All the Buzz

There I was with a large box filled with other folded boxes on my way to the recycling station of my building. I was alone and I could hear the mechanisms of the elevator heading my way when an unusual buzzing noise Interrupted the mechanical sound of the elevator and I noticed a huge bee at the top of the closed elevated door climbing out from the elevator shaft. He was black and furry with thick arms and legs, and he fell to the terrazzo floor before me with a noticeable thud. He was not dead, but he sounded angry with his antennas swirling around trying to get his bearings while I was the only living thing in the hallway to vent his frustrations on! A panicked self preservative instinct overcame me, and I decided to smash him with my box before he fully came to his senses. I did this and he laid still now. But was he dead or playing possum? When I had left would he drag his broken body to my front door pointing his stinger at it to give a clue to his bee buddies or bee detectives, that would come to investigate the murder? Would I return home to find the chalked outline of where the bee had finally died scratched onto the polished terrazzo floor? It is well known that bees seek revenge, and they are a specialized society possibly they had a division of hit bees that would come to settle the score? God forbid I thought possibly I killed the Queen Bee but that seemed unlikely as she would have been protected. Such are the trials and tribulations of responsible recycling!

The next day passed uneventfully although throughout the entire day I had a feeling of foreboding. That evening there was a knock at the door combined with the sound of a terrible hacking cough. I opened the door to find an immense Bee blotting out any light behind him in the hallway as he coughed incessantly while trying to communicate between his gasps for air “HONEY, HONEY “ Which I eventually deciphered and ran to the cubbord frantically pulling out three attached plastic bear shaped bottles of organic honey and giving it to the enormous Bee. With his appendage he grabbed the closest bottle tore off the lid and swallowed the entire bottle in three large gulps.

“Ahh That feels much better!” said the bee enforcer.

“Can I help you?” I stammered.

“You already have” buzzed the bee.

“You were very lucky to have that honey on hand even though it was stolen from some hard-working bees somewhere who was just trying to make an honest living”.

It was hard to tell when the giant insectivore was mad or when he was content, sarcastic or simply doing his job.

“I was sent here today to either kill or maim you for killing my little brother but I have decided to spare you, however if you ever retell this story make sure to embellish it with a good deal of violence on my part!”said the bee.

“Oh thank you I will be sure to do that. “I expostulated.

“I am going to hold on to these two additional bottles of honey just in case my cough comes back as I deal with an inordinate amount of pollen, grasses, beeswax and such,” said the super bee,” Oh, and stock up on that organic honey it is top shelf as I may stop by again if necessary for more honey in exchange for sparing your life” buzzed the BEE ENFORCER.

“Thank you again for sparing my life and I will be sure to embellish our encounter leaving all who hear my tale wishing to never make your acquaintance in the future, and I will never raise my hand to a bee again! “I exclaimed.

The bee said nothing else and walked away with a quick wave lumbering down the stairs and exiting the building never to be seen again.

Jim- June 25’

I Can't Believe Poppa Threw it Away

 

 

How could he?? How could Poppa have thrown it away?? I can’t believe Poppa threw away Momma’s treasured wind-up victrola and her entire record collection. Was it indifference? Was it thoughtlessness? Was it a shortage of space in the moving van? Was it malice? No-one to ask!! My older sister and brother have died. We never talked about the incident when they were alive. Maybe they would have an explanation. I gave it little thought growing up. When I started writing, I began to examine Momma’s and Poppa’s relationship. 

 

Let me give you the facts. Our family spent the two summer months in a rooming house in the Catskills. Poppa toiled as a house painter in the city and joined us on the weekends. When we left the city, we had been living in 1932 Crotona Parkway. Unbeknownst to us, Poppa packed up our apartment and moved us to 1215 Simpson Street. At the end of the summer, we were surprised to arrive at this new address. Everything was in place but the wind-up victrola and record collection were gone. Her collection of operas, popular songs, Jewish dance music, all gone. Momma cried for many days and probably never forgot or forgave him. I can’t believe Poppa could have done such a thing!!!

