Decluttering

 WOW !!!! That’s one quick way to declutter a house!! The bulldozer came and razed the entire little brick building, contents and all. VMuriel Weinstein had died and Moe had moved down to Florida. Their children sold the house and were left with the task of emptying it. I was told to go in and help myself to any items I wanted. Six white plates with a delicate Chinese pattern pleased me. The remainder was left for the bull dozer. Sadly, this included the Weinstein’s library of hundreds of Law books.The bull dozer leveled a charming Cape Cod house to make way for a not charming McMansion. I cried watching the angry monster attacking the house, mixing its contents with soil and leaving an empty site for the new one. Yes, that’s one sad quick way to declutter a house.

Decluttering had become part of my daughter’s mission. She had read  The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo and started decluttering and organizing her own house and then she was on to me. “Mom, you have to get rid of things,” she pleaded. When she visited from Boston, I held my breath because I knew what was in store. “Okay, we can attack the medicine cabinet,” I conceded. "The pills from 1990 have expired and the Band-Aids that have lost their adhesive quality can all go. We don’t need all those moisturizers, conditioners  and shampoos I’ve collected from our hotel stays.” 

Emily was staying  with me for five days while my husband was in Florida decluttering or actually getting rid of the entire contents of his sister’s apartment since she had recently passed away. She would have been 100 years old in November. We were advised  you call in Faith Farm and they take it all. Each of Emily’s five day visit to my house was to declutter using the Konari Method  “…..an easy, simple, practical and actionable guide for everyone.”

I know my daughter is right. Ben and I are hoarders. We have accumulated  a lot of stuff. ”Let’s attack the attic,“ I suggest. There’s a pull-down staircase and up there in that hot dusty world, there’s a lifetime of collected items that are housed in old camp trunks and suitcases without wheels. Remember when you traveled with American Tourister luggage? Each piece was so sturdy that I’m convinced, if the suitcase fell out of a moving airplane it would land safely and intact. If they needed to be weighed, they were overweight empty. They were great for storage in the hot, dusty attic. The red Tourister had all the hand knit baby sweaters, and matching hats. Aunt Frieda had made each newborn child four of these as well as the carriage covers. Additional hand knit sweaters came for each child’s birthday. The grey Tourister suitcase without wheels had all the hand sewn pants and dresses I made for each of my children. Teachers  would often ask them where I bought their clothing because I used such unusual fabric. My daughter agreed that we could not give these handmade treasures to Goodwill. Instead, I will be decluttering my attic and adding them to Emily’s attic for any of her possible future grandchildren. The camp trunks housed scratchy woolen army blankets, once used at sleep away camp. These can go to Goodwill. So you see, we are making progress, a small dent. We have four more days to go and I am still loving every precious day I have with my daughter, the declutterer.

Ethyl H.

May 2021

Squirreling Away

 Guilty-guilty of hoarding stuff I should have gotten rid of years ago.  Collections of costume jewelry, plus new bright and shiny things I must have now, clothes that have not fit in 20 years, books I partially read, pots and pans out of which I only use three. Estate sale junk, fabric, a four-foot metal owl I swore I could re-do.  

Ugh, I need rehab, nope, wait, I need to add to my collection. 

You are looking into the mind of a collecting addict-collector of things that have some important significant meaning. I like what I see, maybe I’ll use it someday, or the item is pretending to replace a long-lost sentimental gem. 

I throw my hands up asking for mercy from the Clean Up Goddess.  

I have to give myself some credit. I am not as bad as I used to be, I do have shelves and neatly as possible I organize and put away most of my stuff.  

Don’t think I will stop collecting and buying, I’ll just get another storage bin.  

Gee Whizz I need help. (:(:(:(:(:(: Smile-not really :):):):):):)  

Georgia

5.28.21

Sound Ship

 

Who would have known that the universe was a master composer! Synthesizing and blending the nature of the physical universe into a masterwork! In addition to all the beauty that nature presented in the bloom of a flower, the majestic colors of a sunset or the deep red color of a Red Giant Star, to find out that she could also compose music was an overwhelming surprise.

