Memories of Two Places: A Long and Short Story

 PART ONE 

     When someone is injured while on someone else’s property and claims it was caused

by the negligence of the owner or occupier, if there be an agreement as to the cause, extent of injuries and value, there would be no reason to institute a law suit. Should there be no agreement on any or all of the above, a law suit is instituted so a jury can make the findings and a disposition of the suit.

     I practiced law for over fifty years and handled dozens of such law suits, mostly representingthe defendant. One entity I represented was The Concord Hotel located in upstate New York’s Catskill mountains. One day a young man and his wife, who was at the time pregnant, checked into the hotel for a week’s stay. Midweek, the husband decided to go horseback riding with one of the hotel’s horses. While alone on the trail, he fell off the horse and struck his head on a stone boulder at the side of the trail. He suffered a skull fracture, became unconscious and  subsequently died.

     A  claim was made against the hotel the horse was an unruly animal unfit for quests, for which the hotel should be financially responsible to the deceased’s widow.Taking into account the wife’s young age and the birth of a child, if there was any liability on the part of the hotel, a financial award could be in seven figures. It was the hotel’s position, there was nothing wrong with the horse. It was a tame animal and it was not responsible if a rider falls off the horse.

     A law suit was instituted against the hotel and ended up in the United States District Court located in Foley Square Manhattan. Since there was no one on the trail when the rider fell off the horse rendering him unconscious and death, the basic question involved was how could  it  proved  the hotel did something wrong, as distinguished from the rider simply losing his balance and falling off the horse. In the law suit, the hotel could demand what is called a Bill of  Particulars that  requires specifics on what the claim is based. The response was the horse was an unruly animal, not the kind that should be made available to guests. It was the hotel’s position all of its horses were gentle, that it never had claims to the contrary, and how could the plaintiff establish the horse was in fact unruly. Depositions pressed the plaintiff to prove the horse was in fact unfit, and that indicated the following.  

      A teenager lived in the area and was the son of a man who worked at the hotel’s horse stable. He claimed he often went to the stable to help his father, the latter who incidentally had passed away before any claim was asserted against the hotel in the subject lawsuit. The teenager said during the Spring before the Summer in which the subject incident occurred, after school one day, he went to the hotel horse facility and at that time he noticed a new horse. He claimed it was his task to ride the horse to determine if it was gentle and suitable. He claimed after riding the horse on the mountain trail, he returned telling his father the horse was difficult to keep under control and not suitable for use by hotel guests. Suffice it to say, if there be any truth to the teenager’s claim, the hotel could be responsible for the incident. Since the teenager’s father was deceased, he could not be asked about the son’s claim.The person who was in charge of the horse stable said the teenager occasionally saw his father, but he had nothing to do with the stable and its horses. 

          The question was then clear. Could we prove the teenager was not telling the truth and was in fact put up to lie. An investigation was then instituted.The first stop was at the school the teenager said from which he went to the hotel's horse stable. The school records indicated at the time in question the teenager was not a student at the school. If he was not a student, where else was he? We found out he worked at a gas station and when we tried  to locate the gas station, it was no longer in business. We determined the name of the owner, found where he lived to see if we could prove on the day in question the teenager worked at the gas station. When we got to his  home, his wife said he was in Europe at the time and would not be back for  several weeks, so we  were unable to use his testimony. We located the farmer who had sold the horse in question to the hotel and were told it was a gentle animal.  We located a ten year old girl in the area who used to ride on the hotel trail and said she had ridden the subject horse several times and found it gentle. We also located two men who also used the hotel trail with their own horses and we were told they had seen the horse on the trail a number of times, and it was not unruly.  

     The case came up for trial and the plaintiff's case was based on the teenager’s testimony.

All the facts we had developed as aforesaid, were introduced. After both sides rested, the case was given to the jury. Two days after deliberating, a note was sent to the Judge. He was  told the jury was split six for the plaintiff and six for the defendant, and they believed they could not reach a verdict. The Judge dismissed the jury and sent it back to the central part for assignment to another judge for a re-trial.

