My Love Story

 

It is not a mutual love affair. It is not a reciprocal love affair. It requires nothing; asks for nothing. This is a one way love affair. MY husband doesn’t resent it, even though it has been going on for more years than I can remember. It cushions and supports me through my many mood swings. It doesn’t sit and wait for me or my attention. My love is my maroon paisley bedroom club chair.

It is a common club chair; two arms, loose back foam cushion, loose foam seat cushions . It wasn’t always a maroon ptaisesly chair. It was purchased as a dark yellow club chair to fit in with the decor in your original apartment; a humble garden apartment in Forest Hills, Queens. Its usefulness and admiration began there because that was the chair I sat in to breast feed my first born. When we moved to our own house in Kew Gardens Hills, the club chair was replaced by 2 French Provincial blue toile living room chairs and the club chair found itself in my master bedroom. The yellow fabric was covered with a maroon paisley slipcover. My brother, an upholsterer made the beautiful skirted slipcover 60 years ago. The chair has seen better days; it’s actually quite shabby. I’ve made sleeves to cover the faded arm rests.

During the pandemic, when my Zooming to writing classes started, I began to spend many hours relaxing or napping in that bedroom maroon paisley club chair. Its importance and value began with a specific topic, better known in creative writing as a prompt from the teacher or leader. and so did my love, appreciation, admiration and adulation of my bedroom chair. In this chair, with my eyes closed, my ideas, imaginations, words, sentences, paragraphs danced around in my mind. My next story, poem or essay was born. My creative writing eggs were hatched.

In the dark area under the chair, three shoe boxes rest, gathering dust. One contains my entire olio collection of photos, from my childhood to today. The other contains two of my diaries from my adolescence. The third houses important or interesting letters I have received. Sitting in my chair, inspiration for many a written piece filtered up from these shoeboxes.

With my eyes closed, a warm hand crocheted blanket covering my body, my head cushioned in the indentation of the back foam cushion, I allow my stories to unfold,. Most importantly, I need to remind myself to always have a pencil and paper nearby before my ideas, thoughts, words, sentences and paragraphs float off into the nether the way most nighttime dreams do.

Ethyl H.

Waiting

I wake up early with a smile on my face.  Today my sister and nephew are coming over for a visit.  There are so many things I have to do before they come.  And on the top of that list is the most arduous task:  cleaning the apartment.

I toss the covers and get out of bed.  Even though I’m excited to have them over, I wish that I didn’t need to clean the apartment.  But it is filthy.  It has been so long since I’ve dusted that I will need a chisel just to barely cover the surface.  And don’t get me started on the bathroom!  The toilet, the sink, and the shower are giant Petri dishes and are so hazardous, I’ll need a Hazmat suit just to get inside.  I can keep on going.  But you get the picture.

I silently chastise myself for letting my apartment get so dirty.  Now I’m working twice as hard to make it look presentable for my sister and nephew.  My forehead is Niagara Falls.  I cannot stop sweating!  But I keep going and I am determined to make this apartment shine.

After a few hours of blood, sweat, and tears, I’m finally done.  I look at my watch and it’s nine.  Perfect! She told me that she would be here at eleven.  I rest a bit and then I go and get ready and wait for my favorite guests to arrive.

Ten o’clock rolls around and I don’t hear from her.  I figure that maybe she’s running a little late and I don’t text her because I don’t want to rush her.  But then it’s eleven and then twelve and I’m beginning to get irritated.  She’s done this to me before.  She tells me she’s coming at a certain time and doesn’t call or text to let me know she’s running late.

As I’m sitting on the couch, I’m a volcano and I’m ready to erupt at any given moment.  I can call her and ask her where the hell she is, but I think it’s her responsibility to let me know what is going on.  I love my sister to death.  But her cavalier attitude, especially towards me, is infuriating.  But I put up with it because she's my sister.

One o’clock rolls around and I explode.  Pieces of my body are all over the apartment.  And I worked so hard to clean it.  My phone rings and my body slowly reintegrates itself.  Alas, it’s my sister Face Timing me.  Once I’m put together, I answer.  She smiles and says jubilantly, “we’re on our way!”  And she turns the phone over to my nephew and he smiles and waves at me.

