Epiphany

 I had an epiphany regarding my upcoming birthday in September 2021. 

I am not getting any younger and I have personal aspirations yet to be done.  

To stop myself from being depressed and sad I decided to make a list of some of those aspirations. 

1. Showing my art and writing to the world which is tough for me because I am a private person. So I will chip away at using social media for this purpose. 
2. Keep peace in my life which I do ninety percent of the time.  
3. Whomever I spend time with I will make quality time. 
4. Be a minimalist – just touching the surface of my hoarding tendencies.  
5. Eliminate people, places and things that don’t resonate anymore.  

I think that’s enough to keep me busy for at least a bunch of years. 

No time line here, no judgment, no pressure, just enjoyment.   

Georgia

7/2021

Can A Disappointment Be Positive?

While a student in law school, I had a part time job after school in law office located on John Street in Manhattan. It was a small firm that specialized in handling cases involving insurance companies and litigation. I was accepted in the law firm as a employee after I concluded law school and took and passed the Bar examination. At some point the two members  of the firm had a disagreement and separated. I remained in the firm believing at some point I may become a partner. It turned out it was I who handled most of the insurance and litigation cases. One year my employer had a heart attack. It was not severe, but he was required to have bed rest at his home for about a week. In his absence I ran the firm without any problems,. He  did not live far from where I lived, and at the end of the day I would stop at his home advising him  how well the office was being handled in his absence. One day recognizing I had been with him for close to ten years, I raised the question of a partnership for me, without suggesting to what the extent should be. I was given an affirmative answer and told  he would give thought and work it out the near future.

     In the near future I was given a negative answer. It turned out he did not want to have any partner, just an employee. It became the time for me to consider a change. John Street was the local for a number of law firms dealing with insurance matters. I knew all those other lawyers and knew if I wanted a job with any of them, I would be given one. I did not want just a another job and since I was known in the field, I decided the time had come for me to pursue my own practice.

     It was risky, particularly since I had a wife who at the time was on leave from her school teaching job to care for our two small children. But off I went and for the full year, it was difficult.

Shortly thereafter, it took off without stopping for close to fifty years. I became  well known in my field for insurance and litigation law. My fifty year experience was a legal and financial success,

far greater than anything I would have had in the other law firm even as a partner.  

      I look back to the time I had been told by my then employer a partnership was a possibility, some thing that did not occur. Was it a disappointment?  In view of my success in my own legal practice, the disappointment in not becoming a partner turned out to be a BONUS. 

Ben Haber 

A Lasting Impression

 It was a warm bright sunny day in Spring. On my April birthday, I had turned fourteen.There was a neighborhood city fair in the Bronx and although we certainly had no money for the rides and treats, my friend and I looked forward to strolling around and enjoying this annual event. I was particularly excited about modeling my new clothes. My mother, an amazing seamstress had made me a beautiful red and white striped cotton dress. Edged around the square neckline was a short white ruffle. Four white pearl buttons met the gathered dropped waistline. I had seen the exact dress in a woman’s clothing store on Southern Boulevard and had copied it in my small notebook. Momma reproduced an exact duplicate on her Singer treadle sewing machine. I also had new white sling back big girl shoes. I felt as beautiful as the beauty of that cloudless day. 

So off to the fair my friend Bea and I went. While she had strolled away, a very cute boy, who looked around sixteen approached me. He seemed to have a smile on his face when he flirtatiously asked me if I wanted to go on the Carousel. I was very flattered and promptly replied, “Yes, sure.” He responded with a smirk and a sneer, said, “Good luck” and slid away. What I naively thought was friendliness, was viciousness, malice and hostility. The belligerent bully could now boast to his friends. 

I was totally humiliated. Dark clouds seemed to block out the sunshine as I walked home and cried.

