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.