Prose

The Perfect Horse Costume

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by Marshall Marcovitz

There are some people who remember everything about the past.  I’m not one of them. But, in my mind’s eye, I can still see the horse costume my mother made for me when I was eight years old. Roy Rogers had Trigger, a palomino. Gene Autry had Champion, with a banner that said, “The World’s Greatest Horse.” Not as great, as the one my mother made for me, silver with four coal black hoofs. She made it on her Singer sewing machine. It seemed like every night, I could hear that clickety-clack of her making the costume, stitching it together: four leg sections, body, and horse’s head with a shimmering mane. She had me try on the head again and again to make that sure that the eyeholes were lined up with my eyes so I could see. She always wanted what she did for me to be perfect.

When my father got home late, he’d ask, “You still at it? You’re not finished yet?” The impatience in his voice made it clear to me that he thought she was wasting her time, trying to make it ‘just right.’ He wasn’t home much, but when he was, he was always angry about something.

Finally, it was the day of the Halloween Costume Party scheduled for the gym at 2:00 p.m. After a morning at school, I walked home for lunch and ate my usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread with a glass of milk. Then my mother helped me into my costume. It had a zipper in the back. I put on the head. It fit perfectly. The eyeholes fell exactly where I could see in front of me.

I went into the apartment as a boy. I came out a horse—a really fast horse.  I galloped down the street to get to school on time. I gave a few Whinnies…. Even now I smile when I think of the sound coming out of me. WHEEEEOOOOOO!

Just before I got to school, I had a terrific urge to pee. I had forgotten to go at home and now I strained to keep it in.

When I reached school, I ran to the boys’ bathroom. I wanted to be careful not to ruin the best, almost perfect, horse costume.

As I recall, I went to unzip my pants, but I couldn’t find the fly. I was standing over the boy’s white porcelain urinal ready to go – desperate to go, but I couldn’t find the opening. Where was the pee-hole? I felt all over – inside my left leg, inside my right leg…as high as my bellybutton.

I couldn’t believe it wasn’t there. I had to go – I kept holding it in harder, and harder. I kept looking over my shoulder, thinking someone was going to come in, seeing a horse standing over a urinal. I was embarrassed that someone would think I was playing with myself, which my mother told me never to do.

I finally worked up enough courage to go to the nurse’s office, thinking she would help me.

The door was locked. Maybe the nurse was at the Halloween party. I went to the gymnasium where everyone had gathered in their costumes. Mine was probably the best, but I couldn’t stay at the party because I had to pee so badly.

So, I dashed out of school—really galloping, galloping down the busy streets of Chicago.

I looked down and saw this yellow stain, spreading, and spreading down my leg. I was so embarrassed. I can see it today. The yellow stain getting wider and wider. Physically I felt relieved, but emotionally I felt terrible. How could this happen? Why did this happen?

Now I felt I had ruined my mother’s horse costume.

When I got home, my mother was there. I could see by the look on her face that she could see the yellow.

“What happened?” she asked.

Angrily, I said, “Mother, there was no pee hole. I couldn’t get it out because there was no opening.”

My memory of what she said is foggy … but the memory of the look on her face is sharp and clear. She looked horrified and devastated that the costume she had made out of love and had made me so happy had caused me such pain.

She was stunned. I don’t think she had ever seen me this angry. And I don’t remember ever feeling so angry, loving and sad all at the same time. I loved that horse costume, and I had loved talking to her, standing next to the sewing machine, while she was working on making the costume, and it was just the two of us.

Some memories are foggy, just out of focus snapshots. This one is sharp and clear.

I always loved her, but I felt she had let me down. She had made this beautiful costume that I couldn’t get out of.

I felt trapped, by my mother’s creation. By the very thing that I thought was world’s most perfect horse costume.

Marshall Marcovitz, who died in 2020, was a much loved member of the IRP community. For Voices, he was the first photo editor and a frequent contributor of prose. 

 

 

The Night I Raced Michael Jordan

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by Marshall Marcovitz

“Grandpa, did you really race Michael Jordan?”

Yes, I did.

“Who won?”

Who do you think?

