Her name tells of how it was with her.
The truth is she loved to hold
A pen between her fingers.
Her fingers, itching to move
Her pen across the clean, wide page

Filling it with language that sings,
Leaps, and dances with every word.
Filling it with important thoughts –
Ideas so uplifting they sprout wings
And fly toward the gentle Sun
With gifts of love to
Open doors and warm hearts.
She needed readers to
Let her know she had something to say,
And to know that others might listen.
She dreamed of a day when her book
Would be held by tiny and strong fingers,
An eager child with bright eyes and imagination.
And she dreamed of the squeals of joy and
Laughter as he or she read her words.
Then she would know that she could be called
Author.

 
(A true story inspired from my neighborhood map I’ve been working on for the second edition of Mentor Texts with Rose Cappelli, hopefully published by Stenhouse in 2017).

            Allan Berger was always working some kind of mischief. Mothers would wag their fingers at him and make clucking noises. Fathers would hurl angry shouts in his direction.  (Usually, by that time, Allan was already turning tail and running!). Little kids would sob uncontrollably or hiccup or both.  Thank goodness he left me alone. Until that one afternoon….

            We all attended the neighborhood elementary school, Edmonds, on Thouron Avenue, about six city blocks from my house. No one rode a bus and few kids had car rides to and from school. Everybody walked. It was something that I loved about going to elementary school and later to junior high (a half-block from my home). Walking was fun!  You had time to share stories with your friends, time to think, time to be outside through the four seasons. Most of the time, I walked with Suzy Q, Liz Appelbaum, and my sisters, Diane and Sandy. That fateful afternoon I was alone for the walk home.

            I had stayed after school to talk with my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Steinberg, about an assigned piece of writing. We had to write about our most unforgettable character. I had chosen my riding instructor, Mick Warmington.  I had so much to say, and I guess I wanted a little guidance on how to narrow my topic.  It was a really warm spring day, and I took my time walking home, still thinking about my “writer’s conference” and mulling over Mrs. Steinberg’s advice. This piece was special because we were going to present our writing to our unforgettable character. I wanted it to be perfect!  So I was thinking and walking, strolling and thinking. The sunshine melted like butter across my face and a light breeze played with my long tresses (halfway down my back) – just enough breeze to make it a cool/warm day in May. I was wearing a pink poodle skirt that would fan out in all directions if I twirled.

            And with no one in view, I twirled and twirled until I was so dizzy I had to stop. I had just finished twirling when a familiar voice said, “Hey, do that again so I can see your underpants. Do they have little pink hearts on them?”  I didn’t need to look back. I knew that voice. I looked straight ahead. The beautiful day had turned frosty, and I shivered. “Didn’t ya hear me?  Twirl again!”

            Then I heard quick footsteps and a little tug. I felt the breeze on the back of my legs. Allan had lifted up my skirt. “Ha! Pink hearts!  Just like I said!” Allan bellowed into the world.

            I broke into a run, taking a short cut through Gilbert Street and over to Durham. Pant, pant, pant. I pumped my arms and ran faster than I can ever remember running. Crossing Durham without looking either way for cars, I leaped onto the sidewalk and raced to 1207. Up the steps and up, up, up the back porch steps. Sanctuary!  I burst through the kitchen door, jogged through the dining room, and pounded up the steps to the safety of my bedroom. Mom followed shortly. By that time, I was sobbing and gasping and blubbering all over the place like a little kid. It was hard to lie to Mom.  She just rubbed my back, handed me tissues, and waited. So I told her the truth.  Mom said she was going to call Allan’s mother, but I begged her not to do it.  I felt I was old enough to handle it on my own.

            That Sunday the doorbell rang around 5:00 p.m., and to my great surprise, Allan Berger, his mom, and his dad were standing at our door. Mom welcomed them as if they were our best friends and ushered them into the dining room. I suddenly realized why Mom had been busy in the kitchen for hours because my mom did not like to cook.  She had set the table for eight – why hadn’t I noticed the extra place settings?  “Lynne, come help me in the kitchen.”  She gave me a wink and I rolled my eyes. “Now, Lynnie,” she whispered, you are going to have to trust me on this. I know what’s best.”

            And so, we had a lovely spaghetti dinner with salad and brownies with vanilla ice-cream for dessert. Allan was very quiet. After dinner, Mom suggested that he help her clear.   I don’t know what was said between Mom and “the troublemaker” in the kitchen that Sunday evening, but I do know that the next day Allan delivered an apology note to me at school and never gave me or anybody else (as far as I knew) any trouble again. My mom was something else!  

            Mom always treated us to a lunch at Barson’s when we spent a busy Saturday on Wadsworth Avenue. There was always so much to do – the Cameo Shop for school clothes, buying underwear at Arties, a dozen bagels at the deli. I liked to see all the televisions and radios in Brucker’s (probably because I had a crush on Bobby Brucker, our neighbors’ son).

