Crossing the Fragile Boundary

 

You alone, slowly walk 

Through a revolving door

To your past in a frozen time

You mumble, you talk 

With the invisibles

You alone, cross the fragile

Boundary of space and time

Where you revive the history 

Of your childhood moments

One at a time

You come back lonely, to 

The present side of space and time

You get confused as if you

Just landed on the moon in July

You feel embarrassed, of

Not knowing who we are

You are puzzled by our relationships 

Feeling so real

Yet now that all are hidden in a vague profile

Locked in your broken storage in mind

The daily reality may flash only for seconds

Then seconds, minutes, hours just gone too fast

It is a dilemma to go tug of war with your

Constantly gazing over the gate to

Another zone of time                               

At the fragile boundary of time and space 

You feel ambivalent about letting go or 

Indulging in your long lost time 

You wish to focus on the moment and

Who's speaking with you at the time

We are together for the here and now

S.P. Ma

Sep 2020 

A Basic Training Epiphany

 

We were about a third of the way through basic training at Ft. Dix, New Jersey. I was engaged in the usual evening chores when one of my fellow trainees from the other end of our dormitory style barracks approached me. I had been aware of him since the start of basic, but had never interacted with him. He had a boyish face made to look even more youthful by his army crew cut, and like me was just out of high school. After introducing himself and briefly exchanging pleasantries, he got serious.

            “There is something I would like to tell you,” he said with a sincere Appalachian accent. “I’m sharing this with you because you seem like the kind of guy who will understand.” He proceeded to tell me that he was from a rural area of Kentucky where close knit church going neighbors knew each other by name. He had married his one and only girlfriend when he was seventeen and she was just thirteen. He had already shared this bit of personal information with others in the barracks and they had turned it into a laughing matter filled with derogatory insults and accusations. His feelings were clearly hurt. Without asking, I knew right away which guys he had naively revealed such sensitive personal details to.

            We were a racially and geographically mixed group including a newly naturalized U.S. citizen, a native of Hungary in his mid-thirties. Talk about a fish out of water! There were a few very decent guys, a few that were hard to gauge, and a small handful of bombastic “low life” types that you knew you couldn’t trust. They chided others with childish put-downs, used profanity like it was going out of style, and habitually made crude remarks about the opposite sex. One even stole a camera from my locker. A cheap instamatic camera! Who would stoop so low? These were the guys. No mistake about it.

            My immediate thought was that seventeen was indeed a rather young age for marriage. And thirteen was way too young. However, I knew even then that this sort of thing was not unheard of in some parts of the U.S., so I tried not to openly pass judgement. They had their parents and church community to fall back on and that was a plus. Still, I knew in my gut that it was too early in life for these two to be wed, especially a girl of junior high school age. My reference was my own parents. My father was 29, a high school graduate, employed with a trade and union membership, and nearly a decade removed from his World War II service when he married my mother. She was 31 and also employed.

            My platoonmate went on to confide in me that he and his young bride had had intimate relations on only one occasion before deciding to refrain from doing so any further until she was older and finished with school. He almost seemed apologetic. Like he was making a confession and seeking a pastor’s advice. He also expressed concerns about getting through basic and felt that were it not for his religious faith he would not have made it this far.

            I should have taken it as a compliment that this country boy from Kentucky would turn to me, a city boy from New York for guidance. There were others in our platoon and company from rural areas who probably had more in common with him, and yet he chose me. Heaven knows, I could have used a bit of moral support myself. There was one drill sergeant who had it in for me. The drill sergeants zeroed in on one or two trainees whom they deemed lackadaisical or physically lacking, for a harassment campaign. One guy from Wisconsin quit about half way through. Another from L.A. left base on a 24-hour pass and never returned. I was not in their category. I did everything I was supposed to do, and in some instances out-performed many others. My field gear was old and starting to fall apart, but I never complained. Not once. Drill Sergeant N.  gave me a hard time and I could never figure out why. Maybe it was because I was headed to the Army Security Agency as opposed to a traditional combat or combat support outfit. Maybe he just expected more of me. I don’t know.