I don’t trust my memory as much anymore. Searching my past for memorable feelings is highly unreliable when you’re in your eighties. I forget lots of words and names now, and I used to be a spelling bee champion. But I’ll never forget the night I raced Michael Jordan. Yes, that Michael Jordan, the best basketball player in the world—EVER! All six feet six of him stood “this” close to me and flashed his famous “MJ” smile. We were waiting for a nasty Chicago rainstorm to let up. Rain was coming down in sheets, blown sideways by thirty mile per hour winds off always-breezy Lake Michigan. We were leaving the Northbrook Racquet Club. The Chicago Bulls basketball team had their practice facilities there and I played tennis there too. My grandchildren love this part of the story. Michael and I carried our own gym bags. He lugged a budging duffel bag stuffed with all his basketball practice equipment and CHICAGO BULLS stenciled on the top. It looked like it weighted a ton. Mine? It looked more like a small backpack. I had tossed my sweaty tennis clothes, Stan Smith white tennis shoes, my Jimmy Connors signature metal tennis racquet, and my shaving kit into the bag.

We waited. The rain wouldn’t let up. He suddenly looked at me. I looked back at him. He had that grin on his face. Everybody knows that  “23 grin.” I smiled back. I spoke first.

“Let’s go for it.” I said. I still can’t believe I actually spoke first.

He went “Humph. “

We continued to wait. It rained harder.

Finally, I said to him, “I’m going for it. I’ve got to get home for dinner. How about you?”

He looked at me. Again, he had that sly Jordan smile. “In this weather?”

“Come on, I’ll race you.” I really can’t believe I said that. This is where my grandkids crack up.

“You challenged Michael Jordan to a race!” They fell on the floor laughing their heads off. I’ve never said anything funnier, or more ridiculous in their opinion. I had just dared the greatest basketball player in the world to race me. Michael looked at me with an even bigger smile. He scratched his head as if he were mulling over the odds on a million-dollar bet.

“Where’s your car?” I asked.

He said, “See that Red Corvette, that’s me.”

I said, “See that green Volvo station wagon. That’s me.”

Then he said, “You’re on. One two-three—we’ll take off on three.”

I’m ready,” I said.

I looked at him. He looked at me. We gave each other a little salute.

“One, two, three!”

I heard “three”, glanced over my shoulder where he had been. The rain was  still pouring down, the light was dim. He was gone. Before I even got started – he was ten, twenty feet in front of me. I looked around. I swear I only saw a dim blur leaping into the Corvette, two red taillights glowing, an engines roar. He was gone.

The incident means much more to me now than when it happened. I have five grandchildren: Spencer, Houldin, Olivia, Jonas and Hunter. I love them all very much. I’m eager to show them the world, but I don’t get around much anymore, as the song goes. I want them to think of me as a pal, a youthful grandpa who can do everything they can do, even though I know it’s not possible, probably not even advisable. It’s not my job anymore, to be their pal. It probably never was. The grandpa they have is eighty-three and needs a walker to get around. I’ve been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. I feel like a car that’s gone from having an automatic transmission to a nineteen-fifties stick shift model.

My grandson Jonas wants to “be like Mike.” He’s got that intense competition gene, just like Mike. I bought him a vintage Bulls jersey, 23 with “Jordon “on the back. I told him that Michael is a hero to me. He could score fifty points a game, make the winning basket, but win it taking and making the last shot of the game. He was a real “clutch’ player. He always preached the value of hard work. “No matter how gifted you are, you need to put in the work, or you’ll never achieve your goals.”

“Michael never stopped believing in himself,” I tell Jonas.  “When he was retired he said, “One day, you might look up and see me playing the game at fifty. Don’t laugh. Never say never, because limits like fears, are often just illusions.”

I hope my grandkids will always remember that their grandfather raced Michael Jordan and I like to think that they will tell their kids the story. Now I think where did I get the chutzpah to talk to him? What would I give to be able to lose a race to Michael Jordan again?

Marshall Marcovitz, who died in 2020, was a much loved member of the IRP community. For Voices, he was the first photo editor and a frequent contributor of prose. 

 

Marriage on Skis

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by Sonya Friedman

Cross-country skiing became a central part of my winters and of my life. I even married my husband on cross-country skis.

I’d been trying to get Herman Engel to marry me for several years. We were living together; I was very close to his three children – his teenage daughter, Kathy, was living with us. But Herman – influenced by his former, painful, failed marriage – worried that matrimony meant the end of trying, the end of giving one’s all. He was happy in our present life. But, finally realizing how important marriage was to me, he thought: Why give her grief? We’d been together 5+ years.

Herman had a humorous way of wiggling his eyebrows when he was for something. Finally, assenting to our marriage, he wiggled them.

