Our First Podcast!

 At long last, here is the recording of the Varenna Writers Club reading from their first anthology, Expressions. Our authors: Dorothy Herbert, Barbara Hunt (reading for Karin Fitzgerald), Sally Tilbury, Nancy Humphriss, Jack Russ, Elisabeth Levy, John Riley, Renee McKnight, Bernice Schachter, Shirley Johnson, and Joyce Cass. Susan Bono MCs.

Varenna Expressions Book Launch March 2012

The Fireplace by Jack Russ

I’ve finished the book, and laid it on the chair’s side table, then finished the last of the now-cold coffee. The hypnotic dancing flames of the open fireplace draw me back to memories of many pleasant childhood winter evenings. Those times, sitting with Grandpa in his house before the evening fires, were special. As I grew older other events interceded, and the fireplace memories with Grandpa too often faded.  That is, all but one. In my later years, an open fire often brings back one special night.

On that special evening I had dozed, thanks to Grandpa’s humming.  I’d snuggled on his lap while he rocked in his favorite chair before the open fireplace. I remember his warmth with a blanket over both of us. His bearded cheek formed a protective haven from the cold.  This was one of the fires we had enjoyed after Momma and Daddy moved us into Grandpa’s big house. We didn’t have a fireplace in the house where we lived before. Now I had a separate bedroom that I shared with Baby Sister.

Grandpa had told me that morning that Portland didn’t often have snow, but snow covered the ground when we went out to gather the firewood from the pile Daddy and Grandpa had created.  Together we put the firewood in the basket beside the door. Collecting the wood had become our shared task, but he hadn’t let me place any of it on the fire in the fireplace.

“Well, son, it seems to me it’s about time for you to pick up some more wood for our fire,” Grandpa said waking me. He pulled aside the blanket, lifted me from the warmth of his chest, and stood me on the floor. “What do you think?”

“Okay,” was all I could say. I rubbed my eyes and crossed the room to the basket of firewood in the hallway. Grandpa had given me the special privilege of getting the wood from the basket to feed the fire in his living room, now that I was going on four.  My birthday was next week Grandma had said.

My sleepiness faded in the growing excitement of Grandpa’s obvious intent, for the first time, to allow me to place the pieces of wood on the flames.  Up until this time he’d stood over me directing where and how each piece should be placed and in what sequence.  He had stressed how that part of the job was important and something I’d learn to do.

“Put the two bigger pieces on the floor, son,” Grandpa said. “Put the four smaller ones in the fire as I showed you.” On previous evenings he had often added, “You can do this when you are a big boy, son.”

Fully awake now, all the firewood placed according to our mutual plan, I climbed back onto his lap with his help and snuggled again.  He resumed his humming.  Soon my eyes became heavy.

Daddy was in the bedroom with Momma and Grandma.  Mrs. Cooper from next door had come over and bought some soup for our dinner. She would go into Momma’s bedroom often, or when Daddy called to her.

Grandma, in her favorite blue chair next to Grandpa, held my sleeping baby sister in her lap.  She must have thought the evening was special too, somehow. She kept looking at Momma’s bedroom and went in often. She laid Baby Sister into a basket when she went into Momma’s bedroom, especially whenever Daddy or Mrs. Cooper called to her or there was some noise from the bedroom.

Daddy called to Grandpa but I didn’t understand. Grandpa wriggled in his chair, then quietly said, “This is a big day for you, son, you know? For me, too.”  He swiped his hand across his face and gulped.

“What’s special, Grandpa?” I asked. There had been an air of semi-excitement since before our brief dinner. Grandma had fed BabySsister and me but the grownups hadn’t eaten, or at least they hadn’t sat at the kitchen table.

I sat up and looked into his eyes.  Was he going to tell me another story tonight? I’d been allowed only one each night and often fell asleep before he’d finished. The look in his eyes showed unexpected excitement while at the same time concern. Why? I was behaving.

He patted my head and rested me against his chest once more.

“I’m soon to become a grandpa again,” he said in a whisper. “What do you think about that?”

He placed his hand under my chin and drew me up to look into his eyes. I noted a few soft tears, the first time I’d seen him cry.  Grandma cried sometimes but not Grandpa. Had I done something bad? He wasn’t angry. Concerned, yes, but somehow not angry.

He patted me, pressed my cheek against his chest again and resumed his rocking and quiet humming.  I had almost gone to sleep when he spoke again.

“You’re going to be a big brother soon, son. Maybe tonight or in the morning.” He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, a happy face with a wide smile.

I didn’t understand his unexpected show of emotion or how to answer him, but knew the evening was special in some way.

“I think its about your bedtime, son,” Grandpa said and carried me into the bedroom.

