Becoming A Detective

 On my walk to the bus stop I passed by St Calixtus Division of Calvary cemetery.  I love the cemetery. So much history and sanctuary for many animals. Bunnies, geese, crows, peregrine falcons, the usual sparrows and starlings, bees, lightening bugs, worms, opossum, raccoons. Not to mention those that are not living. The cemetery is a testament to the many lives buried there and sustain the living animals so precious to Mother Nature. 

Red brick house with bathrooms for visitors and offices for the gravediggers.   

The gravediggers are always nearby at every burial wearing deep green uniform, at the ready to lower the caskets in the fresh dug trench.  

Monuments with white steeples and crosses. 

Statues on pedestals of Jesus, St. Michael, St. Mary, St Anthony and other ascended beings.  

Ornate floral wreath designs carved into the marble along with the names of those in that plot.  

Expertly mowed lawns. 

A dark green golf car that shuffles the gravediggers all around the cemetery 

The cart has a bright red teddy bear on the front leading the way to the next human exit. 

Black wrought iron gate with swirls that look like faces and fences with spikes guard the perimeter.  

Square stones below the fence acting as a fortress t keep the living out but the dead carry on. 

Visitors wearing black driving in and out. Visitors wearing black walking in and out. Exercise warriors wearing neon green biking in and out.  

Stone benches for the living. 

Recently placed flowers dots the newly buried. Red roses, white lilies, blue, pink and yellow carnations with green ferns and white baby’s breath.  

Six story high maple trees. 

Old time silver chicken wire looking trash bins. 

A funeral procession proceeded with the gates of heaven floral arrangement above the hearse. Flowers of very color and variety adorn the dead.   

Pretend open books carved in gray marble.  

New freshly dug rows of plots that used to be roadways.  

Black car, silver car, ruffled pine bushes, wild red rose bushes. 

Oak trees, holly bushes deep green with summer. The cerulean blue sky is streaked with white clouds marching above this stone city.  

Long cement roads.  

American flags of red, white and blue, children’s toys, grandmother’s face etched in the granite. 

Lime stone slabs – once readable are now worn down to narrow slats that are unreadable.  

Rows of mausoleums look like an abandoned city. 

All the copper decorations have been stolen.  

This cemetery dates back to the 1700’s. 

All wars are represented. 

Firemen, veterans, musicians, police officers, doctors, children, mothers, fathers, nuns, priests, one and all are welcome here.  

A small chapel for Saturday afternoon mass where no one ever shows up. 

Outside the stone wall a lady is selling cut up mangos and water. 

Large amount of traffic passes by all day long. Blue buses, yellow trucks, double loaded FedEx trucks, taxies, cars of every color and style.  

At the bus stop I wonder is anyone else ever notices the tiny details of these sacred grounds. The artwork, the history, the wonder of this land of the dead. So much to uncover. I love the cemetery so much and always will; I have lived near cemeteries my entire life. Played in them, visited them, meditated in them, heard voices and wept for the dead. I think when I die, I will truly rest in peace.   

Just then as I move my awareness the bus arrives. 

Georgia P,

A Hot Potato

  Instructor Note:

Write the first paragraph of an original detective story.  Be sure to lard it as best you can with graphic and interesting details that will make the reader want to read on and learn more.

The Civic Association group was assembled in the small downstairs meeting room of the Kew Gardens Hills Synagogue. The room was hot and dry but most of those  present were wearing their dark suits and most of those assembled were wearing their yarmulkes. They probably came directly from work after a quick dinner. All of the attendees were men while the wives were probably at home doing the dishes and getting the children ready for bed. The meeting primarily focused on the  impending race track in Flushing Meadows Park which Donald Mannes, the Queens Borough president was pushing. My husband chaired the meeting as president of the Civic Association. My role was to put together the light refreshments on the back table. This kept me busy arranging the coffee, tea, soda and small cakes. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the men passing a black, diaphanous article from one person to the next. Each seemed to be handling the item like a hot potato, getting rid of it as fast as possible. There was also the sound of quiet laughter. The object ended up on the last empty folding chair.

Ethyl H

Assignment: Being a Detctive

 Instructor Note:

Write the first paragraph of an original detective story.  Be sure to lard it as best you can with graphic and interesting details that will make the reader want to read on and learn more.