Living in NYC, we couldn’t always ski out of our Vermont cabin. So we often went to Pound Ridge, N.Y. There, in February of 1971, Herman arranged for us to visit a Justice of the Peace with two witnesses, none of whom we’d ever seen before. We arrived in our ski knickers, high socks, boots, and with skis and poles. The Justice held out a Bible for us to swear upon; we spurned it. Then he murmured – almost indistinguishably – a string of words ending with: “with this ring I do thee wed.” We didn’t have a ring. One of the witnesses – a huge man –  handed me his ring, which was so big it could have been my bracelet. I returned it to him, nodding thanks. I said, I do; Herman said, I do.  The Justice pronounced us man and wife and told Herman he could kiss the bride. Instead, Herman – now the wise guy –  solemnly shook my hand.  The Justice gave us a marriage certificate, and a brochure with a poem – “Hiawatha.”

In the car, on the way to the ski trails, I examined the poem. It said that as unto the bow the cord is, so unto man is woman. Though she bends him, she obeys him. Though she draws him, yet she follows. I yelled, “What is this crap?” Herman was laughing, hard. “Well,”  he said, “YOU were the one who wanted to get married.”

We then had a big fight about which skiing trail to take.

When we got back to our Greenwich Village apartment, we started preparing dinner for our son Tim and his girlfriend, and for Grace Paley – we’d invited them to dinner before we knew we were getting married that day. We alerted Tim and he brought over a Stevie Wonder record, “Drink, drink that toast – drink that wedding toast.” Delightful. Grace arrived and, upon receiving the news, phoned her partner Bob Nichols who was rather a recluse. “Bob,” she said, “they just got married!” “I’ll be right over,” he said.

They lived a block from us.

Within minutes, the doorbell rang, and Bob started literally running up the 82 stairs to our 5thfloor walk-up, shouting, “We’re next! We’re next!” It was HE who wanted to get married, and Grace who had demurred. They were married a few months later.

Later on my wedding evening, my mother phoned from Florida. “Where were you all day?” she asked. “I’ve been calling you.” “I was out getting married,” I answered. “Thank God, Mrs. Engel!” she said. (I was 39 years old, and she had become desperate.) “No,” I said, “I’m not Engel, I’m keeping Friedman.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she said. “Friedman is now only your TRADE NAME.”

Then Kathy returned after a weekend with her mother and confronted us.  Scowling, she said, “I hear you got married. Why wasn’t I a bridesmaid?” She looked around at our comfortable apartment and her cozy room. “Well, it’s alright with me, as long as nothing changes around here!”

Herman and I continued our happy life together. After a year, I asked him, “Well, are you glad you married me?” He wiggled his eyebrows vigorously.

As a writer/translator, for decades I wrote subtitles for foreign films (by Fellini, De Sica, Godard, others).  Then, I introduced “supertitles” to the world of opera, and worked for the Metropolitan Opera, New York City Opera, Seattle Opera and many other companies.  For the past 50+ years, I have vacationed in Vermont, summer and winter. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dan & Whit’s

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by Sonya Friedman

Country stores are a cherished tradition in New England and in Norwich, Vermont, this is no exception. Except that this store, Dan & Whit’s, is exceptional. Famous throughout the region, even rating as a tourist attraction, the store sits on Main Street, housed in a non-descript building, fronted by a parking lot on cracked asphalt and two gas pumps. A sprawling outdoor message board displays personal notices and news of events in nearby Vermont and New Hampshire towns. There’s a battered upright piano (anyone’s free to play it) and buckets of flowers for sale. On Thursdays, a knife-sharpener sets up outside. And often, fiddlers show up for free concerts, or to support some benefit.

The large window is plastered with ads and advice:

Fresh Vermont milk, Propane Tanks – No roller blading or skateboarding – Night Crawlers and Worms – Trout Flies – Shotgun Shells (no guns sold since 1972) – Hate does not grow in the rocky soil of Norwich, Vermont – Black Lives Matter.

But the proudest sign of all proclaims Dan & Whit’s motto:

IF WE DON’T HAVE IT, YOU DON’T NEED IT!

Inside it looks, at first, like any country grocery store: worn wooden floors, narrow stacked aisles. But upon inspection, you’ll find all manner of fresh, local produce – fruit, vegetables, dairies, Ben & Jerry’s ice cream of course. There are also dental, skincare, and basic health products, vintage cheeses, and a large selection of wines. And wine-tasting events. (Dan & Whit’s even has its own label at $6 to $10 a bottle.) At the back, there’s a deli fully stacked with meats and, if you like, cooked on a sizzling grill. Other side aisles offer a large selection of additional necessities – sponges, measuring cups, candles, and back scratchers.

Many unfamiliar with the store will not notice a small passageway beside the cooking operation. But follow it and you find yourself inside a huge barn-like structure, a vast warehouse. Someone nicknamed it “West Norwich” referring to its immensity. Here, you discover all manner of garden, plumbing, and home construction supplies: toilet seats and martini glasses, horse and sheep feed, lobster pots, post-hole diggers, espresso machines, ammunition (locked up), and firewood. There are also services for glass-cutting, key-making, and film-developing.