     Several weeks later, we were back in court before another Judge. Since several weeks had elapsed before the second trial, we were able to find out if the gas station operator was back in this country, and it turned out he was. He also had employment records which indicated the teenager was in fact employed at the station on the day he claimed he had been in school and the hotel. It was clear the teenager was not telling the truth, but who put him up to it, can only be speculated. After several days of trial, the case was given to the jury. After three days of deliberations a note was sent to  the judge advising the jurors were split six to six and did not think they could reach a verdict. The judge advised the plaintiff’s lawyer and me, he had to consider a mistrial. We were told to return the next day and if there was no change, he would declare a mistrial. We returned the next day and the judge told the jury to give more thought. By the afternoon, a note to the judge indicated it was still a six to six split and would not be changed.The judge then dismissed the jury, but before he declared a mistrial, plaintiff's attorney advised the judge rather than a mistrial, his client was willing to allow the judge to decide the case, but he did not know what my position would be. It was clear to me after trying many cases, there were six jurors who clearly understood the teenager was not telling the truth, and six jurors who wanted a young widow and child to be awarded a verdict that would undoubtedly be paid by the hotel’s insurance company, and chose to accept the teenager’s claim. I also believed the plaintiff’s attorney was of the thought the judge would also know the award would be paid by the hotel’s insurer. If we were in a state court where many judges are political appointees, I would not agree to allow such judge to decide the case. In this case however, we were in a federal court in Manhattan where very bright judges preside. After witnessing the judge in our case it was clear to be me he was exceedingly intelligent. I told the judge I needed to discuss the matter with my client and would give an answer the next day.  After speaking to my client, the decision was left in my hands. I returned to court the next day and both myself and plaintiff’s attorney stipulated on the record, for the judge to decide the case. The judge then advised us to return the next day and he would render his decision.

                                                                  PART TWO

     It was my practice not to discuss cases in which I was involved, with members of my family. This case was different because it went on a long time and they understood the issues involved and how I felt about the case. When I came home and said I was upset the judge instead of deciding the case that day, said to return the next day. Did that mean he needed time to decide an amount of an award?  When I said that, my son Carl who was than about 10 years old and familiar with the case, exploded and said “ You cannot trust the establishment and I was foolish to agree to let the judge decide the case.” I had trouble sleeping that night. When I returned  to court the next day, the judge said: “ Step up counsel. Do you both have the permission of your clients for me decide the case?”  Both plaintiff’s attorney and I answered “Yes.”

     The judge then stated “ I find for the defendant.”

     Later that afternoon I called my wife to tell her I won the case and to tell Carl when dealing with intelligence, you can trust the establishment. When I arrived home, waiting for me was a drawing Carl made dealing with the case. It depicted my adversary and I in a boxing ring with me knocking him out. 

     That same evening my wife and I and another couple had tickets to a show at Lincoln Center. When we arrived and were in the lobby waiting for the theatre gate to open, I heard a voice say: “ I spent almost three weeks with this man and on my night off, I have to see him again.” I turned around and there co-incidentally was the trial judge and his wife. He said “ That lawyer had a case in my court and won it, saving an insurance company a million dollars.”  I told the judge I was of course pleased to win, but more important I explained what my son had said, and thanks to you judge, I was able to convince him, an intelligent establishment can be trusted.  

      

    The end result? I won two cases.

Ben Haber

Goodbye Rivkah

 Rivkah and I were exploring the dimly-lit bookshop—a charming old-fashioned storefront shop where you could see the dust motes through the few rays of sunlight that penetrated the dim interior and marvel at the intricate book bindings that lined the shelves. We each wandered around its dusky recesses. I couldn’t find anything I wanted to buy, but Rivkah looked pleased with four Chinese prints she had unearthed. It was the same look she had on her face when she and I had gone to a Chinese scroll exhibit at the Met and she discovered a book on Chinese calligraphy to give to a friend.  We took  our place in line, to wait for the Asian cashier to finish with the several customers in front of us. Suddenly Rivkah’s face changed and her lips pursed with concern. She asked me if I’d stand in line for her and pay for the prints. “Of course,” I said, though I was puzzled by her request. Before I could ask why, she turned quickly away, strode to the door, and left the shop with an air of concentration and determination.  I wondered if she was late to teach her class at the local college or if she had forgotten about a doctor’s appointment for which she was now late.