Ethyl Haber

Animals and Music

 Zoomusicology is a field of musicology and zoology that is the study of the music of animals and how animals react to music. (Wikipedia) 

Throughout history various composers have evoked or imitated animal sounds such as Jean-Philippe Rameau’s “The Hen” 1728), Camille Saint-Saens “Carnival of Animals (1886) George Crumb’s “Vox Balaenae (Voice of the Whale) 1971 just to name a few. (Wikipedia) 

Many animal lovers assume that if we like rock and roll or jazz or oldies then our pets must like the same kind of music we like. Not so.  

David Teie a composer and Charles Snowdon a primate communication researcher had an idea to see how music affects animals.  

According to a Live Science article researchers Snowdon and Teie found “Humans like music that falls within our acoustic and vocal range, (music that) uses tones we understand and progresses at a tempo similar to that of our heartbeats. A tune pitched too high or low sounds grating or ungraspable and much too fast or slow is unrecognizable as such.” 

The same applies to animals. Our beloved pets can’t stand our music mostly.  

Snowdon and Teie created music that falls within the ranges of certain animals.  

Cats, according to Snowdon, don’t care for music for the most part but it seems that young and old cats like the cat specific music that the researchers created, middle aged cats don’t care for any music.  

Dogs are a different issue because there are so many different breeds and many types of music would have to be created. In 2012 a study published in the Journal of Veterinary Behavior played classical music, heavy metal and alternate classical (whatever that is) and they found that the dogs calmed down while listening to classical.  

In 2001 researches at the University of Leicester played different kinds of music for 9 weeks to 1000 milk cows. The results were the more calming the music the better the yield of milk.  

In 2013 in a published journal Behavioral Processes reveal that gold fish can be trained to tell the difference between Bach and Stravinsky.  

There is one more issue that affects animals; they don’t know the difference between absolute perfect pitch and relative pitch. Absolute perfect pitch aka perfect pitch is “the rare ability to identify or recreate a musical note without the benefit of a reference note” (Wikipedia). Relative pitch “the ability to identify or recreate a given musical not by comparing it to a reference not and identifying the interval between those two notes (Wikipedia).  

Because we love our pets there is now species-specific music however it seems that animals do have good absolute pitch but don’t have relative pitch. If a tune’s notes are transposed from a tune they already know the tune will not be recognized.  

Consequently, animals and humans understand music differently.  

Next time you are tempted to blast Black Sabbath for your pet while you are at work, don’t do that, instead go on line and find out what new species-specific music is available for your pup, kitty, fish, elephant, monkey, spider, snake and so on.  

Georgia

7.2021

An Important Piece of Real Estate

As a youngster growing up in Middle Village during the 1930's one of the most important pieces of real estate in the community was situated at the corner of 68th Avenue and 78thStreet, opposite Dave Leblang's drug store. It was not a youth center. It was not a medical facility. It was not a mall; indeed it had no stores. It was not a park, had no benches and little or no vegetation. Yet, it was important and like other well known real estate: The Empire State Building, The White House, The Taj Mahal, its importance was graced with a name. It was called “The Lots.” It was an empty piece of land probably saved at the time from development by the Depression. I don't know how it came to be called “The Lots,” but in retrospect perhaps it simply was a real estate developer's term for a tract of land large enough to be subdivided. In any case “The Lots” it was. It was not fenced in and at a time when the playground at 68th Road and 79th Street had not as yet been built, it was open space and available to the children of the neighborhood for whatever use their imaginations conjured up. 