 

Ethyl Haber

Memorial Day Musings

 

It is early morning as the day unfurls, while the flags are unfurled on this Memorial Day spilling streaks of red and white stripes along with a field of deep blue spangled with white stars.

You can almost hear a thousand pots of coffee percolating all over town as everyone prepares for a day of remembrance and reflection.

Barbecues are being cleaned and connected to natural gas for later in the day.

Most holidays are joyful, but this one is sad and mournful.

It is a day off from work but not for shopping and frivolities.

An old soldier is polishing the buttons on his uniform and shining his dress shoes.

Somewhere a marching band is practicing with their instruments.

American Bald Eagles are leaving their nests to hunt for their fledglings high above the Hudson River.

An old warrior in uniform is rolling down Main Street in Ossining with a jug for donations and a pocket full of red poppies, being greeted by some and avoided by others. He is fully cognizant of those ingrates who cross the street to avoid eye contact and the customary donation to the Veterans Association.

A little girl dressed in a navy-blue dress with white shoes, and red beret approaches the old soldier and removes a bill from her small pocketbook and places it in the jug.

“Thank You, Sir, for your service.”says the little girl.

“Thank You little girl!” says the old warrior handing the girl a poppy as his cracked weary face lightens up for a moment, temporarily forgetting the many faces that haunt him of those companions who never made it back home from the battlefields of Europe.

Prisoners sit in their cells at nearby Sing Sing reflecting on their squandered lives.

New recruits at nearby West Point Academy study and workout and dream of their future accomplishments.

The wonderful, combined smell of five hundred barbecues float down Main Street.

The old soldier’s jug is filled now, and he is running out of red poppies in his pocket. His brass buttons are bursting with pride from the many accolades that he has received today.

Each streetlamp on Main Street displays the picture of a soldier who has paid the ultimate price for his or her country while every house has a flag on display as the parade comes down the street.

F-18’s can be heard screeching over the Hudson River, long before they can be seen flying past West Point Academy.

The American Bald Eagles are flying home to their aeries with fish for their fledglings.

It has been a good and respectful day.

Jim- May 25’

Re: Alliterative Assignment - (5) Sentences

 

• Curious cats crept through the clover. 
• The Siamese silently sat in the sunlight. 
• Puppies played like panthers.  
• Felines frolicked flipping fish in the forest.  
• Tabby toppled through the tall thyme.

Georgia

Five Original Similes

 

Regret is like a shadow walking with you day and night. 

Nostalgia is like the perfume you can no longer encounter.

Anxiety is like a radio, always on, never clear.  

Fear stayed over her head like a threatening storm.  

Hope settled in her chest like a candle in a dark room. 

 

Georgia

Things Don't Like Me - The Experience of a Benign Despot

 

When we were first married, my husband and I cautioned each other about our enormous collections of books. Prior to the official union of our libraries, we ordered four imposing bookcases, each seven feet tall and able to hold over five hundred volumes. This philanthropic commitment created a stable home for our diverse tomes, and I spent many happy hours introducing them to each other. As I attempted to establish this new literary community, I noted that only one single title had subsisted in both our collections. Catch 22 appeared as fraternal twins, one in hardcover and his brother in paperback. They were forced to clasp each other awkwardly amidst the teeming crowds of other titles.

My intent was to create harmony among the defiantly diverse subjects, align the authors and their titles into eclectic cliques of subject matter. Whether they were attired in leather, cloth, or paper, I strove to give them a sense of belonging and security. Delicate novelettes were safely bolstered by sturdy anthologies and regiments of reference materials. Strongly opinioned volumes were sequestered far enough from each other to establish distinctive camaraderie.