 

When I came to the front of line to pay, my wallet was empty and I couldn't find my charge cards. I asked the man behind the counter if there were any banks nearby. He nodded that there were but, he announced flatly, “They won’t deal with you. You don’t speak Chinese.” That's when I woke up, distraught that I couldn't do what I had promised, and even if I did, I didn't know how I would get the prints to my friend.

 

The dream continued to disturb me when I reawakened later in the morning. I had not been able to visit my friend in her nursing home for the last ten months because of Corona virus restrictions. I had spoken to Rivkah on the phone two weeks prior to my dream. It was a poor connection and, in addition, her mind seemed a little muddled. The next time I called, I was told she was not in the facility. Her husband informed me that she had been taken to the hospital with a fever and had tested positive for Covid.. All I wanted to do was hug her, but all I could do was wait. Then good news. After five days she was released from the hospital. I was instructed to delay my call until the end of the week. Unfortunately, by then she was back in the hospital with pneumonia and had fallen into unconsciousness. And then, she kept her appointment, an appointment we each eventually must make. I was powerless to pay for the prints in my dream and powerless to provide her support for her final passage.

 

 

It was a beautiful day for the funeral. The air was clean and crisp. The sun reflected off the recent snowfall. The cemetery was quieted by its blanket of white. It was the kind of day Rivkah would have reveled in. She was a woman who held fresh air well above the value of diamonds and silk. Her restricted indoor life for the last year-and-a-half, and the isolation of Covid rules for the final 10 months sucked her lifeblood away as much as any of the illnesses. Her life had become, in her words, “an existence.”  She had to die in order to escape into the light.

 

I could only hear bits and pieces of the eulogies from my distant post on the path. I stayed away from all the other medically masked mourners. I exchanged a few words of condolence with her husband, his two daughters, and with her son as they passed me on the way to their cars. What gave me consolation was three of her adult granddaughters who were able to make it to the funeral. I had met them as children and young adults when I used to visit Rivkah’s upstate “farm.” Here they were, congregated around me, at Covid-safe distance. I hadn’t seen Shawn in years. She was now living in Texas, the mother of four. What she said to me melted my heart. “You gave us a challah plate for our wedding. We think of you every Friday night when we use it for Shabbat”. As for Libbie, it was exciting to see the grown version of the dark-haired girl I was so fond of, the outrageously unique, creative child who grew up to be a writer.  There beside her, stood her husband in a bowler hat, clearly a man of imagination and an excellent match for her.  And Bethie-- there are no words to describe her sufficiently. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, but remained eloquent and strong throughout the ceremony. We each wanted to hug each other so much, but didn’t because of the pandemic. These young women were my connection to Rivkah and I, it seemed, was their connection. We were a circle of people who loved Rivkah and benefitted from having known her. Rivkah would have smiled.

2/22/2021

By Marsha Hoffer

Mellow

 They say to make lemonade with the lemons life hands you.  Well, I’ve got barrels of lemons and I’m ready to start squeezing.  From now on when trouble comes my way, I will remember the color yellow and how many kinds of it there are:  Sunshine and daffodils, buttercups and canaries, bananas and custard.  Brilliant and bold or pale and pleasing, yellow comes in many shades and shapes. 

   We need yellow if we want to paint a picture, there will eventually be a time and place for it.  That is the way of trouble too.  It comes and goes unbidden.  Much of the time we heap more on top of the bit that’s there by thinking it could have been avoided if we were wiser, quicker or somewhat better.  This only leads to double the trouble.

  From now on I will wait it out and remember that trouble doesn’t arrive by general invitation and will not depart any sooner if I choose to dwell on it.  So too this present trouble shall pass but it will soon be replaced by another.  Recently, we’ve learned what it is to be malleable albeit involuntarily.

   We don’t like the truth of our powerlessness over our circumstances.  It is humbling and we may misinterpret that as humiliating.  If we look through a lens that’s even only slightly distorted then yellow, who did nothing wrong, becomes the color of cowards and our courage evaporates like smoke.

Yvonne A.

Feb. 2021

LA FORZA DEL DESTINO: DIE MACHT DAS SCHICKSAL (THE POWER OF DESTINY)

 

  The best thing about spelling bees is there’s a right answer and a wrong one.  There’s no in between, no grey area: you either know or you don’t.  Me?  I’m blessed with a better than average memory and that is why I’ve always been good at spelling.  I found it very helpful even when learning other languages.

