Come Dine With Us

 

Open wide the heavy wooden doors!

Backyard and front door

Shielded the winter winds.

Glass portals revealing new signs and sights of spring.

Bright blue cloudless sky, 

Red breasted robin, pecking in the turf for treats.

Yellow daffodils timidly pushing aside the solid soil

To sway in the new found  warmth.

The long spindly yellow forsythia

Dancing to the breeze’s choreography. 

Green buds on the lawn tree promising 

A verdant display of abundant  leaves.

Azaleas and rhododendrons still asleep

Needing the greater warmth of May

They promise red and purple  blossoms.

Potted pansies adorn our backyard patio.

Metal chairs pillowed  with bright  blue stripes,

Round table set for lunch.

Spring, we invite you to dine with us.

Ethyl Haber

St. Patrick's Day Memories

 

As I sit here moaning after my second helping of corned beef and cabbage along with a supporting cast of boiled potatoes and carrots followed by a large slice of my Grandmother’s recipe of Irish Soda Bread, troweled with an exorbitant helping of KerryGold Irish Butter like an Irish mason ready to build a wall ,and all washed down with a healthy helping of Guinness Stout, like a moth who has just inhaled an entire wool sock and is helplessly groaning from his excesses on the floor of a coat closet with wool threads still sticking out of his mouth , a stream of images from St. Patrick days past come rushing back to memory.

My two older daughters Meaghan and Kaitlyn then seven and eight years old at the time had been taking Irish Step Dance lessons with Cyril Mc Niff of The Ed Sullivan Show fame ,at the St. Mary’s school lunchroom on Friday evenings for about a year and had competed in Feisanna while winning trophies, and were ready to join the Association of Irish Step Dancers of North America, wherein all the various Irish dance schools in Queens and the surrounding area came together to train in unison on Sunday afternoons for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade on Fifth Avenue. The girls met and got to know each other and became aware of the different styles and nuances of the various schools as they learned their new formations.

The big day finally came and the 7 train was filled with Irish faces dressed in green mixed in with the usual crowd of commuters. Some of the other children from the group were in our train car, also dressed in their Irish dance costumes and they all were very excited. We filed out of the 7 train as planned at 5^th Avenue by the forty second street library to utter confusion as there were people everywhere crisscrossing each other’s path. Old friends were reunited, and new friendships were forged in this chaotic scene as Irish immigrants and Irish Americans swirled around in the ethnic melting pot that is New York City. The usual deafening sounds of the city were drowned out by the squeaking, shrieking, sounds of thousands of bagpipes all being tuned up simultaneously sounding like wild animals being disemboweled alive while chalk was scratched across a blackboard. It was a discordant sound and totally different from that which these same wind instruments would later emit when played in unison. I had no idea that there were so many bagpipe players in the whole world! We worked our way through the crowd holding our girls tightly by the hand so as not to lose them in the massive crowd while my son sat on my shoulders in his Aran Islands wool hat above the fray, taking it all in. Everyone met at 44^th street between Fifth and Sixth Avenue.

Each of the side streets bordering 5^th Ave were filled with the sound of long forgotten friends meeting again exchanging greetings and making plans to get together after the parade while marching bands marched up and down these side streets practicing their formations while bagpipers looked for any little nook and cranny to practice their craft in the noise street. Fluters fluted, drummers drummed, dancers danced, and bagpipers piped while banners were unfurled in the brisk cold morning air on the  cusp of spring. A parade official lined up the various groups letting them know how much time remained before they would start and as the time grew closer each group formed their lines and began to march down the side street to enter 5^th Ave on cue. The banners were unfurled the wind biting at exposed skin, the marchers marched down the street in their respective groups in straight lines listening to the orders barked by their respective coordinators.

