A Winter's Wonderland

by Charlotte Savage

Gray skies, snow drifting slowly down in large flakes;
The first winter’s storm covers shriveling leaves of autumn.
Dry fall flowers in urns beside porch steps,
Now fluffy white balls, like cotton candy.

Snow blankets shrubs and ground.
Bare branches once laden with burgundy leaves,

Now covered with whiskers snow white.
A telephone call; my plowman is ill.

I dress in warm clothing.
My shovel awaits me; I clear a path.
It is a virgin snow, not one animal track;

Not even from the chickadees that nest in my neighbor’s hedges.

The snow, soft and light, moves easily before me,
I push the wide blade forward working steadily.
Peeling off my hat, I unzip my jacket;
Body warmth escapes as I clear the snow.

The sky lightens; will the sun make an appearance?
Moments later the sky darkens and the wind picks up.
I replace my hat, tighten my scarf and zip my jacket;
Before cleaning a path for the mailman.

Suddenly, a stinging rain rips across my face,
Both hat and coat is wet and freezing.
Hurriedly, I seek the warmth of home,
And a cup of tea to warm the chill in my bones.

The whistle of the kettle tears me away from my window;
Icy wind whips freezing rain against the glass.
Horns honking, drivers impatient to reach home,
Automobiles moving at a snail’s pace.

 
My tea poured, I inhale the aroma of jasmine.
Slowly sipping it, I again return to the window-- it is snowing again.
The wind howls, the snow deepens, visibility is a white-out;
No longer can I see the traffic lights at the corner.

I hear thunder such as one hears in a summer’s rain storm;

A flash, could it be lightning?
No cars are on the road-- there is eerie silence;
Except for an occasional plow.

Finally the snow ends;

I will put off shoveling until tomorrow.

Later, I remember the mid- afternoon rain,

It will freeze by morning.

The storm door is held fast by a snow drift.

Inch by inch I push the door free and shovel a narrow path;

The snow is heavy, I can go no further.

My cell phone rings; hurray! my plowman is sending a friend.

At sundown, I once more look out my window.

My neighbor’s snow covered roof is silhouetted against a fiery pink and yellow sky.

A wintery sky so different from anything seen before.
Like an embellished picture postcard. 

I reach for my ever ready camera to capture for posterity—

This magnificent Winter Wonderland.

©2018 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved

Landmark Housing: A Personal Tale

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

My father and mother emigrated from Parma, Italy in 1923 and 1929. Their first home was a third-floor, cold-water flat with a shared bathroom in a cold hallway on Stillman Street in the North End. Looking at photos taken on the roof, I see lovely al fresco dining and socializing spot with a great view (despite the hanging laundry) of Boston and the surrounding rooftops. Clearly the market value of a rehabbed penthouse condo in the North End is sky-high and the cost, exorbitant!

Due to my older brothers’ continuing respiratory and ear infections, the family doctor advised my parents to move. In 1938, they left friends who were like family - many from the same province in Italy –and moved to the newly built Old Harbor Village project in South Boston. My parents were doubly fortunate: first to be accepted into this landmark housing development, and second, to score a single-family row house, complete with the three floors, four rooms, a bathroom, a basement, a small garden in front with many trees, a quick walk to Columbia Park and –joy of joys—Carson Beach. As I was the youngest child, this was my first home. We children grew up surrounded by good neighbors of all nationalities, sharing old-world cultures and values, and forming new, lifelong friendships.

Summers meant days at the Carson and L Street Beaches. My mother trekked across Columbia Park to bring us lunch in her wooden picnic basket, filled with freshly steamed hot dogs in warm rolls, ice-cold drinks and yummy treats baked that morning. Papa ate only day-old, crusty Italian bread with coppa or salami- no “uncooked white bread” of frankfurters for him.

Winter brought ice skating on the frozen, flooded park, sledding on any available hill – too often a street—and listening to records on the Victrola in our toasty basement. Spring and fall were outdoor play times: we dabble in hopscotch, tag, double-dutch jump rope, releevio, hide and seek, especially at the statues in Sterling Square, and all types of ball games.

