Acorn Fights

I am not sure if there is anyone out there, besides me, who would remember a game called, "Acorn Fights," but when I was about 8 or 9 years old, my older brother and I used to play a neighborhood-wide game that consisted of hedges, acorns, strong throwing arms and quick "collectors and retrievers." The game was played by the older boys who were around the ages of 12-15 years old. Each fall, these  boys would choose sides for the "fight” as well as a "collector and retriever." I was always on the opposite side of my brother, for some reason, and one of the oldest and biggest of the boys always chose me for his "C & R." I would gather up a shopping bag for each hand and hunt all day for acorns. The filled bags would be delivered to the "team leader." The sides being chosen, we would all take our places behind the hedges of two houses that were across the street from one another. Everyone ducked behind their respective hedges and the boys chucked acorns at one another. Each time an acorn "connected" with an opponent, a point was scored. Sick game....I see now, but it sure did occupy our fall weekends. 

Once all the acorns were depleted, a "time-out" was called so the "retrievers" could gather up the acorns for the next round. The faster the retriever, the more acorns you collected, thus making one side stronger. I was small and quick and gathered up acorns for my team. The look of appreciation on my team leader's face each time I returned with yet another full bag, made me feel important.

What makes me remember this old pastime so vividly? Well, it is due to the fact that while doing my "retrieving" an opponent (perhaps my brother???) hurled an acorn at me and hit me square in the temple. Wow, was that painful! My team leader, protective of his little peon, ran out to see how I was and admonished the opposers that someone DARED to sideline his "retriever." Having him be so protective of me was a great feeling - despite the searing pain in my temple. I wish I knew who he was, because I'd like to thank him for making a little kid feel so proud and important.

What fun....a neighborhood game, invented by kids, that the adults wouldn’t understand. I don't think kids today have the same creativity or resourcefulness. We had to find the fun because our parents didn't have the time or resources to plan and provide it all for us. We were told, “Go outside and play.” Life was simpler back then. I am so happy I grew up during Camelot!

Love never ceases to endure

I wrote this so long ago, but I can evoke all the feelings of the time whenever I re-read it. Often, I wonder if I am a good writer and just settle for the satisfaction of feeling that as long as I think I am - than it is so. I find power in words and think the following is powerfully poignant.

a crack in the earth

the ice melted and it flowed into streams.
it flowed into rivers and created oceans
and beauty emerged on earth.
beauty in all shapes, sizes, smells and sounds.

the sun rose and set for the earth and all it contained.
earth experienced the sweet and the bitter,
the moist and the parched,
the light and the dark, the love and the hate.

it basked in the heat of the sun and it embraced the cleansing cold,
because, if not for the cold, who would enjoy the warmth?
for every good thing that emerged, a counterpart appeared.
yet only by experiencing the bad, could anyone enjoy the good.

over time, the earth witnessed growth and destruction.
it heralded life and agonized over death,
it anticipated each new day
and it blessed every night.

the earth, when it was most cared for,
would nurture and protect in abundance.
it guarded the smallest of the small
and encouraged the greatest of the great.

after many years, a crack formed in the earth.
it started out small, hardly noticeable.
vibrations from its orbit made the crack deeper
until there was one huge slice through the center.
a gaping fissure bled out sorrows and sadness.
all that existed where the crack emerged withered and died.

earth could not comprehend how the crack
went unnoticed and advanced so rapidly and forcefully.
time passed as earth continued to look at both sides of the fissure
and it saw that beauty and love remained on both sides.

the earth waited patiently for the crack to mend.
seconds ticked by, hours and days would pass,
years would slip by while no one observed.
but the earth always watched and never lost hope.

when it couldn't see with its eyes, it saw through its soul.
when it couldn’t feel with its hands, it felt with its heart.
when it couldn’t hear with its ears, memories of laughter and love
sustained the earth until the end of her days.


started 8/24/06, completed 12/9/07

First Days of School

This week marked the first day of school for my grandson, Cooper. His older sister, Summer, had her first day last week. She will accept pre-school, but he loved pre-school. Just like my own two children, the more out-going one wasn't as gung-ho for attending at first. The younger, more clingy child, barely said good-bye to me when I was leaving. So was it for my daugther-in-law. You hate to see them cry for you, but I think it might hurt more when they just dismiss you for the finger painting station and "Jason," that kid with the runny nose. Hummm, he better not come home with a runny nose...Ha...so many years ago and I can STILL REMEMBER.

I can even remember my own "firsts." Since I attended five, yes, count 'em, five, elementary schools, I had many firsts. Some were easier than others, but I remember my very first day of kindergarten. I went to Frank G. Lindsey School in Montrose, NY. It was a new school, just recently opened and was solid brick. The kindergarten classes each had their own toilet. Miss Kennedy was my teacher and she was very pretty, young and nice. She had that cinched-in waist accented by her crinolined skirts, so very chic in the 1960's. I liked everything about school, especially nap time. Apparently, after lunch was nap time and we all had these little low cots that were kept stacked in a closet that looked like it was made especially for the cots. It resembled a sliding door closet sans the sliding doors. The "Cot Leader," a student who was assigned daily, was in charge of watching everyone get their cot and they received the last cot, which was kept in the "closet." It was like having a private room. Due to the fact that I didn't want to awaken from my nap, I never had the desirable job of "Cot Leader." I remember begging Miss Kennedy, but she said that I couldn't do the task since the cots had to be put away before the buses came, and she was always still trying to wake me from my nap as my fellow students were lining up for the buses! But I showed them all...yeah, I showed all those "Cot Leaders." At the end of the school year, I received a blue ribbon with a gold star entitled, "Best Rester." I still have it in a scrap book.

The incident that prompted me to want to "quit" school after the first day was my getting on (being put on) the wrong bus at the end of said first day. The bus drove the whole route and I was still sitting on the bus when it was heading back to the garage. I don't remember much, except the bus pulling back into the school parking lot and me thinking I had to spend the night there. As it turned out, the Transportation Director was waiting for me in a blue station wagon. He was a very kind and "fatherly" man. He drove me home and let me off at my stop where my mom was waiting. Although I don't remember, I am sure she must have been a wreck - especially since this was before the days of cell phones and speed dial. However, it was during Camelot...Not much need then to worry about the worst. She gave me a hug, I told her I was quitting and she had to spend the rest of the night explaining how I couldn't quit yet. The irony of the whole event was the fact that the Transportation Director's son attended my school. He was a grade ahead of me and I ended up working as his secretary 40 years later. What a small world. A small world in which some things just never change. Kids go to school, parents worry, "traumatic events" befall kids and they remember them forever. I look at my special award every now and again and regret the fact that I couldn't take my nap in the closet. Especially now, as I lay awake at night, trying like hell to fall asleep!

The Bull Frogs Exist

Wow....what a night. Last evening, George and I took a ride around...no particular place in mind, but I asked him to drive down by the house I lived in as a child on Deerhaunt Drive. The last time I was there, as I mentioned in a previous entry, I discovered how small everything had seemed compared to my childhood perception and last night was no exception. However, what an interesting stop it ended up being. I convinced George to park the truck on the side of the road (even though there was a young couple watching every move we made), because I wanted to walk down by the "ponds." As we started down the dirt road, the couple followed us and asked us if we were looking for something....humm..."not many people stop by these parts, mister." I explained that I had lived here as a child and the young woman's face lit up and asked me the years. When I told her that I lived there from 1956 to 1962 she informed me that her dad lived here at that time also. Her dad turned out to be Bob Tall, son of real estate "baron," Aram S. Tall. Bob was my brother, John's age and Bob's sister, Flossie, (yes, I am not kidding) was close to my age. We talked about the house I lived in (the tan duplex), the house her dad lived in as a child (the little red house) and the ponds. Her husband told George and I that Bob had given them the little red house as a wedding gift and they were in the process of renovations. They asked us to follow them to take a look. As we walked between the ponds, I began to tell stories about how I skated on it, caught polliwogs and evan swam in it. I told them the story about the snapping turtles - a story they had heard, but were skeptical of until I confirmed the fact that a very large snapper had gotten caught in the drain pipe when the ponds were being dredged. My grandfather stuck a shovel into the pipe trying to push the turtle through and the turtle snapped the wooden shovel handle in two. I told them about listening to the bullfrogs and they told me they still croak. I was amazed! The husband told me to just look at the edge of the pond - and sure enough, there they were. I could have reached down and picked one up, but settled on leaning over real close to let my teardrops make circles in the water. What a feeling - to see them again. I had forgotten their greenish-brown color and bulging eyes. They seemed as big to me now as when I was a child, so my perception of the frogs was untainted. Also in the pond were dozens of descendants from the gold fish that were thrown in back in the 60's. I can't believe they are still surviving in the pond. What an ecosystem that pond is. The couple said they cleared out quite a bit of overgrowth and want to preserve both of them.

We walked down the dirt road to look at their new home - still painted red. We listened to their plans for the house as well as to their hopes and dreams for the future. I left there confident that someone would love that place as much as I had and that new memories would be made that will last a lifetime. Life goes on, some things change, but I was glad to see that bullfrogs remain, happily existing, not only in my mind, but in my childhood backyard.

The Rain

I wrote this poem (?) back in 2001. It was after a sensational summer thunderstorm that summoned old memories of my long-lost friend, Roseann Fusco. She was our landlord's daughter and just one year older than me. We were friends from 1965 until 1970. I have searched the Internet for her, to no avail, but will keep trying with the hope of discovering where she is, what she is doing and see if she remembers me - and the rain. It is amazing what a sound, a scent or a taste can evoke. Here is what I wrote after the "rain" way back in 2001. It rained last night and I thought of you. As I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic drumming of the raindrops on the roof, I remembered, so vividly, our fascination with the rain. We especially loved the thunderstorms. I recalled running down the stairs to your apartment where we sneaked out onto the covered porch of the house on Putnam Street. Excitedly, we huddled under a blanket and eagerly awaited the first flash of lightning to pierce the sky. After each bolt our count would begin, "one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand..." In unison, we would squeal in delight when the crack of thunder struck. I can so clearly recall the cool, fresh scent of the air that the rain heralded. A cleansing rain, a rain so hard that it washed our chalked hopscotch boxes from the sidewalk. Steam rose from the cement roadway and everything seemed clean and fresh again. Over thirty years have passed and I wonder, "Do children still play that game anymore?" It rained last night. I sat by my window and thought of you. It was a hard, steady rain. The kind that could erase a chalked hopscotch box from the sidewalk. Steam rose from the blacktop street. A tear, bittersweet, fell from my eye for days and friends long-gone. Then, a flash of lightning split the sky. I began to count, "one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand." When the thunder rumbled, I thought of you and wondered if you were close enough to hear it, and if so, did you remember too? Roseann, I hope to find you someday.

Keeping a secret

Keeping a secret has never been one of my best strengths. I have the clearest memory of early Christmas', much to my mother's dismay, where I blurted out to my father that he was getting slippers for Christmas. I remember one holiday shopping trip, specifically, where we bought the usual Christmas gift (brown, moccasin style slippers) and my mom told me not to tell my dad what we got because we want him to be surprised. It was to be "our secret." I must have promised, because my mom and dad were quite disappointed when, as soon as he arrived home from work that night I blurted out, "We didn't get you slippers for Christmas today." I saw the exasperation in my mother's face, and argued my point that "I hadn't told him we GOT him slippers, I told him we DIDN'T get him slippers," so I actually felt that I kept the secret.

Anyway, on Christmas Eve, my dad smiled at me and my mom when he opened his Christmas gift and put on his slippers. He looked surprised and said they were "just what he needed."

I did get to keep one secret that my mom had asked of me. It was the winter of 1965 and we were sitting at the kitchen table when she said something she was afraid I would repeat. I remember her looking me in the eye so seriously and asking me to keep it a secret so as not to hurt someone's feelings. She probably didn't sleep for weeks, worrying that I would give her away. Well, before I had the chance (I was terrible at keeping secrets, remember) my mom suddenly passed away. Forty-five years later and that not-so-dirty little secret has never fallen from my lips. There have been so many times that I wanted to tell someone this story, but I am afraid I would weaken and spill the beans. The person the secret was meant to protect has since died and there really isn't any reason to keep it anymore, except the fact that it is the only remaining bond I have with my mother. Whenever I think back on "our secret." I remember how disappointed she was with the "slipper incidents." I wouldn't, couldn't risk that... Her secret is safe with me. I think she would be proud.

Dinner with the "Girls"

Tonight is the night four women were finally able to decide upon that they could get together for dinner. This time, I offered up my "bachelorette pad" for the location and the idea of chipping in for take out Chinese/Japanese food. I provided the "vino" and three of the four agreed on sushi. We ordered a couple of egg rolls, fried rice, etc. to fill out our plates, but the best part of the night was trying NOT to wet our pants as we laughed our asses off. It had to be one of the best nights of my life. Good wine, good friends and good fun. A cheap night for us all, but one worth years of memories. Four women - spanning the years of mid 40's to late 50's. Three divorced - and one possibly wishing she were. Of the "divorcees," one is remarried to a "gem," one dating a loser, and then there is me, lucky to have found her "Number 1." The one still married is one of the nicest women I have come to know. Oh well, off my topic of a FUN night. I can't wait to do it again. We really should forgo dinners out and plan for dinners in, where we found we could be ourselves and laugh out loud....Laughter - the best medicine.