My Love Story

 

It is not a mutual love affair. It is not a reciprocal love affair. It requires nothing; asks for nothing. This is a one way love affair. MY husband doesn’t resent it, even though it has been going on for more years than I can remember. It cushions and supports me through my many mood swings. It doesn’t sit and wait for me or my attention. My love is my maroon paisley bedroom club chair.

It is a common club chair; two arms, loose back foam cushion, loose foam seat cushions . It wasn’t always a maroon ptaisesly chair. It was purchased as a dark yellow club chair to fit in with the decor in your original apartment; a humble garden apartment in Forest Hills, Queens. Its usefulness and admiration began there because that was the chair I sat in to breast feed my first born. When we moved to our own house in Kew Gardens Hills, the club chair was replaced by 2 French Provincial blue toile living room chairs and the club chair found itself in my master bedroom. The yellow fabric was covered with a maroon paisley slipcover. My brother, an upholsterer made the beautiful skirted slipcover 60 years ago. The chair has seen better days; it’s actually quite shabby. I’ve made sleeves to cover the faded arm rests.

During the pandemic, when my Zooming to writing classes started, I began to spend many hours relaxing or napping in that bedroom maroon paisley club chair. Its importance and value began with a specific topic, better known in creative writing as a prompt from the teacher or leader. and so did my love, appreciation, admiration and adulation of my bedroom chair. In this chair, with my eyes closed, my ideas, imaginations, words, sentences, paragraphs danced around in my mind. My next story, poem or essay was born. My creative writing eggs were hatched.

In the dark area under the chair, three shoe boxes rest, gathering dust. One contains my entire olio collection of photos, from my childhood to today. The other contains two of my diaries from my adolescence. The third houses important or interesting letters I have received. Sitting in my chair, inspiration for many a written piece filtered up from these shoeboxes.

With my eyes closed, a warm hand crocheted blanket covering my body, my head cushioned in the indentation of the back foam cushion, I allow my stories to unfold,. Most importantly, I need to remind myself to always have a pencil and paper nearby before my ideas, thoughts, words, sentences and paragraphs float off into the nether the way most nighttime dreams do.

Ethyl H.

Waiting

I wake up early with a smile on my face.  Today my sister and nephew are coming over for a visit.  There are so many things I have to do before they come.  And on the top of that list is the most arduous task:  cleaning the apartment.

I toss the covers and get out of bed.  Even though I’m excited to have them over, I wish that I didn’t need to clean the apartment.  But it is filthy.  It has been so long since I’ve dusted that I will need a chisel just to barely cover the surface.  And don’t get me started on the bathroom!  The toilet, the sink, and the shower are giant Petri dishes and are so hazardous, I’ll need a Hazmat suit just to get inside.  I can keep on going.  But you get the picture.

I silently chastise myself for letting my apartment get so dirty.  Now I’m working twice as hard to make it look presentable for my sister and nephew.  My forehead is Niagara Falls.  I cannot stop sweating!  But I keep going and I am determined to make this apartment shine.

After a few hours of blood, sweat, and tears, I’m finally done.  I look at my watch and it’s nine.  Perfect! She told me that she would be here at eleven.  I rest a bit and then I go and get ready and wait for my favorite guests to arrive.

Ten o’clock rolls around and I don’t hear from her.  I figure that maybe she’s running a little late and I don’t text her because I don’t want to rush her.  But then it’s eleven and then twelve and I’m beginning to get irritated.  She’s done this to me before.  She tells me she’s coming at a certain time and doesn’t call or text to let me know she’s running late.

As I’m sitting on the couch, I’m a volcano and I’m ready to erupt at any given moment.  I can call her and ask her where the hell she is, but I think it’s her responsibility to let me know what is going on.  I love my sister to death.  But her cavalier attitude, especially towards me, is infuriating.  But I put up with it because she's my sister.

One o’clock rolls around and I explode.  Pieces of my body are all over the apartment.  And I worked so hard to clean it.  My phone rings and my body slowly reintegrates itself.  Alas, it’s my sister Face Timing me.  Once I’m put together, I answer.  She smiles and says jubilantly, “we’re on our way!”  And she turns the phone over to my nephew and he smiles and waves at me.

