Author Archives: Diana

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About Diana

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Seattle

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Recently, I visited Seattle, where I have not lived for over 28 years. It was a short, impromptu visit to see our daughter. The weather was atrocious, but the company was great. She and I had a nice long time to share memories and reconnect. However, I was reminded of the reason Ken and I fled to southern Arizona.

This essay, which I will publish in several parts, is based on memory and journal notes from the years when I lived there and shortly thereafter. The Seattle we left is not the same as the present-day city. None of the reports from people who live there are especially favorable about the conditions in the city, relating stories of homelessness and crime. I witnessed a few of the changes in the days I was there. Traffic is abominable – a moving parking lot, very like LA. I have no desire to return. I’d rather live with lovely memories of what was.

SEATTLE

I want to tell you about a city I hated, but grudgingly learned to appreciate. I was a captive for nearly 40 years under gray, drizzly skies, wrapped in its suffocating blanket of onshore flow and tedious droplet-laden air. How does one breathe when the air is saturated with water? Seattle has an enormous diversity of smells, sights, and textures, but the overriding constant is wet, moldy dampness. During the day, the vibration of color is muted because of the lack of light, sunshine. Color doesn’t exist without light. Everything is enveloped in dimness. When you look up, you see a dull white sky. Haze covers the bright orb we were told was the sun. A clear blue sky is rare. Seattle has one of the highest rates of suicide in the US. I can certainly understand why. It has the distinction of being the US city with the highest sales of sunglasses. You use them on a sunny day, then by the time another sunny day arrives, the sunglasses have been lost or seriously misplaced, and you must buy another pair. Mine were found once in the freezer…but that’s another story.

Contrary to common thought, it doesn’t really rain in Seattle; it fatally mists you. It would be a welcome change if rain actually fell, fat full drops in quantities of a tipped-over horse trough. But no, gloomy clouds hang low overhead, spritzing gauzy water day and night. The average rainfall in Seattle is less than in Little Rock, Arkansas, Atlanta, Georgia, Lexington, Kentucky, or New York City. In those places, rain falls with intent – the intent to make things wet. In Seattle, you can walk around all day in the vaporous fog and never have a single drop of rain slide down your face, but you are damp nonetheless from the outside to the bone. You can walk between raindrops in Seattle and be saturated by the artifice of rain.

My father accepted a transfer with Boeing to Seattle in 1957. I was ripped from the wide open sunny plains of my Kansas home as a child of eleven and whisked off to the Pacific Northwest, boxed in by low clouds and lofty, dark, sentry-like evergreens. You cannot see many vistas or horizons in Seattle because of those damn giant black-green trees. I became a victim of Stockholm syndrome. I learned to identify with and, grudgingly, admire the city that was my captor.

Now that I am liberated from its bondage, I visit the city with an entirely different attitude. I appreciate its energy, its diverse population, and its distinct neighborhoods. I still do not admire the weather. There are approximately five sunny days sometime between late July and late August, and then another five in February. On those rare days, the city is stunningly beautiful – a dazzling jewel nestled at the base of the snowcapped Cascade Mountains between Lake Washington on the east and the cerulean sparkle of Puget Sound to the west. On clear days, you can see Mount Baker to the North, and Mount Rainier looms up over the city to the South.

Let me take you on a virtual tour of my Seattle, some of the places that have meaning and memory for me.

Our tour begins. It is a liquid, dark September night, and light from building signs reflects on the drenched black asphalt of Pine Street. The street shimmers with smears of circus colors like a Monet painting in front of the Inn at the Market, where I stay when visiting, and Sur La Table next door. Pine Street slides with a 9% grade downhill west. From the front of the hotel, you see over the top of the Pike Place Market at the end of the block to the waterfront and Puget Sound beyond. We are on the western edge of downtown Seattle proper.

Jazz music flows from The Pink Door in Post Alley, playing deep into this night. The Alley, just above the Market, is where the Market Theater and the gum wall are. The gum wall is a brick wall of chewed gum in a variety of colors, grape, cherry, lime, and plain gray spearmint, originally created by people who stood in line to go to the theater. Years of ordinance after ordinance failed to keep that wall clean. It became a bizarre tourist attraction that turned up in the movie “Love Happens”.

You can’t talk about Seattle without mentioning Starbucks. Starbucks started here near Pike Place Market in the 1970s. Now, it’s an international megalith for coffee worshipers. The Starbucks at Pike Place still has the original logo with the bare-breasted Norse maiden in the middle of the medallion. I’m generally a tea person. A nice cup of double-strength Irish Breakfast Coffee is my morning wakeup. I prefer Seattle’s Best for coffee because it doesn’t seem as bitter. Coffee, anyone?

Seattle is a city of frenzied days fueled by Starbucks (one on every corner with kiosks mid-block), people traveling up and down endless rain-slicked hills, and long nights lubricated by microbreweries like Pike Brewing Company and Elliot Bay Brewery, and lots of good music. We’ll stop by Kell’s Irish Pub for a short one and then turn in. The tour will continue tomorrow.

