Happy New Year!

We of Winter Street Writers are amazed that another year has gone by -- and we are delighted to  announce that our writing group turns three years old in early January of 2016! This past year our writers continued to publish in local publications and advanced their personal work in fiction, non-fiction, memoir and script writing, while contributing to our group blog. 

Two of our writers have become members of the Cape Cod Writers Center and attended the three day conference in August. It was an amazing experience interacting with other writers, editors, agents and publishers while learning more about the craft of writing and the ever-expanding world of publishing. The enthusiasm of this conference spilled over into our meetings in the fall and we have devoted some of our time into researching the many avenues of publishing with the goal of publishing personal works in the future.

One of our greatest accomplishments this year has been engaging more readers and we are proud to have over three hundred of you liking and following our Facebook page! It has been a lot of fun sharing information pertaining to the love of writing and reading, as well as keeping you all informed of events in our North Shore communities. We thank you for your encouragement and support. We would also like to thank the Beverly Public Library for allowing the Winter Street Writers to continue to use its facilities as our home base.

We wish all of you the happiest and healthiest of New Years and look forward to more progress in 2016!

Gail, Liz C., Law, Ken, Beth, Lauraine, Liz M.,Mary and Charlotte

Ornaments

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     A debate started in our house around seven years ago about replacing our real Christmas tree with a fake one. For years we had purchased our tree from our church to benefit the parish school. As our children got older we then drove to Boxford to wander the lot with a saw in hand, cutting down the fir with the best shape. Truthfully, the debate started with me, as I was the person untangling lights, decorating, watering and cleaning up the needles. I also noticed that my allergies acted up with a real tree in the house, but my family thought my use of an inhaler was a small price to pay for that crisp pine smell. The debate finally ended one November, when I dragged a fake 7.5 foot Fraser Fir with the lights already attached into our garage, along with a promise to my family that I would light a pine scented candle. After the first two Christmases of complaints, my family finally agreed the tree was just as beautiful as any we had cut down, and that it was what we put on our tree that made it special.

     Our boxes of ornaments carry the most meaning out of any of the extensive inventory of decorations, and I have shed a tear more than once upon finding the remnants of an ornament that did not make it through a year of storage. Each treasure in those boxes tells a story.
    There are the ornaments from my father's childhood tree. Delicate thin glass in the shape of bells and icicles, large and small spheres of different colors cast a glow against the white lights. They conjure up my father's stories of trees lit with candles, and volunteer guards with sand at the ready in case of fire. There are the satin balls of the first year we were married and still constructing our house, unable to afford much more than the cost of the tree, lights and tinsel. There are the homemade ornaments; some I have made as a child and some I have made with my own children, provoking memories of rainy fall days when there was nothing to do. Also garnishing our tree, are the wide assortment of travel keepsakes from Mexico to Maine, and all the places in between, all casting warm images of beaches, amusement and national parks. Some are baubles that represent a moment in time; baby's first Christmas, a new pet added to the family, and the 2004 Red Sox World Series win. Others are gifts from friends, relatives and neighbors etched with the year they were given or notations written with marker. A glass cigar, guitar and little rock climbing and fishing Santas are contributions from my husband. Our vast collection comes in every shape and size and are made from glass and wood, plastic and plaster, yarn and felt.

     The tree is always the last of our household decorating allowing the time and reverence for the perfect placement of each object, while anointing each branch with a memory.

Raindrops on Roses

by Gail Balentine

Making a craft project, learning a new way to do something, or spending time with a dear friend - during the busy Christmas season, it’s fun when you can take a break from the shopping rush and fit in things you enjoy. Recently, I got to do all of these in one day.

Several months ago, I created small tote bags for my writers’ group, using pre-made bags and transfers purchased at Michael’s craft store. When my friend, Carol, wanted to make her grandchildren personalized Christmas gifts, I suggested the bags and she was delighted.

She came to my house last week, arriving with a Thank You gift in hand! Just prior to her arrival I tried to get the printer set up and mildly panicked when I could not remember how to reverse the images. This step was essential for our project, else the names would print backwards. I finally figured it out and thought, with relief, that we were all set. What’s that old saying about “don’t count your chickens …?”

We quickly decided on the clip-art to use, got the printer set, and we used the special paper designed for this process. Great! While I was doing this, Carol ironed the bags, set up the work surface, and we were ready.

