The Boat Ride

 

The ocean is a stallion, calm and peaceful, corralled within the perimeter of the bay, quiet and reserved, not angry at present but with the potential to become something else, something terrible, something unrestrained and furious at a moments notice. A dog quietly bobbing down the street on his leash with his master momentarily turned into a killer straining at the leash due to the poorly chosen path of a hapless squirrel, or the driver floating down the road until driven to revenge by the disrespectful actions of a lawless motorist cutting him off, and risking his life for no discernible reason, innocuous to the lives of others who come into his path and egocentric thoughts.

It was a beautiful day on Moriches Bay, as we floated along, trolling our lines before the small skiff. Our prey were the flat flounders wobbling below, visible in the clear Long Island waters. They were discerning shoppers only picking the best worms, swimming with the most graceful motion as their food supply had allowed them this degree of comparison shopping, like wealthy ladies shopping for the best hats on Fifth Avenue, what with the Easter Parade merely a week away! Visible one moment then disappearing the next the fish blended perfectly with the sand below them which they buried themselves into for camouflage and stealth. The heat burned down through my flimsy polo shirt cooking me on a slow simmer in the strong sun. Forgetting my baseball hat, sunglasses and sunscreen on the kitchen table was a serious mistake and one that I would later regret

Moriches Bay is a beautiful inlet on the south shore of Long Island where skiffs with a motor can be rented at Al’s Fishing Station. As the morning was ending, we had each caught a few flounders, each of them giving us the side eye, but now our thoughts were turning to lunch and we proceeded to put our rods down, the handle wedged under foot, in case of action, and proceeded to pull out sandwiches for lunch. Suddenly we noticed black clouds in the distance rapidly approaching. Like a black curtain descending onto a stage, they were momentarily upon us. The sea started to roll and pitch as the thick fog engulfed the tiny boat and we were blinded by it. This went on for some time sloshing and riding the waves as rain poured down through the thick fog and we bobbed along with no idea of our location. Suddenly the blast of a loud foghorn inundated our eardrums and the red hull of a huge ship towering above us narrowly missed our bow. What was a large boat like that doing in the bay? Maybe Neptune was angered by us removing the Flounder from his favorite bay, which we would gladly return to escape this dangerous scenario.

Maybe a Mermaid finally convinced Neptune to calm down explaining to him that we were not beyond reform, for the sea quickly calmed down and the black curtain ascended the stage. We were overjoyed having been shaken by the near miss with the large vessel. It now became clear that in the thick fog we had exited the inlet and were on the open ocean though not far from the mouth of the inlet. The motor was started as we could see our direction now and headed back through the choppy waters working our way back into the protected bay. Though glad for our new lease on life, we reneged on out promise to return the fish we had stolen from Neptune.

 

Jim

Aug 2021

 

 

Thank You, Sister

 

Some kids went to a swim camp.  Others went to a  tennis camp.  For those that didn’t go to sleep-away there was CYO day camp.  My sleep-away camp was run by Lutheran Sisters and they were from Germany.  The one in charge of the girl’s side was a compact powerhouse called Sister Gertrud.  She was short and robust, grey-haired, had large brown eyes and wore black-framed glasses.  She was a no-nonsense, firm but kind woman with a sly sense of humor.  Our Bible teacher, Sister Margret, was tall,  had Strawberry-blonde hair, a Rosey complexion and watery blue eyes.  She was soft-spoken, mild-mannered and affectionate when we needed comforting. 

 They wore light cotton dress in colors of white and pale blue with a flower-printed pinafore and cap.  Our counselors were twenty-somethings that took us on hikes and hayrides, taught us to sing and swim.  I was around seven or eight years old the two times I spent part of the summer there.  Never very athletic as a child, I gravitated towards making crafts, playing jacks and running around barefoot.  It was the first time in my short life I thought about salvation.  It’s hard to believe how fervently I prayed to the point of tears that my father wouldn’t go to hell and that my brother wouldn’t die in the Vietnam War. 

 It was the first time I thought of my life’s purpose.  Suddenly inspired to want to do something meaningful with my life, I wondered what I could do.  To a kid like me joining The Peace Corps sounded like it would be a worthwhile goal or ambition.  What did I know?

 The second year at Camp Sunshine, located in Liberty Corners, New Jersey, I suffered terribly with Hay fever (actually had a high temperature) and a bout of homesickness.  My parents came to bring me home and I didn’t return, yet those days and weeks left such an indelible mark on me.  Decades later I would still come across some of the crafts I made there:  clothes hangers decorated with colored braids I made for my mom or a wallet I embellished similarly for my dad.

 I can never eat sweet corn on the cob without a fond memory of Sister Gertrud pulling my leg a little.  She knew I was not very happy with the food and once when I asked her what we’d be having for dinner she replied blithely, “horsemeat.”  I didn’t take it too seriously but there was a a little more trepidation on my part afterwards at mealtimes. 