Is Bread the Staff of Life ?
It was cold, not just bitter cold or the kind one can deal with through the use of more clothing. It was so cold one could imagine it was sent purposely as a punishment, daring man, woman and machine to confront it. Yet here he was standing at the bus stop as he had for many years, waiting for the Manhattan bound bus, hoping it would not be so foolish as to leave the warm garage and he could return home. There were moments when the cold seemed too have frozen his mind and he felt as if he was floating in ether. He mused he had died the night before and the bus he was waiting for was not Manhattan bound, but one that picks up the dead for their final journey. Having always dismissed a hereafter and reassuring himself the bus stop and surroundings were as they always had been, he decided the numbing cold was playing tricks with his mind and he was in fact alive. After what appeared to be the duration of an ice age, he saw in the distance the familiar lights and colors of the Q 44 bus and he felt better. The bus pulled up to the curb and he noticed it was not the Q 44. It had no number at all. In the place where a number would appear, there were names. Dudly, Kemp, Goldberg and just as he was about to board, his own name, Finkel joined the others. The cold suddenly seemed more terrible than it had been so that the desire to enter the bus, no matter the consequences, overcame his initial reaction to turn and run. He entered the bus and was about to deposit the fare when the driver said “This trip is free, please sit down.” There were two men and one woman already seated and as he sat down he noticed it was the same number of people whose names appeared in lights on the front of the bus. No one spoke. The bus pulled away from the curb and trying to persuade himself everything was all right and it was just the cold causing the confusion, he awaited the driver’s usual next announcement “Union Turnpike”. But as the bus approached that stop. the driver said “Next stop Ellen Timken”. The bus stopped and a confused middle age woman boarded it and seated herself. Finkel was now in a state of panic and shouted, "Mac, does this bus go to Manhattan?" “Yes it does among other places,” the driver replied.

Ben H.

July 2021

A WALK THROUGH THE FRENCH QUARTER

 

Walking down the steamy cobblestones streets of The French Quarter is a multi-cultured, multi-sensory, historical awakening. The steamy soup of New Orleans in June on the cusp of summer and hurricane season leads to daydreaming which can be a dangerous endeavor in The French Quarter. The seductive twirling, whirling sounds of a grimy unpolished saxophone plays on the corner by a man whose careworn expression from years of eking out an existence commuting in on the old wooden streetcars from the Lower 9^th District. As the smell of a toasting Po-Boy bread mixed with the aroma of large blooming flowers and an incipient dampness seep in between the notes.

Happy Faces, Sad Faces Deranged Faces and Predatory Faces present themselves as one walks carefully down the bumpy, crumbling streets of a city that geologically sinks each year while sea levels simultaneously rise. A city of cemeteries with above ground small family mausoleums instead of graves, in deference to the high water table. A city where “Getting the Shaft” refers to one’s ashes slipping between the barred-racks of the family mausoleum into a common pit to make room for a needed vacancy, available every year and a day. The one day is to show respect for the dead giving up their berth for a newly arriving family member.

A woman with predation in her eyes comes uncomfortably close offering her wares, smiling keenly like a wolf desperate from too much want and self-abuse. Green, purple and silver shiny plastic necklaces of beads are presented, pointing out that no anatomical exposure will be needed to acquire these questionable gems, and only a few dollars will be required to procure these illustrious heirlooms. Her smiling face is but a mask as the tourists invade her city with expensive clean clothes, well-manicured selves and pockets full of money, like lambs to the slaughter.

Frying Beignets and Chicory blended Coffee waft through the air as one approaches Café Du Monde’ along with the smell of horses on the opposite side of the street in front of St. Lewis Cathedral, guarded by Andrew Jackson on his equestrian mount eternally conquering the British in the Battle of New Orleans. Stage Two of the 2021 Tour de France plays on the many televisions dispersed throughout the outdoor concession with small quaint tables and uncomfortable chairs, so as not to encourage a long stay as long lines of people are waiting to sit. Overhead large fans swirl the delectable smell of the Beignets lost in dunes of powdered sugar and nutty, woodsy flavored chicory coffee reminding one of Rick’s Café Americane in the movie Casa Blanca.

New Orleans is a sumptuous Gumbo Stew, a multi-cultural multi lingual, multi-ethnic, three hundred year old city where live musicians play in clubs from morning till the wee hours and alcohol is legally consumed twenty four hours a day. Cajuns and Creoles, Spanish, English, French, West African and Native American culture meld in this tropical metropolis.  Crawfish Pie on Napoleon Boulevard, is a gastronomic symphony for the soul. Reconditioned well preserved streetcars crisscross the city bringing tourists and citizens to their destinations with charm and beauty.

