The Waltz of the Trees

 

It was all the talk of the forest as the squirrels were huddling in their dens dishing dirt or at least observations as to what they had seen. Walnuts, pine nuts and chestnuts were generously shared with the Weasels, Stoats, Chipmunks and Ferrets all in exchange for intelligence.

The Bucks discussed it in their annual rut all the while smashing antlers to sort out their hierarchical dominance. Bobcats whispered to Mountain Lions; Badgers compared notes with Beavers. Cave bats hung around with Possums discussing these most interesting current events. In fact, the whole forest was alive with information about the upcoming annual event colloquially known as the Waltz of The Trees. This was a secret occasion only spoken of in close company with discrete friends and trusted acquaintances.

Mother Nature had cast a spell so that the trees could uproot themselves and bundle their roots discreetly in their lowest bows purposely moving forward to arrive in time for the event. This spell extended till well after the event ended so that all attendees would have ample time to return to their homes. Even the location was a secret, although one with keen powers of observation could surmise where it was to be held, as an unusually large number of Beavers had assembled in a certain meadow about a week before the big day, busily cutting, chomping, gnawing and dragging dead timbers around in an attempt to create spaciousness and comfort for the invited guests.

This was quite unlike a human dance where all the guests arrived in limousines and sporty cars leaving for their destination a short while before their arrival .By contrast one could see deciduous trees and evergreens moving for days and even weeks, proceeding towards the site, some even throwing themselves in rivers to shorten the journey on this annual pilgrimage. One could smell the upturned earth as the massive trees moved through the forest. As the date arrived the perimeter of the meadow became more and more crowded with a dense forest of different species socializing with other species that they rarely encountered in their natural habitats. The Banyans bandied about, the Ficus formulated, Ashes articulated while Maples mumbled, and Elms enunciated. The brooks babbled on about the event with the streams, tributaries, pools and lakes. The fish, deep in their pools, delighted to think of all the unusual, tasty residents of the ponds that would be flushed out by all this movement to make scrumptious delicacies for the cocktail hour. The birds of prey, all on best behavior, surveyed the area gliding high above, making sure that pests such as termites and invasive beetles knew that they were not welcome. Eagles, Hawks and Falcons all cooperating collectively and symbiotically secured the site for their benefactors who throughout the year provided a home and sustenance for all the creatures of the forest.

Finally, the day had arrived. The festivities opened with shooting stars making cameo appearances, even a comet swung by sputtering sparks from its tail followed by the last of the summer fireflies putting on an impressive aerial display dancing with multicolored butterflies. The devotions of the praying mantises were answered as it was a beautiful clear night, and all the stars came out for the show. One by one each deciduous leaf bearing tree made a grand entrance in all the beautiful colors of fall with their roots neatly gathered and bunched discreetly out of the way. Magenta, scarlet, mahogany, lemon, lime, aqua and forest green were some of the colors displayed. Evergreens stately and conservatively dressed in their dark green tuxedos advanced on schedule towards their deciduous partners to dance the night away. Soon the clearing was full of the pairs dancing to the music of the orchestra which consisted of ants playing acorn lid cymbals, while beetles bongoed on hollowed out acorns and grasshoppers, crickets, birds and bees all blended in an enchanted arrangement to create the Symphony of the Night. All three forest environments were represented the Temperate, the Tropical and the Boreal or Taiga from frozen climes. Scarlet Oaks Swung, Deciduous leaf bearers Discoed, Conifers County Danced, Walnuts Waltzed, while Douglas Firs  Foxtroted, Pines pirouetted, and Willows wobbled but did not weep as that Tiagan trees Tangoed, enjoying this comparatively warm weather. From a birds-eye view the meadow was alive with movement swaying this way and that.

After many hours the moon waned and set in the east but not before waking up the sun to take over for the day shift. The trees danced till early afternoon until tired and spent they took long drinks in the stream before saying their goodbyes and returning home to dream of next year’s arboreal assembly.                                                   

Jim
Dec '22

Best Friend

 

Many years ago. my daughter and I were walking in our neighborhood when a young boy with a big box he could hardly handle came up to us and in a painfully excited way and asked us to look in the box.  