It was a large area, the outer perimeter flat perhaps 10 feet in width and the center bowl-shaped. Its use encompassed several seasons. Post Christmas it was the place where discarded Christmas trees were taken and dispatched in a blaze of fire and flying sparks. When it snowed, smaller children used the bowl-shaped area for sledding. In the spring it was the place where small fires were made and potatoes called mickies (why that name I don't know) were baked or more accurately turned into charcoal. During the summer months the flat area was used for a marble game called “Banker's Broker,” a forerunner of the Atlantic City games of chance. In this game anyone who had a large quantity of marbles could go into business. He (I don't recallgirls ever playing this game) dug a shallow hole and positioned himself behind it. He was known as the Banker. If you wished to play the game you took a handful of your marbles, held them in clasped hands, knelt on the ground about 3 feet from the hole and threw the marbles at the hole. When they stopped rolling the Banker took all those that had not rolled into the hole, neatly gathered them together and placed them off to the side. The marbles in the hole were then removed and counted and if the count was an even number, it meant the Banker lost and was required to pay you an amount of marbles that equaled all those thrown including those that had not rolled into the hole. If the count was an odd number, you lost and the Banker kept all those thrown. Another summer game was called "Land.” All you needed was a pocket knife and several players. A square was etched on the surface of the earth and after choosing who went first, the blade was pulled open and the knife thrown towards the square. If it did not land upright and inside the square, the next player threw the knife. Once it did land correctly, a line was drawn from the point of penetration to both sides of the square so that a subdivision was made. The knife was thrown again and if it landed upright within the perimeters of a subdivided area another subdivision was made. The point to the game was to make the subdivisions ever smaller so that ultimately, unless you were really good at it, it was not possible to land upright in the smallest area. The person who last threw the knife correctly was declared the winner.  

“The Lots” had no garbage but it was a treasure trove of trash, notably large and small cans, bottles, boxes of all sorts and sizes and scraps of lumber. A game called “War” involved picking up all the trash and by placing it on top and alongside each other a fort was constructed. There were two groups, the attackers and the defenders. If the former succeeded in causing the fort to topple over, it was rebuilt and the roles of the groups reversed. At a time when most of us had few if any toys, little or no money, no television, it didn't really matter because we did have “The Lots.”

Ben Haber 

A MOMENT IN TIME GRUDGINGLY LEFT BEHIND

 

The ten, fat, white, wriggling little round worms packed close together in two groups of five near their mossy logs as we nibbled and poked at them. Curious little beings, they unflinchingly repelled our advances, with their calloused exoskeletal armor. They were unyielding and unimpressed by the considerable numbers in our school. Superfluous to our existence they congregated in their little groups.

Suddenly they were lifted up clinging to the massive mossy log that arched out of the water and came crashing down again. Then the other log with the other five worms in tow took its turn alternatively arching into the sun and crashing down again on the surface of the previously placid lake. We for our part swam away in panic and shock frightened by this sudden unexpected display from the pair of logs floating around the serene Adirondack Lake on a quiet weekday afternoon, that had come to life!

Mr. Turtle was quite unimpressed by this nonsense and unsightly hullabaloo, having warned the school to stay away from the fat white worms and the round black doughnut that had at some point earlier waded into our quiet backwater home. He smirked at us now laughing quietly to himself at our inexperience and naïveté, knowing from personal encounters how dangerous and evil the humans could be. “Why just for fun the small ones might roll you on your back,” he said to himself. It was a shame but they would learn the hard way, after their numbers were thinned out by the malevolent human. He had become hardened by a long life and now curled up into his shell to bask in the sun and wait to say his “I told you-so’s.”

Long white worms now combed through the water as if they were looking for something, pushing the water away while the logs kicked up and down and the doughnut moved away at a rapid pace through the cerulean blue water piling up on itself and swirling in little whirlpools of white water. The air smelled of pine cones which inhabited the many trees encroaching on the lake bending towards the water as if to take a drink. Needles floated in the water but they were not good to eat.

It was a beautiful quiet early afternoon on Indian Lake, and I was glad that I had inflated the old truck innertube in town after picking up some supplies at the local General Store.Lashing a six pack of Budweiser Tall Boys over the right side of the comfortable innertube through the clear plastic rings and down into the deep cool waters below the surface which would serve as a refrigeration system and a covered bucket for fish over the left side, I waded away from shore. Dead soldiers would be returned to their round plastic berths when empty. A pack of cigars sat basking in the sun on the left surface of the vessel with a book of matches tucked into the plastic box covering to avoid getting them wet like a small child tucked into bed for the night. An old Dixie cup, a quarter filled with water served as a weighted ashtray on my right front side. Occasionally a Dining Needle, one of those prehistoric aviators of the distant past, would fly reconnaissance over me then dart away. Fish were nibbling at my toes and it tickled. This reminded me that it was time to pull out my drop line and moisten the bread I had brought for the purpose, rolling the bread into small balls and threading one on my hook and dropping it over the side to procure my dinner.

