The Dump Truck

 

Joey watched his breath as it formed little clouds when he exhaled. He imagined that he had a cigarette between his lips pushing out the smoke like the big kids down on the street corner. Mom with her twisted, teased, displaced, unsightly hair lay haphazardly across her bed, exhausted from the two jobs that she worked to keep food on the table and pay the rent. Little sis was curled up in her arms. Joey stared at the sparse tree with brown shedding needles that had been unceremoniously dragged inside and placed in a cinder block near the radio. It had been the last tree that the tree merchant had in stock, rejected by all previous shoppers. He sold it for a very reasonable price. Later, on Christmas morning, Mom would have carols playing on the old radio and stories of Christmases long ago. There were no presents under the straggly tree. Joey decorated the tree with a few old ornaments that were in the closet. Joey surmised that he and his sister had not been good enough to make Santa’s good list, however they would be better next year. The light and promise of a new and better future twinkled in Joey’s eyes, radiating out to improve the atmosphere and cheerfulness of the dark, old, dreary, cold apartment. Joey took the bathroom mat and placed it before the tree imagining that it was plush wall to wall carpeting covering the floor instead of the cold splintered planks that bruised his knees when he knelt before the tree imagining a decorated and dazzling one like the tree in Rockefeller Center.

It was very quiet outside with one speckled white pigeon impersonating a Christmas dove announcing the new day, when Joey heard a car pull up in the street crunching the icy crystals that the wheels rolled over. Two military men in bright blue uniforms with white hats got out of the car and after opening the trunk lifted large blue duffel bags out of it. They closed the trunk with a loud thud. Joey watched through the frosted window as house lights turned on when the men rang the doorbells on either side of the street. One marine proceeded down each side of the street. Joey ran to his collection of lead soldiers and pulled out two marines who were dressed exactly the same as the two soldiers in the street. Finally, Joey saw the men walking up the steps to his building and heard the ringing of the bells. Joey tried to wake up his mom, but she was motionless. After what seemed like an eternity, there was a knock and Joey rushed to the door, turning the latch and opening the door still held in place by the chain that his mom told him never to remove. Before him stood a statue, a life size lead soldier or rather a real man stiff and upright resolute and at attention staring at the door above him.

“Hello Sir”, Joey said.

“Good morning,” said the statue. "Is your mother available? “

By this point mom had dragged her weary bones to the door and peeked out at the apparition.

“Good morning,” she said surprisedly.

“Good morning, ma’am. Santa asked me to drop these presents off as he was very busy right now, there having been so many good boys and girls this year.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Mom said, suddenly becoming aware of her unsightly appearance.

“Come in would you like a cup of coffee? It will only take me a minute.”

“No thank you ma’am I have many more stops to make.” said the soldier.

Mom unchained the door and the marine lifted two boxes from the bag, a large one and a small one.

“The large one is for Joey and the other is for Sue. Merry Christmas!”

“Thank you so much Sir you don’t know how much this means to us!” said Mom.

The marine smiled knowingly.

“Oh, I know. I was once the boy behind the door.”

Appreciation and good will were bestowed on the soldier and he even accepted a peck on the cheek from Mom. Then the soldier turned on his heel, saluted and marched out into the new day. Joey stood at attention saluting until the car had driven away.

Inside the box Joey found a stocking filled with candy and small toys packed in the back of a bright yellow metal dump truck with giant black rubber wheels. Sue was similarly delighted to find a stocking along with a Raggedy Ann doll. Raggedy Ann was given many rides in the Dump Truck that day. Joey was persuaded to clean his room with the help of the dump truck including trips from dirty sock mountain to the laundry basket.

 

Jim

Dec 2021

 

First Light

 

I am bias to mornings, I love mornings. I don’t know many people who love getting up at four or five in the morning and opening the blinds and curtains for first light. Except for the little birds I feed that have radar for this time of day.  

This is exactly what I do every day. I am lucky enough to have unobstructed windows facing south/east.  

At first light the Sun creeps up on the left side of the city speckled horizon. Then slowly moves to the right, overhead, suspended in the blue sky.  

The morning light from the great warm Sun is part of my morning ritual. I set up my desk in front of my window to paint a few watercolor scenes before I do anything.  

Some mornings the sun shines bright, homey and snug. On other days the Sun is streaked like a rainbow with blue, red, yellow and green molecules and small particles dancing in the atmosphere causing them to scatter.  

