A Delicate Matter

The sun rose early on 221B Baker Street, dispensing with an early fog so common to our great metropolis of London. I had been out early caring for one of my patients, no longer capable of making the trek to Baker Street without a Herculean effort. Entering our digs I found that Holmes was up early, full of vim and vigor which invariably implied that he had received a case to stimulate his overactive mind and thereby calm his restless spirit.

“Good morning Holmes. I see that you are up early today,” I initiated.

“Good morning Watson. You have had an early appointment I see having worked up a ruddy complexion. Did the squirrels enjoy the peanuts and how is Mrs. Crutters feeling today?” he continued.

Holmes enjoyed engaging in these exercises wherein he would, through his impeccable ability to pick up the most infinitesimal of details conjure a person’s past actions and relevant details.

“Yes Holmes, I walked to and from Mrs. Crutter’s home. She is feeling better today, and the squirrels at the park did enjoy the peanuts, although I do not know how you divined that, my good man.”

“Simplicity itself Watson. I’m glad to hear that Mrs. Crutters is feeling better, and if you had removed the peanut shards from the cuff of your tweed overcoat and the clay on your right instep, which is particular to Stevens Park, I would have been completely in the dark,” said Holmes. “Did the little beasts wish for a piece of your sugar cookies in addition to the peanuts?” he asked.

I looked up at him with a surprised questioning glance.

“I appreciate the crumpets that you have no doubt brought home from the bakery for tea, but I should hope you will leave them in the medical bag and push the receipt below your handkerchief in your breast pocket as Mrs.Hudson will be up  momentarily with breakfast and she would see them as an insult to her domestic skills. I took the liberty of ordering your usual Bangers and Mash as we are in a bit of a hurry assuming you are available today?” Sherlock inquired.        

“I have no appointments. What is afoot Holmes?” I asked.

“Well I have received a telegram this morning from the Prime Minister. He is sending a hansom around for us and we have an appointment in two hours at 10 Downing Street.”

“Indeed, Holmes. I am at your service,” I said.

“I am rarely called in by 10 Downing. This must be of national importance with Scotland Yard at an impasse and looking to save face.”

Thus, began a case with international implications and it is only now years later that this matter can be put to print with the utmost delicacy. It would not surprise you if I mentioned that Moriarty was involved in this evil crime that shook the Empire to its very foundations. Sherlock was at his finest during this struggle but even he required the assistance of his corpulent brother Mycroft with his superior cerebral powers. Suffice it to say that the future of the Empire was held in the balance and teetered on the pinnacle of disaster without the precise and persistent endurance of Mr. Holmes. My worthy companion with his attention to the smallest of details which can be of the greatest importance succeeded in saving the Empire and received the Victoria Cross for his efforts.

Jim

May 2020

Vuva

     Yes!  The Little Things Are Infinitely the Most Important 

     My father had three sisters and two brothers. The youngest was named William, but was

called Vuva. Why not Velvel, Yiddish for William? I do not know. Vuva it was. He was named after his father, and one may ask how could he be named after his father, since in some elements of the Jewish faith, it is prohibited to name someone after a living person? The answer is, his father died while his mother was still pregnant with him.



     Vuva never married. While he was semi-literate, he may have had some mental difficulties.  He lived in a room somewhere on the lower East Side in Manhattan and I think he earned some money working in a shop that repaired luggage. He had nothing except the clothes on his back and paltry dollars he earned. He did not have a close relationship with most family members, except for my father and mother. He came to our home several times a year, always unannounced, usually at dinner time. He was given dinner, a few dollars and any clothing my parents could spare.

 

