It's Time... from ACT III

by Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

Lately, she'd been going to wakes and funerals, looking at well-made up dead people, listening to bible passages about shepherds and pastures, singing hymns about amazing grace and Jesus. But it was the verses  about time that always caught her attention, causing her to drift into a drowsy reverie.

She remembered  time when she was little; it was time without clocks; time for lunch! her mother would call; Nap time! Dinner time! Time to pick up your toys! Story time!   Time back then had names, not numbers;  her mother would tell her it was noontime, or night time , snack time,  or bath time. These times, these names really, marked the great expanse that was her day.

She remembered growing up, not so little anymore, when, in school (or was it the nursery school in the church basement?)  that time became numbers.  Learning to tell time at home had been easier than learning to tie her shoes: the big hand is on the 6, the little hand is on  the 2, she'd report to her mother or her sister (never to her father).  Sometimes it was tricky—when both hands were stuck, one on top of the other, time seemed to stand perfectly still. Yet, she realized if she waited a bit, the big hand would jerk away, making the telling easy.  But it was in that school in the basement or maybe it was in kindergarten where she learned that time had different names—not her mother's names but seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Time seemed to be divided up into units,  and somehow collected somewhere. There were weekends and seasons, quarter hours, holidays. But, no matter, time back then  to her was an endless, wide-open field, not fenced in or bordered by trees.She never thought of time gone by or time yet to come—rather, time was a vast Now.

Often, she would watch the classroom clock, white-faced and encased in shiny oak (only much later would she learn it was a Regulator Clock) tick away the minutes, the big black hand clicking noisily  as it jumped from minute to minute. Was she in fifth grade when she actually saw and understood time's passing?

She grew; time passed.  The watch she received for her thirteenth birthday reminded her of the time—if she remembered to wind it; if she didn't, she knew she had lost time, never to regain those minutes again. Sometimes she thought she needed more time, or that her gym teacher's  stop watch was against her,  its time racing forward invisibly without her.  As she approached adulthood, became a grown-up, time took on a profound significance; time became sophisticated, complicated. Watches had batteries, clocks had digital windows instead of faces,  airplanes flew through time zones. Time mattered and she learned to manage it, waste it, wish for more of it.

Growing old and then older she accumulated years as her young ones grew up, and their young ones grew big.  At a funeral,when the minister  read a passage from Ecclesiastes , she understood the power  and the truth of  those words:
       
       To everything there is a season, a time to weep, and a time to laugh...a time to get,
       and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away...a time to be born and
       a time to die.

She would attend other funerals, other wakes, and no doubt, be lost in thought in most of them, but she knew, when her own time came, these were the words that would be read.                   .

It Could Have Been Just Another Date

by Charlotte Savage

t was four o’clock in the afternoon, in the year nineteen hundred and forty eight, when the door bell rang.  I was not dressed for company and there were curlers in my hair; I was still in my robe.  I called to my sister Tess to answer the door.

“Who is it?”  I shouted.

“It’s a package for you,” Tess answered, as she walked into the bedroom.   “A special delivery from a florist.”  She handed me a box wrapped in gold foil and tied with a wide gossamer ribbon that looked like spun gold.

I untied the ribbon and gently opened the box.  Nestled under layers of green tissue paper was a beautiful corsage made of yellow tea roses.  The miniature flowers, which happened to be my favorite, were so exquisite they left me breathless and I hardly believed that they were meant for me--though Joe had asked what color gown I was wearing.

My sister reminded me that it was getting late and I needed to get dressed.  I wore a lavender silk gown, with short puffed sleeves, a heart shaped bodice and slim skirt.  It had been purchased the previous month for a wedding in which I had been the maid of honor.

I placed the corsage on my dressing table and began to pull curlers from my hair while combing it into a short bob with a fringe of bangs on my forehead.  I applied a light dusting of make up, removed my robe and stepped into my lavender gown.  My shoes matched my gown and I wore a string of pearls around my neck and matching earrings.

I had just pinned the corsage to the gown when the door bell rang.  I took a last glance in the mirror and made my grand entrance into the living room just as my date came through the front door.  He stopped, looked me up and down and said, “Wow.”

Joe looked very handsome in his tuxedo and I said “Wow” right back at him.  Though of average height, he was slim, with dark brown curly hair and a winning smile.  His first look of approval when he saw me made me feel very special.

Joe was not someone I knew well.  We had dated a few times prior to my inviting him to my prom.  I knew he worked with his dad in their salvage business but he wasn’t much of a talker.  However, besides being handsome he was also the only one of my dates who owned a car.

We picked up another couple on the way to the Prom and arrived at the high school with a few moments to spare.   Most of my close friends had gathered near the entrance and I introduced them to Joe.

