Buckets

by Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

She sat in her striped beach chair looking out to the sea. The late morning sun--a September sun-- made a glistening white triangle from the horizon to just beyond the buoy, but otherwise, the ocean was navy-blue and flat. As it neared the shore, the water gathered into itself, puckering up and spilling over into a lacy ruffle, meeting the hem of the damp sand.

Alone, but for a couple of walkers, their shoes in hand, and a lady in a black skirted bathing suit hunched over her Kindle, she noticed, not far off, two little kids. One was locked from knee to neck in a new-fangled surfer suit; the other wore baggy bright shorts. Both had buckets. The taller blonde one's was plastic, a green color, its handle a rope. The other boy, dark haired, and Asian looking, held an orange one, the handle a mis-matched red vinyl strip. He carried a shovel.

They were kids on a mission and whomever they belonged to had given them a task. While one dunked his pail into the froth at the edge of the sea, the other shoveled sand into his bucket from a hole he had started on the dry beach. The water sloshed over the rim as the one carried it to the hole; the sand weighed down the pail as the other one lugged it to the sea. Two little kids, like Sisyphus, she thought. All that energy, all that life, all that exertion: the sand to the sea; the sea to the sand. Fill and spill, fill and spill, over and over and over.

She too would one day have a bucket to fill, but it would not be with sand or salt water. It would be of calcified bones, ground to gray powder, a canister of ashes, tossed, if her adult children followed her directions, into the ever-moving sea.

Photo by Law Hamilton

Professors Are Not Always Correct

by Charlotte Savage

            

             It was in the 1970’s when my daughter Deborah, a new student at American University in Washington D.C., called to tell me her mail box was hungry and asked that I send her some mail. Being away from home for the first time she called home every night to inform me of the day’s happenings, I wondered why she needed mail.  

              Little did I know that her request would start me on a new hobby--that of writing stories in the first person— not from me-- but from the animals we had adopted over the years.

                This encouraged me to take a college course entitled ‘Writing for Children.”  The Professor began the class by displaying his published books which were quite simple.  One book showed pictures of different types of trucks with just one line at the bottom of the page naming the type of truck it was.   His other books were similar but with different subjects.

               For my first class assignment I wrote about a cat and mouse from the mouse’s point of view and I received a failing grade.   The Professor stated that my story didn’t work.  It had failed because the only book with talking animals that had ever been successful was Charlotte’s Web and no other author has been able to duplicate it.  I lost all interest in writing children’s books --though I did finish the course.

               Instead I turned to letter writing.  I sent my daughter letters written in the first person from our newly adopted very active mischievous puppy.  My mail became a huge success with her and her fellow students who were soon knocking on her door to ask if any new letters had arrived.  Eventually Deborah posted my letters on a bulletin board outside her room for all to read.

              Just as Deborah returned from college for the summer my two nephews, ages twelve and thirteen, went away to summer camp.  They also wished to receive mail and I complied.  It wasn’t too long before they became the most popular children in their camp.  They were the only ones to receive letters from a dog named Princess Pokey and a cat named Comfrey the Attack Cat—the animal’s names were displayed in large print on the return address of the envelopes.

              The following summer the boys wanted reassurance, as they left for camp, that they would again receive mail from Princess and Comfrey.   That year I began drawing pictures of the animals in the margin of the letter as well as having them tell a story.  The boys told me they loved receiving the letters which they began referring to as stories.

               Gradually my animal stories took on the form of actual books for children and I illustrated them as well.    With the addition of grandchildren into the family I began incorporating their birthday parties into my stories and having the child as the central character and if that child had a dog or a cat they too were included in my story.

              It was only then that I came to the realization of just how wrong the college Professor had been.   Talking animals do make interesting stories for children and adults as well as both my family and customers have proven over the years.

2016 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved.           

Cardboard Box

Part 2

Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

As she made room for the pitcher in the cardboard box (it had once held four Smirnoffs'), it bumped up against the mugs and plates and vases she had made in pottery class. She didn't much care for the pitcher or the bowls or the mugs she had coiled or thrown or hand-shaped from the hunks of damp, dark clay—homework assigned by her therapist: you'll feel less depressed; you can work out your anger, feel in control, be able to re-shape your life—perhaps a pottery class? Or a do-it-yourself workshop at Home Depot? In the therapist's words, she heard her mother's voice: stop moping, do something; get some fresh air.

She had chosen the class and now, thank god, it was over and she could take the shit home with her to join the other crap she had made along the way: a very uneven, rope macrame plant hanger, a white cord belt in a crooked box stitch, three needlepoint coasters with glaring mistakes, and a half-done crewel pillow sham, all crammed into a wicker box she had specifically bought at Pier One to house her “crafts.” None of these was worth displaying or wearing, and none of the handiwork had quelled her anger or re-shaped her life in spite of what the therapist had promised.

At least this pitcher, her final project, could sit outside the box, on the shelf near the window. She had glazed it a smokey gray with thumb-print smudges of winter white, hoping it would look

Japanese-y with pussy-willows on slender stems of darker gray. The handle was a bit lop-sided, but she would turn it toward the wall.

Carrying the load into her apartment, she felt like an inept lover, her arms barely and awkwardly embracing the box. She bumped it into the doorjamb by mistake and heard a crack, a raspy sound, and then a clatter. When she opened the flaps of the Smirnoff, she saw the damage: a perfect wedge of the pitcher's rim had broken off dropping into a shallow bowl fashioned to hold soy sauce or an almond or two; now it held the triangle of a broken pussy-willow. “It figures.” Had she thought this time would be different? She didn't feel anger, though; she simply felt defeated, worn out.

Dumping the wicker-box stuff into the Smirnoff's, she watched as the handicrafts fell here and there, finding resting places among the pottery pots, the pitcher, the plates. Tomorrow she'd put the whole mess on the street—maybe someone driving by would think the box contained a treasure. And, tomorrow, she'd check out Home Depot—perhaps a plumbing course. What might she discover about herself, there, amidst the washers and wrenches, the faucets and float cups, the flappers?

Charlotte Savage

     It was moving day and Mom and Daddy and five year old Hailey watched the movers carry their furniture into a huge moving van for their move from Cape Cod to Boston.  Hailey placed her orange and white cat Butterball into the kitty kennel before the movers arrived.  Butterball was known to disappear for hours.

    The house finally empty, Mama asked the movers to place Hailey’s favorite box of toys into her station wagon along with the kennel holding Butterball.     The mover saw a pink teddy bear lying beside the open box and he tossed it into the carton before he closed the lid.

               “I have the kennel and toys you asked for,” said the mover,” but I didn’t find any cat.”

              “Hailey, did you lock the kennel door when you put Butterball into it?”  

              “I think I did,” said Hailey.   

    The adults went through the house checking every nook and cranny.  No one recalled seeing Butterball all day.     Mama went into the station wagon where she had put Butterballs treats.   She stood in the kitchen shaking the box.  The sound of treats always brought Butterball out of hiding.  This time it didn’t work.

    The movers left for Boston.  The family would remain and wait for Butterballs return. Finally they asked a neighbor to look after Butterball if she should return.  It was a long silent ride for Hailey and her parents.

            Arriving at the new house the mover said,   “I’ll carry your daughter’s box of toys into her bedroom for you,”    He reached into the back of the station wagon and lifted the box out.   The lid popped open and out jumped Butterball straight into Hailey’s arms spilling the box of treats Hailey was holding all over the floor.    

              Hailey’s sad moving day turned into happiness as she watched Butterball’s bushy tail swishing back and forth as she daintily ate her treats.

2015 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved


Law Hamilton

The small waves are glossy, shimmering like melted glass on this overcast November morning.  The sky and water are monochromatic.  The waves appear tropical green when reaching up and falling on tan sand, reminders of the summer now gone.

Floating on the horizon, a cardboard box appears.  It bobs on the Atlantic, approaching in no particular hurry.  Slowly rotating, I ponder what it is, as it stays upright.  I hope it does not have kittens in it - do people still drown unwanteds?  The animation of Disney’s “Aristocats” with the butler getting rid of the kittens, runs through my head.

As the cardboard box comes closer, a red “Flammable” sticker is visible on its side.  I think about what is polluting the ocean now as the box starts to pick up speed to the beach.  The floating box sits lower in the water.  The cardboard is soaking wet becoming a darker brown.  Will it withstand the tide?

The box rides up on top of a wave with the anticipation of reaching the beach, but stays afloat.  The next wave lifts it high and carries it forward.  The third wave crashes, filling the box with water, causing it to keel over.  The next wave topples the box, picking it up and slamming it against the sand.  The cardboard gives way, one side opens.  The tide uplifts and the sand collides with the box.   As if a metaphor for life, the box is flattened.

Now flat, it gets carried back out and floats on top of the water.  Being lulled into a reprieve as it rocks back and forth as a child in its mother’s arms.  I lose sight of the box.  Saturated, it is conforming to the waves ebb and flow.  It starts to sink slightly below the surface.  Once more into the spin-cycle, it washes up onto the beach collapsed.  The flammable sticker is almost legible. The box rests.