The sounds of the marching bands drowned out the usual sounds of the city augmented by the cheering crowds and occasional honking cars annoyed by this interruption in their usual route. We entered the parade on 44^th St taking a sharp left turn, pivoting in one motion as practiced, onto the Avenue and walked due north stopping at intervals for the girls to dance including a stop in front of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on 50^th St to dance for the beaming Cardinal O’Connor. He was thrilled with our troop and applauded wildly when they were done and gave them his blessing. Later on, the group danced for the cameras further up the Ave and it was televised. In these years the parade ended on 86^th St and Lexington Avenue making a sharp right off 5^th Avenue turning right onto the street and heading east to the finish line at Lexington Avenue where the parade participants dissolved into the crowd of parade attendees. After all the goodbyes were said and plans made, the massive crowd headed for the Lexington Ave subway line where patrolman stood at the head of the stairs directing the travelers while expressing in a thick Irish brogue, ‘Alright then now, all you Irish back to Woodside!’ It was a simpler time when people were not so sensitive about such ethnic pronouncements and everyone had a good hearty laugh as they descended the stairs to go home.

When we got home the girls turned on the TV and VCR as we had taped the parade and got to watch themselves dance down 5^th Ave. A wonderful day was had by all.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all and May you Be in Heaven a full half hour before the Devil knows you’re dead!

 

Jim 3/17/22

"Gnomenclature"

 
We multi-colored garden gnomes,
in floral vestments resplendent,
Beautifying your landscaped homes,
Oh, one day to be truly sentient.

Searching for other garden gnomes,
we'll steal away in shrubberies.
Folks just see us standing here,
experiencing no drudgeries. 
 
Motionless painted ceramic shapes,
watching o'er your gardens,
Pointless to ponder our fates,
harsh nature seldom pardons.

We'll frolic once the sun goes down,
Seen only by raccoons, and owls, or a cat,
Perhaps a foray into town,
What do you think about that?

Knowing I was a garden gnome,
I followed you to your home.
We brewed our lattes, heavy foam,
and chortled at this poem.

RM, 3-24-2022.

An Unusual Day in the Park

 

A few minutes later… a man in a long black overcoat and Fedora approached the Hansom as I was adjusting my newly acquired top hat and fretting over the hopefully unlikely probability of head lice being in residency. A no vacancy sign inscribed on the brim would have been comforting.   

“Sir, follow that carriage,” instructed the man flashing a shiny silvery government ID emblazoned with the acronym CIA. It was not stated as a request but as a demand and since his left hand was holding an object in his pocket, I decided to comply.

“Don’t get too close where your face could be recognized,” said the agent.

Snow had been falling for a while and building at a steady pace. I followed the carriage before me into the park across from where 6^th Ave ended on Park Lane South and onto Center Drive which wound its way through the park in a serpentine fashion, transitioning into East Drive. The lead Hanson before me eventually pulled up and stopped at the statue of Balto on the left hand side. I stopped the horse one hundred feet behind him. The cold crisp air was biting at my skin although it was easily eclipsed by the unseasonal butterflies fluttering around in my stomach.

 

Simultaneously, one Boris Stroganoff had just locked the side door of the Russian Tea Room on 57^th street and briskly headed to the park two blocks north, plunging in through the swirling snow, heading to this rendezvous point parallel to east 67^th street. Boris wore a serious look of great determination and self-importance on his chiseled features as he trudged to the sculpture of Balto, wishing to be imbued with the canine’s strength of character, the animal famous for having carried Diphtheria Antitoxin Serum six hundred miles to the town of Nome, Alaska through many obstacles and terrible winter weather conditions, saving many lives as a result of his Herculean feat. Boris remembered reading that Balto himself had been brought here to the park on December 17^th, 1925 for the dedication of his likeness. Boris mused that he only had to walk half a mile in the snow.

I held my carriage behind the lead carriage before me where Boris Stroganoff had strolled up and climbed inside. A second figure approached it on foot and I recognized him as the driver who had asked me to watch his carriage. After a few minutes, Mr Stroganoff exited the vehicle stuffing a folded brown Manila envelope into his breast pocket and heading off into the storm. My CIA cohort approached me now.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “You have helped Agent Tanner in the lead carriage, and I very much. We were short a body to drive this carriage while I got close enough on foot to the forward carriage to overpower Mr. Stroganoff if things went awry.”