On the first two occasions when our household was relocated, the stoic wooden towers strode confidently into their new abode, re-welcoming their citizenry and re-establishing communities with few arrivals or departures of specific individuals or families. But our third exodus created a great upheaval; the contented literary community would be obliterated when we determined that the four loyal bookcases could not survive another relocation. The books themselves would also need to be thoughtfully examined and reduced in number - either incarcerated in storage, orphaned in thrift shops, or sacrificed at the local recycling center.

As I soberly considered this necessary triage, I noticed how quiet the books had become over the past several years. The security of place upon the solid shelves had made them both complacent and reluctant to seek my attention when I walked past; I realized that in bookstores, the titles seemed to shout at me; the colorful covers waved to get my attention and tempted me to peer deep within, pursuing their unique essence. The books that had been standing shoulder-to-shoulder on my own shelves felt a bit ignored and neglected. They also feared that going so long without a friendly flip through their pages had left them dry and brittle, at risk of injury if I handled them too roughly.

But no matter how benign a despot may be, a time will come when difficult decisions must be made. The most precious volumes were lovingly nestled into trusty cardboard “book

boxes” and carefully stacked in a climate-controlled facility. Books that were still eager to speak - to someone else, no longer to us - were gently released to local libraries and thrift shops. Bibliophiles may find the last matter a bitter one. Only those with a strong stomach and a fierce creative streak may appreciate knowing that assaults were conducted upon this last category of literature. Most of the remaining, unsalvageable volumes were twined for recycling. However, if they were determined to contain unique illustrations or passages, they were first vivisected before disposal of the remaining husk. During this surgical procedure, I reminded myself that the harvested treasures would one day serve to vitalize a journal, scrapbook, or artistic collage. Finally, only one bit of carnage remained: the destruction of the bookcases themselves.

We were unable to find anyone needing something to hold a collection the size of ours. We placed all four towers at curbside, on a night before the scheduled bulk pickup. When we returned the next day, only a few wooden shards lay scattered in the gutter. The kingdom had fallen, and the citizens dispersed. Over the next years, new lands welcomed the various survivors. In our home, a much smaller community found itself under wiser, more attentive rule.

Shelia S.

My Cell Phone

 

Ugh, a necessary evil. There’s no living without it anymore. My cell phone is both a lifeline and a leech—always in reach, always demanding attention. I use it for everything: endless surfing, learning strange and fascinating facts I never thought to wonder about, staying entertained, staying distracted. It’s a tool, a toy, and sometimes a trap. I even keep my old landline, just in case I misplace it—so I can call my cell phone from my home phone and follow the ring like a bloodhound. Isn’t that something? Technology ruling the day, but I still rely on the clunky relic from the past just to keep up with the sleek gadget of the present.

Georgia

Post-it Notes

 

Okay, this might sound a little silly—but I absolutely love Post-it Notes. They're one of those small-but-mighty things I simply can't live without. 

To tame my forgetfulness, I use these sticky wonders everywhere. I’ve got every color and size imaginable. I even have those tiny orange flag tabs to mark my place in books I mean to read (someday). 

You’ll find them on the fridge, the computer, inside books, on my cell phone, in the bathroom, stuck to the lamp, the window, my purse—honestly, if it has a surface, there’s probably a sticky note on it. I’ve even joked about putting one on my forehead or the cat’s tail (don’t worry, the cat is safe). 

Without these little lifesavers, I’d be wandering aimlessly, completely directionless. Sticky notes may be small, but for me, they’re mighty. 

Georgia

Thoughts on a Shel Silverstein Poem

 

HAPPY ENDING? (Every Thing On It)  

There are no happy endings.  

Endings are the saddest part,  

So just give me a happy middle And a very happy start.  

Georgia

Thoughts on the poem, "The Prophet" by Kahill Gibran

 

From the moment I read it, I have loved The Prophet by Kahill Gibran.  In particular, I’m completely drawn to a part of one of the poems that goes like this:

                  On Children

And a woman who held a babe against

Her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.

And he said:

Your children are not your children

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s

Longing for itself.

They come through you but not from

You,

And though they are with you yet they

Belong not to you.