  In the real estate business, it was a big asset.  I remembered what people told me and the information about themselves, their families and properties.  Now that I no longer work outside my home, memories often pop up and many are from childhood.  One leads to the next and I realize how unusual it is to remember all the names and details because I am often asked how I can recall things from long ago and far away. 

  Frankly, I have no idea how or why.  In large part, I believe, it may come down to being observant and interested in people, places and things more than a personal goal or agenda.  It isn’t inherently the better way but it happens to be mine.  Learning about people fascinated me from a very young age and I continue to be amazed by my  fellows.  Yes, I can spell well and love to use my dictionaries because I respect words and language. 

  When you have a photographic memory ,you spend a lot of time flipping through the past like an album in your brain.  There are images you are glad to keep with you always and some you would give anything to forget but I’ve found it is important to embrace all of them: good, not-so-good, mixed and regrettable.  We all have an Achille’s heel.  Nobody should forget that.

  The day I came to recognize mine was the turning point.  In that moment, I realized that something changed: It was my direction.  Instead of being an actor, I became the director and my first directive was “Cut.”  One by one, over time, new roads and paths opened up before me and I walked away from the rut seeking to devour me.  Looking back, I skipped over the “lost years” to remember the child I once was - filled with such wonder and perfect light.    It is my good fortune to still have at my disposal many photographs and keepsakes to assist me as I recall the moments leading up to the present one.

  Many questions may remain unanswered and life will continue to be mysterious, as are all miracles, but now I regard this as my destiny.  Sometimes as I wash dishes, shower or perform a similar task a slide pops into my invisible viewfinder and I see a scene from long ago and it puzzles me as I stretch out to grab it by the hands of time and apprehend the delicious flavor, sweet aroma even the sting of pain that is now just a faint mist.  In moment’s like these I lift up my head and my hands in thanks! 

Yvonne A.

Feb. 2021

Adaptation (from: "The Tale of Tom Kitten" by Beatrix Potter)

 Instructors Note:

This is an exercise in adaptation of a sort, an experiment to see if it is true, as I believe,  that all good stories are infinitely malleable, that their beginnings can lead us down different rabbit holes because we as writers have the creative capacity to extend their trajectories. So ... take either the beginning of ALICE, or the opening paragraph of any story or novel that you like and follow it up with a completely original second paragraph of your own.

Once upon a time there were three little kittens and their names were Mittens, Tom Kitten, and Moppet. 

They had dear little fur coats of their own, and they tumbled about the doorstep and played in the dust. 

But one day their mother Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit was having a friend over so the kittens had to get cleaned up. 

“Kittens” she shouted,” take a bath, and wash your fur and put on clean clothes because my friend is coming over today”. 

“OK Mom, we will,” so the kittens jumped in the bath and put so many bubbles they couldn’t find each other.  They laughed and slid out of the tub and shook to dry off.  

The Kittens then rifled through their dresser for clean clothes. The Kittens are really good at getting dressed. Blue shirts, green pants, yellow vest, orange jacket, purple shoes, they looked the same and looked so pretty.  

The Kittens came to the kitchen to show Mom how clean and pretty they were. 

Mom said” I am so proud of the three of you, you took a bath and smell fresh and clean, such good listeners, and you dressed yourself so beautifully”. “Now go into the living room and play nicely while I finish up here in the kitchen”. 

Mittens, Tom Kitten and Moppet decided to play Monopoly; quietly they played, next to the warm fire, feeling safe and warm.  

Mrs. Duck was walking up the road; suddenly they heard a big crash and boom. The three kittens ran outside and there was Mrs. Duck upside down on the road, her basket tossed to the side and big paddle yellow webbed feet high in the air.  

Mittens and Moppet helped Mrs. Duck stand up and Tom Kitten grabbed the basket. Mrs. Duck said,” Oh what good Kittens you are, I slipped on the road and fell, thank you for helping me”.  

By now Mom heard the commotion and ran outside to see what happened and was so proud of her good kittens for their kindness and help.  

Mrs. Duck and the Kittens and Mom sat down to lunch and the treats in Mrs. Duck’s basket. They talked and laughed and told jokes and played Monopoly.  

Mr. Duck picked up Mrs. Duck in his red pickup to make sure she didn’t fall down again.  

