New Fashion Craze

 

I was a teenage bobby-soxer when I left for the two-month summer vacation in the Catskills. Bobby sox were white anklet. This footwear was the teenage fashion craze, particularly for those of us who swooned when Frankie crooned. This describes my group of friends, Club Flamingo. Not much additional thought was given to our fashion. We sported red satin club jackets and those white anklets. A surprise was waiting for me when the summer ended, and I returned to the East Bronx.

 

I had left the 13-year-old Club Flamingo friends behind still in their underdeveloped adolescent body shape, their prepuberty shape. When I returned, a new fashion had become the rage; barber pole shirts. These were tight fitting, diagonally striped blouses, resembling a barber pole. All my Flamingo friends sported these tight garments. All my Flamingo friends had newly noticeable breasts. All my Flamingo friends had suddenly donned bras and had the real thing to fill the 32, 34, A, B, C items.

 

Although I menstruated very early, my physical development lagged. Much to my dismay, I was as flat as a board; as flat as my big brother.  When momma fitted me with her handmade garments, she called me a  bret mit a lokh  ( Yiddish for a board with a hole). In a few days, momma and I were off to Stern’s Department Store. In that era there was little choice for my needs. So a 32 A with a wad of tissues in each cup had to do when I wore my tight fitting newly purchased barber pole fashion craze.

 

Ethyl Haber

Simile's (from Georgia P.)

 

My hair is like leaves worked over by a windstorm.

 

I couldn't be calm; my nerves were like popcorn in hot oil.

Hope struggles as valiantly as a candle against the darkness. 

 

The big man danced like a tank on roller skates. 

 

The old house creaked like the wind sighing.

The Blessing

 

The weather on Sunday morning was divine at the unfinished Episcopal Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, for the Blessing of the Animals on the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi. Flowers still bloomed in the gardens at 110 St. and Amsterdam Ave. and the massive crowd had gathered a full hour and a half before the ceremony honoring Saint Francis of Assisi and his love of animals was to commence. A lengthy line of attendees, four abreast, wound down Amsterdam Avenue and around the curving corner, a feel of Fall was in the air despite the surprising summer temperatures. Most of the crowd had brought their pet friends. There were parrots and guinea pigs, turtles, geckos and iguanas and cats of every description. Beautiful cats prowled and purred on their family's shoulders or cuddled in their embrace, but the largest population represented was an inundation of dogs. They were huge furry dogs to tiny hairless dogs of every size shape color and description. I witnessed a black Chihuahua riding on the back of a huge brown Bull Mastiff, smaller than his breakfast had been, barking out commands. I named him Napoleon. Most of the animals were well behaved calmly waiting for their blessing. Although the crowd was large there were no fights as all waited patiently for the ceremony to begin on best behavior. One car pulled up in the bus stop parking illegally and the owner a white-haired woman jumped out with her dog tucked under her arm like a football player and plunged into the crowd cutting through the line. It would not be a New York City line without someone who felt that they had the right to jump ahead of their fellow New Yorkers. Shortly after a limousine pulled up and the chauffeur got out and opened the rear door for a glamorously dressed woman sporting a large floppy hat and sunglasses with her manicured poodle who also dissolved into the crowd ahead of her rightful place.

Tourists from the Midwest were fascinated at the excitement over farm animals shown by the city slickers and said so in no uncertain terms. One man in a cowboy hat said “Will you look at all the fuss these city slickers are making over farm animals!” as a horse and a donkey along with two goats a sheep an owl, a raptor and a snake were paraded through the doors of the Cathedral.Next came a large cow and a tortoise who was pushed in on a mail cart. The hare arrived late having overslept. Of course, an usher followed with a rolling wagon holding a shovel and broom in case of any unfortunate mishaps.

The large exotic wild animals did not attend although many had attended the event in past decades, this was no Noah's ark! The elephants claimed to have gotten stuck on the crosstown bus. The hippopotamus had a previous engagement wallowing in Central Park Lake. The giraffe had found a delicious tree and refused to walk away

from it until he had finished every luscious leaf in spite of the fact that he was one-hundred feet away from the Cathedral entrance, while the alligators awoke very grumpy that morning and decided to skip the entire event calling in sick claiming to have overeaten white rats the night before. It was a very pleasant true New York City experience and one that I was glad to have experienced, and I checked it off my New York City Event Bucket List.

Jim-Oct 2025

Smoothie False Alarm

 

 There was always a decorative bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter. Right next to it was this super powered, multi bladed blender. 

 The fruit was sleeping comfortably on this quiet morning just before dawn.  All of a sudden, the lady of the house started bouncing down the stairs saying, “It feels like a smoothie morning.”

 Every piece of fruit popped its eyes wide open.  ”Oh no,” said the banana.  “Another smoothie.  You all know what that means,” and the banana pointed to the blender.  “You should go first banana,” said the apple.  “Your skin peels the fastest and your insides are so soft.”