With hardly a cloud in the sky, a breeze would occasionally push me along using my back as a sail, and delivering me to unseen lands around the next turn in the lake. Geese and Cranes flew overhead. Finally annoyed at the school fish, I kicked my legs up and down to scare them away thereby calling for a recess. I felt a tug on the line and what turned out to be a Yellow Perch took my line and proceeded to tow me through the lake for a little while until his burden became too much for him. Fighting and splattering me with water he protested as he was dropped into the covered pail of water as I would have if our roles were reversed. It was a curious experience to be towed around by one’s dinner. A Rock Bass was the next challenger who fought for a while trying to cut the line on the course rocks that he called home. He also eventually succumbed covered in his camouflage that he used to hide in plain sight. He was introduced to the Perch and they swam around each other unhappy with the accommodations. A few fat sunfish were also harvested to make small but tasty fillets.

The lake that day was a picture perfect postcard. With a tasty cigar to my lips and a thirst quenching ice cold beer in my hand floating around a lake that I had all to myself, aimlessly drifting at the mercy of the four winds on a beautiful weekday afternoon this was truly a time and place that I would regret leaving and an experience I did not want to end.

 

Jim

July 2021

I Never Want to Leave Here

 

The little town of Inksville, NY is virtually invisible. It is not on Google maps either. Nestled between Scottsville, NY and Old Engle’s, NY this town is charming with plenty of things to do.  

Seasonal joys like apple festivals, antique car shows, parades, mountain views and plenty of nature walks to help disconnect from the world.  
Tucked away are fishing holes, cascading waterfalls, hiking trails, corn mazes and just born pumpkins.  

My friends and I would go there every summer for one week, as nature lovers Inksville was home.  

I would steal time away from the group and sip tea on the wrap around porch of our rented cabin. Wind gently moving through the summer canopy was hypnotizing. The mountains were just visible through the lush trees. I became grounded and centered and alive with the energy that Mother Nature provided. I never want to leave here. Never.   
Without telling anyone I rented the same cabin in the winter. The mountains were iced over and bone white. The sky was a piercing blue. Christmas decorated the entire nearby town.  

It was too cold to go hiking or fishing but driving the scenic route worked perfectly. Tall, slender trees, seemingly uninhabited woods, extremely remote forests and an occasional baby bear.   

Up and down the roads etched into the side of the local mountain was enough to remind me that I never want to leave here. Never.  
I would miss the pine trees and hooting owls and wolverines carrying goat heads. Shelters cleverly created by the creatures living there. Deer so brave that they are not disturbed by my presence. 

I can think clearly here, I am in the presence of the supernatural, the woodland gods and goddesses. They bless me as I move through their world. I am always welcome to stay, they like the company. 

As I pack to leave and go back to m

y regular routine, I am sad and am reminded that I never want to leave here. Never.   
I will remember this place that is always beautiful and odd and sublime and rugged.  
I will come back as often as I can and take pictures and I will recall in my mind’s eye Inksville, NY. I will come back again, as long as I can. Always.

Georgia P.

A Favorite Place

 

Virginia Woolf  has “A Room of Her Own.” I too have a room of my own; it is my sunporch. During the early Spring, Summer and early Fall, my sunporch is my favorite place of solitude. I happily retire to this part of the house with a book, a pencil, a craft project or just a place  to close my eyes and rest. 

The porch is upstairs, outside my bedroom. It is screened in on three sides. The screens are frames for the verdant view of the tops of the many maple trees surrounding the side of the house.