            Anyway, it was our weekly Saturday routine, and we had ordered cheeseburgers and vanilla shakes. It was a special treat because we did not mix meat and dairy at home – ever!  We kept a Kosher house with three separate sets of dishes – one for meat, one for dairy, and one for Pesach (Passover).  I could never understand why we did this since Dad rarely went to synagogue with me. I used to complain that our religion was the religion of the dishes.

            We were begging for another quarter to play the little jukebox when, all of a sudden, Dad was standing by our booth. We had not seen him come into Barson’s. He thought he’d surprise us – happened to be in the neighborhood on the way home from an appointment – and spotted Mom’s car.  Just then the waitress came and put the plates of cheeseburgers and milkshakes on the table.  Dad wore an I-don’t-believe-my-eyes look on his face. He shook his head in disgust, turned around, and walked out without a word.
 
            Suddenly, my sisters and I were not hungry anymore. We started to sob and pushed the plates away. My mother looked at us and commanded that we eat the food we had ordered. But as hard as we tried, we could not force the food down our throats. My mom sat there, eating her cheeseburger and enjoying her milkshake (or trying to).  She took her time, and finally motioned for the check.  Mom paid the bill, stood up, and said curtly, “Let’s go, girls.” 

            Walking out of the restaurant, I could feel my mother’s anger. I couldn’t decide what was worse – my father’s disappointment that we would mix meat and dairy, or my mother’s silent anger for wasting perfectly good food!

Holding my hand
We slowly climb the mountain.
Leaves pack the earth,
A rustling cushion beneath our feet.
 
He holds my hand and
I feel the years of raking leaves,
Of planting vegetable gardens,
Of building stone terraces in his grasp.
 
We walk among the trees so tall
I cannot seem to find their tops.
He points and names them –
Needle kings and leafy queens.
 
In a clearing we stop:
Deer tracks – large and small –
No doubt made by a pair
That visit our salt lick.
 
The woods smell clean and crisp,
I blow hard, but autumn air
Not yet cold enough to
Form a frosty blast.
 
“I love the fall,” I say aloud.
“Leaf Dropper!” Grandpa replies,
And I nod my head and giggle.
“Party Gal!” I say and Grandpa laughs.
 
The trail winds higher and higher.
Off the muddied path I spy it,
A little fir tree trying hard to
Sink its fingers into a rocky ledge.
 
Strong rains and melting snows
Would surely pry its roots
From the sparse soil and
Wash the little fir away.
 
My grandfather and I are close,
So close that he can read my thoughts.
I don’t need any words.
This is one of those times.
 
With bare hands, Grandpa digs.
He digs around the tiny fir,
Careful to take some moist earth, too,
That clings to its lacy roots.
 
We slowly make our way back,
Down, down, down  the steep mountain.
The little tree rides in one of the big pockets,
Grandpa’s red-and-black plaid lumber jacket.
 
The next morning we are saying good-bye
To cabin, to lake, to salt lick, to mountain.
Grandpa will return to check on things,
But it will be early spring before I return.
 
The fir tree stands all the way home
In a metal bucket with some rocks and water.
I wedge the bucket between my two feet.
I steady it and talk to the tree.
 
I tell him how big he will become,
That we will grow together.
Grandpa plants it with my help
At the corner of the house.
 
I don’t want to go back to Philly,
And the tears start to come,
But Grandpa says, “He needs a name!”
I smile because I have it….
 
“Little Pocono!” I shout.
And Grandpa nods in agreement.
“It is a good name,” he says.
“Little Pocono,” we say together.

Saturdays

Sunlight awakens you,
Alarms are not allowed –
Not on this day! Oh, no!
Leisurely breakfasts,
Two cups of coffee and
Newspapers read.
 
Dog is fed and
A longer walk –
Perhaps through the park.
Leave the piled-high chores
For the great out-of-doors that
Calls to you, “Come play!”
 
Do what you want,
Do what you can.
Read a book,
Or do something grand!
Run a few errands
Or just stay in bed!
 
It’s your day,
It’s my day….
It’s Saturday!
 
Free Time
 
What do they mean – “free time?”
Can there be such a thing?
Free time is always filled with things to do:
Piles of laundry,
Floors to be mopped,
Flowers to be planted –
Geraniums, petunias, marigolds –  
Bushes to be pruned,
Books to be read,
Things to be said,
Poems to write,
Celebrations to attend.
 
 
Days turn to nights,
Years turn to decades,
Decades turn to lifetimes.
The clock keeps tick-tick-ticking.
Time can’t be wasted,
Yet time can’t be saved.
We spend our days trying to fill
Each unforgiving minute,
And if we do take a moment,
Or a few precious moments
To sit back and really do nothing –
(How do we do that?)
We feel guilty and wonder
Isn’t there something I should be doing?
FREETIME is a rare bird
That flies in another world
Where there are no tick-tocking clocks at all!