Good morning, we’ll start our tour here near the famous Pike Place Market where “flying fish” are sold. I’m sure you have all seen this well-known marketplace on TV or the internet. The owner and staff of the Pike Place Fish Market made a video of their shop and developed a motivational training program for employees who work with the public based on the Fish Philosophy of “Play, Be There, Choose your Attitude and Make Their Day”. The fish sellers have great fun with shoppers at the Market, throwing whole fish back and forth to each other like footballs over the heads of wary customers, using rhyme and signals to let each other know a fish is coming their way. An unsuspecting patron often nearly gets hit by a fish thrown in his direction, but caught at the last possible second by one of the fishmongers. A massive slippery open-mouthed monkfish lures you close and then jumps at you. Pike Place Market is a destination for most Seattle tourists. The high-jinks are worth the trip.

If you have the time, enjoy this six-minute video of the Fish Philosophy.

Pike Place Market exudes tantalizing aromas of newly picked farm produce, the woody, musky tang of incense, and the sweet bouquet of flowers, plus the salty ocean smell of fresh fish.

My favorite shop in the Market is Tenzing MoMo. An intense potpourri of frankincense, myrrh, ylang-ylang, patchouli, and sandalwood beckons you into the dark, magical, Asian inspired apothecary. They deal in herbs, tarot cards, chai tea, brass bells, ear candles, essential oils, and all manner of other necessities. It is deep in the belly of the Market which is built on a cliff plunging three stories down from the street. The top floor, at street level on the east side, looks westward across Elliot Bay toward Puget Sound. My favorite restaurant at the top level is a French bistro, Maximilien’s, with a terrace that allows a 180-degree view of the Sound. I cannot resist the Croque Monsieur.

Pike Place Market was created in the first decade of the 1900s as a fresh produce co-op market for local farmers. It retains that promise but has expanded to include buskers, homemade baked goods, handmade clothing and jewelry, antique dealers, restaurants, comic-book vendors, and crafts – something for everyone. The Market also houses a senior center, a childcare center, a medical clinic serving the working poor, elderly, and HIV-positive patients, and has HUD-subsidized housing for about 500 people. Rachel, a big brass pig, nearly three feet tall, greets visitors at the front of the Market. Her snout is rubbed for luck. She is a giant piggy bank that collects coins for charities supported by the Market.

In the early 80s, I worked six blocks from the Market up the insanely steep hill on Pine Street at the Bon Marché Department Store in their construction department. Often on my lunch hour, I negotiated the incredible downhill to the Market, roaming the nine acres of vendor stalls for something delish for lunch. My family was treated to the farm-fresh produce for dinner. Then I trudged up the hill with my treasures, back to work – my exercise for the day.

Next time, I will take you through a little history of Seattle, a smidge of the underground tour, and The Seattle Toilet History (a remarkable story).

Happiness or Gratitude?

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I recently encountered an individual who said they were in pursuit of happiness. They had experienced some setbacks in life and were feeling low and had been counseled to make happiness a priority.


I posited, on the contrary, the pursuit of happiness is a hollow pursuit. Happiness is a feeling, a mood. Happiness is insubstantial, subjective. It comes and goes. It is transitory.


Gratitude, on the other hand, is concrete. With an attitude of gratitude, you cannot help but be happy. You look around you to sense the beauty of nature or reflect on the objects in your home that you bought or have been gifted, and remember the why, when, and who of each object. Remember the happiness that each object brought when it was newly purchased or received. Gratitude for friendship. Gratitude for family. Gratitude for the people who serve us in our daily activities, from the grocery store to medical professionals to our military and law enforcement, who keep us safe.


You can use your God-given senses to appreciate and be grateful for – the spring smell of blossoms or the scent of your lover’s warm skin; the taste of chocolate or the first cup of coffee in the morning; the softness of a kitten’s fur or the feel of an embrace; the sound of birds calling or a favorite song that makes you want to sing; a wonderous sunset in a desert sky or glistening raindrops that inch down a window pane. Gratitude for being alive in this tangible world is what actual happiness is. Beyond this world, the spiritual realm conveys meaning to life. The comfort of God or whatever spiritual practice you observe is a specific conduit to happiness.


I think of my friend Diane, who told me one day many years ago that she was diagnosed with ALS, a death sentence. Not just a death sentence, but a torturous journey through advancing body paralysis. The prospect she looked toward was months, possibly a couple of years of her body slowly becoming frozen while her mind remained alert. That sounds like torture of the worst kind, being fully coherent as body parts are rendered useless, slowly dying piece by piece. Diane was the most vibrant, energetic person I knew. She could do anything.

She decided to master the grand piano at the age of 40, having never played piano before, and she did it. She set a goal in May of her first year of lessons to give a caroling party by Christmas, and she met that goal. She printed out the words of each carol for all the participants. Each year her playing became more powerful, proficient, and complex. We loved hearing her advancing abilities. Her friends coveted invitations to her Christmas caroling parties. Over the years, she became more skilled and her repertoire more sophisticated, so that she was invited to piano competitions across the country.

She made it a point to tell me that she was going to be happy until the end. She was going to be GRATEFUL for every day she had and for every little thing that she could do day by day. She was an amazing inspiration. She traveled with her family and went on cruises. She continued to practice the piano until she could no longer make her fingers do her bidding. She had parties at her house until she was incapable of managing it. She played golf until she couldn’t stand and walk. She kept in touch with friends until the only part of her body that moved was her eyes. She could only speak through a computer that she manipulated with her eyes. She was always grateful to have people around her and, to the end, said people were what meant the most to her. She created her happiness from her gratitude for every small thing.


