Marriage Story by Floyd Schlosser

One night, my wife Ginger and I were having a fight about money. I grabbed my pillow and said, "I'm not going to sleep with you."

As I headed toward the bedroom door, Ginger jumped up and intercepted me. "I married you so you could sleep with me, so you better get back into bed!"

Of course, I did as I was told, because you don't get married to be angry. You get married to be loved.

Wigs by Elisabeth Levy

              A short while ago “Wigs” was the buzzword at Varenna, and a Red Carpet Wig Fashion Show turned out to be the result.

               Flower arranging is a great place to catch residents and inspire them for a super idea. Ever active Evita loves wigs and wondered why we couldn’t put a wig show together. Were enough ladies interested? She collected not only flowers, but names too. Interested residents signed up, and she took the idea to Anna. Days, weeks, passed, until one morning my telephone rang.

               “Hello, Elisabeth, this is Evita. Next Monday we have appointments to try on wigs at the “L.A. Beauty and Hair” shop on College Ave., and the wig fashion show will be announced shortly. Are you still game?”

               “Sure Evita, I am game, but I have no car.”

               “That’s no problem, you can drive with me, but you must be ready by 9:30 sharp.”

            I will miss stretch, but so be it.  “Evita, I have to be back the latest by 11:30, is that possible?”

               “No, problem, don’t worry”.

               Three of us drove with Evita to the shop, started trying on wigs and soon got caught in the fun. We could not stop laughing. It is amazing how a wig can practically change your personality, make you look so different. I was determined to wear a snow-white wig and pronounced with a loud voice, "I will walk with a cane."

               “Elisabeth, you absolutely cannot do this, you have to look younger, not older,” exclaimed a horrified Evita. 

               I played the game a little bit longer, but, as a matter of fact, I didn’t like the white wig either, and finally said: “Evita, don’t worry, I’ll do anything you say.”

            I eventually decided on a straw blonde wig and a grey-ish one.  The shop lady, Huen, marked them with my name and I was ready to leave. However, there was a problem. Evita was in her element, giving her opinion and comments first to our group then to the ladies who had just arrived. Fortunately, I overheard a conversation. The Varenna driver was bringing one or two more wig try-er-ons. I quickly called the desk and secured a ride back to Varenna.

          Finally the big day arrived. The day before I began to panic, what should I wear?  Unfortunately my stepdaughter and dress adviser Ann was in Australia with her husband and could not be called for help. Shirley suggested my below-the-knee beige dress I bought in Switzerland last summer. I could wear it with my boots, giving it a jazzy look.

               Sunday, the 16^{th of} November had arrived. I went into panic mode and tried to find Evita, or Shirley, but neither was reachable. What now? I had to make up my own mind, what should I do? I put a few things out on the bed, shoes on the floor, looked at them and knew now there was no other way, I had to make this painful decision all by myself.  I slipped into my beige dress. It didn’t look that great. I tried it with a belt and a scarf, packed the boots and my make-up kit in a bag and walked over to June. She didn’t like the belt and asked what color my wig was. I had forgotten. She was not impressed with my outfit, to put it mildly. I went down to the library and noticed my wig, the first one in the whole procession. I looked at it and got a shock. No way can I parade on the red carpet with what I am wearing. Somebody greeted me cheerfully; I didn’t recognize Claire wearing her fancy wig.

              Fortunately I had enough time, I rushed back upstairs, threw the dress on the bed and slipped into the next outfit, my purple three-piece suit.  A pair of simple little black shoes worked well with it and my gold purse would add a touch of elegance.  

               Back at the library I looked for my blonde wig, where was it, on which head did it sit? It was Margrit wearing it, fitting her to perfection. Huen’s husband and daughter had joined the crowd. Huen took the black net I had saved from the try-on, put it on my head, the wig over it, and I walked to the mirror. Surprise, surprise: I was not me! Looking at me, it was Margrit!  We got a five minute instruction how to walk and how not to walk. Don’t run, have fun. I had given June my cell phone to take a few snapshots.