A half an hour later, I see my father’s car pull up.  Once I see them get out of the car, my anger melts away as my nephew runs up to me and gives me a hug.  My sister also gives me a hug and we head towards my apartment.  And in the back of my mind, I think about how I’m going to ride this same roller coaster the next time she comes over.

Ana R.

Nutcracker

 

The extremely upset little old man and woman were tugging at my clothes as if in some way this process would somehow elevate me back to a standing position and restore their cardboard box displays filled with Christmas paper, bows, ribbons and other assorted Christmas decorations to their original condition which had broken my fall as I collapsed on the boxes and their contents. Like a scene from Gulliver’s Travels these tiny very upset people, speaking in a foreign tongue, were desperately trying to move me out of the main path through the store for their potential customers to move about while at the same time attempting to rouse me and elevate me to a standing position. A stream of people carefully hiked around my limbs with their wet winter boots and umbrellas coming precariously close to me as I moaned in pain.

There was a four-foot-tall ancient plastic Santa Claus at the entrance to the store that greeted new customers as they came in and his paint was all faded and disappearing. His left arm stood frozen waiving to the customers. His upper torso turned at the waist about 180° left to right and back again. In his right hand he had originally carried a bell which rang as he moved the right arm up and down to simulate the ringing of the bell , however the bell was now missing and Santa who had been designed with the torque to lift that bell, and was now unfettered by its weight possessed a swift right upper cut which I had unfortunately encountered in the nether regions as Santa made his swift left turn. Any skilled lumberjack with a sharp ax can fell the largest of trees with a number of well-placed chops and Santa that formerly jolly old elf had brought me down with only one. Instead of a jolly smile Santa now seemed to possess an evil grin as he sadistically looked at me briefly over his shoulder when I came into view on each revolution. For a good fifteen minutes I could have sung Christmas Carols with the Vienna Boys Choir and hit the highest pitched notes with little difficulty. Eventually a Good Samaritan helped me up and I hobbled away down 37^th avenue to look for less dangerous stores to continue my Christmas shopping experience in, while keeping a close lookout for evil plastic Santas who might wish to waylay me. The store owners waved to me as I moved away, saying something in their native tongue which probably did not translate to “Come Again Soon!”                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Jim -Nov 23’

Looking Back

 Last Tuesday I decided to take a walk to the park. The air felt as cold as the Arctic. But I kept on walking because going to the park was the goal for the day. It didn’t matter how cold it was.

As I approached the park, I heard the sound of children talking and laughing. Their boisterousness was like a jolt of electricity to my senses. I looked up and before my eyes I saw the tall brick building of the elementary school I used to attend. Floods of memories came rushing to my mind like a train leaving a station.

I began to have visions of my teachers, classmates, my struggles to learn, and of course the bullies. Facing those bullies every day was like being in a lion’s den. I was constantly trying to outrun them. But I was never successful. Their taunts and cruelness were as damaging as poison is to the body.

As I stood in front of that big brick building, I couldn’t help but smile. Although those elementary school years were torturous, I did have good teachers and two close friends. Being bullied in some ways shaped me into the person I am today. It gave me a thick skin because it taught me how to handle difficult situations and not let negative comments affect me. It also taught me to be kind and compassionate towards others.

I stood there for a few more minutes in a trance. Somehow, I was transported back to 1981. To that little girl who was starting kindergarten. A blast of cold air hit my face and I’m back to the present. I smiled once again and continued my walk to the park.

Ana R

Heirloom

 

Join me in a walk into my dining room. It is my favorite room because it is where we share holiday meals with family, friends and relatives. Come with me into the corner of this room to meet the only heirloom in the house. My grandson has already laid claim to that item for his future home in New Paltz..

My mother, Anna, came to America as a poor immigrant from Kiev with some pocket money and a little more than the clothes on her back. Nothing of value belonged to her or the people she left behind. There was nothing to inherit; no heirlooms to pass on.