Prices for the same item may vary, since they keep the sale price the same as when they bought the item. Stuff they purchased in April may have a cheaper sale price than the same item they bought in September. You have to look.

Another hidden store treasure can be found by cautiously climbing up the very rickety stairs to the second floor – to a trove of clothing. Barn jackets, boots, bathing suits, replacement boot liners, wool pants, snowshoes, fishing waders, flannel wear, and pet supplies. If they don’t know you, you’ll have to be accompanied. Because a while ago, when you opened a box of boots, there might have been an old pair in there. People had put on the new boots and left their old boots in the box.

Wire was put up on the outside of the upstairs window after an employee downstairs saw a pair of boots flying out. Apparently, the hurler counted on picking them up on his way through the parking lot: he never did, the sheriff was waiting for him.

Many children in the area get their first summer, or after-school jobs at Dan & Whit’s. All employees are well paid.

This amazing store was started in the 1800’s.  In 1955, two men who’d worked in the store for years bought it:  Dan and Whit.  (The current owner is a young man named Dan – grandson of the original Dan Fraser.)  The store has long been a community center where locals socialize and gather to discuss important issues.  Bernie Sanders and Patrick Leahy, the Vermont Senators, always make it a campaign stop.  Even the price of local real estate is determined, in part, by proximity to the store.

One June day during the Covid-19 summer, barber chairs miraculously appeared, wheeled out onto the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. The townies, all wearing masks, treated each other to free haircuts (many, sorely needed). And phone orders to the store result in home deliveries for the sick and the elderly.

Customers can bring in a broken lawn-sprinkler or wrench or whatever and get free advice on how to fix it, rather than a sales pitch on buying a new one.  Casual drop-ins may ask directions to the Interstate and leave with a home-made apple pie.

The great tradition of the great Dan & Whit’s goes on:

“IF WE DON’T HAVE IT, YOU DON’T NEED IT!” Hip, hip!

As a writer/translator, for decades I wrote subtitles for foreign films (by Fellini, De Sica, Godard, others). Then, I introduced “supertitles” to the world of opera, and worked for the Metropolitan Opera, New York City Opera, Seattle Opera and many other companies. For the past 50+ years, I have vacationed in Vermont, summer and winter. 

 

 

An American in Mourning

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by Pat Fortunato

Gershwin and grief do not mix.

The first thing they should tell you in grief groups is that you should never, ever, go to a romantic musical while you’re in mourning. And of all the musicals in the world, the worst (because it’s the best) has to be An American in Paris.

Little did I know.

A short time after I became a widow, a good friend suggested we go to dinner and a play. I hadn’t the energy to make reservations or get tickets myself, nor the heart to say no. And since she did all the planning, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Perhaps I should have.

Dinner was fine and the show was delightful: all those songs by George and Ira Gershwin, that singing, that dancing, those sets. But, ah my friends, and oh my foes, it was not a lovely night. The show was sooooo romantic. And I had just lost my love.

Cue the tears.

I cried a little (surreptitiously, I like to think) through “’S Wonderful,” “Who Cares,” and even “The Man I Love” (Gulp). But then. The last song was “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” That did it.

I’m not ashamed of crying, but it does make some people uncomfortable. In fact, I read recently that nothing is as embarrassing as another person’s sorrow, and I’m usually able to control myself in public. But this time I was out of control. I didn’t just cry, I wept. Convulsive sobbing, tears splashing down my face and into my scarf, and perhaps onto the seat, staining it forever with my grief, which is a pretty romantic notion in itself. I couldn’t stop, not even when the song was over.

If my friend was rattled, she didn’t show it. She put her arm around me until the curtain fell, when she could whisk me out of the theater and into a cab. She rode home with me even though I live downtown and she’s an uptown girl and didn’t say a word as I wept all the way.

When we got to my building, the doorman, who figured something was wrong (they’re very perceptive that way), helped me out and walked me, still bawling, to the elevator. He asked if I was okay, although clearly I was not, and I blurted out through my blubbering, “I just saw a really wonderful play.”

Safely in my apartment, where I could weep and wail to my heart’s content, I stood for a moment inside the door, and suddenly stopped crying. Because at that very moment something occurred to me—something actually funny. Something about the doorman.

“What is this woman like,” the poor guy must be thinking, “when she sees a really bad play?

Indeed.

I cried often in the coming months, but not in public, at least not like that. And over six years later, things have gotten better. How much better? Well, that’s another story.

