2019 Second Spring Arts Anthology

2019

Second Spring Literary Anthology

Second Spring Arts Festival

Dedication This Anthology is dedicated to each writer who contributed their story and to Brenda Gough for compiling this engaging edition.

“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”

-Virginia Woolf

Cover Photograph by Phil Sheldon

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2019 Anthology Award Recipients Memoir Grandmother’s Cookbook

By Diana Chatham Calaway Poetry Fall Garden

By Helen Etters Essay Buying a New Car

By Helen Webb Short Story

The Dangers of a Census Taker

By Polly B. Craft

Honorable Mention Swamp

By Janet Joyner SCARY

By Naomi Foote At 5 & 95, Mother Was a Star

by Arlene Mandell A SNEAK PEAK AT SPRING

By Patsy R. Reese

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Table of Contents Moving to a Small Southern Town

by Diana Chatham Calaway

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Grandmother’s Cookbook

by Diana Chatham Calaway

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The Dangers of a Census Taker

By Polly Craft

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The Prospective of Time

By Helen Etters

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Fall Garden

By Helen Etters

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Scary

By Naomi Foote

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Evacuations

By Naomi Foote

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The Last Remain Chestnut

By Janet Joyner

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Swamp

By Janet Joyner

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Renegade Daughter

by Arlene Mandell

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At 5 & 95, Mother Was a Star

by Arlene Mandell

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Runners

By Howard Pearre

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A Sneak Peak at Spring

By Patsy R. Reese

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Square Peg

By Patsy R. Reese

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The River

By Martha Rowe

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The Elimination Derby

By Martha Rowe

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Buying a New Car

By Helen Webb

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The Big Stick

By Helen Webb .

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Moving to a Small Southern Town

By Diana Chatham Calaway

We were transferred to Dothan, Alabama, in July of 1959. Arriving ahead of our furniture, we had to spend a few days in a downtown hotel with broken air conditioning. Ray was consumed with his new job as assistant manager of Montgomery Ward, and I was stuck in a hot hotel on an even hotter street with a child about to turn one year old.

Although not yet able to do it alone, she loved to walk.

Incessantly throughout those hot, boring days she would grab my index finger for support, tug me toward the door, and we would patrol the halls of the old hotel. The Florida Boys, a barbershop quartet who were often on local TV, were staying on the same floor. They were genial and kind but never offered to spell me with index fingers.

On the day the van was to arrive, Kathy and I went to the empty rental house. After I opened the door and set her down inside, seeing that vast open space, she managed her first steps and soon was walking round and round— stagger down the hall past bedrooms, hang a quick left turn through door to breakfast room, take another left to the large living room—over and over. I guess it felt like a football field with her newly acquired skill. A few days later she tried to run away. I glanced out the kitchen window just in time to see her rufflecovered butt squeezing through the hedge at the back of our yard. Ambulatory at last, she seemed to be discovering that the world was her oyster.

The kitchen in that house was tiny. I kept pots and pans in a cabinet near the floor and that was one of Kathy's favorite play spots. While I worked at the sink or counter, she happily dug through the cookware, nesting pots inside each other or banging cymbals with the lids.

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It was a good way to keep an eye on her while going on with my chores.

One day, however, when I prepared to make a cake, one blade to the electric mixer was missing. After hunting exhaustively, I finally ordered a new blade from the manufacturer. On the day it arrived in the mail, I opened the box, pulled out the blade, and my toddler suddenly lit up with recognition. “Ah!” she exclaimed— not quite yet in the talking mode that has marked most of her 50-plus years. Immediately she opened the door to her favorite cabinet, pulled out a pot, lifted the lid, and produced a matching mixer blade. I guess happiness is three mixer blades.

We learned soon that in small southern towns, bridgeplaying is a social necessity. The first question people ask newcomers is, “Where do you go to church?” The second is, “Do you play bridge?”

Once I undiplomatically suggested that my social life would be greatly enhanced if I had married a bridge player. Patiently, my husband replied, “Get me the most elementary book you can find and I'll try to learn bridge.”

I found the perfect book. The first sentence was, “There are fifty-two cards in a deck.”

He did study and before long we were able to accept invitations for a table or two of casual couples' bridge.

Then came Armageddon. A neighbor we barely knew invited us to fill in at an evening of bridge. Ignorantly, we accepted. When we arrived, to my horror, there were at least seven tables stretching through her living and dining areas. Place tags assigned us to our locations.

Ray, an habitually friendly person, sat down at his table saying, “Hello, I'm Ray Calaway,” to which a woman snarled, “Deal!” Cutthroat bridge, we learned painfully that night, was not our thing.

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Our hostess was surely as unhappy with our amateur performance as we were with her professional expectations. At least, now we had learned to be wary about which invitations to accept—especially in small southern towns where the loaded, second question to newcomers was always, “Do you play bridge?”

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Grandmother's Cook Book

By Diane Chatham Calaway

Washington, North Carolina, locally known as "Little Washington," sits near the headwaters of the Pamlico River in Eastern North Carolina before it empties into the Pamlico Sound. After the death of my mother, who grew up there, I found buried in a basket above her kitchen cabinet the aged Washington Cook Book, edited by The Woman's Betterment Association.

I wonder what they were devoted to bettering-themselves, husbands, children, the community? The book has no publication date, but the ads--horses, mules, buggies, wagons, shoes for $2 or $3, and the three-digit phone numbers--led me to believe it was about the time of the turn of the twentieth century. That would have been when my grandmother was cooking and contributing to community “betterment.”

Who were these women who endeavored to better something? Most had titles attached to their names-either Mrs. or Miss--but one Frances Peed stands out with only the description, “Cook.” I'll bet she was somebody's hired cook, considered worthy of contributing her skill at creating Popovers or Corn-meal Muffins, but not of being honored with a title. Her Fish Chowder sounded inviting...until I got to the instruction, “Pick the bones out of the boiled fish.”

Trying to unlock the mystery of these women's lives and the world they inhabited, I found clues in their cookbook.

1) They were sure that their methods were the best. I cite the recipe title “Biscuit, Fit for a Queen.” They also had to be sturdy, providing fine biscuits and cakes, without the modern advantages of electric mixers and bread kneaders. This recipe reads, “One quart flour, one heaping teaspoonful baking powder, one-half teaspoonful

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salt, piece butter size of an egg, and half as much lard; whites of two eggs beaten to a stiff froth. Mix dough with sweet milk, work well before beginning the beating. Beat until exhausted, or for one hour. [My underlining] Bake slowly light brown. Do not roll too thin.”

2) Their system of measurement defies logic but, in an odd way, almost makes sense. Some examples: 5 cents worth of turmeric, 2 coffee cups of meal, ½ teacup of flour, butter the size of a pigeon egg, and my favorite, 2 wine glasses of sherry (boil 3 or 4 hours, drink 2 more glasses).

3) Their choices ranged from a most disgusting—Tortoise Soup—to the most decadent, Tipsy Cake that is saturated with wine then layered with custard and whipped cream.

Also a doughnut recipe calls for eggs, sugar, buttermilk— [where's the flour?]--rolled out and fried in lard.

