Frances

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     It was an unseasonably warm October day and I delighted in the incongruence of falling leaves and flip flops as I ran my errands, while keeping track of the time to beat the school bus. I made it home with time to spare and pulled up in front of the garage to unload my groceries. As I juggled the bags and reached for the door, I saw a man’s head pass by the window. At least I thought it was a man’s head. I dropped my bags and stood back, unsure if I had actually seen something and if I should call the police. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse but instead of dialing I reached for the door. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light and then peered inside. Towards the back of the garage was a sturdy figure, at least six feet tall. My heart raced as I stepped through the doorway and I soon realized the tall figure was a woman! She was wearing elastic waist jeans and a flowered sweatshirt with a polo shirt underneath. Her hair was cropped short, the color of dishwater with grey strands interspersed.  She was mumbling while rocking back and forth in sneakers.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

     She looked at me in confusion and said “It’s not here.” I immediately recognized that confused blank stare. My mother had passed away the previous year from Alzheimer’s and I had been her primary caregiver for five years.

“What is your name?’

“Fran.”

“What is your last name?”

“Fran—Cess.”

“Where do you live Frances?”

    Her silence told me that my question was futile and I studied her face. Sweat was pouring from her forehead and dripping into her eyes and I wondered how far she had walked and how long she had been standing in my garage. I silently chastised the person who not only let her wander off but also dressed her in far too many layers for such a warm day. I told her to stay put and quickly went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and some paper towels, and then went back into the garage.

‘How about we step outside and sit on the porch in the shade?”

     I took her hand in mine, marveling at its size while studying the bright shade of pink polish on her nails. I guided her out the door and coaxed her into sitting on my front steps. After blotting her face with the paper towels, I handed her the water, relieved that she knew what to do with it. Then I called 911.

“Hello 911.”

“Hi, I have a woman that wandered into my garage with dementia. She says her name is Frances but she can’t tell me her last…”

     The operator interrupted, confirmed my address and told me an officer would be there in less than five minutes. Apparently, there was a search party for Frances. I asked Frances if she was feeling better. The water was half gone and her cheeks were less flushed. The cruiser pulled into the driveway seconds later, and the officer jumped out.

“Her husband is frantic.” He said.

     I asked him where she lived and was comforted to know it was less than a ten-minute walk away. The officer approached Frances and she recoiled in fear, another emotion I had dealt with in the past.

“Frances, would you like to go home to see your family?” I soothed. 

She did not answer but I could tell she was considering what I was saying.

“This nice man will give you a ride home.”

     I held out my hand and she took it, pushing herself up from the porch step and following me to the cruiser while the officer held open the back door. I helped her into the seat, and handed her the water bottle.

“It was nice meeting you Frances.”

     The officer jumped in the driver’s seat and they were both off without a goodbye.

     Later when I told family and friends my story, they all chastised me for opening that garage door and not dialing 911. I don’t know what made me open that door, but I know that I was never afraid. Immediately after Frances left my driveway I felt my mother’s presence. I knew she had guided Frances to my garage knowing that she would be taken care of, while simultaneously saying hello and thank you to me.

Gratitude

by Gail Balentine

With all the negative attitudes and events that we encounter on a daily basis these days, I am grateful for a very positive encounter that happened recently.

            Years ago, when I was managing a surgical nursing unit, a young, bright, eager-to-learn nurse worked for me for about nine months. She was like a human sponge, absorbing all she could, and then asking challenging questions that I tried to answer, with varying levels of success. Throughout my career, I was fortunate to be in positions where helping new nurses learn was part of my job and, with Carol, it was easier than most. There was no question in my mind that she had a great nursing career ahead of her and I enjoyed my time working with her. Our career paths went in different directions, but a gift she gave me when I stopped being her manager sits on my bureau and so I have thought of her over the years, even into my retirement.

            Recently, I stayed with a relative in the pre-surgical area of a local hospital, not the one where I used to work. It was a busy place with all beds filled but the staff were friendly and efficient, explaining everything before they did it. Each member of the surgical team came in, introduced themselves, and asked the many questions necessary before any procedure. I found the changes in how surgical preparations are now done fascinating and tried to absorb everything.

One nurse (women in surgical scrubs and caps really do look different than when they are dressed in out-of-work clothes or even uniforms) recognized the last name on the chart, looked up from where she had been reading, saw me and smiled. I knew that face. She came closer and barely said her first name before I knew exactly who she was. I could feel my own grin spread on my face. I had been right about her future - not only had Carol gone on to gain further experience in larger hospitals, but she had taken the added training required to become a Nurse Anesthetist.  And, best of all for us, she would be in the operating room with my relative! I felt relief gently wash over me like a warm shower. For days I had been listing in my mind the reasons – all valid - to believe that everything would go well, but once I saw her, I knew it would.

