Three Little Words

This was our Writers Group assignment for Feb. 15, 2013

Three Little Words

Three little magic words can set a person’s heart to dancing and leaping virtually out of his chest with visions of sheer delight going through his mind!  His senses on fire with thoughts of pleasures as yet unfolded, he anticipates how great life is going to become with the utterance of just those 3 words.  Sadly enough, some of us don’t learn these three words – said all together in one comprehensive thought – until there is some frost on the roof and the fire in the furnace is growing a tad dimmer. For me, I learned them early on,  thanks to Big Foot, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.The words are: "No, Thank You."

It was back in the late 70’s, when my son Jimmy was in the Cub Scouts. Needless to say, I was a den mother and up to my neck in volunteering for that noble cause. Someone came up with the idea of a real kick-butt Halloween party, complete with the landing of a flying saucer and a cameo appearance of none other then Big Foot himself. I never quite made the connection between the two, but that’s what the committee voted and decided upon. Besides, no one dared to come up against fellow committee person Lizette Beesley (who came up with the idea to begin with) too strongly as none of us wanted to deal with the fall out of her venom-laced outbursts of sheer anger. So, Big Foot it was to be.

“Who will help make this costume?” Lizette challenged. All eyes looked downward toward the table – all, that is, except for mine. Knowing I also had the Brownies, Girl Scouts, 4 H, youth league basketball, and community marching band volunteer duties to juggle, what do I say? Her eyes were burning two holes into my skull! She knew exactly who to target.

“I’ll do it!” I proclaimed as my stomach pulled inward toward my bowels and the vein in my forehead throbbed a little bit. After all, Lizette used the word “help”, insinuating that she was going to be in charge of the production. I could surely help. After all, what were an extra couple of hours of my time donated for a good cause, anyway?

That was my first mistake. My second one was in suggesting the materials of said costume – which she quickly put me in charge of procuring. Third mistake was I agreed to do the shopping/gathering of all of the stuff needed. So, the next day I bought four skeins of brown wool, six yards of burlap and a latch hook gizmo thing. My plan was to latch hook individual strands of yarn to the burlap, which I would of course fashion into a one piece suit (like an infant’s onesie, but enormous in size!) Lucky me – the volunteer to be Big Foot and wear the costume was a full six foot four inch dad of one of the cubs in my den. So, this costume was going to be extra, extra, extra large. Oh, boy.

One month later, and with my strained eyes streaming lines of salt water from seeing almost nothing but six inch lengths of brown wool for four weeks, and with fingers now permanently curled in the weirdest way from latch hooking literally thousands of these pieces, it started to really get to me! The four women who said they would help me never once showed up. It was one excuse after another – some of them quite creative, I might add. But, nevertheless, there was I like Mother Macree, latch hooking day after day, night after night until I wanted to pass out!

The big night arrived and our Big Foot was a smash hit! In fact, I can still hear the ear-splitting screams of the younger kids as they fled in terror from the room,  with hysterical, frantic mothers running after them. To this day, Lizette’s youngest daughter goes into a form of  PTSD at seeing the color brown – which is a strange kind of justice, I think. Score "one" for Karma.

Anyway, I learned from that experience that there are some times when you simply must take a step back – view the situation for what it really is (an escape for someone else from some chore they’re rather avoid)…and firmly aver, “No, thank you!”

Pardon me, but I have to get going now for two committee meetings here at JW, and will be teaching a class on brain training next week. Then, our chorus will be getting ready for St. Paddy’s day, and our beading group is gearing up for a big jewelry sale…and…........

The Long, Long Day

I try my hand at poetry after many years away from it....

The Long, Long Day

I am so hot!  

 My feet feel like they're burning from the pavement, and all I wish for
is to run and jump into the river, which is not so very far away from me.

The sun is beating down on my head, and I am beginning to get a headache but no one seems to notice or care.  I keep trying to tell them in the only ways that I can that I am not feeling so great in this heat, but as usual, no one is paying very much attention to me.

I look at the position of the sun in the sky and realize that this day is only half over – I have so much longer to go!  Once again, it is time to start walking on the hot pavement, and I can only hope that the movement will cause a breeze to brush over my body and help to cool me off. 