On bad weather days with rain or snow or humidity the Sun is invisible but I know it is still there.  

After the suns daily ride across the sky, half-light becomes its nightly lover wrapping the atmosphere in the coolness of night and the rise of the Moon.  

The whole whirl of the traveling Sun and I begin all over again the next morning at first light. 

Georgia

Light's Out

 

     I was employed at a small law firm for about ten years. At a time my employer suffered a heart attack. It was not serious but it required bed rest for two weeks.   took care of the office and since the employer resided in my neighborhood , I would stop by his house every evening to report that everything was being taken care of. One evening,I raised the question of becoming a partner. He appeared to be receptive and said he would give it consideration.

    Several months passed and there was no mention of my becoming partner. So finally one day in  mid November, I pressed the matter. It became clear, not only would a  partnership not occur, the employer was not even being civil in discussing and rejecting it, and time had come for me to resign. I did so immediately saying I would prepare memorandums on all the cases I currently was handling and would leave at the end of December. It was 4 P.M. and I had my car parked in a local garage. I had a meeting with a client in midtown Manhattan at 5 P.M. and I did not want to have to drive up to there at that hour. I suggested to my employer take my car home and pick me up the next morning. He refused. So off I went, driving to my  appointment  and as I was about to park my car in midtown, suddenly all the street and building lights, went out resulting in total darkness. It turned out it was an entire electricity shut off, a citywide blackout.  The lack of lights turned out not to be be a problem for me,I had a car and was able to drive home. My employer had no car and was stuck in the city the entire night. Such shadenfreude!!!

     The above was minor compared to the result of the partnership rejection. While I knew I would have no problem seeking a job elsewhere, I decided to practice law on my own. It did take  a few years to get started  but it turned out my sole practice professionally and financially

greatly exceeded  that which I would have had as a junior partner aforesaid. 

     I thank my employer for not  taking my car that night  and not making me a junior partner.

Ben Haber

Being There

 

There is one person who stands out for me in my writing journey. Dr. Maxine Fisher.  

I took her free class at the Maspeth branch of the Queens Library a few years ago. At that time, I had no idea what I was in for. As soon as I walked in, I knew there was no turning back. I became addicted to Dr. Fishers teaching and her genuine interest in having her students excel in their writing pursuits.  

A creative and professional writer in her own right, Dr. Fisher profoundly changed my writing style and productivity. She has always been there when I had a question, always there with challenging assignments and real life, applicable ways of improving my craft.  

I finally found my writing voice by Dr. Fisher being there for me. At every turn, at every question, at every encouragement, at every dot, dash, period, quote mark, parentheses, expanding vocabulary, Dr. Fisher was consistent in being there for me.  

I am eternally indebted to Dr. Fisher for her kindness and patience with my beginner's mind and annoying inquiries.  

Thank you, dear Dr. Fisher, and as always, I am eagerly looking forward to learning so much more from you.  

Georgia

12.3.21

Let There Be Light

Those backyard lights!! They’re the problem!! We keep forgetting to manually turn them off in the morning, Subsequently, they are on all day, wasting electricity and burning out faster. Then we have to hire an electrician, costing at least one hundred dollars just to show up, climb a ladder and replace the bulbs. The purpose of those lights is to fool those nocturnal raccoons or opossums from digging up our backyard foraging for food. Backyard illumination makes those critters think it is daytime so don’t show up. We should have installed the ones like we have on the side of the house. Those sensor bulbs work automatically according to the daylight or darkness message they receive.

Most incandescent light bulbs last about 1500 hours. I looked it up on Google. So how can you account for how long the sensor bulbs on the side of my house are lasting? My nephew Micael installed then over forty years ago, and they are still faithfully coming on at the stroke of dusk and turning off at the stroke of dawn. 

Michael was a bright child, but in our current school system, he would have been classified as academically challenged.  From early childhood he showed an unusual interest and skill in all things that had to do with electricity. In this throwaway society, he would take apart broken appliances and repair them. He was known as the Electric Wizard in his apartment building. The saying was, “Give it to Michael. He will fix it.” When New York City had a major blackout in 1965, the half serious joke was that Micael caused it. This self-taught electrician, in his early twenties started his own lucrative business installing lighting fixtures and burglar alarm systems. Early in his career, he installed my two exterior sensor lightbulbs. I’m not good at doing the math, but for over four decades, I continued to report to Micael, “Yes, your bulbs are still doing the job.”