 

You may give them your love but not

Your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not

Their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of to-

morrow, which you cannot visit, not even

In your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek

Not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries

With yesterday.

 

To me, this is a poem that explains brilliantly how a child begins in the womb as an extension of its mother and they are one.  After leaving the womb, the child becomes its own person in many, many ways. 

This poem is also good advice for any parent who needs to learn about letting go of your child and letting them develop into their own unique individuals.

I marvel how a man, who never carried in the womb or gave birth could write about it in such a compelling style.  Maybe Kahill Gibran created this poem to demonstrate how he experienced letting go of his mother.

Ellen

Where I Came From

 

I come from immigrant parents who escaped the pogroms of Russia, sailing steerage to the Golden Land.

 

I’m from Momma, blue stained fingers, blue stained apron, Blueberry Queen cooking blueberry pierogi, baking blueberry pie.

 

I’m from Poppa, singing Yiddish songs, teaching me Tubalalaika, Tumbalalaika.

 

I’m from Bronx city streets with playmates on cement steps, cutting out Gone with the Wind paper dolls, jumping rope, bouncing pink rubber ball to a mine name is Anna and my husband's name is Albert.

 

I’m from Simpson Street, two blocks from the IRT elevated train. Hear the rumble of the engine; the click clack of the wheels; the screeching of the brakes. 

 

I’m from summers in the Catskill rooming house; shared communal kitchen; wraparound porch; rocking chairs pounding on the wooden floor. Cast iron water pump providing delicious icy water, blueberry bushes across the road. 

 

I’m a Lindy hopper, bobbysoxer swooning to Frankie’s velvet voice.

I come from Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Peter, Paul and Mary. I join them in song at Vietnam Peace Rallies. 

 

 

I’m from family celebrations of Jewish holidays, Passover matzo ball swimming in chicken soup, gefilte fish smothered in spicy red horseradish.

 

I come from handmade gifts and homemade cards. I come from warmth and love and a long-blessed life.

 

Now, you tell me - where you come from?

 

Ethyl Haber

The Beach Umbrella

Beach umbrella, I thought you were my friend

That we would go to the beach together till the end

Until I found out you couldn’t be trusted

And I had to bring you home from the beach tattered and busted

 

It would always start out the same way

Off to the beach on a beautiful day

I would dig a hole and plant you in the sand

And that’s when all the trouble began

 

A slight wind would blow and out of the sand you would go

Twirling gleefully across the sand, dancing to and fro

Me, trying to catch you but always out of reach

Bouncing and rolling, turning your pole into a projectile

 

Beach goers and I finally catch you after a long run

To you, beach umbrella, this might seem like fun

But as for me, our beach days are definitely done

I’d rather sit on the beach without you in the burning sun

Ellen 

Left Behind

 

I packed my purse with my keys, wallet tissues and comb. I packed my Channel 13 bag with my beads, scissors and works in progress and finally, I packed my second Channel 13 bag with my scarf, gloves and multi flowered small travel umbrella. I boarded the E train at Union Turnpike heading to lower Manhattan to attend my UFT Beading class. When the train pulled into Queens Plaza, I spotted the train pulling into the track across the platform. Great!!! Here comes the F train which is more desirable. I raced out grabbing my purse and Channel 13 beading bag only to realize, as the train door closed, and train moved that I had left the second Channel 13 bag behind. It had been resting on the floor and that’s where it sat. Sadly, I was never able to retrieve it from the MTA Lost and Found. Goodbye to my scarf, gloves and beautiful multi flowered small travel umbrella. All left behind just like an item last Passover.

