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. 

Mussolini in a Fur Suit

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It is said that even dictators can have a good side. Mussolini, who ruled Italy in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s as an evil fascist tyrant, gained support because he made the trains run on time. Our home has been run on a schedule for eight years by our own little Mussolini – a benevolent dictator. Her name is Nunney Catch, a six-pound gray and white cat. She made it clear what the agenda was from the day she entered our house. She was between five and eight years old according to the vet when she came to live with us. A special needs adoption. She came with some medical problems that were easily handled over the years with our compassionate vet, Dr. Medler.

Nunney Catch

From the very beginning, Nunney decided she wanted to go to bed in my office at night with the door closed. Promptly at 8pm, she would announce bedtime. If she was sitting on my lap, she got up, jumped to the floor, and looked at me until I got up to take her to her room, give her fresh water and a treat, turn out the light, and close the door. If the door wasn’t closed, she would come out again and repeat the process, staring at me until I followed her to her bed and then close the door. When new cats were added to the family, she still insisted on going to her room at night. She didn’t care if one or the other cats joined her as long as her door was closed. I always knew when it was 8pm because she would find me to let me know it was bedtime.

Every morning when the office door was opened, she walked to the kitchen to get her medication that Ken administered along with a treat. She waited beside the kitchen island without fail. We never had to coax her or force her to have her meds. She obviously knew they were good for her.

Nunney nestled in my drawer if I didn’t close it quickly

Nunney also insisted on eating her dinner (canned cat food) at precisely 3pm. It started out to be 4pm, but she upped the time about two years ago. If I was sitting down, she climbed up beside me, tapped me on the shoulder with one paw, and look deeply into my eyes to tell me it was dinnertime. I never had to look at the clock. She was precise. If I was not in my chair, she would find me and let me know she needed her dinner. She would then walk to the kitchen and parade around and around the kitchen island in a clockwise direction until the food was dished up and presented to her. She had access to dry cat food all day but was very insistent on her canned food in the afternoon. When I was unavailable, she gave the same directions to Ken at the appropriate time. He followed orders as well.

Nunney was a very sweet girl. She was the possessor of a loud vibrating purr. She was amenable to anyone who petted her. She liked treats and yelled at the top of her voice when she delivered a toy to us to let us know she wanted a reward for the gift. We adopted two cats after we had Nunney. She was the smallest of the three by far, but master of the house. If she wanted a toy they were playing with, they backed off, if she wanted to eat from their dish, they backed off. She had first claim on my lap and snarled and hissed if either of the others tried to usurp her.

A few weeks ago, Nunney began a new behavior. A puzzling behavior. We had a cat many years ago named Phoebe. She was a small tuxedo cat with an enormous personality that belied her dainty six-pound size. When she died, we buried her in our backyard under a slate marker. There she has been for fifteen years, long before we adopted Nunney. Nunney liked to go outside with us when we sat on the patio in the morning or afternoons. She didn’t like the rocky backyard; it was too sharp on her little paws, so she stayed on the patio. Nunney began to ask to go outside every morning as soon as she got up. She went directly to the sliding door and sat looking into the yard until we opened it. She didn’t wait for us to go outside with her. She purposefully traversed the patio; then, with delicate steps, walked across the rocks to the slate marker over Phoebe’s grave. She sat on the marker for a few minutes and would lick the slate, then turn around and walk back into the house. The ritual lasted about two minutes total. We watched this pattern quizzically for days and I video-recorded it because it was so unusual. She had not met Phoebe and certainly was not aware we buried her in that place. It had been years before we even knew Nunney, even before Nunney was born. I remarked to Ken that Nunney was telling us something.

Ten days ago, Nunney showed signs of dying. She had not been ill or injured. She stopped eating, stopped drinking, became incontinent and lethargic. Her old spark was gone. I checked her out all over and she didn’t appear to be in pain anywhere. Her systems were shutting down. It happened quickly. We kept her comfortable and near us, but she didn’t respond in her usual way. Nunney died in the middle of the night, January 4. I found her still and quiet in the morning.