“You’re very welcome,” I exclaimed climbing down from the carriage. I shook his hand and exited the park without asking any questions. Upon arrival at home, as I was putting my coat away, I found a sealed envelope in my pocket stamped U.S. Government, containing one hundred dollars. The entire day had been surreal, like a bizarre dream.

 

Jim

March 2022

Five-Sixths Submerged: A Runner's Tale

 

Scene: Late January 1978, a few days after the Blizzard of '78.  A cold, but not too cold, winter's afternoon, 4:30 PM. 38 degrees, there has been snow melting for the last day or two.

   Coming off of a splendid Fall 1977 All-Nassau County high school cross country season, I had to keep my long distance base over the winter, prepping for spring track season.  Distance now, speed work later.  Our coach would allow us our afternoons but he insisted we get the mileage in all winter.  He would sometimes check on us with his car to make sure we weren't cheating and he'd have us log our mileage. 

   We would run 3 miles at a good pace one day, and three days of 6+ miles, with one day 10 miles and up. Two times a week we would do a morning five-miler BEFORE school. That's a 6:30 AM on-the-road calling.  My Dad was always up already, getting ready to go to work. He was proud of my dedication.  My fellow cross country and track teammates were running machines, and we were used to winning, having been County Class “C” champs a year earlier, in 1976.

   Having been unable to run outside effectively for at least five blizzard days, I was antsy and just wanted to run some mileage. After all, a pent up 17-year-old young man and athlete needs to be active. Or explode! Or perish!  The near 40 degrees had me don a tee shirt and sweat shirt, maybe a woolen hat, and running shorts.  No sweat pants for this runner, Hey, it’s 40 degrees, not 20. 

   At my parents’ good house in the Nassau County suburbs, we were perfectly middle class.  Dad had a good job for Pan American Airlines but worked his ass off for us, as did my Mom raising a nice family in a good town with excellent schools.  We had the hard-earned opportunity to succeed.

   So, one fine winter’s afternoon, say a Tuesday, this growing boy embarked upon what he thought would be your average "10-miler."  Back then I never, ever thought of myself as a “lowly” jogger.   I never fit the image of a fat, old guy (like me now), wearing three layers of sweatpants and sweatshirts, with a stupid 1970s head band, jogging slowly and profusely sweating. And they usually looked bad doing it. Ha Ha. I was, back then, so many years ago, surely not that guy.

   With the snow melt, I had to avoid or leap over puddles and small rivers of water heading to our suburban sewers. That would always make for an added difficulty to the distance run.  Snow, ice, slush, water, wind, and traffic were factors inhibiting winter running. As I ran my mileage, I left my little middle-class town and trod northwards into Old Westbury, where the rich people lived.  I felt very fortunate to live near here, as running in Old Westbury, Matinecock, and Old Brookville was always nice as you had two lane roads, giant houses and estates to run by, and a safe place to relieve oneself (sorry, TMI) if one had to.  A long distance run may bring things on, if you know what I mean. The near country roads would cross the Long Island Expressway on bridges well above the busy L.I.E., so it was like the huge highway was never an obstacle. Watch out for cars and trucks zooming along parallel on the L.I.E. service roads, though.  I legged out my first three miles to get to a private property horse farm where there was a one lane paved farm road that took me deep away from the service road and into C.W. Post College property and the vast rolling hills of the S.U.N.Y. Old Westbury campus. 

   As I drove on, running, sweating (not like the fat, old guy), and covering ground, running up a nice hill, 200 yards of incline, only to run down the other side, closer and closer to my weather-related destiny. At a certain point on the SUNY Old Westbury campus, there is a gated entrance and exit leading to the L.I.E. west-bound service road. As I ran about 300 yards towards the gate, in the distance another 100 yards away, I spied an odd sight. 