 As luck would have it, I had made a friend from East Orange, New Jersey and our bond could be mostly attributed to our proximity at the dinner table where my rations would very often end up on her plate.  This was not due to any largesse on my part.  I simply didn’t like a lot of the grub, horsemeat or not.  It never would have occurred to me that the food here could be better or more plentiful than what a kid ate the rest of the time.  I had never been to East Orange.

 This was also where I had my first experience of being bullied.  One of the more athletically inclined campers, who happened to be a bruiser, was fiercely loyal to our counselor.  Knowing how I tried to eschew anything competitive, I suspect I may have been disgruntled and said something uncomplimentary about the counselor that I would instantly regret.  “If looks could kill, I’d be dead.”

 This may very well have contributed to my homesickness since I became even less of a happy camper once I became her target.  Up to then most days were sunny and bright  I enjoyed playing different games, singing new songs and running without shoes.  Who knows how many years later it dawned on me but I never forgot Sister Gertrud or Sister Margret who showed me no favoritism because my mother spoke to them in their native tongue or was brought up with Sisters like them in their home land?  These women were disciples, teachers, evangelists and living examples of the joy and peace that comes through dedicated and loving service.  I’d say my parents got their money’s worth.  Would you?

Yvonne A.

Aug. 2021

A Well and a Sky

 I was born across the pond

In a season of heavy rains

As a tadpole pushed by a flooding current

Into a deep well nearby

I grow into a frog, being alone

The universe above is framed by the opening of the well

Where I watch every day the clouds floating by

The sun and the moon rising and setting

The stars and the  galaxy keep moving

Four seasons go on and go by

Sometimes rain and thunder storms strike my well

I meditate into sleep

Looking forward to another ordinary day

One day a bird comes to visit me with a beautiful song

Describing a much larger outside world

Then, suddenly he grabs me out of the well and throws me to the ground

I am stunned and amazed

By the wide land and large body of water

Under the boundless universe

And I dare to leap and jump about

Now I understand

S.P. Ma

8.2021

Four Favorite Books

 Four of my favorite books on creative writing

My four favorite books on creative writing are: 

Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg 

The Heroine’s Journey Gail Carriger 

The Elements of Style by Strunk and white  

On Writing: A Memoir Of the Craft by Steven King 

I read Writing Down the Bones at least four times and I was always inspired to keep writing, Nathalie Goldberg’s style and suggestions are as relevant today as when first written in 1986. Her intention is to free the writer within and she accomplishes just that. You can read it by picking up at copy at your local library. What impressed me about this book is that there are endless ways to tap into my creative writing on a regular basis.  

The Heroine’s Journey is a very recent read. I had no idea there was a difference in the hero’s journey and the heroine's journey.  Read this about the Heroine’s Journey https://storygrid.com/heroines-journey/, read this about the Hero’s Journey, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hero%27s_journey.  Who knew the Odysseus is a hero’s journey and Harry Potter is a heroine's journey?  

The Elements of Style taught me on page 70 to place myself in the background and just write, my style will eventually emerge. This book is a staple for all writers; you can pick up a copy at your local library.  

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, is written true to Mr. Kings style, he is direct and to the point and very realistic as what to expect on being a writer. No scary clowns or monsters, just real down to earth advice and his detailed experience on being a writer. You can pick up a copy at your local library. I found this book very inspiring.  

Georgia

Aug. 2021

My Favorite Season

 I was never a summer person, too hot and uncomfortable. I hibernate in the summer just like a bear waiting for Springtime.  

Fall is my favorite season; the air is crisp, cool and energizing. Sweaters are cozy; fireplaces are crackling, walking on crunchy resplendent leaves, and the smell of damp earth lovingly, enchantingly hiding cicadas and worms for next year.  

Jack-o-lanterns for Halloween, ghosts, scary masks, harvest time, yellow and orange gourds, brown haystacks, apple cider, warm chestnuts, soggy November nights, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, turkey dinner.  

Collecting pine cones to spray paint gold and make fire starters.  

The days become shorter and the nights become longer. Days of gusty winds, bouncing acorns, brilliant white clouds and the Autumn Equinox.  

I must find my mittens it will be Christmas soon enough.  

Georgia

Aug. 2021

An Important Book

 My mother was 16 years old when in 1910 she and her sister Ida who was 17 went to America from a small village in what was then part of the Austrian Hungarian Emplre. Their father was in America already hoping to earn some money, but was unsuccessful. It was Ida’s intention to tell their father he had to go home because he had a wife and several children there. He was told my mother and Ida would remain in  America for a  few years, earn some money and then return to Europe. So he left America.. In 1914 World war one erupted in Europe and it was not possible to return. The war ended in November, 1918 at which time my mother and aunt Ida were both married and each had a chid. They were not going to leave. In 1919 there was a world wide influenza epidemic that killed millions of people. My mother’s father and mother both died within two weeks of each other. In the 1920s  with the exception of a younger brother, the sisters in Europe did not want to go to America. The brother did come to here but sadly, the sisters and their families who remained, were all victims of the Holocaust . During the next ten year period my mother gave birth to five children of whom I was the youngest. Knowing what happened to much of her family, my mother was overly protective raising her children. I considered it very fortunate to grow up with immigrant parents and understanding how they had lived their lives and did everything to make sure their children did better. My father died at the age of 52 and my mother at the age of 93. Right up to the death of my mother, I was grateful to  have had my parents’ DNA.