We mourn our little Mussolini. Things are not the same in our household. For those who have been close to animals and experienced their short life span, you understand the grief that comes when our dearest fur babies die. Their remarkable spirits are woven into the fabric of every day. Even the feathered and scaled ones find ways into our hearts. We buried Nunney in the backyard next to Phoebe and placed a marker above her. I believe that was what she was telling us with her three-week morning ritual. I’m grateful that she did not linger and become sick. She instinctively knew she was coming to the end of her days. She communicated in her fashion to prepare us. I’m always amazed at the intuition and communication abilities of animals when we take the time to know them. We are thankful she was in our lives. She made an indelible impression.

The schedule in our home has gone to heck. The trains no longer run on time. Oliver and Sadie don’t have anyone demanding dinner on their behalf at 3pm. They haven’t figured out a timetable. Now they are fed in the afternoon – maybe early evening, but never at a precise time. I don’t have a timekeeper to remind me. It is strange albeit liberating not to have to referee at dinnertime to keep Nunney from gobbling up all their food. They eat side by side without having me watch over them. Oliver assumed the role of lap cat when I settle down in the evenings. The door is always open to my office because Nunney no longer insists on her private time. If I get up in the middle of the night, as I’m wont to do, I don’t worry about waking anyone when I go to my desk. Our house feels empty even with two cats entertaining us with their cat antics.

Nunney’s spirit does abide. I know she’s looking over us, probably rolling her eyes at the disorder of our lives. She’ll make sure things are on schedule in heaven.

what goodbye feels like

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Over 60 years in each other’s lives,

Surfing the waves of highs and lows.

Enduring tsunamis of emotion.

Living, loving, hating but never ignoring.

Always engaged

Now as we head to port,

The end almost in sight,

We navigated mainly with fair winds and following seas,

Occasionally full sails held close to the wind,

And the doldrums, only pauses that emphasized

The beauty of our voyage.

Memory is a quirky thing

Good ones leap to mind

Jumping fish at the end of eternity’s pole,

Bad ones huddle, snakes in a dark basket

Only stirred forward by prodding.

But why prod? It was done.

Done.

We are solid, a team

We smile at the same songs

We crack up at private jokes

We get teary over tiny gestures

We are grateful for each other’s company

Unnumbered days ahead, begin to feel numbered.

How many?

I’ve never been good at math.

Numbers have been known to lie.

I only know that the days are precious

Not endless as when we were seventeen

How did we last so long?

How did we come so far?

Together!

A mystery that needs no resolution.

Chronos has ushered us nearer to our ‘sell-by’ date

Health is now the prominent daily topic

Parkinsons has robbed you of prime vigor

I assume roles for which I didn’t audition

Mutual patience is our new superpower

The thought “will he be here next year?”

Now resonates in daily reckoning.

But the question, “will I?” comes less frequently.

How will I be me without you?

The tether is so strong.

I am only an actor in this play

Not the author

I am not privy

To the final scene

I will play it as it comes

With faith

I wrote this poem for Ken in celebration of his 80th birthday and over 61 years of being together.

Bumper Stickers for Life

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In December 2008, our grandson, Henry, was born. The light of our life, a joy, a gift. I wholeheartedly love my children and there is something so special about a grandchild. As he grew, I started writing little notes for him in one of my journals. In 2010 I consolidated a few of them in a document on my computer intending to continue collecting my “bumper stickers” as he grew and developed. I shared my thoughts with him along the way when events warranted a little grandmotherly advice. Now on the threshold of manhood and taller than his Grandpa, I decided it would be a good time to deliver these ideas in written form. I chose to write them all in a card/booklet for his 16th birthday. He loves cards – even more than gifts.

Things to know to grow to be an honorable man 

Advice to Henry Cooper (age 16 months), March 2010 

“The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well… To know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Grandma says:

Pay attention to your Mother. Love her and honor her. She created her world around you. Respect the person she is, the place she made for you, and all she has shared with you. She loves you most.