   Up ahead was low ground with a small valley where the campus road met the L.I.E. service road. Well, a lesson in gravity and meteorology met me head on. The massive snows, now melting all day, have begun to pool, excuse me, to "lake," as in accumulate to form a giant snow melt lake. To my growing consternation, with seven miles behind me, and only three to get home, I am perplexed by a giant water obstacle. To my immediate front, a mere 50 yards away, is a Volkswagen bus, at six feet high, smack in the middle of the snow melt lake, with only about one foot of the vehicle above the water's surface. Talk about a ruined interior, engine, electrical system....well, the whole bus was wrecked.

   Knowing that in 38 degrees, a swim in five feet of snow melt lake water would be perilous, I had a decision to make.  If I retraced my steps, 7 miles in, it would have been a 14-miler. At this point, I needed to get around this frigidly watery obstacle. 

   My running shoes, sometimes called sneakers, were wet and getting heavy. I just wanted to get home. To a hot shower and a warm home.  My zeal for this running craft was now waning; the joys and sense of accomplishment were rapidly evaporating, unlike the “lake” ahead.  I looked to my right and left, off of the two-lane college campus entrance road. There seemed to be water everywhere I needed to go.  Knowing the area well when not flooded, I probed the wet grass and edge of a densely wooded area.  Geez, there is absolutely no one around, not even a New York State trooper or campus police to tell me to turn back. "I'd turn back if I were you," said no signage. The sun was thinking about setting in the next half hour or so, I needed to get the heck out of there.

   Probing further to my right, off-road, into the watery and muddy wood line I did venture.
Damn! I sloshed into water six inches deep.  My sneakers are now submerged and soaked. That's just great, I said, a 1978 period phrase more likely.  Perhaps the use of an expletive.  Resigning myself to the fact that I will run home any way I can, I realized that I will survive if just my feet are wet.  I was all in, so to speak. Figuratively, of course, all in to the dilemma, not the drink.  Progressing, rather sloshing, through a foot of water, I ventured further off-road.  Nobody knows I'm here, if I were to fall or injure myself. Be careful, you dumb ass.

   Pressing southwest to a dry hill about 30 yards away, I sloshed into the unknown. Like a true murky lake, I could not see its depth further ahead.  My next slosh resulted in a plunk!  Knee deep in the icy sauce. Oh, crap.  I must drive on, continue mission, Charlie Mike.  Sloshing knee deep for 10 yards, I cannot go back, only forward.  Continuing the slosh, I plunk again, this time waist deep.  Great! I am screwed now.  Everything wants in.  My bare legs and everything navel down is soaked.  Woooaaahhh.  I cannot go back.  No longer sloshing, but now wading into the frozen element, I breathe in the shiver of a young man very wet in belly deep ice water.  It was beyond refreshing; more like shocking.

   Whose fault is it? Mine and mine alone. Am I to perish at age 17 1/2?  My Mom and Dad will be sad. Same for the track coach, although he bore no responsibility at all for my poor decisions.
Wading forward, I am a freezing idiot in a real pinch.  I am a mere 20 yards from higher ground that will get me to the unsubmerged portion of the L.I.E. west-bound service road. If I can get to the road, I can sprint like a man on fire to the Old Westbury Police Station a half mile away. God help me.

   Wading, eyes on the prize, a final plunk! Oh, no!  Chest deep in a frosty swimming hole. I am totally screwed.  Having no other recourse but to soldier on, soaked like a sponge in the kitchen sink water, I literally swam the final five yards.  My sanctuary within my grasp, I clawed up and climbed out of my potential watery grave. Thank you, God! 

   I ran my drenched frame up the hill and over a small ridge line to finally spy the "dry" service road.  Tumbling and sliding down the snowy and wet-leaved hill, I am now standing on a dry street. I never wanted to feel pavement under my feet more than at this moment.  The frosty, probably 37 degree, air is starting to freeze the wet clothes to my body. Awesome. I started to run over the crest of the hill when I saw my vehicle of deliverance.  Sitting parked at the service road curbside 100 yards away, I sprinted to an Old Westbury Police cruiser.  In not a few wealthier Long Island towns, they are served by Nassau or Suffolk County police and their own local police force.