     When Vulva was told my fifty-two-year-old father died, it did upset him. He continued to make his unannounced visits until sometime in the early1950s, he stopped coming. My mother while only a sister-in-law and a kind, caring, decent person, was disturbed that something may have happened to him and she pressed me to find out.  This was not easy since we had no specific address or anything concrete to pursue. I went to the Missing Persons Bureau of the New York City Police Department, but it only had a list of persons reported missing with concrete information about the person. While that was of no help, I was told to check with the New York City morgue located in the Bellevue complex on First Avenue in Manhattan. I went there and was directed to a small office that was staffed by two or three New York City detectives whose job it was to identify unclaimed dead bodies. They were a very dedicated group. it was a challenge for them to identify every corpse and connect it with family. They had a chart on the wall that listed their progress and how many bodies remained unidentified by the end of the year, and it was never more than a few. They explained they would pursue whatever leads they had such as dental, dry cleaning tags and anything else at their disposal. They explained, I would be surprised how often even “little things” led to identifications. When I explained why I was there, they checked their records and retrieved a folder marked William Haber. A body was found in a rooming house in the lower East Side and was told by the landlord, it was a William Haber. There were no papers indicating the names or addresses of relatives. An autopsy had been performed and the file indicated a male Caucasian in his late forties. He had an abdominal scar suggesting at an earlier date surgery in that area of his body. The body when found while subject to some rat bites probably occurring after death, suggested the death had occurred a short period of time before it had been found. Since there was no way to make a connection to family, the body had been interred about six months prior to my visit in Potters Field, the city burial place for unclaimed bodies.



     I had difficulty understanding why since they had a name it wasn’t enough evidence, but they had the last word.  As I was about to leave I suddenly stopped with what may have been a lightning bolt in the form of a “little thing”, but “infinitely most important”. It caused me to remember something else about Vuva. I told the detectives I suddenly recalled being told at some point, that when Vuva came to the United States, he felt embarrassed his ears appeared to be very large and protruded a great deal from the side of his head.  He was told if he had his ears stitched to the side of his head, left it in place for a few months and the stitches then removed, the ears would stay back. He underwent the procedure, but never had the stitches removed. Since the body had been buried and no way to examine it, what good was what I now remembered. I was wrong. The detectives became excited and said they could arrange for two inmates from Rikers Island to come to Potters Field and dig up the grave. I would have to give each of those men $10.00. There was of course no way to determine the condition of the body at this time, but they believed it was worth the effort. I told the detectives I would think about it. There was no way I would have my mother at Potters Field to witness the excavation. I spoke to family members to find someone who would accompany me but no one agreed to go, and if it was going to happen, it was clear, it had to be me.



     I returned and told the detectives I would go ahead with the excavation, but at my young age of 20 I was unsure I had the stomach to look at a deteriorated body. They took me into the morgue section and pulled open about six sliding draws that contained dead bodies in various deteriorated conditions. It did not upset me and I gave the detectives the go ahead. A month later when I came to Potters Field, the grave was dug up and the body removed. It had been buried in a small loose wooden box with much dirt on the body.   While the body still had some skin on it, the face was not recognizable but the ears were intact. One of the detectives, with rubber gives on his hands, moved the dirt away, leaned over and with one finger slipped under an ear, and moved it gently upwards. Half way up the finger could not move any further. It was clear the ear was stitched to the side of the head, the identification complete, and without question it was Vuva.



     Arrangements were made to have the body removed, prepared and placed in a proper coffin for a burial in a Jewish Cemetery. It was the end of a sad life in which a baby had been born after his father died; possessed nothing of any material value and died alone in a rat infested room. Were it not for my mother, his sister-in-law, he would have spent eternity in Potters Field. The sudden recall of a long forgotten “little most important thing”, stitched ears, made possible a clear identification. 

Ben Haber

May 24, 2020

The Lavender in Bloom

It’s just a tiny thing and doesn’t mean much but when the purple heads stand proud and royal, I think of you and how your garden was your crowning glory.  The afternoons you toiled and coaxed those blooms and bells live on and bring such grace to this sacred space.  I’m thankful now for such loving hands and soulful sacrifice.   The fruit of your labor lives on and on.

One day I will join you but for now I tend your garden and add to it the rich colors and wildflowers reminiscent of that verdant valley you called home.  Many walk by but few ever spy with my knowing eye how fine and fragrant this place is.  It’s love and care that tarries there and makes your garden grow.

Yvonne A.