Respect your Grandpa, love him, and learn from him; especially how to play baseball because he was a pro, you know, and golf because it is his passion, and he will love you even more if you can beat him at it.  Don’t follow too closely his advice on horseracing.  Remember Life Lessons from Grandpa. They will serve you well.

Love your Grandma, because she loves you with all her heart. Put your sweet arms around her and give her butterfly kisses whenever you see her – even after you have grown whiskers, for she will always remember the smooth cheeks of your babyhood. Read her a poem.

If indeed bad things happen and they will, my boy, remember that life is best lived going uphill, scrambling over the rocky humps because when you attain a summit you will have such a beautiful vista and so many great stories to tell, AND there is always another summit to reach for.

Laughter and humor are as essential as air. Laugh with your heart and your belly. Look for the fun in everything, even broccoli. 

Live with your heart open. Fall in love. You are meant to love and be loved. Be deeply, passionately, and lustfully in love. Love gives you the greatest highs.

Gratitude. Be thankful every day for the blessings you have. Don’t compare to anyone else. Be grateful to God and all who are in your life daily. 

Welcome God into your life every day. HE is the reason you are here, and HE will guide you to your best destiny.  Bathe in faith. Talk with God. Put HIM on speed dial. HE ALWAYS listens. HIS answers may be unexpected. HE sometimes says no… like when I ask to win the lottery.

Be of service daily. Even if only holding a door open for someone or offering a smile to someone who looks unhappy. There are so many, many ways to serve and it will add to your happiness as well as to the one you help. Service has a ripple effect.

Make choices with intention. Own your choices.  Inaction is also a choice and, if you don’t choose, you leave it for others to make decisions for your life and you might not like the results. Ask advice, consider options, and then choose your own path.

Listen, learn, and don’t follow the crowd if it is heading off a cliff. Listen to your gut.

Make music a part of each day. Music connects to your spirit, it heals, it moves you, it lifts you.

Never hate.  Hatred corrodes the container that holds it.

Make mistakes, fall down, skin your knees. Perfection doesn’t happen. You will learn best from failure how to be a success. Pain is inevitable and is a great teacher.  Your success is up to you. The harder you work, the stronger you become. The road of life is always under construction.

Hold Happy. Happiness is a choice. It comes from the inside not from anything outside.

Release Anger. Anger hurts you more than your intended target.

Practice Forgiveness. Forgiveness allows you to move on in life without the burden of hate and anger.

Confront fear. Take Chances. Fear and its brother Worry rob you of today, physically, mentally, and emotionally. With Fear and Worry you replace “What’s happening” in the present by borrowing “what might happen” from the future. STAY PRESENT.

Have Faith. Faith is knowing you can meet whatever comes your way with confidence because you have the internal resources to surmount adversity. At the very least you will gain wisdom from navigating through the experience. Overcome adversity and you will be stronger on the other side. YOU have the power.

Be a gentleman. A man’s manners are his portrait. Character is worth more than gold. Your style is your passport in human interaction. You are a male by birth, be a gentleman by choice.

Develop a will of iron and retain your soft heart.

Apologize when you are wrong.  Honor Truth.

Eschew jealousy. It is a poison that generates evil thoughts and deeds.

Don’t complain. Complaining makes you stuck. You are master of your life. Choose a positive attitude toward people and events and move on.

Live your highest dream. Don’t let fear detour you. You will conquer anything when you make it your goal.

Listen. Close your mouth, open your ears. You learn more when you listen.

Be Curious. Learning is a life-long process. Embrace it. Read, read, read. You will NEVER ever know everything. Learn to cook, build, sew – be self-sustaining. Curiosity is the root of all success.

Always put the toilet seat down!

Remember the ONLY constant is CHANGE

Write daily. It clears your thoughts and finds truths. You are the author of your life. Create your own story. Always use spell-check…but making up words is fun too.

Remember Elvis is King!

Be Present.  Life is abundance. Embrace it and you will want for nothing. Whatever you go through in life, there will always be another door you can open.

No drugs. Be responsible. Drive safely.

Don’t judge and don’t worry about others judging you. Be authentic. In a world full of trends, be a classic, be timeless.