Living in South Boston made it possible for my father to walk to Andrew Square and travel by the Massachusetts Transit Authority to work. Papa was a salad chef at Warmuth’s Restaurant, known for its Boston scrod, B-Deck salad bowl, and scrumptious prune muffins. My parents never owned nor learned to drive a car. This necessitated living close to public transportation, so when we moved next, it was to another South Boston location close to St. Augustine Church. My parents purchased the former home of family friends who had “moved up”—and out—to Arlington, Massachusetts. Now my parents became homeowners of a rambling, old, three-decker row house, larger by far than our previous home, and with a bigger backyard that we shared with close family friends to whom our house and lives were attached.

Our lives were changing: my older brothers finished high school and went on to apprenticeships and college. I continued to commute to Girls’ Latin School in the Fenway, then to Codman Square in Dorchester for seventh through twelfth grade, and then to Boston College School of Nursing at Newbury Street and in Chestnut Hill.

Surely, this last home commands another sky-high price in today’s gentrified South Boston. However, by young adulthood, we have moved on, leaving behind three family dwellings, all with unique histories, and bringing with us many sweet and priceless memories.

                                                                       

Landmark Housing: A Personal Tale was first published on The Raconteuse Expose on August 2, 2013.

February Love

by Beth Alexander Walsh

February may bring a few snow storms but it is also the month of red paper hearts, roses, chocolates and a windfall for greeting card companies, all in an effort to express love! I have been lucky enough to be the recipient of all of these for many years. My kids have given homemade cards and gifts and my husband usually brings me pink roses (my favorite) and in return he would receive something from me to satisfy his sweet tooth. When my oldest daughter started learning to read, I instituted a poetic treasure hunt with each poem revealing a clue until their valentine gift bags were found. My kids looked forward to that every year until my youngest started middle school. Today, boxes of Valentine cards in the store conjure up wistful images of the three of them sitting at the kitchen table, filling out their cards to bring to school the next day.

These days I am content to find expressions of love in the mundane. A sleepy kiss on the forehead. New windshield wipers and solution in my car without me asking. An empty dishwasher and a laundry basket carried up two floors. I find it in parents cooing to their toddlers as they wheel their carriages through the super market and in my Meals on Wheels clients who show their gratitude to me every day when I bring their lunch. A rush of love emanates from my dog Albie any time I walk through the front door even when it has only been a short amount of time.

I also find contentment, peace and yes, even love, in the world around me. The dichotomy of a calm ocean or violent waves during a storm. The tapping of raindrops and the silent beauty of snowflakes falling to the earth while sitting on my deck. Watching the birds jockeying for a spot on the feeder while the wild turkeys feast on castoffs below, and the deer and rabbits frolicking in the twilight giving their best impressions of Bambi and Thumper. Everyday there is much to see and love.

This year I am celebrating with my Valentine on an extended weekend in Vermont. It is wonderful to be at a stage in our lives where children no longer dictate our plans. We will compromise in our activities; a trip to the fly fishing museum for him and the shopping outlets for me and splurging at some great restaurants at the end of our day. Together, we are taking a two-hour glass blowing workshop.

 Maybe our glass paperweights will be in the shape of hearts!

Reading Voraciously

by Terri McFadden

In my childhood home my favorite room was the cathedral ceilinged living room with its twelve-foot high bookcase. It was filled with volumes on myriad topics, reflecting my mother’s eclectic taste. There were books on everything from history to religion to science, and classic and contemporary fiction.   

I very quickly learned to read and soon read all the books kept on the children’s shelves in the play room. By the time I was ten I made the leap to Mother’s collection. She rarely suggested books and never censored them, she was just pleased to see me reading. Only once did she question my choice. When I was 11, Mother spotted me reading Hawaii by James Michner. There was a slightly racy scene in it that I had already read. She asked me about it and was relieved when I confessed I hadn’t understood it. Naturally I went back and reread it – it still didn’t make sense.