May 25, 2020

Journal Entry - May 2020

Since the virus has decided to make its debut, my friend and I have been taking evening constitutionals upon my return from work, weather permitting and in between his hectic zoom schedule.  When we finish our walk, we then look for one of these lovely little parks that are peppered along the Long Island Expressway, there are four of these and one big park of which is slammed shut by the city. The tiny parks are still open. We find a bench and sit. Of late there are more people in these tiny oases than usual, a relief from the shadows of the corona virus. My friend has always been a big-time bird watcher.  He always gets the best birds.  He takes pictures of hawks, robins and blue jays perched on his fire escape.  I’ve always been interested in the animal shows and a big National Geographic fan.  But of late I have become very fascinated by the birds. And taking heed from our fearless leader’s focus on nature as a source of reflecting for our journaling assignments.  Since I saw the flock of birds outside my window that one day back in the winter, even the pigeons fascinate me now.  I might have taken them for granted before, they were just part of the background. So now while we rest on the park bench birds are swooping up and down flying from tree branch to tree branch.  As these birds fly by, he educates me on their names.  The tiny parks are like bird sanctuaries in fact one of the small parks is called Cowbird Triangle. They are filled with birds of all kinds.

The other morning walking to the bus stop turning the corner at the large park I saw a cardinal. The several blocks up to the bus is like a long corridor. In the winter it is still and quiet.  Spring comes and as I walk the blocks the orchestration of song that surrounds me at 6:45 in the morning is a beautiful symphony on my morning commute.  I get on the train platform and it’s just me (there are hardly any or no people on the platform in the mornings) and the pigeons some mornings and even they are social distancing. I’m waiting for them to show up with face masks one morning. 

Lisa  5/20

The Willow Weeps

Like a million moths flittering through the air that is how flooded my mind was with sunny summer times and wisps of pine trees in winter.  Bridging the gaps were the spring times full of promise and autumns leafy prisms.  The wheel of time both night and day spun like a bicycle reflecting the light in beams and rays.



Sparks and images percolated freely and symbiotically behind two brown curtains.  They fueled facial expressions, soulful sonatas and deep longing buried in the oceans of time.  The flutter moved in and around me carrying me high in its chariot of renewal.



Now the swirls and curls won’t unfurl.  Where did they all go?  The curtains are gathering dust.  

Yvonne A.

May 2020

Flowers

While strolling through the parks or streets, we can catch a glimpse of a unique, unfolding natural beauty taking place in front of our eyes.

The blooming of flowers forming a beautiful natural canvas, perfectly detailing its different silhouettes, each one expressing its glorious beauty with colors of the rainbow, spreading aromas to smooth our surroundings, giving us serenity, and taking us to a place of tranquility.

Our Creator, the Artist of these magnificent pieces took his time to bring to life an oasis of calmness and beauty.

Cristina

May 2020

Death, Please Leave!

“Death, please leave.”

  

   I mean, get the Hell out of here.  I have too much to do right now and going forward.  And don’t come back for a long time.  I am healthy, I exercise, I work a full-time job, all of this during the Novel Coronavirus (COVID-19) pandemic, which has tried to destroy our health as a society and our way of life.  Go away.  Go elsewhere.  Go wave your hand over a drug dealer or a mobster or a terrorist or any other bad person.  I am good, leave me the f--k alone.

   To quote the good Laurence Sterne, whom Death took in 1768, he said that he had “forty volumes to write and forty thousand things to say and do, which nobody in the world will say or do for me, except for myself…”  Dear God, help get this black-cloaked hoodlum away from me.  I want no part of him. This is not a debate.  Send him down the road, to look for and find a lesser person, less likely to embrace life as I do.  I want to live longer, say, 30 years and seven weeks, that’ll get me to 90.  God, thank you in advance, for your help.

   The number 40,000 resonates with me on a grand scale.  I have been writing a book about the Revolutionary War in Long Island City, N.Y. (1776-1783) for two and one half years now.  I’ve missed a few deadlines already, yet, there is light at the end of the tunnel.  When I signed the book contract in November of 2017, I grossly, if not flagrantly, underestimated the work that needed to be done.  If I say so myself, I am highly motivated to see this book project through, yet it is figuratively kicking the crap out of me.  Every freakin’ day I carry this information around, on my portable hard drive, working on it at home, when I can, and at work, when I can.  Job efficiency comes first as I really need to remain employed.  My job is not terrifically demanding, yet I am the main overnight security element for a luxury high-rise building in New York City.  As much as I would love to set up a home office and research center in my building lobby, I cannot.

