Summer Memory

 

Before spraying for mosquito larvae was a practice in my neck of the woods, there were butterflies, fireflies, worms, bats, bunnies and cicadas.

On sultry August evenings that felt like a sauna the local wooded area was lit up by fireflies. Hundreds of them. Folks would gather and watch the fireflies dance and twirl and dive and flicker in blankets of movement. This went on for many days until their life cycle was over.

During the oven hot days butterflies sat on flowers, worms crawled onto the cement after sun showers, cicadas howled, bunnies dug dens and bats could be seen sleeping in certain trees.

This was before the spraying for mosquito larvae. Under the cover of darkness for quite a few years now the mosquito larva authorities spray open fields of woods, cemeteries, junk yards, abandoned property and any area prone to standing water.

Gone are the summer nights with fireflies and cicadas. Gone are the burrowing bunnies, round shaped crawling worms and butterflies. Even the bats have vanished. The ground is toxic.

What remains are Canadian Geese flying in formation, the sparrows and pigeons and sea gulls. These creatures are accustomed to toxic ground. They are city creatures. These creatures have immune systems and stomach acid that melts medal. They can survive a toxic bomb.

Every summer, I watch for the fireflies hoping the ground has recovered and the mosquitos are gone. I think the mosquito authorities should have let the bats take care of the mosquitos.

Occasionally there is a burst of fireflies on steamy August night and folks gather to remember when we had butterflies, fireflies, worms, bats bunnies and cicadas.

Georgia

Some Childhood Memories

 

Memories abound, some positive, some painful.

My face slashed from lip to ear by the pointy barb wire.

“Stay away from the barn! Stop frightening the chickens!”

Farmer Abe chided.

No barb wire would keep us kids away.

Visits to my rich cousin.

A doorman; an elevator.

A large white claw footed tub

Large white plush bath towels.

The smell and taste of that culinary magic

Momma produced from the buckets of

Freshly picked blueberries.

Peirogi, blintzes, pies.

Simpson Street friends sitting on the steps

Cutting Scarlet O’ Hara’s Gone with the Wind clothes.

Crayola crayons filling the coloring books.

Cats jumping into our ground floor window.

“Poppa, this cat has a flashlight!!”

A robber stealing poppas jacket

Weeks pay in the pocket, gone!

Kitchen floor washed for the Sabbath.

The Forwards, all in Yiddish

Neatly placed on the floor

Removed on Thursday, tattered and torn.

Grandma took care of me

Momma sewed hats in a factory.

Naughty child!

Grandma fell running after me.

I killed grandma!

That’s what momma said.

A beautiful dark blue fountain pen

Speckled with sparkling stars.

Just like the summer skies ,

The view from the campfire in the Catskills.

A fountain pen, the treasured birthday gift.

The smell of tomato soup

Emanating from the lunchroom.

The smell of soup; the smell bigotry!

She often reminded my fifth grade class,

“You Jews never knew you had so many holidays

Before Hitler came!”

The sinister smell of bigotry.

Childhood memories abound.

Sounds, scents, sights and taste

Some positive; some painful.

Ethyl Haber

Catskill Farm

 

A child’s summertime memory

The rocking chairs on the wrap around porch

Rocking back and forth, back and forth

Children rocking; children waiting.

Out of the heat of the communal kitchen

Comes the delicious aroma

Momma baking in her shared oven

Momma cooking in her white enamel pot

Momma cooking on her own gas range

Cooking the blueberries poppa and I picked

Poppa’s tall aluminum can brimming full

My small sand pail holding few

The scent from the kitchen reaches me

Delicious treasures are in store

Blueberry jam, blueberry blintzes

Blueberry pierogi, blueberry pie

Momma with her blue stained fingers

Momma with her blue stained apron

Momma, my BLUEBERRY QUEEN.

Ethyl Haber

Father's Day

 
    I can see my father now on Saturday night mentioning in passing that he would help me to deliver the Sunday papers having heard of the difficulties I encountered on my first Sunday delivery the previous week. I did, however, need to be dressed, and the papers had to be sorted and assembled when our agreed upon time arrived.
    “Jim, I’ll help you with the Sunday papers, but you have to be ready to go at seven a.m.” To this condition I gladly agreed.
    “Thanks dad!”
    Our station wagon had three seats with the rear seat facing backwards and a drop-down door, so I loaded all the assembled papers with The Sunday edition of The Daily News to the left and the New York Times to the right on the seat while I sat on the tailgate hopping off while my father drove slowly, and I let him know when each house was approaching. The 35 weekday papers could be packed in the large basket bolted to the front of my bicycle and the additional weight could be controlled as I made one pass through the neighborhood delivering each paper. However, the Sunday papers exploded in volume and weight with the Daily News growing from one and a half inches to three inches while the New York Times multiplied exponentially to five or six inches!
    To the modern digital reader, it must be remembered that there were no computers or cell phones or Internet service so that most advertising was done on the radio or in the papers and with Sunday being the day when most people had a chance for leisure time the papers grew greatly.
                Looking back now the sacrifice of my father's opportunity to sleep late taught me a number of important lessons with this simple act. Compassion, selflessness, punctuality, proper customer service and family togetherness. Dad passed away seven years ago, the house and car are long gone but the example he showed still lingers on.