 

 The small, sleek, sturdy vehicle reminded me of a 20^th century Space Shuttle gutted and renovated to be made reminiscent of a cruise ship, with deep plush carpeting, large panoramic windows, extremely comfortable seats, that one melted into, and succulent delicious meals and beverages delivered by an accommodating staff of mind reading androids bringing passengers their desires with unspoken efficiency, even before they could be requested.

 

The cabin consisted of pairs of seats on either side of a wide expansive transparent aisle that passengers could stroll along and gaze at the heavens below their feet. The ceiling of the craft consisted of an arched window, the length of which extended the entire cabin, providing the viewer with the experience of being out in space and not huddled in a tin can. All the beauty of the universe enveloped the ship in sound made perceptible by a superior sound system that amplified the reverberations of the heavenly objects for the human ear. A wonderful symphony of spinning, streaking, shooting, exploding, popping, swirling, reverberating astronomical objects all performing their desired part with motions and trajectories like the spinning balls of a juggler in mid-air. The visitors were silent having been requested to remain quiet so that all aboard could enjoy the experience.

 

Cymbals crashed as Supernovas smashed

Piccolos tweeted as Radio Galaxies bleated

Trombones blurted as planets flirted

Binary Systems spun as harmonicas hummed

Steel Drums pounded as Comets sounded

Bass Drums boomed as Black Holes consumed

Volcanoes sizzled as violins fizzled

Interstellar gases became bloated as they quietly floated

 

The interstellar cacophony of sounds mingled, swirled and intertwined with the human souls bringing them to a place of peace and contentment. All the chaos and disorder of Earth was momentarily suspended and left behind by this eternal, acoustical, astronomical composition.

 

Jim

May 2021

THE REVELATION

 An important article of property in Momma’s home was her noodle board, or, as she called it in Yiddish  lukshen bret This was a flat, rectangular board, 3/4" thick, about 32" in width, and 24" in depth. There was affixed to one of the board's long sides a strip of wood about 2-1/2" in height facing downward so that when placed on a kitchen table, the board could not move forward. There was a similar piece of wood on, the other side, facing upward, which prevented ingredients being mixed on the board from spilling off. I doubt the board was purchased in a store. More likely, it was made by Joe Wishik, our mishpocheh, (family) (master carpenter. Both sides of the board were used by turning it over and reversing the front and back. This was necessary because Momma was Orthodox Jewish and one side was used for dairy and the other pareve (contain neither meat nor dairy). 

While the lukshen bret was used to make egg noodles, hence its name, it  was, more importantly, the culinary temple from which Momma's hands turned out her delicious cheese and raisin rogelach, strudel, honey and sponge cakes, hamantashen, challahs, apple pies and tsibale kichels (onion cookies). It was also used to make verenickes, known in Eastern European restaurants as pirogen or pierogis. These were small dough dumplings filled with either mashed potatoes and onions or blueberries, served either boiled or fried, and together with sour cream. The dough was made from flour and water, no eggs, flattened out on the lukshen bret by Momma using her rolling pin or, as she called it, valger-holtz. It was a time when glass and stemware and extra kitchen utensils were beyond our means and our drinking glasses were used Yahrzeit (memorial) glasses. These were not the small ones available today, but thick, sturdy glasses (I cannot recall ever seeing one break) with its open end having a diameter of about 4 inches. The open end was placed on the flattened dough, twisted, and produced a perfectly sized piece of flat, circular dough. The filling was spooned onto the dough, the edges folded over the filling and pinched closed. It was then boiled and eaten boiled or fried. 