There it was, love at first sight, a tiny kitten with a black nose and tuxedo markings.  

We have had turtles, dogs, birds and fish, but never a kitty.  

His name was Roger, and he became our staunch and reliable friend. If tears were heard Roger ran to the rescue with head bumps and cuddles and licks on the head of the tearful one.  

If fever pursued the little ones, Roger wrapped his body on the feet of the afflicted one until the fever passed. 

If cuts and bruises came about, Roger would supervise treatment and dutifully stick by until the hurt one was on the mend.  

Roger would eagerly listen to woes and worries; well, what are friends for than to listen with a flick of the tail and without interruption.  

Faithful friend, always loving unconditionally, your little paws permanently pressed on our hearts. Your memory and joy never leaves us. 

Until we meet again dear, sweet, loyal, companion and confidant.  

Georgia

"Happiness"

Happiness does not have to be elusive. 

Happiness takes effort; here are some suggestions for the upcoming New Year. 

Have trustworthy friends. 

Good people that help you ascend. 

Eat nourishing food. 

Even if it’s chewed and puts you in a mood. 

Avoid news overdose. 

Give that junk an adios. 

Balance peaceful time with busy time. 

It is not a crime. 

Go on adventures. 

A rollercoaster is a clencher. 

Read a lot. 

Don’t let your mind go to pot. 

Listen to music 

Listen to whatever you want. 

Look for solutions. 

Not nasty pollutants. 

Watch your thoughts. 

Light your mind in kilowatts. 

Give yourself credit. 

You’re the best, there I said it. 

Get rid of stress. 

Put on a pretty dress. 

Contentment is yours 

If you take a pause 

Happy you will be 

by effort from thee

Georgia 

Happiness

 

The top of my list of things that will bring me happiness is written in the joy I see and the joy I get when I open my front door each morning. 

Appreciation, admiration, adulation, adoration, attachment, amatory, all words of love. What greater happiness can I want than the love from my feral Tabby cat. He is a stray, street cat who has fallen in love with me and the feeling is totally mutual. Sure, you say, " Why shouldn’t he love you? You feed him.” Wrong!!! My husband feeds him. But I’m the one who pets hm, fondles him and cuddles him. The romance I have with Tabby Boy (I named him) is recent and amazing. I have already written 3 negative complaining, critical essays about this “nasty, ferocious, terrible Tabby. This, my fourth is a whole turnaround about my delicious, adorable, lovable pussycat.

In the past, I had always felt mournful to have this pet that I couldn’t pet. Instead, with his extended sharp claws he would swat anyone who came too close causing torn hems and bleeding ankles. He appeared in my backyard one spring day last year as a fully formed adult feral tabby cat. He looked healthy, with his white bib and white shoes and stockings, well groomed. Where had he come from?  Did someone feed this outdoor cat? Did he ever belong to someone? Where does he go when it rains, when it snows, when it is freezing cold? His clipped ear tells me that he was neutered. How did anyone get near this rascal?

What changed this feral feline into his gentle, delightful lovable perfect gift? It all was a slow development, with all the action initiated by Tabby Boy. With the advent of summer weather, I spent much of the day in my backyard. Tabby always chose to be present and slowly he began rubbing up against my ankles. He set the pace and his curiosity led him to explore the effect of his rubbing against a human. Shortly, he allowed me to rub his head, his neck, his back. When I moved down to a step close to the ground, he then rubbed my arm, my hand. The rest is history. Now he felt trust and totally allowed cuddling. This appreciation, admiration, adulation, adoration and attachment are a mutual perfect gift and bring me great happiness.

Ethyl Haber

Sky Watching

 

I am an avid sky watcher. The indigo night sky, when the light pollution is low, surrounds the crystal white twinkling stars. During the day clouds of every shape drift swiftly or slowly depending on the wind. 

