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