Rich and poor, happy and sad, live side by side in a slower paced existence. A place with a storied past, some of it terribly cruel and some of it wonderful where the term, “Being Sold Down the River” brings back its terrifying original meaning with New Orleans and the surrounding plantations as its intended destination. New Orleans is a great place to visit and an experience worth having.

 

Jim

7/2021

 

Glistening, Growing and Glowing

 Just another broke pencil. 😱

Stay Cool and take care.

Glisten Grow Glow 125

Where do you go to find some best sellers?

Queens Library is the place to be.

Dennis Walcott is a smart, great fella.

The staff is always ready to assist, bringing Excellence.

Magazine, eBooks, concerts and classes galore
What great entertainment!
All for free.

Adults have their quiet space.

For children it’s a very happy place.

Virtual events is the new reality.

A library card is the key to unlock a wealthy treasure.

One Hundred Twenty-Five Years and still growing.
Fun, Fun, Fun

Let’s keep going.
Thanks for expanding our education.
Stronger products of this great nation.

Providing richness for the Queens Community.

Traveling well beyond our borough, crossing oceans and seas.
Happy 125th Anniversary

Glistening, Growing and Glowing
Queens Library

Laura M.

Smell Memories

 Alas, I lost my sense of smell and taste fifteen months ago when I was infected with Covid 19. 

Not once in all this time have I been able to smell toast or roses or rain or anything. I have left the gas on and almost fainted, set the toaster oven on fire and the fire alarm did not go off, overcooked and burned food, had no idea the litter box needed to be cleaned. Boiled liquid down where it scorched the pot. I now triple check my apartment to make sure everything is off.  

I wonder what I smell like or does my cat smell dusty and dirty. Eating out is no longer enjoyable. Deliciously smelly brick cheese has the texture of paper when I chew it so I stopped eating it.  Lentils have the texture of sandy dirt, love lentil soup, another thing I can’t eat. Chili with beans and meat is reminiscent of soap.  

Lacking a sense of smell and taste has not stopped me from eating. I eat differently now, I eat from memory and I pay attention to my body signals like craving caffeine or protein or water. Many times I can crave something and eat it and my brain has a disconnect. My brain expects a certain smell or taste and there is nothing. Disappointing to me and my brain.   

If I do cook for someone I rely on them telling me how the food tastes, not to mention if I have spoiled food in the fridge.  

Living like this is a very strange. Over the next few months I have appointments with specialists again to see if there is anything new I can try. I did try a Neti Pot which did not work. I doubt there is anything new because Covid 19 caused nerve damage to my sense of smell and taste. The brain does repair from this kind of nerve damage by itself but it takes years.  

I am trying a new approach also, I am trying acupuncture next month on the advice of an acquaintance who had Covid and lost her sense of smell and was cured with acupuncture. I hope it works.  

In the meantime I will continue to eat and use my memory to replace my lack of smell and taste.  

Georgia

6.2020

The Summertime Scent

 My childhood summertime memories come back to me. The rocking chairs on the Catskill Old House are going back and forth, back and forth. A perfect place for children waiting for lunch on a rainy day. Out of the heat of the communal kitchen comes the aroma of each woman cooking on her own gas range and shared oven. The scent mixes with the rainy summer breeze. Soon it will be lunchtime. Each of the eight families has an oilcloth covered table in this kuchaleyn ( where you cook on your own as compared to a chef cooking at hotels}. Momma has been cooking in her tall white enamel pot. She is cooking the blueberries poppa and I picked the day before. Poppa brought back his tall aluminum pail brimming with the plump ripe berries: I brought back a small brimming sand pail with my pick..  She is  baking the pies with the blueberries poppa and I picked. The scent wafting out of the kitchen on to the porch will remind me of all the delicious treats in store. Momma with her blue stained fingers and blue stained apron is my Blueberry Queen. She will be turning out an array of blueberry jams, blueberry blintzes, blueberry pierogi and blueberry pies. Cold washed blueberries on cold white sour cream will be a frequent lunchtime meal. 

Eighty years later, all these are only memories, but the scent remains whenever I pass the berry counter in the local fruit store.

Ethyl Haber