There is a time that is not mentioned often for perfect sky watching and that is the early morning. Five in the morning exactly. The moon has already drifted to the west dragging its companions Venus and Mars along.  

As I stick my head out the window the air is breathable, visibility is clear, stars are still bright and the birds are yet asleep.  

Once more, at five in the morning exactly, I am still and calm in majesty of the sky.  

 Georgia

"Time Travel" by Roland Park

Time is not so straightforward, it bends, it kinks 

There in the drop, the uptake - heartbreak 

They say Time Travel is only in movies 

They show us diagrams with straight lines 

But knowledge and memory aren’t they time? 

Instances with unknowable distances 

Whirling and churning and wild 

Always learning, always remembering. 

 

I was deeply moved by this poem because I understood that we time travel constantly, either consciously or unconsciously.  Though visually thinking about the future or wishing for the present to be different or magically thinking we can change the past. 

Never at peace about the future, tingling skin of the present and wildly obsessing about the past.  

Georgia

Wind Spell for Protection

 

She came home and just knew old enemies were around. How could it be? How did they find her? No time to ask questions. Time to resurrect her personal conjure powers.  

Written in an old book was the Wind Spell for Protection handed down from the ancestors. She was ready in quiet and dark and cold, she sat at the ancient oak table and laid out the preparation and read the barely visible words.  

I call on the wind gods with dragon’s blood lit by fire, lavender and salt to purify the air, fresh flowers as fresh perfume, and a glass of water to cool the earth.  

As I howl like a wolf the wind will blow.  (Howl like a wolf) 

As I caw like a raven the wind will blow. (Caw like a raven) 

As I bark like a dog the wind will blow. (Bark like a dog) 

I humbly ask for your protection against those who want to harm me and my family.  

Bind those who wish me harm let all bad wishes flutter away in your breeze.  

Thank you.  

It took barely eight hours and the enemies were hit with an unexpected hurricane and had to evacuate their shelter.  

The wind gods are good. No violence, no danger, the threat was gone. But for how long? 

Georgia

The Demonic Snarling Metal Demon of the Boulevard of Death

 

One person’s joy may certainly be another’s horror, as we are all neuronally wired differently along with varying genetically infused doses of courage. The Roller Coaster at Fairyland was a good example of these differences.

            The misleading term FairyLand conjures up images of an idyllic amusement park in some pastoral setting, nestled in some backwater, away from the noise and commotion of city life, but this was not the case with FairyLand, situated on the teeming, noisy, pollution sputtering Queens Boulevard! In later years this major thoroughfare would receive the honorific, horrific moniker The Boulevard of Death. The park was situated on the current sight of The Queens Center Mall across from the former St. John’s Hospital. Little did this naïve young visitor realize what lay ahead. The small park was minuscule by today’s standards, containing a Ferris Wheel, fire truck ride, a small arcade and miniature golf course along with a few other nondescript rides including that metallic and wooden demon from hell, The Fairy Coaster! With its hairpin thirty degree turns, insanely precipitous ascents of fifteen feet and equally treacherous plunges at a thirty-five-degree angle, riders threw caution to the wind, plummeting to earth at twelve miles per hour, risking life and limb on this rolling, rollicking, treacherous dance with death, presumably for enjoyment! I envisioned FairyLand as a secret government testing ground, an obstacle course, or recruitment center researching the limits of human endurance, searching America for the Best of the Best, the boldest devil may care courageous thrill seekers, ready to risk life and limb for eventual notoriety and fame in the NASA Space Program, being spun around at gravitational forces many times what their bodies were designed to withstand. As unsuspecting boys and girls frolicked innocently through the park with the sweet smells of cotton candy, hot dogs, buttered popcorn and crackerjack’s creating an intoxicating eau de parfum, they were presumably being put through their paces and observed and documented as potential recruits for, or unceremoniously rejected for not having the right stuff to enter the space program, our international political boxcar race to the moon with our then rival The Soviet Union. It was the only explanation I could conceive of as to why anyone would resort to climbing onto one of these contraptions for presumed enjoyment. Along with The Rack, Thumb Screws and the Iron Maiden, these devices would have been more appropriately implemented in the Dark Ages. Even at this early age I surmised that a career as a test pilot, or an astronaut was not in my future and there would be no rollercoaster bonding with my future offspring on one of these contraptions. Chuck Yeager’s poster was not on my wall! The Mercury Seven including John Glenn of the U.S. Marines, Alan Shepard, Walter Schirra and Scott Carpenter of the U.S. Navy along with Gordon Cooper, Gus Grissom and Deke Slayton of the U.S. Air Force would never have to worry about moving over to share the spotlight with me!                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                    Jim Nov 22’