“Good night Mrs. Duck, see you again soon”, waved Mom.  The kittens waved bye too. Mom gave her wonderful Kitten's saucers of milk just before bed, kissed them and told them, “You were wonderful today, I love you, sweet dreams and I’ll see you tomorrow”. 

Mittens, Moppet and Tom Kitten yawned, snuggled in their beds and fell quietly into dream land.  

Georgia P.

2.21.21

Alice's Alternate Adventure

 Instructors Note:

This is an exercise in adaptation of a sort, an experiment to see if it is true, as I believe,  that all good stories are infinitely malleable, that their beginnings can lead us down different rabbit holes because we as writers have the creative capacity to extend their trajectories. So ... take either the beginning of ALICE, or the opening paragraph of any story or novel that you like and follow it up with a completely original second paragraph of your own.

She hurried across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In a moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

 Moments later she was falling down a tunnel with no bottom in sight. Roots and rocks littered the perimeter of the tunnel protruding from where the dirt had been hurriedly excavated. Alice occasionally bumped against the sides of the rabbit hole covering her dress in the dark brown earth that became dislodged, resulting in her falling head over heels as she tumbled down into the endless abyss. Time stood still while she plummeted headlong downwards. She noticed that the walls had become a smooth metallic finish not quite man-made but certainly not the work of burrowing rabbits, no matter how industrious they might be. Suddenly Alice was enveloped in a mattress of sorts, absorbing the impact of her fall. Alice looked up to see a pin hole of light seemingly miles above the floor of the cave, which was her initial entry point.

Across the floor of the lobby a creature was stepping out of a rabbit costume. A curious looking being, covered in fur with huge eyes and unusually long digits with what appeared to be suction cups on the end of each tip. “I’m late again, this will not go well, how am I ever to become considered a valuable member of the pod?” said the being. A series of hooks each holding a rabbit suit hung from the metallic steel wall. On one of the remaining empty hooks the alien hung his suit, the inanimate red eyes and long ears of the costume slumping towards the floor. Alice rolled off the side of the cushion, hiding herself from the harried self-absorbed creature. A wide fluorescent tube circled the ceiling of the room which bathed the room in a luminous pink light. The creature ran to a panel covered in alien symbols, and after a penetrating laser retinal scan he disappeared into thin air. "Curiouser and Curiouser Indeed!” exclaimed Alice. “This is certainly not what I expected from that silly rabbit!”

Jim

Feb. 2021

Dream Helper

 

I was exhausted from crying. I couldn’t believe I had been sitting on my recliner for over an hour now trying to pull myself together and nothing seemed to work. I was sure that one of the problems was that I was completely alone. I really needed someone to keep me company. That was not going to happen!

Well, I thought to myself, I’m just going to have to continue feeling miserable for as long as it takes. I resigned myself to this fact and just continued to sit in the chair. After another long while, I tried to meditate. I felt myself feeling sleepy and before I knew it, I had fallen into a deep sleep. I started dreaming and this is how the dream unfolded.

I was standing in the middle of a courtyard. It was very cloudy. I could see several over sized houses surrounding the courtyard. One of these very big houses had soft, glowing candles in the windows and the front door was open and had the most exquisite stained glass decorating it.  I felt as if the house was inviting me to enter so I did just that. The main floor was beautifully designed but, for some reason, I was drawn to the center hallway and the expansive steps that led upstairs.

When I reached the upstairs landing, I could see a beautiful tapestry rug on the floor needle pointed with the words Ways to Console Yourself. On each bedroom door were words such as Nature, Spend Time With Friends, Spend time with Son, Watch a Funny TV Show, Go to Church, Read, Take a Long Walk, Go Shopping, Cook Your Favorite Foods, Go to the Beach and Lose Yourself in Your Job.

I was amazed because these were all of the things that I used to console myself when I felt bad. I was so stuck in my own misery earlier that I completely forgot all about the things that console me and make me feel much better.

My dream ended abruptly and I sat straight up in the recliner, feeling wide awake. I immediately started writing down all the things from my dream that made me feel consoled so I wouldn’t forget them. I then promised myself that I would make an effort to get my list of consolations when I was sad, disappointed or upset and choose one of them to help make me feel better.

How unfortunate it was that my dream ended before I got the chance to pick a door and enter a bedroom.

Ellen G.

