”.

We both sat on the sofa and I spoke softly as I held my granddaughter close.

“It began in the mists of time, with stories. People would gather round fires and tell tales they had heard or talk about something that happened to them. As groups started to move about, seeking new places and meeting new people, families held fast to their favorite stories. And I suppose those stories got better and bigger as time went on”.

The little one laughed, a sweet twinkling sound. And then she said, “You mean like that game we play at Scouts where someone says something and it goes round in a circle and comes back all different?”

“Exactly like that, yes”. I patted Miranda’s long dark hair, bound for the moment in braids, but already trying to escape here and there. “It soon became the responsibility of the oldest woman of the tribe to tell the stories. The people called her ‘The Wise Woman’ and listened carefully to her words. Over time, they started noticing that some of these old women would weave new things into their stories and soon after changes would happen”.

I stopped, watched her face, and waited for her response.

 “Do you mean she was a fortune teller?”

Perfect question! I needed to deal with that right at the beginning. I couldn’t hide my grin.

“No, Precious, not anything like a fortune teller. What happened was, instead of talking to the whole group, she would look at one person directly and say something such as: A hunter becomes great when he learns to always treat his prey as his equal, sometimes his superior. Then she would go on with her story. If that man listened to her words, took them to heart, and went forward with them, he could indeed become a great hunter.”

Now those eyes, her whole face, showed confusion. “So that old woman – someone’s grandmother? – made him a hunter? How?”

“She couldn’t make him anything, but he could.” I decided to make the example a little more personal. “Let’s try it this way. If someone tells you that smiling and being polite will make people like you, will it?”

I loved watching Miranda’s face as she thought things out.  .

“No, Grand, it won’t make someone like you.” Then she laughed and said, “But it sure is a good start!”

I gave her another hug and laughed, too. That was enough for a first lesson.

****

River Run

by Terri McFadden

The first hint that we might be out of our depth was that nearly everyone present was about 20 years younger than our son, who was turning 40 that week. As we climbed off the bus and scrambled down the hill to the river Nile, I marveled at the sheer size of it. I’ve seen the Mississippi and the Missouri, the Thames and Seine, and the Nile easily surpassed them all. It surprised me that it was so wide, more than a thousand miles from Egypt.

When we’d planned the trip, months before, my husband and our children, Kalee, Mike and his wife Jen, had deferred to me about white water rafting. Kalee, who lived in Uganda, had done the research and suggested this as a possible activity. We all agreed it sounded fun. But did we want to go on category four or category five rapids? I thought about it very briefly – and chose five.  I remember thinking: After all, you only live once.

The day before we’d gone on a peaceful evening cruise, enjoying a colorful sunset over the river, birds, fishermen casting nets, somnolent crocodiles that looked almost unreal, like Disney World. Today, we were preparing to go onto an altogether different stretch of the river. We got our gear together, helmets and paddles, relinquished all our personal gear like glasses, shoes, and jewelry “because it will be washed away” - and made our way to the rubber rafts. Our family group of five was assigned to a raft with two other twenty-something couples from the U.S. and our extremely fit Ugandan guide. He served initially as our trainer and later, as we rushed down the river, our guide, steering the raft through the rapids.

In the smooth water near the river edge we learned how to crouch (not kneel!), staying on our feet, because if we hit rocks, only our feet would be bruised.  We practiced ducking when told to and “paddle, paddle, paddle!” when given the order. We had to hold onto those paddles, firmly at all times so that we didn’t smash a fellow rafter. Hang onto the ropes when we hit the rapids, said our trainer “and keep that paddle tight in your hand.” My word, I wondered to myself, What have we gotten ourselves into?

I didn’t have much time to reflect. Soon we paddled our rafts out into the faster moving water, and we were off. Almost immediately we hit the first rapids. “Paddle, Paddle!” And we did. “Duck” and we did that too. I tried to keep my eyes open, but it was almost impossible and besides the only thing to be seen was white, churning water. Exhilarating, exciting, energizing. Wow! Just Wow! It really was the most amazing, physical experience.

After the first rapids were past we paddled into quiet water. All were laughing and possibly relieved that we’d made it through that first white water. Just five more to go. What an incredible day. And we survived it. On the bus back to the headquarters of the rafting company, I got into a conversation with a young nurse from the Netherlands, who was doing a rotation in Uganda. She marveled that Ed and I had been brave enough to go on the rafting expedition. “When I’m old.” she said, “I hope I’m just like you!”

A Hamster Tale

by Beth Alexander Walsh

There have been many animal stories throughout my children’s lives. Dogs have always been center stage family members but other pets have been added to the mix. There have been fish, a frog, hermit crabs and a rabbit. We have even hatched chickens on our dining room table, but my middle daughter’s hamster phase and specifically her first hamster Josh, became family folklore.

Josh was an amiable hamster. He liked to be held, (although I refused to hold him), and he wasn’t loud on his wheel at night, a problem we would find with a subsequent hamster. Josh was also very patient. He was frequently wardrobed in Barbie attire because he habitually rode in a Barbie convertible and played in a Barbie dream house. He also tolerated our terrier mutt Sam’s nuzzling and rolling him in his hamster ball.

One day while I was putting away laundry, I heard screaming from our family room. I ran into the room to find my daughter crying and pointing up to the cathedral ceiling. Perched on the edge of a ceiling fan blade, a dozen feet in the air, was Josh with his little nose twitching as he stared down below. Apparently, my eldest daughter had been teasing her sister by throwing poor Josh up in the air and catching him. One of the tosses went too high and he never came down.

Being a Mom means being a champion for your child, which meant at that moment I was getting a ladder and touching my very first hamster. Josh and I survived the incident and we were all grateful that the ceiling fan had not be on and turning, else this story would have  a ghastly ending. We also found that Josh was not as patient after his fiasco. The first time my hamster tossing daughter was allowed to pick him up again, Josh bit her. It was the first and only time he had bitten anyone and none of us could blame him.

Josh lived to the ripe old age of two and a half, the longest of the five hamsters my daughter would come to own. We kept hoping to get another Josh but the second hamster was a hissing mean cur that everyone was afraid of. The third was dead the next day after we brought him home and we returned his deceased body to the pet store. The fourth hamster jumped on the hamster wheel as soon we put him in the cage and never got off, keeping us all awake at night. He died several months later with what we assume was exhaustion. After the fifth hamster passed away and his little hamster body was laid to rest in our little hamster graveyard, I convinced my daughter that maybe it was time to move on from hamster ownership. She had plenty of hamster tales to last a lifetime.

Carpe Diem

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

No sparkling glass along the shore,

Gray clouds have shuttered sun behind its doors.

Trees stripped bare to branches brown...forsaken,

Against the granite rocks aground.

For now, we play a waiting game;

The sun peaks out and is gone again.

Till April’s Spring arrives,

The Ides of March will have their prize.

Then crocus and tulip bulbs will flower

As Mother Nature shows her power.

The cycle of her might continues...tides, sun, moon.

Another year once more...too soon, too soon.