A half an hour later, I see my father’s car pull up.  Once I see them get out of the car, my anger melts away as my nephew runs up to me and gives me a hug.  My sister also gives me a hug and we head towards my apartment.  And in the back of my mind, I think about how I’m going to ride this same roller coaster the next time she comes over.

Ana R.

Nutcracker

 

The extremely upset little old man and woman were tugging at my clothes as if in some way this process would somehow elevate me back to a standing position and restore their cardboard box displays filled with Christmas paper, bows, ribbons and other assorted Christmas decorations to their original condition which had broken my fall as I collapsed on the boxes and their contents. Like a scene from Gulliver’s Travels these tiny very upset people, speaking in a foreign tongue, were desperately trying to move me out of the main path through the store for their potential customers to move about while at the same time attempting to rouse me and elevate me to a standing position. A stream of people carefully hiked around my limbs with their wet winter boots and umbrellas coming precariously close to me as I moaned in pain.

There was a four-foot-tall ancient plastic Santa Claus at the entrance to the store that greeted new customers as they came in and his paint was all faded and disappearing. His left arm stood frozen waiving to the customers. His upper torso turned at the waist about 180° left to right and back again. In his right hand he had originally carried a bell which rang as he moved the right arm up and down to simulate the ringing of the bell , however the bell was now missing and Santa who had been designed with the torque to lift that bell, and was now unfettered by its weight possessed a swift right upper cut which I had unfortunately encountered in the nether regions as Santa made his swift left turn. Any skilled lumberjack with a sharp ax can fell the largest of trees with a number of well-placed chops and Santa that formerly jolly old elf had brought me down with only one. Instead of a jolly smile Santa now seemed to possess an evil grin as he sadistically looked at me briefly over his shoulder when I came into view on each revolution. For a good fifteen minutes I could have sung Christmas Carols with the Vienna Boys Choir and hit the highest pitched notes with little difficulty. Eventually a Good Samaritan helped me up and I hobbled away down 37^th avenue to look for less dangerous stores to continue my Christmas shopping experience in, while keeping a close lookout for evil plastic Santas who might wish to waylay me. The store owners waved to me as I moved away, saying something in their native tongue which probably did not translate to “Come Again Soon!”                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Jim -Nov 23’

Looking Back

 Last Tuesday I decided to take a walk to the park. The air felt as cold as the Arctic. But I kept on walking because going to the park was the goal for the day. It didn’t matter how cold it was.

As I approached the park, I heard the sound of children talking and laughing. Their boisterousness was like a jolt of electricity to my senses. I looked up and before my eyes I saw the tall brick building of the elementary school I used to attend. Floods of memories came rushing to my mind like a train leaving a station.

I began to have visions of my teachers, classmates, my struggles to learn, and of course the bullies. Facing those bullies every day was like being in a lion’s den. I was constantly trying to outrun them. But I was never successful. Their taunts and cruelness were as damaging as poison is to the body.

As I stood in front of that big brick building, I couldn’t help but smile. Although those elementary school years were torturous, I did have good teachers and two close friends. Being bullied in some ways shaped me into the person I am today. It gave me a thick skin because it taught me how to handle difficult situations and not let negative comments affect me. It also taught me to be kind and compassionate towards others.

I stood there for a few more minutes in a trance. Somehow, I was transported back to 1981. To that little girl who was starting kindergarten. A blast of cold air hit my face and I’m back to the present. I smiled once again and continued my walk to the park.

Ana R

Heirloom

 

Join me in a walk into my dining room. It is my favorite room because it is where we share holiday meals with family, friends and relatives. Come with me into the corner of this room to meet the only heirloom in the house. My grandson has already laid claim to that item for his future home in New Paltz..

My mother, Anna, came to America as a poor immigrant from Kiev with some pocket money and a little more than the clothes on her back. Nothing of value belonged to her or the people she left behind. There was nothing to inherit; no heirlooms to pass on.

What Anna had, however, was an eye for good stuff. She could somehow recognize value in items left for the taking in the lobby of her apartment building or out in the street. Someone’s trash, was Anna’s treasure. She knew what to schlep and bring to me. That’s how I got my beautiful, valuable two flow blue antique plates; my antique ladder back chair and my vintage clock radio .I think this last item is valuable because I saw exactly the same one for sale in an upscale Madison Avenue antique store window. Unfortunately, when we were finally able to get back into the city, the store had gone out of business. I am still googling it.