The fixture still functions like new. I still function like somewhat new but sadly, Michael developed an inoperable brain tumor and sadly my fixture has outlived Michael.

Ethyl Haber

 

Thank You for the Gift that Keeps on Giving

 

Do something!! Do something, please!!! We have to get into the house. I know my friend needs me!! The Asian male cop and African American female cop stood in front of the house engaged in a concerned whisper. I thought, “Nice to see such diversity in the NYC police force.”  911 produced them, but all they were doing was standing and whispering in front of Trudy’s house 7003 Main Street. Finally, they told us this 911 call was not considered an emergency call and it would be handled in the order it was received. These two young cops needed their supervisor to appear before they had the authority to break into the house. Five New York Times and five Newsday newspapers lined up on the door and a full stuffed mailbox did not entitle the cops to consider this an emergency? Why didn’t Trudy take care of all this? Of course, ringing the doorbell and banging on the door didn’t bring any response. Do something, please!! Trudy needs help!!!

Trudy had called me about 10 days before to tell me she was sick, only able to drink liquids and sleeping all day. She said she must have gotten some bug, but she thought the worst was over. She called two days later to say she was running a fever. Trudy doesn’t like doctors. I planned to call her the next day to insist she see a doctor or at least let me take her to an Urgent Care or the Emergency Room, but she was no longer responding to my emails and phone calls. The next day, Ben and I drove over to her house, saw the stuffed mailbox and the accumulation of newspaper and phoned 911. 

Ten men and women in blue finally responded to a call from the supervisor and broke the window on the side of the house and entered. Ben and I waited nervously outside since we were not permitted to enter. One thoughtful policewoman returned shortly and announced, “Yes, there is a woman inside. Sadly, she is on the bathroom floor. Sadly, she is dead.” 

Trudy was my right hand (even my left hand too) in my role as president of the Friends of Kew Gardens Hills library. She was the secretary, took the minutes at the Board Meetings. She produced our quarterly Newsletter which was an amazing amount of work. She could not afford a computer, so she spent hours in our library putting the Newsletter together. She is not here to see her most recent efforts come to fruition. Her Kew Gardens Hills Library Friends Newsletter arrived in the mail too late for her to get her copy out of her stuffed mailbox.

Trudy had become a close friend and my husband Ben, and I enjoyed her company on a number of visits for lunch on our patio. She was a serious cook, but she never reciprocated. Instead. she gave us the “gift that keeps on giving.” Each visit, she brought a plant she started from seed. Now my windowsill has four healthy plants, basil, oregano, chives and parsley. They continue to enhance my salad, soups and stews. Trudy will no longer be with me in the library or on my patio, but the memory of her friendship and the flavor she adds to my meals are her gift that keeps on giving.

Ethyl Haber

Autumn

 

Fall is a giant windmill tearing and tugging at the last vestiges of summer, pulling the green leaves from their stations, ending their mission of feeding the trees with sunlight. Leaves flutter down like high aspirations dislodged from their place of inspiration. Like brightly colored airplanes lost to disrepair, plummeting into a silent secluded forest. Change is inevitable and bound to happen although it is not always welcome. In the woods nymphs recite their annual summer dirge:

 

A light breeze passes through the valley

The geese are deciding not to tarry

Caterpillars in their wooly thick coats shiver

Winter is coming with all it delivers

The petals drop from the summer flowers

As the plants think of Winter and begin to cower

Summer furniture disappears from the yards

Packed away with disregard

Rakes and bags are brought out on the lawns

To harvest the leaves that the trees will spawn…

 

The nymphs sing on and on in countless verses too numerous to mention, that would run right off this page and into oblivion.

The breeze turns into a gust as it passes up into the hills awaking the trees from their sonorous summer slumber. A cold crispness is in the air as the leaves haphazardly plan their last-minute graduation party. Wishing each other, “Best of Luck!” and “I’ll see you down below,” lying to each other optimistically, while knowing this is not meant to be. The leaves begin to twist and turn as the filial graduates break away to scatter on the breeze, waving and crying, reminiscing and sighing, jumping into the wind hopeful of their outcome. Twisting and turning, spinning and whirling, flipping and flopping, floating and gliding, landing, rolling, slapping and sliding, carried far and wide they land to create a dazzling multicolored quilt that the tree roots, plants and insects will gratefully wrap themselves in, tucked under their chins, before the onset of winter. Fall is here.

 

Jim    12/21