As a significant note, I would like to share more about this beautiful song.
In 9th grade at junior high school, my classmate, Linda Creed was the center of attention for her buoyant spirit, her out-going nature, and ability to lead. At lunchtime, she would go to the middle of the gym floor and invite us all to dance and sing to the latest music. I always thought it odd how completely immersed in the music she seemed to be, and her insistence for us to come together to dance in the gym after lunch at school. She made it happen just about everyday, if I recall correctly, breaking racial barriers and other irritating issues we faced in school.
Our school was in a neighborhood comprised of predominately Jewish people. So the school was a reflection of the neighborhood and was populated of 50% Jewish and 50% everyone else. I make these facts known as they indicate how all encompassing Linda’s influence actually was. Linda insisted we all come together to have fun dancing, and we did. She was infectious, beaming and so happy being able to create with music and dancing, a moment that would bring us together like nothing else could.
Linda was Jewish so at first one might wonder how and what part of her felt so compelled to rouse us all to dance to rhythm and blues at lunchtime. We could feel that she was special somehow.
Years later, I learned that Linda had became a standout songwriter, creating some of the best lyrics and music of our era and in collaboration with Gamble & Huff, a significant part of what would come to be known as “The Philly Sound” of the 1970s.
Linda is the composer of this amazing song. Not long after writing this song, Linda would die of cancer in 1986.
RIP dear Linda, you “crazy diamond”!
Thank you for bringing us together in junior high school.
And a bigger thanks for all of the incredible lyrics and music.
There are times when life defies understanding, the information we want, that we think we should have while experiencing a moment. Understanding may come later, unexpectedly, inconveniently. We may have settled with our current knowing so this revelation can also be obtrusive. But it is undeniable. We recognize a solved mystery revealed, but now we also have long ago adapted ourselves to make up for unanswered questions. We are fine now. But this understanding comes just the same.
Along with this, I think of my parents today. They were so very down to earth, no nonsense. I wanted a little more fluff, like I saw with my friend’s families. But Mother and Dad would have none of that. They were completely aware and not without aspirations but theirs were completely customized to fit their lives and not a carbon copy of anyone else. Eventually Mother and Dad moved our family into a big, stone house on 1/4 acre in a wonderful town. It was the envy of many, including the “fluffy” people. That’s the way that they were, patient and determined in reaching their aspirations.
Mother was highly admired for her leadership, her strength, her drive, her vision. She was unique. She envied no one. She set her sites on a thing and off she went in that direction., fashionably dressed, striking and confident, beautiful. People wanted to know her.
My Father was a quiet giant. He was strong in his beliefs and resolve. When he spoke you listened, you remembered because he wasted no words. He was quite handsome and he adored my Mother. Both strong individuals, my parents, but quite different in their approach in maintaining their strengths.
Looking back now, what has come to mind today, the understanding, is my parents approach to teaching discipline, responsibility, character and integrity; not with so many words, but by the way in which we were left to decide how to behave. They laid down the law and gave us the freedom to follow through. And having garnered our admiration and respect for them, my brothers, my sisters, and I seemed most times to come to the right decision that kept us in line and taught the tough lessons.
My parents were not averse to using the strap. I could tell a couple of stories about that, maybe later. (Spare the rod and spoil the child.). But I realize how intelligent they were. The simple way that they had with teaching and with most everything. They often told me just to look and listen. Don’t ask so many questions. Now this was completely in opposition to what we were taught in school. I often felt that I needed to ask more questions; how I might not be as smart as the ones in class who were constantly asking questions. But as it turns out, my parents were so right in their approach. Most of my questions were answered and in the most significant way. Those answers came during the course of a lesson if I just paid attention. And because of allowing myself the time to receive the answers, they were so much more valuable as the process involved only me. I received the information in the way for my mind to comprehend (we all have our unique way) instead of having to try to understand someone else’s interpretation or significant take on a subject. It was mine and will continue to be mine, foundational, solid, but open to further clarity and substance. I am not purporting that questions should not be asked in class at school, but only if one is inclined to ask, after listening. And at that point in time, more often than not, you may not have questions. I hope this makes sense.
We tend to forget many of the experiences that we’ve had, and easily so as some are truly forgettable, others regrettable, and still others simply because we must get on with our lives. Some events, though we may not think of them when they occur as pertinent or relevant, remain with us somewhere deep inside.