            I doubt that Carol realizes the difference her presence made, but I do. I doubt many of us realize the impact we have on others, and they on us, but in today’s world I think that taking the time to appreciate the positive influences or occurrences in our lives is especially important. I thanked her for her generous gift – peace of mind.

                                                                

  ******

Autumn Haiku


1.
The wind whinnies, raw.
Dry leaves curl on brown limbs
That reach toward the house.


2.
It is October:
The ocean changes from blue
To steel-grey and cold.


3.
The roses struggle
Their last chance to bloom and shine
Plum, pink, velvet red.


(Ciampa, Liz.  Good for Everyday Use.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2012. p. 21. Print.)

Mailbox

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

       
   She stood at the mailbox, staring at the letter addressed to her as if it came from outer space. She saw it was not presort bulk mail and there was no return address.  Walking back to the house that she bought a few years ago, she felt the finish of the envelope.  It was mid-weight, more ivory than white in color, and she supposed it was a bit pricier than common stationery.

              Her life now was her own – simple and frugal – and if asked, she might admit she was lonely at times, but it was her choice.  There were moments she missed: her years as daughter, wife, mother,

friend.  So many of her family and friends were gone now – moved afar, died, relationships finished.  No one had contacted her since she moved.  She was content to be free of obligations.

              This letter was vexing and intriguing at the same time. Should she open it or just toss it away?   It didn’t appear to be a legal document as it was not typed but precisely handwritten in ink, but she did not recognize the script. She wondered if the postmark would provide a clue.  Entering her house, she turned on a bright lamp and donned her readers to discern the date and originating post office location.  Foiled by a blurred postmark, she threw it on the counter. She decided to leave it overnight and make her decision in the morning.  

The Whole Picture

by Charlotte Savage

      I once read, “A picture is worth a thousand words,” and I heartily believe that to be true as seen in the picture above.

               
     It was in November of 2015 that I flew into Texas to visit my son Barry, his wife Gail, my granddaughter Jamie, and her two children Hailey age nine and William who was seven.   

              
     Arriving at the airport I wondered if my great-grandchildren would remember me.  I hadn’t seen them for two years.    Perhaps Hailey might—but I questioned if William would.

             
     Gail, accompanied by Hailey and William met me inside the airport.   I was amazed at how much Hailey and William had grown.   Hailey, tall for her age, was very slim with long flowing blond hair while William had brown hair and long lashes covering large expressive eyes.  I asked if they remembered me.

                 
    “I remember you,” said William, “we played games the last time you visited us and we had lots of fun.”    Hailey nodded in agreement.

               
     On the drive home the children sang a song for me naming all of the United States.  William proudly announced he could even do them backwards-- which he did-- with a little help from his sister.  I learned that they had a sleep--over at their Grammy’s house every Thursday night, the night their mom worked late. Since it was Thursday we would all be together until Grammy drove them to school the next morning. 

               
     When we arrived at their home, my daughter–in-law Gail reminded the children they needed  to do their next day’s homework before dinner.  Since it was close to the dinner hour Gail worked with Hailey on her English homework while I helped William with his arithmetic.  Because William was taught math by a different method than I, he showed me his method.  It didn’t take me long to realize William was using neither method.   He mostly did the addition and subtraction in his head--probably because he has so much energy to expend that anything that was time consuming would not hold his attention for very long.   He explained that his teacher required him to show how he got the answer; so first he figured the answer in his head and then he went back and made little circles to represent each number and then counted the circles to prove his answer.

               
     Hailey on the other hand had a lot more patience and completed her work in a timely manner. Grammy allowed them free time to draw or paint once their homework was completed. Something they both enjoyed doing.

              
     After dinner Hailey told me she had a surprise for me.  It was a picture she had drawn of the two of us.  It showed a young child with straight hair wearing a dress and that of an adult with very short curly hair wearing earrings and we were holding hands and smiling.   It was the nicest welcome I had ever received and it was so appreciated.  I looked at my nine year old great--granddaughter in awe; though I am an artist I tend to paint pictures of flowers and landscapes.   Hailey had actually captured us in a simple pencil drawing.

               
     I told Hailey that I would treasure her gift forever and it would be framed and hung when I returned home.  I suggested that she sign her art because that is what true artists do.   Her little pixie face showed delight as she carefully printed her name.

               
     In the weeks that followed I had the opportunity to spend quality time with these two great--grandchildren.  On the weekend the children asked my son Barry to take them to the bug park.  I wondered what a bug park was.  Arriving at a children’s playground a mile from his home the answer was obvious.  There was a miniature car with room for two children to sit inside it.  The car was built in the replica of a lady bug.  It moved from side to side and circled around as they shifted their weight.  They never got tired of riding on it. When it was time to leave they would ask if they could have a turn on the swings.  They would call out to Barry—“Push harder, Papa Bear”-- as he pushed them higher and higher.  Barry like his dad is a Pied Piper that all children love to be with.