What helps me to keep my sanity is that I try to daydream as I go along.  Soft, green fields of sweet clover and grass are beneath my feet, and the blessed shade of a tall oak tree calls to me from across the field.  In celebration of the moment I run across the field and claim my spot in the shade of the oak tree. 

The cool, sweet water of a brook is close by and I know that whenever I wish I can take a drink from the brook.  But of course, this is only a dream and it happens only in my mind. 

The thought of that makes me a little sad.

The noise and smells that surround me snap me back into attention!  The harsh blair of automobile horns hurts my ears, but I have no way to escape them.  The smells of the city fill my nostrils and wipe away any trace memories of the beautiful green grass I dreamt of only a moment ago. 

The big wooden thing that is attached to me by leather straps trundles along behind me, and I'm beginning to feel a little bit tired.  The two legged creatures that get in and out of the wooden thing are laughing and seem quite happy.  That cheers me up a little bit, the thought of making other creatures happy. 

After all, that is what I was born into this world to do, to serve.  It does feel good I must admit to have a job to do; but it does make me long once in a while for the beautiful fields and Meadows of my dreams!

Suddenly, I hear the command, "Whoa, boy!"  and feel the tug of the reins upon my tender gums, and I know that I must stop -- and so I do.  I know that I will get a brief chance to rest, something that I look forward to in such heat! 

For, all too soon, I will feel the balance of the wooden thing sway a little bit, 

as two new two -legged creatures climb onto it.

Then, I will hear the command to giddy-up and get going. 

~~

Such is the life of a carriage horse in the big city....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Topic: Write about animals in the big city! 

Writer's Group Assignment for December 7, 2012 -

Windows and Doors

Our Writers' Group curious assignment recently was for, of all things, "Windows and Doors." This is what I came up with...

Windows and Doors –

Writing group assignment for Nov. 2, 2012

Our assignment this time was to write about windows and/ or doors.  The temptation was great to wax almost poetic and talk about doors as being open channels or closed off pathways.  As for windows, they are for looking out or looking in and apply just as much to a person's soul as they do to a building. When spelled with a capital “W”, windows  are also for computers, but that is a whole other category.  But I decided not to do that – I thought I would take a more practical approach and really discuss doors and windows.  No, no one in my family is employed by Home Depot or Lowe's!  I just wanted to take a very nontraditional approach – nontraditional, that is, for me.

 How did the concept of doors even begin one has to ask.  Did it begin long ago as our cavemen forefathers and foremothers hunkered down over a fire, listening to the screams of a saber tooth tiger outside the cave – and praying the hole in the front of the cave was too small for it to fit through?  I would love to know who first thought of rolling a huge rock in front of the cave entrance, and if when it was in place he considered how hard it was going to be to move it out of the way again!  Perhaps, he was more of a Tim the tool man kind of guy and thought about dragging some big branches home with him and sticking those across the hole of the cave.  Lighter and easier to move, they may not be as sturdy as the rock, but they have the decided advantage of having holes between them that the cavemen could peek through.  Ah ha!  I think that's how the very first concept of windows came about.

As time went on and mankind grew in knowledge and, most importantly, in tools' skills, I'm sure doors and windows became refined.  Instead of a bunch of sticks loosely strewn across the doorway of a hut or hovel, some genius thought of cutting trees to the size of the entryway and somehow attaching them together.  I bet the man who first came up with the idea of a hinge was looked upon as a genius in his day!  I mean, don't you ever seriously wonder about these things?  Someone had to be the inventor of literally everything.  I don't mean it was the same person, but every single thing that we use are that we are familiar with in this world had its start as an idea in someone's head.

Thinking along those lines, how about those windows!?  Sooner or later someone figured out that letting sunlight in was a whole lot better than keeping it out-- and just as in today, a whole lot cheaper too.  But, cutting a hole in the wall can lead to absolutely miserable results in rainy or otherwise foul weather, and become unbearable in the dead of winter. Something was needed to rectify this situation, such as, for instance, glass.