   Forty thousand.  Forty thousand words is what I must provide and present to my book editor in the very near future.  Additionally, I have to provide 120 images, with all usage rights secured, accompanied by 120 captions.  This labor of love is truly a labor of love, yet at times I hardly like it. 

   To the dismay of my lovely wife, and family and friends, my love of history is sometimes (oftentimes) off-putting.  People, while trying to be polite, may think to themselves, “When is he going to shut the heck up? (while maintaining their clenched-teeth smile).  One quick story…those are words that I can seldom (never) adhere to.  I have done many exciting and fun and cool things in my life, to include visiting the Pyramids, Red Square in Moscow, East Berlin, hiked the Scottish Highlands, skied in the Canadian Rockies, jogged 10 miles in Hawaii, jumped out of perfectly good airplanes, snorkeled, parasailed, and met a few ladies along the way. Whew.  I have many stories, but this doesn’t necessarily mean that people want to hear those stories.  People have often thought towards me, “Please stop talking.”

     40,000 words.  How hard can that be?  Mr. Death, here is my reason for you to leave me be. Leave me as the living, breathing, endeavoring night doorman historian that God is allowing me to be.

     The main hindrances to this book writing operation are, at times, my own procrastinations, and the magnitude of information that I have gathered.  In five years (2014-2019) of gathering information, sources, copied book pages, photos, images, paintings, sketches, and pertinent important documents, I have accumulated a VAST amount of data.  I have reviewed and scrutinized at least fifty 1776 period maps online, in local Queens and NYC historical societies and libraries, and scores, if not hundreds, of primary, secondary, and recent historical sources.  Every time I think I have gathered sufficient information to prove a point or to highlight an argument, I find more data on the topic.  

   This book is important because, 244 years ago all of the modern Borough of Queens, then Queens County, was witness to major British military operations after the Battle of Long Island in Brooklyn on August 27, 1776, and leading to the Invasion of New York on September 15, 1776.  Western Queens was fully occupied by the military might of the British King and Empire from August 1776 to November 1783, a full seven years. The Hessians were even here for the duration.  And nobody knows about it or cares about it.  I do.  That’s what I have to offer.

   My greatest hope is that someone one hundred years from now, in 2121, will say, “I have the Melnick book about the American Revolution.  He did a great job.”

   Another setback is that I want this to be a larger in scope, more instructive, illuminating, and enlightening work, my masterpiece, if you will.  My book editor thinks otherwise. Since it is my first book with me as the only writer, he said let’s stick to 40,000 words.  Fiddlesticks, I say.

   My numbers have reached over 500 images to review to select 120 and, yes, 151,000 words in a grand word document to pare it down to 40,000.

    As I drive on with this noble endeavor, I firmly believe that I am the only one who will do this, right now, at this time.  No one, absolutely no one, has gathered this information that I have gathered.  If I do not do this, if I do not write this book, I am a damned fool.  I am even tired of discussing it.

   On the upside, my 120 images have been approved, and my chapters one through seven are currently under a strong review.  As a novice, I must adhere to all suggestions and directions presented to me by the editor, whether I disagree or not.

    My greatest fear is, of course, perishing too early with the book unfinished.  I hope to never say these words upon my deathbed:  “I love you………    

………………..……………..Finish the book.

   So, did you get that, Mr. Death?  Go away.  I am busy. I have a freakin’ book to write.  And another book after that.  I am healthy and highly motivated.  You don’t need me now.  Come back after July 17, 2050.  Then we can talk.

Regards,

Richard M.

Richard M.

May 23, 2020

Yet, Unsaid

            “You know, I’m in love with you.”

He smiled at the silent sentiment that had often crossed his mind these days whenever he thought of her. He spent more time now thinking of her, now that she was out of his life, absent from the everyday.

Yet, he continually pondered whether she had ever thought of him during this time of anti-social social distancing. He realized her genuine smile for everyone that stopped by the busy Penn Station kiosk to pick up an ice-cold refreshment before heading home.
           Yet, that same smile; it shined whenever he stopped by

Always running late, trying to catch his train, he had never caught her name.

Did he really love her?

Probably not.

Yet, in this time of uncertainty, he so often thought of things undone. Mortality suddenly seemed so real, something so defined on the faces of everyone, something that a forced face mask could never deny.