4) These women, while slaving in the kitchen, maintained a fanciful attitude. Page 54 between Chocolate Filling and Children's Tea Kisses includes a bit of verse: SMALL CAKES Oh! Weary mothers, mixing dough, Don't you wish that food would grow?

Your lips would smile, I know, to see A tea cake bush or a doughnut tree.

Yep, wouldn't we love to have a doughnut tree in every yard!

What did I learn about the world these women inhabited over 100 years ago? The ads at the end of the book provide some clues.

A full-page ad for Washington Buggies—promising “all the name 'Washington' implies” [whatever that is]--lists

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buggies, wagons, surries, harness, and horse millinery...[horse millinery??]”

“For Those Tired Feet Use Fowle's Shoes, Established 1818.”

“The good things in this book are always better when cooked on a Majestic Range sold by HARRIS HARDWARE CO., Washington, N.C.” And my favorite ad: “The DIXIE BAKERY Produces the BEST BREAD and PASTRY from the best material and wormanship...[yep, wormanship]. Also Dealer in Sheet Music. The newsiest news-stand in town. Phone 180.” Do you suppose they also gave haircuts?

I did not find my grandmother's name printed under a recipe in the book, but she had filled the pages inside both covers with instructions scrawled in pencil...some even upside down. And the turned down pages and stains indicate that she depended on The Washington Cook Book.

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THE DANGERS 0F A CENSUS TAKER

By Polly B. Craft

In 1964 I had just enrolled my last child in school and was looking forward to a few months at home alone. I had also kept my sister's two boys so that made five children in the house for some time.

I was ready for a sabbatical, just doing what I wanted, going shopping, playing bridge and just being alone during the day with my husband at work and the children at school.

Well that didn't last long. One Of my friends had signed up to take the Agriculture Census. She told me they needed more people and if I would take my Goldwater Presidential Sticker off my car bumper, she would recommend me for the job. You see, she was a hard core Democrat. I had to go downtown to the Old Post Office which at that time was in the huge building at the comer of Fifth and Trade Streets. I went, took the test and came home with my packet telling where my territory was and a map for all the farm locations.

At that time most of the land in this area was farm land, years before all the building revolution took place. I wanted the Lewisville territory but this had already been assigned to someone so they gave me the territory of Vienna and Old Town, all the way to Reynolda Road. I had a big territory, had three months to complete it and turn it in to the supervisor.

I started off on Monday morning, thinking I could make some real money. I had to go up Lewisville-Vienna Road where the Vienna territory began so away I went, looking at the map to see where the first farm was.

I was getting along pretty good until I came to a house where a lady came to the door. She let her dog out the door and although it was a small dog it kept wanting to bite my ankles. I got in the car as soon as I could.

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The next encounter was on Seward Road. I knew these people, from the map, had plenty of farm land so I knocked on the door. The man told me to come in so I stepped inside. There were four men, all in hunting attire, sitting in the living room. They were as drunk as skunks. Only one of them was halfway sober, he was the one that lived there. While I was trying to fill out the questionnaire, the drunk ones were saying crazy remarks. At that time I was in my thirties, had jet black hair, and he kept wanting to feel of my half. He had never seen anyone with that black hair before. Finally, the sober one told me that I better leave and he would finish the questionnaire and mail it to me. I was so scared that although it was not even lunch time, I came on home and shook awhile thinking of what could have happened.

I wouldn't give up. The next day after I got the children off to school, I started out again. I knocked on a door in the Vienna area, a woman came to the door, I told her who I was and that I was taking the Farm Census. She said her husband was not there but he had read about the census and that he had threatened anyone who came by to ask him any questions. Of course I left before he came back, leaving her with the papers to fill out.

The Supervisor had told us that if they refused to provide us with the information, report it to her and she and a deputy would go out and get it. I had several that I had to use this method, none as bad as the beforehand mentioned.

But there were a lot of good experiences too. Some would invite me in, asked where I live, why this census was being taken and how I came to be a census taker.

I will never forget this experience. The house was an old log cabin, had never had any updating or repairs or so it looked like. The man invited me in. He was dressed in a pair of dirty overalls. He had just eaten breakfast, was sitting in a chair with most of the wicker torn from it. He asked me to sit down and offered me a chair and

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something to eat if I wanted but I told him I had already had breakfast. The chair he offered me had the bottom completely out. There was a pillow on it and when I sat down I almost went through the bottom. I adjusted myself and started asking the questions. It was chilly that morning and he had a fire in the fireplace. He seemed to be lonely and was glad for my company. All of a sudden l looked over at the hearth where the man finished his breakfast and placed the plate on the hearth, was a mouse eating the leftovers. I tried not to think on this and continued with my questions.

There were more good experiences. One was a big farm on Dozier Road. I was told that this man would give me a hard time. When I got to his home, he invited me in and sat and talked with me. He knew that I was just doing my job.

Most of the people that were rebellious were afraid, thinking that their taxes would go up or that the government would get too much control over their land.

I finished the census, turned in all my paperwork and got paid.

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The Perspective of Time

By Helen Etters

If I could go back in time and speak to my teenage self, I thought last night I would say to her When you are 70 You will say happiness is lying half asleep at 5:00 a.m. listening to soft, gentle snoring on your left listening to a woodthrush in the distant woods and hearing the early songs of wrens and cardinals and towhees through four open windows on your right, with a yellow cat curled up at your feet.

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Fall Garden

By Helen Etters I wasn't always like this, he said, as he stepped slowly around the shovel left carelessly in the path where wayward chives grew between the rows.

I used to be young.

Some might think this goes without saying, but he needed to say it.

Or wanted to.

Yes. I used to be young.

Besides, there was no one there to hear.

He turned slowly toward the cherry tree Whose branches cooled the straight-back chair, Mindfully staying upright with every step.

The afternoon stretched before him, heavy as a cloud.

September sun warmed the spinach seedlings.

What did it matter that he didn't especially like spinach?

His wife would pick the leaves and wash them, and season them, make them taste good.

When she was alive.

Smelling the fragrance of osmanthus in the gentle breeze, he tried to remember its name.

He remembered the simple white flowers on the evergreen shrub, one of his wife's favorites, for it could perfume a whole house, she would say Depending on the house, of course.

He knew its name, that sweet-olive shrub.

Oz something, he said, almost getting it now.

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The towhee reminded him it's tea time.

Yes, yes, Drink your tea, he said, And take in that fragrant Ozymandius.

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SCARY

By Naomi Foote After a 5-month sabbatical from the news and the real world, I came to life Thursday, June 28, 2018 when the shooting and loss of life at the Annapolis, Maryland Capital Gazette newspaper was reported on television.

I immediately wrote to Tom Lollis, one of the Index Journal newspaper editors that I worked for in Greenwood, South Carolina. When I heard about the shooting at the Annapolis newspaper, I thought immediately of the wide open newsroom at the Index. If someone had entered with a gun and started shooting, none of us would have had a chance. I’ll bet most newspaper offices are the same way. There was no need for extra security at the newspaper office. News was received on tape from the Associated Press and UPI (United Press International). Local news was often called in by community leaders. Direct reporting included the court news and local events, as well as local high school and college sports.

