Letter II to Roxie by Betty Finocchiaro
Hey Roxie,
Remember in my last letter I was telling you about how my life had changed forever? Well, that was because the Second World War started and I was twelve years old – I wasn't even a teenager yet - and the war was being fought in far away places. Sometime we don't realize that the consequences of far off unrest comes home to roost too. It sure touched my dad and me first- hand.
One Saturday morning my dad and I were home alone. Mom was traipsing around in the city in her beloved department stores or wherever, and the doorbell rang. Since we lived one flight up we could see through the glass door at the bottom of the stairs. There was a lone figure standing in the doorway. My dad hurried down with me dogging his footsteps. A man in his forties or so stood pathetically before us. He assured us he wasn't panhandling. "I'm so hungry. Could you just give me something to eat?" I can hear my father's voice, still ringing in my ears today, "Betty, let's go back upstairs." He immediately made a huge sandwich while I grabbed a soda from the fridge and made our way downstairs to our guest. For a guest he was. "And the poor will always be among you."
I saw my father's heart open and close around the injustice of hunger for one human being and I knew that that was the response of compassion for all humanity. His immediate reaction spoke louder to me than words ever could.
Its funny how, over the years, I have always believed that if there is a heaven we've heard about, or have had ingrained in us from some religious belief, because of that one single act of charitableness, my dad is sitting on the cushiest heavenly cloud there is. I tell you, I believe that with all of my heart.
I have to tell you, Roxie, sometimes remembering the past makes you understand the present. I think about the sweet times of my childhood years and then I'm afraid all over again because I want to escape my life that I traveled so far to get to where I am today. I always thought it would be great to grow older, especially with a husband — that's got to be from the era I come from. You know, every girl leaves her parents' home on her father's arm, a virgin. A game played each time one of your girl friends got married too.
So, what's the present now? A lifetime behind me, and you know what? I almost can't find any answers to anything. Why we get older and find ourselves in that hazy dream of our youth where it was all supposed to turn out beautiful walking into a golden sunset together. Sometime life plays tricks on you and you can't do a darn thing about it. I have Michael beside me, not really knowing where he's going half the time, except that he knows he's with me. So he trudges along happily going wherever I'm going.
Roxie Kid, If it wasn't so sad, it would be laughable. I find myself laughing anyway, at the comedy we call life. It might be easier if my memory could be stolen too so I don't have to remember the times Michael and I laughed at something together or even cried together. I remember times like that. But no, I have to cry alone now and I'm angry. Maybe a little crazy, too...
It's O.K., though. At least I can put the sad moments in a separate compartment of my mind and keep the happy moments out front so Michael can see them on my face. It seems to work so I won't question any of the crazy things I do to live a normal life. By the way, what is normal? No, no, I'm not going off on another tangent.
Talk to you later dear heart of mine.
Betty
The Traveler
By Connie Shephard
Mist rose like steam from a kettle
off the silver lake's placid waters.
Water lilies, with their pristine blooms
bobbed as the canoe slid by.
The wake wrinkled the sheet
of smooth water.
All was silent.
Ducks on the bank slept still,
heads hidden like so many
brown-feathered mounds. The canoeist
passed them noiselessly. In the distance
a loon poured forth a lonely call.
The silence, shattered, fell
fragmented into the lake.
The paddle creased the satiny surface,
now ruffled by a breeze
and the traveler drifted on.
Who is this lone wanderer, skimming
the surface on an isolated lake?
His birch bark canoe responds to bronzed
arm's command, disappears without a trace
into the haze of distant shore.
No ripple marks its place. |
Their First Words
There once were two bathing birds
who sang but never used words.
Two cats on a whim
decided to swim.
The birds said, "This is absurd!"
Limerick and art
by George Asdel |
My job as a boy was to exercise my father's hunting dogs
Back then black coffee was all the breakfast fuel I needed
stale biscuits for Jack and Lucky
they'd wolf each in a bite
At Henry's beach, I'd order
Sit. . . . . Stay . . . revel in my power and behold two quivering, yearning
fur draped black bundled wads of long muscled duck fetching
White teeth framed pink tongues, intelligence brimming in dark gorilla eyes
hand claps released them, represented the retorts of the two cannons they were shot from
Off down the beach carving twin rooster tails of gold coruscated sand left hanging in the sun
A circus of scent to be gobbled. . . now. . . right now
Dogs live in the here and now. . . nothing to be saved . . . nothing
Sometimes, I long for that kind of freedom
Steeplechase hurdling sunbathers and beach bags, ears back
the berserks have landed. . . thoughtless trampling of blankets, towels, lunch baskets
I'd get them into the water, try to, swimming better exercise than running and fewer apologies
Sticks were no good, they'd bring them back and find something extraordinarily bad smelling
to wallow in. But with well-placed throws of rocks, I could get them out past the breaker line
swim them down the beach, aiming my throws to land just ahead of them
Jack would swim to the splashes — must be a fallen duck
Lucky would follow Jack — can't let Jack beat me
I'd work them down the shore
Once, I'd been surprised by a slap on my arm
a Chinese lady, not four feet tall, pointed her finger like a gun and chided,
“Stop throwing rocks at the seals”
Now, I'm ninety-two and dream of Jack and Lucky
of rowing out to the blind
the creak of wool muffled oars
the smell of oiled boots and mildewed slickers
Hoppe's nitro solvent and pond fringe ice
wet fur, feathers, burnt gunpowder
I hear the smooth snap of shotguns
locking closed on fresh shells
and a Chinese lady, not four feet tall, ordering
“Stop throwing rocks at the seals”