               
     I truly enjoyed William’s happy, energetic demeanor, the way he was at ease with both friends and strangers alike whom he chatted with constantly no matter where we went.   Even more so, I enjoyed watching the interplay between Hailey and her little brother.   I saw how Hailey often played the big sister and was very kind and patient to her younger brother.  I also saw the respect that William showed for Hailey.   Whenever he didn’t understand something he went to her for the answer and if her answer was too brief they would sit side by side and discuss the subject further.  Sometimes they searched the internet together if William had more questions.

               
     Before I returned home, some five weeks later, I asked William how it felt to have an older sister looking out for him.   He didn’t answer me right away; he thought about it for a couple of minutes.   Finally he responded, “It’s nice to have an older sister most of the time; the only time it isn’t fun is when Hailey gets too bossy-- and she tends to be bossy a lot.”   Then he gave me one of his innocent disarming smiles that he uses whenever he is teasing his sister.     I chuckled and told my adorable great-grandson that I had heard similar complaints from my own little brother when I was younger.   The incredulous look William gave me was---you mean you were once as young as me!

               
     However, it was followed by a quick wink from William--which told me that he knew I understood him –and that, in fact, I got the whole picture! 

2016 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved

               

September

by Beth Alexander Walsh

September is industrious.

It is harvests and stacks of firewood.

It is work and school.

It is new notebooks and backpacks and boxes of crayons.

It is dodgeball and hopscotch and jump rope.

It is Girl Scouts and Cub Scouts and soccer.

It is reading and writing and arithmetic.

It is afternoons in the library and Scholastic book orders.

It is marching band and football games.

It is shoes and socks and sweaters.

It is deciding how long you can last without turning the heat on.

It is apples and pumpkins and stew simmering on the stove.

It is structure and purpose.

It is learning and reinvention.

Industrious is September.

Kenneth J. Roy

November 1, 1935 - July 19, 2016

Remembering Ken

When I want to describe someone I’ve met, there are many words I can select but one that I rarely use is charming. Yet that’s the first word that comes to mind when I think of Ken - an exceptional word for an exceptional man.

It was about three years ago when I saw a notice in the Beverly Public Library’s newsletter about a writing group that Liz Ciampa was forming. I immediately marked the date on my calendar, arrived early when the time came, and that first day is when I met Ken. Over the three years since, it’s been a pleasure to learn about writing with him and to share some of the details of our lives through our writing. His was a full, interesting life and flashes of the fun-loving, devil-may-care young man that he was at one time came through in his work. In our group he laughed easily, especially at himself; he had the confidence to say when he knew something and admit when he didn’t; and although he didn’t always understand what one of us was trying to say in a piece we wrote, he never put us or the work down. When you are a writing group member, an important and helpful activity is critiquing each other’s work by offering constructive suggestions for improvement. Ken, however, was not a man to delve into sentence structure, punctuation, or any of the other details involved in writing. Nope. He either told you he didn’t understand the work or gave you a thumbs up. I swear I walked on air the day he gave me two thumbs up for one of my stories.

The second year our group was together, we had a party at Beth’s house during our summer break. All the women brought food. Ken, our token male, brought small boxes of Godiva chocolates for his ‘girls’. I was so touched that I took the small silver heart that was part of the wrapping and slipped in onto my key ring; there it still is and there it will stay, because I smile and think of him each time I look at it.

I miss Ken. The world is a sadder place without that twinkle, that wit, that generosity of spirit that was part of my friend, Ken Roy. 

Gail Balentine

     I always looked forward to the days when Ken would read his stories. It was easy to see the rambunctious young man he once was in his Cuban and Californian escapades. When he finished reading his work, we always had questions for him and he would happily expound on his shenanigans leaving out the risque details. He would say he didn’t want to go “too blue” around us ladies.  Ken was always eager to participate in our group and his self- deprecating humor brought joy to our meetings. We always appreciated his male viewpoint and I think he quite enjoyed his status of being “the thorn among all us roses.”  I am certain that Ken had many more stories to write, I only wish he were still here to share them. 

Beth Alexander Walsh

Ken was an original member of the Winter Street Writers and sole male.  He was a treasured addition to our writing group and not the least bit intimidated by all the females.   Ken lived the life of a scientist with the talent of a crackerjack “teller of tales—stories to leave my family.”  Those stories, many of which are in the archives of the WSW Blog are eclectic and intriguing, filled with off-beat characters, humor and exciting real events in his life.  He was a renaissance gentleman, caring, respectful and humble.  He shall be missed!    Rest in peace Ken, dear friend. Condolences to his family and friends,

Lauraine Alberetti Lombara