I remember when I was sidelined by two broken ankles. I realized how much walking, moving myself from place to place, meant to me. Even though I had a scooter, it was not the same as the independence of standing and walking on my own. I was very jealous of people I saw walking past my house or on the street as Ken drove me around. Then and there, I promised myself that when my ankles healed, I would not only walk every day, but I would appreciate each step. Still today, I am so grateful to Dr. Ty for his surgical skill, his encouragement, and his humor as I recovered step by agonizing step to be fully functional again. I’m grateful for a body that healed so well. I’m grateful to Ken for his care and patience as I rehabbed. I am not a patient patient, so I’m sure my mood was not the best, but he persevered and encouraged me when I was exasperated.


Today I am grateful for Ken’s commitment to his own therapy. As a man with Parkinson’s Disorder, he works two or three hours, sometimes more, each day to stave off the impact of the mayhem being perpetrated on his body by his own brain. He is learning to overcome some of the effects by retraining his brain. Automatic functions like walking, speech, and swallowing are diminished day by day with this disorder. He must fight to consciously instruct each part of his body to do his bidding. He has to walk, each step with intent. He has to talk, each word with intent. Nothing is taken for granted because those abilities are slowly eroding. He is exhausted at the end of a short walk, not because of weak legs or feet but because his brain has to work so hard to create each movement. Talking wears him out because he has to force his voice to be at a level he can be heard. He must enunciate each word slowly in order to be clear. Parkinson’s robs him of volume and makes his words slur into a jumble of incoherence unless he articulates each one carefully. His throat muscles are compromised so coughing and choking are ever present. His physical therapy includes muscle rehab and balance training. There are days when I know the struggle is enormous. His attitude is “never give in”. He is rewarded by being able to do as much as any 80-year-old can do. He’s not 17 anymore, but still enjoys his life. For all the effort he makes,I am grateful.


Gratitude is an affirmation of life. Stay grateful and happiness will be the consequence.

An Ode to Isoroku Yamamoto

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I would not be alive

Were it not for December 7, 1941,

A brazen incursion of Japanese chutzpah.

I am a consequence of war.

A Kansas farmer joined the Army Air Corps

To fight the good fight.

He trained at Lowry Field in Colorado.

My mother, a young Denver girl,

Met him on a blind date.

Relationships blaze quickly in wartime.

They married within weeks.

Thank you, Yamamoto

Yellow – an Ode to Palo Verde Trees

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The color of spring

The color of sneezes

The color of itchy eyes

Most of all

The color of happy

Puerto Vallarta Retreat

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Picture prompt: Write a story about this magazine picture. The picture feels like peace. The quiet of a deserted beach on a warm sunny day. The serenity of aloneness. Who is this woman? Why is she so far away from anyone? Does she treasure her aloneness? Is she escaping from her life? What will the remainder of her day hold?

I am reminded of a time when I needed to withdraw to peace and quiet for a while.  It was April 1981, during an energy crisis, recession, and an explosive inflationary period (sound familiar?) with mortgage rates up to 18% (much higher than today). A very tense time for everyone.  I worked for a small homebuilding company. We were having trouble selling our inventory of homes. The carrying costs were mounting, removing any hope of profit and the ability to continue building homes. I had been in some intense negotiations on behalf of my company with a bank that threatened to foreclose on a major loan. We couldn’t continue business without renegotiating the terms of the loan for a year. I was tapped to represent the company by my boss, Rob, who owned the company. Over a period of two weeks, I met with different officers of the bank to discuss our position, our new marketing plans, and the benefits of maintaining our relationship with the bank. It worked. I don’t know how, but I was able to convince them to extend our loan with promises for the future and evidence of our past success.

At the end of negotiations, Rob told me to take some time off. My husband, Ken, knew how frazzled I was and urged me to go away on my own to regroup. He said he could manage our three kids and all their activities for a week. He thought I would go to see my best friend in Atlanta. She was my go-to when I needed a boost. Even though we lived across the country from each other then, we were still as close as we had been as neighbors during our school years.

I thought about it. Michele would be working while I was there. She had a husband and two kids. They were all busy with their lives. I would be an intruder and a needy intruder at that. I decided I couldn’t impose on them in that way. I didn’t call her even though I knew she would have encouraged me to come. Instead, I called our travel agent. Seattle was at its drizzly best. I needed quiet and sunshine.

“Where can I go to sit in the sun; where is it quiet and I can be alone for a week?” I asked.

“Does a beach sound good?”

“I’m not a fan of water, but if it is quiet I’ll try.”

“You can be on the beach without going into the water, you know,” Sheila said. “When do you want to leave?”

“Tomorrow. And it can’t cost too much.”

“Oh, that makes a difference. No planning, eh?”

“No, just a get-away for a week.”

“I can get you on a flight to Puerto Vallarta and an inexpensive but nice hotel on the beach tomorrow morning at 9 am. I’ve been there and can recommend it.”

“Sold,” I said.

When my husband came home from work that evening, he asked if I had talked with Michele.

“No. I’m going to Mexico.”

“What? By yourself?”