            Anyway, I failed to empathize with this young Kentuckian. I was too wrapped up in my own dilemma. A little acceptance and reassurance are all he really needed. It was a mistake on my part. We could have been friends too, at least for the duration of basic. We were both honest young men just starting out and a good buddy could have made basic training just a little bit easier. I know full well that we can not go back in time to redo the past, but if I could I know what I would say to my platoonmate from Kentucky. Without lecturing him, I would be honest and not hide my misgivings about early marriage. Although I had never had a high school sweetheart, I would try to see it from his perspective. I’d tell him that what matters most is that they are kind and respectful of one another. Share responsibilities and have fun together. I should have spoken along these lines. I believe it would have made a positive difference- for us both.

Steven L. Thomaschek

A Poem, Story and Work of Art

 

  When as a teenager, I found out about the Holocaust and the death of relatives, I wrote the following poem:

                              Aunts, uncles, cousins, some old many young

                              Fuel for the smokestacks belching death.

                              I never saw them, nor shall I never.

     I retired after practicing law for over 50 years. and became interested in sculpting, during the course of which, I recalled the poem I had written as a teenager. I gave thought to determine if there was any way my poem could be made into a sculpture. I Then decided to begin to work on a sculpture. not knowing it  would it embrace the meaning of my poem. 

     I worked on the piece for almost one year, and much to my amateurish surprise, the completed piece turned out so professional it has been exhibited in an American Medallic Sculpture Exhibit and in both The Harriet and Kenneth Holocaust Resource Center and Archives on the premises of Queensborough Community College in Bayside, Queens, New York and The Holocaust Memorial and Educational Center of Nassau County. .

     The piece itself depicts a woman wearing a babushka commonly worn by women in small Eastern European villages. She is clothed in rags with the Star of David on her clothing. On her right side  there is  a large Star of David with the word Jude, the Nazi word for Jew. The piece has areas that depict the stones of the Jerusalem wailing wall and represents the survival of Judaism. Inscribed in the piece is my poem. When one looks at my sculpture, it appears the women is looking at the viewer and speaking, perhaps reciting the poem. 

     I called the piece MIshpoceh, the Yiddish word for relatives. I did not call it My Mishpoceh, because I intended all who looked at it, could relate to it as their own Holocaust relatives, be they Jewish, other religions, mentally and physically impaired persons, gay people and those politically opposed to the Nazis.

    Attached is a photograph of the sculpture. I hope the sensitivity of it confronts the ugliness of the Holocaust. 

                                                                                                              Ben Haber

Broken English

 

I have a bunch of Chinese and Vietnamese female friends and we get together about once a month.  

They are lovely and kind and sweet and I am not making fun of the way they speak but there are so many times I speak and they do not understand what I am saying and I am politely asked for an explanation. Sometimes Google translate is used to understand the word.  

My name is very difficult to pronounce and difficult to understand for my friends so I am referred to as Gloria or Maria, which is fine with me because I know how difficult my name is to say if English is not your first language.  

Recently I was talking about arthritis in my knee and one lady said “I shrow you exercise” as she bent her knees and swung her arms back and forth. “Very good for knee”.  

Another lady was trying to get my attention and shouted “Maria you like beggies, come eat some beggies”,  

“What is the name of these veggies?” I ask, there is a flurry of Vietnamese and Chinese verbal exchange and I am sure they are trying to find the right English word so I can understand. 

Alas, as most times the response is “I don’t know English word”. It’s OK because I am sure I wouldn’t cook it anyway.  

Learning a foreign language is not in my DNA, I have tried many times and I just can’t get it. So, I understand the difficulty in learning and understanding a new language.  

That being said I do know that in spite of our language differences we care deeply for each other and that is all that matters.

Georgia

Sep 2020

A Postcard

 

July 4, 2021 

                                                                                          

To: A variety of Gods @ in my own universe

Fr.: AAPI @nyc. USA

 

Dear all,

Wherever you are, in church, in temple, in the field, in the forest, under the water,

I beg you to show up, asap!