The only annoyance entering the newsroom off the parking lot was that mocking birds had built nests in the decorative trees on both sides of the door. If they had babies in their nests, they would dive bomb us as we approached the door. We learned to run fast to avoid being pecked on the head. Danny McNeil solved that situation by wearing his motorcycle helmet as he sauntered toward the door. One of the birds attacked his helmet, and then bounced to the ground. That was the end of the bird trauma.

The most excitement we had was when a man identified as an undercover agent investigating the criminal activities of the Reverend Leroy Jenkins entered the newsroom. No one was in the newsroom except the sports writer and me. The visitor asked to speak to a reporter. I told him the rest of the news staff was still at

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the Court House. Reverend Jenkins’s trial had just ended, and they hadn’t returned yet. Just then there was a loud bang in the press room, and our visitor hit the floor like he had heard gun shots. Perhaps he thought they had been fired at him.

Scott Sexton wrote about safety at the Winston-Salem Journal newspaper in the June 30th Saturday edition.

He wrote, “Walking into the office Friday morning, it was impossible not to stare into the giant glass wall that fronts the building and just think. Hearing about five people being slaughtered in a newsroom not that much different from this one will do that.

“Among the first emails we saw, nearly lost in an avalanche of electronic alerts and updates about the killings in Maryland, was one from our corporate headquarters: active shooter drills ASAP for everyone.

“Because of events similar to this, we were already planning to conduct active shooter training on a company-wide basis during the month of July. In the meantime, due to Thursday’s events, I want to remind you to keep your eyes open for any possible threats.

This could be behavior you see in an individual or through some type of social media interaction with the public.”

Tom returned my email: “Naomi, You have to wonder about the culture promoted by movies and television.

Violence seems to always be the story line, and then the Hollywood "stars" rant and rave about gun control. Such hypocrites! I don't believe gun control is the answer. Just look at places that have the most strict laws, such as Chicago and D.C. Maybe having more trained, licensed people carrying concealed weapons could shortcut incidents such as this. I think if I had been that newspaper owner I would have hired some strong security after finding out about the guy's threats. Just think, though. We have more than 350 million people

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here and most of us get along with each other. News is when something unusual and out-of-the-ordinary happens. We just hear the bad stuff on TV and radio and the Web. Nobody does a news bulletin when somebody serves a homeless man a meal.�

What is the answer to this negativity? Perhaps Tom has the answer: more news coverage and bulletins when somebody serves a homeless man a meal.

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EVACUATIONS

By Naomi Foote

All sorts of reasons trigger the need to evacuate your home … your safe place. Reasons to evacuate include military orders, explosions and unsafe neighborhoods and acts of nature. I’ve experienced each of them.

In the late 1950’s my husband Roger was stationed at the U.S. Navy Security Base in Bremerhaven, Germany.

I joined him in 1958. The country was still divided with portions assigned to Allied Countries following WW2. We were in the English Zone. The base was located about 75 miles west of the East German border. Lebanon was the hot spot at that time. If military action began in that country, the base personnel would be evacuated immediately to England. Navy families would be separated, and the wives were told to keep a week’s supply of food in a suitcase and be prepared for evacuation on a Red Cross ship to France.

This was terrifying to me. We lived on a Strauss (street) on the German economy, meaning not on the secured military base. Roger’s rank did not warrant base housing. We lived among the civilian population. In fact, we lived across from the red light district. Beyond that was the Bremen River. We could see the huge Russian ships with the hammer and sickle emblem on the smoke stack as they floated into the port.

How would Navy personnel find me if Roger had already been evacuated? Where would I go? How would I keep in contact with him? Where would he be located in England? News was printed in the military publication, the Stars and Stripes. We couldn’t always get clear radio frequency on the small radio we had. Neither of us could read the German newspaper. And we did not have a telephone.

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Why would U.S. Naval personnel be evacuated so quickly? It was due to their military clearance. In 1968, these were the men assigned to the USS Pueblo, a Navy Intelligence ship. The North Koreans captured the ship and 84 crew members in international waters. They were held in captivity, mistreated and tortured for nearly a year until President Johnson negotiated to get them released and back in the States and home.

The Lebanon situation in 1958 cooled down. Thank the Good Lord we were not evacuated. Our lives returned to normal. That was a scary situation.

After we returned to the States and settled in a quiet neighborhood in Fort Wayne, Indiana, I was faced with another evacuation. There was a gas explosion at a fuel station about 8 blocks from our home. The radio described the devastation and the loss of life. We were not ordered to evacuate, but it was strongly suggested over the radio. Where would we go? How soon could we get there?

I drove our little children down our street on our way to shelter at revered Aunt Betty’s home. That would be our safe haven. A neighbor stepped into the street and asked if she, two grandchildren and a dog could catch a ride to a relative’s home. They were seeking shelter also. When we pulled out of our peaceful residential street, we saw no damage of further explosions. But it was very still, and we spoke in whispers.

We dropped our neighbors off and proceeded to Aunt Betty’s home about a mile away. The Fort Wayne phone system didn’t work. My husband Roger was employed at a wire and cable company across town. He had no way to locate us, and we had no way to tell him where we were. He drove as fast as he could to check on us and found the house empty. No note. We left quickly. Then he decided to go to the closest relative to see if we were

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there. The children ran to him…so glad to see their Dad. And he was relieved to locate us.

There was no damage to our area from the gas explosion. It was contained in one location. The street was closed off and official investigations began. I discovered you react in a way that will protect your family and yourself. Possessions were not important.

Whatever your destination, the intent was to get there as soon as possible.

The need to evacuate flooded areas in the Carolinas in 2018 triggered these memories. Dell Richardson and her three teenagers took shelter at our daughter and son-inlaw’s home in Elgin, South Carolina. During Hurricane Florence, Dell’s home (on stilts) flooded when the Waccamaw River near Conway, South Carolina rose 22’ above flood level September 24. After they felt it was safe to return to their community, the family worked vigorously and did major remodeling to make their home on the Waccamaw River livable once again. It was heavy work, but they pushed forward and were able to complete their task by Christmas. They were home again.

In our country we have recently had a loss of life in California as folks tried their best to get out of the way of fast moving forest fires. Evacuation is a frightening situation, regardless of the continent you are on.

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The Last Remaining Chestnut

By Janet Joyner

It went on flowering dioeciously, but with no opposite-sex blooms to answer them, it could not serve itself, replicate. A few new fissures another inch of added rings to the gendered tree, bark spiraling upward like Trajan' s columnvictorious against rubbing antlers, the chewing of deer, and bigger trees falling down. It made sense to attempt seeds. The scalloped leaves carrying on, turning sunlight into tissue, cells obeying ancient formula, stars still burning, churning toward their own extinction

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Swamp is all about quiet death and the slow cellular work of decomposition in a wet dark place.

Say it. The word itself, breaching with that swishing sucking, sibilant swooping its big wings around an ample, nasal-vowelled body detonated by a plosive lifting like a long-legged bird with unexpected grace.