Momma ultimately moved from Middle Village to Florida, but did return most summers and spent several weeks with my wife, Ethyl, and me. While visiting, she made good use of her sorely missed culinary skills. One day, while making verenickes, she suddenly

smiled with a broad grin (Momma did not easily smile, except in relation to her grand and great-grandchildren) and exclaimed, “That's how she did it!” “Who,” Momma was asked. “Bobba,” she replied, referring to my father's mother, the only grandparent who came to America and the only one we knew. Momma explained when Bobba lived with us she watched her make verenickes and observed Bobba with a quick hand motion was able to make a perfectly shaped verenicke. Despite for well over 50 years trying to duplicate her mother-in-law's hand movement, Momma was unable to do so. That is, until that one summer day in the twilight of her life when it was in some inexplicable manner revealed to her. Perhaps it was a loose string in her long life she wished tucked into place, or perhaps in anticipation of their meeting once again, it was Bobba's hand that guided Momma's.

Ben Haber

Sounds

           Dove coo              Peaceful sound, calming, inviting. 

Gun Range Shots         Like thunder through my heart. 

Train screech             Hold on to your stance, it’s getting windy. 

Cat Meow             Gentle, tender, beguiling. 

Meditation Music        Falling into a trance, centered. 

Rotating Fan           Air blown humming.  

Running Water           The murmur and burble of tap water over dirty dishes. 

Ocean Waves             Pounding, rumbling, roaring, crashing surf. 

Dishes                Rattling, clinks. 

Footsteps              Shuffle, stomp, tramp, slide. 

Traffic               Horns, siren, rumble of engines, screeching wheels.

Georgia P,

May 2021 

The Invasion

 

The day had dawned innocently enough with a bright, beautiful, cloudless, blue sky. A period of tranquility and peace had existed for some time now, but it was an uneasy peace. The Apple King as he was colloquially known, had been quietly content to spin his bizarre machinations in his seedy, twisted mind. He was rotten to the core slowly twisting his knurled roots into iron like knots.

 A changing of the guard was underway when the first volley arched across the sky from the direction of his kingdom. Enormous apples came crashing down on the walls of the castle breaking the masonry in their path. This Sorcerer King had through the use of spells and potions poisoned the water feeding his enormous apple orchards so that they could anthropomorphically pull up root and walk across the land in enormous strides, intent on destruction, as a result of the hateful propaganda that they had been infused with, replacing their water supply with hard cider and making them particularly ornery when they were denied their cocktails.

 Now they came dragging their imagined grievances along, intent on revenge, though for what reason they did not know. In mass the arboreal army of giants, came tearing up the green hills and pastures in their quest to destroy the kingdom and all who resided therein, like a row of plows tilling the earth. The smell of the raw earth combined with the revolting scent of apple cider vinegar permeated the nostrils. As they moved their huge limbs used the dexterity of their branches to pick the rotten apples from each other’s bows and hurl them at the unassuming innocents in the castle. Screams of panic could be heard from within the crumbling walls as bones snapped like dried twigs and bodies were buried under the rubble. Scared civilians ran through the streets searching for shelter as waterfalls of applesauce rolled down the walls and washed through the streets like lava escaping the wrath of a volcano…

 The shell of a hazel nut hit my nose followed by a second, as the squirrel in the tree above me calmly ate his breakfast on a quiet peaceful morning. I had slept the night away at the foot of a giant apple tree outside the medieval castle. My friends had indeed warned me as to the powerful effects of Angry Apple Cider, but I had dismissed them as an exaggeration. My head pounded incessantly and I would not make this mistake again. Plain apple juice would quench my thirst in the future.

 

Jim

May 2021

Apples Galore

 

Apples, apples everywhere

Climb up to pick the best ones

If you dare

No need at all for a chair

Find them on the ground

Or grab them from the low branches

We’re only here today, for one day

So pick all the apples you can

Take your chances

How many bags can you carry to the car?

Can we reserve an Uber?

Because walking we won’t get very far

Ellen G.

May 2021

Apples

 The fall season is not complete without apple picking. Even though my kids are adults we make the annual trip upstate New York to our usual tourist trap to pick apples. The best time of year to pick apples is the last two weeks of September to the first two weeks of October.  

The drive upstate is about an hour and a half, along the way the trees are noticeably changing colors. Gold, red, brown, burgundy, dark green leaves fall to the ground with every puff of wind. The trees are becoming bare and preparing for the winter sleep.  