 

I have a few simple requests for you:

Please take away the dangerous virus

Please take away the hate crime

Please take away the nonsense and ignorance

I have a few complicated requests for you:

               Please help us through the pandemic, crime and poverty

               Please grant us health, safety, food and dignity

Please support us for a cosmic unity among peoples

 

Respectfully,

Your humble USA-Global citizen

S.P. Ma

Anxiety

 

Like a fish out of water, breathing hard for fresh air

Like a clam lives in buried sand, spitting out the sand and grit

Suffocating

 

Like an insect hopping all over, to no direction

Like a butterfly flying around, in slow motion

Confused

 

Like a woodpecker endlessly pecking, to find the secrets of life

Like a penguin adapting its life in water, clumsy and comical on land

Flightless

 

Like a human, with fear and worry

Silently trekking, on an unpredictable path

To the unspoken fate

S.P. Ma

Catching A Passing Moment

 

It was a bright, crisp fall day in the park and sunshine streamed down through the multi-colored leaves in their last stage of life. The crumpled, wrinkly old man sat on the withered, ancient, peeling, rickety park bench. He was twenty-five pounds of neglected left over potatoes in a fifty pound burlap bag. The burlap bag of a coat folded and sagged over his reduced frame. His clothes were from an earlier time in his life when life’s juices flowed freely, blood coursed through his veins, and muscles were strong, nimble and bulbous, not shrunken, rigid and in a weakened retrograde state.

 A bird alighted on the bench now and turned his head to the side as if to say, “Hey Pop, ya got anything to eat?” The old man smiled having planned ahead for this expected occurrence and reaching into one of his deep cavernous coat pockets for a sandwich bag containing bird seed. A pinch of seed was sprinkled on the ground near the old man’s shoes. He licked the excess seeds from his fingers while thinking to himself… Ehh I’m not so impressed, but then again, I’m not a bird.

 The squirrel arrived next wearing his best, most deprived look in spite of his considerable girth, his large brown eyes begging for a treat. This time the old man mined deep into his pocket like a persistent, tireless coal miner, to retrieve a bag of almonds for his squirrel friend, and after proper greetings were exchanged, he placed a few almonds on the far side of the bench. The squirrel jumped up and partook of this generously offering. The old man removed five almonds from the bag for himself while thinking…  Now this is worth eating! He crunched on the nutty flavored nuts, as well as his teeth would allow. The squirrel made a mental note to seek out the old man every day in the park, especially when winter came and survival became more difficult.

 Next a dog came along, a scruffy brown dachshund with no collar. The old man and the dog joyously embraced and he petted his friend. The dog’s tail spun like a whirling dervish, incapable of containing his excitement. Covetous of this banquet the dog did not want the squirrel and the bird to receive all of the bounty. From the inner recesses of his pocket, a particularly perfect beef bone was removed from wax paper and the greasy meat encrusted offering presented. The excited canine greedily accepted this gift which was almost as big as he was.  Meat had been intentionally left on the bone for his enjoyment.

 Last but not least a mother and her small daughter came walking along to say hello, and after receiving permission from the mother, the old man gave the little girl a sealed lollipop from his shirt pocket sliding it up his sleeve and pulling it out from behind the girl’s ear, “What is that behind your ear?” the old man asked. The child laughed with glee!

 His work was done now and all his various depends and friends taken care of. After everyone had gone along their way the old man hoisted himself up pushing against the seat of the bench and leaning into his cane, he walked home, content with a pleasant morning spent with refreshing fresh air, exercise, radiant warm sunshine and good friends. Although forgotten and neglected the old man had found purpose and worth again.