 

I’m sure I have aroused your curiosity. Umbrella??Passover?? My Passover seder assignment last year was to bring 5 quarts of homemade chicken soup. This job is a long arduous task. Wash pare and cut up carrots, onion, celery, parsnip, turnip, dill, parsley and of course, chicken. Fill three pots with water to cover the above and cook for 2 hours. Strain and put the clear broth into jars. When cool, transfer to plastic quart containers and freeze. On the day of our Passover seder, start to defrost the 5 plastic quart containers and put then into the green thermal travel bag. My chicken soup was resting on the kitchen counter. We all helped load the car with the numerous items on the dining room table. We are off to Ginny’s house on 93rd and Central Park West. The car is unloaded at our destination.

 

 Has the reader noticed anything is missing???? Yes. We loaded the stuff on the dining room table. We forgot to check the kitchen counter!! Sadly, my homemade chicken soup has been left behind. I cried like a baby.  My daughter Emily’s matzo balls were served in a commercial canned chicken broth. No comparison to my homemade soup.

 

Left behind. My chicken soup and my scarf, gloves and multi flowered  small travel umbrella.

 

Ethyl Haber

Umbrellas

 

No one knows who first invented umbrellas for protection—those small, portable, colorful shields against rain, wind, and sun.

When the elements kick up, we pop open our shelters in a sudden parade of color above our heads.

Children love umbrellas, spinning them in circles like magic shields. Rain drums on the taut fabric, stretched over delicate metal spines that hold everything open, defying gravity and gloom.

If the wind is strong enough, it turns umbrellas inside out—then we laugh. An unruly umbrella is ridiculous, lively, and oddly human.

On blistering sunny days, parasols offer patches of coolness and shade, a simple refusal to surrender to the heat.

Like a kind of armor, umbrellas keep us feeling safe—hidden from the world, from rain, from too much sun. They create a small, private space where we can breathe, smile, or share a moment with someone we love.

Umbrellas make us happy—simple, helpful, necessary—and always there to hold above us a little sky of our own.

Georgia

The Proud Pigeon

 

The Al Oerter Olympic Gymnasium as well as the Olympic Swimming Pool across the expressway, sit below the shadows of the Van Wyck Expressway in Flushing Meadows Park just north of the Long Island Expressway. These buildings were a gift from the NYC Olympic Committee as a remnant of the required infrastructure built for the unsuccessful bid to host the 2012 Summer Olympics in New York City. Al Oerter was a four-time Olympic gold winning discus thrower who grew up in Astoria Queens and an appropriate person to name this beautiful well-equipped gymnasium in memory of. It is shining jewel within the city’s recreational system.

Outside the building and high above the low relief orange maple-leaf symbol of the Parks Department stands the most cantankerous, obstinate pigeon that you have ever seen. An opportunistic and courageous fellow not frightened by the imposing razor-sharp structures that line every level surface below the awning to dissuade him from landing there and warning him to find housing elsewhere. He reigns alone on his lonely perch unimpressed by these sharp pointed weapons of war that he is encumbered with as he carefully bobs around these obstacles. The inverted Swords of Damocles are welded in steel, a forest of lances, spears and swords to dissuade him from making his home here. The American spirit of resistance to tyranny is personified by this simple pigeon standing in the midst of this homage to Vlad the Impaler!

Jim-April 25’

A Remarkable Event

 

I love to sit outside during the spring. The front of my house becomes a very busy place. Daffodils and hyacinths are blooming. The birds are chirping non-stop and, if you listen carefully, you will hear different types of bird calls that you don’t hear during the other seasons.

One early morning, I took my cup of coffee downstairs and sat outside. I could see and smell the hyacinths in the garden. The daffodils were marching in a bright yellow line next to the fence. The birds were singing all different kinds of songs as they greeted the sun.

Just as I took a sip of my coffee and started relaxing, I heard a bird chirping and it sounded very close to where I was. I turned my head quickly towards my pine tree and there on the ground was a baby bird. If I had to guess, I’d say it was not more than a month old.

“It must have fallen out of its nest in the pine tree,” I said to myself. “Or maybe it was trying to fly and couldn’t get off the ground,” I said under my breath. I decided it was my responsibility to get this baby bird back in its nest even though I had no idea how to do this.

