How There Came to be Flowers in the Spring

Every year as winter ended and the Sun grew in strength, the Earth would turn green in the spring and brown in the fall returning to grey for the winter. It was nice but a little monochromatic and boring. One year as the Moon gazed down on Mother Earth reawakening at the end of winter, she had an idea. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a party, a display, an extravaganza to celebrate the end of the dreary, cold, grey winter and the return of spring! The Moon made an appointment to speak to the Sun about her idea; the pompous one always wanted an appointment.

“It would be wonderful and festive to get everyone in a good mood for the coming year. What do you think Sun?”

The Sun was not very industrious, a  bit starcentric and lazy, happy to rest on his laurels just hanging there in the sky in all his nakedness radiating heat and light while all the sycophants told him that he was wonderful, worshiping him and all his utterances, enraptured in  his majesty, more  out of fear than admiration as if everything revolved around him.

“Well I don’t know, “said the Sun. “It sounds like a lot of work to me!”

“What work? All you have to do is hang there in the sky and provide plenty of light and heat for the plants and animals,” said the Moon. “You do that anyway. Now, Mother Earth, she is the one who would have a lot of work to do, coordinating the clouds and storms, dealing with all the questions and requests from the plants and animals. It’s  a lot of administrative work   for her!”

“I guess so,” said the Sun.

“What are your ideas for this celebration?” inquired the star.

 The Moon explained that she would like all the trees and plants to produce flowers, beautiful flowers from across the entire spectrum and not all at once, but in a constantly changing display as the different trees and plants put their best outfits on over the entire spring season.

Next the Sun and Moon went to Mother Earth with their idea.

“Wait a minute, Moon. It is a nice idea and you have convinced the Sun who merely produces light and heat, but I’ll get stuck with all the logistics, coordinating everything, in  the trenches, all the boots on the ground stuff while you two take all the credit and I do all the work,” exclaimed Mother Earth. “I’m not doing this by myself. I’ll need both of you to help me as well as the birds and insects to assist with decorations, coordination and communication!”

The Sun and Moon agreed to help her and they worked out all the details.

First came the crocuses, those impatient early spring pioneers with their lovely purple and yellow flowers, then the hyacinths and begonias, followed by roses and tiger lilies, daisies and peonies, each flower wearing a dazzling outfit and their best perfume.

The trees also participated, along with the bushes flowering in every beautiful color imaginable. The birds and insects did their part, spreading seeds and pollen while coordinating with the animals of the forest and meadows.

Each week of spring a different movement of the floral symphony played as the celebration continued into the summer. Dazzling deep purples, navy blues, fire engine     reds, blazing oranges and jubilant yellows burst on the scene and then melted into the myriad tapestry of colors.

The celebration was a monumental amount of work, but the Sun and Moon did their share helping Mother Earth along with the birds and insects. It had been a total success! It was the talk of the forest, and all of the wildlife enjoyed the display. The brooks babbled on about it and the streams roared about the show. The birds sang and tweeted, the mountains guffawed in deep resonating tones of mirth, while the trees swung their limbs around happily embracing the rays of the sun.

At the end of spring the Sun, Moon and Mother Earth met and decided that it would be an annual event.

And this is why there are flowers in the spring.

Jim

May 2020                                               

Bedtime Stories

“One of your children is missing,” the voice at the other end of the telephone said. My sleepy, half closed eyes read 3:00 Am on the clock. My son was a student living in a Columbia University dormitory. My daughter was in a dorm at Vassar College.

“Missing,!” I screamed!!!

I call these Bedtime Stories because they come either in the middle of the night when I am already asleep or shortly before 10:00 PM when I’m about to go to bed. When the subject is morbid, they are certain to keep me awake tossing and turning.

The most recent Bedtime Story was my daughter’s call to tell me my grandson Matthew had fallen while skiing with the entire family and had broken his arm in three places. But, she reminded me, not to tell the other grandmother since it would upset her. Hey!! What about this grandma hearing this Bedtime Story?