 

Jim

Sept. 2021

I Walk my Human

 

I walk my human once a day
With a leash to lead his way
My human is lazy and sluggish
He needs to be dragged out of the door

He is a typical nerd with no fun
So I carry a full bag of nice treats
Frisbee, sticks, balls large and small
To train him to talk, run and have fun
Boosting his ego into a leader position
Then I reward him with the games I like
 
To prevent him from running back home
 I use a short non-bungee leash
To restrain him by my side
If he tries to pull away more than twice
I will give him a strong tug and show him Who's the boss

When we get to my park  
I can't help disdaining his masculinity
As the size of a chicken's heart
I make him chat with ladies about me
And force him to look into their eyes
I use all my tricks to bind them together 

Even if it will be another failure

See, I am a responsible human sitter!

S.P. Ma

9.2020

Hurricane

 About ten years ago I had a big, huge black Rottweiler lab mix dog that was one hundred and twenty pounds. His name was Rocky. 

He was a monster and had guard dog mentality; he loved females, human and animal but was very leery of males, human and animal.  

Way down in Long Island City, on the East River edge, before the massive skyscrapers were built and obscured Manhattan views there was a dog park. Or rather it was city property that the community used as a forty thousand square foot fenced in Dog Park. We went there every day from the time Rocky was a puppy to an adolescent.  

One day Rocky and I met up with a play date with one of his favorite puppies. Looking back, I had not noticed that the weather was getting bad. Clouds, wind, rain. I had not noticed the weather report either.  

Rocky was starting to act strange, cowering, whimpering, wanting to leave immediately.  I realized we may get caught in a storm.  

Rocky knew better than I did, it was a hurricane. Why didn’t I check the weather?  

We had driven there. So Rocky led the way out of the dog park and we ran to the car just in time to miss the rain. It was torrential, then the roar of the hurricane and wind. I could barely see out the windshield. Driving was dangerous, we were trying to get home and so was everyone else.  

Poor Rocky was hiding under the back seat as I carefully maneuvered our way home.  

We just made it home before the worst of the storm. Rocky did not come out from under the bed until it was over.  

I learned my lesson: watch Rocky’s behavior whenever a storm approaches, and watch the weather report more often.  

Georgia

9.2020

Into the Light

 

Here we are some people enjoying the last rays of sun before Summer’s end.

Butterflies and diamond needles clean the sand of what seagulls left behind.

The sun on my back, the wind in my face, my dog at my feet

While I continue my half-hearted surveillance of fellow Sun sifters.

 

All around swirl threats and menacing claustrophobic edicts.

Dark forces believe they wield the power of life and death over me.

Deep down from the depths of my soul I hear, “Let there be Light!”

 

A primal desire drove me to the sea and the surf with their timeless tides

To engrave the teal bathing suit, the red, green and yellow fish

Of an umbrella with flapping edges on the covers of my eyes.

 

Blonde, brown, black and gray-haired heads with smiles greet me

Like peals of bright white on a star-studded night I’ll hold on to the sight.

The ocean’s foam encircled my toes cooling hot feet turning salty sweet.

 

I came to the Light with my spirit low.

The miracle I sought could never be bought.

No water turned wine yet wonderfully divine.

My skin glowing gold is a joy to behold

Is a reminder to self, “Stand and stay bold!”  

 

 

Yvonne Anzolone

September 13, 2021

Rockaway Beach

My Dad, Joseph C

 

   My Dad. A good man. A good son. A hard-working man.  A religious man. A frugal man. A great father. A great Grandpa. An adventurous man. A New Yorker.  An American-born son of Italian immigrants. An American.

Born in 1926 on Manhattan's upper west side, he remained in New York City during World War II, having volunteered in 1943 for military service. Less than perfect vision and fallen foot arches kept him from Army service, as many of his friends and schoolmates went from basic training to combat service.  By the late 1940s he had taken jobs from outside New York, traveling to points west such as Cincinnati, Ohio, and Peoria, Illinois; and a few more places in the Midwest.
   In 1951 he took a position with management in Pan American World Airways, his office located in Queens Plaza, Long Island City.  He would soon travel, as a bachelor, to Bermuda, having with him his Pan Am travel pass. He had attended work meetings and heard speak Pan Am president Juan Trippe and world-famous American aviator, Charles Lindbergh, who scouted out potential flight paths and destinations for Mr. Trippe.
   My Dad had flown on the Pan Am clipper planes that landed on the water of Bowery Bay at the Marine Air Terminal, now at LaGuardia Airport.  An older Pan Am colleague told him tales of rowing the U.S. Mail boats out to the clipper planes and large water craft during World War II and into the 1950s, in all weather conditions.
   In 1955, three years before Pan Am began the passenger jet age, he flew on a Pan Am twin propeller plane to Rome, Italy. My Dad was with two New York buddies of his, to include a man who later became my Uncle Rocky; the three were set loose in Roma.  Three young, on their way up, Americans traveling to Italy, and to Rome, the Eternal City.