I google it and find out a couple of helpful things. One, don’t touch the bird with your bare hands because the mother bird will sense this and reject her baby. Two, when putting the baby bird back in the nest, keep an eye out for the mother bird who might swoop down and attack you. Okay, these things were really good to know.

I enlist the help of my next-door neighbor, Fred. He is willing to assist me. He brings out a ladder and a five-fingered potholder to pick up the bird. Fred opens the ladder, puts the potholder on, picks up the baby bird and puts it back in the nest. Our main concern now is that the mother doesn’t see us and try to attack. Fred and I were extremely nervous about this.

We waited maybe two minutes and then Fred slowly started moving the ladder away from the nest. All of a sudden, something landed on Fred’s head. We both

almost fainted from fear. Fred almost dropped the ladder. The very next second, Fred realized he left the potholder on top of the ladder. It was the potholder that fell off the ladder and landed on his head, it wasn’t the mother bird trying to attack him. Fred and I were so relieved, we just started laughing uncontrollably from the realization that a potholder attacked his head, not mother bird!

We never saw the baby bird again. We decided we did the right thing by scooping the baby bird off the ground and placing it back in its nest. As for Fred, his bird rescuing days are over and he won’t say what he did with the potholder.

Ellen

SPRINGTIME

Spring crept in quietly, but a short time ago I noticed the first little buds poking out on trees and bushes, and the crocus plants pushing through the soil like tiny trumpets of color.  

The earth, still cool, stirred with life—worms wiggled up from their underground sleep, and bugs began to reappear bees buzzing, ticks lurking, stink bugs clinging to screens.  

I like bugs, especially in Spring. Apparently, so do the birds. All winter long, they gather at my windowsill, pecking gratefully at the bread I offer. But once Spring arrives, they visit only in the morning—after that, they vanish into the green world, where bugs are back on the menu. 

Georgia 

Froggy’s Springtime

 

Froggy loves springtime when his pond becomes alive with darting fish and lily pads and forest sounds that make him glad.  

Froggy pushes his little nose into the sweet air smelling the flowers and grass.  

Oh, how the springs soft rain drum and tap on the newly growing leaves.  

The night is still beneath the silver full moon. Froggy hears the occasional ribbit, croak of his neighbors.  

The warm sun soaks Froggy’s speckled skin. He leaps and splashes and dives into the pond.  

Froggy says, “Spring is the season for me” as he disappears into the crystal-clear water with dragonflies and moths as the Froggy king.  

Georgia

Diary of a Crocus

FEBRUARY 21st

Oh MY, the earth is packed in around me, cold and confining and I feel like a murderer shackled by hand and foot in a confined cell enrobed in complete darkness.

March 1st

I am growing stronger now and the earth is warming now, and I have the strength to push the earth out of my way and free myself from this encumbrance.

March 21st

It is done, I have pushed the earth out of my way and the warming sunshine feels wonderful on my petals and stem! But what is this, those confounded Daffodils have beat me to the surface again! I had hoped that I could outgrow them this year, but they have beaten me again! However, under closer inspection I can see that their stems are drooping with withering petals, and their leaves are dragging on the ground, a sure sign of frostbite! With any luck they won’t survive the night! Thank You MOTHER EARTH! Let’s get this Spring going!

Jim

Praying in the Spring

 

One sure way I know its spring is my Prayer plant starts sending up new shoots through the dirt in its pot. Usually, the Prayer plant’s spring is always a couple of weeks earlier than the official date of spring.

I get excited when I see the new shoots and then the leaves opening and filling the pot. The leaves are green and oval shaped with dark purple lines showing through the middle. The dark purple lines remind me of zebra stripes. The dark lines quickly turn to a shade of light green.

While I am enjoying my Prayer plant, I calculate how many years I have this announcer of spring. This season, I have the plant forty-one years! I know its age because my son, Anthony, just celebrated his forty-first birthday and the Prayer plant was given to him as a gift when he was born. Usually, Prayer plants only live up to ten years. It’s good to have a green thumb!