The view on the porch also opens a rainbow of colors: blue sky, green trees, our Japanese red maple, yellow cushions, white painted walls and even a sometimes orange sunset. 

Sounds abound in a pleasant way. The chattering and giggling girls playing on the next-door trampoline. The repetitive tune of the Good Humor ice cream truck. Most welcome of all is the medley of birds chirping tunes and the sound of gentle raindrops on the roof.

The furniture on the porch is all white painted wicker.  When we purchased the items, they were a rusty red color. We found the advertisement for the pieces in a Penny Saver brochure that was once available in your local candy store. It described the four wicker pieces: a couch, rocking chair, club chair ,table and 5 cushions for $50. We raced over and pleased the owners with a quick purchase affording them the chance to replace this “old stuff” with modern formica and aluminum motel style furniture

I have loved all this “old stuff” for the sixty years they sit on my porch. With my skill, I have covered the original cushions, welting, zippers and all with beautiful yellow patterned chintz. The only recent addition is a thrift store lamp with a base shaped as a large vertical standing pencil with the point facing upward. Perhaps this pencil base is a symbol for the writing I will be doing on this porch as I put down these words  about  A Favorite Place. 

Ethyl Haber

July 2021

Grandma

 My son is scanning my family photographs to put them in my computer family archive. This is when I remind myself of my grandmother. She is in the only picture I have of her. This is a professionally taken photo of the Breslof family, my mother’s family. Grandma is grey; grey hair; grey dress; ashen grey face. I’m an infant in that photo, stretched out on an open diaper on my mother’s lap. It was probably before plastic was used to keep the diaper from leaking. Who is this grey haired old lady seated in the center, the most prominent position? She may have been 40 years old, but looks 400. I don’t remember her even though she lived with us. Grandmothers are supposed to hold you in their arms. Grandmothers are supposed to sit in a rocking chair with you on their lap. Grandmothers are supposed to teach you Yiddish (the only language she spoke). All I remember about this grandma in the photograph is that I killed her.

Did I shoot her dead? Did I stab her with a Knife? Did I push her off a cliff?  No!! My mother told me I was a naughty four year old. She ran after me while minding me, fell and died. Maybe she tripped on a crack on the sidewalk. Maybe, her shoe was loose. Maybe, Shavy pushed her. Remember Shavy, my best friend who lived next apartment. I When we had a fight, I used to chant, “Shitty Shavy, You’re a baby.”Maybe, she pushed her! Who knows?? Where did grandma sleep? Where did Grandma eat? I have no memories of grandma except for that Breslof photo and the painful memory of my mother scolding me and saying, “You killed grandma.”

Ethyl H 

Hamlet Horror

   Instructor Note:

Write the first paragraph of an original detective story.  Be sure to lard it as best you can with graphic and interesting details that will make the reader want to read on and learn more.

The Hamptons on Long Island, New York is a very popular place for people to buy, rent, or spend some time at a hotel or motel during the summer months. The beaches are beautiful and clean. The ocean water, on a good day, is clear right to the bottom and you can see many small fish swimming around you. Everyone is so happy and relaxed in The Hamptons, spending days at the beach and nights eating at the finest restaurants or barbequing with family and friends. Crime is rarely thought of……

There is a cozy hamlet within the boundaries of Southampton called Roses Grove. Many local people live in this area and the summer visitors are sometimes fortunate enough to rent one of the houses during the summer. Everyone knows everyone at least by sight.

My husband, son and I are considered locals as we had purchased a house in Roses Grove about ten years prior. We were always having weekend get togethers, along with sleepovers at our house. In addition, since our son is an only child, we always invited at least one of his friends to stay over for the weekend. It was during one of these weekend sleepovers, that the most terrifying event took place and it still remains a mystery till this day!