 Then the apple said, “I’m juicy but I have a tough skin and seeds to remove. I think I’m safe.”  The strawberries knew they were getting thrown into the blender.  “We’re so delicious and soft, there’s no way we will be spared,” they spoke in unison.

 The blender was listening to the fruits talk to each other with panic in their voices.  The blender was very conceited and full of itself.  “My power and blades are the best there are.  We can make a smoothie in sixty seconds or less.” Upon hearing this, the fruit started shaking so much the bowl almost fell off the counter.

 By now, the lady of the house made her way into the kitchen and said out loud, “I don’t feel like washing the blender after making a smoothie.  I think I’ll have a bowl of cereal instead.”

Upon hearing this, every piece of fruit fainted!

Ellen G.

The Reason that I Write

 

The reason that I write is that one day while sculpting a bust in clay, the shape of the face began to show itself, I became fascinated with the interesting face and thought in great detail about the character that was evolving from the clay. I poured myself into writing a detailed description of this character to make it more real to me. As I worked the clay the character clicked in my head and the clay began to feel like living flesh to me. The clay became more malleable in my hands, and I began to have instructive thoughts as if I were being guided in my work.

“Pull out my left ear further please I can't hear very well.”

“Yes, that's it well done!”

“My chin is less pronounced shave that down a little if you don't mind.” “Excellent! Excellent!”

“I could really use a pair of eyes now that my orbital sockets are formed.”

I was not sure whether these thoughts were a result of the late hour of the night or was I losing my mind? I rolled the eyeballs in the palms of my hands like making meatballs and carefully inserted them into the orbital sockets. Next, I added the eye muscles and flesh and then the eyelids without receiving further instructions, but when I carved in the two pupils the bust looked directly at me as if a switch had been turned on and a conscious awareness seemed evident!

On I went sculpting with my hands now, intuitively working out the details of the character as if there was a melding of souls or an exchange of psyches wherein the clay was sculpting me as I sculpted it but I dismissed this as the hour of the night and little by little I lost consciousness.

By morning's light I was awakened by an unfamiliar voice.

“Excuse me, Excuse me, the sun is shining can you please wake up now it is morning and I need you to finish my lower lip so that I may stop lisping!” Thank you very much!”

Jim October 25’

My Cat Can Speak English

 

No one knows this, but my cat can speak English. I’ve never told a soul, because he refuses to talk to anyone but me.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and the light is low, I’ll hear his voice—soft, deliberate, slightly amused.

“Humans make everything so complicated,” he’ll sigh. “You rush, you worry, you forget to nap.”

We have vivid conversations about the nature of humans, about how birds stir the ancient hunting instinct that still flickers inside him.

“They’re not innocent, you know,” he once said, twitching his tail. “They tease us from the branches. But I admire their freedom.”

He’s seen me cry, rage, and fall silent at injustices that seem petty to him.
When I once told him the world felt cruel, he simply answered,
“Then make your corner of it kind.”

Cats, of course, have their own philosophy: sleep as much as possible, keep an eye out for ghosts, wail for food, wash after meals, play wildly with a favorite coil toy, and at day’s end, curl up beside the one you love.

At night, he cuddles beside me and murmurs, “You did your best today. That’s enough.”

He speaks only when he chooses, and never when I ask. But in his silence, he still answers me.

My cat can speak English—
but we keep that between us.

Georgia

Glass City

 

Take a late ride on the Staten Island ferry.

Don't you hear it call?

The lights from the glass city.

Let the noise of the home bound drown,

As the view leaves you spellbound.

 

A bold claim: A city where dreams are made.

Even the possibility, one would not trade.

What would it be like?

CEO, Stock broker, artist or socialite?

 

Armed with my pen is the path I’d take.

Poems, novels, screenplays I’d curate.

Can’t slack off now there’s worlds to create.

A hopeful message for the masses hoping to liberate. 

 

It’s all around, the Charging Bull greets.

As you journey through stone streets;

Exotic faces, a muse you hope to meet. 

Distinct architecture, museums, art galleries,

Concerts, plays and stand-up comedies.

 

What truly beckons from yonder is beyond the lights,

Be consumed by the art of life.

What the nights bring is yet to unfold,

A quest to birth a story never been told.

Trudie

Autumn

 

It was raining this morning — kind of cool, not unusual for October, not unusual for my birthday time.   

Cooler weather is a refreshing change from the heavy heat of summer. I feel alive again, returning to my comfortable clothes. It’s a grounding time for me — warm soups, pumpkins, hot tea, apples, Halloween, and soft candlelight.

I love the long walks and cozy evenings.

This is my new year — a new beginning, every year.

The trees change colors — gold, orange, red, and brown — hot days giving way to cool nights.

Autumn always brings me home to myself.

Georgia