“Yes. Sheila said it is a nice place. She’s been there. It is quiet and not too expensive. I will be able to be alone with no agenda. It is perfect. The reservation is made. Will you take me to the airport?”

The next morning, Saturday, he took me to the airport, still apprehensive.

“You will come back, right?”

“Of course. Don’t be silly.”

Saturday: I arrived in Puerto Vallarta and took a taxi to the hotel, Playa Las Palmas.  It was right on the beach, as advertised, in the center of the crescent of Banderas Bay. I could step out of my room and walk a few yards across the pale sand to the startling blue water. I was nearly blinded by the midday sun. What a change from gray, cloudy Seattle. I went to the restaurant to see when dinner was to be served and perused the menu. Lots of fresh seafood. And margaritas. Perfect!  I went to my room to change clothes so I could sit on the beach. I decided to lie down for a few minutes first. I threw myself across the bed and when I woke, it was 9:00 am the next morning. I was still in my traveling clothes. I missed dinner and margaritas. I slept from 3:00pm the day before, 18 hours. I didn’t know anyone could sleep that long.

I called Ken to let him know I’d arrived ok and slept through the afternoon and night. I told him I’d call in a couple of days. This was before cell phones.  I was quite alone. No one could contact me except through the hotel. I called Michele to tell her I had escaped to Mexico. She was in shock too.  I took a shower, changed, and went for breakfast, my first ever Huevos Rancheros; then to the beach. I had a notebook and pen to write my journal and two books to read. That was how I intended to spend my days. There were a few people scattered around the beach. This was not the high season so everyone was spread out. I alternated between the beach and the shade of the cabana/beach cafe all afternoon, reading and writing a little or watching the water and the people.  Beach vendors wandered across the beaches from hotel to hotel selling their wares, colorful handmade wooden toys, beautiful scarves, churros, and locally made pottery among them. Hotel staff would sometimes shoo the vendors away, but they returned each day. I didn’t think they were intrusive or aggressive but they may have bothered others. 

I ate a late lunch at the cabana and talked with two women I had seen on the beach. They were best friends from Minnesota, Betty and Janna, who planned a getaway together to a warm destination every year. We had a nice chat and they asked if I’d like to join them for dinner at 7:00. I agreed. But first, I said I’d go to my room for a little nap. I don’t know why I was still so tired.

Sunday: The next thing I knew, it was 8:00 am.  I slept from 3:00 pm until 8:00 am. I missed dinner again.  I met the two women later that morning. They said they came to my room and knocked several times but no answer. They thought I’d changed my mind and went somewhere else for dinner. They said they were taking a tour to the jungle on the mountain above Puerto Vallarta and asked if I wanted to join them. I declined, needing to be solitary for a while. I spent that day mostly in my room, reading. I walked along the beach a few times but stayed to myself. I had a quiet dinner alone, and then a normal night’s sleep.

Monday: Day three of my adventure put me out on the beach again, soaking up the sunshine. I noticed a boat pulling people into the air with a kite. Parasailing. I’d never heard of such a thing. It looked like so much fun. I asked about it and soon had a reservation for that afternoon. Amazing!! Two crew members picked me up in a small rowboat on the beach and took me to a wooden deck out in deeper water. They hooked me into a sling-type harness.  I launched off the deck pulled by a motorboat – no water involved. It was wonderful. I soared under a big, curved kite around the bay for about twenty minutes. It felt like two minutes. They told me I sailed 250 feet above the water and land.  It was delightful. They landed me softly near the shore in knee-deep water. One of the crew was waiting and helped unhook me from the harness and off they went to take another para-sailor aloft. I talked with some beach sitters who witnessed my ride.  I had a quiet dinner alone and went to sleep.

Tuesday: The next day I decided to go on the jungle tour that the Minnesota ladies told me about. It was a great half-day ride through the mountainous jungle above Puerto Vallarta. We had a small bus or tram that held about twenty people. We were told to be on the lookout for jaguarundi and margay which are small wild cats, but I didn’t see any. There were a few monkeys spying on us from the treetops. I believe they were called spider monkeys.  We saw the place where the movie, Night of the Iguana with Richard Burton, Debra Kerr, and Ava Gardner had been filmed. The tour guide filled us in on gossip from the movie set. It had been filmed nearly twenty years earlier in 1963-64 when Burton and Elizabeth Taylor were having their notorious affair. Lots of gossip.  We saw women washing clothes in a river we crossed. The poverty of the people around Puerto Vallarta was evident. I had dinner that evening with a husband and wife from San Diego who I met on the tour. They told me they were going to a nightclub that night at the edge of the city where it was reported there was a good band and dancing. They asked if I wanted to join them, and I declined. Needing more quiet time.

Wednesday: The following day I walked the beach from my hotel toward town. It took a little over an hour to get up from the beach into the old town. I walked all around looking into churches and shops. I bought a sandwich and soft drink for lunch as I strolled through the village. It was very small, only a few streets. I think the population was around 20,000 give or take, including the surrounding area. Two things that stuck in my mind were the children walking to school and going home in the afternoon. They wore white shirts and dresses. I mean white, white. I don’t remember ever seeing such clean children. The townspeople looked like they were very poor, but their children were impeccably dressed.  After witnessing the women washing clothes in the river, I was surprised at how snowy the clothes were. I guess sunshine had something to do with it. The other thing I noticed was armed police or guards outside banks and other businesses. They weren’t menacing but they were present. It seemed odd in so small a town. Sidewalks were uneven or missing in places. The townspeople that I spoke with were courteous and friendly, few spoke any English so we had interesting conversations with Spanglish and gestures. Those were things I noted in my journal. I walked the entire day and went back to the hotel tired. I’m sure I had dinner but I didn’t note it in my journal.