Living in a big city it is not often we can visit an old farm and orchard; this farm has been in operation since 1898. From the literature the farm was a cattle farm then evolved to an agricultural farm.  

Arriving early, we pull into the two-acre free dirt parking lot. One time I drove over a bale of hay and got stuck, four burley farm hands came and lifted my car and removed the rouge hay bundle.  

We purchased the required bags and headed into the orchard with apples from common varieties like golden delicious to Rome to more unusual varieties like Opal and Ambrosia.  

We stick with the more common varieties like Granny Smith, Fuji, Gala, Red Delicious and golden.  

Twenty-five pounds is enough for us to carry. On our way to weigh and pay we stop at the vegetable stand for several pumpkins, corn and potatoes. After the vegetable stand, we head for the bakery. Apple cider donuts and apple butter and slices of apple pie with coffee and tea. Sugar overload is delicious.  

Weather worn from the fresh air we head back to the car and the drive home. We feel accomplished and content with our apple choices.  

At home I make apple juice, apple turnover, apple strudel (my favorite), apple with peanut butter for a snack, baked apples, mini apple pies, baked pork chops with apples.  The smell of apples and cinnamon and raisins, sugar and flour is a prelude to colder fall days sliding into winter. Pine trees, snow, hot chocolate, fireplaces, cozy blankets, sweaters, boots and upcoming holidays.  

As we finish fall and forget apple picking for another year, had enough apple everything, time will pass and once again we will be done with summer, looking forward again to our annual trek to our favorite upstate New York farm for apples.

Georgia P.

5.14.21

“The Gift of the Fairies.” (Alternative Prompt)

When I was very young and in my crib in my parents’ backyard, my earliest memory was that of colorful orbs flying around me, enchanting me.  They were a perfectly calming presence.  I did not cry. I was not afraid.  These colorful orbs were very pleasant, as they stayed near me for only a short while.  As I was a nice boy, raised to be respectful and helpful, somewhat cute (where did THAT go?), and jovial, I would suspect that the fairies in orb form bestowed upon me the following traits.  I possess, to this day, a certain light-heartedness, a not-too-serious air, and a great sense of humor, which has gotten me scolded not a few times.  My Dad, who worked for Pan American World Airways for 39 years, and my Mom, let the travel bug bite me at a young age.  And may the antidote never be administered!

   

   Later in my life, I continued to travel as an adult, having been to 18 countries and 42 states, and counting.  Funny, though, I have been to Red Square in Moscow, the Scottish Highlands, Pearl Harbor, The Bahamas, Banff, Alberta; Mount Etna in Sicily, Pike’s Peak in Colorado, Mount Marcy in upstate New York, and The Pyramids of Giza, but never to the Statue of Liberty. Go figure.  My love of life, travel, and history have invaded my being up to this very day. 

   

   Years later, my good Dad, having read a story I had written about our family Christmas outdoor nativity set, encouraged me to write my stories.  My siblings, of course, have other dynamic skill sets, whereas I, in my Dad’s eyes, was more creative and adventurous.  Well, my Dad passed in 2014, and my Mom in 2016, and they are sending blessings down to Donna and I every day, as everyone’s parents who went before them do.  It’s what Heaven is all about.  Help the unenlightened earth-bound to be more God-like in their ways and in how they treat their fellow humans.  Earth is a tough place, let me tell ya.  Then, maybe, God’s right hand will reach down, when it is your time, to pull you up to join all of your good people in Heaven.  If you don’t do well and respect and honor others on this world, you may, if you’re lucky, get a do-over as a wombat, or a cricket, or a hockey puck.

  

   Yes, Mom and Dad, I am writing, with the help of Donna and the good souls at Writing from the Heart.  The Fairies did me well.  When I grow up, I will be a published writer.  It could be anytime now.

   Did I ever tell you about the Summer of ’91?

 

Richard Melnick, May 12, 2021.

   

Helmut's Apple Strudel

 Every year since I was six years old my family would go to the Apple Festival at Mill Neck Manor on Long Island which was always held on Columbus Day weekend.   The Lutheran Friends of the Deaf purchased the estate and manor house in 1951 to turn it into a school for deaf children.  The festival was a fundraising event and my school encouraged their student’s families to support it.