For months I’d been struggling with a perplexing issue which seemed to defy resolution. I was bound on all sides with thinking about it, when suddenly a forgotten memory emerged. Shapes, colors, and details became part of the air around me, dancing in concert to form a story that I would tell in a little book that I would write.
This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in 1957 in Virginia. As I wrote the words, I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now. Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning that summer had brought to my life. How impossible that it was safe in my heart all along! It is a story of love and an ever-growing appreciation for my family. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
Here is an excerpt from my novelette:
Two Little Girls
Chapter 1
As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.
There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.
I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same. My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.
My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.
Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.
~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~
You are amazing. Create something beautiful today!
My big brother John was an enigmatic sort. He was 4 1/2 years older and next in line with me. He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant. He enjoyed his own company most times so I looked forward to when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum.
His bedroom was collection of unusual and mysterious things. My recollection of his room always included a skull and crossbones upon entering, just above the door.
The events of one particular day best reveal his character. He might have been 14 years old then and I would have been 9 or 10. We were alone in his bedroom. His mischievous expression, always prelude to something unexpected, commanded my full attention as he opened his sock drawer and reached to the back for a little brown bottle. It was filled to only 1/4 capacity. John told me to be very careful and still as he placed the bottle in my hand. The weight was extraordinary. Grinning, he took it back, unscrewed the top and spilled the contents of the bottle onto the floor. It dispersed to all directions into the tiniest of little silver balls. Using a piece of cardboard John scrapped the floor coaxing one ball toward another. When the two made contact they instantly became one which he pushed toward the next until they formed one silver puddle. There was no trace left behind. John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard to push the silver ball onto the first one. Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle and screwed the lid onto it. John beamed triumphant. I was speechless.
It’s been said that each of us has one book inside, a story to tell. I wrote this one.
While struggling through a convergence of life-changing events and making little progress, I was suddenly presented with the most amazing gift. A childhood memory suddenly emerged. It seemed to have an urgency, pleasantly so, not at all like matters before me. I began to write. With every detail that I could recall, I was gifted another, until all of the shapes and colors were there within a my 50-page novelette.
It is a story from my childhood which took place in 1950’s on a farm in Virginia. As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now. Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning that summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life. And how impossible that it remained safe in my heart all along It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
Here is an excerpt.
Two Little Girls
Chapter 1
As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.
There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.
I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same. My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.
My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.
Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.
~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~
You are amazing. Create something beautiful today!
Today I am thinking about someone who I haven’t thought of in a very long time. I will call him Troy. I pick this name to suggest his appearance because his style reminds me of Troy Donahue, teen idol from the 60’s.
Troy always wore denim jeans, penny loafers (with no pennies) and white tee shirts. And like Troy Donahue, he was tall and lean. We shared everything. He was my neighbor, living just a few houses from mine so we were together almost everyday. We understood each other. We shared so much. We spent hours just lying beside each other on his bed, drinking sodas and watching tv or just being happy and feeling the comfort of having someone with whom no explanation was necessary. We looked at each other and smiled, laughed at how it seemed that actually, nothing needed to be said. We recognized how we may have seemed to others. We laughed at that too. We shared rites of passage that we both protected each other from, somehow.
A Call of the Wild written by Jack London, was a grammar school reading assignment. The story inspired us so Troy and I decided to take a walk during a gently falling snow. We ventured toward the woods, imagining the storyline for ourselves. Troy wore a denim jacket and boots. I was more appropriately dressed for the season. We talked and walked until at some point I realized the snow was more intense and that we would have to walk as far as we had come in order to get back home. We headed back as the snow intensified. Troy took the lead as the space between us grew. But we remained focused on each other. He waited for me to catch up so that he could wave good bye as I passed his house. My house was just ahead. I collapsed in front of the heater in the foyer, cold and exhausted. Glancing in my direction with a hint of knowing I’d been up to something, Mother only reminded me to be prepared for supper. And as usual, I was.
When the Beatles came on the scene, Troy and I were totally blown away. From my black and white radio, one night before school, I heard The Beatles for first time on the Hy Lit radio program. I was sure Troy was listening too. The next day, as soon as school was over, I ran to his house. When he opened the door he knew why I was there. We had the same response. “Who are these guys??” We were hooked.
Troy and I knew each other’s heart. We were so much alike in so many ways. We were together as much as our parent’s would allow. We didn’t annoy each other like friends can do at times. We never had an argument. As close as we were, our relationship never ventured beyond friendship. We never seemed curious about or the need for anything more. Most relationships are based on something specific, it seems. But with us, it was everything about him and everything about me. We truly understood and loved each other, untarnished, pure, and innocent. We laughed about everything and shared our dreams. He wanted to become a cowboy and he eventually moved to Montana and became a cowboy. I wanted to be a ballerina. Starting late in life, I became a ballet dancer. I remember wanting to share this with him but by then so much of life had transpired and we lost contact. But I know he would have smiled that wonderful smile and hug me if he knew.
When I heard this song by Bruce Springsteen I thought, “My gosh, this is us!!”
John was an enigmatic sort of person. He was 4 1/2 years older and next in line with me. He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant. He enjoyed his own company most times so I looked forward to when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum.
His bedroom was collection of unusual and mysterious things. My recollection of his room always included a skull and crossbones upon entering, just above the door.
The events of one particular day best reveal his character. He might have been 14 years old then and I would have been 9 or 10. We were alone in his bedroom. His mischievous expression, always prelude to something unexpected, commanded my full attention as he opened his sock drawer and reached to the back for a little brown bottle. It was filled to only 1/4 capacity. John told me to be very careful and still as he placed the bottle in my hand. The weight was extraordinary. Grinning, he took it back, unscrewed the top and spilled the contents of the bottle onto the floor. It dispersed to all directions into the tiniest of little silver balls. Using a piece of cardboard John scrapped the floor coaxing one ball toward another. When the two made contact they instantly became one which he pushed toward the next until they formed one silver puddle. There was no trace left behind. John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard to push the silver ball onto the first one. Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle and screwed the lid onto it. John beamed triumphant. I was speechless.
Some People
They would that you never realize your brilliance.
They would that you never live a day knowing your truth, your strength, your creativity.
They would break you into bits and pieces.
They would absorb these parts of you to become one with them…mercurial.
A great gust would take away what’s left of you…perhaps as far as a desert!
Your bones could bleach there under the heat of the sun.
With the stolen pieces they attempt to realize how you are but they can’t. They can only express a gross misinterpretation of your intention.
And in failing they feel contempt and loathing for ever having taken notice of you.
What a colossal waste of precious time! Will they ever come to realize the beauty and wonder residing within themselves?
It’s been said that each of us has one book inside, a story to tell. I wrote this one.
While struggling through a convergence of life-changing events and making little progress, I was suddenly presented with the most amazing gift. A childhood memory suddenly emerged. It seemed to have an urgency, pleasantly so, not at all like matters before me. I began to write. With every detail that I could recall, I was gifted another, until all of the shapes and colors were there within a my 50-page novelette.
It is a story from my childhood which took place in 1950’s on a farm in Virginia. As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now. Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning that summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life, and how impossible that it remained safe in my heart all along It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
Here is an excerpt.
Two Little Girls
Chapter 1
As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.
There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.
I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same. My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.
My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.
Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.
~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~
You are amazing. Create something beautiful today!
John was an enigmatic sort of person. He was 4 1/2 years older and next in line with me. He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant. He enjoyed his own company most times so I looked forward to when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum.
His bedroom was collection of unusual and mysterious things. My recollection of his room always included a skull and crossbones upon entering, just above the door.
The events of one particular day best reveal his character. He might have been 14 years old then and I would have been 9 or 10. We were alone in his bedroom. His mischievous expression, always prelude to something unexpected, commanded my full attention as he opened his sock drawer and reached to the back for a little brown bottle. It was filled to only 1/4 capacity. John told me to be very careful and still as he placed the bottle in my hand. The weight was extraordinary. Grinning, he took it back, unscrewed the top and spilled the contents of the bottle onto the floor. It dispersed to all directions into the tiniest of little silver balls. Using a piece of cardboard John scrapped the floor coaxing one ball toward another. When the two made contact they instantly became one which he pushed toward the next until they formed one silver puddle. There was no trace left behind. John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard to push the silver ball onto the first one. Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle and screwed the lid onto it. John beamed triumphant. I was speechless.
Some People
They would that you never realize your brilliance.
They would that you never live a day knowing your truth, your strength, your creativity.
They would break you into bits and pieces.
They would absorb these parts of you to become one with them…mercurial.
A great gust would take away what’s left of you…perhaps as far as a desert!
Your bones could bleach there under the heat of the sun.
With the stolen pieces they attempt to realize how you are but they can’t. They can only express a gross misinterpretation of your intention.
And in failing they feel contempt and loathing for ever having taken notice of you.
What a colossal waste of precious time! Will they ever come to realize the beauty and wonder residing within themselves?
It’s been said that each of us has one book inside, a story to tell. I wrote this one.
While struggling through a convergence of life-changing events and making little progress, I was suddenly presented with the most amazing gift. A childhood memory suddenly emerged. It seemed to have an urgency, pleasantly so, not at all like matters before me. I began to write. With every detail that I could recall, I was gifted another, until all of the shapes and colors were there within a my 50-page novelette.
It is a story from my childhood which took place in 1950’s on a farm in Virginia. As I wrote the words I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now. Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning that summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life. And how impossible that it remained safe in my heart all along It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
Here is an excerpt.
Two Little Girls
Chapter 1
As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.
There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.
I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same. My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.
My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.
Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.
~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~
You are amazing. Create something beautiful today!
In grade school, my class was given the assignment to memorize this poem by Rudyard Kipling. We recited it together in class. It comes to mind as I think of my children.
char
If
By Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too: If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream – and not make dreams your master; If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same:. If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings, And never breathe a word about your loss: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!
We tend to forget many of the experiences that we’ve had, and easily so as some are truly forgettable, others regrettable, and still others simply because we must get on with our lives. Some events, though we may not think of them when they occur as pertinent or relevant, remain with us somewhere deep inside.
For months I’d been struggling with a perplexing issue which seemed to defy resolution. I was bound on all sides with thinking about it, when suddenly a forgotten memory emerged. Shapes, colors, and details became part of the air around me, dancing in concert to form a story that I would tell in a little book that I would write.
This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in 1957 in Virginia. As I wrote the words, I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now. Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning the summer had brought to my life. How impossible that it was safe in my heart all along It is a story of love and an ever-growing appreciation for my family. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
Here is an excerpt from my novelette:
Two Little Girls
Chapter 1
As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.
There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until suppertime. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.
I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same. My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.
My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.
Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.
~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~
You are amazing. Create something beautiful today!
Though it may be a little exaggerated and dramatic, this movie has deigned to bring to light the sexual morality of American society in the 1950’s.
My sisters were teenagers and I remember this movie being the rage among their crowd. I am not sure if I saw it in the theater, as I often tagged along but I remember most of how it was for them, and that it was a very big deal.
Through the experiences of Hollywood’s two biggest teen idols, Troy Donahue and Sandra Dee, we watched depictions of things that was heretofore off limits and shocking.
A Summer Place dramatized a time worth sharing with our younger people. They will be provided a glimpse that suggests the way that we were back then, and actually come away with a fair sense for that time.
The theme song is quite possibly the most beautiful of all time. Percy Faith and his Orchestra was known for brilliant renditions of movie theme songs in the 60″s and especially for this one. I still listen to my old Columbia Music Club album of movie theme songs just to hear the extraordinary Theme from a Summer Place. The images, feelings and memories rushing in like waves on the beach in the movie.
Cinemascope technique would be credited for how the ocean looks more beautiful, the sky clearer and bluer, the sun and the colors brighter. I don’t know but I think that they actually were.
How one memory opens a door to so many others, another time, as it happens for me with this film always amazes.
A Summer Place, in retrospect and in the scheme of things, seems to be a perfect prelude to the decade that would change everything.
Years had gone by without a single thought of the time in 1957 when I spent the summer with my grandparents on their farm in Virginia. Then, in the midst of a prolonged illness, among all of the things my mind was sorting through, this forgotten experience drifted in. Totally unprovoked and effortlessly revealing, I felt the need to write everything that I could remember, just as it presented itself to me.
And as I wrote, I became more and more immersed within the warmth and comfort of that time with my grandparents, so precious and dear to me now, as I realize after all how much meaning it brought to my life.
This glimpse into their world was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family, for my heritage. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.
There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.
I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same. My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.
My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.
Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.
By Rudyard Kipling
charondiane 