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.