There was a section in Irving Howe’s book World of Of Our Fathers in which he seemed to describing my Jewish mother.  He wrote,

“ Yet even behind the most insufferable way of the  Jewish mother, there was almost always a hard-earned perception of reality. Did she overfeed ?  Her mind was haunted by memories of a hungry childhood. Did she fuss about health? Infant mortality had been a plague in the old country and the horror of diphtheria overwhelming in this country. Did she dominate every one within reach? A  disarranged family structure endowed her with powers she had never known before, and burdens too; it was to be expected that she should abuse the powers and find advantage in the burdens. The weight of centuries bore  down. In her bones, the Jewish mother knew that she and hers, simply by being Jewish, had always to live with a sense of precariousness.” 

Howe went on to say, “ Venerated to absurdity, assaulted with venom that testifies obliquely to her continuing moral and emotional power, the immigrant mother cut their path through the perils and entanglements of American life. Everyone spoke about her, against her, to her, but she herself left no word to posterity, certainly none in her own voice, perhaps because all the talk about her “role” seemed to her finally trivial, the indulgence of those who had escaped life’s primal tasks. Talk was the a luxury that her labor would enable her son to taste.”

Momma, thank you for enabling me to talk.

Ben Haber

The Lake Down the Hill

The prompt in the Creative Writing class referred to The Wind in the Willows. The Water Rat invited the Mole to come “mess around in a boat.

 

While we didn’t have a boat on the lake on Scheinman’s Farm, we did have a raft to “mess around” in.” The big boys built this primitive vessel using  any logs and lumber they accumulated and  then gave it great buoyancy with a huge empty gasoline tank. I was very honored if my big brother gave me a ride around the lake on this raft. We also enjoyed sailing the four inch small canoes we crafted from the birch bark trees (probably a bad idea for the beautiful tree's longevity).

Lake? Pond? Most would say it’s their size , a lake is larger; a pond is smaller. That information is wrong; the difference is actually their depth. In a pond, the sun’s rays can reach the bottom. Ponds will often have frogs, turtles, fish, snakes and lots of insects. So, even though it was actually Scheinman’s Pond, to the guests on the farm, it’s the lake down the hill.

The water in this lake was usually warm enough to bathe in and this we did with a bar of soap (ivory, of course). It was far more desirable to use the soap as shampoo in the lake rather than the cold, outdoor shower behind the rooming house known asThe Old House). The house had indoor toilets, but no bathtubs or showers. 

A trip to the lake was an every sunny day event from after lunch until almost dinner time. With soap, towel, sand pail, shovel and inflated rubber tube,  getting down the hill took time and skill. To the right of the path, was the cows’ grazing meadow. Beware of any cow flop that may have been deposited on the path. In addition, the trip was made barefooted. This was before the era of flip flops and one pair of shoes was all a child might have back at the rooming house (white Griffin shoe polish made then dressy for the sabbath). One had to tread carefully over the many rocks and pebbles jutting out of the soil.

My older brother or sister would accompany me, No lifeguards to supervise; siblings had that role in all families. The parents rarely seemed to use the lake. Momma was busy cooking dinner  and baking the pies and cakes in the communal kitchen back in the Old House. Poppa was working in the hot City and would only join us from late Friday (with traffic, it could take more than 5 hours) to early Sunday.

The lake offered a fun waterfall. The farmer had built a 6 foot concrete wall on the right portion of the lake. When the water reached the wall, it went crashing over and created a small magnificent waterfall. The water was shallow at the bottom of the fall. It was so crystal clear you could see the colorful pebbles and small fish on the stream bottom. The cascading waterfall enabled even the little children the joy of standing behind the fall along the concrete wall. Looking through the falling water screen reminded me of the sight my drenched  Bronx window made on a rainy day.

A frequent pleasure during our two summer months on the farm was the campfires around the lake. A large circle, framed by rocks was a permanent campsite. The older kids assemble the logs, twigs and newspaper. Someone must have been a boy scout who knew how to get the flames going without rubbing two sticks together. Potatoes (mickies) were baked in the fire and claimed when the flames were extinguished. My brother or sister toasted the marshmallows for me on long twigs. We were  admonished to always blow on the crispy, burnt marshmallow before nibbling. Songs were sung; ghost stories were told; I imagine there was some “smooching” going on. The sheer wonderment of the star filled sky remains with me eighty years later. But  now it’s time to put out the fire, to gather up the blankets, to find the flashlight and start the trek up the steep hill from the lake.

Ethyl Haber

August 202