We centered the image, laid down the transfer paper, and ironed it onto the bag, following the directions carefully. The results were less than perfect. An 8.5x11 sheet was pressed onto the bag - image in the middle with lots of blank space around the edges that curled. And, we were gazing at those images through that sepia colored stain a hot iron can leave on fabric. Carol, bless her heart, tried to make the best of the situation - the children are young, the images are cute, the names are clear. But if there is one thing a seasoned crafter is, it’s honest. These were not grandchild-worthy gifts.

I wracked my brain to figure out what had gone wrong. Finally, we thought to examine one of the bags from last summer and that’s when I remembered trimming off the excess paper around the images AND using a white linen handkerchief when pressing the transfer. As soon as we made those simple changes the bags came out just the way Carol wanted them.

The craft project, Christmas gifts, and time spent with a friend speak for themselves, but what about the learning part? Well, I now have my own, step-by-step directions, written as I did them, for making this or any similar project in the future. There’s that other expression about old dogs and new tricks that comes to mind but I guess that one’s not always true.

I’d like to thank Carol for a nice day and wish our readers a Merry Christmas season where you,too, get to combine “a few of your favorite things.”

                                                              *******

Exteriors
by Liz Ciampa

There is no name
For the space between
The thumb and the index finger

But your right hand still hurts there:
Right where you grasp the paintbrush
And the rollers--

You use two sizes today--
And cannot help but think of
The movie Karate Kid

As you sand and prime the rungs on the deck.
Clean, sand, prime.  You are there for a while.
Next door neighbors, behind the house,

Tree workers carefully raze the old maple
Piece by piece. The work takes all day.  At the end,
When the largest branch falls--

The size of a tree itself--
Late sunlight spills through the open space
Onto the backyard and deck for the first time.

Surprised, you rub the spot on your hand,
Conjure up possibilities, and
Decide to leave painting 'til tomorrow.



(Ciampa, Liz. What is Left. Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2009. p. 27. Print.)
*By permission of the author, this poem is a slightly altered version of its original published in the chapbook cited above.

Photograph, courtesy of Mr. Daniel Carpineto, Beverly, Massachusetts.

Memories of a Christmas Past Part II

by Lauraine Lombara

Our family celebration of Christmas Eve and Day was centered on the religious significance of this holiday and was enhanced by the recounting by my Italian-born parents of stories of their Christmases in Italy. Theirs was meager compared to ours. Similarities included the importance of the Nativity crèche and figures, called the Presepio in Italy - a village surrounding the crèche which was placed on a small table covered with hay or straw and lit by electric candles in the window close by. Attending Mass on Christmas Eve or Day was paramount. Small presents, usually hand-made, were exchanged only within the family and I, the youngest and only girl, received the lion’s share! Unlike here, in Italy the gift-giving happened on the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6^th. Food played a major role in both countries.

Shopping for food during the week before Buon Natale was exciting. Papa came home from Haymarket and the North End with tote bags filled to the brim. Specialties from Italy grew into a mound in one corner of the living room: two types of torrone – bars of the hard, white nougat filled with chopped nuts and the small Florentine style decorated boxes of a softer kind in a selection of flavors; mixed nuts; tangerines and pomegranates; and one bag filled with huge, brown, shiny chestnuts.

On Christmas Eve day, Mama spent the morning making anolini, a traditional specialty of Parma: small pasta squares filled with ground poultry or meat, eggs, Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, a small amount of breadcrumbs, spices, salt, pepper, and a dash of grated nutmeg. These little treasures were time consuming to make but exquisite to taste. Using a long, heavy rolling pin, taller than I was, she would roll out the dough made from flour, eggs, water and salt into a huge, thin, almost see-through sheet of pasta called la sfoglia. It resembled a large tablecloth, covering the dining table and draping down both ends. She learned to do this as a young girl in Italy as most girls did. This art is now said to become almost lost there. Next, she would spread the filling over one half of the pasta, flip the other half over to cover the filling, then, using another rolling pin, longer than a ruler with indented “pockets”, roll this over the filled pasta to create a quilted tablecloth of dough. Small fluted cutters made individual little squares of anolini, which resembled mini ravioli. I helped by separating the squares and laying them out to dry for a short time on a very large wooden board covered with a clean white tablecloth. They were stored in layers in boxes in our cold cellar waiting to be gently cradled in the huge pot of hot chicken broth, called brodo, which had been made that morning and provided the chicken for the filling. This first course would be the star of our dinner on Christmas Day. Freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano, sprinkled generously over our steaming, fragrant soup bowls made with love and handed down from generations in Italy…..a truly spectacular gift each year.