   Knowing now that I was not going to die, I tried to keep my composure and to tell the town cops that I fell in the water, without a long and arduous explanation. Asking them, begging them to drive me home, a big three miles, they said get in and drove me home.

   As the O.W. police cruiser pulled into our family home driveway, I jumped out, said Thanks to the kind officers, ran into the house and up the stairs.  I shouted to my Mom that I was OK and that I would explain after a nice hot shower.  I was not dead.  Thank you, God. Thank you, God.
This highly-motivated, in-awesome-shape high school runner learned a number of valuable lessons.
   As an exclamation point on the whole debacle, the following day, our local Long Island newspaper, Newsday, covered the massive flooding due to blizzard snow melt.  One telltale photo, from all the photos that they may have taken that day, was a helicopter aerial view of THE Volkswagen bus, five sixths submerged. I was there!  I could have died there, but did not.  Alive to tell this tale, 44 years later.

   I did not tell the coach that I ran “only” seven miles that day.

   I love the fact that the Newsday photo was of exactly where I was.  Proof to back up a true story. The time-weathered photo is somewhere deep in the Melnick archive, perhaps as deep as the cold snow melt lake that I had gone swimming in.  Give your body to the game, indeed.

Richard Melnick,
Writing from the Heart assignment.
March 14, 2022.

Lost and Found: A Love Story

 

Three grandsons and now, at last a granddaughter. At last, someone I will sew little dresses for; someone who will share all my handmade beaded jewelry. Lena was named after everyone’s favorite Bubbe Lena. She was the most adorable freckle faced little girl. This week she was no longer our little Lena; she was a Columbia University freshman (freshwoman) staying at our house during intersession, waiting for classes to resume.

I passed her closed door and thought I heard sobbing. I knocked and entered and there indeed was my granddaughter crying into the pillows.

“Lena, what’s the matter? Why the tears?” I softly asked, while caressing her.

She whimpered, “Julian, Julian. I lost it.”

"Who is Julian? Where did you lose him?” I questioned.

“Grandma, Julian is my boyfriend. He’s also a freshman at Columbia, a physics major like my dad.”

I could only imagine that Julian had phoned her and broken up, causing all those tears.

“No grandma, Julian and I are fine. He’s coming back to campus in a few days.” she assured me.

“So Lena, why all the tears to warrant those red eyes?” I questioned.

“Grandma, I lost it; I lost his gift. I must have lost it at Kennedy Airport when I took my water bottle out of my backpack. I must have pulled it out and lost it on the floor at the airport. Grandma, I’m phoning the Lost and Found. Maybe someone turned it in.” 

She dialed a GOOGLED number and inquired, “ I was in the airport on (gave a date) in terminal (gave a terminal). Did anyone turn in a tan croissant?”

Overhearing the speaker phone conversation, the reply from Lost and Found was, “No Miss, food is immediately thrown away by the cleaning people.”  End of conversation, quick and abrupt!!

“Lena, there’s a great French Pastry bakery in Forest Hills. We will get you another croissant,” I said, hopping to allay her anxiety. Lena looked at me in disbelief and annoyance as though I was the cause of her lost croissant.

”How can I tell Julan I lost his gift?” she stammered. More tears, louder sobbing!!

As a neat freak grandmother, I needed order. “Lena, let’s straighten up this room. Let’s fold all your clothing neatly back into the suitcases. Let’s make the bed. Then, we will think of a solution to this drama and  trauma.” Together, we folded and repacked all her possessions. We collected all the throw pillows  and began to straighten the heavy blue quilt, when out from under the quilt popped the cutest stuffed tan plush croissant shaped huggie. If it could talk, it would have said, “ It’s about time you got me out from under that heavy quilt. Julian sends his love.” Happiness, joy, smiles and kisses filled the room and erased all the sadness  and wiped away all the  tears.