By Janet Joyner

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Renegade Daughter

By Arlene Mandell

My father's voice bellowed through the walls of the apartment when he was angry with me, which, in my teenage years, was often: "You are just like your grandfather--a renegade!" He thought this would make me cringe, but I was secretly thrilled. I loved the colorful tales about Grandfather Moe and revered him.

I had only a fading memory of visiting him in his office as a little girl during Easter week, surprised and ecstatic to see a bunch of fuzzy baby ducklings escaping from their cardboard box. He let me scamper all over the room with them while he talked with my parents. I remember the floor being thickly covered with sawdust which I thought strange then but eventually learned it was common practice in the business of meat-selling plants to absorb any grease that got stuck on the soles of people's shoes.

My grandfather was born and grew up in Czarist Russia, often boasting how the Czar had patted him on the shoulder while visiting his grade-school classroom. In spite of that celebrity, Moe, unlike his slew of wellbehaved siblings, grew up wild and outspoken, rebelling against the horribly repressive, murderous reign he lived under, where thousands of innocents were slaughtered at will. And so, at the age of 16, he went from corner to corner throughout the city, climbing on a soapbox, gathering crowds by denouncing the regime and boldly shouting: "Down with the Czar!"

The family, keenly aware of friends and neighbors disappearing in the night never to be seen or heard from again, were terrified he would get them all killed. A heart-wrenching decision was made to send him off to America, by himself, even though they knew they might never see him again. Letters were sent to two relatives in New York City explaining the desperate situation, urging them to meet the ship when it arrived at Ellis Island.

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Both men dutifully showed up. One was a glum-looking shoe salesman, the other a meat wholesaler. Moe chose the meat man--a point he liked to stress--for the simple reason that the man had a welcoming smile for a wayward teenager he had never met.

Moe picked up the language quickly, not through formal schooling, but by reading words on trucks, billboards, newspapers, anything in print. Over the years, he learned and became successful in the meat business, marrying the beautiful, redheaded Annie Friedlander and producing my dad, an only child much longed for and much adored. My father grew up with an affinity for words--a natural-born storyteller--and combined with a keen interest in photography, had a passion to become a photojournalist. Knowing it would be frowned upon, he secretly enrolled in a mail correspondence course. When Moe found out, he was furious, insisting my dad join him in the business. I remember dad telling me, wistfully, that although this was not at all what he wanted for himself, he agreed to do it out of respect for his father .

My heart sank every time I heard this story, thinking my dad had wasted his life. To add salt to the wound, when Grandfather Moe died--after a dissolute life of wine, women and song, and a fervent love for the racetrack where he made and lost several fortunes--he left a pile of debts my dad worked years to pay off. In spite of this, and the fact of my dad saying he would never become wayward like grandfather, dad never failed to profess his love.

When I came along, starting from a young age and throughout the growing-up years, my dad took mother and me on "safaris," well-planned adventures by car, all over the country. Though an only child (like my dad), I shared a back seat with plenty of company: a plethora of maps and AAA Triptics; movie cameras, still cameras, light meters, all with leather carry cases; the latest filters and newfangled gadgets; plus dozens of rolls of film, all

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of which I was in charge--a responsibility I took quite seriously.

Once back home, I prayed for rainy Sundays when he could not go outside to play handball in the park with his buddies. Instead, he'd stay home and spend hours with me, pasting trip photos in albums, writing descriptive captions beneath by hand, and, what I loved most: working on film from the moving-picture camera.

He would set up the film-splicing machine on a big table, then sit in front of it cranking the film slowly through by hand, stopping to cut out scenes that were too dark, too light, too boring--then physically joining the two lengths together on the machine. I sat on the carpeted floor under the table waiting with excited anticipation. As snips of edited film to dropped down, I rolled them up and put them inside the tiny metal film cans they came in-precious treasure to be secreted away in my room.

Next step was to narrate the trip by taking turns speaking into a microphone connected to the boxy, cumbersome old-style tape recorder. This would be listened to while simultaneously watching the film thread its way from the large 16 millimeter reels, through the projector, onto a big white movie screen across the room. When finally done, these became occasions to invite the whole family over to "Uncle Stanley's," (my dad) for a Sunday afternoon of home movies and mom's buttered popcorn.

The irony of this story is that now, several decades later, here is his renegade daughter--a writer and artist--living my father's dream: a life in words and pictures.

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At 5 & 95, Mother Was A Star

By Arlene Mandell

On the first day of kindergarten, Grandma Molly brought my mother to the classroom door and introduced her to the teacher: "This is my daughter, Helen. She plays piano."

It was true. And so, at five years old, my mother was assigned her first job--playing for the "musical chairs" game. She was lifted up onto the high piano stool--her chubby little legs dangling down--and played children's songs while all the other kids got to run around the chairs till she stopped the music and someone would be "out." Word of this sped rapidly around the school; teachers from every grade crowded into the room to see the adorable phenomenon. At first she fretted about not participating in the game, but then she became known throughout the school and loved the celebrity status.

This discovery was made by the family a year earlier when a piano was hoisted up the five stories of their Bronx, New York apartment building (adjacent to the noisy elevated train on Jerome Avenue known as the "EL") and pulled in through a window. The purpose of this was for older brother, Al, to take lessons--an important tradition in the neighborhood. While Al had his first lesson, my mother sat in the next room, listening.

When the teacher left, my mother, four years old, walked over to the piano, climbed up on the bench and played some of what she had just heard. The family was flabbergasted--were they giving lessons to the wrong child?

Grandma took her into Manhattan on the El (which connected with the downtown subway) to take lessons from Miss Valentine, a specialist in child wonders. All my mother remembers from that time is having to ride home alone one day when grandma could not come along, but losing the subway fare which had been given to her

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wrapped in a handkerchief. The little prodigy stood crying at the station entrance until a sympathetic lady listened to her plight and paid the fare. Only a year later, mother gave a solo recital at the prestigious, world-renown Carnegie Hall in midtown Manhattan.

She grew up, got married and proudly raised a daughter, but only sat down at the piano in her apartment when she went over to dust it once a week. When I asked her why she didn't pursue a career as a pianist, she said playing piano was easy--like a game--but she didn't love it enough. She did, however, share my father's passion for Broadway show tunes.

Searching through music stores, I found a book of them that she could easily play by sight-reading, a skill she was terrific at. We would sit next to each other on the piano bench for what seemed like hours, singing together till her small hands grew tired from playing. Every session ended with her special favorite: The House I Live In, made famous by Frank Sinatra in 1945, from the movie he starred in by the same name. Till this day, whenever I hear that song, I am transported, tearyeyed, back to those days on the piano bench with my mom...

At 95, when growing health problems made it impossible to continue living independently in the sunny apartment she loved which was filled with tender memories of my father, my mother accepted the reality--though reluctantly--that she needed a nursing home.

Fortunately, on the recommendation of a friend, I found one built around a beautiful setting of giant ginkgo trees, with walking paths, an indoor and outdoor aviary, an ice cream "shoppe" and most important--an excellent program of daily activities for the elderly and incapacitated.

This included a weekly musical-therapy group which she took to right away--like the proverbial duck to water.

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Instruments were given out to everyone, every week.