 

The property sits on a very lush and hilly ground not far from Oyster Bay.  Almost every year from the time I went to first grade we’d get in Dad’s car and take a ride to buy apples and spend the day outdoors.  As soon as we got there my mom would purchase tickets because that’s the only way you could buy anything.  She’d buy a lot of apples and different varieties.  Dad would always say “Elsa that’s enough” and she’d just fill up the little red wagon to overflowing as if he hadn’t uttered a word.   When she was done buying apples, one of the students always helped to wheel the wagon to the car and load the trunk.  She was always appreciative and tipped generously prompting Dad again “Elsa that’s too much.”    Mom would just respond, “Oh Louie” with a hint of a chuckle.  

 

Once that mission had been accomplished, we’d have a glass of frothy apple cider in exchange for some more of those tickets.  Then I’d join in the game of rolling down the hill from the top where the Manor house sat to the bottom until somebody eventually dragged me away.  By that time, my parents had bumped into family and friends, so we’d head over to the wooden tables and benches where we’d eat and drink for an hour or two.  

 

The tickets now made their purchasing power ever stronger.  Everyone got a few tickets and got on the lines for all kinds of yummy food:  fresh corn on the cob, big soft pretzels with salt, bratwurst and hamburgers.  Sitting under blue or cloudy skies it didn’t much matter when we were together sharing food and fun.  Beer and singing greatly added to the laughter and merrymaking of the afternoon.  

 

I cannot fail to mention and give high praise to Helmut’s Strudel.  They brought portable ovens that churned out racks of Apple and Cheese strudel too hot, flaky and delicious to resist.  Not only did we have some for dessert and to drink a nice cup of coffee, but my family always took some home for the next day.   Once the air got a little too chilly, we’d say good-bye to the gang and head over to the car.  It was a stroll full of last-minute farewells and hastily made plans for a future gathering.  The ride home was spent looking out the window and admiring colorful leaves on the trees.  All the while he drove on the expressway the October Sun was hitting him in the eyes, but he never wore sunglasses, just lowered the visor and complained a little.  

 

Up until last year, some of my family and I were still enjoying that annual festival.  Watching younger generations frolicking while the last of my parent’s generation lingered over the strudel and coffee felt good.  Following in my Mom’s footsteps by getting enough apples to be able to give them to friends and neighbors brought me joy as I shared some moments recalling and recounting bits and pieces of the day.  Instead of focusing on how sad it would be if this yearly tradition and outing now belongs to the past, I am going to cherish the smiles and laughter of those who came together to enjoy a harvest of way more apples than any one person could ever eat. 

Yvonne A.

May 2021

 

Watercolor

   Instructor's Note:

Here is a great theme for us: looking to art, and specifically painting, for guidance as to how to look at what is around us, things which we often pass by as not worthy of our own art.

This watercolor painting of the village where my mother was born hung on the wall of our dinette for years. I would unconsciously daydream whenever I sat at the table in the chair facing it. I always imagined myself walking up that path on a warm afternoon with a cool gentle breeze blowing through my hair.

Stipes moving at different angles blend shades in the colors of wine grapes and grape leaves without actually depicting them. Once beyond those terraces, the color abruptly begins to evaporate in the distance until it’s nothing but a suggestion of cloudy sky. If it weren’t for the tall thin steeple, would you ever guess that this route leads to the village?

The artist’s father had been the pastor of the tiny village church when my grandmother and this artist were still children. He later left to study art and began his career as an illustrator for newspapers and magazines. Every so often he’d visit this tiny village and friends from childhood. He and my grandmother remained friends until his death in 1960.

His painting now hangs in my bedroom where I love to gaze up at it very often. The last time I was there was July of 2018. It was still as picturesque as ever and the grapes still produce very fine wines.

Yvonne A.

May 2021

Mama

 If I had known how much pain losing you would cause me, would I have loved you any less?  No, that was not possible since my love for you began before I drew my first breath.  You were my dwelling and provided for all my needs before I ever knew what they were.