As spring moves along, the plant gets very full. It’s at this time that I like to look at the plant in the evening. This is when all the leaves face upwards, looking like hands in prayer, hence, the name Prayer plant. By morning, the leaves move downwards again until evening.

Writing about this indicator of spring got me curious as to why the leaves look like they’re praying every night. This is what I found out. The natural movement of the leaves up and down is called nyctinasty. This up and down motion of the leaves helps the Prayer plant conserve energy and water during the night. Well, for forty-one years, I did not know this.

There had been short periods of time when the plant looked a little ill. That’s when I say to myself, “If this Prayer plant ever dies, I will truly grieve. Then I think to myself, I will pray like the Prayer plant prays, that it will live forever.

Ellen

Prayer for a Newborn

 

HELLO LITTLE BABY SLEEP WELL TODAY FOR YOU HAVE HAD A TUMULTUOUS DAY ALTHOUGH YOU WILL NOT REMEMBER IT FOR LONG,

YOUR EYES ARE OPENING EVER SO SLIGHTLY AS YOU SMILE AND SLIP INTO A DEEP SLEEP, WARM AND COMFORTABLE, FAR FROM THE TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF A WORLD THAT YOU KNOW NOTHING OF YET,

MY PRAYER FOR YOU TODAY IS FOR PEACE AND HAPPINESS AS YOU TRAVEL THROUGH THIS WORLD,

AND THAT YOU DO NOT EXPERIENCE PREJUDICE OR PHYSICAL PAIN,

THAT YOU BE JUDGED ON YOUR MERITS AND NOT YOUR APPEARANCE,

AND THAT YOU RECEIVE AN EXCELLENT EDUCATION FROM PARENTS AND TEACHERS THAT WILL PRESENT IT WITH SELFLESSNESS AND PATIENCE

AND MAKE YOU AWARE OF OPPORTUNITIES TO APPLY THAT EDUCATION IN A PRODUCTIVE AND FULFILLING MANNER,

THAT YOU POSSESS THE INATE INTUITION AND EVENTUALLY WISDOM NOT TO SQUANDER OR WASTE YOUR OPPORTUNITIES OR EDUCATION,

AND THAT YOU ARE CHERISHED AND LOVED ALL OF YOUR DAYS,

FINALLY, TO DIE AT THE APPROPRIATE TIME, HAVING BECOME ALL THAT YOU WISHED TO BECOME,

AND EXPERIENCED ALL THAT YOU WISHED TO EXPERIENCE,

AND COMPLETED ALL OF THE TASKS THAT YOU WISHED TO COMPLETE,

AND ONLY THEN WHEN YOU HAVE RUN THE RACE THAT YOU WISHED TO RUN TO DIE CHERISHED AND LOVED, SURROUNDED BY FRIENDS AND FAMILY.

JIM-March 25’

A Letter to the Children of the Next Generation

 

Dear Children of the Future,

As you journey through life, stay curious. Ask questions, explore, and seek to understand the world around you—knowledge will always be your best friend.

Be resilient. Setbacks happen, and challenges come to everyone, but they do not define you. Get up, learn, and try again.

Find joy in the simple things—nature, creativity, the love of those around you, and tiny moments of happiness.

Be true and honest with yourself. Do the right thing, have courage, and embrace your authentic self. Being the real you is your greatest strength.

Practice gratitude. When you appreciate all that happens, you will find peace and contentment.

Choose your people wisely. Surround yourself with those who uplift, support, and inspire you—friends who bring positivity and encouragement.

Health is wealth. Take care of your mind, body, and spirit. Nurture your well-being, eat nourishing food, and keep your mind clear.

Be generous. Give your time, love, and encouragement freely—kindness is a strength.

Have the courage to stand up for justice and speak with compassion.

Believe in yourself and your abilities. Take action, be determined, and dream big.