Be Patient. But don’t make patience an excuse for inaction.

You are given only one body to take you through decades. Treat it with respect. Listen to what it tells you. Nourish it. Exercise it. Keep it in good order and it won’t let you down.

Boredom is the sign of a lazy mind. Color each day brightly. Your days are numbered, and you will never know what that number is.  Make them count.  Life is not a dress rehearsal, live it moment by moment. 

Don’t be a bystander. Life is an interactive game best played full throttle. Be uniquely you. 

Look for angels. They appear in many guises. They are everywhere and will help you when you are in need. Sometimes in surprising ways. 

Make friends and keep friends. True friends are the bulwarks that keep the waves of adversity from overwhelming your ship of life. Friends are the memories you will treasure when you are old and the source of great stories.

Find ways to be kind to someone every day. Simple kindness sends ripples of happiness from you to someone who sends it along to someone else, and on and on. Kindness is the true path to peace. 

Delivered to Henry Cooper on his 16th birthday: December 1, 2024 

My Fling with Fabio

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Prompts are a favored way of getting my mind engaged, setting aside whatever “project” I’m working on which may or may not be stalled, and opening myself up to a challenge. I am always surprised by what I write when I sit down to approach a random topic that is presented. This short short story was a prompt from our writers’ group. Sally authored the prompt. I chose to write it as a letter to a former lover. It was silly and fun.

  • The title is “Fling with Fabio”
  • In this story, you must use the words:
  • Churlish
  • Gallantry
  • Lame
  • Senescent
  • $5.00 (or use a five in another creative way)
  • and a quote of your choice from Romeo, Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1

Dearest Fabio,

This is the hardest letter I’ve ever written. I know that sounds like a lame cliché. Still, the truth is that most of our relationship has been cliché — from the beauty, the passion, and those glorious mornings sitting on the deck of your condo on San Diego Bay drinking our $5 lattes and watching the sun peek its head above the horizon, sending shivering shards of light across the gentle waves of the Pacific.

You were, are, and will always be my gallant lover, but your senescence has become a problem. I don’t wish to sound churlish, but when you cuddled me and called me Shirley, I knew we were done.  

I would like your remembrance of me (which will be irrevocably short due to your lapses) to remain of our good times, our joy, our gayety, our desire.  As Romeo said,

“Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears.” Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 1.

Forever yours,

Julie

I especially love my reference to the sunrise above the horizon in the West on San Diego Bay, where the sun decidedly sets every day. It was an intentional faux pas that added to the silliness.

Don’t Judge a Book by It’s Cover

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This was written from a prompt for the critique group I’m in. The prompt was to rewrite something from a favorite children’s story, add to the story or change it in some way. At the same time I was considering the prompt, Hurricane Helene struck the East Coast. The two ideas came together as I wrote.

Don’t Judge a Book by It’s Cover.

Alice was snuggled close, her head on my chest. Her hand on my cheek.

“I can’t sleep Grammy,” mumbled the toddler who had been fast asleep for four hours. Slivers of lights from passing cars and trucks flashed through a wedge in heavy curtains at the window of our motel room. The roar of trucks on the highway, a sound that made the room quiver, woke her.  I was amazed she slept as long as she had.  We were on the way to my home in Georgia and stopped for the night to get respite from the very stressful day. Hurricane Gianni had torn through the Florida town where Alice, her Dad, and Mom lived. I had been staying with them for a long weekend. The storm tracker indicated that Gianni was due to hit only the edge of land about one hundred miles south of their town. Suddenly it took a swing northward and inland, a giant locomotive ripping through San Colima. Tyler, my son, and his family live on the edge of town and were not in the direct path but the debris from the leveled town flew into their neighborhood. A grand piano crashed through the roof and landed in the middle of Alice’s bedroom. Fortunately, we were all in the underground hurricane shelter at the high school. We returned to their house to find the devastation. Luckily only two rooms had been seriously affected, Alice’s and the guestroom where I stayed. Wind and water had done more damage through the open roof, but the house was mostly intact.