Ethyl Haber

A Chance Encounter

 

Writing prompt:

I was strolling along Park Lane South where the horse and carriages are lined up on the pavement near Central Park when one of the drivers called out to me and said, "Excuse me!  I need to leave for a few minutes.  Would you mind sitting up here and minding my carriage in the meantime?"  I had no pressing matters to attend to and thought it a rare opportunity that Chance had landed me, so I stepped up into the cab and took the reins.  The driver then vanished.  A few moments later .... 

 

I couldn’t resist looking in the cab. To my surprise there was a box of kittens. How sweet the sound of their meow’s. They must be so hungry. I grabbed some potted meat from my sack and fed them right away.  

As they were cleaning themselves getting ready for a nap, I pet each one of them. One was a striped tabby, two were black, two were orange and one was calico. Six beautiful kittens.  

As I pet the calico, I felt a sharp bump in its shoulder blade. I pulled the fur back and I saw the beginnings of a wing. I checked the other side, another wing. I was stunned.  

The remaining kittens had the same wings. Elated I eagerly waited for the driver to come back and explain this miracle.  

An hour went by and no driver returned. The horse was getting hungry and restless. I got him some hay from a wayward bale left nearby.  

Another hour passed; kittens are sound asleep now. I asked some of the other carriage drivers if they knew who the carriage I was minding belonged to. No one knew.  

I was left with a problem. What am I to do with this horse, carriage and box of kittens with wings? Suddenly the driver appeared. “Sorry for taking so long; thanks for waiting.”

Miffed I nodded and asked about the kittens. “I heard the kittens cry and took the liberty to feed them, what are you planning to do with them?” 

“What kittens?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“These kittens in the box,” I replied. 

“I had no idea there were kittens in the cab. You can have them,” the driver responded quickly and sped away in haste. 

“OK then, I will be on my way.” I grabbed the box and in these few short hours the kittens became full grown cats with fully formed wings. “Oh my.” I muttered under my breath. I covered the box with my sweater and started home.  

I am not sure what happened, but I got lost walking in the direction I had walked for years. I stopped to get my bearings and the box of kittens was getting heavy. They were watching me walk, their heads bobbing up and down.  

“Where am I?”  

Suddenly a white winged cat swooped past me. The kittens now grown cats were meowing loudly as if calling out to the white cat. The white cat landed; she was the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. I put the box on the ground. The white cat with wings smelled the box and the kittens and she covered them with her huge six foot wing span. 

“Thank you for rescuing my babies; that driver works for an evil man who wanted to drown and kill my children. I am forever grateful to you. As payment for your kindness, as a reward here is a box of gold to use as you wish.” And with that she and her babies were gone. 

“But wait, how can I contact you?” I shouted in the dust.  

Puzzled, I gathered myself and looked for a way home with the box under my arm. Here were all the familiar streets I traveled, yet I knew that I had been in the presence of magic. I couldn’t tell anyone, however. no one would believe I rescued a box of winged kitties who were about to be killed and that their mother - a white winged cat - found us. Scratching my head, I arrived home. 

Settling down I opened the box of gold and I knew I would be quite well off for a long time to come.

Georgia
March 2022

A Walk in the Park

 

My life is a three-ring circus! Ah, at last their fighting and roughhousing has finally stopped. Each of my sons is tucked away in his Edu-Pod like a chicken in an egg and their lessons have commenced. SL3 and I can finally catch a break. SL3 has just shut herself down and I am going for a walk. It is not easy being a mother on Perseus 6.

Exiting my domicile, I wave to The Smiths as they float by in their bright new mover just purchased from the showroom.

“Hello, Mrs. Smith,” I yell.

I wonder how they can afford this vehicle; it costs many credits. Ten foot tall purple and orange noodle worms wiggle out of my way, parting like multicolored tree trunks, sprinkling their accumulation of snow from last night’s dusting as I pass, while reminding me of 20^th century car dealership inflatable men on earth or equally bizarre children’s pool noodle floats. I have never gotten used to the way the ground wraps itself around my feet on this planet. It is almost like walking in a swamp, as I walk along the quiet street and into the park. Kickapoos and Hanzels play in the trees chasing each other and throwing magnetic nuts up in the air and catching them with their ferrous tails, spreading the white frozen powdery snow everywhere, before consuming the tasty treats.