Feb. 2021

My Consolation Prize

 

Talk about being terrifically unproven to riding the coattails of a successful person to make an All-Star team.

   Long, long ago, in an elementary school gymnasium not far away...
   In 4th grade, at Rushmore Avenue School in my good Long Island town, I was an All-Star basketball player.
The prestige, the accolades, the chicks I would meet, and so went this unrealized delusion.

   "Behhhh", went the scoreboard buzzer, "Melnick, get in there for Ross," so said the gym teacher and coach, Mr. Dyer.  I eagerly entered the game, not quite sure of my immediate tasks and goals, and how to make them happen.
   I was, after all, a 4th grade hoopster, or so Mr. Dyer thought.  My older brother, Steve, had gotten me into this mess entirely without his knowledge.  Steve was a senior at our town high school and a member of the varsity basketball team, which would go on to win the Nassau County boys basketball championship in March 1970, the school's only county hoops crown, to date.

   This fact didn't help me one bit.  I was a hoopster, alright, but not by my own accord.
   Just being Steve's younger brother, like other sports families in the world, didn't make me a solid hoopster.  I was 9 and had zero, as in no, game. No game.
   In later years I developed some game, my career high on the junior varsity squad was 8 points in one game. Woo hoo!  The big hoops colleges were not pursuing me.  Maybe if I pick up my grades a bit, and so goes the delusion.
   

   On the basketball court, I was possessed. Full of what was never determined, yet it was not basketball prowess.

   Back to game, I was on the court, I was in the game. Pete, the best guy on our team passed me the ball, I bounced it once and shot at the basket I was very close to. To my surprise, the ball went right in. Two points!  I was elated. This game is easy!  As I turned to the team bench and the coach for praise, the other gym teacher, also the referee, abruptly blew the whistle, stopping play.  Mr. Dyer, quite peeved, perhaps at his decision to choose me over more deserving 4th grade cagers, grabbed me by the shirt and put his face in mine. 
"Melnick, do you know how to play this game?"  He explained that I had just scored a bucket, in the wrong basket, two points, for the other team!  My response was a feeble, "Yes?"  To which, coach Dyer spat "Just sit here on the bench. Watch and learn."

   The game went on without me. Our team won the game, so as time went on, hopefully my debacle of a hoops debut would be forgotten.  It seems that I was, these many years later, the only one who remembered that day.
   With Pete being the game MVP, (I so wanted to be him, up until 10th grade when he squandered his sports abilities and burned out on drugs), I realized at 9 years old that all the other players were more valuable than I was. School was in session.
   As a reward, as a consolation prize, if you will, I received an item that I still may have in the Melnick archive.
Not a winner's trophy. Not a participant's tee shirt.  Didn’t even get a "good game" or "nice going" from the opposing coach or players. The consolation prize for this nine-year-old hoops-challenged boy was a 3-inch by 2-inch oval patch, with green lettering on a white background (our school colors). The nifty, but non-awesome iron-on patch read: "Honorable Mention."
   There would be a few more small time glories for me in this one-horse town. 

R. Melnick,
2-20-2021.

Via Air Mail

 

         Being a newscaster is about so much more than looking good and reading a teleprompter.  We all start out as journalists, out for the truth.  It’s easy to forget about that when they’re coating you in pancake makeup and shining bright lights in your face.  The day the news broke that World War II was over I hadn’t even been born but I often wonder what it was like to be a newspaper journalist at that time. 

         I envision reporters, photojournalists and radio broadcasters working long hours yet finding their work too important to tear away from for more than a few hours at a time.  Days, weeks and even months were flying by then too but families, friends and probably acquaintances came together despite the turmoil to get the news.  Much of what they wanted to find out didn’t come over the wireless or in the daily newspapers.  The important news from the outside world that was relevant to the individual generally arrived by mail.

         When was the last time I poured my heart out to another human being in a letter?  I can’t remember.  Nor do I recall receiving a missive in a handwriting so familiar that I know the writer before looking at the return address.  I do still receive the occasional birthday or greeting card from dear friends who live near and far.   

         Growing up I saw my grandmother write many letters on light blue stationary that wasn’t much thicker than tissue and stamped “Par Avion.”  It was long after the Second World War but most of Europe was still crawling out of the devastation visited upon it by bombs and losses of life, limb and livelihood.  Many of her letters were answered by the cousins, aunts, uncles, former neighbors and classmates who were anxious to receive news of America from someone they knew personally. 