Mama would also make her crostadas, pastry tarts of a sweet dough, filled with stewed dried fruits or sliced fresh apples. Cookies made from the same sweet dough, twisted into fanciful “twirly” cookies, so named by my first granddaughter, Claire, years later. An untraditional double batch of scrumptious fudge walnut brownies – the recipe from Baker’s Unsweetened Chocolate in Milton, MA - completed the dessert tray. Meanwhile, Papa was busy tending the brodo and prepping the vegetables: broccoli, green beans, salad and the mix of celery, onion and carrot chunks to be added to the roast of choice: capon, beef, veal or pork. Lots of cheese had to be grated and large bunches of flat leaf Italian parsley chopped to add to or garnish just about everything.

Christmas Eve supper in Southern Italy and Sicily is the traditional Feast of the Seven Fish. My parents never followed this custom, coming as they did from land-locked Parma with a dearth of fresh fish, except lake trout or salted dried cod. My brothers and I didn’t care a whit about the salt cod! In lieu of shellfish and pricey other fish, my parents served the familiar, commonly served dish of their region on Christmas Eve. This was a time of fast meals - no meat allowed - so the traditional pasta, a very delicious fettuccine or tagliatelle, freshly hand made by Mama that morning was the main course. It was served with melted butter and Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, perhaps with some sautéed mushrooms or with a sauce of ground fresh walnuts with butter, cheese and a little cream. Fettuccine Alfredo had yet to hit the hills and valleys of Emilia-Romagna or the shores of the USA! A crisp green salad and fruit ended the meal.

When supper was over, I would set out my plate of cookies and glass of milk for Santa, sleepily kiss my parents and brothers good night and crawl into bed. Early in the morning I awoke and ran down the stairs to see what surprises Santa had left for me. I remember beautifully dressed dolls, tiny baby dolls - easier to play with which I happily did for many years - a sled, a pair of roller or ice skates. My parents gifted me with clothes, simple pieces of jewelry like a tiny ring, a chain with a charm or little pearl. My brothers gave me puzzles, games and books. I especially loved pop-up books and I can still picture in my mind a yellow book, possibly titled “Hoppy”, which featured a grasshopper slapping across each page as it was turned. I checked to see that the Baby Jesus figurine was in his crèche and that Santa had finished his milk and cookies.

There was no time to play with my toys or reexamine other gifts since we had to get ready for early Christmas Mass which we attended as a family. We listened to the beautiful, familiar carols sung by the choir and also sang along. We heard the mighty organ proclaim that Jesus was born in Bethlehem. The priest seemed solemn but happy as he celebrated the Mass and we filed out of church listening to the sounds of friends and neighbors exchanging Merry Christmas greetings. I could hardly wait to get back home to check out my gifts and have breakfast: the sweet, soft panetonne, sent each year by our relatives in Italy, eggnog, fruit and a cup of caffelatte, mainly warm milk with a few drops of coffee to color it beige.

Our dinner was never later than 1 PM, so after Mass, the preparations were underway for the Christmas feast. The table was set with fine linen, candlesticks and flowers. Christmas records played on the Victrola and the Christmas tree and window candles were lit. Mistletoe hung over an entry and boughs of balsam and pine lent another layer of scent to the aromas of the roasting meat and potatoes. The antipasto platter was laid out on a large oval platter lined with greens; paper thin slices of coppa, salame, imported Prosciutto di Parma, olives, marinated mushrooms and artichoke hearts, raw celery and fennel, Italian tuna, anchovies, capers, tomatoes and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil over all. We would finally sit down and say grace, thanking God for all our blessings. We would raise a glass of icy cider or fine wine to wish each other Merry Christmas and Buon Natale as we remembered our few cousins in America, our dear relatives so far away in Italy, Venezuela and France and all our good friends and neighbors.

The antipasto led off the meal, followed by a large soup bowl filled with the “once a year” magnificent anolini. We had to save room for the roast, sides and desserts, plus leave a second serving of the pasta to enjoy the next day, since next year’s Christmas was a long way off! As we slowly progressed through the next courses, we paced ourselves to enjoy this labor intensive, delicious meal that was so central to our celebration. It tied the old Italian traditions of my parents with the new customs learned in America, which showed their love of their children and their distant families.

Later in the day, after all helped to clean up, we sat again for desserts, fresh coffee, roasted chestnuts and a specialty of Mama’s - zabaione or zabaglione - the light, fluffy and alcohol-laced egg, sugar, wine or brandy pudding which Mama would make right before serving. I would only be allowed a small taste until I was an adult. Served with lady fingers, it was delicious but potent! We enjoyed the rest of Christmas day singing carols, laughing, talking, playing games and resting. We basked in this warm, joyous day with family - the best gift in the world.

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Happy Thanksgiving!

In lieu of our regular Wednesday post, our writers have decided to share some of their favorite holiday recipes. We at Winter Street wish everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Liz Ciampa

Auntie Kerry's Kissed Caramel Hot Mulled Cider

Fresh apple cider

Mulling spices

Caramel-flavored vodka

To prepare the hot mulled cider: place loose mulling spices (such as crushed cinnamon, whole cloves, dried orange peel, whole allspice, nutmeg, etc; also, they are seasonally available prepackaged at supermarkets) in a cloth garni bag, a tea ball, or cheesecloth.  Place the spices and their container into a pot of fresh cider; simmer. Use 2 T spices per quart of cider; simmer 30 min for 1 quart; 60 min or more per gallon. When hot mulled cider is ready, enjoy as-is or add caramel vodka and stir: 1/2 jigger (3/4 oz.) per 8 ozs. cider. Adjust to taste and enjoy! This is a wonderfully warming drink in the fall and is fun to share with family and friends throughout the holiday season.

--Liz Ciampa, Beverly, Mass.

Law Hamilton

Base is a flavored butter that we traditionally make in the fall and use all winter.  We baste our turkey with it, saute veggies, pan sear pork chops, etc.  It takes sage, thyme, parsley and rosemary well.  Store in the refrigerator, it may separate and can be mixed back together.  

4 cups fresh apple cider 

2/3 cup maple syrup

2 teaspoon grated lemon peel

2 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons pepper

1 1/2 cups unsalted butter (3 sticks) - room temperature

In a large sauce pan over medium heat reduce the apple cider and maple syrup until reduced to 1 cups.  Remove from heat and cool slightly.  Add lemon peel, salt and pepper.  Whisk in butter until melted.  Pour into storage containers. Wait until completely cooled before putting into the refrigerator, stirring if it starts to separate.

Beth Walsh

My recipe for Crabbies may be one you already know, but I felt compelled to share because I cannot remember a family gathering where these delicious little nuggets did not make an appearance. Enjoy!

1 stick butter or margarine softened 

1 jar Old English cheese spread

2 tab. mayonnaise 

1/2 tsp. garlic salt 

1/2 tsp. seasoned salt 

7 oz. crab meat 

6 English muffins 

Mix all ingredients together. Spread on muffins. May freeze until ready to use. Broil until golden brown. Cut each muffin into 6 wedges and serve

Lauraine Lombara

 STUFFING OR DRESSING FOR THANKSGIVING TURKEY

Stuffing: cooked inside the bird-not my choice anymore.

Dressing: cooked outside the bird in a casserole-safer, more convenient to carry as a side and less cook time for the turkey. When butter, stock or a little pan drippings are added-same flavor results.

This recipe for dressing is enough for a 12-15lb. bird and will serve about 12 people. Double the recipe, if necessary. You can add or subtract from the ingredients or “improvise”; my favorite way of cooking. This is a recipe from my parents, both great cooks, which I have tweaked each time I make it; so folks, if you need “precise “ measurements, I say you should move on to the cookbooks or internet.

You will need:

12 cups soft breadcrumbs-hearty white, wheat(or mix) bread 1 stick of butter

½ cup broth or stock, chicken, vegetarian 1 cup sliced celery(@2 large ribs)

2 large onions, chopped small 2-3 garlic cloves, minced

1lb. fresh mushrooms, any kind, rough chopped ½ cup raisins, dark or golden

½-3/4 lb. Italian style chicken sausage meat 1 apple, cored and rough chopped

(use hot, pork; your choice-squeeze meat from casing) ½-3/4 cup flat leaf parsley, chopped

½ cup grated parmesan, romano(or mix)cheese

Spices: dry or fresh-I usually use @ 1tsp. poultry seasoning, 1-2 tsp. each, fresh rosemary and thyme and ½ tsp. sage. I limit the salt b/c of content in cheese, sausage meat and stock/broth. Use salt and pepper(fresh ground black) or dried red to taste.

In a large fry pan, saute sausage meat until lightly browned; pour off excess fat and set aside the meat.

Add 2 Tbs. butter to pan and saute onions, celery, garlic until wilted. Add apples and mushrooms and cook for a few minutes.

Microwave the broth to heat; pour small amt. over raisins to soften for a few minutes. Remove raisins-save broth. Add raisins and herbs/ spices to pan mixture ; heat few minutes to combine.

In a large bowl(with room to toss), combine the bread crumbs(not as small as dried stuffing mix-about the size of small croutons), cheese , parsley, sausage meat, veggies from pan, reserved broth and butter which has been melted). Toss lightly to combine. If it seems too dry, add more broth, melted butter some pan drippings, or water; if too moist, add more bread or dry stuffing mix.

Bake at 350F in one large or two smaller, well coated (butter, oil, spray), oven-proof c asserole dishes, for about 45 minutes. I cover with foil for the first 30minutes and then uncover the last 15 minutes.

This can be done as Mr. Tom Turkey sits and rests from his oven roast.

N.B. If you care to add nuts, especially, pignoli or other tree nuts, warm in a pan to increase flavor prior to adding to mix; grated carrots, chestnuts, pre-cooked and chopped, fresh chopped fennel(blanched for a few minutes), eggs, beaten, or ground pork instead of sausage meat.

This is a surprise stuffing/dressing. You can tailor it to your taste. Have fun and enjoy the prep. In the words of my dear mother, “If you put in good ingredients and make it with love, it will come out delicious”!!!!

Have a very HAPPY Thanksgiving and be thankful for all our blessings.

Gail Balentine

Mincemeat Pie

Minced Pies are an English tradition, dating back centuries, that are said to have originated when the crusaders returned from the Middle East with recipes for what became a way to preserve meat without salting or smoking it. The pies were typically made with mutton, lamb, venison or beef, suet, fruits and spices and soon became known as Christmas Pies. Because they were associated with the holiday, three spices (usually cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg) were used to represent the three wise men and the pies were baked in oblong shapes to represent a manger. Pies like these are still made and enjoyed today.

A lighter, sweeter, meatless version evolved over time, also. It’s called “Mock Mincemeat” and is made with fruit and spices or with green tomatoes, fruit and spices. Recipes for how to make mincemeat from scratch with meat or without are available online and in cookbooks.

A shorter and simpler way to enjoy mincemeat pie today is to buy one of the prepared products (such as None Such) at the supermarket. Read labels carefully as ingredients vary - some prepared mixes may contain meat or brandy as well as fruit, sugar and spices.

Prepare a pie shell and EITHER follow package directions to use as is OR some manufacturers provide recipes for adding other ingredients on the label itself or on their website. Since this pie is very filling, if it’s being made to serve the next day, a lattice crust top works well to keep it a bit lighter. If you want to make the pie ahead and freeze it, a full crust top works best.

Over the years, I’ve made Mock Mincemeat from scratch at the end of the growing season when the garden is full of green tomatoes and the apples are just coming in but I’ve also bought jarred products and added ingredients. Either way, it has been a delicious family tradition that I hope you try sometime. Happy Thanksgiving!

A Marriage Testing Event

by Law Hamilton

The match burned out from between his fingers… darkness.

“Ouch,” he uttered, before sucking on the burned appendages, “I guess I should have a bowl of snow for such injuries..”  A long exhale and a small chuckle.

The storm had hit with enough force to take out six telephone poles at the top of the road.  Even if they had dug out the cars there was no where to go.  Plows could not make it into the town.  They were expecting the snow, but the winds had left the neighborhood dark.

The electricity had been out for four days. The sun had set and the cold started creeping in from the corners of the house.  The cold like a dark blanket from an unwanted friend.  The fire no longer provided illumination and was a slow smolder.  The futon was in front of the fire with a wool blanket and a down comforter on top with the dog as close to the fireplace as it dared.

“We should do another wood run,” he said.  

She looked at the empty wood rack that they had just filled at what she thought was noon.  They had both lost feeling in fingers and toes as they hauled the wood into the house. All wood they had stacked on the porch was gone, as of yesterday.  It had taken an hour of shoveling through three feet of snow and high winds that lashed at them on the way to the woodshed earlier in the day.  The distance had seemed so short, when they had stacked the wood from the fallen oak in the spring.  Now it was their only source of warmth and so far away.  

 Neither sleeping well the past few days - lack of food, caffeine, and warmth - as one or the other had to stir the fire in the negative degrees that was night.

“What’s your plan for dinner?” he asked.

“Whatever you can make,” she answered.  She loved to cook - but without a stove and a previous day’s argument about how to make a grilled cheese sandwich, she was at wit’s end.  The lingering smell of the burnt cheese both nauseated her and made her hungry.  She would have to deal with the pan when the power was back, but she had half a mind to throw it out and not have it linger as a souvenir.