Before long, seeing my mother's ability and enthusiasm, the therapist tried her out on something new. She was good at it. He called me at home to say: "You HAVE to come see this!" I went to the next session and saw what he meant. There she was: my diminutive mom, petite in size and roly-poly round, sporting a huge drum, keeping perfect time to the music, even adding her own jazzy flourishes--an amazing 95-year-old version of Gene Krupa, famed drummer of the 1970s, known for his showmanship.

As with the kindergarten, word spread fast, a crowd came to watch. From then on, people passing her in the hallways would affectionately mimic drum-playing. She LOVED the attention, calling me at home every night before her bedtime to boast: "You know, I'm a big celebrity here...I feel like I'm starting my life all over again!" After being consumed with worry about her adjustment there, this was music to my ears.

A year later, when she died from the cancer that had taken her father and older brother, Al, I donated her piano to the Alzheimer Unit in the nursing home, where it was needed most. I had been startled to discover that even those with severe memory loss could still respond to music. Many times, during musical shows in the large auditorium, where every resident was brought including those with Alzheimer's, I watched in amazement as they sang out--if only a few remembered words--to the songs of their generation buried deep within.

A plaque that says "Helen's Piano" was permanently bolted onto it, with a photo of the two of us placed next to it. In the following months when I went back to visit her devoted remaining friends, I saw the piano had been placed in the dining room, where the music therapist came to play for the Alzheimer residents at meal time, a surreal sort of "Happy Hour." With her compassionate acceptance of everyone she spent her last two years

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with, my mother would have enjoyed that! Now her music continues on in the place she loved--the house she lived in--and inside me as I carry her forever in my heart.

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Runners

By Howard Pearre A one-year-old child riding in a jogging stroller was struck by a car late Thursday afternoon on Magnolia Avenue and remains in critical condition at Memorial Hospital. The child, Chrissie Rash, was being pushed by her father, Bob Rash, who also was injured and is in stable condition at Memorial Hospital. Bonnie Rash, the child’s mother who was running next to the stroller, was not injured. The driver of the car, Arnold Craft, was not charged although an investigation is continuing.

“Hey, Hon? Grab my fleece jacket, will ya? Thanks.”

Bonnie Rash was sitting on the side of the bed double knotting her Nikes. She finished the chore, stood, made two brush swipes at her blonde hair and formed a ponytail with a rubber band. She glanced at herself in the bureau mirror. Not bad for thirty, she thought.

“Got it,” she yelled down the stairs to Bob. “You got Chrissie in?” Her sneaker toes barely touched the steps as she trotted down the staircase.

“Chrissie’s strapped in and ready to ride.”

“Bob, she’s got to have her sweater.” Bonnie went to the hall closet and pulled Chrissie’s light blue cotton sweater from a hook.

Bob unstrapped their sixteen-month-old daughter and helped lean her forward for Bonnie to put the sweater on.

“Okay, Chrissie,” Bonnie spoke to the girl. “Now we’re ready. Such a pretty girl. Such a pretty day, and spring is right around the corner!”

Arnold Craft checked his watch. Ten after five. He closed the lid of the laptop, stood, and reached for his sport coat.

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Arnold’s workday at Brooks Homes was over at five, but he always worked an extra few minutes to earn points that might help him win a management position someday.

It had been a frustrating day. He’d spent an hour and a half yesterday tediously reviewing MLS listings with a walk-in couple, and another two hours this morning.

Then, just before lunch he’d learned they had contracted with another firm to buy a house—that was listed with Brooks! But, because it wasn’t one of his, he’d get zero commission for all that work and zero credit on the sales/assists score sheet. Then Mrs. Milsaps decided to end her contract with Brooks and list her house with a competitor, even after he’d held an open house two Sundays ago and showed the house to two potential buyers the week before. He knew she needed to sell it quickly since her husband was already at his new job three states away. But spring was almost here. That’s when houses move! When the grass is green!

Arnold backed his car out of the space, wound down three levels, and waited behind two other cars at the exit. When the first car had not moved in almost a minute, he had to suppress an urge to honk. He wished he’d skipped working the extra time today, his son’s Cub Scouts meeting day.

Pack 422 met weekly at the Methodist Church he used to attend with his family. He hoped Barbara would have Petey ready. They wouldn’t have much time to get to the meeting. He got to see Petey every other weekend and also take him to Cub Scouts on Thursdays. The meetings were at six, so it was always tight getting him there on time. Last weekend he’d helped him, maybe a little too much, he knew, carve a block of soft pine into a sleek model race car, attach pin-thin axils with their small rubber wheels, and paint the racer shiny purple with gloss paint. Delicate red stripes gave the vehicle a look of flash. Tonight the boys would get to watch their

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works of technique and art speed down an inclined thirtyfoot practice track. The countywide Soap Box Derby was Saturday.

“I cannot wait for spring,” Bonnie said. They were jogging on Ash Avenue at a pace slow enough for conversation. Bob was pushing the three-wheeler with Chrissie strapped inside, and Bonnie ran next to him. It had been a beautiful day, but it was cooler now with the sun low in the western sky. “And you know what?

Sunday is daylight savings time, so that’ll give us another hour for the fun stuff.”

Bob had played varsity lacrosse and tennis in high school, participated on inter-fraternity league teams in college, and now worked out two or three times a week at a YMCA. Bonnie, who also went to the Y, had started jogging as a way to be with Bob when they started dating in college. If they were health-aware about themselves, they were health-obsessive when it came to Chrissie. The slightest sniffle meant a trip to the pediatrician, and nothing non-organic passed her lips.

The three-hundred dollar Ultralight jogging stroller had been a stretch but was just what the family required— exercise for them, fresh air for Chrissie.

The threesome crossed Oak Street and started the gentle downhill toward Tryon Park where Ash began curving leftward. When they reached the park, Bob slowed, raised the front wheel of the stroller to get over the curb, and resumed jogging on the sidewalk around the park.

Bonnie trailed.

“I think Chrissie’s about ready for Kiddie Tyme,” Bonnie said. “Nadia has been wonderful, and I’d love to continue the au pair arrangement another six or eight months, but it’s sooo expensive. Kiddie Tyme would be a hundred-forty a week versus two-hundred-thirty we’re paying Nadia. And I think she’d benefit from the socialization she’d get there. I’m so glad we got her on

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their wait list when we did. If we’d waited even until she was born, she’d have been three before she got in.”

They completed the half circle on the sidewalk without encountering any walkers. When they reached the other side of the park, they headed east on Magnolia and ran in the street. Large shade trees that lined the quiet residential street were still leafless. Traffic was always light on Magnolia, and having to negotiate occasional sidewalk cracks took some of the fun out of their exercise. Running in the middle of the smooth wide street gave them a sense of freedom. And they could run side-by-side.

Arnold’s mind was starting to let go of the stressful workday. He got interested in an NPR story about coastal fisheries but mostly was thinking about Petey and the Cub Scout meeting.

He’d hit two red lights on Broad and now was sitting through the third. He looked at his watch. He was already annoyed at Barbara for not having Petey ready, even though he’d not even gotten to her house. The house was still technically his since their separation was still at the mess stage. Three blocks later he turned south onto Pine Brook and jerked the visor over to the driver side window to block the sun.