         She wrote about buying eggs by the dozen in the supermarket and how my mother took her to a store that sold women’s undergarments.  Talk about a buzz!  This was good copy.  She had the real scoop and wrote the tidings the reader longed for from a very genuine and personal herald cum foreign correspondent.   To my own amazement, I still come across those letters, written on the celestial blue writing paper, from time to time.   Unfortunately, most of them are written in old German script making it literally impossible for me to decipher.  Nevertheless, they inspire me.

 

Yvonne A.

Feb. 2021

Unmasked

 

If nothing else, I’m memorable.  Not many people forget meeting me.  With a face like mine, there are days when it’s worth it to go outside and face the attention and days when the prospect is exhausting.  People think I’m a burn victim because the left side of my face is disfigured.

 

I wear my hair long and parted to the side so I can cover most of it and people don’t get the shock of it all at once.  I don’t blame them.  It’s a normal and involuntary reaction.  Knowing that doesn’t make it less painful or annoying to be the object of everyone’s pity or disgust.

 

Over the years I’ve learned to mask my reactions to those of others.  Often, it’s a matter of keeping the hideously scarred side of my face turned away from them.  I also keep my eyes down and cast my gaze away from onlookers whenever possible.  Fortunately, even before I became an eyesore, hats were a big part of my wardrobe.  

 

It would be such a good lesson for everyone to look like me for a day.  Instead of wanting flattery or attention, they’d realize how lovely it is to go unnoticed because of a deformity.  The solace of being average or plain would instantly be transformed into a phenomenal blessing.  Nobody is truly average.  We are all one-of-a-kind and special.  That is my consolation.  In a society where aging is dreaded for its effect on one’s outward appearance, I am exempt.

 

Yvonne A.

Feb. 2021

AMNH Memories

 

My heart was pounding out of my chest, having been knocked ten feet with one swiping paw of the enormous Carnivore. I balanced myself readying for the next onslaught from the giant brown bear, as he growled in his menacing fashion. I for my part was trying to look as large and formidable as possible as I spotted a tree limb and gingerly reached for it to fend off the Goliath looking behind me for a safe exit from the precarious situation that I had wandered into…

 

But Wait a Minute! I’m not in any danger! In fact, I am sitting relatively comfortably on one of the old dark brown, hand carved oak benches in the Bernard Family Hall of North American Mammals, deep in the dimly lit recesses of the American Museum of Natural History! Before me and towering over me are a pair of enormous, stuffed brown bears, the male standing on his hind quarters in an aggressive stance which has led to my imaginative daydreaming adventure.

 

The museum had always been my place of refuge, when  life became challenging and I needed a change of pace , a  place to reconnect with myself and sort out whatever was bothering me at that time, a place of solace and consolation.A museum, as the name implies, is a place to muse ,a chance to reset and regain perspective both for problem solving and making important decisions while also being entertained by the informative and educational presentations ,and the sheer volume of information that washes over and overwhelms the minds ability to learn in one visit.

 

One can always tell on a given day if the museum will be a tranquil experience or one filled with the blood curdling screams of excited elementary school children running through the halls brandishing plastic dinosaurs and petrified spiders acquired at the museum shop, thrilled by a day out of the classroom! In fact, I believe there is an applicable formula to determine what sort of day the adult visitor will have based on the ratio of school buses to parking spots that arrive in the museum lot. As the reserved member hours end, the lights are turned up as the invasion is about to begin.

 

For members there is always the possibility of retreat into the members lounge, a sparse refuge from the marauding innocents, not nearly as impressive as it sounds, an old dark nineteenth century lounge untouched since the building was constructed and certainly not the elaborate sanctuary of the imaginary Diogenes Club, that refuge of Mycroft Holmes and his antisocial cohorts.Certainly there is no butler to attend to one’s every whim, but  rather an attendant whom avoids eye contact whenever possible and abhors conversation with the oldsters in attendance.

 

Overall, it is good to see the children enjoying themselves and learning at the same time, even if they do not realize it. The AMNH is a great place to visit for different purposes, and at any age, and potentially a place of solace and consolation.

 

Jim

Feb. 2021