 I once did a research paper on glass, and to my total surprise and delight I learned that glass had its start in the desert.  Well, perhaps not an abandoned desert but it certainly was a very sandy place, one that got hit with bolts of lightning.  Another genius who lived long ago discovered the gobs of material that were left behind post-lightning bolt, and somehow he was able to figure out that extreme heat added to sand equals the creation of a miracle product – that which we call glass.  Now, there was a real giant leap!  Okay – so some genius figured out how to make glass.  But a really exquisite genius discovered how to make the glassey gob into a flat piece, and to refine it enough so that one could see through it – and use it to plug up those holes in the wall.  I bet that back then that new, glassy material was looked upon as miraculous!! At last, there was a solution for plugging up holes in walls that allowed sunlight in and kept the weather out.  Hence, the birth of windows as we know them today.

When you stop and think about it, doors and windows are truly miraculous things.  I mean, they themselves are not miraculous but the very idea that early man was able to look around him, and to figure out the concept of keeping things in that you want to keep in, and keeping out things you want to keep out, and coming up with a device called the door is to me, quite miraculous.  The concept of taking an accident of nature, and realizing the accident created a whole new substance that could be turned into a useful tool for mankind is in itself truly miraculous.

Doors and windows.  These are things that we take for granted, but if we seriously stopped and thought about them long enough I think all of us would truly be filled with awe!

The Hero

It was at one of those walk-away ice cream stands on the boardwalk in Wildwood, NJ,  that I had the pleasure of witnessing a hero in action! I was about 10 years old at the time and my parents, my brother, Jody, and I were in Wildwood for our yearly vacation. The day was blisteringly hot, so of course, we kids begged for ice cream!  Dad trudged with us through the pure white, lava-hot sand up to the boardwalk where heaven awaited us in the form of double-dip chocolate ice cream cones.

A young father (who seemed so very old at the time to me) and his two little kids were ahead of us in line. His son seemed to be no more than about 5 of 6 years old at the most, and the little girl seemed to be about 3.  They danced impatiently from foot to foot as all kids do, as they watched the man behind the counter dip their ice cream cones. The little boy got his first, a cone wrapped in a napkin but already sending down rivulets of melting ice cream all over his hand. His licked his cone with gusto, with his little sister looking on, barely able to contain herself. At last, her cone was ready. As her dad handed it to her, Jody and I edged a little closer to the ice cream stand. The trio turned to walk away when all of a sudden, tragedy struck!

The little girl’s nose accidentally connected with the ball of ice cream, and in so doing, caused the icy treat to teeter on the edge of the cone. Falling victim to the law of gravity, seemingly in slow-motion the ice cream followed its trajectory to the ground, and landed with a sad and gooey plop. The child’s sweet, cherubic little face changed expression in an instant – from a chocolate-dotted nose atop a happy smile to a grimace of disbelief and then, to a mask of down-right grief. Tears squeezed out of tightly-closed eyes as she began to cry. Hardly missing a beat, her older brother momentarily looked at his ice cream cone, tucked the napkin a little tighter around it and with great ceremony, handed it to his sister.

Everyone around us “Aww’ed!”  and “Ohhhh’ed!” and nodded our heads in approval.  I swear, about five adults rushed to the counter, offering to buy the boy another cone. My dad beat them all to it, including the kids’ father.  But I learned that day that the real hero was that little boy who gave up his ice cream to make his sister happy again.

I ask you:  If that little boy wasn’t a real hero, then who is!

Writers Group Assignment for Sept. 16, 2011

Mixed Vegetable Soup

Our class leader, an English Professor at one of the colleges here in Philadelphia, suggested we do something a little different for our next assignment, which we all dubbed "Mixed Vegetable Soup." Each of us contributed just one word and the assignment was to create an essay using all of the words we contributed! The words were:

Jubilation, exemplify, confusion, love, duplication, pond, muzzled, goldfish

Now, for the task at hand, this is what I created:

 

Nothing causes as much jubilation as to see a lost child returned home, to the safety of his loving parents’ arms! I remember when I was a youngster that one of the kids from our school suddenly went missing one late spring day.  The deep-creased look of worry on their haggard faces exemplified the emotional pain his mother and father were feeling.  Adding to the confusion, the missing child had a history of just going off on his own,  and until that fateful day, no one ever doubted he would be back home before nightfall.