It was after a fun-filled day at the beach with family and friends. It was also after having a delicious, more than enough food, bbq at our house. The last guests had left and only my son, his friend Tom, my husband and I were in the house. My husband and I decided to call it a night and made our way to the bedroom to catch a good night’s sleep. Anthony and Tom had decided to stay up and watch a movie. All was quiet and good until all of a sudden the most blood-curdling scream made me bolt up in the bed with a feeling of overwhelming fear. I immediately woke my husband and we both ran toward the living room to check on the boys. The thoughts I had in my head were unthinkable. Someone must have gotten into the house and harmed

Anthony and Tom. What a relief it was when we found them both sound asleep and unharmed. But there it was again, the scream of terror! It sounded like it was coming from the back of the house where the woods were.

We ran and stood on the back deck. The screaming didn’t let up. I thought it might be a child lost in the woods and totally terrified. My husband and I got a big flash light and shone it into the woods saying, “Come towards the light, follow the light. It’s okay.” While my husband kept this up, I immediately dialed 911 because we desperately needed some help and possibly, protection.

The police didn’t take long to get to us, I’m guessing, maybe 10 minutes. All this time while we were trying to figure things out and waiting for the police the screaming didn’t stop. It was one of the most horrible screams I ever heard.

Now, here is one of the mysteries of all this. As soon as we could see the head lights of the police car coming along the road, the screaming stopped. Dead silence! I was shaking both on the inside and outside. I was so distressed. My husband and the police officer walked through the entire area of woods, searching for anyone who could have been screaming in terror like that. They didn’t find a soul. They did find some melting ice that looked like it could have been dumped from a cooler but that was all.

After the policeman left and everyone went back to bed, of course, I couldn’t sleep a wink. That’s when I started the detective work in my head. I questioned many things about what just had happened. Was a child kidnapped and dragged to the woods? Did someone see the police car and drag the child away. Will we hear about a missing child on the news in the morning? If I check the local papers from now till the end of the summer, will I find an article about a terrible crime involving a child in the area?

That night of the screams stayed with me for a very long time. I did check every newspaper, listened to local radio news stations, asked the local people I knew in Roses Grove if they heard anything that night or read

about an incident. I even questioned some of the local store owners and construction workers but came up cold.

I will never know what really happened that dark summer night but I do know that when I remember the sound of those screams, I still get a knot of fear in my stomach.

Ellen G.

In Wounded New York City

 Yellow, a color you hate:

 

When I am drinking my coffee at Starbucks,

You yell "slanted eyes, go back to your country!"

 

When I am walking on the street

You throw me to the ground and fatally kick my head

 

When I am on my way to get groceries”

You punch my head and crack my eyes

 

When I am heading to work

You use a box cutter to slash across my face

 

When I am taking my dog to the park

You stab me and cause me critical injury

 

When I am getting into the subway station

You push me down the stairs same spot twice

 

When I am waiting for the train

You push me down to the track in front of my little child

 

When I am getting into the subway car

You set fire to my backpack and burn my hair

 

When I am sitting in the subway car

You punch my head thirty times and choke me till I fall into a coma—and die in the ICU

 

When I am strolling in my neighborhood

You call me chink and stab me in the back

 

When I am talking to my friends at the street corner

You drive by and shoot me in the chest, with racial slur

When I am waiting for my train at Penn Station

You yell racial slurs and threaten to kill me

 

When I am struggling with my dying small business

You come in to assault my customers with hate remarks

 

When I wait for a cab after late work

You make a racial curse and stab me in the back, many times

 

When I am getting across the road,

You drive fast to hit me and others on the street

 

When I am heading to my working place,

You stabbed me in my chest with a racial slur

 

When I am serving a customer in my convenient store,

You walk in to fight me and stab me in my chest and my neck

 

When I am driving home,

You drag me out and run off with my baby in the car

 

(…hate crime continues without border…)

 

(…hate crime continues without border…)

 

(…hate crime continues without border…)

 

You feel entitled to insult, assault and kill me in the open public

Just because I have a “yellow” face

 

While I am an ordinary citizen doing an ordinary job,

You are the virus permeating the yellow hate

 

In wounded New York City!

 

Siu P