 

Your voice, so sultry, vibrated in delicious harmony.  Its kindling quality and lulling tempo must have been so soothing.  I was cloaked in satiny silk and the mere rhythm of your breath wooed me.  I emerged cleaving to you and searching for your breast.  You nursed me joyfully and wondrously.  Then in the fullness of time, I did gratefully and mournfully nurse you too. 

Yvonne A.

May 2021

Renascence

  Instructor's Note:

Here is a great theme for us: looking to art, and specifically painting, for guidance as to how to look at what is around us, things which we often pass by as not worthy of our own art.

Unencumbered, uninterested, unmasked

Undertow

Regurgitation?

No

Regeneration!

Tom

5.9.2021

Response: “A Moment Of Tranquility,” a painting by Lucie Bilodeau

 Instructor's Note:

Here is a great theme for us: looking to art, and specifically painting, for guidance as to how to look at what is around us, things which we often pass by as not worthy of our own art.

When I look at this painting, I can feel the crisp, cool air on my skin. It gently whispers on my not unpleasant goosebumps. I can smell the salty sea all around me, inhaling the calm. I can hear seagulls calling to each other as friends do. I can feel the wet, clumpy sand under my feet and between my toes.

And when I finally open my eyes, I breathe deeply. I am home. When I’m here, all my worries and pain and disappointment fade into the background, just out of reach. While not eliminated or forgotten, they take a step back so that I can take a step forward. I get a reprieve for just a little while. And it feels amazing.

Jessica

May 2021

The Other Colors in A Snowstorm

Instructor's Note (Scripturient assignment week of Apr 23):

April 29th has been designated "National Poem in your Pocket Day".  It's a day meant to celebrate. Share a short poem that you love and briefly explain why you love it.

Richard Vetere is a native of Maspeth. He is living and I’ve been blessed to know him much of my adult life. He’s not only a poet but he writes screenplays, teleplays, novels and is a devoted playwright and teacher. He recently received an award from the Beverly Hills Film Festival for Best Screenplay titled Caravaggio. This poem was published by Bordighera Press; It made me see snow in a different way,  not just the white stuff I’m trudging through to get to the bus stop, but the entire landscape of colors in the surrounding area. I’ll be honest I’m not a fan of snow. This is a good poem to usher out the winter.

Lisa B.

April 2021 

Orange is a lit window in the dark

or a rooftop on the other side of the sky.

The colorless sound of a dog’s bark

or an oriole on a branch before it flies.

There’s a fireplace glowing on the hill

where imagined strangers sit around and talk.

I was one of them once, a long time ago,

standing at an open door, watching it snow.

 

Blue is the snow on the fields at night

and the cars on the highway passing by,

and the color of your eye when you flash on a light

and the moon rising in the sky.

I never see much red in the winter months

except for the sun rising above my bed.

Can you feel the wind as you dream?

Does it matter what all the colors mean?

 

White is the darkness that never goes away

stretching to the horizon in the middle of the night.

White is the glare of a thousand years of day

burning with the illusion of a warm, lingering light.

I remember you laughing as we lay in the snow

helpless as the world tilted for an afternoon.

What are the other colors in a snowstorm?

What moments do we choose to shed, or to mourn?

 

The rainbow lives in a driving wind

though everyone else is tucked away safe inside.

You were once right here, where it all began,

waiting for your clothes as they dried.

I wonder who else sees only the snow

blasting through the heavy, angry air?

What separated you from me, and everything else?

Where do all the colors go, after all the colors melt? 

Friend or Foe

Open the front door.

He’s watching and waiting.

He’s staring

His thought balloon is telling me,

Hey! Feed me!

You can’t touch me.

I don’t trust you.

But, I trust you will fill 

My white paper plate.

I’m the mischievous meower.

I’m the alpha.

I got rid of all my competition,

The two others know they should stay away.

I’m the triumphant tabby 

I’m your not so friendly feral feline.

Hey! Feed me!

Ethyl Haber

May 2021