Thank You Dad,
Happy Father’s Day!

Jim
June ‘24

The Father who Walked Away

 

Father’s Day has always been painful. My father has always been an empty memory. His absence has profoundly impacted my identity and self-esteem.

I sought my father in every relationship, searching for someone strong to rescue me, sing me lullabies, and answer simple yet important questions like, “Did you have any pets?” “What was your favorite book?” “Teach me to count.”

I remember the brief times we spent together and how you made it clear I was not important. I quickly realized you were not the man I longed for or imagined.

I was robbed of shared laughter, walks in the park, bike rides, cooking together, and learning from you. You became lost in the quiet of unanswered calls.

I had to become my own father, nurturing the child within me with the tenderness I desperately needed. I found my strength and courage, teaching myself independence and power. I learned how to live and saw that not every father walks away.

To the father who walked away, as a child, I didn’t understand why you left and blamed myself, as children often do. As an adult, I haven’t forgiven you but have come to a radical acceptance of your choices and leave you with their outcomes.

Since you are no longer on this earth, any chance of reconciliation is impossible, and perhaps that is best for both of us. I still wonder what it would have been like to have an engaged, caring, and loving father.

I know I will never know in this lifetime.

Georgia

Mother Nature's Joy of Giving

 

We knew this white brick colonial house was to be our house when we saw the large backyard.75x100, that’s considered big acreage for this neighborhood in Queens. Additionally, the backyard was a fully private area, with large trees and large bushes shielding us from the neighbors to the right, to the left and across the back. We knew this was to be our Garden of Eden; our Botanical Garden. Mother Nature welcomed us.We now live in this house for over 60 years, and she continues to afford us joy.

A view from the glass door into the yard brings a constantly changing seasonal panorama. Winter’s view lays a white blanket of snow across the lawn. The branches of the  giant oaks and maples are trimmed in soft white powder. Spring surprises us each year with the return of white lace blossoms which always remember to become small red sour cherries. Summer, it’s time to open the patio umbrella, dress the metal chairs with the blue striped cushions and zipper the blue floral tablecloth. Autumn an artist’s palette of orange, red, yellow and brown paint  the trees. Add the blue sky and nature has presented a rainbow of color.

We visit Mother Nature in the backyard. We turn on the two water fountains. The birds splash each other like children playing in a lake.  Mother Nature has invited us to eat al fresco; light lunches or grilled barbecues. The floor show is the dessert time treat. We turn our chairs to enjoy the scene of the birds dining on the sunflower seeds in the blue hanging bird feeder. The sparrows, wrens, and cardinals race each other to poke their heads into the little openings in the feeder. A nibble on the seed sends a portion to the ground for the heavy red breasted robins to enjoy. One time, we even saw a yellow finch. The chirping, twilling, warbling and tweeting sends a symphony of music to the scene. Composers have been motivated to write classical compositions celebrating feathered friends’ inspiration. Spring sprays the area with the perfume of the magnolia tree. Late June welcomes us to pick the bountiful crop of sour cherries. Canning them with peeled peaches into 12 Mason jars will provide us with winter dessert.

Mother Nature continues to bring us a sense of calmness; a sense of appreciation for life. It is no wonder nature is personified as a mother figure. She is dependable and reliable to repeat her cyclical order.

Ethyl Haber

Congestion Agita

 

Joe the bartender took my glass to resupply me with another beer. I nodded my approval, as a special report came over the television set hanging down precariously over the bar. CONGESTION PRICING SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY in large red letters.

“What!?” Everyone exclaimed simultaneously, completely taken by surprise!”

“These crazy B…….! They just spent half a billion dollars studying the proposal for six years and another half a billion dollars installing the gantries and infrastructure to implement it!” exclaimed a suit who seemed to be in favor of the tax. “I was looking forward to a 10-minute drive to the office instead of my usual half hour”.

“That is easy for you to say,” retorted Pete the cab driver, a small, short nervous man. “The cost comes out of your expense account, not your pocket! I'm going to lose more customers again with this money grab! They may take their $15 or $30 dollars and go buy a pair of walking shoes, and if they do, I'm dead,” said the nervous cabbie.

“Now, Ernie a towering burly construction worker in an old pair of blue overalls and a black beer froth infused walrus moustache, wiped his face with his hand and then onto his overalls and slammed his strong fist down on the bar.

“These b…… politicians if they had to do a real day's work to earn those billion dollars instead of picking our pockets for it, they would think twice before they wasted it! “

Sally a short rotund crossing guard still in her uniform and orange, neon vest piped in, “Well I wasn't looking forward to another tax but less cars would certainly have made my job easier.”

Phil the bookkeeper who sat a few stools past Sally tweeted, “Kathy Hochul is playing politics, SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY translates to November 6^th the day after the election assuming the Dems retain power. It is just another parlor trick! Nobody throws away a billion dollars! “

Next, Hector a tow truck driver added his perspective “Well let's look at the bright side, road rage and accidents won't be dropping, so I'll be able to make enough money to feed my family!”

There was an awkward silence as everyone gave Hector a dirty look. The bartender showed no interest, content to having sold a few extra rounds of beer while looking forward to his ride home on a Citibike, a mode of transportation excluded from the congestion pricing tax.

Jim
June 2024