My primary unit, Zon will be back from Rigel 3 tomorrow with souvenirs and fascinating stories of the unusual customs of the planet. I pass a hill covered in Kuge bushes in full bloom smelling like a mixture of chestnuts and avocado. It brings back memories of earth. Maybe we will visit Mother Earth next period; it has been a long while since we were home. Bright fire-engine red Flojams and Blue Nans dart among the trees, while Barrow Bees fly in all directions, in spite of the cold temperatures, with their green luminous wings buzzing past one’s ear. The three moons are setting in the east following one another in a line to the horizon, like ducklings follow their mother. Our bulbous, spherical binary suns begin their daily dance as the red sky transforms momentarily to a beautiful orange before the dance ends and they set off in opposite directions.

I must be getting back home as SL3 will be refreshed soon and needing a domestic program for the rest of the day, and my sons will have completed their cerebral cortex saturation process anytime now, and I still need to visualize a meal for SL3 to prepare for dinner. It is not easy being a mother on Perseus 6 but I find that these walks in the park are very therapeutic…

Jim

3/22

Wandering Mind

 

Too many times my mind has wandered away to another place. I could end up mentally in the past, present or future. Worries, wishes, hopes and dreams reside there. I am lying down on the couch.  

What am I supposed to be doing, is it time to fix dinner, did I feed the cats. 

Ugh I can’t move from the couch. It’s snowing out and I have to get to the store.  

Watching the weather channel, it’s supposed to snow for a few hours. The snow may turn to rain.  

I like green. Green flowers, green money. 

Charles Entemann died today at age 92, love those cakes.  

Bijou sleeping in front of the computer is his favorite place.  

I forgot to get the mail. 

I can do sit ups in bed. That would be easy.  

Isn’t it silly that I have I have so many unread library books? 

How many tomatoes do I need for the salad? 

Ugh, gotta get up and get to the store. It was fun while it lasted. 

Georgia 

My Family and World War II

 

Poppa

Poppa had an important role in the war effort. He was the air raid warden for our building. I felt very safe knowing he would lead us to safety if the bombs fell on our building. I’m not sure where that safety was, but I’m sure he knew. He was given a helmet and armband which he proudly wore. 

Momma

Momma’s role was to make sure the window shades kept any light from escaping into the night darkness. Any light would alert the German bombers where to drop the bombs.

Brother

My brother had the most important role. He was drafted and stationed in Kentucky. Fortunately, the only hot spot he encountered was the stove in the large army kitchen since was assigned the danger free role of army chef. He would be a prize after the war for any woman looking for a husband to take over the food preparation job in the marriage.  Of course, math (his weakness)  would be required since he would have to convert his army recipes from the mammoth army mess hall quantity to a family of four.

Me

My anxiety about the war was minimal. I felt safe at school since we frequently practiced getting on the floor under our desk. This measure would enable us to avoid falling ceilings and falling bombs. I knew the principal, assistant principal and teachers, all authority figures, would keep me safe. 

I kept a diary for three years back then in the forties and I still have the small books with their brittle, yellowing pages. I reread parts of them every so often and am amazed at how ordinary, mundane and prosaic my  entries were. I even rated them each day with a checking system; check, 

check+. check++ for their importance. A check ++ day might mean I got 100% in a math test or Howie Klein asked me to dance at the East Bronx Community YM-YWHA. I can’t believe there is not one entry that shows any introspection or any awareness of world events. There was a holocaust going on in Europe. My relatives are being sent in boxcars to their death, A boatload of Jewish refugees were turned back at our dock by an isolationist congress, knowing full well that they were sending them to their demise. No Diary of Anne Frank was my diary.

Sister

My sister’s role was to date every available soldier and sailor who was on 

leave in New York City. It can be said she played a major part in raising  the morale of our fighting forces.

Ethyl Haber