This item is an RCA Victor vintage clock radio from the early 1930’s. Because it stands a bit shorter than 6 feet, it is described as a grandmother clock (not grandfather). The style of the cabinet is Art Deco Skyscraper (a skyscraper building adorns the front. The clock is electric and the radio works on old vintage tubes. Neither is in working order. It sits proudly and comfortably in the corner of our dining room, with an air of great importance.

Looking around my home at my possessions, I think this item may someday be an heirloom for one of my grandchildren (whoever decides to inherit it). The grandchild will be able to point to that clock radio and say, “I inherited that vintage from my Great Grandma Anna. There’s a story behind my heirloom. My Great Grandma would scour the streets and find one person’s trash was her treasure. It journeyed from the street in the Bronx, then to grandma and grandpa’s dining room Kew Gardens Hills to my apartment in Brooklyn, to our house in the country, to my new home in New Paltz. ”Proudly, my grandchild can say, “ That vintage clock radio that stood in the corner of a dining room is my heirloom.”

Ethyl Haber

Costume Dress-Up

 

It is nice to get dressed up in a costume and parade around as something or someone that you are not. I was grabbed from the local market, paid for and tossed unceremoniously into a bag and carried away by my new owner. Upon arrival at my new domicile, I was tipped on my side and a birthday hat, painted black was dropped through a circular oak-tag disc forming the brim and peak of my witch’s hat. Crinkled black Crepe paper was glued under my brim to create my straggly indigo locks. In addition, I had been turned on my side and wedged in place with my long-curved stem facing downward and painted with a grotesque bright green concoction to resemble a face with a proboscis and red nostrils, canary yellow piercing evil eyes with furrowed, threatening eyebrows and glaring yellow teeth, which could have used a trip to the dentist, I might add. It was all so much more exciting than sitting in a field like an orange lump, just like 1000 other orange lumps. A bunch of grimy, grim, gloomy gourds waiting to be severed from Mother Earth’s nurturing care, with their umbilical cords cut, left stranded and alone in a field of similarly affected siblings .Cut from the vine, then sold to some smiling lady in a flowered dress and straw hat , who would proceed to take the victim to her kitchen or more correctly her house of horrors ,and peel off his skin all the while singing a cheerful little ditty to herself, and cut him up into little chunks and boil his flesh alive! Let me ask you if you know why all of these atrocities were committed? Well, it was all for a few insincere compliments on the taste of the lady’s pumpkin pie, from a captive audience of her relations who did not wish to go through the bother of producing this feast for themselves, but instead by buying a store-bought cake and a bottle of cheap wine they avoided this chore while dispensing a few offhand compliments to the founder of the feast! Well, I will take my current set of circumstances over this facade anytime. Thank you very much, and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Jim 10/23

Untitled (from Georgia P.)

 

Walking past the cemetery I was inspired to write a little slice of life vignette. Based on a true story, my true experience.

I live across the street from a cemetery dating back to the 1700’s amazing for a big city. History abounds there. Spiritual sacrifices happen there, chickens, liquor, collectors of cemetery dirt happen there, certain Santos live there.

On a corner section of grounds visible from the sidewalk there are two great pillars of smooth stone. Both are three stories high. One has a six-foot cross on top. The other has an eleven-foot Jesus poised welcomely.

On my obligatory walk to the supermarket, the cross was off the top of the pillar and laying sideways nearly upside down on the dirt ground. I didn’t think much of it.

Months later on my customary walk to the supermarket, there was Jesus, upside down on the dirt ground.

The grounds keepers noticed and placed Jesus right side up planted firmly on the dirt ground next to the pillar. Jesus was not placed on top of the stone pillar. It’s better that way. They have not righted the cross yet.

I can’t say who or what pushed the cross and Jesus down because there’s security making rounds all night ever since a homeless man camped out in a mausoleum after removing the resident dead body.

You can’t climb straight up the pillars, there is nothing to adhere and hold on to.

I can say that I have lived here long enough to know this very old cemetery has mysterious ways of interpreting sacrifices, chicken, liquor, stolen dirt, petitions from those wearing all white and those that pray at the cemetery gates.

Georgia  10/23