The Wind of Autumn

 

As I step out to the wonders of the world, the wind of Autumn greets me, gently caressing my face like with a blush brush, brushing specks of dust lightly.  Walking a few blocks, I felt the wind of Autumn intensify, playing with my hair and moving it across my face.   I pulled my hair back, struggling with the wind as it was determined to style it across my face like a hairdresser.  In the middle of this nature styling, a crisp brown leaf landed, pinned on my head to adorn my natural hairstyle, and more navigating with the wind stamped my coat.  The brown leaves matched quite well with my yellow and brown scarf.  As I paraded down the street, it was like nature was designing a new look for me.

 

By Cristina Infante

Dreaded Song

 

You sing with such power and strength that it’s deafening 
Echos of empty loneliness, and fear 
Sweeping me away, dragging in circles whipping and spinning
You push and I pull
I have a direction, a destiny to reach
You have your own plans for today
I’m swaying like the guests leaving a party that extended to the morning hour
Struggle for my freedom and you wrap me tighter and tighter in your grips 
Changing course is my escape 
Heading to the stairs and into the building 
SAFETY and FREEDOM prevail 

Laura M.

Nov '22

Thanksgiving

 

As I get older Thanksgiving takes on a different meaning. No longer am I cooking a juicy turkey with cranberries for a crowd, no longer making our favorite baked apple pie with ice cream and coffee, no longer is it necessary to set up a kids table with little plates and kid size spoons. No longer are there large crowds to seat at the table, many of those folks are long gone.  

Rather it is my daughter’s role to set the table for the small crowd we have with a smaller turkey and cranberries and coffee. It is she who is now the responsible adult organizing a hearty meal with vegetarian options and organic tea. No children’s table just yet.  

The ghosts of Thanksgiving past can still be felt as she goes through the motions of the next generation. Memories come up with heartwarming stories told in front of a fire with quiet reflection. 

It is my new role to be the elder and help where I can and savor every forthcoming Thanksgiving.  I am reminded at just how grateful and lucky to have loving family, intimate meal with cozy conversations and turkey with cranberries and our favorite apple pie with coffee and another chance to be connected to those that matter.  

Georgia

Thrills and Chills

 

Thrills!
President LBJ is coming for Thanksgiving dinner
Recurring nightmares Dreaded dreams
cooking chaos Culinary catastrophes
Chills!

Thrills
President LBJ is coming for Thanksgiving dinner
Unthawed turkey
Nagging nightmares
Despair! Despair!

Chills
Daily dinner disasters in my marriage
Culinary catastrophes
Chills

Thrills
Friends coming for Thanksgiving dinner
Cooking chaos
Nagging nightmares
Chills!

President LBJ is coming for Thanksgiving dinner
Forgot to defrost the bird
Despair! Despair!

Ethyl Haber

Beatle Boot Mania

 

“Ladies and gentlemen- the Beatles!” That was Ed Sullivan introducing the four lads from Liverpool to American viewers for their first live TV performance. It was February 1964, and I was seven years old. I knew their names and had seen pictures of them but didn’t fully grasp what the fanfare was all about. Except for “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “She Loves You,” I wasn’t that engaged in the music either. That would eventually change of course. The one thing that did catch my attention though was their mod look- the thick, rounded bowl-shaped mop top hair and matching slender, slim fitting suits. But most of all it was their pointy-toed black Beatle boots with the little elastic band at the ankles and the narrow, elevated heels. I thought they were the coolest footwear going, perfectly complementing their trim slightly shortened cuffless pants.