“I need to know there is food at the end of our next wood run...”  he said, trying to soften the request.  Neither had any coping mechanisms at the moment.

She lit a candle from the coals in the fireplace, cupped the flame and headed to the kitchen.  They had finished the bread and milk trying to make coffee (burned) and sandwiches.  The canned soup was gone two days ago, and all the tea that was left was herbal.

“There is tinned crab meat and gin, left - no limes and no tonic.”  She tried to remember the recipe she had purchased the tinned crab meat for, but dropped the candle in her wanderings, “F%$K!!!”  

The candle went out.  She longed for warm summer days when after a Saturday lawn mowing and tending to the veggie garden, they would ceremoniously pour a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime and enjoy their bounty.

“Let’s bundle-up for the next wood run,” he replied to the darkness.

Epilogue - The power come on in the wee hours of the fifth morning.  After waiting for the hot water heater to do it’s job and for batteries to recharge, they grabbed hot showers and started a google search on how to survive power outages.  Their Amazon Wish List now included, a generator, a butane burner, waterproof matches, a coffee percolator, and several other survival items.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/usfwshq/11088972063

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

Thanksgiving's Bounty

by Charlotte Savage

An hour’s ride to New Hampshire

To a rural town, just a main street.

Snowflakes flying everywhere

A virgin blanket everything so neat.

Farmland covered and sleeping,

Newly made footsteps in the snow;

A wild turkey ran across a field,

Safe for the present, I know!

A table laden with delectable food,

Family and friends gathering to share;

Two birthdays--- an engagement,

The Thanksgiving spirit definitely here.

Two families coming together

Future in-laws join in the fun;

Truly a celebration of families

Asking God’s blessing for the years to come.

I gaze out over the pristine land

Thinking of this day we have shared;

Hearing a one year old's chatter,

Watching grandsons playing tag.

A momentary glow in darkening skies,

Sun filtering through trees laden with snow;

Pine needles sparkle like diamonds on velvet;

Giving off a borealis glow.

I spied a squirrel in an old oak tree

Watching humans milling about;

Happy for the warmth of logs from the fireplace;

To be the person on the inside looking out.

© 2015 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved

Memoir 101

by Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

Assignment: Halloween

How do you spend Halloween? the teacher asked.

Write for ten minutes, the teacher said.

For twenty years now, we have a birthday party for a dead guy. Six, eight, sometimes nine of us gather at his granite coffee table in the cemetery, always at dusk (the universal cocktail hour!), always on the 31^st. Cynthia brings her silver candelabra and sometimes a fat pumpkin carved with a crescent smile; someone else brings a pot of chrysanthemums; we “set” the table and suddenly a plate of cheese and crackers is there amidst the candlelight; Arny spreads the caviar on squares of pumpernickel with chopped red onion and sliced boiled eggs on the side. George lets down the back of his SUV and puts in the tape. The Yale Russian Chorus blares out, over tombstones and headstones, over darkening hills and trees—and then—we hear him, the dead guy, our friend Bill, sing out, solo, in his luscious baritone. He is with us, resurrected, and we toast him with our little glasses, re-membering him; he is with us.

Sometimes it's colder than a witch's tit in that cemetery; sometimes it is raining like hell and we crowd under the big black umbrella Nancy has borrowed from her brother-in-law, the funeral director. Once, the moon was so full it almost fell on us as we poured what little there was left of the Stoli onto his sunken grave. Happy birthday, Bill...Happy birthday, Dubs...Happy birthday, Dr. A.--you, the man of many names and faces, you who, in life, gathered us up and drove us nuts and then up and died on April Fool's Day. The irony of it.

Treating the Tricksters

by Beth Alexander Walsh

  The first year my brother got to go trick or treating without me, it was 1969 and I was in kindergarten. Barely able to see out of the mask of my Raggedy Ann costume, I ran to keep up with all the hobos and ghosts crisscrossing my street, while trying to carry a plastic bucket. Our mother watched us from the front porch. At the end of the street my brother pushed me around and told me to go home as he joined the pack of kids, giddy with the freedom of roaming the streets without a parent in sight. I was devastated, especially when I saw how much candy he brought home in his pillowcase.

 In second grade it was my turn to join the pack. I listened for weeks about route strategies and other useful tips on the school bus. My mother helped me fashion an Indian costume made from an old brown skirt hiked up to my armpits. She cut fringe into the hem and made sure it would fit over my winter coat. Wearing a coat under the costume was an argument I never won. My hair was braided into pigtails and tied with twine. Some brown cloth scraps turned into a head band. A beaded necklace purchased from Clarks Trading Post during a family vacation completed the look. There was a five minute argument about hats and cold weather and I was finally allowed to leave the house with my  braids unmolested and a Jordan Marsh bag in my hand.