   One evening, the fellows dined finely at Alfredo's, an acclaimed Italian restaurant in Rome.  The American gents were served the dish Fettucini Alfredo by Alfredo himself, actually, his son, Armando, “Alfredo II”.  It was an honor to be chosen by a restaurant's chef to taste a dish.
   Funny, my Dad imparted to us that it reminded him of the egg noodles and butter with some cheese my grandma, his mother, would feed him when he was sick.  My Dad, while in a very classy and influential restaurant, was unimpressed.  Never the snooty type, he thought that the Fettucine served by Alfredo was good, but not great.  Rocky began to prompt my Dad, perhaps with an elbow or two, to react well to the dish, as would be customary in a place of such exquisite stature. Finally "getting the message," my Dad feigned delight and said to Alfredo something along the lines  of "magnifico!" 
The other restaurant patrons applauded at the joyful spectacle of it all.  When in Rome...

   You could get roughly removed from the dining establishment if you are loath to graciously acknowledge the master chef.  It was 1955 Italy, after all. Not a few former and defeated Fascist Italians may have still scorned the Americans, yet I may safely assume that most Italians were happy as heck to have the Americans spend their money and help to build their war-ravaged country.
   And I am sure the Italian ladies were attracted to Joe, and Rocky, and the other guy.  His name may be in the family archives still.  There are stories I could never extract from my Dad pertaining to his bachelor days, and noteworthy family incidents of yore.  Having passed away in 2014, my Dad proverbially and literally took those stories to the grave.
   In June 1958 he married my Mom, Brooklyn-born "C."  They went to Paris, France on their Honeymoon, of which I have recently had home movies of digitized from 16mm film reels to a digital flash drive.

My Dad, the traveler.
Well, Dad and Mom had no children for the first 2 1/2 years of their marriage. Then, in April 1961, C. and J. C. took in to their handsome suburban home two of the cutest kids in recorded history, Loretta, age 4, and Richard, just 9 months old.  You see, their biological parents could not hold the family together so their blood father, C., placed his children into the Angel Guardian Home, a Catholic home for children awaiting foster care or adoption, in Brooklyn, N.Y.  The magnificence of these two young children, especially the infant, had for J. and C. become an instant family.  Loretta, at 4 years, who was old enough to know, kept questioning our new foster parents, "What about Steven?"  "What about Steven?"
   Upon further inquiry, Loretta had enlightened our foster parents that we had an older brother, Steven!  Mom and Dad contacted the AGH and they located Steve, who had been placed in a different foster family already. 
Loretta saved Steve!  Hurrah!  The three M. kids were raised in the Long Island suburbs by Connie and Joe. Steve arrived at our suburban home, hardly beknownst to me, in August 1961.  Instant family, indeed.
  Now that the family was intact, we became quite the traveling show, not the Von Trapp singers, but the C.'s and M.'s ready for any adventure.
   My Dad's quest to raise his children under God and to provide us with education through travel was underway.  One trip by car to Washington, D.C., at age 12, my Dad put me in the front seat with him and effectively forced me to navigate. On the job training. Get tough or literally get lost.  My personal mantra now is "Have map*, will travel."  [*And a leg wallet and a boot knife, depending upon your itinerary.]
   My Dad was the man I wanted to be like. Kind but firm, loving but expecting you to do your chores, be good to your Mother, and do your homework. All of which I didn't do at all times.
   His love of his wife, his life, family, home, country and God made him the best man I have ever known.  His sense of duty first, and his sense of adventure brought me to places that helped to shape me into the man I am today.