During those exciting years of learning about a world outside of our small-town, I read about dinosaurs in the Gobi Desert of China, I cried when I read about the dog found in Pompeii, frozen in its last agony. I read Gulliver’s Travels and Anne of Green Gables, Ladies Home Journal and Newsweek and the back of the Rice Chex box (which had a changing newsletter). In short, I devoured anything I could get my hands on.

It got so I preferred reading to playing outside. On a Saturday, after morning chores, I would find a nook somewhere in our large house and settle down to read. With luck I could stay undetected and read for four or five hours. Sometimes my sisters or my mother would roust me out and I’d be forced to go outdoors, leaving an unfinished story. The long dreary days of school were hard for me. I hated being separated from my books. Often, unable to bear not knowing what was happening in my book-of-the-day, I would sneak it into class. When I got caught I didn’t mind the punishment – it was worth it. Oddly enough, reading probably held me back in my school work. However, except for math, I believe I learned more of history, science and literature on my own. The problem was that the teachers weren’t testing me on what I was reading.

When I was old enough to ride my bike the mile to town to visit our small library, it was something of a shock. Although my mother didn’t mind what I read, the librarian most assuredly did! She wouldn’t even allow a child to look at the books in the adult stacks, which I minded very much. However, she did guide me to children’s fiction that I hadn’t read before. I especially loved the series The Black Stallion and Nancy Drew and I discovered that I loved mysteries. I still do.

It seems voracious readers run in the family. My daughter and granddaughter are from the same mold as my mother and me. When I visit their house, more often than not both are deep in a book. Ten-year-old Bella has the intense concentration that I used to have; she rarely hears what is said to her when she is reading. The other day her mother and I were having a conversation. I noted that Julie looked rather tired and she confessed that she’d stayed up late in order to finish a book. I suggested that maybe she read too much. Bella lifted her eyes from her book and said: “You can’t read too much!” I’d have to say I agree.

Calling All Writers

We are now accepting submissions to our weekly blog!

Guidelines

Genre: Fiction, Poetry, Memoir, Essay

Length: 600 words or less

Send to: winterstreetwriters5@gmail.com

Submissions must be sent in the body of an email or attached as a word document. 

We are accepting original and unpublished work, however,

 copyright and publications rights will remain with the writer.

Should your piece be selected you will be contacted and given a date for publication.

All pieces published to our blog will become part of our archives.

We look forward to hearing from you!

The Decision

By Gail Balentine

Helena walked along Main Street, lost in thought, and only slowly became aware that she was in a neighborhood she didn’t know. She stopped and noticed that an older couple, the only other people on the street, were going up the walk to a house about 50 yards ahead of her. She continued to watch as they arrived at the door of the neat, gray Cape Cod style cottage and she thought they would go in together, but they didn’t. The gentleman waited for the woman to enter the house and then crossed the street to enter another neat, gray Cape Cod style home. That’s when Helena noticed the two houses opposite each other, and all those down the street as far as she could see, seemed to match, like snowflakes. But that was at first glance. Just as with snowflakes, when she looked more closely, differences appeared. Each of the houses was its own slightly different shade of gray; some were a little larger or smaller than the one the woman had entered; some had straight brick walkways while others had curved pebbled paths.

              Helena looked for a street sign but found none. She looked for house numbers but found none of those, either. There were no mailboxes, no cars on the street and none going past her. She was alone. Fighting a mild but growing sense of unease, she took out her iPhone to have the map locate her position. It would not turn on. Her sense of unease increased. She turned to look behind her – it was the exact same as ahead of her. She pinched herself, hard enough to say ‘ouch’, only to find she was definitely awake.

              “All right, stay calm”, she told herself aloud. Three deep breaths in a row helped, a little. “You got yourself to this place and you can get yourself out of it.” She nodded to reassure herself, trying to ignore the nagging voice inside her head that kept asking ‘How? … How? … HOW?”

              Helena had always needed a plan, an agenda or schedule, a To-Do List. There were different names for how she kept her anxiety at bay but it all came down to avoiding being directionless. For her, not knowing her next move meant panic.

              “That lady. Go talk to that lady.” Something she could do! Without a moment’s hesitation she went to the house she had seen the woman enter. She walked rapidly up the brick walkway, then the three stairs, and immediately rang the bell. No response. She waited a minute and rang the bell again. Finally, the door opened.