So, in a united spirit of love and compassion, friends and neighbors all banded together to help find the missing boy. This required the duplication of posters and fliers, which in almost no time at all seemed to almost miraculously pop up on every tree, telephone pole, and building in our little town. Even at the local butcher shop, Mr. Latimer’s usually hyper and cranky watch dog seemed on the alert, as if listening, and expecting to hear something. Not muzzled on that day, the dog was the least of everyone’s worries.

It was starting to get dark, and slowly, one by one, many parents had to return to their own homes to tend to their families. The police, however, enjoyed no such luxury – their hunt continued. Still no sign of the missing boy, everyone was getting more than a bit anxious. Then, Chief Daugherty slapped his forehead with his hand and in a loud, explosive voice said, ‘Oh my God! Why didn’t we think to search around Beacon Pond? C’mon..let’s go!” and away six of our burliest cops went with the chief to the community’s favorite swimming hole in Beacon  Park.

The warm spring night was fairly loud with the sound of peepers, little tree frogs. Squish, slap, squish went the policemen’s feet as they trod along the pond’s banks. They began calling out the boy’s name:  “Bobby! Bobby Smith – are you here?”  Nothing. No response other than the steady song of the tree frogs.

Suddenly, a small voice wove its way through the cacophony of frogs.

“It’s me…it’s Bobby. I’m here” the voice said. And there, on the far side of the pond sat little Bobby with a makeshift fishing pole lying by his side. It was clear that he had fallen asleep and was awakened by the men’s loud calling.

So happy to find him at last, the policemen all but fell over one another to get to Bobby, and when they reached him, they scooped him up in their arms. Bobby asked one thing, to please have his prized fishing pole. There, on the end of the safety pin hook dangled a little goldfish, quite obviously past his prime. But, hey….Chief Daugherty was so happy to have found Bobby that he promised to buy him a dozen goldfish!

Everyone trudged back to the police station, where Bobby’s folks were waiting with open arms. It was a really bad scare our town had that day, but it ended really well and as far as I know, Bobby had goldfish to call his own and take care of for quite some time, up until he left for college! 

(This story is pure fiction! It did not happen, I promise you!) 

Writers Group Assignment: Our Choice of Topic

When the Well Goes Dry

For those of us who love to write there comes a time for all of us when a curious phenomenon hits, called Writer's Block, or as I like to call it, 'When the Well Goes Dry.'  Right now, it feels as if my well is pretty much dried up.  For me, this is truly a highly unusual state because almost always I can find something that I would like to write about.  But, not right now.

I can't write about it much because it is still much too painful to even think about, but just last week we lost our beloved dog who was our faithful and loving companion for the past 14 years.  And that is the last sentence I'm going to write on that for this essay.  But the curious thing is that it seems my emotions have dried up as well, and for me I'm beginning to realize that once the emotions go so does any feeling to write.

On my very first plane trip, when I went to visit my parents in Florida for the first time, it was as natural as rain for me to grab my notebook and my pen and write down every little detail of my trip from the super-fast take off to the floating bubble-like landing.  The results of that essay were actually hilarious, and it kept my parents entertained for a while.  That is when my mother confessed that she had saved all of my writings from when I was a young child, which filled me with a sense of nostalgia and pleasure.  She ran to fetch the folder which she lovingly kept in her bureau drawer and when I opened it, it was as if I stepped back in time.  We enjoyed reading through it together.

When mom came to live with us for the last three years of her life, I kept a journal of her last several months.  That was the time when mom was terminally ill with cancer and was receiving hospice care, here in our home.  For some strange reason it gave me a lot of comfort after she passed to read what I had written about her final months.  It was almost as if she were still here with me, looking over my shoulder and silently reading along with me.

Then there was the time about 10 years ago when my husband and I went through a very rough patch in our marriage.  Needless to say, I grabbed my computer and kept a long, heart wrenching journal of the events as they transpired.  This, too, gave me a measure of comfort, or balance, both during our trial and for a period of time afterward.We were able to resolve our differences and to go on with our relationship, thank
God.

However, this time, it is as if someone flipped the switch on my heart and simply turned it off.  I do not feel my heartbeat, I feel no air coming into my lungs, and I have to concentrate to feel the warmth of the hot sun on my skin.  Food does not interest me, and indeed, I lost 12 pounds in just one week.  My grief was so all-consuming that it feels as if I am the ghost, the shadow of the being who was once here.  I next found it absolutely impossible to write on any topic because the one I want to write on the most, I cannot.  And so, this piece is on "when the well goes dry".  For me, it means that my bank account of emotions at at the moment is overdrawn, and there are no more emotions to be spent right now.

For now, my emotional account needs a chance to fill up with deposits again, and I know that it will.  But for the time being, I have to be content with writer's block.  I know, at least I hope, that in the whole scheme of my life this short-fall is only temporary, and as my life goes on, there will be many deposits made into my emotional account. All it takes is to live, and that, I intend to do.

To Max

I'll See You Later, Max....

There comes a time for every pet and his owner when it's time to say goodbye.  I am at that threshold right now, this minute, on this day.  It is so hard knowing that my dear Max is a living, breathing being right now, but that tomorrow will dawn without him. What is worse, my husband and I are in the position of having to make the decision to say goodbye to our beloved pet. This, we will have to do this evening when Rich comes home from work. Max has been at the vet hospital since last night, as his doctor wanted to evaluate him one more time, just to see if there was anything they could do. Unfortunately, there isn't.

  The thing is, I've been saying goodbye to him for the past few months, little by little and day by day, knowing that his battle with two forms of cancer could not be won. However, we gave him every chance possible within our means to last a while longer; but now I am asking myself did we really do the right thing?  It is a question that haunts me and I know is going to haunt me for a long time to come.  But for now, it feels good in my heart to know that we did all that we could possibly do.

I like to think that we gave Max a good life, and I guess we did.  Many times his veterinarian told us that at nearly 16 years of age, he had far outlived his breed, and he certainly and courageously fought his battle with cancer and actually seemed to beat at least one of them.  However, there is just one thing: that there is no pill, no treatment, no magic button that could be pushed that would turn back the hands of time.  That is the battle that our dear Max has lost, and all we can really do at this point is to release him from his pain and suffering as our final act of love.  With his back end clearly gone and his being unable to stand up or walk, his eyes told the story far more clearly than I could've ever imagined.  It tore my heart to see the confusion and fear in his eyes at not being able to get up.

So, on our last day together which was yesterday, I had a long talk with Max and I told him a few things I wanted him to know.  I told him the story of how he came to live with us, and I swear every now and then he would glance at me and his eyes would say something like "Really?" or 'Wow! That was a good thing, Mom!". Then, my talk grew little more serious and I went on to tell him that I understood how he felt about being crippled.  He did not know that for three years before he came to us I was not able to walk at all, spent all my time in my wheelchair.  It was one of the unhappiest times of my whole life, and it did not make me feel good at all.  I felt like a burden to my family and friends even though everyone assured me I was not. I swear, his eyes became a little more animated and it looked as if he understood what I was trying to say.

I explained to him about my AVN, and how my body had to be rebuilt.  Unfortunately, this was not possible for doggies, I told him, especially doggies at his age.  He seemed to grow little sad at that, but he let me go on. I went on to tell him that even though he could no longer walk I still love him just as much as ever and if there was anything I could possibly do to restore his legs I would do it.  There was just one thing I could do nothing about, and that was his advanced age.

One thing Max taught me is to treasure and enjoy every single day, because none of us really knows just how much time we are going to get on this earth.  I decided to try to live more like my Max, which means unconditional love and total loyalty to those that I love, no matter what.  It also means to let others know when I'm feeling happy, and to let them know how much they mean to me -- as if they were the only people in the whole world.  And, it means to find peace and contentment exactly where I'm at.  and to be thankful and grateful for everything that I have in my life, no matter how old, worn-out, out of date, my stuff is.  He taught me simply to be happy just to "be".

I will never forget my Max, and I will never forget the joy and delight that he brought into our lives.  But I swear, the hardest thing in all my life that I have had to do yet to say goodbye to this gentle, kind, and loving creature that I had the honor of being an "adopted parent" to for so long. In fact, I am not going to say goodbye to him -- instead, I'm going to tell him I will see him later in heaven. If there truly is a heaven, my Max will be there, along with the long line of pets that I have loved and enjoyed through my life.

Because if they are not there, then it can't possibly be heaven.


(Max crossed over the rainbow bridge at 9:15 pm, May 22, 2012, being held peacefully in our arms.)