 Several blocks into our candy route, the neighborhood boys declared war on the girls, brandishing cans of shaving cream as weapons. My brother demonstrated his allegiance by smearing a handful of cream down my back and leaving me to fend for myself with the older girls. We continued our trick or treating, taking cover at moving shadows and readying ourselves for the next assault. One of the older girls came up with the brilliant idea of asking for eggs at the next house instead of candy, and it was decided that since I was the youngest and most innocent looking, the job would be mine. I went up to the door and politely asked the man who answered if I could have some eggs instead of candy, regaling my sad story of mean boys and shaving cream. He asked me to wait and I turned back to my friends hiding in the bushes, unsure of what to do next. The man returned with a carton containing half a dozen eggs. He proceeded to instruct me on how to throw them, and that given my size, underhand would be best. He wished me luck and threw candy into my bag for good measure. I ran triumphantly back to the girls and we abandoned our trick or treating in favor of exercising our revenge. We raced the dark streets, eager to play out our dramatic plans of espionage; alternating the eggs from the carton to our hands and back again.

 As we made our way closer to home, we realized that the streets were  empty and the porch lights were out. Halloween was over. We stuffed our egg carton under a neighborhood bush before scattering to our respective houses.

 I joined my brother, already sorting his candy on the living room floor. We negotiated candy trades, casting off our hated Almond Joys into a pile to give to our mother. She came into the room brandishing paper sacks with our names on them and asked us how our night went. We talked about who had the best costume and which house was the scariest as we shoveled our candy into the bags.

 My brother never mentioned his shaving cream

 and I never said anything about my eggs.

Excerpt from "An Unusual Memoir"

A Cuban Vacation

by Ken Roy

It was December 1958 and I was living on Long Island and working at my first job out of college. It seemed, however, that the company was in a bit of trouble and told everyone they were closing for business until after the New Year. Although quite minor, for me the problem was with all this free time, and where to have a party. Fate was about to knock on the door.

I had returned home to spend the holidays with my parents in upstate New York when my roommate, Tom, called and suggested we drive down to Key West and fly over to Cuba. Of course we now had the time, the beautiful weather was an attraction and Havana was known to have a very lively nightlife. I drove to Baltimore and met Tom, jumped in his car, and off we went. It was Sunday, December 28, 1958 and we had the radio on, listening to the Baltimore Colts- NY Giants NFL championship game*. I was a fan but Tom was a total Colts nut. You can imagine his hysteria when the Colts won in sudden death overtime. To this day, the only time this has ever happened in the NFL championship. This game was the highlight of the drive to Florida as we talked of little else the rest of the trip.*

Stopping only for gas, beer and relief we arrived in Key West early the next day. We quickly parked the car at the airport and headed for the terminal. Going to Cuba in those days was a breeze, buy a ticket and go. A short time later we’re exiting the plane in Havana, without the foggiest idea where to go next. The biggest shock was being instantly surrounded by a new language. Neither of us spoke a word of Spanish or had even been out of the US before. Luckily many of the locals spoke a version of broken English and for this I am forever grateful. After a few questions it was suggested we go downtown to the Prado area, which was pretty low-rent and had plenty of tourist attractions.

Rather than jumping into a cab, we took the local bus service downtown. Although cheap, you generally get what you pay for and this was no exception. We arrived at a hotel, at most a 2+star, and quickly checked in. So far every thing was going quite smoothly and I might add, this was much more than I expected. The next step was a no-brainer; let’s get some liquid refreshment and take a closer look at Havana.

Directly across the very narrow street was a dive-looking bar, but it was close, so in we went. As is often the case, it was quite dark on entering, and I’ll never forget, the jukebox was blasting a Frank Sinatra song, All the Way. As my eyes adjusted to the dark it was clear that a couple on the dance floor were “behaving in a friendly manner“. I couldn’t believe my eyes, the guy part of this couple was Freddie, a buddy we worked with back on Long Island. Seems he had the same thought - why not spend the vaca in Havana. He was famous for outrageous behavior and it started shortly after landing on the island. The first night was a succession of sleazy bars, too many Cuba Libras‘, and very loud music. It was non-stop party from this point forward.

The following morning was a rather slow start but we were now eagerly ready to explore Havana and its many delights. Little did I imagine how different this vacation was going to be. A revolution was brewing and we hadn’t a clue.