The gentle uphill incline on this part of Magnolia required more work of the runners, and talking was no longer comfortable. But now the bright sun was on their backs, rather than in their eyes, and in three blocks they’d be home. Chrissie would be ready for an organic vegetarian supper, a bath, and bedtime with two storybooks.

They’d probably order takeout, maybe chicken parm, from Giovanni’s. Without slowing, Bob glanced left and right at Pine Brook, saw a car approaching in the distance, but judged they could cross the intersection safely. Cars were parked on the left side of Magnolia, so they moved toward the right side of the street.

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Arnold just hoped Petey would be ready when he got to the house. It was twenty till six now and the church was fifteen minutes away from the house—if all the lights were green. With his mind on getting his son to the meeting on time, he didn’t pay much attention to two runners who crossed at the intersection, one of them pushing a three-wheel stroller. He turned left onto Magnolia, and was immediately blinded by the intense sunlight. He grabbed at the visor to swing it frontward, but instead bumped it into the side of his face, knocking his glasses askew.

Mrs. Cook, who was sitting on her porch, looked up at the sound of screeching tires and watched in horror as the swerving three-thousand pound vehicle glanced the man and then the fragile-looking jogging stroller. She rushed inside her house and called nine-one-one. Bob writhed in pain from his smashed left leg from the hip down to the ankle, and Chrissie lay bleeding and unconscious, strapped in the mangled three-wheeler.

Bonnie sobbed uncontrollably and tried to comfort her baby and Bob simultaneously. Police cruisers and ambulances arrived minutes after Mrs. Barkley’s call.

Two hours later, there was little evidence of the accident except for tire marks, tiny bits of glass in the street, and pieces of light blue cotton knit fabric under a bush near the curb.

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A SNEAK PEAK AT SPRING

By Patsy R. Reese

On an usually warm day, last week, I was out in the car running a few errands when one of them offered an occasion to ride into town. On this particular day the closer I was to my destination I began to see signs of spring. It was surprising for it was still February. There were huge blooming pink trees and also many blooming white trees. Then I began to see yellow buttercups.

Could this be, I wondered, an end to a very long, wet, gloomy winter with days and days of freezing temperatures and rain, rain, rain?

Well, that is a nice hope, but we have had days in February before that only serves to fool us because after teasing us for a short time then comes the crisp winds of March and sometimes the dreaded deep snows which once again causes us to yearn for spring. Never the less, I so much enjoyed a few days of gorgeous weather and beautiful colors of the flowers signaling spring is not far behind.

Spring is my favorite time of year when the dark shadows of winter begin to fade and there are signs signaling the rebirth of nature and a fresh start is offered for us all. I was reminded of the spring when I was 14 years old and my grandmother passed away. It caused me to think of spring at her house as I was growing up.

My grandfather's peach orchard was across the road from their house and stretched as far as the eye could see and then over a hill. When the blossoms bloomed the scent was like no other and when the wind blew peach blossoms floated through the air like pink snow. My cousins and I ran and danced as the blossoms swirled around us.

The first signs of spring at my childhood home were the two forsythia bushes outside my bedroom window. Then not too far behind the pink rose bush would begin to

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bloom in time for me to have a rose to wear on Mother's Day. There is a mountain place I love where spring arrives a few weeks later than here providing the opportunity to enjoy a "second spring" of amazing colors which gradually moves away from the cold and bleakness of the dark trees of winter. One day while there, sitting by the fireplace and longing for spring I wrote this poem...

BREATHLESS WONDER The trees stand tall, lifeless, defiant.

The mountains barren and dark Strong winds whisper...Soon.

The earth holds its breath Waits in quiet anticipation Like surprise party goers waiting for the honoree.

There is excitement, wonder. Trees lift limbs in prayer.

Somewhere in eternity, life form slumbers.

Waiting for new New Life, New Promise, New Beauty, New Joy.....SPRING.

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SQUARE PEG

By Patsy R. Reese You may be in a life That is happy and good And all is well all around.

Then one day there is discontent And joy is not to be found.

Questions fill your heart What happened here What is my heart trying to say?

Then one day you see a HOLE in The life that you live.

Should you crawl through the hole, Do you have more here to give?

Alright you said, I will exit through the hole Then come back, if I wish.

You found when you exited the hole You became a SQUARE PEG Then desired NOT to go back again.

Now your life will be something else You looked to the future and walked away Because you knew in your heart It was the beginning of a NEW DAY. There are times it is better to exit than attempt to go back through a hole when you have become a SQUARE PEG.

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THE RIVER

By Martha Rowe There is an old hymn with the words “when peace like a river.� Perhaps you know it.

It is the morning after hurricane Michael has roared through. I walk out onto the piazza. It is peaceful. The morning is cool. Maybe the mosquitoes will finally die away. They have been thick this year. I continue onto the deck. Down two steps and I am on the next level.

Nine more steps and I am on the lowest level of the deck.

Here are five rocking chairs lined up overlooking the river. The chairs are sturdy, made of teak. They stay out on the deck year round. The house is situated behind me. The house is built on a bluff that is 100 feet above the river. Below me is the bottom land of the river, about 100 yards wide. On this day I can see that the river has overflowed its banks and the river bottom is flooded.

I sit down in one of the rockers and look over to the opposite side, where there is no bluff and the land slopes gently away from the river. The river is swirling among the trees over there.

It is peaceful. I drink my second cup of coffee. I can hear various bird calls and squirrel chatter. There is another sound I seldom hear. It is the sound of the waters of the river itself as it rushes by. I can see flotsam and logs and stumps. I spot something white and then something shiny. Maybe it is a can. The current is swift. It is more visible when the river is full like today.

This is the Yadkin. Today it is a muddy river. In the winter months it is usually not so muddy. It is a greenish color. The Yadkin was not part of my childhood,

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as I did not live near it then. When I was a little girl I remember once my family driving across the county to see the river when it was at epic flood stage. We joined other people standing on the bridge at 158 looking down at the angry muddy waters. It was a happening. We took photographs.

Yadkin is an Indian name. It means place of big trees.

The headwaters are in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Indian arrowheads may still be found along the river banks.

When the river is low, you can spot the fish weir Indians built. Its stakes are visible looking south at the 158 bridge.

It was not until we moved to Clemmons that the Yadkin became a part of my life. At that time we lived in Old Meadowbrook, almost across the road from Tanglewood Park. Tanglewood lies alongside the Yadkin River. There are river trails. Our boys explored them.

One Labor Day weekend a group of us Meadowbrook neighbors rented inner tubes and decided to float down the river. We put in at the Yadkinville Road bridge and planned to take out at the 158 bridge. There were adults as well as numerous children among the party, and we were all having a grand time. How surprising to see virtually no civilization along the river. We could have been in the wilderness. The river was flowing slowly that day and darkness fell before we reached our destination.

We were having trouble seeing well enough to identify where we were. It was a little frightening. One of our guys, who grew up in Davie County and knew the river, anchored himself in the middle of the current and corralled each inner tube as it floated by. Each one made it to the bank. We were lucky. No one would have wanted to be swept over Idols Dam. Always respect a river.

Twenty-nine years passed and we had the opportunity to buy some land in Davidson County. It borders on the

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Yadkin River. We built our house on the bluff that we call South Bluff. Sometimes we see river traffic, fishing boats mostly. One year we discovered turtle eggs in our yard. Turtle eggs are leathery. We placed them in a bucket and watched them hatch. As each hatchling emerged, we carried it down to the river edge. We named them Jack and Jill.

Our sons enjoy the river. They have come in the winter snows to sled down the hills of the ravines. They have come for skeet shooting. They come for holidays and birthdays. Our oldest son recently built a house on the bluff adjoining ours. We call it North Bluff. It overlooks the river too. He says he likes a house with a view.

The Yadkin is my river. It is the family river. It is peaceful here. Peace like a river.

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THE ELIMINATION DERBY

By Martha Rowe

When you gotta go, you gotta go.

Several generations ago the word for an outhouse was the necessary. It was a small wooden structure, often with a half-moon design cut into the door, located unobtrusively out behind the house somewhere. It was usually a one-holer, sometimes a two-holer. My grandparents had one. Maybe yours did too. Inside the house, in the bedroom, one used a chamber pot. In some homes the chamber pot was concealed underneath a piece of seating furniture called a commode. But whether inside or outside, necessary they were.

These day a fancier outhouse, the iconic blue port-a-jon, travels around our landscape. You see them at construction sites, the Steeplechase, and numerous outdoor public events. These convenient mobile toilets use a smell-reducing chemical in the holding tank. Some portable toilets even use a fresh-water flushing unit, and may include a sink. Fancy indeed.

In the toilets at the rugged Len Foote Hike Inn in the mountains of northern Georgia, there is no odor. Their toilets are composting toilets. These eco-friendly units use no water and no septic system. They turn human excreta into compost. A word of caution. Unless you have been warned ahead of time, the draft in the aft will be a big surprise.

When camping or backpacking, and after eating and sleeping matters have been resolved, there is the issue of elimination. It can be addressed in a number of ways.

To urinate, in the wisdom of the river, boys go upstream and girls go downstream. It is simple. Boys stand up, and girls squat down. If in the river itself, it is okay to pee. But defecation must be resolved in other ways.

Everybody poops. Some outfitters instruct their campers

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in the cat hole method. Dig a hole, do your business, then tidily cover it up. Other outfitters carry the crapper with them, which goes by various other names: the groover, the throne, the unit. If an outhouse happens to appear along the trail, woo hoo. On the Milford Track in New Zealand, we found one perched on the very edge of the mountain. It was called the loo with a view.

Among the statistics kept at the Grand Canyon are urinating fatalities. Most of the victims are male who fell at night. The most likely culprit is the male urge to urinate off high places. On our trip, the boatmen supplied a pee bucket for the guys to use in camp each night, hoping to discourage them from wandering off in the dark searching for a cliff.

There is another male urge, which any mother of a baby boy can attest to. Place him on the changing table, take off his diaper, and the little fellow has an urge to pee, right in his mama’s face.

Before traveling overseas, particularly in third-world countries, it is best to be prepared. Once the rumbling and cramps start, traveler’s diarrhea is to be feared.

Whatever it may be called, Montezuma’s Revenge or Delhi Belly will seriously cramp your style. We always packed Pepto-Bismol, Lomotil, and dehydration salts.

Packing your own toilet paper is also a good idea.

On a trip to Europe in the early 60’s, we were dismayed to find that our hotel room in Paris contained a bidet, but no toilet. La toilette was located down the hall.

Travelers adjust.

Once in Morocco, when we were directed to use the hole in the floor, it was going to be a crapshoot if the muscles in our legs would hold out long enough for us to finish.

Nose pinchers would have come in handy in that place, and in some other toilets elsewhere. We have found that

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stuffing mint leaves, if available, up our nose will help short term.

Bathroom humor and jokes are pretty common. Sign in bathroom: Toilet camera is for research use only. A woman complained to her husband that her breasts were too small. He suggested she rub a piece of toilet paper between her breasts every day. So she began doing this.

“How long do you think this will take?” “They will grow larger over a period of years,” he replied. She asked, “Do you really think this will work?” He replied, “Worked for your butt didn’t it?” One of my sons had a t-shirt with the lettering: Shit Happens. I suggested he refrain from wearing that one to church.

Wherever you might be in the world, it will be necessary to locate the necessary. It can go by a number of names: water closet, head, bano, latrine, potty, restroom, can, privy. All of these are contestants running in the Elimination Derby.

On your mark, get set, break wind!

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BUYING A NEW CAR

By Helen Webb

In late July 2018 the air conditioning quit in my 2003 Mercury Sable. In May when the oil was changed, I was told that car needed about $2,000 of repair work. My plan was to wait until September 18, 2018 and buy a new car. September 18 was the last day of a three year insurance penalty for a prior mishap. For several weeks I was able to park in the shade and to do my errands in the mornings. Then the August heat arrived.

In the meantime I had talked with several people about what kind of car to buy. Honda Accord was the unanimous winner. Several neighbors offered to go car shopping with me as did Lisa, my daughter. Eighty-two year old women should not go car shopping alone. I made an appointment with a highly recommended Honda salesman and was late arriving as I had driven past the dealership and got lost trying to find my way back without having to make a left hand turn.

The salesman warmly greeted Lisa and me. He wanted to know what kind of car I wanted: the size, the motor, the various accessories, the color, etc. All of which are important to most people but not me. I told him:”I want a dependable car that will start on the first try and one I can find in a parking lot.” Actually, I didn’t want a yellow, white nor black car. Soon he had a car for me to test drive. Because I didn’t have a color preference, he chose a car the color he liked: champagne. Lisa liked the color. We were making progress.

The salesman drove the car out the back parking lot on to Old Salisbury Road to another parking lot where we switched driver and I drove several miles and back to the second parking lot. Before the test drive the salesman did try to show me some of the features and how to start and stop the car. I was not able to start and stop the car

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as smoothly as he was. Several times he turned a little pale and his hands grabbed the back of the seat.

Pricing and paperwork took forever. Lisa was constantly texting or Googling on her phone. I was concerned that the insurance coverage be correct. The insurance agent wanted information I didn’t know so Lisa dealt with him.

Unbeknown to me, Lisa’s husband called and talked to the dealership manager twice to make sure we were being taken care of. Eventually a nice man came to show us how the car worked. Lisa told him as well as the salesman to show me only what I needed to know ….not any bells or whistles. I vetoed installing my cell phone number. I certainly do not what a phone ringing when I’m driving. The nice man adjusted the lights to automatic, the air to automatic, the windshield wipers, and the radio to play only the two stations to which I listen. He showed us how to lock and unlock the car, trunk, gas tank and how to work the windows. It all went in one ear and out the other. It was just too overwhelming.

After the demonstration, there was more paperwork to complete, most of which involved the business manager going over all the details and asking about add-ons. Lisa told me to say no to every add-on, which I did. Feeling everything was under control, Lisa left. It took another hour to sign everything and wait for the car to be cleaned and ready for delivery.

About 3:00 p.m., the nice man drove the car and me to the end of the back parking lot. (Another employee had followed us to take the nice man back to the dealership.)

The salesman had not wanted me to leave by way of Peters Creek Parkway. I guess he was afraid I would wreck in front of the dealership. I did know my way home and arrived safely. I went in the house, got the key to the safety deposit box; drove to the bank, parked the car, got the old car title from my safety deposit box, got in the car and the car wouldn’t start. After several choice

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words, it started. I drove directly to Harris Teeter, as Thursday is grocery day, and got my groceries. I was able to unlock the trunk and the car. This time the car started.

During the first three months of ownership of this car, I lost it in the parking lot only once. I did not try to turn on the radio as I wasn’t sure which button to push. After many mistakes, I learned how to work the windshield wipers as well as how to unlock the doors from the inside. The first time I got gas, I could not remember what picture to push to get the gas tank door opened and had to get the manual out of the glove box. It took ten minutes to find the answer. Fortunately no one was in line behind me. The second time I got gas, I forgot how the gas tank door opened after the picture was pushed and asked a man at the pump ahead of me if he could help me. The next time when I got gas, I couldn’t make the gas tank door stay closed. The car continued to yell at me and to distract me by flashing pictures on the dashboard. Sometimes I could figure out why and sometimes I could not.

After eight and a half months of a rather rocky relationship, the new car and I have become more comfortable with each other. As I’ve told you, the nice man at the dealership had programmed all the necessary features for driving my car. The windshield wipers and I are now very good friends. The headlights are making progress in establishing rapport with me. Somehow I had gotten the automatic function for the head lights off track and they were on all the time. A friend showed me what was wrong and I am now driving with them on automatic. Then, one rainy late afternoon I could not tell if the lights were on or off. So: I got out of the car and looked. They were on. I now know where the little blue light is on the dash board that lights up if the lights are on.

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Not only are the lights and wipers now my friends, I can also turn on the radio. Just am not sure how to change stations. To top it off, the fourth time I got gas, I did it all by myself: unlocked the gas-tank door, open the gas tank door and locked the gas tank door. I was so proud of myself! But the next day when I got in the car to go to the grocery store, it would not start. I pushed the button for the red light; I pushed on the brake, back and forth. Sometime the dashboard would light up with messages and I tried to do what it said and nothing would work. Finally I called a neighbor who came over and the car started right away for him. He suggested that I move the seat closer to the front, which I did and the car usually starts on the first try. Because the seat has been adjusted, the side view mirrors needed adjustment. That remains a feat in progress.

One rainy Thursday, I pulled up to the side of Harris Teeter to have my groceries put in the trunk. I was able to find the button to unlock the truck from inside the car.

I watched in the rearview mirror as the clerk put the groceries in and shut the lid, but I did not see him put in the crate of tangerines. So, I pulled up out of the way, got out of the car to unlock the trunk, but could not get the trunk open from the outside. I gave up and drove home. The trunk opened fine and contained all the groceries.

Cars changed tremendously between 2003 and 2018 as did technology. The transition to a new car has been a struggle, but I’ve come a long way with learning how to drive this car. Tomorrow I plan to make an appointment with the nice man to show me how to change radio stations and what all of those pictures on the dashboard mean.

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THE BIG STICK

By Helen Webb

I had been in the back yard picking up sticks which had fallen during the cold, wet and windy month of January 2019. It was a nice day, cold but sunny to be outside.

The ground was slightly damp but not muddy. The yard waste container was now full of broken down sticks and branches. My plan was to fill the bird feeders and then go inside and study my bridge book. But I saw the big stick in the woods at the edge of my property. It was long with several branches at the end.

The city truck which picks up fallen wood hadn’t been in the neighborhood in many weeks. The leaf truck was scheduled to come the next day. I walked to the stick and considered throwing it over the fence into the adjourning property, but I have never approved of throwing things over the fence. The land is overgrown with all kinds of trees and vines. Deer frequently jump over the fence into my yard. I decided to carry it to the curb.

It wasn’t a heavy stick but it was about twelve feet long and somewhat gangly. The branches at the top made it somewhat difficult to maneuver. About halfway up the back yard I decided to break it. By breaking it I could add it to my neighbor’s stock pile at the curb. My curb was full of leaves. So I put as much of the stick as I could on the ground and my foot on the stick and with all my strength bent the stick over to break. It did not break easily. When it suddenly broke, the stick and I went flying in different directions.

It took a little time for me to regain my composure and realize what had happened. As I untangled my legs, a sharp pain shot through my pelvis and right leg. No other body part seemed to be effected. Looking around I realized I was all alone with no one in sight. I started yelling help and waving my arms in hopes that someone

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might hear me. I was the perfect picture of the lady yelling help in the medical alarm button adds. My only choice was to crawl up to the front yard which I did using my right leg and upper body. Although I was yelling help and waving my arms and cars were passing, no one came to help. As the yard slants downward from the curb and shrubbery is along the side, I would have been hard to have been seen. Determined not to freeze, I crawled to the front porch steps and was able to pull myself up to a prone position against the hand rail. Here, I began yelling again. Eventually a neighbor came out of her house and saw me and came over. Sarah called EMS, got my pocketbook and cell phone and then locked the front door.

EMS came and carted me off to the hospital. I stayed 6 nights and then went to Trinity Elms for two weeks of rehab. The fall had broken a bone in my pelvis. When I came home I could see the large parts of the broken stick from my sunroom. Every time I saw them I got mad at myself. When I progressed from the walker to a cane I went out in the yard and moved the sticks from the grass to the pine needles at the side of the house.

Last week I was able to carry both of the long sticks to the curb where they can just stay and wait for the big truck to carry them out of my sight.

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The theme for the 2019 Second Spring Arts Anthology is Transistions. As writers over 60 years of age, most can remember the days of pecking away for hours on an old typewriter. After carefully winding the paper around the roller, the inspiration would begin. The staccato sound of the keyboard was like a chorus and the bell at the end of the line started the next stanza.

It has been a transition over the years from typewriter to word processor to computer to iPad. The transition brought many positive changes; no ribbons to replace, no more reams of paper, and no whiteout. But don’t you miss the tap, tap, tap, and then the tiny bell at the end of the sentence rewarding you for writing?

The salesman warmly greeted Lisa and me. He wanted to know what kind of car I wanted: the size, the motor, the various accessories, the color, etc. All of which are important to most people but not me. I told him: ”I want a dependable car that will start on the first try and one I can find in a parking lot.”

--Helen Webb, Buying a New Car Who were these women who endeavored to better something?

Most had titles attached to their names--either Mrs. or Miss--but one Frances Peed stands out with only the description, “Cook.”

I’ll bet she was somebody’s hired cook, considered worthy of contributing her skill at creating Popovers or Corn-Meal Muffins, but not of being honored with a title.

--Diana Chatham Calaway, Grandmother’s Cookbook I sit down in one of the rockers and look over to the opposite side, where there is no bluff and the land slopes gently away from the river. The river is swirling among the trees over there.

--Martha Rowe, The River

$15.00

Printed in the U.S.