Grandpa woke me the next morning, and swung me up out bed with a big hug and a big smile.  Daddy gave me a big hug too, then carried me into the kitchen where Grandma had prepared breakfast.  I realized they were excited but I still didn’t understand why. 

“I have a surprise for you son,” Daddy said.

“I’ll say you have,” Grandpa added.

Daddy took my hand and led me into Momma’s bedroom.  She waved me closer, then pulled the blanket aside so I could see something she held.

“Say hello to your new baby brother, son,” she said.  “God brought him to us last night.”

I didn’t understand. I didn’t recall anyone telling me God would visit us. No one had mentioned that a baby would join us. And, a baby brother. No one I knew had a brother, especially something as small as what she held.

“What’s the baby’s name?”  I asked Momma.

“He doesn’t have one yet, son,” Daddy said.  “What do you think would be a good name for your new little brother?”

The unfamiliar term brother had referred to a character in one of the stories read to me. My mind had visualized a brother as someone my size, someone to play with.  The baby Momma held was nothing like that.

Grandma joined us in the bedroom. She came over and kissed me then asked, “What shall we call him?”

Puzzled, “Baby?” I answered.

“No, son, a boy’s name,” Grandpa urged.

After a pause, in search for an answer, all I could think of was the name of a friend in Sunday school.

“Bobby,” I said. I looked at each of them, then at Momma.  She pulled me over for a hug. Thank you, son. Then Bobbie it is.”

And Bobbie it was, first as a baby, then little brother, then playmate, schoolmate, and as years passed, a respected supporter and challenger, but always best friend. 

The flicker of the fireplace helped recall brother Bob as sports star, academic whiz, a father of thee, an Air Force pilot with multiple combat awards, and a growing, impressive family of five grandchilden.

Now, as the flames in the fireplace slowly fade, the memory of that evening of his birth sixty-eight years ago remains with me still.

His funeral is tomorrow.

God Bless.

Clutter by Dorothy Herbert

Clutter surrounds me. It piles up on all available flat surfaces.

It mocks my natural instinct for order and frustrates my attempts at organizing.

And yet it keeps me company and at times comforts me.

I am not alone. The world has not forgotten me.

All the clutter fattens with daily requests for money, which I cannot ignore and cannot afford but I can't seem to throw out.

As the clutter stacks up about me I feel powerless.

The Purpose of Toys by John Riley

The purpose of toys is to augment the statement "All the world is a stage" (did Shakespeare say it?). We can be creators of families, friends, activities, communities, armies, athletes, games, heroes, villains, winners and losers.

In short, you can live in a world of your own while learning the art of living.

Toys may even help us to spin some poetry to describe the activity they lead you to arrange:

        You can be in a group or company of which you are the boss

        You can be a sportsman who never suffers  a loss. 

        You can be a person others never look on as odd

        In fact, you can even pretend you are GOD

Alone in Paris by Nancy Humphriss

It must have been three specific events -- the enchanting movie, “Midnight in Paris,” the recent novel, A Paris Wife, and Varenna’s new class, Conversational French -- that propelled my thoughts back to November 1981, when I spent three days alone in that lovely city. In this period of my life Dale and I were living in Sydney and in Jerusalem where Dale was working for a company developing the then state of the art video tape. Our round-the-world tickets allowed us to stop anywhere and spend time as long as we continued on in the same direction. Our trip from Sydney took us through San Francisco where we spent a week visiting our grown kids, on to Massachusetts to visit Dale’s family in Western Mass and mine on Cape Cod. Then Dale felt he needed to get to work, so he left for Jerusalem, leaving me to spend a few days more with my folks. I decided I’d like to see Paris again, this time alone and able to do as I pleased, when I pleased. 

I arrived in Paris but my luggage didn’t. Although I went through all the procedures to have it sent to my hotel when it showed up, it never did. Since it was November and cold and I had come from warm climates, I made do with my thin jacket and cotton shirts, shivering all the time. I didn’t buy any clothes, since I kept thinking my luggage would arrive at any minute. This, however, was the only negative thing about my visit.

I found a small, intimate boutique hotel right on the Seine. My room with a small balcony looked directly across the river to the entrance arches of the Louvre. As a result, I walked everywhere, and took the Metro only once. After settling in, I poured myself a glass of wine, filled the tub with bubble bath, and soaked away the travel aches and stress. I had a good night’s rest and in the morning, prepared to do my thing. With no luggage, I found I needed a hair dryer, so I called down to the concierge, using my very limited French, and asked for a dryer. The person on the line kept asking to repeat, and obviously didn’t understand what I wanted. After a few frustrating minutes, he began to laugh. It seems I had been asking for a "horse dryer" since the word for “horse” is “chevaux” while “hair” is “cheveux.“ So much for my bi-lingual efforts! 