As we entering the Gym, now colorfully decorated in balloons and crepe paper, the orchestra began to play and the band leader invited everyone to dance.   Soon the dance floor was filled with twirling figures of girls in a rainbow of colored gowns and the young men in black tuxedos.  The hours flew by as we danced to popular songs of that era including Vaughn Monroe’s ‘Embraceable You’ and ‘It’s only a Paper Moon.’   I discovered Joe was an accomplished dancer and that made it all the more special.  We stopped now and then for some sweet punch and chatter.

After the prom the four of us went to a restaurant.  We girls were still starry eyed from going to our first Prom and we discussed the fun of the promenade as well as the honors bestowed on the President of our class and the crowning of the prettiest girl.

It was not until Joe and I arrived back at my home and we were sitting on the porch swing that he told me how special this evening had been for him.   I learned that he had enlisted in the navy during WWII leaving for basic training before the end of his senior year and he had not been able to attend his school prom. This evening had been every bit as meaningful for him as it had been for me and with a hug and a kiss on the cheek he thanked me for a memorable evening; just as my mother turned on the porch light.

Copyright 2015 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved.

January Walk

By Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

I wonder on a winter walk

When temperatures fall low.

No soul is seen about the town,

Though there’s no sleet or snow.

Perhaps the frost has sealed the doors

Of each and every home.

A voice within the warmth of hearth begs:

“Stay, don’t go and roam.”

But I did go and trod the streets

And felt the frisky cold

That bit my lips, my nose and cheeks –

How dare I be so bold!

Winter

by Beth Alexander Walsh

      

 Winter and I are having a hard time. It isn't something specific that He's done, but the decades of small transgressions have added up, raising my resentment while the temperature drops, or the forecast of snow is more than two inches. I'm especially annoyed with meteorologists who get excited at the mere hint of an impending storm, although my beef really isn't with them, it's with Winter.

    
He is a lothario in December, seducing me with that first blanket of snow, shadowing the trees and sparkling in the moonlight. Winter takes me on a cozy honeymoon, as I sit in front of a roaring fire wearing a jaunty new scarf. I take pictures of that first snow, pure and white, casting the world into snow globe perfection, and granting white Christmas wishes. By mid January however, Winter is leaving the toilet seat up and dirty socks on the floor. The honeymoon is now over, and He gives me a litany of chores. I am shoveling, salting and scraping as He nips at my nose, trying my patience. At the market, solidarity is found in the weary eyes of fellow shoppers, as we stock up on milk and bread. Hostility is imminent in February as I climb over dingy snowbanks with my traitorous snow loving dog, shivering as she sprays the landscape yellow. My surliness escalates, along with cabin fever, at Facebook friends who post pictures of cocktail laden hands on sunny beaches. By then, I have had it with Winter!

   
There once was a time when Winter and I were the best of friends. In grade school, I remember praying to Him for assistance in canceling school. I would listen to the radio, willing the announcer to call out “MEDFORD”, officially giving ownership of the day to snow, and out into the snow I went!. There were wars to wage, with arsenals of snowballs tucked behind shored up bunkers. We would skate, sled and build snowmen until our fingers were frozen through two pairs of wet mittens, or late afternoon darkness made activities too treacherous. In later years, there were energetic days of skiing, finished off with beer and board games. Even after marriage, I still enjoyed Winter through the eyes of my children, showing off my snow angel prowess and skating on our own backyard pond. Now, my wish is to escape Winter's clutches and join all the snowbirds as they head south.

 
My animosity starts to thaw around March, when I sit down with my pile of seed catalogs. Curling up under a blanket, I flip through the pages and dream of sun kissed tomatoes and rows of vibrant zinnias. When the crocusus make their way through the receding snow, I rejoice, knowing I have survived Winter's captivity and will soon find freedom with my new best friend...Spring!

http://christmasstockimages.com/free/new_year/slides/happy_new_year_fireworks.htm

Winter Street Writers' New Year's 2015 Update

Happy New Year to all! We are glad to report that this January, 2015, the Winter Street Writers turns two years old!

A look back on 2014 features much productive action and reflection. Examples range from our continued practice of workshopping and critique to our new blog that posts our original work weekly and our Winter Street Writers Facebook page that keeps us connected and current regarding creative writing events and literary information.

This year, members of our group published articles in Boston Parents Papers, The Beverly Historical Society Chronicle, North Shore Children & Families, Rockport Arts Association, and online at the Peabody Institute Library's food blog, Nourish. Also, some members who write poems were selected to read original work at popular readings such as The Improbable Places Poetry Tour, staged by Montserrat College of Art in Beverly.

A common and pronounced thread tying all our time spent together is the positive, creative energy that we feel alive and at work in our meetings. Perhaps one of the best highlights of getting together is our shared laughter and jokes — they often serve as inspiration for future projects and for life in general. Furthermore, we are proud to announce our expansion to nine group members.

A most sincere thank you goes to the Beverly Public Library, as well as to our readers, of course. We at Winter Street Writers wish everyone a happy, healthy, and creative New Year!