Thursday: The sixth day I met up with Betty and Janna and agreed to go with them that night to the dance club I heard about two days before. They were leaving the next morning, Friday. I don’t recall what I did during the day, but I’m sure I was either on the beach or in my room reading. That night at 9:00 we took a taxi to the nightclub, a fifteen-minute ride up the mountain out of town. There was a fun salsa band. Several of the local men and women showed us three Americanas how to salsa. The band played contemporary rock and roll tunes as well and everyone danced. I danced with Betty and Janna and whoever asked me and had a grand time. I also drank margaritas until 1:00 in the morning. My two friends left around 11:00 saying they needed to be ready to go to the airport in the morning. I asked someone, maybe the club manager, to get a cab for me, but he said the cabs were done for the night by 12:00. He offered to call a friend. Hmmmm. If I hadn’t had all those margaritas, I’m sure I would have been more judicious. I wouldn’t have stayed longer than my friends. I wouldn’t have been without a ride to my hotel. But here I was. It was pitch black outside. I mean you couldn’t see anything, not even outlines of trees when you were away from the building lights. I didn’t know my way down the mountain to the beach and my hotel on dirt roads. I was stranded. By the way the manager offered a ride, I am sure I was not the first American who made that mistake. I agreed to the ride offered. Two local fellows in a broken-down sedan, no spring in the backseat, came to pick me up. They asked where I wanted to go. I told them and asked how much they charged. They gave me a figure that was reasonable and away we went. They did not speak English with any proficiency, and I don’t speak Spanish, so they talked to each other as I sat mute in the back, praying I’d get home to Seattle in one piece. I did not have to worry. They were very kind young men. They took me directly to my hotel; I paid them and gave them a nice tip that reflected my relief that I hadn’t been kidnapped. I said gracias many times and threw in a merci and a thank you for good measure. They laughed and drove off, having done their good deed for the day.

Friday: The seventh day was my last day. I had somewhat of a headache when I woke up so the day was very low-key. I had a late breakfast and said goodbye to Janna and Betty as they left for the airport. They asked how I got back to the hotel. They told me they were concerned but needed to get back earlier than I wanted to. I assured them that I was well taken care of. The remainder of the day I spent reflecting on my trip. It was meant to be a recovery trip, and I guess it was. I slept more hours in that week than I had in months. I felt ready to resume my everyday life. In fact, I was eager to get home. I met several very nice people; some I talked with in fits and starts through different languages. I tried a new sport. I had only been in the ocean once for a few minutes after my parasail. I ventured into a jungle (albeit with a whole group of travelers) and I walked the beach and town for a day feeling very much at home in the strange environment. My alone time had been interspersed with many people and it all felt perfect.  I guess being completely solitary is not something I can do. I need people. 

Saturday: Ken met me at the airport when I returned. Everyone at home survived my retreat just fine. All was well. I was happy and refreshed. Ready for my next challenge.

What About Lunch?

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“It’s more fun to talk with someone who doesn’t use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like “What about lunch?” – Winnie the Pooh

“What about lunch?” Jacob asked in a very low voice, looking straight ahead as we sat on the stone stoop in front of my cousin Maria’s apartment building trying to stay cool on a sizzling summer Saturday. Kids playing in the street were having water pistol fights dodging waves of heat with streams of water.

I wasn’t sure he wanted me to hear what he said. Maybe he was talking to his gurgling stomach.

“Huh? Did you just ask me to lunch or were you talking to someone else?”

“Aah, you, Valentina.” Jacob shifted a little closer. I got a heady waft of Old Spice Lime but I scooted away the same distance.

“You know I can’t be seen with you in public,” I tucked the skirt of my yellow sundress under my thigh just in case he might move closer again. One spaghetti strap slid off my shoulder and I quickly shoved it back up.

Jacob is my brother’s friend. He played basketball at Roosevelt High in Borough Park and my brother, of course, was the star forward on his basketball team at St. Francis in Crown Heights. Their teams competed throughout high school. Then, after graduation a couple of years ago, they became fast friends. Now they play together on an evening basketball team at the Brooklyn Youth Center in Bedford-Stuy. That’s how I met Jacob. We’ve been seeing each other on the sly for about six months.

“What’s not public about this? We’re not exactly hiding. Maria knows we’re here.” His voice got a little louder and his dark cocoa eyes looked directly into mine.

“Jacob! Have you lost your senses? My pop would have me go to confession every morning if he knew I had anything to do with you. You’re a a a – oh, I don’t remember the word he said. He thinks all you want is to get into my pants.”

“And I do. I love you, Val. I want you to be my girl, maybe even my wife,” he paused. “After you graduate.”

“Italians can’t love Jews.”

“Where’s that written?”

“It doesn’t have to be written. It’s just the way it is.”

“What about your brother? He’s married to Rachel, she’s Jewish.”