              “Helena!” The woman wiped her hands on her apron and held out her arms. Helena had never seen the woman before in her life.

              “How … how do you know me? And where are we? And why am I here?”

              “Of course I know you, we all know you.” She indicated the other houses with a sweep of her hand. Helena turned and looked - every door was now open and one or more people stood in each doorway, smiling and waving at them.

              Helena started to feel a bit faint. She could feel her heart race and her breath becoming shallow. She recognized the beginnings of a panic attack. “Perhaps I could come in and sit down for a minute?” she asked.

              “Oh no, dear, not quite yet, that’s not how it works. First, you have to decide where to start; you have to know which house you want to enter. ”” She spoke in a calm voice, as if soothing an upset child. “Each house will give you different choices, different results, and once you select it you will be there for a while so you need to look them all over carefully and choose. Have you done that?” The woman looked at the other houses again, smiled at the people who were standing there waiting, and turned back to Helena with an expectant look on her face. “Well, dear, are you ready to decide or must you walk some more?”

              The woman in front of her was right, only Helena could decide. Looming large was the knowledge that she had been procrastinating for far too long. The question was: should she follow her heart and take a leap of faith, even though it was an unpopular choice with some of the people who cared most about her?  Each of her family members and friends had weighed in, freely sharing their thoughts and opinions, until Helena had begun to have trouble identifying whose opinion was whose. That was why early that morning she’d left her house and started walking.  To her, action rather than sitting and rethinking the same thoughts, was preferable.

              The woman continued to look at her with gentle eyes, the color of rich chocolate. They held no criticism, nor advice, but rather a caring interest in what Helena would choose to do. Interestingly, under that steady gaze, the excuses starting dropping away one by one, like Fall leaves from a tree, and Helena made her decision. The choice suddenly felt far less complicated than before and she admitted that all along she’d known what she wanted to do. It was fear of challenges that lay ahead that had frozen her.

              She closed her eyes and told herself it was time to enter a house. When she opened them, she was at her own front door, and chuckled at what the mind can do. She reached for the key in her pocket. Along with it was a slip of paper with these words:

The universe has no fixed agenda. Once you make any decision, it works around that decision. There is no right or wrong, only a series of possibilities that shift with each thought, feeling, and action that you experience. ---Deepak Chopra

            As she entered her house, she thought about the woman’s compassionate brown eyes and decided that to Dr. Chopra, decisions may be a series of possibilities, but to her what lies ahead would be more like a street of neat, gray Cape Cod style cottages to explore.

Five Years of Winter Street

by Beth Alexander Walsh

Five years ago, I noticed a calendar event advertising a one-day writing class at my local library. I bookmarked the page and vacillated over signing up. Being an expert at talking myself out of things, I started a mental dialogue of why I shouldn’t bother answering the ad. It will probably be snowing, I’ve never taken a writing class, I’m too late to sign up, I have nothing to wear, I never finished college…you get the idea. I pulled myself together, sent in my information and put the date on my calendar. After all, how terrible could two hours on a Tuesday in a library be?

There were sixteen of us that day. The introductions revealed a few people who had already published in some form. Some were working on novels and there were few English teachers thrown in for good measure. Intimidating stuff as far as I was concerned, but I sat and participated in the exercises, absorbing the input of those around me and I felt a creative spark. I was sad when those two hours were up and those around me felt the same. We continued to meet on Tuesday mornings honing our writing skills, constructively critiquing and supporting and encouraging each other in our need to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).  Five years later our group, albeit a smaller one, is still meeting several Tuesdays a month.

I would love to finish this story with a fairy tale ending of me publishing a novel or achieving notoriety of some sort, but the truth to me is almost as good. I am STILL writing, something I’m not sure would have happened had I not shown up at that first meeting. Because of my fellow writers, I have the confidence to let other people read what I write and submit my work to various publications.

What I have learned the most from this experience is that I am never too old to learn, to dream, or try something new. I just need to get out of my own way.

Happy Anniversary Winter Street Writers!