* Footnote: Often billed as the “Greatest Game Ever Played”, (17 of the players/coaches involved are now in the Hall of Fame), it later seemed as a marked beginning to football fever in the USA. A year later the AFL was established.

Buried Treasure

by Gail Balentine

When I was growing up, a common expression in my house was, “Wait till the dust settles”. I used to wonder where it all settled. On moving day, when I went up to my parents’ attic, I found out. Dust covered boxes, bags, and trunks of every shape and size.

My parents, sister Patty, and brother Alan had each declined to help me sort through the things up there. Mom couldn’t maneuver the stairs with her arthritic hip, Dad was too busy elsewhere, Patty had no interest in the past since her divorce, and Alan wanted to wrap up at the house quickly and get back to the work he’d brought home. Just getting him to the house today had been tough. Their collective attitude was that the movers could pitch it all since it was useless junk and they already had their hands full downstairs.

After two hours, with my back aching and my resolve weakening, I had only managed to create a huge stack of boxes for the dumpster. I went downstairs for iced tea and sympathy, getting only the former. Patty delighted in pointing out that everybody had told me the attic was the last stop before the dump.

Alan and my father came back upstairs with me and helped remove the boxes, which cleared space in the center. Next I went to an old steamer trunk, wedged in a corner. It was filled with clothes that must have belonged to my mother “back in the day”. I dragged it out to the middle of the room. Behind it I was a large box of art supplies my sister used to hold dear. Dried up paints and matted brushes covered a sketchbook. When I opened it, it was filled with drawings of animals and someone with a huge nose that I feared was supposed to be me. That box went into the middle, too, and I got that tingle of excitement that tells me the idea I was forming was right.

I went searching for a particular item and found it four boxes later. When Alan was 10 years old, Dad and he spent an entire summer building a three foot sailboat; it was beautiful and sleek in the water until a remote-controlled speedboat rammed into it. Alan had been so bereft that he refused to listen to assurances that it could be fixed. After a few days of trying to reason with him, Dad packed the boat away in the attic and nobody ever mentioned it again.

At lunchtime, I walked into the kitchen to find each person working separately, in silence. I called to them and they turned to see me wearing what I thought was my mother’s prom gown, holding the sailboat in my right hand - good side showing - and the sketch book in my left, opened to a horse in full gallop with muscles that seemed to ripple off the page.

Unfortunately, with both hands full, I couldn’t take a picture to capture the looks on my family’s faces. My mother made a sound somewhere between a laugh and sob as she and Dad stared at the dress. His hand reached over to clasp hers. And Patty? Well, she just grabbed the drawing pad and said, “Damn! I was good!”

But it was Alan that made my eyes tear up. He looked like a child again, that perpetual scowl I hated replaced with a genuine smile.

Before I knew it, everyone was talking at once, laughing, and sharing stories, taking us back to a time before life had thrown us curves that we’d not seen coming.

As her fingers traced the outline of the horse, Patty spoke about how much she’d liked to draw, and Mom mentioned art groups at our local community center. Dad asked Alan if he thought Matt, the first grandchild, might like the boat and plans to fix it began right then.

Mom came over and hugged me. Turns out the dress was the one she wore for her and Dad’s engagement party. We went into the living room, put in an oldies CD, and rooted around in a box until we found the photograph album she wanted. We laughed at how young she and Dad looked that night.

That was how my husband found us when he arrived to help - sitting on the sheet-covered couch looking at pictures, Mom with pink cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes and me with a formal dress over my tee shirt and jeans, socks and sneakers on my feet, and hair filled with cobwebs.

He laughed and said, “Whatcha doin’?”

We replied in tandem, “Treasure hunting!”

*******

Memories of Chocolate

First in many memories of chocolate is thinking:
What a silly ad campaign!
Of course they melt in your hand
Especially since you hold them tight
The hand, warm with anticipation
Of delivering the candy to your tongue.
You never drop any on the floor.

Then there is good dark chocolate
A mahogany aroma that you could sleep in
Cocoa velvet tassels on a high canopy bed
Made up with rich mink pelts joined together
You in an espresso robe of chocolate kisses
Trimmed in silver foil tuxedo lapels and cuffs.

Even the white "chocolate" is good when mixed
With the milk and dark varieties in a homemade cookie
And yes, I use it in my white chocolate cheesecake recipe.
Eaters always ask: what is that? A secret ingredient?


(Ciampa, Liz. What is Left. Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2009. p. 11. Print.)

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