“Yeah, but she got pregnant and they had to get married. Besides, she was a Jew and now she’s a Delconti and she converted so, she’s Italian”.

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“If you love me, will you convert?” I was more than a little curious about his answer.

“Well, that’s something we’ll have to talk about. Maybe you might want to be Jewish… if you…”

“I don’t like the food.”

“Back to lunch. We could leave the neighborhood and walk to Koenig’s deli on Bedford Ave. They have the best knishes.”

“I just told you.  I don’t like Jewish food.”

“It’s not really about food. It’s about love. I know you love me.” He put his arm around my waist and drew me closer. I pretended to struggle but I knew he was going to kiss me and I didn’t really want to miss it so I gave in – a little.

Just as his warm lips touched mine soft as a feather, Maria shouted down from the third-floor window, “Hey Juliette, you and Romeo better hustle. My dad’s on his way home and you know he feels the same about Jacob as your pop does.”

I grabbed Jacob’s hand, scrambled down the steps and across the street dodging sprays of water. We started through an alley toward the next block, when Jacob suddenly stopped, pushed me against the brownstone building, his body smashed against mine, his hands against the wall on either side of my head, and kissed me full force like it was something he needed to keep breathing. My knees went wobbly.

“Ok,” I said in a husky voice as soon as I could catch my breath. “I’ll try the knishes”.

Little People – a nighttime revelry

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Lola is one of the people who live rent-free in my mind. I am the happy repository of many stories from many characters. From time to time they insist that I write one of their stories. I don’t know a lot about Lola. She has not revealed herself personally so I don’t know how old she is, or how tall she is, or anything else about her. I believe she is Hispanic because some of her stories are flavored with Hispanic references but I’m not sure. I only know that she lives with a lot of fantasy. This is a story she wanted me to write a few months ago. I did. Since then I revised it a bit and offer it today.

Little People – a nighttime revelry

An unknown force tugged at Lola’s eyelids begging them to open. Her brain slowly began to surface from indigo slumber. She could hear the soft purr of her lover’s breath as he snored lightly on the pillow next to her. Still holding fast her eyelids, she listened for any other sounds. What had awakened her? The house kept its nighttime silence. Then.  What was that? She heard a splash, the sound of drops of water landing in water and, even yes, the sound of voices. It seemed distant but yet…she felt her ears expand in an effort to catch the slightest detail of sound. Again, a splash. She tried to sense the direction of the noise. It wasn’t in the house.

She opened her eyes to the blanket of darkness, then immediately closed them again. Through her closed eyelids, she sensed a hazy glow as if with open eyes she was looking through a thick cloth that filtered a bright illumination. When she opened her eyes again all she saw was inky nothing. She concentrated on picking out objects in the room. Through the curtained window she could make out an outline of moonlight. The mirror across the room received and reflected tiny fragments of light captured from the window. Slowly she began to see the outline of furniture in the room.

What was that? Another sound, unmistakably a tinkling voice, very high and gleeful, almost a laugh.

Her mind tried to bend around the sensory evidence it was collecting. Was she awake? Was she dreaming? Why did she see more light with her eyes closed than when they were open? Where was water being moved and splashed? And who was talking or laughing nearby? She was absolutely baffled. She lay rigid, not from fear, but straining every fiber to pick up more clues to the strangeness she perceived in the night. It seemed quiet now. Maybe just a dream.

Slowly Lola rolled her head to the side and looked at the clock. 4:00 in the morning. She groaned inwardly and involuntarily began to review the tasks before her for the day. She had to get up in an hour, an early meeting at the office. Then there was the council luncheon and her report. Her aunt was arriving from Texas later in the afternoon, and she had to pick her up at the airport. She needed every second of sleep she could squeeze from the night, so she rolled over to cuddle her sleeping partner who hadn’t stirred at all.

Mid-turn she heard the sound again of water being moved. Now she was sure she wasn’t asleep. She sat up, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and pulled on her robe. She went to the window, pulled aside the curtain, and looked out, astonished by the brightness of milky moonlight. The backyard was bathed in a pearlescent glow and stars twinkled above in a black sky. Sounds rang out again and she knew they came from the backyard, but she couldn’t see all of it from the upstairs bedroom window. She slid her feet into her slippers and tiptoed quietly downstairs to the back door.

Lola peered through the window in the door that led out to the yard and the serenity pond surrounded by rocks and plants. It was her special quiet place, where she sat to reflect on nothing when all the something in life got to be too much. Her eyes widened. The moonlight made everything very clear, but her eyes wouldn’t believe what they saw. Six tiny people, pixies, elves, or something of the sort were cavorting around the edge of her pond. The entire pool was only six feet long and five feet wide with maybe a foot and a half of water, but the little people swam around like it was a full-size swimming pool. They couldn’t have been more than ten inches tall. They talked together in whispers except once in a while, one of them would laugh aloud, only to be hushed by the others. She was tempted to open the door and walk out onto the patio to see what they would do, but she didn’t want to disturb their happy revelry. She stood silently watching. They were dressed alike in costumes like old-fashioned bathing suits – knee-length pants, with a tunic top. She couldn’t tell if they were male or female. All had short shiny hair.

Lola watched for a while as daylight spread like a shawl over the mountaintop. Mistress Moon gave way, her glimmer fading into the stronger radiance of her Brother Sun. At the exchange of light, the little people faded along with the moonglow leaving Lola to wonder. Had they really been there? Was she still dreaming? What a start to a new day!

Winter Shamrocks – a lesson in prejudice

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Our writers’ group often uses prompts to stimulate our imaginations. The prompt for this time was to write a morality tale using three words or phrases that came from the names on paint chips from Home Depot. My words were winter shamrock, roasted seeds, rumors. This is the short tale I wove.

Winter Shamrocks

There were rumors throughout town that the witch who lived in the old shack at the edge of the forest roasted seeds of the winter shamrock to make a powerful hypnotic potion that she gave to farmers so they would keep her supplied with food for the winter.

Of course, it was false.

Because the witch was different, an outsider, she became the fodder of gossip.  No one in town tried to know her; they rendered her a thing rather than a person. It is an unfortunate human tendency to reify the ineffable; to reduce it to a familiar or popular code with which to beat someone over the head.

The townspeople were completely ignorant of the commerce between the witch and the farmers.  They could only make up stories to fit what they saw happening.

The previous summer, the witch had come to town and moved into an unoccupied shack on its north side. Without obvious means of support, she managed to slowly reform the old shack into a lovely cottage. As winter approached and lingered, she was assisted with large baskets of food donated by the farmers.  Did she bewitch them?

In reality, the farmers recognized her horticultural and homeopathic skills and honored them. She collected all manner of herbs and plants in the woods for the entire summer, putting them to dry in bunches on lines stretched from the low corner of the cottage roof to a tree at the forest’s verge. She made elixirs for the common cold, headache potions, and ague therapies and gave them generously to whoever came to her door. The townspeople avoided her and codified her existence as dangerous, suspicious.  They made note that the farmers nearby regularly visited her cottage. They could only surmise that she had put a spell on them to make them do her bidding.

The lovely, mystical winter shamrock was one of her favorite plants. She made a tea from the leaves and flowers to help those with heart conditions.  Farmer Elmer O’Reilly, who had suffered from hypertension since his early 30s, swore that three cups of the witch’s shamrock tea each day had relieved his symptoms within two days.  She toasted the shamrock sprouts to add crunch to herbal salads like the one she made with fennel leaves, kale, spinach, and arugula with a little goat cheese and ripe pear.

The witch roasted the delicate seeds of the winter shamrock to make her special elixir that she sold to the farmer’s wives. It was the enlarging potion and it had many uses, among them: 

2 drops of the potion could double the size of the roast when unexpected company arrived;

1 drop in the wash water could make a child’s leggings or shirt expand to one size larger avoiding new clothes every season (that could be done twice without compromising the strength of the fabric);

1 drop each on vegetables growing in the garden would assure an extra-large pumpkin, tomato, potato, pepper, or ear of corn;

3 drops added to 1/8 cup of olive oil and massaged slowly onto the farmer’s member resulted in enlarged smiles for both the farmer and his wife.

This potion alone assured the witch a special and welcome place in the community. The townsfolk, however, because of their narrow-minded determination to keep outsiders outside, continued to shun the witch and never reaped the benefit of her wisdom and gifts.

Moral: Prejudice results in the shrinkage of rewards.

A Dragon in the Morning

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It was an interesting experience to wake up with a dragon in our dining room. He was mostly quiet and considerate. Occasionally he got ambitious and moved things around in his living space, making clunking noises. George belonged to our neighbors who left on holiday for five weeks. I volunteered to be a critter sitter while they were gone. He and his tank were lodged on our dining room table for the duration.

This photo is of Sadie, our baby, and George, our prehistoric visitor, a Bearded Dragon. At the time, Sadie was about three years old, a rescue, so I’m not precise about her birthday. His age is undetermined but he comes from a long line of primordial legendary critters with massive life spans. He and Sadie bonded.

Sadie was sleeping on the back of the sofa in my office as I watched George, with a few minutes of out-of-tank time, explore the floor. He spied Sadie and climbed quickly up the sofa to check her out. She woke up with George nose to nose with her and they shared a few moments of wordless communion. Pleasantries were exchanged telepathically. I couldn’t resist the photo op. George returned to his tank to await another adventure on another day.

Our male cat, Oliver, also enamored with the exotic creature, spent hours lying beside George’s tank silently communing with him through the glass. George would sidle up near the place where Oliver lay, cock his head as if to say “what’s happening big guy?”

Our eldest feline, Nunny, said “ho-hum – just another space invader.” She ignored him completely. We were amused watching the variety of feline – reptile interactions.

When we had guests, George was the center of attention. All our meals were taken at the kitchen table. At the end of summer, our neighbors returned and came to reclaim George. I was happy to get my dining room back but we thoroughly enjoyed his visit.

HP and Me

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It started in September 2024. I was notified that my Windows program would soon be orphaned, no longer supported by Microsoft within one year. My computer was four years old and beginning to show its age. I remember when my home computer lasted six or seven years, but they seem to have shorter life spans now. When we owned our real estate company, I purchased, installed, and connected all the computers and printers in our office for agents and staff. I replaced them every two years so our agents had the advantage of the latest and speediest technology. Our home computers didn’t require as much attention.