What Anna had, however, was an eye for good stuff. She could somehow recognize value in items left for the taking in the lobby of her apartment building or out in the street. Someone’s trash, was Anna’s treasure. She knew what to schlep and bring to me. That’s how I got my beautiful, valuable two flow blue antique plates; my antique ladder back chair and my vintage clock radio .I think this last item is valuable because I saw exactly the same one for sale in an upscale Madison Avenue antique store window. Unfortunately, when we were finally able to get back into the city, the store had gone out of business. I am still googling it.

This item is an RCA Victor vintage clock radio from the early 1930’s. Because it stands a bit shorter than 6 feet, it is described as a grandmother clock (not grandfather). The style of the cabinet is Art Deco Skyscraper (a skyscraper building adorns the front. The clock is electric and the radio works on old vintage tubes. Neither is in working order. It sits proudly and comfortably in the corner of our dining room, with an air of great importance.

Looking around my home at my possessions, I think this item may someday be an heirloom for one of my grandchildren (whoever decides to inherit it). The grandchild will be able to point to that clock radio and say, “I inherited that vintage from my Great Grandma Anna. There’s a story behind my heirloom. My Great Grandma would scour the streets and find one person’s trash was her treasure. It journeyed from the street in the Bronx, then to grandma and grandpa’s dining room Kew Gardens Hills to my apartment in Brooklyn, to our house in the country, to my new home in New Paltz. ”Proudly, my grandchild can say, “ That vintage clock radio that stood in the corner of a dining room is my heirloom.”

Ethyl Haber

Costume Dress-Up

 

It is nice to get dressed up in a costume and parade around as something or someone that you are not. I was grabbed from the local market, paid for and tossed unceremoniously into a bag and carried away by my new owner. Upon arrival at my new domicile, I was tipped on my side and a birthday hat, painted black was dropped through a circular oak-tag disc forming the brim and peak of my witch’s hat. Crinkled black Crepe paper was glued under my brim to create my straggly indigo locks. In addition, I had been turned on my side and wedged in place with my long-curved stem facing downward and painted with a grotesque bright green concoction to resemble a face with a proboscis and red nostrils, canary yellow piercing evil eyes with furrowed, threatening eyebrows and glaring yellow teeth, which could have used a trip to the dentist, I might add. It was all so much more exciting than sitting in a field like an orange lump, just like 1000 other orange lumps. A bunch of grimy, grim, gloomy gourds waiting to be severed from Mother Earth’s nurturing care, with their umbilical cords cut, left stranded and alone in a field of similarly affected siblings .Cut from the vine, then sold to some smiling lady in a flowered dress and straw hat , who would proceed to take the victim to her kitchen or more correctly her house of horrors ,and peel off his skin all the while singing a cheerful little ditty to herself, and cut him up into little chunks and boil his flesh alive! Let me ask you if you know why all of these atrocities were committed? Well, it was all for a few insincere compliments on the taste of the lady’s pumpkin pie, from a captive audience of her relations who did not wish to go through the bother of producing this feast for themselves, but instead by buying a store-bought cake and a bottle of cheap wine they avoided this chore while dispensing a few offhand compliments to the founder of the feast! Well, I will take my current set of circumstances over this facade anytime. Thank you very much, and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Jim 10/23

Untitled (from Georgia P.)

 

Walking past the cemetery I was inspired to write a little slice of life vignette. Based on a true story, my true experience.

I live across the street from a cemetery dating back to the 1700’s amazing for a big city. History abounds there. Spiritual sacrifices happen there, chickens, liquor, collectors of cemetery dirt happen there, certain Santos live there.

On a corner section of grounds visible from the sidewalk there are two great pillars of smooth stone. Both are three stories high. One has a six-foot cross on top. The other has an eleven-foot Jesus poised welcomely.

On my obligatory walk to the supermarket, the cross was off the top of the pillar and laying sideways nearly upside down on the dirt ground. I didn’t think much of it.

Months later on my customary walk to the supermarket, there was Jesus, upside down on the dirt ground.

The grounds keepers noticed and placed Jesus right side up planted firmly on the dirt ground next to the pillar. Jesus was not placed on top of the stone pillar. It’s better that way. They have not righted the cross yet.

I can’t say who or what pushed the cross and Jesus down because there’s security making rounds all night ever since a homeless man camped out in a mausoleum after removing the resident dead body.

You can’t climb straight up the pillars, there is nothing to adhere and hold on to.

I can say that I have lived here long enough to know this very old cemetery has mysterious ways of interpreting sacrifices, chicken, liquor, stolen dirt, petitions from those wearing all white and those that pray at the cemetery gates.

Georgia  10/23

Love

 

I love when my daughter Emily visits us in Queens. When she comes from Boston, she stops off to hug her mother-in-law Ginny in Manhattan, walks down Broadway to get to Zabar’s, a culinary paradise. She knows just what to buy for our lunch; the bread, bagels, olives, lox, cheese, salads and rugelach, all will make a scrumptious repast. 

It is Mother’s Day. Bittersweet. The memory of another Mother’s Day is never buried in my mind. Sometime ago, perhaps ten years ago, my husband and I went to the theater on 42nd and 10th to see Neverland, a play about Peter Pan. When the play ended and we walked a short distance from the theater, I felt faint, my knees gave way, and I sat down on the cold concrete. I had not actually passed out, but a knowledgeable women asked me a number of simple questions, my name, address, etc. to see if I was coherent. Fortunately, I was totally lucid and fortunately, we were directly in front of an Urgent Care Facility. After a number of hours and a number of tests, they determined my issue was related to an unhealthy spike in my blood pressure. Years later, future medical care led to my carotid artery surgery.

This past Mother’s Day was a happier one. We are a healthy family and a happy family with Emily’s visit and lunch together on our patio. We are all enjoying the spring blossoms and the spring nesting season.  Before we begin our lunch, Emily helps unpack my Mother’s Day gift of an exquisite blue bird feeder and large bag of bird seed. We hang the feeder which has been prepared with the nuts, raisins, millet and corn. As we sit down to our Zabar lunch, the robins, sparrows, wrens and finches are taking turns at the bird feeder windows with their Mother’s Day meal.

As a nonagenarian mom, I love and treasure each of Emily’s visits.

Ethyl Haber

Cricket Song

 

Their symphony starts slowly, softly, and with each subsequent evening, the notes lengthen and intensify until the night is filled with the with the loud thrumming of cricket courting. Each evening arrives a few minutes earlier. The thick humid summer air embraces the tentative beginning songs of the crickets as they rub their sides in anticipation of mating season. Such are the evenings I remember from my youth. The song of the crickets signaled the coming transformation. The temperature would drop; the air would crisp. The memories of summer would fade, and the prospect of a new school year would beckon. The crickets play a background motif for evening strolls with my father. We would turn left at end of the block onto a leafy 75th Avenue, barely lit road with an overgrown island of weeds and trees growing down the middle. As the summer wore on, the shadows became deeper, and the sound of the crickets became louder and more insistent.

I would have been scared to walk there alone, but Daddy was with me. I could look up at him, and know I was safe. In truth, he wasn’t very tall, but I didn’t know it at the time. Sometimes, I skipped next to him; sometimes he would cup my small hand in his big, strong grasp. I cannot recall one conversation we had on the walks. I did not have to look at his eyes to know they were twinkling when either of us said something amusing. His voice was soft and hushed, and a quiet chortle might escape his throat. This, from the same man who often produced angry outbursts, boisterous laughs, and full-throated political and religious debates.

Often, there were no words, and we just listened to the crickets calling or the breeze rustling the leaves. Sometimes, the muffled sounds of families talking, or the winking images of black and white TVs escaped from behind un-curtained, open windows. The evening air was refreshing, a relief from the sun-intense daytime hours. As the sky darkened, stars would twinkle, birds would settle, and the magic of evening enveloped us. I felt a quieting and a peacefulness. There was a sureness that the world was just fine. In the background, a chorale of crickets sang out, seeking union in a chorus of life-affirming sounds and an insistent thrum of confidence in the future.

Where I live now, in Briarwood, there are no longer any woods or briars. There is no chorus of crickets in late summer. They have abandoned my neighborhood and left the streets to other night creatures who move about the dark recesses of the buildings. As backyards and greenery have disappeared, and multi-floor buildings have sprouted up, “Silent Spring” has progressed into a Silent Fall. The natural sounds have been replaced by the low hum of traffic that moves past my windows and the smell of exhaust that invades my rooms.

This year, on the last days of August, I have heard only one single cricket -- one lone cricket in the garage, calling out for a mate. He sings for days. And then one evening as I pull my car out of the garage . . . Silence. A predator? A lack of sustenance from the ungiving cement walls and maze of pipes? A broken heart when no other cricket answered his call?  A pang travels through and around my chest. The cricket’s muteness underscores my own mate-lessness; both of us alone and silent without a song to sing to a special someone.

As I steer my car out of the garage onto an unusually empty Main Street, I find myself mourning my silenced cricket and my own solitary life. The old car creaks and the suspension slumps slightly. I embark alone on my errand into the darkening evening. How I wish I could hold my father’s hand again, skip next to him, unaware of the arc of life and the horizon line ahead. I move forward, headlights struggling against the dimming light. When I return, no thrum of crickets serenades me. I hear only the artificial hum of the electric lights above me.

Marsha
10.5.23

My Very Real Dream Diary

I do keep a dream diary and have done so for years. Here’s a bunch of dreams I had in one night recently. A little boring and a little interesting.

Slept through the night and had dreams.

An interesting, new person, the look and quality of this dream was different, colorful, new places.

I was in an apartment; one door was to outer space. I was terrified, I thought it was death, suicide and I had to resist going through the door. I went towards another room, turned around to see the space doorway and it was gone, it turned into another room like a bedroom.  I was relieved.

Next part: I found a lost cat I thought was mine. A black cat. But it wasn’t because it had a white belly. I felt disappointed.

Next part: I met a small girl. Maybe 6 and she was the niece of a famous person. They gave her broken toys and I thought it was strange.

Next part:  was with a 6-month-old boy and a man was feeding him something like animal kibble.

Next part: I met a young man, a homely man; I was helping him by writing his name and his girlfriend’s man on a place so they could stay in that place. He contradicted me and said there were more and better elsewhere. I felt frustrated.

End of dreams.

Georgia

The Willow Weeps for Summer

 

AUTUMN

THE WILLOW WEEPS FOR THE DEATH OF SUMMER IN A GRAVEYARD GARDEN OF FORMERLY GREEN STALKED COLORFUL FLOWERS WAVERING AND FALTERING, SAGGING, BROWN, CORRUPTED, NEGENTROPIC WRETCHES PREPARED TO GIVE THEMSELVES UP ON THE SACRIFICIAL ALTAR OF THE EARTH TO DISINTEGRATE AND HOPEFULLY BE REBORN NEXT SPRING

TO EARLY MAN THE SEASON BROUGHT THE HARVEST AND PLENTY BUT ALSO TREPIDATION AND FEAR OF STARVATION DUE TO THE LONG WINTER TO COME AS THE EARTH’S BEAUTY WITHERED ON THE VINE AND FOOD SUPPLIES DWINDLED REQUIRING JUDICIOUS PLANNING AND DISCIPLINED RATIONING TO SURVIVE UNTIL THE GLORY OF SPRING GEESE PRUDENTLY GATHER AND FLY AWAY TO WARMER CLIMES

NOW THE BREEZE COMES TEARING THE LEAVES FROM THEIR HOME IN THE BOUGHS HYSTERICALLY CLUTCHING AT THE ASPHALT AND SCRAPING ACROSS THE GROUND THEY FIGHT THEIR INEVITABLE DEMISE TAP DANCING DOWN THE STREET AGAINST THEIR WILL

THE LEAVES ARE LEAVING, UNCEREMONIOUSLY PLEADING FOR LEAVE TO STAY CLUTCHING AND CLAWING LIKE SAILORS ON A SINKING WOODEN SHIP WEAVING THEMSELVES INTO THE RATLINES FOR A FEW MORE MINUTES OF LIFE BEFORE THE ENDLESS DRINK

IT IS NOT EASY TO DIE GRACEFULLY AND WALK OFF THE STAGE WITH HONOR WHEN YOUR ROLE IS ENDED

SUN FLOWERS CATCH THEIR REFLECTION IN A PASSING POLISHED LIMOUSINE AND COME TO TERMS WITH THEIR SAGGING PAUNCH, POOR POSTURE AND WIZENED FACE, NO LONGER A SUITABLE SYMBOL OF HELIOS AND THE BROILING BEAUTY OF SUMMER

WIND-CHIMES TINKLE ALL DOWN THE STREET AS THE BREEZE FLIES PAST OUR EARLOBES WITH NUTMEG AND CINNAMON WHISPERING IN OUR EARS, THAT CHANGE IS COMING FROM A RELAXED SELF-SATISFIED SUMMER SLUMBER TO A COLD, CRISP, PRODUCTIVE, EFFICIENT FALL

THE SCHOOL CHILDREN WITH THEIR NEW BACKPACKS AND PENCIL CASES, STUFFED WITH PENCILS, PENS AND ERASERS, ALONG WITH THE LOVE AND HOPE OF THEIR PARENTS MARCH OFF TO SCHOOL ASSAULTING UNSUSPECTING LEAVES IN RETALIATION FOR THE END OF SUMMER WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY EXCITED TO SEE THEIR FRIENDS AGAIN AND MEET THEIR NEW TEACHERS AND LEARN NEW AND EXCITING IDEAS IN THEIR NEW ELEVATED STATUS

THE SEASON IS A MIXED BAG OF EMOTIONS, SADNESS AND JOY, PROMISE AND ADVENTURE

FALL IS THE EARTH’S GARDENER CUTTING, SLICING, HACKING, RAKING AND WEEDING THE ANNUALS WHILE LEAVING THE PERENNIALS TO LIVE ON, DURING THIS ANNUAL JUDGEMENT DAY

ENTROPY REQUIRES CHANGE WHICH IS UNCOMFORTABLE AND CHALLENGING BUT POTENTIALLY REWARDING AND ULTIMATELY NECESSARY

THE WILLOW WEEPS FOR THE DEATH OF SUMMER

 

JIM -SEPT ‘23

Impressions

 

I was sitting in my local no name coffee shop sipping an espresso people watching out from the large picture window. I noticed a young man sitting by himself reading. His face was brightened by the window light.

He was quite handsome yet with enough wrinkles that showed he was older than first glance. I was wondering what his life was like, his dreams and aspirations. What life experiences did he have?

My imagination went wild and I set up a scene where I was his friend and confidante telling secrets and dreams. We would know each other so well that we knew what each was thinking.

In the next scene my mind takes us to Paris and India and Australia. We dance and shop and dine. We are deep friends and our very existence begins and ends with each other.

I looked again to the man and he caught my gaze. We smiled and he went back to his book and I went back to looking out the window. We had a moment of connection.

Even though this was a fanciful notion it was a pleasant one. This encounter reminded me of the mystery of connection to other people. Some connections are unexplainable.

The man finished his coffee and closed his book and waved goodbye as he left the no name coffee shop. I waved back smiling.

As my coffee cup was emptying and as I was at the large picture window vacantly contemplating, I discover that the smallest interactions can leave a lasting impression.

 

Georgia

Autumn: Colors and Traditions

 

The colors of my wardrobe are influenced by the changing colors of nature during the autumn season. I love to wear warm, earthy colors like rust, orange, gold, red, black and brown in the fall. These colors remind me of the beauty of nature during this time of year, and they also make me feel cozy and warm.

Here are some of the ways I celebrate autumn:

Fall begins at the equinox, the day when the day and night are equal.

Watching fall foliage change on a hike or drive as the weeks leading to winter set the trees ablaze with gold, red, and orange and brown.  

The obligatory visit to the pumpkin and apple picking orchards.

After my visit it is time to bake pumpkin and apple pies, fresh apple juice and tiny pumpkin cookies with apple pieces.

As the days get darker it is time to decorate for Halloween, skulls, witches, ghouls, ghosts, cornstalks and hay bales. I am ready for neighboring trick or treaters.

Then there is Thanksgiving. Time for a yearly feast of turkey with all the trimmings with family.

Preparing for Christmas with an early tree fully decorated and in full view until the New Year.

Autumn is a time of change and transition, but it is also a time of beauty and abundance. I am grateful for the opportunity to experience this wonderful season each and every year.

Georgia

Diane and Whoopie Meet the Beatles

 

            “You just missed them!”

            “Who?”

            “The Beatles!”

            “Where?”

            “Right here! I told them you were coming, but they had to leave.”

            Ten-year old Diane Kopchinski of Astoria, New York knew it couldn’t be true, but played

along anyway like a suspicious but still gullible victim on Candid Camera. Ever since seeing the

Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show two years earlier, she dreamed of seeing them live in person.

And, knowing her much older cousin Davey was a practical joker didn’t discourage her. Neither

did it stop Aunt Maggie from chiming in “They better not set foot in this house with their dil-

tee long hair!”

Steven L. Thomaschek

Mr. Lowey, Captain’s Courageous, and The Great American Read

 

A few years ago, PBS presented an outstanding series called “The Great American Read” which culminated with viewers voting for what they considered the greatest works of fiction by American authors. As the series concluded I couldn’t help but think of all the memorable books that were not included in the program. Among them were books written for young readers. Here is an anecdote about one that I think deserved recognition even though its author was English and not American.

            It happened when I was a student in sixth grade. Once a week my class would visit the school library located at the end of the hallway and adjacent to the gymnasium. Its unusual placement a few feet below floor level gave it a cozy inviting feel much like a baseball dugout. On this occasion I couldn’t make up my mind about what to read and was without a book as we lined up in the hallway to return to class. Seeing this, my teacher Mr. Lowey declared “No book? We can’t have this. I have just the book for you. Come with me!” With his duck-like walk, the six foot plus Mr. Lowey marched me right back into the library. He scanned the shelves like a sailor standing lookout until finally pulling out Rudyard Kipling’s Captain’s Courageous.

            Captain’s Courageous is the story of a privileged boy aboard an ocean liner who accidently falls overboard. He is rescued by the crew of a New England fishing boat and expects to be taken ashore to be reunited with his father. Instead, the crew puts him to work as they continue their months long fishing voyage. Along the way the boy grows in maturity and learns all sorts of fishing and seamanship skills. He also develops a close friendship with one crew member who takes him under his wing while the rest of the crew go about their business showing less patience for the spoiled upper crust youth.

Captain’s Courageous was a big leap for me. The author’s use of fisherman’s lingo and Gloucester dialect posed a challenge, but I managed. It was a perfect book for me at the time. You see, I was rather sensitive and lacking in confidence, and this book encouraged me to be stronger and more assertive. Perhaps that’s what Mr. Lowey had in mind. I am grateful to him for making this selection on my behalf. Plus, I finished the school year slightly above grade level in reading after starting the year slightly below! I am sure Mr. Lowey’s SRA program and books like Captain’s Courageous had a hand in that.

I am a retired school teacher. Captain’s Courageous was and always will be one of my favorite books.

Steven L. Thomaschek

It's Never too Late to Start Over

 

This is based on a true story. I met a lady a long time ago and I felt she was so animated and free and loving. Here is the fictional character I created in her voice.

The old woman sat on the park bench, her white hair blowing in the wind like a dandelion seed. She was small and frail, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent. She looked up at me as I approached, and her smile was like a ray of sunshine.

"Hello," she said. "My name is Miss Rose. What's your name?"

"I'm Georgia,” I said.

"It's nice to meet you, Georgia,” she said. "Would you like to sit down?"

I sat down next to her, and we started to talk. She told me about her life, and I told her about mine. She was a fascinating woman, and I felt like I could talk to her about anything.

"You know," she said at one point, "I've lived a long life, and I've seen a lot of things. But there's one thing I've learned: it's never too late to start over."

I thought about that for a moment. It was a wise saying, and it made me think about my own life. I was at a crossroads, and I wasn't sure what to do. But Miss Rose's words gave me hope.

"Thank you," I said. "I needed to hear that."

Georgia