Since I had no one else to consider, I planned to spend lots of time visiting museums, cathedrals, and historic places. One highlight was the Rodin Museum, the place he lived and did most of his work. The garden, full of his statues, was delightful. Another fascinating place was the Conciergerie, the prison where Marie Antoinette, Robespierre, etc. were imprisoned and prepared for execution. Rather grim to say the least. The Pompidou Center was unusual and interesting, and I went into Notre Dame at night. It is so magnificent with the lights on it. I went in and sat down, just taking in the beauty and awesome surroundings.

Eating in Paris is always a delight. At lunch I usually found a small café and enjoyed a simple yet delicious bowl of onion soup served with a crusty baguette. It cost so little yet tasted so expensive! Dinner was also in a small place, oozing casual charm. I feasted on poached salmon with a delectable sauce one night, and crispy duck another. These were accompanied by wine, salad, and wonderful cheese for dessert with thick coffee. I don’t know if I had had these dishes in Appleby’s would they have tasted as good, or is the ambiance a big part of how I respond?

Since I was a woman alone, and far more comely than I am now, I found that the general opinion about French men was quite in evidence. One evening as I walked along the quay to my hotel, a man made a persistent attempt to pick me up. He was pleasant, well dressed, spoke some English, and walked alongside of me. After some general conversation, he asked me point blank if I cared to “fait amour.” When I replied with an emphatic “merci, non,” he continued to pursue me, asking if I’d like to join him for an aperitif and dinner. He said he knew a nice restaurant and we could just be friends. Then I said I had a husband arriving soon. He smiled and asked if he was the jealous type. I said “Very!” His last words were a quick “au revoir!” Similar things from men happened a few more times, and at first it was rather flattering, but then it became distinctly annoying. But in each case, I never felt threatened or afraid.

The last day I decided to spend the whole afternoon in the Louvre. In the morning I walked again, and stopped at a little patisserie to buy some special treats to bring to Dale the next day when I got to Jerusalem. After entering the museum, I checked my jacket and pastries with the cloak attendant, and sauntered my way through the endless, countless corridors of this wonderful place. From time to time I would sit and just watch the passing parade of people, although it was not at all crowded because of the season. I had my trusty Frommer’s travel book with me which helped immensely with what to see and where to go, etc. I glanced outside and saw that it was getting dark, but according to my book, I had a few hours before closing. An announcement came over the loudspeaker, but once again my high school French abandoned me, and I couldn’t comprehend the message. About fifteen minutes later, much to my surprise, all the lights went out and doors slammed shut. Only the small lights along the floor gave any light. I hastened to leave, but the doors wouldn’t open. I began to call out, and finally a guard appeared, much to my relief. 

He was not happy with me, and I indignantly showed him my Frommer’s which clearly said the Louvre closed at 8:30. He pointed out these were summer hours, and it was November so winter hours were in effect. I wasn’t allowed to leave by the normal routes, so he took me down a back hallway to a service elevator. There at the entrance, the little check out lady was waiting impatiently with my jacket in one hand and my pastries in the other. Such a strange feeling to be the last visitor in that magnificent, enormous place!

Many people have said the French, as a people, are not friendly, act very superior, and are not very helpful to tourists. I find this not to be true, and if I even try to use my little French, they immediately respond in a friendly way. However, they are, and I realize it is dangerous to make generalities, somewhat reserved to visitors. I used to teach foreign students at the University, and I had one very delightful French young woman who became my friend more than just my student. She said to me once, “You Americans as so arrogant!” Stunned, I asked why she would say that.

She answered, “Because you are under the impression that you are the only ones the French don’t like. We don’t like any outsiders: we’ve long disliked the English, God knows we hate the Germans, the Belgians speak French but really are beneath us, and any Frenchmen not from Paris are not worth noticing. Therefore, you are not as special as you think!” She was, of course, kidding -- or was she? Given a chance, I’d like to return and make a study.

Message from a Guardian Angel by Dorothy Herbert

Dear Dorothy,

         I am glad to hear that you are still trying to make the world a better place, a formidable task! One note of caution: are you sure what you envision as a better place would also seem so to others? Or are you selfishly forcing your concept on others? You are safe at the moment as so few are persuaded by your rhetoric on the subject, but as your guardian angel, I advise you to look into yourself and your values and evaluate their worth first.

Lovingly,

       Your G.A.

Blessed am I by Dolores Fruiht

Blessed am I
To sit beside you
     and call you friends
To be nourished
     by the sprouts of your deep-rooted seed,
To be renewed
     by your constant flowing springs,
To be warmed
     by the rays that reflect your spirit filled hearts,
To share and care
     together in love and prayer
All the powers and limitations of one's finite life.
To Gaze
     And sometimes feel with awe and wonder
     the wisdom of God--
Blessed am I and grateful
To sit beside you and call you friends.