               Things got a bit hectic, we had ten minutes left, I was number one on the hit parade. Evita with her keen eye checked our wigs, noticed something not quite perfect with mine, came close to check it out, and, oh dear, her cup got a jolt and warm tea spilled over my pants and Claire’s jacket.  An expression of shock came over Evita’s face. “Are you hurt, Elisabeth?”

               “No, Evita, don’t worry, I am just a bit wet, but my pants are nylon and will dry quickly. With a huge sigh of relief Evita relaxed. In no time towels appeared, we all blotted mightily, Jeanne had picked up her hairdryer and low and behold, at the proper time we were ready.  Disaster avoided.

         Anna, with her fabulous long black wig, introduced us. She only mentioned our names at the end. Indeed, some residents did not recognize us. I prepared for my second wig, the silver-grey one, which actually was a better match than the blonde. Soon we all posed for official pictures. Nancy and her wig got first prize in fun and originality and Kathy definitely had the best-matched one.

               After the show people milled around trying on more wigs, drinking champagne and nibbling on the eclectic goodies.  It was hard to tell who had more fun, audience or models.

A Thanksgiving Prayer by Leona Biddle

Dear God, please give me a thankful heart
for little things:
Sunshine on the kitchen floor, 
News the postman brings, 
Things the children do and say.
Grant me appreciation of the small joys that are mine-
For robins in the springtime
And autumn's crispy weather-
For the leaves that crunch,
To wake and find the first snowfall.
Give me enthusiasm to greet each new day
With honest joy in living;
Let me love the little things I find along the way.

Writers Resolve

It's 2014, and the Varenna Writers are ready to tackle a new year of writing with some powerful resolutions!

Jack Russ plans to complete two short stories and resume work on his novel.

Joyce Cass is determined to learn to attach and send manuscripts via email!

Elizabeth Poulsen will continue to enjoy meeting with the Writers Club and writing.

Hal Peters will record some of  his amusing memoirs.

Dorothy Herbert plans to begin her memoir also.

Elisabeth Levy has pledged to finish her travel book.

Gary Sadler will attempt to create at least one autobiographical sketch with his inner critic as his ally.

Shirley Johnson hopes to write a piece she is actually pleased with.

Susan Bono is planning to treat her writing like an appointment  she must keep.

Sally Tilbury is keeping her resolution to herself!

The Hummingbird's Adventure by Elisabeth Levy

                                  

            Strange things can happen and I am still recovering form my latest adventure.

            My name is Summa.  I have three siblings and we are always full of mischief, having lots of fun. We are lucky, our parents taught us how to find food, what plants are best and which ones to avoid. Interesting for us is observing something called humans. Sometimes they are like standing statues, sometimes they move, and if they come too close, we fly off. They seem to like watching us; in fact some are feeding us. They know we like red and sweet syrup. It is great fun to get food out of those hanging containers, they sway just a little when we nibble. Most of the time we go after geranium or other colorful flowers and always have great conversations with them. There is never a dull moment.

            We had a perfect warm summer. ‘Every day was as nice as the next day.  The precautionary lessons from the parents were forgotten. There is a balcony high above a little lake I like especially well. It has all sorts of flowers, the geraniums I like best. However, all of a sudden the weather turned. It got cold, very, very cold. One evening I must have lingered around too long and all of a sudden the sun had set. It was dark, icy cold, and I could not fly back home.

           I had to look for a warm place to spend the night. I knew my family would worry, but there was nothing else I could do. I was hiding in the Christmas cactus plant next to a door. I saw light inside and all of a sudden, the door opened, light poured out, as well as warmth.  I quickly flew through the door and sat mouse still on the windowsill. A human got out, covered the Christmas cactus plant with something called a towel, came back in and closed the door. It was so warm, so light, and so delicious.  After a while the human turned off the lights. All was dark inside, but now I could see the glimmering lights outside, far away. I kept thinking of my worried parents, but never mind, there I was, feeling warm and cozy on my perch. Tomorrow is another day. I slept until daybreak. 

            Now I am hungry, I need some food. How can I get out, I am surrounded by glass. No way to escape.  I begin to panic. I try to fly, in vain. I try and try and try again and again and get so tired. All of a sudden I hear a voice, a soft voice, shocked, startled and surprised. She opens the door and tells me to go outside in the cold; I don’t know how to do it. I know the door is open, but how do I get out? She tries to make some wind with something like paper and tells me to fly. I can’t. I tire more and more, fly a little, rest a little. What can I do? What will my family think?         

            All of a sudden there are two voices. One calls the other June. Both talk to me softly and encouraging. I don’t know what to do, I am so tired, I make some more weak attempts, it doesn’t work. All of a sudden it gets dark. I feel something around me. Will I suffocate?  Wrapped as a bundle I get carried a short, distance and, like a miracle, the dark thing opens, I am free, free to fly off, free to fly home. I am stunned and try to find my way. It works, I can fly, the good feeling is overwhelming and lifts me up right into the sky.

            Getting back home my mother scolds me and tells me in the future to pay better attention to the instructions she had given us, always be aware of circumstances and come home on time. Yes, I know, I learned my lesson.

Summer by Elisabeth Levy

        As  far back as I can remember I always spent the five weeks of summer vacation at the “Lerchenberg” (mountain with the Larks) in Erlenbach, on the shores of Lake Zurich. It is the majestic, proud farmhouse with the red barn, visible even from across the lake, the house where my father grew up. His brother Hans, my uncle, continued farming and subsequently his son Hans Jr., my cousin, followed in his footsteps. An unmarried sister, my godmother, known as Tante  (aunt) Marie by everybody, lived there as well.  At the age of fifty she seemed to have an old body with young brains. Between WWI  and WWII they barely made enough money to sustain the farm.

The living arrangement in the farmhouse was interesting.  Another sister,  Sophie, who was a bookkeeper and breadwinner, died at an early age. Tante Marie was supposed to take care of her parents and didn’t learn a profession, never worked outside the house. I might add she never helped with the farming either.  She was the perfect social worker without a degree. In this large house Tante Marie had a living room and a kitchen with access to the big veranda overlooking the lake. Upstairs she had two bedrooms, also overlooking the lake. On the other side of the hallway, facing the mountain side, lived Uncle Hans and Aunt Elise with their two children, Hans Jr. and Lieseli. They were a little older than my own three sisters. Their kitchen was big, and in their living room was a table with a slate inlay. Playing cards and using chalk for marking the scores was lots of fun. The adults’ bedrooms were upstairs too and the cousins’ were right under the roof.  They had two farmhands who helped taking care of the farm and the animals. The barn with its 20 cows was detached.

My earliest recollection dates back to when I was about four. I decided I wanted to go to Erlenbach to visit Tante Marie. From Kloten, where I lived, we had to take the train to the main station in Zurich, distance 7 miles, then take the tram or walk to the lake train station Stadelhofen, and another seven mile train ride got us to Erlenbach. (To take the train from the main station through the tunnel to the lake station, was too expensive). Our house was located at the Dorfstrasse.  I walked the ½ block to Petergasse and headed straight up to the train station. It didn’t take too long until Grite, our maid, had realized what I was up to, spotted me, sprinted, and took me to where I belonged, home.

  Tante Marie let me sleep in this big, comfy bed. She stuffed pillows under the mattress to prevent me from falling out of bed. Often she went visiting friends or sick people and I trotted along. To the village it took 15 minutes downhill, but walking back up the hill was another matter. The road was relatively steep and sometimes the summer heat was unmerciful.

Unfortunately my cousin Lieseli was diagnosed with diabetes at a very young age.  I watched her giving herself an injection of Insulin twice a day and she died at age 27. Erlenbach had two public places for swimming. One had a beautiful sandy beach, but was more expensive, (25 cents). The other, (10 cents), had a pier with steps leading right into the water, which was so clear I could see the fish. I didn’t like the idea of swimming with the fish, but of course that’s where Lieseli and I ended up.

Two girls my age lived close by. From the veranda I could look down into a large expansive estate. Right below lived the caretaker of this estate with his family. Madeleine was their only child and they had a dog.  I never forgot the tragedy. The villa owners had a tiny dog that somehow got killed by the caretaker’s dog. From the villa came a screaming and insanely angry maid and hit the caretaker’s poor dog almost to pieces. Thankfully he survived. Madeleine was a fun playmate, sort of a tomboy. The villa owners had a one-year-older son and she liked to play with him. I never met him as during vacation time he was off to someplace with his family. The other girl was also a single child and very, very protected. I suspect the parents were an older couple. She was a timid little soul. If there was a little wind, she had to wear a bonnet. In retrospect, she might have had some illness I was not aware of.      

Tante Marie cooked for me; one day she made cauliflower, which I didn’t like. Her comment: “I bet when you are grown up you will like it.” Right she was. She didn’t make me eat it, lucky me. However one time I was not so lucky. Very seldom did we eat with the farmer’s family and then came the unforgettable day. Tante Marie had to go to a funeral across the lake and left me to have lunch with the farmers. Aunt Elise made the Friday specialty, tarts or some type of pizza. It was (and still is) one of my favorite meals. However, I never had tarts topped with onions. I was used to cheese tops and all types of fruit. Onion? No way. They laughed and made fun of me. I had to eat the whole big piece. Everybody had long left, I was still sitting there until I finally finished it and earned a piece of apple tart.  Is it a surprise that the opposite of this “teaching” experiment happened? To this day, I still don’t like onions.

One summer, when I was ten years old, Tante Marie wanted me to meet a new neighbor.  A family had moved in two blocks away and their ten-year old girl didn’t speak our German dialect fluently, as her mother was French and they had moved from France to Erlenbach. I was fascinated by Simone’s accent and pretty soon we were the best of friends. The fun lasted only a few summers as she became paralyzed and spent one whole year in the hospital. We are still in touch; in 2008 I translated her life story from German to English.  I gave the little booklet the name “Destiny.”

By that time WWII had broken out and we school kids had to do our mandatory three weeks helping farmers. I signed up to help on my uncle’s farm. It was the first time in all these years that I worked for them. I helped with the hay and promptly developed a rash. My cousin Hans had married and had twin boys. Happily I said good-bye to hard farm work and happily helped care for the babies. 

In retrospect I realize the hardship my uncle’s family went through. Tante Marie didn’t chip in to help carry the burden. She was a Sunday school teacher and visited sick people and friends. Everybody loved her, except her sister-in-law, Elise, and later Hans’ wife Margrit.  Hans and Margrit had five boys, and one of the oldest twins, Heini, has the farm now. They don’t have cattle anymore, but are famous for their delicious apples and honey. They also sold part of their land and don’t have any more money worries.

Two years ago Paul, my oldest sister Lily’s son, picked my sister Erika and me up to have lunch together. After lunch Paul asked me if I had a wish to drive someplace and I immediately said the “Lerchenberg”. I had not been inside the house for close to forty years. The barn still had the same red color, but the veranda had a brightly colored green fence.  Hesitatingly I rang the doorbell and was greeted by Heini’s wife Ursula whom I had not met before. After the first initial shock and surprise she invited us into the house, showed us around, told me about her grown children, the changes in the living arrangement, the remodeling, and to top it all off, gave me a jar of their famous honey.

A Summer Love Affair by Nancy Humphriss

            Summers when I was young, beginning in my memory at four years old, were magical.  My favorite aunt and uncle owned a cottage on Pine Island Lake in western Massachusetts, about ten miles from our home.  Shirley, my older sister and I, sat in the back seat of our old Chevrolet, Dad and Mom in the front.  “I see it!” one of us would shout, vying for  being the first-one-to-see-water contest.  Since we already had our bathing suits on, we raced to the lake as soon as we jumped from the car.  Shirley, five years older than I, was already a strong swimmer, so I waded  around in the shallows,  as she took off for the small island not far from shore.  How I longed to join her, but that was not yet possible. The adults spread a blanket and sat on the grass, watching over us, but were mostly involved with family conversation, eating snacks, and enjoying some liquid refreshment.  With no one to play with,  I soon decided to sit on the dock which stretched twenty feet or so out into the lake.  As I sat, legs dangling over the edge,  I began to feel a slow but steady rise in the water, little by little covering first my feet, then my legs, and finally up to my waist.  I was not afraid, only surprised and curious as to what was happening.  The underpinnings had collapsed, and the dock was sinking! It never occurred to me to call out to my parents, but instead instinct took over, and I began to do a slow but steady dog paddle.  Happily, I realized I actually could swim and headed out to follow Shirley.  Then I heard the loud panic in my mother’s voice, while my Dad jumped fully dressed into the lake to save me.  After he carried me to shore, I was most indignant that no one saw how well I was swimming.  After this episode, my sister took over and instructed me in the finer points of the sport,  and at this early age I learned the crawl, side and breast stroke.  From then on, Pine Island Lake had even more allure for me.  This was my very first love affair -- with water and swimming.

            At fifteen I began to “date” Dale, a fellow student in our high school.  My parents were friends, especially our Dads, who loved to hunt and fish together.  So this relationship was allowed and maybe even encouraged.  We attended the same church, and went to the Youth Fellowship where we continued our innocent teen-age love affairs with each other and water.  Dale’s family had a cottage on a lake, too,  along with other relatives who also owned summer homes there.  I was often invited to join the family, so our days were filled with all the pleasures the clean, clear, cool lake could offer.  There was nothing fancy about life there, canoes, and row boats being the only water transportation.  Diving from the floats, bobbing about in inner tubes, swimming across the lake, and of  course, working on our tans were the main forms of entertainment.  When low bush blueberries, tiny but delicious, were in season, we hopped into a boat and paddled to the far end of the lake where there was no development.  We drifted along the shoreline which had thick blueberry bushes, picking and picking until our baskets were full.  These berries were scheduled for two important uses -- Dale’s mother’s fabulous blueberry pies, and Dale’s source of spending money -- selling them in town to residents too lazy or busy to pick their own.  The price?  In the 1950’s, fifteen cents a heaping quart!  A few sales gave Dale enough money to take me to a movie and buy a bag of popcorn.

            The major event of the season was the Fourth of July. The family descended in full force, each bringing the then legal fireworks to be set off along with all the others

around the lake.  The morning hours were filled with water games and races for all

the kids with prizes of tee shirts or “gold” medals , for the winners to the also-rans.  Most cottages hosted barbecues or hamburger cook-outs, so the lake shore was filled with the sounds and smells of happy people.  Late afternoon meant the parade of boats, and we sat on our dock to await this spectacle.  No motor boats were allowed, so the scene was  row boat after canoe, each draped with balloons, banners, flags, lights, or other home-made decorations.  Of course the Wyola committee had judges, so various categories were given first prize --but again, no one “lost.”  When darkness descended, the fireworks show began.  It was totally disorganized, with each group shooting off its best display, rather willy-nilly.  The exploding star bursts,  zipping rockets, loud pop-pops thrilled everyone, and while the occasional small fire occurred, these were easily extinguished with the water buckets everyone kept handy.  Now, some 65 years later, the family still gathers at the lake for this event.  It has changed, of course, and a steak roast with wine tasting added for more up-dated sophistication. But in general, generations enjoy the same down-home revelry, sharing with friends,  pride in country, and thrills of the day.  Our now-adult children still return when they can to these roots, remembering as we do the warmth and joy of togetherness.

            This summer we, the now greatly expanded Humphriss families, will gather for an event acknowledging the natural cycle of life.  We will celebrate the life of one of our beloved own who departed last February.  Her wish was to have a memorial service at the lake, and her ashes spread in the very old cemetery high on the hill overlooking Wyola.  This is a Civil War burial place, and now difficult to access since the dirt road is bumpy and not well maintained. It is very secluded and private, so the service will be held there. While we will recognize our grief and loss, we also will allow our joy to be with us, too, since we still have our great memories, great funny stories, and wonderful times to remember.  After the ceremony and informal reception ends, I will don my bathing suit and swim, letting the cool, velvety water wash over me,  covering me with its soothing powers.