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

The Piano

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     My father was a stoic man. He was a hard worker and great provider for his wife and six children, but mostly a silent presence behind his newspaper. However, when he sat at our old black upright piano, with chipped ivory keys, he became very engaged. Most of the songs he played originated before World War II, and I knew every single one of them by the time I was five. I was the youngest and my father’s favorite singing partner, carrying the melody to his tenor harmonies. The playlist was always the same, pulled alphabetically from a thick yellowing songbook; the notes were disregarded, because my father played by ear. Every holiday in our house ended with huddled groups of singers around that old piano.

     At age five I started lessons along with my sister, who was fourteen years my senior. I was not a chord player like my dad. Painstakingly, I would translate the notes from the sheet music, until I learned the song. When my sister moved out, the lessons stopped and I, to my parents' chagrin, chose to play the violin. If you have ever heard a second grader scratch out “Twinkle, Twinkle” on the violin, then you understand my parents' regret.

      In 1979, when our black upright became unplayable, my dad purchased his first brand new piano. It was probably the most extravagant purchase of his life! It was a Kohler & Campbell upright, with a pecan stained finish. Unlike the old black piano, which used to reside on a small porch, the sleek new instrument, with its polished wood grain, took center stage on a wall in our living room. A brass piano light appeared at my father’s next birthday, along with updated sheet music, with printed chord changes, given by my mother, who hoped to add show tunes to his repertoire. By then I had moved on to the flute, eventually giving it up while attending a high school with no music department. To this day, I still regret not continuing those piano lessons.

     My dad’s playing became a solitary exercise after we all moved out to pursue our own lives, but every holiday would gather us back around the piano, now with babies on our hips, while their Grandpa pounded away at the keys. As my dad’s health deteriorated so did his time at the Kohler and Campbell, and after a short ten years of ownership, he and his piano parted ways.

     The piano, missing its owner, sat untouched for several years, until my mother put their large Dutch colonial up for sale. When she started to divide household belongings I immediately asked if I could have the piano. For several years I had contemplated the room in my house that it would grace. She smiled at me as if she had been expecting my request, and the piano was moved to its destination against our living room staircase.

     As my own children began to arrive, I envisioned all of them sitting on the piano bench, pecking out the notes to “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. It wasn’t until my youngest child entered kindergarten that any interest was shown. My son took to lessons immediately, understanding the language of music with ease. He went on to play in his high school jazz band and several other groups, and now writes his own compositions. He has surpassed his grandfather’s ability, and his tenor voice, sounding so much like my father's, is an echo from my childhood.

     The upright piano has now been in my house for twenty years, its pecan finish slightly faded and the bench now replaced with a sturdier version built by my husband. It still produces a glorious sound whenever my son touches its keys, sharing a bond with its original owner, and bringing back memories to me of the man he never met.

A Letter to Eleanor

by Gail Blantine

                                                                                                                  20 September 1919

                                                                                                                   New York

Dearest Cousin Eleanor,

My trunks have not been unpacked, I have not looked through the correspondence that is piled high on the table in the foyer, and I have not let anyone know I am home yet! It would have been wrong of me to do any of those things before I wrote to thank you once more for your splendid hospitality.

The past six weeks on Campobello with you, Franklin, and the children leave me with so many beautiful memories: the views of the Bay of Fundy from almost every room of the cottage; my first sail with the wind, salt air, and sun in my face; the family picnics on neighboring islands; horseback riding; afternoon tea with guests and their humorous tales; games of every ilk, and long, reflective walks in the woods. I could go on and on.

I wish with all my heart that I were a poet. Maybe then I could capture my feelings just now. Nature seems to have blessed that small island with enough land and sea for one to have adventures and yet enough quiet areas for one to slow down and contemplate. It was gratifying to see Franklin in a place that gives him a measure of distance from the political intensity that usually engulfs him. Such an energetic man! It was equally wonderful to watch the children enjoy their time with him and you. All of them are growing up so fast – Anna is on the cusp of womanhood already and you can see flashes of the men the boys will become. But, of all the activities and enjoyment that was Campobello, I think it was the nights that you read to us that I will remember most. You seemed to understand what was in the author’s very soul and used your voice and inflection to make the words come alive for the rest of us.

I leave Campobello behind but carry with me a serenity I have never before felt and thank you all for that gift that I will always cherish.

Your grateful and loving cousin,

Mary