Shopping Then...

by Gail Balentine

            It will soon be time to dig out my spring clothes and decide what I need to buy – a task I dread because of the number of places I’ll have to go or search online for the color, style, and size that I want if I’m even able to find them. I try to start out being optimistic but invariably end up with a headache, often willing to settle for what I can find rather than what I wanted, and spend more money than I should just to end the process.

Thinking about the ordeal can easily bring on a wave of nostalgia for downtown Beverly and the Cabot Street of the 1950’s and 60’s. Its family-oriented stores were located within three to four blocks of each other, making it an easy walk from my house. For those who lived further away, a bus came to the center of town and a car could be parked in just one spot and be close to all stores.

During a typical spring shopping trip, I could start at Alcon’s, on the corner of Washington and Cabot Streets, where there were shoes for the whole family – Mary Jane’s, saddle shoes, penny loafers, pumps, wingtips, and more.  The salesmen, who made selling shoes their career, took pride in making sure the shoes fit, with room for a child’s foot to grow.

               Then it was on to the department stores: Almy, Bigelow & Washburn, known simply as Almy’s, which was located across the street from the YMCA or Webber’s, which was on the corner of Broadway and Cabot Streets or both. In each store the salesladies knew their inventory and could estimate size with one quick look, often making helpful suggestions about what looked good and what was appropriate to wear for certain events. Ship ‘n Shore blouses, Pandora sweaters, Pendleton skirts and other brand name clothes which lined shelves and filled racks. They came in mostly “basic” colors – black, navy, tan or white for skirts and pants (many with matching sweaters) and pastels and stripes for blouses. Since clothes lasted for more than one season, the following year I could purchase a new top or accessory to match what I already had, thereby slowly building my wardrobe.

             

              Last, just another few minutes walking beyond Almy’s, was Cor-Nix Rubber Company, on the corner of Pond and Cabot. They carried sports equipment and clothing, including my favorite bathing suit brand, Jantzen.

              It may be a trick of time, but it seemed that whatever I needed I found within these few stores, in a short period of time, and at a price that was reasonable. People say that you can’t go home again, and they are probably right. But that doesn’t change my memories and longings, it may even enhance them.

                                                                                                                   

Keyless

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     A few years ago I was working out a plot problem in a story I was writing, when I noticed the time and realized I still had errands to run before picking my son up at school. I quickly made my way to the bank and dry cleaners and stopped at a convenience store to pick up a few items as I continued to work the storyline out in my head. I paid at the counter, thanked the clerk and hurried back out to my burgundy Honda Pilot. I tossed the grocery bag on the passenger seat along with my pocketbook, which slid over the edge emptying its contents on the floor. As I gathered up my wallet, phone, pens, cough drops and lipstick, I noticed that there were a pair of sneakers on the floor.

 Funny, I don’t remember my son leaving his sneakers there this morning.

     As I picked up my pocketbook sundries, I noticed a water bottle filled with wads of chewing tobacco in the cup holder and realized that I was sitting in the wrong burgundy Honda Pilot! Grabbing my belongings, I swiftly got out of the car and jumped into mine, which was parked two spaces over. I exhaled in relief that no one witnessed my stupidity and looked through my pocketbook for my keys.

I CAN’T FIND THEM!  CRAP!  

     Frantically, I ran back to the other car and started looking for my keys, now noticing a pair of dirty socks to go with the filthy sneakers, along with a combination of trash and clothes polluting the back seat.  I searched through the console and over to the driver’s seat aware that it’s owner was probably moments from coming out of the store. Still…no keys!  

    

     I ran back to my Honda Pilot and dumped the contents of my pocket book on the driver’s seat while standing outside the car. Nothing. I checked my pockets and decided I needed to check the other car one last time. While I lifted the floor mats, a dark haired man in his late twenties/early thirty’s appeared next to the open door. Mortified, I explained my mistaken identity of his car and the fact that I was now keyless. He laughed and we both started searching his car, moving the search back to mine when no keys were produced. It finally occurred to me that maybe the keys were left in the store. Honda Pilot II guy graciously offered to wait while I went and checked. As I walked towards the counter the clerk yelled out “Hey, I was wondering when you were coming back!”   

   

   Returning to the parking lot, I humbly held up my keys while simultaneously thanking and apologizing to Honda Pilot II guy. He laughed and wished me a great day, and I am certain he had some fun regaling the tale of the crazy middle aged lady sitting in his car. My only hope is that he picked up his socks and discarded his bottle of chaw.

     

    I wish I could say that was the last time I absentmindedly went to someone else’s car, but this past Christmas, I reached for the handle of a white car that looked like mine. This time I realized my mistake before I opened the door and stepped away from the vehicle. Unfortunately, my entire family was sitting in my car watching the whole scene.

    Oh well, at least I got to write about it.