I decided to replace my computer and printer with the latest, greatest I could find at a reasonable price. I chose HP as the provider. Henrietta, my new laptop, was a snap to set up. I’m not a tech wizard by a long shot, but I can do the plug-and-play kind of setup. The printer, Oscar, was easy too.

About three weeks after setup, Oscar decided, on his own, to go offline. He wouldn’t print anything Henrietta sent to him. I fiddled around for a couple of hours and coaxed Oscar into a working relationship with Henrietta. All was well. I use my laptop and printer daily for my writing projects. I rely on their compliant participation in my efforts. I usually do the creative part of writing with a pencil and paper but transfer my work to the laptop for editing and legible printing.

A few weeks later, Oscar decided to take a vacation again leaving me and Henrietta without a way to share our work. I tried to persuade him to reconnect, but he was recalcitrant. I decided to call on the HP techs to help. I spoke with Brian. He said he’d walk me through the steps to reconnect. Steps I might add, I’d already done on my own. But who knows? A tech may have a fresh approach to the problem. After he and I worked on Oscar and he still was uncooperative, Brian asked to do a hands-on try. I gave over my computer to him via a sharing app. He took virtual control of the laptop and printer. It took about four hours from start to finish for Oscar to reconnect with Henrietta. Brian and I had a lot of time to get acquainted over the phone as he manipulated Oscar’s stubborn psyche.

We sailed along for a few days, THEN… Oscar, in his obstinacy, stopped working again. I just didn’t have the patience to charm him back, so I left him alone for a day. My thought was he just needed a bit of time off and would come back in a day or two on his own. Maybe a spa break. Really, Diana?

Finally, I went to my office to tackle the problem that was Oscar. I checked all the settings. I disconnected, reconnected, uninstalled, reinstalled, on and on, a number of times. Again, I decided to call on HP for help. I started with the chat bot, escalated to a human bot. I followed instructions, I redid, undid, and did-did over and over with the same result. Bupkis! The printer had gone offline willy-nilly three times in three months causing hours of my time placating it back to its job. Not acceptable.  I “chatted” with Rachel, then Jamison, then Ricardo over a period of two days. It restarted one day, then quit the next morning. Enough! This printer is under warranty, and it definitely is not working. I want it repaired or replaced. I told them I was a writer and needed a printer pronto. I told Ricardo that I was keeping a copy of the chat-texts and maybe they would be the basis of my next novel – a murder mystery.

My last helper was Shannah, the warranty maven, on the phone. She said that in order to process a warranty claim, she had to lead me through a process to document the trouble.

Oops! A bridge too far.

“No,no,no,” says I. “I have done all the processes and procedures I am going to do. I’ve tried for hours with and without tech support. I can send you all the chat texts. I will NOT go through it again. Just send me a new printer.”

Poor Shannah. She entered the drama after seven hours as I dangled dangerously on the ragged end of a fraying rope. I tried not to be harsh, but I was done dealing with processes and procedures and printers. I realize Shannah is not responsible for my dilemma. She barely speaks English and is on the lowest level of competency. She is an order taker and can only perform her job using a script, a mindless automaton.  I quoted to her the last text I received from Jose who stepped in as the supervisor when I demanded service. He wrote, “Escalate to HP Warranty Support since your printer is under warranty, request a case escalation directly to HP Warranty Services. Provide the serial number and product number when contacting them. Ask explicitly for a replacement under warranty due to the persistent issues and failed troubleshooting attempts.”

She said she would place the order. She saw I had an account with HP and asked me to verify my contact information. It was all my business info from years ago. Since I am now retired, it was all wrong and needed to be updated. I gave her my current information. She said they would send me the new printer in two weeks, and I could send the defective one back in the same box.

“Two weeks?”  I responded in a not-kindly tone. “I use the printer daily. What am I going to do for two weeks?”

I could tell she was unsettled by my retort. “Maybe, you could ask a friend to print for you,” she offered sheepishly.

“Seriously? “ I scoffed.

“Well, I could expedite it for a fee and you could have it in five days.”

“I will not pay one more red cent for this pile of junk. I want it replaced tomorrow.” My voice lost all semblance of sanity.

“I’m so sorry for your inconvenience, but that is the best I can do.”

Evil thoughts entered my mind, but I controlled myself. “I’ll figure something out.”

She wished me a better day and weekend and thanked me for being an HP customer. I hung up, poured a glass of wine, went immediately to the Amazon website, and ordered an HP printer to be delivered free by 6:00pm. I have 30 days to return it and will use it until my replacement warrantied printer is delivered. Even OLD foxes can be wiley.

Afterword: My new printer was delivered at 5:30pm that day and I set it up immediately. It WORKS! The next morning when I returned from my walk, there was a box on the porch. HP said the box. Inside was the replacement printer. Hmmmm. Maybe my message was received. One-day service. Now I just need to summon the calm demeanor to connect the printer one last time. A memo from HP was sent to my old office email address as confirmation of the delivery. One of my former agents saw the email and forwarded it to me. I guess I’m lucky the printer wasn’t delivered to the old address. Oh, well, win some, lose some. I’ll be setting up the replacement printer tomorrow and returning the new printer well within 30 days for a refund.

 Keeping my fingers crossed. As always, thank you for reading. Have a nice day.