He sighed, and dreamed of one last hurried happenstance meeting. Her smile undoubtedly obscured underneath that damned, unwanted, unasked for mask would still radiate.

“You know, I’m in love with you,” he’d tell her, his own smile beaming behind the cloth covering, bringing the banter they had loosely shared just a bit further forward.

What did he have to lose?

What did anyone in this time of realized impermanence have to lose?

Things left undone? That was one thing, but things…

Yet, unsaid.

“You know, I’m in love with you,” he vowed to utter aloud.

The first on a list of some 40,000 somethings in his life that he still wanted to do.

Tom M.

May 5/22/20

On Again, Off Again

          Most incandescent light  bulbs last about 1500 hours. I looked it up on Google. So how can you account for how long the sensor bulbs on the side of my house are lasting? My nephew Micael installed then over forty years ago  and they are still faithfully coming on at the stroke of dusk and turning off at dawn.



          Michael was a bright child but in our current school system,he would have been classified as academically challenged. Although he had a learning disability, from early childhood he showed an unusual interest and skill in all things that had to do with electricity. In this throwaway society, he would take apart broken appliances and repair  them. He was known as the Electric Wizard in his apartment building. The saying was, “Give it to Michael. He will fix it.” When New York City had a major blackout in 1965, the half serious joke was that Micael caused it. This self taught electrician, in his early twenties started his own lucrative  business installing lighting fixtures and burglar alarm systems. Early on in his career, he installed my two exterior sensor lightbulbs. I’m not good at doing the math, but for over four decades, I continue to report to Micael, “Yes, your bulbs are still doing the job.”


          The fixture still functions like new. I still function like somewhat new but sadly, my nephew’s cognitive and physical skills are diminishing.  Michael has developed  an inoperable brain tumor. I worry my fixture will  outlive Michael.

Ethyl H.

May 2020

I'd Rather be Six Feet Apart than Six Feet Down

Hello Friend

An embrace would be comforting

A handshake would be nice

An inside joke refreshing

A slap on the back all right

Masked like a bandit

Gloved like a nightclub singer

Diving out of the way of a sneezer

I’d rather be six feet apart than six feet down

Lysol is my new aftershave

Scrubs my new summer shirt

Hanging on the daily utterances of the Governor

Listening for the Mayor’s new dirt

It’s a strange new world constructed from the pieces of what was before

Held together with sanitizing gel that I abhor

I’d rather be six feet apart than six feet down

Reality is a “B” grade Science Fiction movie

The world a shadow of its former self

Sidelined for now and put on a shelf

           I’d rather be six feet apart than six feet down

Jim

May 2020

BLUE

My handmade quilt is a blue Grandma’s Garden pattern, my couch is blue, my staircase carpeting is blue and so is my dining room wallpaper

So it’s a treat to walk outside, after being locked in the house, to find a beautiful blue sky. The surprise, as I take my daily walk, is to find all the blue fingers. Hey, I recognize you from all the days I spent visiting my husband, a patient in Lenox Hill Hospital. Doctor enters the room, blue gloves on. Nurse enters the room, blue gloves on. X-Ray technician wheels in his equipment, blue gloves on. Food arrives, with someone already outfitted in the blue gloves

Back in the neighborhood, notice all the discarded squished blue fingers here and there. Blue squished fingers in brown muddy water, some sunk and some floating on top after the rain. Discarded blue thumbs up sitting on the neighbor's lawn. They are surrounded by young purple blossoms poking out of new green grass. Further along, there’s a squished set of blue fingers reaching for a dandelion. Two blue fingers pointing together seem to be a duck’s bill.

Back in the house, my box of indigo blue nitrile gloves, artifacts of the science fiction era in which I live, is open and ready to supply me with a sanitary and safe way to open my mail, newspaper, packages and Meals on Wheels.

Ethyl H.