Another miserable Bedtime Story was a call many years ago that can still upset me. My son, as an undergraduate student at Columbia, proudly phoned me at about 10:00 PM to tell me and dad that he had just rappelled on a rope from the roof of his thirteen story dorm to the street below. Just what every parent wants to hear about her crazy son’s crazy sport!!

But back to the the phone call, “One of your children is missing.”

My college children were not missing!! But where was Portia? She was a delicious, chubby African American eight year old in my second grade class in P.S. 32 Queens. The police, at 3:00 AM were reporting that she had not come home from school and was still missing. They wanted to know when I had last seen her. Did I dismiss her with the class at 2:30 PM ? I don’t remember or I don’t want to remember how I actually answered that question since I had not dismissed my class that afternoon. Mrs. Hall, my colleague had done me the secret favor. I had never asked the school administration permission to leave fifteen minutes early. While being a classroom teacher, I was also an educational consultant for Sesame Street Magazine and I was scheduled to attend a meeting in the ASCAP building in Manhattan. The police reported to me they were currently going through my roll book, phoning all the children in my class.

A call to Howard’s house solved the mystery. Portia had gone home with Howard to play with his older sister. As a latchkey child It was more fun to stay at Howard’s, instead of returning to an empty house since Portia’s parents both worked. Howard’s mother reminded Portia to call home. In the era before answering machines and cell phones, Portia did indeed call but she failed to mention that she never reached her parents (because they were at work) and never informed them that she was staying overnight.

I’d much prefer stories like The Cat in the Hat, Caps For Sale or Good Night Moon. Please, spare me the other kind of Bedtime Stories.

Ethyl H.

May, 2020

BALLAST

The ballast was loaded into the basket of my airship, comprised not of gallons of water or sand bags, but of the sobering perspective of my father.

·         A stitch in time saves nine.

·         Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can do today.

·         A job with a pension and benefits is the gold standard.

·         You won’t always be eighteen, you know!

·         Stay at home a little longer, save your money. This is your last chance to avoid a landlord picking your pocket every month!

Ballast must be used judiciously, assisting a hot air ballon from flying too high into the stratosphere where the air will be too thin to breathe and the pilot may lose control. Conversely, there is the issue of not flying high enough to realize the full potential of both airship and pilot, a delicate balance of value judgments sorting through professional fulfillment versus financial security. Inclinations and course bearings taken must be carefully analyzed to avoid high peaks and downdrafts that can potentially derail our voyage.

There are times when our spirits become deflated, our exterior punctured and compromised, sputtering out of control. Occasionally we inflate our problems out of proportion distorting our perspective to where we must ground ourselves, assess the damage and patch ourselves up, not unlike an old bicycle inner tube, and courageously launch again to realize new heights and vistas.

Scenes from Childhood

   Being (OR Having been) a young boy of 5 years old, my recollections are, at best, hazy.  The blur of childhood, as seen by an older adult, at times compresses years.  Years can be identified by a school grade or a certain birthday, holiday, event, occurrence, or a birth or death year.

   

   At the wonderful and grand 1964-1965 New York World’s Fair, I was but a lad.  My foster parents, my Mom and Dad brought the family here 4-5 times each of its two years, April to October.  Our classic family photo albums prove the attendance and happiness.  My older brother and sister surely remember more. They both competed in school “Fife and Drum Corps” musical band competitions.

 

At the Fair, the Sinclair Oil Company had Mold-a-Rama machines, throughout the park.  These machines created molded wax dinosaurs of various colors.  “Dear God, I gotta have one.  Dad!  Mom!  You gotta see this!”  My Dad would say, “We’ve have to see it, son, not gotta.”  OK.   “You have to see this!”

   

   For one quarter, 25 cents (I researched this), the machine, with one particular dinosaur mold only, upon receiving coins, would close its mold to the sound of scientific genius.  “This is fantastic!”  Hot wax would be poured by a tube into the mold.  The process may have taken one minute, with a minute to cool down.  It was hot wax, you know.  A spatula-like shovel scooped the hot wax dinosaur into a lower bin, and into the anxious hand of the boy or girl that had to have one.  I would assume that there were other wax figures that were not Dino dinosaurs.  I didn’t care.  I had to have a dinosaur. 