            At some point my cousin Charlie up in Peekskill started wearing Beatle boots or something similar after he took up drums and joined a garage band. That’s when I decided that I wanted a pair. My mother absolutely refused. “Those pointy toes are bad for a wee boy’s growing feet,” I can imagine her saying with her ever present hint of a Scottish brogue that she retained despite living most of her life in the U.S. It came back to life in the presence of Scottish family members as well as at certain motherly moments. This was one of those moments. Mom wasn’t strict, but she could be overly protective at times. It probably stemmed from a traumatic event in childhood in which an older brother and sister were tragically killed in a sledding accident. Another brother had been physically disabled since childhood after falling from a roof and suffering a leg injury that never properly healed. It might also have been around this time that Mom was briefly influenced by a new neighbor, an Argentinean mother originally from Scotland who really was strict and overly protective of her two sons. Our neighbor’s eloquent Spanish and Scottish accented English as well as her strict parenting style set her apart from the other adults on 19^th Street in Marine Terrace. And once my mother’s protective instincts took command, there was no turning back. Firecrackers, playing in the street, and Beatle boots were off limits.

            It didn’t help either that my mother was not a die-hard rock-n-roll fan. She loved Scottish and Irish songs and knew many lyrics. Her all-time favorite was “Danny Boy” which inspired me to name my son Daniel. Mom also enjoyed Tin Pan Alley sing-alongs and strumming the ukulele. In addition, she danced the Lindy, Scottish fling, and a basic soft shoe tap dance. Before marrying my dad, she even “produced” and “directed” backyard shows with my older cousins and their friends singing the novelty songs she had taught them. Mom sure did love music, but rock-n-roll was not her “spot of tea.”

            Anyway, I cooled off on the idea of wearing Beatle boots for a while. Then in fourth grade I noticed a few older boys wearing pointy-toed shoes with the addition of clickety-clacking metal taps. My classmate Joseph wore a pair. Once again, my mother steadfastly refused. She thought Joseph’s shoes were ridiculous. One day one of the heels snapped off as he stepped from a curb on the way home from school, an indication that they were not of the best quality. And so, I continued wearing the same common sense Stride Rite shoes with round roomy toes for school and church, and P.F. Flyers for play, and permanently gave up on Beatle boots. Even the Fab 4 eventually stopped wearing them.

            In the years that followed I exercised better judgement in the footwear department. In sixth grade I tried comfortable lightweight Hush Puppies at my dad’s urging. His bad flat bony feet had always compelled him to choose his shoes wisely and care for them with shoe trees and regular polishing, a practice he instilled in me. The swede Hush Puppies only needed a quick brushing (no polish) now and then. What a relief! In fifth-grade we had weekly inspections in which boys had to shine their shoes, scrub and trim their fingernails, and clean their ears. Learning good hygiene was fine. It’s the inspections that I didn’t like.

            For a brief period during my high school years platform shoes were the thing, but I wanted no part of them. My parents’ good senses had finally taken hold and have remained with me ‘til this day. During my junior year mom became gravely ill. She passed away a few weeks before my high school graduation. It was a rough period for our family.

            Shortly before my honorable discharge from the U.S. Army where proper fitting footwear was a necessity, I purchased a pair of comfortable Earth shoes with spacious rounded toes and low heels meant to mimic standing in sand. They were just what I needed for college. Then, during my second year of teaching I developed a severe itchy callous-forming wart condition on one foot. I had made the mistake of stepping on a wet YMCA locker room floor with an open blister that had just formed after a round of basketball. With his distinctive husky voice my doctor advised me to continue the podiatrist’s treatment and “wear good soft gum soled shoes.” Dr. Drimer wore Clarks Wallabees. Same as my dad a few years earlier and now, my colleague, Joe G. So, I followed in their footsteps and bought a pair of medium brown leather Wallabees, arguably the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn- soft and springy, and extra roomy in the wedge-shaped toes. I even went a step further and got two short sleeve Guayabera shirts, another of Dr. Drimer’s fashion statements. Maybe a little old fashioned, but perfect for the classroom during those last few days in June when the temperatures rise. I loved my Wallabees and I loved my Guayaberas. Throughout my teaching years I mostly wore Rockports and Wallabees while setting aside a pair of Florsheims for dressy occasions. I currently rotate between Clarks, Sketchers, Vionics and other sensible shoes.