   My Dad is ever present in me, in my heart, in my sense of direction, and in my feet.  I had the best upbringing.  Any faults that I have or any errors I’ve ever made as an adult, are all on me.  They did a pretty good job raising us.  All credit goes to them.

   C. and J., my foster parents, the only parents that I ever knew, allowed the travel bug to bite me hard, and often.  May the antidote never be administered, and never spoken of.   
Hey kids, just 10 miles from here is the 3rd largest hairball ever regurgitated by a cat.  You want to see it? 
YAY!!!
  

Richard Melnick
Astoria, N.Y.
Sep. 7, 2021.

Happiness

Perhaps the reason for self-help conventions, books and videos are so popular is because humans grasp at the hope of sustained happiness.  

From my own personal experience those moments of elation and thinking I found the holy grail of happiness retreated and flew away within an hour of finding that holy grail.  

Searching for permanent happiness outside of ourselves is always fleeting. And as the mind works even moments of intuition can be just as fleeting.  

Happiness is found by repeatedly searching our own beliefs, behaviors and influences. 

The more you know yourself the less fleeting happiness is because you will find what really makes you happy and nothing can ever take that away from you.  

 

Georgia
9/2001 

Contentment

I am holding contentment in my hand.

Contentment is my peach.

Four peaches on a blue rimmed plate.

Did I pluck the peach from the blue rimmed plate?

Did I pluck the peach from the Cezanne painting?

I touch the soft velvety skin of my peach.

My Persian fruit is sun warmed from orange to yellow.

I open the peach with a serrated knife.

I smell the sweet scented delicate aroma.

My fingers are wet and sticky from the juicy droplets.

I taste the luscious succulent  pulp.

One slice for you; one slice for me

Until I reach the rough textured almond tasting stone.

I held contentment in my hand.

Ethyl Haber

September 2021

A Great Surprise to Catch a Happy Moment

     After graduating from law school, it is necessary to take and pass Bar examinations that consist of two separate tests. I took the examinations and then awaited the results. I would be in touch with friends I made in law school and who also took the examinations. One friend was Everett Rosenblum with whom I used to study. There were rumors when the results would be made, mostly incorrect. Finally it became clear when the results would be made public, which happened to be on that year’s Yom Kippur.  The results are printed in both the New York Times  and at that time in the Herald Tribune. I was still living in Middle Village at the time and the local stores owned by Jews would be closed for Yom Kippur. That meant I would not be able  the next day to procure one of the newspapers and read the Bar Exam results.

     I thought if I called one of the newspapers and explained the situation, they would be able to tell me if my name was included in the list of those who passed the exams. I called the Herald Tribune, explained the situation and since the results would be listed in the next day’s issue, is it possible for me to be told the results? The answer was in the affirmative and I gave my name Benjamin M. Haber.  I waited a few minutes for the person to speak to me, and after several minutes she said, “ I am sorry to tell you, there is no name on the list with an H. ‘’

    Suffice it to say, I was very disappointed. It could mean I failed both exams and needed to take them again the following year, or the possibility I failed only one of the two exams and needed to retake just that one exam. Still it meant I was incapable of finishing some further  required interviews to become licensed to practice law. Disappointed?  Of course.  About an hour later that evening, the telephone rang and when I pick it up, the voice says, “ This is Everett, congratulations, we both passed the exams.” I replied,  “ You are wrong, according to the Herald Tribune, I failed.” Everett replied: “I do not know what you are talking about, I have the New York Times in front of me and your name is listed with those who passed.”

     I was of course elated and could hardly wait until I was able to get a copy of the Herald Tribune and figure out if the Times was incorrect. When I got a copy of the Tribune, the mystery was solved. It appeared the H names were all listed after the Z names.  The person I had spoken to on the telephone, simply stopped looking after she noticed no H after the G names.

     Was in view of the foregoing, the end result a great surprise?  It sure was.

Ben Haber