Think for yourself. Be independent, form your own opinions, and trust your inner wisdom—your thoughts are powerful tools.

Keep your own counsel. Stay true to your values, even when others disagree.

Don’t be discouraged by outside events. Life will present challenges beyond your control, but focus on what you can change and move forward with hope.

Remember, you are part of a world filled with possibilities. Keep your heart open.

I wish you love, success, and a life fulfilled.

Georgia

Peaceful Heart

 

The sun glistened across Manhasset Bay reflecting back towards the sky.
Several boats were peacefully rocking in the distance; creating a low kettle like
whistling.
The kayakers were warming up for the yearly championship race on the Southern side of the bay.
The strong crack of a wooden baseball bat in the distance heighten her senses.
Another home run for the second place high school team. And another wooden bat for the camp fire and s'mores party this evening.
The band shell was empty.
The decorative red and white streamers flying joyously in the wind. They were remains of last night’s Barber Shop Quartet performance and glorious memories.
The strong baritone singer was home sleeping after awakening every human organ Friday evening.
The early Saturday morning air had a crisp ocean scent with undertones of Basil and Mint.
She walked across the tough crab grass as the morning dew caressed her ankles. 
She whistled a whute woo and called out “Pee ta, Pee ta, Peeee A.”
He was the apex of this gathering.
“Which fruits and vegetables are singing for me today?” she asked.
A few people glanced up to see if they knew the face attached to this Queens voice;
while holding on to the vegetables at hand. Many of them had relocated from Queens or had family residing there.
They smiled and continued with their table farming.
Peter was there to greet her at the first table of the Farmers Market.
“How have you been ?
Long time since I’ve seen you.
You were a weekly.
Not anymore. You're missed.” He leaned closer and whispered “I hope your singing is still limited to the shower. ”
“Thanks Peter, great be back at the Farmers Market. Another beautiful day in Port Washington” she said with a smile.
She was from Queens and Port Washington was her get away vacation for a day escape destination.
Peter had a farm out east; which offered its own bounty of beauty.
“And I have expanded my vocal performances to my car and all rooms throughout the house.
No broken windows and the crystal is still intact. Thanks for the concern.”
They shared a hearty laugh.
He flashed his million dollar smile,
framed with dimples he called his diamonds. Strong dimples are a reflection of a life full of fun and sun.
Peter broke out in song . . .
“Many more to foll low. A strong bountiful summer harvest is on the way A A A
it makes me happy, very, very happy. Maybe a new boooat oat oat.”
Peter performed on Broadway in several plays many years ago. 
He was a triple threat. NYC and Broadway made him realize the wealth of the Long Island earth and nature. Peter’s aura was a huge glistening rock filled with sunshine.
Peter had a full head of black wavy 
hair and sparkling green eyes that opened your heart.
She always felt there was something mystical and intuitive about the gift of green eyes. They had a gripping magnetized force on your soul. 
“Such a beautiful voice, a gift to the world. I am looking forward to your summer concert at Eisenhower Park.
Everyone on Long Island melts and freezes from your first note to your last.”
“Thanks. I enjoy singing, the people and the laughter. Entertaining is in my blood.”
In a second the drama of theatrical acting appeared from this handsome man -
“And yes my gift to the world and to my heart and soul.
My audiences morph from
caterpillars to beautiful butterflies.
Elevating higher and higher and higher until the curtain drops and they fly out to
42nd Street and a waiting Uber.”
Ciao Ciao
Buona Notte 
Laughter exploded from him and the joyous crowd laughed and clapped.
Peter always cultivated happiness. 
“On that note ciao, ciao, see you next week.
My welcoming whistle may be replaced with a verse or two.”
“Please come back next week with the whistle, I'll sing.” said Peter
“Here, take this chocolate basil; the tomatoes are very lonely without it.”
She whistled and smiled and was on her way. A wonderful start to her Saturday morning.
Her heart was singing so sweetly.

Laura M