A few years ago, ankle high men’s shoes resembling Beatle boots, only without the pointy toes, made a modest comeback. I even spotted them in the window of a Clarks store in Manhattan. For a while I halfheartedly debated with myself whether to try on a pair just out of curiosity, ultimately deciding against it. I was just fine with what I had.

Recently, I watched A Hard Day’s Night on TCM. It was the Beatles’ first film at the height of Beatlemania. The foursome looked awkward whenever they ran to escape the throngs of starstruck fans, mostly screaming teenage girls. In one scene George tripped and fell, leaving his bandmates laughing. As I watched I realized their boots were suitable for posing and performing, but not much else. That’s what my mom would have thought, and she would have been right. Whatever the case, I’ll always remember how cool John, Paul, George, and Ringo looked wearing their Beatle boots to complement their matching slim fitting suits in those early days of Beatlemania.

Steve T.

Olga Jacoby

 

Love, like strength and courage, is a strange thing; the more we give the more we find we have to give. 

Olga Jacoby 

Sara Olga Ilke was born 1874 in Germany. She married John Jacoby a lace manufacturer in London, and they adopted four children. Somewhere between 1909-1913 she was diagnosed with a terminal illness. From here she wrote about living and dying.  

In her book “Words in Pain – Letters on Life and Death” she talks about her love for her children and husband and reflection on how beautiful the world is. She was not afraid of death and looked at the realities of life with a clear head and fierceness. She was an advocate for the right to die and death with dignity. A staunch agnostic and felt justified in taking her own life. As her terminal condition worsened, she chose when she would die. She took her own life on May 6, 1913, by taking a large amount of sleeping pills available at the time.  

The above quote is a reminder that while we live, we have enough love, strength and courage to tap into and apply in our own lives and the lives of others.

Georgia

Portrait

 

As I sat down on the park bench there was an older woman rocking a baby in a carriage across the way. She smiled intently at her charge, completely consumed by the child, and oblivious to her surroundings. She worshipped the child. I speculated that this must have been her grandchild considering the obviously deep emotional ties she had developed with the baby. The carriage was not of a modern design, and certainly not the type that young mothers jogged along with, but rather the large, cumbersome, old-fashioned type used in the 1950’s. It had been well taken care of and was clean and polished to a shine. The woman had long grey hair that was swept up in a bun and you could see the crags and valleys that had eroded her beauty and weathered her face with deep lines like the road map of a difficult arduous journey.

            The old woman reached into the carriage to lift the child, being ever so careful not to startle or disturb it. As the infant was elevated, I noticed a strange lack of effect in the child, with its outstretched arms frozen in space not flailing around as a baby might do. The baby’s cheeks had an unusual pallor or more accurately a strange sheen. Suddenly the baby’s eyes opened with a click. The deep blue glass balls shone brightly in the sun, and it was then that I realized that it was a doll. The old woman did not notice this though. In her mind’s eye she was a new young mother learning to care for her child and obsessing over the details as a first time mother might do. She did not realize that if her baby had lived the child would now be an adult, possibly with children of her own and the woman would be a grandmother. She smiled intently with a deep love for this substitute for the child that did not live. After the wrinkles were removed from the blanket the woman carefully put the doll back into the carriage and tucked the baby in. The woman rose now, pushing the carriage back home as it was time for the baby’s bottle and a nap.

                                                                                                                        Jim Nov 22’

Halloween Memories

 

When I was little, around 7 or 8 the neighbor kids would gather on my block on Halloween. It was a tradition that went on for about 6 years. We were not allowed to cross the street, so we walked in a crowd together, laughing and glittering in our costumes. Vampires, witches, cowgirls and angels, beatniks and ghouls. I was the cowgirl. We were a splendid lot. Proud, haughty and so young and innocent.  