May 2020

40,000 Things I Still Want to Do

1. Travel around the world by boat.
2. Read the 20 books I have collecting dust.
3. Give a TED speech on mental health.
4. Write 40 mini self-help books.
5. Exhibit my paintings in 15 galleries and the MOMA.
6. Own a miniature sheep, miniature donkey, miniature goat.
7. Own 2 dogs and four more cats.
8. Commit to better physical health.
9. Sew two fabric journals.
10. Learn to line draw.
11. Learn to self-publish.
12. Learn to be brave.
13. Live in a house.
14. Buy an American made passenger truck.
15. Open a YouTube channel.
16. Organize my overflowing possessions.
17. Leave a legacy
18. Find a gargoyle as an urn for my ashes.
19. Meet 6 famous writers, haven’t decide on whom yet.
20. Make 39,980 new friends

Georgia P

May 2020

Psychic Signals

She had a bit of Romany blood in her—dark lustrous hair, tawny skin, large hands, a face that reflected a life of experience. I wish I could remember her name. Let’s just call her Gypsy. She was one of the secretarial assistants at the ad agency I worked at. We were friendly—lunch now and again, but not much else.

One day, over sandwiches at the coffee shop, she announced “I am training to be a psychic.”

“Really?” I said as flatly as I could manage. My eyebrows lifted slightly, but my mouth stayed closed. I did not laugh or look shocked. She took this as a positive sign.

 “Would you help me with a homework assignment? I have to do a reading on someone I don’t know very well.” 

“Well, you should know that I’m really skeptical about paranormal phenomena,” I replied,” but I’m really curious also.” Then I admitted that I had known things in the past that made absolutely no sense for me to know – once in a dream and once after reading a letter.

Two weekends later I visited her in her apartment.  After some pleasantries, she dimmed the lights and reclined on the couch. “I have a voice on the other side who I need to contact,” she explained. "She will give me the answers to your questions. You can ask anything you want.”

Applying my 7th grade scientific method education, I planned to ask questions for which I knew the answers and others for which I needed answers. She handed me her assignment sheet, printed with lines for me to read aloud. The instructions said that words would relax the beginner psychic and lead her deeper and deeper into the trance-state.

I read the words slowly and evenly, speaking without urgency, pausing between sentences. And then I waited.

Suddenly a small drugged voice broke the silence with, “You may begin now.”

My first question was extremely practical: “Where is my stolen car?” A moment passed.

Then she informed me slowly and dreamily, “I see a dark red, maybe a maroon car . . .  at night . . . near water. . .  down near a dock. . . on the west side. Oh wait, maybe it’s light blue.”

“What kind of psychic manure was this?” I thought. This was no help. I needed specifics. When she got the color wrong, I just shrugged my shoulders and continued on with ever-diminishing belief in her psychic aptitudes. I decided to check out something I knew the answer to.

“What did my mother die from?” There was a long pause, a painful look on her face, before she made the pronouncement: “Cancer.”

 “Not a bad guess,” I thought. Then Gypsy was more specific: “It started in her left breast.”  Still, not quite right. It actually started in her right breast, metastasized to the lymph nodes, then to the stomach, her reproductive organs, and her brain. A closer answer but not a jackpot.

“What about the problem with my eye? Will I go blind?” This really troubled me. Finally, the response came.

 “No.” It may get worse, but you’ll never go blind.” I let out a sigh of relief. Something I wanted to believe in. Turns out it’s been 40 years, and she was right (well so far anyway).

There were other questions and answers. I can’t remember them all.  Throughout the session, I kept thinking encouragingly,” It’s all right. You’re doing fine.” After all, she did get a lot of the questions right.

When she woke up from her trance, she told me that I was a strong mental transmitter and that no one had ever put her into a trance so deeply or so quickly. I thought, “Oh, boy, she’s trying to flatter me.” But then, my skepticism suddenly disappeared and I became a believer when she said this:

“I’m so exhausted, but I’m confident it was a good reading. My voice from the other side kept saying ‘It’s all right. You’re doing fine.’”

I swear I did not move my lips during the entire session, except to ask my questions. Gypsy’s eyes appeared closed throughout. I did not whisper a thing, but she heard what I was thinking, word for word, and repeated the sentences in exactly the same cadence I had said them in my mind. Did Gypsy’s little voice from beyond place the words in my brain or did it read my mind and transfer the words to her? I will never know. 

What I do know is this. The next car I bought was light metallic blue, and not because of the power of psychic suggestion. No. It was the only color left in that model in the showroom. I wish Gypsy had told me not to buy the car. It was such a piece of junk.  The car after that? You guessed it: deep, dark red. Happy trails and psychic paths to you all.

M. Hoffer

May, 2020