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

Hydra at Dawn

 

A cruise-ship is a crib that lulls its occupants to sleep rocking them gently and then like a magic carpet carries them away to a new location during the night to awaken and be amazed by its beauty.

I awoke from a deep sea-slumber staring at the sleepy island of Hydra with the sun rising over its peaks. The town was nestled between three mountains and the houses decreased in number as the elevation increased. There were no cars allowed on the island; only donkeys or feet were the means of transportation in this pristine place. The town sat around the perimeter of the harbor in which small boats were docked. I was blinded by a dazzling display of sunlight-diamonds reflecting off the calm waves of the harbor, stretching out in a triangular pattern and engulfing the hull of the ship a quarter mile from shore. The lights were ever changing polished gems, dissipating and reappearing in a new pattern and location. My imagination wandered, refreshed by sleep, wondering if the lights were simply reflected light or possibly mermaids entranced by the island’s beauty, or maybe even sirens attempting to lull ships near the rocks. I had not packed wax into my suitcase, so I did without it. Maybe the lights were the souls of Greeks from ancient history swimming up from the afterlife to look again at their beautiful land and remember their exploits and accomplishments reminiscing of when they possessed a corporeal body to walk the land and breathe in the crisp clean air. Homer and Socrates, Euripides and Aeschylus, Plato and Aristotle, Herodotus and Thucydides, Clea and Aspasia, Pythagoras and Pericles all numbered among the throng in my vision, remembering and revisiting the past before returning this vista to the living.

 

Jim -Sept 23’

The Siren

A Musical Writing Prompt:
Listen to Debussy's nocturne titled "Sirens". Write a short piece while you are still under its spell.

When life gets to be too much, and the sounds of the city overwhelm me, I return to the waves. I live in the city, and my entire life is here, but my body craves the salty air and caress of the sand on my skin once the exhaustion sets in from the mundanity of daily routine. My passion for the sea was inherited from my mother, who escapes to the beach every chance she gets in the summer. When I was only three months old, my mother brought me to the beach in Montauk, holding me close to her chest in a light blanket to keep me cool and protected from the blazing sun. This was the first of many more family vacations to the sea, a brief abandonment of the life we shared in the city. Although I could not form memories, the solitary experience of the sea seeped into my small, undeveloped infant bones, forever changing my very being.

Despite my love for the sea, I dislike boating because of my sea-sickness, the bane of my existence. Instead, I prefer to float in the sea, absorb the water like a sponge, swim, and merely dip my toes. Just this is enough to satisfy my longing for the sea. It’s the experience of being near the sea and touching the water that truly lights my soul afire and washes away the worries on my mind. The sounds of the sea - the repetitive crashing of the waves, the cries of the seagulls, and the crunch of seashells beneath my feet - calm my mind and quell the fears that I carried with me from the city to the coast. When I stand at the shore, I recognize the darkness that the sea holds. It has the deceptive ability to call us in, tempting us with calmness, but threatening us with drowning in its depth.

On my father’s side, I descend from the hills of Sicily, an island inundated by three seas that give it fertile farmland, fresh seafood, and a blend of Mediterranean cultures. Sicily is characterized by its otherworldly beaches that have warm, turquoise-blue water and white sands. When I visit my family, my first request is to drive to the beach, where I sit and take in the natural beauty that surrounds me. It just exists, and that is enough for it to be beautiful. I am rebirthed after a visit to the Sicilian coast, where I spend hours swimming and letting the rough sand smooth my sunburned skin like sea glass. After a day in the sea, I emerge from the water with a new perspective on life, like Venus brought forth from the sea foam and waves.

Lexi

Favorite Poem(s): Based on a "Writing from the Heart" Assignment

 

“There’s A Hole in My Sidewalk: Autobiography in Five Short Chapters” ~ by Portia Nelson

Chapter I

I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk

I fall in.

I am lost … I am helpless.

It isn’t my fault.

It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter II

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don’t see it.

I fall in again.

I can’t believe I am in the same place.

But it isn’t my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter III

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there.

I still fall in … it’s a habit … but,

My eyes are open.

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

Chapter IV

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

Chapter V

I walk down another street.

This poem is a metaphor of our habits, our chronic beliefs, our dysfunctional need to act out unconscious messages. This poem explains that we may have to go through many attempts in figuring out what we need to do to change our lives for the better to live up to our true potential.

Change is hard, self-reflection is very uncomfortable. Coming out of the fog of living mechanically and repetitiously and habitually can be painful and excruciating.  

Chapter one and two shows what happens when we are struggling with denial, murky trance, daze and state of confusion when we are in ignorance and unawareness.

Chapter three and four shows the beginning of awareness. The beginning of refection. The beginning of thinking in new ways. What is able to be done, feasible, and achievable.

Chapter five is nirvana, peace, free, wide open new sidewalk with new experiences and possibilities. This is now your way, your street, and your life. Self-agency, will power, autonomy, ability, confidence restored.

This poem is a powerful reminder that we all have the power to change our lives. It may take time and effort, but it is possible to break free from our old habits and patterns and create a new path for ourselves. The first step is to become aware of our own blind spots and limitations. Once we see where we are, we can start to make changes. It may not be easy, but it is possible. And the rewards are worth it.

This poem also teaches us the importance of self-responsibility. We cannot blame others for our problems. We are the ones who create our own reality.

This poem is a call to action. It challenges us to wake up, take responsibility for our lives, and create the change we want to see.

The poem is a reminder that we are not alone. We all struggle with our own challenges. But we can overcome them together.

Georgia

Finding the Right Gadget

 

My hunt for a chopper/slicer was initially disappointing. I tried a dozen or so choppers/slicers that were name brand and no name brand. Each either broke or didn’t perform as advertised.

When I sliced a huge piece of my right-hand pinky finger and ended up in the emergency room and needed a bunch of stiches, I was ready to give up. Maybe there will be no chopper/slicer that will work for me.

I was in Bed, Bath and Beyond one day and found the Vidalia Chop Wizard. It is a chopper and has a separate mandolin slicer. For twenty dollars I decided to give my search for a chopper/slicer one more time.

To my amazement the chopper had two sizes of blades placed over the vessel that held the veggies. I tried it, perfect potatoes, perfect carrots, perfect onions, and perfect peppers. This was it.

Finally, I had found my chopper. I tried the mandolin slicer very carefully. The slices of onion were paper thin. Perfect. I don’t use the slicer often because I fear slicing my finger into paper thin slices and landing in the emergency room again.

I tried to chop cheddar cheese and broke the vessel part. I pushed too hard. Ugh. Off to Bed, Bath and Beyond for another twenty-dollar Vidalia Chop Wizard. This time I used my twenty percent off coupon.

I have broken a few of these choppers trying to chop food items that were way too hard to chop. I am on my fourth chopper. The one I have now is three years old. Fingers crossed it will last a very long time.

Bed, Bath and Beyond is closed now so I can buy directly from the manufacturer if need be.

The message here is don’t give up on finding those handy gadgets that you really need in your kitchen.

Georgia