There must have been thirty children and we would make our way in and out of every six-family house on our four-sided block. The big kids took care of the little kids, and the little kids were delivered to their respective homes when we were done. 

Back then we got lots of pennies. A penny would buy gooey candy and some Hershey’s Kisses and pink bubble gum. With enough pennies we could buy a Coca Cola.  

Even back then there were scares of poison candy and razors in apples. Thankfully we never had a problem.  I was so exhausted after trick or treating that I fell asleep in my costume, smiling. 

Mom would go through the bags for safety, and she would steal some for herself. The bags were kept under the sink next to the pots and pans. We had enough candy for weeks. Remembering those days is so sweet, so happy and I will remember my childhood Halloween always and tell my grandchildren of those days while taking them trick or treating.  

Georgia

Overtaken by Bibliomania

 

I love books, I love information, and I am addicted to the excitement of words. I cannot get enough of them. I have always been like this. I remember as a child being so frustrated because I wanted to read Babar and Madeline by myself but I was too little. My father had a huge dictionary on a music stand and he would tell me to look up words just for fun.  

As customary, I learned to read and write in school along with the rest of my class. Since then, I devour books.  

Today it is much easier to read because of the internet and with rapid speed I can Google any interest and get a slew of links to click. 

I also collect books, all kinds of books. If there is a book I have read from the library and really like it, I buy it for my collection.  

This brings me to being overtaken by bibliomania. I stalked this book for at least 5 years called Scat, the Witches Cat by Geraldine Ross January 1, 1958, it is a children’s book. I searched everywhere for that book online and in stores and no one had a copy. Not even libraries.  

This book was listed on eBay for that amount of time. The price was 59.99. So, I waited and waited until there was a price drop.  

The price drop never came but someone else posted the same book on eBay for 49.99. I still waited until I didn’t. I bought the book. I don’t know much about collecting old books so when it showed up, I read it and I saw that it had children’s writing in it here and there. Now I know why this book was 10.00 less than the other one.  

I am not sorry I bought the book because it is rare and I can sell it if I want to. Owning young books or old books is a privilege and an honor especially in a world where stories zip by via the internet. Old books hold a special place in history and very important to pass on to future generations. It is my distinct privilege to hold this piece of literature and history and eventually pass it on to the public.  

Georgia P.  Oct '22

The Hunter Moon

 

The Hunter Moon is making its debut tonight as I weave my car down towards NYC along The New York State Thruway. The road is dark, and the drivers rely on the stream of head lights to show the way. The luminous red taillights snake, slither and slide along, helping to lead the procession. I have left behind Tarrytown, and Sleepy Hollow made famous by Washington Irving. Weaving through the foothills of the Catskills, apples having managed to turn my bag over, roll around in the back playing tag, happy to have escaped their enclosure. I follow the curve in the road and there it is, a panoramic view of the beautiful new bridge, illuminated by the large Hunter Moon straddling the Narrows, but exposing the critters of the forest to danger. It will be a precarious night, during which wildlife will need to move with great stealth and cunning through the woods to live till dawn.

As the bridge grows in size the road twists and turns and at times the moon disappears, although its glow is omnipresent. The moon is playing Hide and Seek, playfully disappearing until I spot it hiding behind a hill, laughing like a child at being discovered and then running away again to repeat the process.

          While driving over the bridge I look in the rearview mirror.  Is it my imagination or do I see Ichabod Crane, being pursued by The Headless Horseman running in terror along the pedestrian walkway? Up ahead on one of the rolling hills there is an apparition of sleepy Rip Van Winkle waving goodbye to me with one hand while he rubs sleep from his eyes with the other. He is recovering after a much needed rest, brought on by playing too much nine-ball and drinking from a questionable flagon of Hollands with some mischievous inebriated dwarves. I think I need some sleep myself.

Jim

Oct ‘22