All our best,

Liz

Gail

Beth

Law

Lauraine

Mary

Ken

Elizabeth

Charlotte

A Writer's Night Before Christmas

by Mary Higgins

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

not a writer was writing; oh where was the mouse?

Wreaths decorated the mantels with care

but the writing muse simply was not in the air

The words and sentences were not in my head

as I slid on my hose that lay on the bed.

And I in my bathrobe and pink shower cap

Got ready to party- no book on my lap.

I slipped off my robe and chose the red dress

curling iron in hand, to tame a lone tress.

In front of the mirror, there arose so much chatter

All the cookies I’d eaten had made me much fatter.

The belt would not buckle; the zipper was stuck

and I bulged in the middle. It was just my bad luck.

Away to the closet, I flew like a flash

for something to wear, I knew I must dash.

The light in my room on my jewelry case

gave a luster to pearls sitting there at the base

Pushing hangers with pants and stepping on shoes

I grabbed at my dresses in threes then in two’s

I tried on clothing that clung to my skin

too sexy, too primal; too loud or too prim.

Then onto the blouses and skirts that hung near

Wear that to a party? Wouldn’t everyone stare?

A green nylon dress still hung on the rack

It was too big, fitting just like a sack.

The blouse with the jacket fit nicely together

the shoes that matched it, had worn leather

It was onto the porch, I had to be quick

I rummaged through boxes of boots there to pick

Flat heels, chunk heels, stack heels, galore

Finally I found a pair near the door.

The dog started whining, she needed a walk

It was down to the bay and out onto the dock.

In the twinkling lights of the boat at the pier

was the man of my dreams - ever so near

With a smile on his face and a glint in his eye

he held my book manuscript and did not lie

“We wish to publish your book my dear

With advance of a million and nothing to fear.

He gave me a letter to confirm all he said

and told me he had to return to his sled

And his reindeer took over; he flew out of sight

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

When Santa Comes To Visit

by Charlotte Savage

It is the day before Christmas. On the first floor of this three story home there lives a family with two children, a blond curly haired three year old boy named Noah and his two week old baby sister. On the third floor lives a young couple with their newly born daughter.

“Mama, can I go upstairs and see Gina’s baby?” asked Noah.

“Let’s call her and ask.” said Noah’s mom Sarah.

Gina‘s response was not what Sarah expected. “Sarah, you have a baby in your own crib, why does Noah want to see my baby?”

“Because Noah is bored watching her sleep. Deborah sleeps all day and is colicky most of the night.”

“Send him up and you try to get some rest. Meanwhile, Noah can help me trim my Christmas tree.”

Sarah listened for Noah to reach Gina’s door on the third floor and heard her welcome him before closing her own door.

It didn’t take long for Sarah’s phone to ring. It was Gina. “Is something wrong?” asked Sarah, “I hope Noah didn’t break anything.”

“No, everything is fine” said Gina, “but I have a little boy here who is trimming his first Christmas tree. I told him the story of Santa Claus coming down the chimney and bringing presents for everyone. Now Noah wants to know why Santa Claus doesn’t visit his house. He wants to leave some of your cookies and milk out for Santa tonight. He thinks Santa will visit him too.”

Sarah laughingly replied, “What would Noah know about Christmas? In our house we celebrate Chanukah.”

“Sarah, is there any reason why Santa Claus can’t fill Noah’s stocking if he hung it on my tree?”

“None whatsoever, Gina, thank you for asking. Tell Noah he can come down now and get his stocking.” Just then the baby woke up crying and Sarah warmed a bottle for her.

Noah returned all excited. "Mom, Santa Claus is coming to visit tonight and Gina and I are going to put out cookies and milk for him. I'm going to hang my stocking on her tree."

While Sarah fed Deborah her bottle she listened as Noah went into his bedroom and then into hers. She was about to ask Noah what he was doing in her bedroom when he called out that he was going back upstairs to hang his stocking.

With Noah out of the apartment Sarah called her husband and asked him to buy a few toys to put under Gina’s tree and candy to fill his stocking.

Just as she hung up the phone, it rang again. On the other end of the line she heard laughter, “Hello,” said Sarah, “who is this?” More chuckling was heard and then Gina said, “Sorry, but this is so funny that I can’t stop laughing.” Sarah heard Gina take a deep breath and then she came back on the phone.

 “Sarah, you have to tell me the truth, did you give Noah the stocking he just hung on my Christmas tree or did he pick it out all by himself?”

“He took it by himself while I was feeding the baby,” Sarah said, “why do you ask?”

“Well, Noah came back upstairs with this huge ski stocking, the kind that comes up over your pants to keep the snow out. When I asked him why his stocking was so big he said he brought his daddy’s stocking because it would hold more!"

“Listen, Sarah, this is one smart kid you have here."

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to hang up now. I want to call my family and tell them about this little Jewish boy who has Christmas all figured out. It's going to be a very Merry Christmas!"

copyright 2014 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved.