BOLERO Ravel Orquesta Joven de la Sinfónica de Galicia Director: Vicente Alberola (& Dvořák nº 8 )
Masterfully performed by gifted young musicians, Director Alberola’s rendition of Ravel’s Bolero is my all time favorite.
Turn up the volume, and enjoy!
What if we were to refrain from saying and doing things that we were taught were so wrong when we were children in grammar school…because by doing so, prevented us from getting along with each other? I speak specifically of:
1. Name calling and labeling people
2. Demeaning and degrading people
If these simple rules were valued and put into practice, most of the people in our current political environment and popular media outlets would have nothing
at all
to say!
Until the last few years, we could be confident and were able to rely upon public figures with access to us by way of television, radio, and the newspapers to be respectful of themselves and for us, and determined and cared to be known as such a person. And by extension, we as well felt that respect within ourselves. It was a pleasing, civil experience. So how was it all replaced with pervasive, mind-numbing, searing vitriol?
There seems an intent to energize consciousness at the lowest of levels; negativity that individually, we all do the work and gratefully succeed upon improving. And there are matters, do to personal experience, which require more effort. But we keep doing the work because we are not children, and we realize the rights of others, and simply because we know that we should; because we feel both personally and spiritually that it is the good thing. It becomes our guiding light and provides us the realization of our humanity at its higher level. It makes “the playground at recess” a pleasant time for all!
The difficulty I feel experiencing people with unbridled disrespect for anything that they don’t like; with that being the only criteria, and given access to all major media to deliver far and wide such poison is not easy to quantify; people who hate what they cannot control, because they cannot control, specifically when someone wants to discuss matters instead of simply falling into compliance.
And consider that there is an entire generation with no reference at all to the way the news was once presented. Our current environment is what they know.
Writing about this lack of respect is a little sickening but I dwell upon the what I consider a powerful fact, that respect is the most effective, and the easiest solution for our troubles.
What if we could make the effort to choose respect for ourselves and others, and give and feel it in all that we think, say, and do?
What if we could accept our limitations and the limitations of others and show compassion for both?
Image that…
Love!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
During a prolonged illness I was inspired to write this book.
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 somehow having 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.
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!
Available through my publisher, Booklocker. – http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html
and:
https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374
https://www.amazon.com/s? k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Someone said:
There exists only two emotions…
love
and everything else.
“Love’s in need of love today.
Don’t delay send yours in right away.”
by the great Stevie Wonder
So apropos and timely, this amazing, song, lyrics, video is here, from You Tube:
The year was 1980. I worked the third shift, three nights of the week at a computer firm while my husband was at home with our two children.
The car I was driving, our second, was a sturdy old Plymouth Valiant, model year 1964. It ran well and had been very reliable for trips to the creek with the children and the dog, or to town to visit a museum, for grocery shopping, and whatever else a mom and two little ones might be bound for in the course of a day. We never had to worry about spills or mud on the seats so the children loved it.
One night on my way home from work, at approximately 1:30 am it started to rain. By the time I reached the highway it was torrential. Suddenly my windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge and visibility was absolutely null. I panicked because I remembered that the road was close to a ravine with only a very short rail along the side of it. I steered the car toward the gravel strip beside the paved road and very slowly drove until I thought that all of the car’s wheels were off of the road and onto the strip. It was pitch black as I got out of my car to see if it was safely positioned. A chill ran up my spine. My car was just inches away from the rail.
I got back into the car and rolled down my window to try to flag someone but the traffic was moving so fast that I didn’t feel at all safe doing that so I rolled up the window. The passenger in a large truck looked straight at me laughed devilishly as it sped by. I remember feeling absolutely helpless and desperate.
Then I looked up into my rear-view mirror and instead of the terrible darkness I saw two yellow headlights approaching from behind. I remember thinking that the lights seemed to have an uncharacteristically soft yellow glow. I felt so relieved as a gentlemen, wearing a brown tweed overcoat and a hat was approaching my car. He tipped his hat as he asked, “Hello, Miss. May I help you with something?” His antiquated gesture and graceful manner were both startling and disarming. Men don’t tip or wear fedora hats these days. His skin was flawlessly smooth and pale and his eyes were the color of blue crystal. I was stunned. I told him that my windshield wipers were not working and that I couldn’t see to drive. He smiled and said, “I’ll see if I can be of assistance.” He went straight to work removing the windshield wiper blades and switching them from one side of the window to the other, and turning them so that the worn ends were at the bottom of the windshield. Then he told me to, “Try them now.” They worked perfectly well to clear the rain from the windshield so that I had visibility once again. I was astonished with simplicity of his solution to my problem. The stranger said that he was glad that he could help me and that I should take good care going home in such weather. He smiled again as he tipped his hat good-bye. I thanked him profusely and watched him as he walked to his car, got in and drove away. As his car disappeared into the darkness from which it came, I was thinking that the round and sturdy looking vehicle was a match with his manner and style of dress, as if from the era of 1950s.
Once my friend was out of sight, I became acutely aware of the intimidating highway traffic swishing by my car. And I realized that while the kind stranger was with me, how it had seemed as if we were completely alone on the highway, and that for entire time I hadn’t seen nor had I heard any traffic passing at all.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
My book!
http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html
https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon- diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374
https://www.amazon.com/s? k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2
I didn’t know that somewhere deep in my heart was a memory of a time that I spent with my grandparents. One day this forgotten memory came forward and most effortlessly, revealed itself to me as I wrote all that I could remember of what one month later became a book.
This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place during the summer of 1957 in Virginia. As I wrote I was engulfed with warmth and comforting support, rather startling as it was so real. I know now that it had to remain deep within me as only the passage of time could reveal the beauty of it. Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning it had brought to my life. It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
* An excerpt from my book:
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 ~~~~~~
This is a story of my brother, John. He was a very complex figure in my life and for the rest of my family members, I suspect. As the youngest I was shielded from the more intriguing family matters. And as time goes on, and less and less references made regarding John, I cannot be certain of what or how others think of him.
His fine intellect was not always apparent as he held people’s attentions at a certain the level with his mysterious and sometimes frightening countenance. I admired and respected him though. He seemed to recognize that I wanted to see the other part of him behind that. Believing he was able to see me too, and that I could be trusted was gratifying as he talked to me the way that I wanted, and not looking down and making exceptions for the little sister. He always had my respect and admiration.
In regard to John’s nature, there was an incident that would provide some clarity. Though as powerful as it was, still I think allowed only a glimpse of the complexities of his mind. I can think of nothing more to have been afforded me; nothing to further unravel what he had carefully bound up from the world…nothing more as that one day in my life had done.
When I returned home that night, John was there and instantly realized something had gone wrong in my life. He demanded to know the trouble and when I told him about what transpired, his disposition changed. He made it clear that he was completely prepared for the situation that I presented to him, so much so that I feared for his safety. Thank heaven, my prayers were answered and no one was confronted, but not for lack of John bringing his considerable might to the situation. He never encountered the person he set out to find that night.
John was consumed by the incident so I left him alone to settle down so that we might, after a reasonable interval, enjoy something of our usual repartee on the ride home. I felt vindicated…almost, but his effort had left him raw and unapproachable. But we had a completely silent ride in our parents’ car, which as I recall, he had started without the benefit of a key. He was enraged. There was no asking permission for use of the car which would certainly not have been granted.
On an emotional level, his bravery saved me from the depths. Selflessly, he brought all that he had to my defense and healed me then, and now. I feel he shields me from the memory, which unless I make the decision to recall that day, remains isolated with other events that interfere with my joy. It is miraculous that when I choose to think of it, with each recollection there seems less of the trouble and more of my brother John. I remember the love, sparkling and everlasting, like diamond.
To my brother John, 1944 -1966.
With all of my heart .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So many years had gone by without a single thought of 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 I was sorting through, this forgotten experience drifted into my mind. 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”.
* An excerpt from my book:
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 ~~~~~~
Available at my publisher’s website:
http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html
Also available at:
https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374
https://www.amazon.com/Two-Little-Girls-Charon-Diane/dp/1609101375
“Although your mind’s opaque, try thinking more if just for your own sake.”
Someone said:
There exists only two emotions…
love
and everything else.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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”.
Truth is Beauty is Love
http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html
https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon- diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374
https://www.amazon.com/Two-Little-Girls-Charon-Diane/dp/1609101375
* An excerpt from my book:
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 ~~~~~~
Someone said:
There exists only two emotions…
love, and everything else.
The year was 1980. I worked the third shift, three nights of the week at a computer firm while my husband was at home with our two children.
The car I was driving, our second, was a sturdy old Plymouth Valiant, model year 1964. It ran well and had been very reliable for trips to the creek with the children and the dog, or to town to visit a museum, for grocery shopping, and whatever else a mom and two little ones might be bound for in the course of a day. We never had to worry about spills or mud on the seats so the children loved it.
One night on my way home from work, at approximately 1:30 am it started to rain. By the time I reached the highway it was torrential. Suddenly my windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge and visibility was absolutely null. I panicked because I remembered that the road was close to a ravine with only a very short rail along the side of it. I steered the car toward the gravel strip beside the paved road and very slowly drove until I thought that all of the car’s wheels were off of the road and onto the strip. It was pitch black as I got out of my car to see if it was safely positioned. A chill ran up my spine. My car was just inches away from the rail.
I got back into the car and rolled down my window to try to flag someone but the traffic was moving so fast that I didn’t feel at all safe doing that so I rolled up the window. The passenger in a large truck looked straight at me laughed devilishly as it sped by. I remember feeling absolutely helpless and desperate.
Then I looked up into my rear-view mirror and instead of the terrible darkness I saw two yellow headlights approaching from behind. I remember thinking that the lights seemed to have an uncharacteristically soft yellow glow. I felt so relieved as a gentlemen, wearing a brown tweed overcoat and a hat was approaching my car. He tipped his hat as he asked, “Hello, Miss. May I help you with something?” His antiquated gesture and graceful manner were both startling and disarming. Men don’t tip or wear fedora hats these days. His skin was flawlessly smooth and pale and his eyes were the color of blue crystal. I was stunned. I told him that my windshield wipers were not working and that I couldn’t see to drive. He smiled and said, “I’ll see if I can be of assistance.” He went straight to work removing the windshield wiper blades and switching them from one side of the window to the other, and turning them so that the worn ends were at the bottom of the windshield. Then he told me to, “Try them now.” They worked perfectly well to clear the rain from the windshield so that I had visibility once again. I was astonished with simplicity of his solution to my problem. The stranger said that he was glad that he could help me and that I should take good care going home in such weather. He smiled again as he tipped his hat good-bye. I thanked him profusely and watched him as he walked to his car, got in and drove away. As his car disappeared into the darkness from which it came, I was thinking that the round and sturdy looking vehicle was a match with his manner and style of dress, as if from the era of 1950s.
Once my friend was out of sight, I became acutely aware of the intimidating highway traffic swishing by my car. And I realized that while the kind stranger was with me, how it had seemed as if we were completely alone on the highway, and that for entire time I hadn’t seen nor had I heard any traffic passing at all.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
My book!
http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html
https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon- diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374
https://www.amazon.com/s? k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2
I didn’t know that somewhere deep in my heart was a memory of a time that I spent with my grandparents. One day this forgotten memory came forward and most effortlessly, revealed itself to me as I wrote all that I could remember of what one month later became a book.
This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place during the summer of 1957 in Virginia. As I wrote I was engulfed with warmth and comforting support, rather startling as it was so real. I know now that it had to remain deep within me as only the passage of time could reveal the beauty of it. Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning it had brought to my life. It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family. It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.
* An excerpt from my book:
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 ~~~~~~
charondiane 
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