   

   My Dad said. “Maybe later, son."  We will all get a souvenir if you behave.  All treats and souvenirs were incumbent upon good behavior.  At the end of the day, unless you wanted to carry it, all day.  At 5, I understood.  Later was later, Dad said so.  As we walked throughout the fair, going on the sky ride, seeing the various pavilions and exhibits, I would see a Mold-a-Rama machine, the creator of variously colored molded hot wax dinosaurs.  “Wow, this machine makes a Triceratops.”  I was bent out of shape. It was a madness, I tell you. Another machine had a hundred kids getting a hot wax Brontosaurus.  Dino the Dinosaur, himself.  One machine had a Stegosaurus.  “Look at that tail!  Dad!” Another hundred kids were getting a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  I was about to explode.  Ahhhhh!

   If I didn’t have a hot wax dinosaur, I would surely die.  Nothing meant more to me at that moment.  The love of a Mother?  Well, Ok, that’s first. Then God.  Then, the dinosaur.

   

   We eventually came around near the fair entrance where our car was parked. It was hot and my Dad was about to send my brother Steve out to the parking lot, to put something in the car.  He was allowed to leave and return to the fair like that, back then.

   

   My Dad decided to let me get the molded hot wax dinosaur now.  A nearby machine had a dark blue, what was called a “Trachodon.”  The least fierce, I would later learn, of all the available molded hot wax dinosaurs.  I triumphantly observed the molding and creating of MY hot wax dinosaur.  The type of dinosaur didn’t matter at this moment.  Though not a bronto, or a T-Rex, or even an Anklosaurus, he was my duck-billed dinosaur.  Steve delighted in the dinosauric knowledge he shared.

   

   I held this molded waxy warmth for about 12 seconds when My Dad took it from me, and gave it to Steve to put in the car.  See you later, recently created blue molded wax Trachodon.  See you later.  My Brother ran the items to the car and was back quickly.  The family continued on throughout the World’s Fair, eating food, learning stuff, seeing the water show, going up that really high tower.  “You could see the City!”

   

   At the long day’s end, we dragged our weary frames out to the car.  The dark blue Ford Falcon where my dark blue molded wax Trachodon was.  I wasn’t sure where Steve had placed the dinosaur, probably in a bag.  I raced my sister Loretta to the car, and touch it. The car is hot.  We are hot.  The cool air on the drive home will be great. 

    

   As Dad unlocks the car, we open the doors to get in.  I asked Steve where the dinosaur was and he pointed to the back window, a sloping space with a piece of dark blue thick Masonite board. 

  I look for the dark blue molded wax dinosaur……..”Ahhhh!  It’s melted!”  Melted down to the feet.  “It’s too hot in here!”  Like a melted candle. Dark blue Trachodon on dark blue cardboard.  Ahhhh!   Dear God, my dinosaur.  I am five and I know this is a terrible thing.  Ahhhh!

     

   Mom and Dad come to the rescue.  Steve and Loretta and my Mom all got souvenirs.  My Dad, I guess, always unselfish, got the joy of a happy family.  There may be no greater joy in a man’s life than a healthy and happy family.

   Steve got his way back in, as my Dad went to the entrance with him and told the story.  Dad came back to the car.  Steve, in about what seemed to be five years later, probably 15 minutes later, returned with a dark blue molded wax Trachodon, still warm to the touch.  No back window for this guy.  He was safe in my soon-to-be moving automobile cooled hands. 

   

   This highly cherished dark blue molded wax Trachodon was safe home.  Steve cleaned up most of the melted hot wax stump of a Trachodon from the dark blue Ford Falcon back window. 

   Funny, the wax remnants and the blue stain remained there until we traded in the dark blue Ford Falcon in 1969 for a brand new light green Chevrolet Concourse station wagon.  The new, bigger and better family vehicle.  With a shift on the steering column, no less.

   The dark blue molded wax Trachodon hung tough for a few years, I suppose.  Cared about until the next really cool toy item entered my life.  Such is the fleeting nature of a child loving a toy.  “I gotta have it!”  I mean, “I have to have it!

Richard M.

May, 2020