“Take Alice and go back to your house Mom, Tyler said. “We’ll stay and help our neighbors then come up to get her when things are sorted out.” We hastily put things in a bag for Alice and I packed up a garbage bag with soggy clothes from my battered suitcase.

There was no electricity or water when we left to drive the three hundred miles to my home in Georgia. After a couple of hours on the road, the trauma of the day caught up with me and I needed to rest and regroup. I stopped at several motels along the highway but they were all full of people fleeing inland from the hurricane. The old Flamingo was the only motel with a room available. It had seen better days but at least it was a refuge for the night.

“This room is at the end of the building close to the road,” the clerk said. “It can get a bit noisy when trucks drive by.”

Beggars can’t be choosers. I was in no shape to continue driving and Alice was cranky even though she had dozed off and on as we traveled toward Georgia. “I’ll take it. I’ll only be here a few hours, then back on the road again.”

It was about 4 am, I had rested but only snoozed a bit as I held Alice close. She began to squirm and whimper. “Grammy, I’m hungry.”

“OK Lambkins, we’ll get back on the road as soon as it’s light and find a place for breakfast. I have an apple and graham crackers for you now. Come snuggle and have a snack until then.”

“Read me a story,” she said.

“What story do you want?”  I knew perfectly well which one she would ask for. We had hurriedly tossed some of her favorite books in her bag along with a couple of stuffed animals and what dry clothes we found under the smashed dresser in her room.

“Alice in Wonderland,” she said. It was the book I read to her at least twice each time I stayed with them or when she came to visit me. In the four years of her life, she must have heard it five or six dozen times either by me or her parents reading. She knew each page and would correct us if we read it wrong or missed a word. Sometimes she would ask for just one scene. “Read the tea party, or read who stole the tarts, or off with their heads.” She would say when told there wasn’t time for the whole story.

“Gotta go potty,” she announced.” I retrieved the book with its colorful cover of Alice and the Cheshire Cat, the Queen, and the White Rabbit, from her bag while she went to the bathroom.

She came back to the bed, stopping to grab her pink and brown giraffe that had been her crib companion since she was born. It went everywhere with her.

“Ok. Where shall we start?”

“All the golden afternoon,

Full leisurely we glide;

For both our oars, with little skill,

By little arms are plied..,” *

My Alice started with the beginning poem as she nibbled on a cracker.

I opened the book and started to read. It had been tossed about in her room. Some of the pages were crumpled and water damaged but the hardback book was mainly intact. Something wasn’t right though. Glancing at the rumpled pages I noticed pictures I didn’t remember being in the book, but I began.

“…when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close to her…followed by three little pigs.” I read. And there on the page was a picture of the white rabbit in his tight-fitting plaid jacket and three little pigs dressed in red, blue and yellow jackets following close behind. 

“Grammy, there aren’t three little pigs in this story,” Alice objected.

“Look at this picture.”

She glanced at the page. “Hmmm,” she said and settled back on the pillow.

Then as poor Alice in the book shed a pool of tears because she couldn’t get out of the hall, she heard footsteps running and looked up to see a wolf dressed in a red cape. She peered out from behind the curtain that hid the door to the garden. “What big eyes you have,” said Alice to the wolf. “The better to see you with, my dear,” said the wolf.

“Grammy, that is the wolf from Red Riding Hood. How did he get into Wonderland?” Again, I showed her the illustration and again, she accepted the modification with no comment.

And on and on, the book had characters from Peter Rabbit, the Frog Prince, the giant from Jack’s Beanstalk, Snow White, and the three Billy Goats Gruff. Some attended the tea party with the March Hare and the Mad Hatter, some played croquet with the Queen, and some showed up at the King’s court to defend the Knave of Hearts.

Every once in a while, Alice would stop me reading to peer at the pictures – strong evidence that what I was reading was true because the illustrations verified the words.  “Grammy,” she said. “I think the hurricane jumbled my storybooks.” As the story ended, Alice had fallen back to sleep, snoring lightly, clutching her giraffe. I, too, was able to close my eyes and fall asleep. Restoration and renewal for a new day, a new adventure, a new Wonderland.

*Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll