The Turkey and the Chicken by Nancy Humphriss

Here's a selection from our upcoming Varenna Writers Anthology, just in time for Thanksgiving!

 

It seems to me that the world is getting more and more angry, threatening, chaotic, disturbing and violent than I ever remember it being before. The news continues to emphasize our need to be more tolerant of those with whom we may disagree, more understanding of other’s ideas and viewpoints, and, in general, more civil. This little vignette I am about to relate is no great expose or even “big deal,” but it spoke to me in its small, rather simple way.

I was sitting in the chair in my beauty salon, awaiting a haircut, gazing out the side window at the sidewalk, when suddenly a magnificent turkey gobbler came into view. Alongside him, trotting to keep up with the long strides of the turkey, was a beautiful black and white feathered rooster. Stopping to look around, something interested them and they ambled over to a glass door on the other side of the sidewalk. They peered together into the glass door, appearing to wait for someone. Obviously they were together in the sense of companions or friends, and while I may be assuming more than was actually happening, they looked as if they were enjoying each other and were somehow communicating as they stood there. One of the hair stylists had granola she had brought for her lunch. She grabbed a handful, carefully opened the door, and gently scattered the food along the sidewalk. The poultry couple lifted their heads, not at all alarmed at the sudden appearance of a human, and considered the idea of eating the granola. Evidently they agreed to go for it, and they both began to peck, more or less taking turns. Someone in the salon took out her cell phone and photographed the scene.

It was an episodic minute that somehow shouted the much needed point, to quote the clichés of the past: “Make love, not war;” “Opposites attract;” “Celebrate diversity,” etc.

I know turkeys and chickens are not mortal enemies like mountain lions and deer, but this little scene, sweet, unusual, and very, very pertinent considering the current state of the world, seemed to speak to those of us witnessing it. It saddens me to think how different the world would be if we could only learn from the turkey and the chicken.

Words From the Wise: Success

"Success is when you want to pat yourself on the back--in private."

Shirley Johnson

"Success is doing what you love and getting PAID for it!"

Karin Gendron

"Many people can help me succeed, but I'm the only person who can decide if I'm a success."

Susan Bono

October Fest 2011 by John H.C. Riley

At Varenna's celebration of October Fest,

The food and beer ranked with the best.

The celebrants were happy but strictly sober,

Because the only falls

Were the leaves of October.

Where is the past located? by Dorothy Herbert

Where Is The Past Located?

            On an old calendar?

            In my mind?

            In the collective mind of friends and family?

            In the great void before I was born?

            It has no one location, but oozes in and out of our memories.

            It has no one location 

            but floats in and out of the back of our minds 

            wherever those  are located.

            Some neurons seem to have captured it,

            but too often they fade away before we can establish it.

            The past floats like a leaf on a pond or stream.

DISMAY, DISGUST, AND DEPRESSION! by Nancy Humphriss

Here I sit at my computer, gazing out at the rain, the soggy hillside, and my storm-swept balcony. I am attempting to regain my equilibrium after hours -- I kid you not, hours -- of working with due diligence to send a cut-and-paste e-mail to Susan with my writing contribution for our book.

“There is nothing to it” declared my tech-savvy friends. That should have been my first “can’t do it” clue.  After several attempts to complete my mission and failing, I made a phone call to a sympathetic friend, asking to take me through this, step by step, while I was actually on my computer. This phone call resulted in not one, but two friends (husband and wife), both giving me directions but not agreeing with each other’s method. I listened to a mild but lengthy discussion about which way is better. Finally one helper hung up, and I followed the steps.

I got the cut and paste done, only to find to my dismay I did not seem to have Susan’s e-mail. So a phone call to Shirley, a member of the writing club, who finally answered the insistently ringing phone. Shirley, in a slightly sleepy voice -- I managed to awaken her -- helpfully gave me the address I needed. Onward I went, sending the info to Susan, and feeling somewhat successful. I then proceeded with my normal day, going down to dinner with friends, and playing cards for a few hours after dinner.

This morning I confidently checked my e-mails, only to find the message to Susan had not gone through -- wrong address! Back to my screen I went, checking Susan’s number. To my disgust, I realized I had neglected to put the hyphen in the address, this in spite of Shirley’s warning not to forget that! 

I started again from scratch, calling up the articles I wished to send, cutting and pasting, correcting the address, and clicking “send.” But somehow, somehow, the articles were pasted onto the address spot and therefore no sending is possible. I then exited my computer, started again from the beginning, and once more the paste was put in the wrong place. Now my self-esteem is crashing, at least that which is connected to simple "everyone-can-do-this" tasks on a computer. I am computer depressed. But onward to other things.

Other things is the attempt to connect with Amazon on my new Kindle. This could be a long and rather boring continuation of more of the same, since after several hours, discussion with knowledgeable Kindle owners, phone calls to the “help” numbers given in my how-to directions, and attempts to “type in my problem” on the internet help section, I have made no progress. My solution, I’m afraid, is to go back to Best Buy, dragging my tail, and confess that I can’t do it -- again, another “nothing to it” failure.

Am I ready to give it all up? In spite of my current defeatist attitude, I do realize, in the larger scheme of things, all this is wasted energy. I will prevail, and actually, I am about to yet again attempt to cut and paste this very piece of writing and send it to Susan. Good luck, Nancy!

Varenna View by Elisabeth Levy

Elisabeth Levy's godson in Porlezza, Italy!

One of Elisabeth Levy's photos

"Neither a Borrower Nor a Lender Be" by Joyce Cass

I do both and I like doing it. I borrowed some nail polish remover from my neighbor Shirley. I lent a small vase constructed to hold a single flower to another friend. This was returned to me with a fresh new blossom in it. The whole idea of borrowing and lending for me is a warm act of sharing and gives me pleasure.

Here and Now by Joyce Cass

We wear our robes of conviviality well
We women of a certain age.
Accustomed to years of civility
We have attained our resilient phase.
Conversations demand less than full attention
Our occasional responses too offhand to mention.
A short amiable time talking together
(With much of it spent focused on the weather!)
Our sisterhood, well-trodden beyond the fragile stage
Binds us close, we women of a certain age.

This is the Time to Be by Renee McKnight

            What, who, when, how, to really be what we have always dreamed about being. Maybe a writer, if possible. How romantic to put down words that have some meaning, not only to me but to others as well. A story, perhaps, of one’s life, to be read by members of one’s family. To leave a legacy.

            Surely, we all have a story to tell, if not many stories. Oh, was my mother or grandma really like that? Did she really do that? Oh my god, what an interesting life she had, and to think she is my mother or grandma.

            Oh, the things that go on in my head! The mountains to climb over, the memories to share. One has to make a beginning, so now is the time. . .

What You Might UN-Cover by Susan Bono

Varenna Writers, when was the last time you checked your notebooks from class for writing that might be hiding in there! Here's something I found from March 2009--when we wrote a story using words with "un" as a prefix!

The Unlikely Undertaking

We were a most unusual pair--ungainly, unsavory, unlikeable--the most unpopular kids at school. Everyone used unadorned scorn when addressing us. We made them uneasy with our unattractive, unmannerly habits of talking with food in our mouths and throwing spitballs at unassuming victims. But when Una decided to unleash her unmatched creative energies to uncover the world's most undeniably delicious cookies, we became unlikely heroes.

Comparison Poems by Susan Bono (waiting for others to send me theirs!)

Mom

You are the locket I wear

close to my heart

my own picture inside.

Dad

You were the scent

of wood shavings

the sound of hammers

the grip of glue

building the world from scraps.

A GOOD SCOUT by Sally Tilbury

He was squeaky clean. He smelled of soap, strong soap, almost like naphtha. It was obvious his haircut was the homemade "sit on the kitchen stool and do not move" type. His hair had been slapped with Dad's ancient pomade. I could see the tracks of the comb through his hair, his ears scrubbed red. What a joy to sit in the pew behind him together with members of his troop.

An expert mom had ironed his uniform. Those pants had not just been pulled from the rumbling dryer. They had knife-sharp pleats. This great-grandmother did not know there were any expert ironers left.

What a lift in these worrisome world-weary times, the rock-throwing, the hate. He represented something decent to me, something outdoorsy, young and hopeful. It made me so proud to sit in back of his troop.

Each of the boys was to receive an award this day. It would be a document with a gold star on it.  Each of the boys had created a book of writings about Scouting, its virtues, principles, kindness to others peace and love in the world. I prayed their lives might be fruitful and peaceful.

It was only when he turned around that I noticed the fresh black eye.

Sally Tilbury moved from a vineyard in Northern California to an active-retirement facility.  She has three daughters, three grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.