By the way, if you’re grieving —or lovelorn—or even if you’ve just had a really bad blind date—don’t even think about seeing any revival of An American in Paris. But if you must, take my advice and bring along a friend. And plenty of Kleenex.

After working as a writer, editor, and publisher, I formed my own company in 1984, optimistically naming it Mega Books. When I sold the company and retired, I started a blog called I Can’t Believe I’m Not Bitter, and now do everything I can to stay that way—including being a member of LP2.

 

Only You

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by Lisa Cristal

Smokey ruffled his somewhat luxuriant hair and pondered how it had come to this. Damn, he still felt the honey sugar high from his bender.

Last night at the bar was probably his lowest point. Some cute little cub had come over and started to flirt.

“I’ve always wondered what was in those picnic baskets you steal,” she cooed.

“I’m not that two-bit thief, Yogi Bear.” He knew he wasn’t aging well but surely he didn’t have the paunch of Yogi and a collection of ugly ties and hats. In his opinion, Yogi gave all bears a bad name.

“But you look so familiar. Who are you?”

He cleared his throat and looked deeply into her lovely brown eyes, “Only you,” he growled.

“Does that help?”

“I’m not sure that it does,” she admitted.

He pulled himself up to his full height. “How’s this? Only YOU can prevent forest fires!”

“OMG,” she tittered. “You’re Smokey the Bear. Wait until I tell my mom! My dad used to be so jealous of you. She would stop everything she was doing and run to the TV when your PSAs were on. In fact, about ten years ago my father told my mother that their marriage was much better now that you stopped appearing on TV. What have you been doing with yourself?”

It was as if she smacked him with a dead salmon. That’s when he left the bar. In the privacy of his own home he cracked open the honey jar and licked it all down.

But by the next morning he had an epiphany. He knew that global warming created dried-out forests ready to incinerate. Maybe he could secretly start a few “controlled” burns and then run in to help fight the fires. That would make him relevant again. A hero by tomorrow!

Unfortunately, the next day some campers looking to videotape bears in the wild quietly followed him into the woods. They watched him light some kindling and blow it in the direction of the water-starved forest. Using their stun guns they captured Smokey and turned him over to the authorities with the video evidence.

Smokey found himself in the jail cell with his nemesis, Yogi. The guard opened the cell door. Before leaving Yogi turned to Smokey. “Boo Boo paid my bail.  Stealing picnic baskets is one thing but burning down a forest to get attention is another.  I’m still smarter than the average bear.”

In her prior life as a trademark attorney Lisa Cristal only wrote non-fiction. The members of Writing Workshop helped her enjoy writing fiction and this assignment was writing fan fiction. 

 

 

European v. U.S. Medical Care—a Case Study

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by Robert Chan

In the year 2 B.C. (before COVID-19), while on vacation in Florence, I tripped on the way back from the bathroom and cracked my head open on the corner of a desk. It being 2 A.M. and not wanting to disturb my wife, Amy, I wrapped a towel around my forehead and returned to bed. At daybreak, unsettled by my dilated, different-sized pupils and the blood soaked towel, sheets, and pillows; my wife insisted that I seek medical attention. I declined; it would heal on its own, I didn’t want to miss the Pitti Palace, didn’t speak Italian, and wasn’t comfortable with becoming ensnared in a foreign system of medical care.

The hotel concierge told us that the Servizio Sanitario Nazionale would treat me free of charge, but it being early on the Sunday before Christmas, I’d receive more attentive treatment at a nearby private clinic—from which he would undoubtedly be receiving a kickback. I opted for the SSN. After giving my choice her usual consideration, Amy accompanied me to the private clinic.

On seeing the Palladian mansion surrounded by a lush garden, my eyes rolled back replaced by dollar, or rather Euro, signs.

Not having mastered the American technique of keeping patients waiting until they lose their patience, a doctor appeared in a few minutes. After examining me, he recommended a CAT scan and plastic surgery. A troupe of €s danced Busby-Berkeley-like before my eyes. Also, I didn’t want to lose a day or two of my vacation. So, I told him that, since the bleeding had stopped, a Band-Aid and a Tylenol would be sufficient. He responded like a judge after hearing Giuliani present a case of voter fraud, and Amy denied my appeal.

While the doctor roused a plastic surgeon from his Sunday morning repose, a technician administered the CAT scan that confirmed I was as hardheaded as I was hardhearted. Shortly thereafter, the surgeon arrived, perhaps lured by the scent of money. After explaining in clear English that, if I wanted to avoid a disfiguring Tony-Montana-like facial scar, I’d need an astronomical number of tiny stiches. With the Euro-meter spinning at warp speed, I felt like a foreigner getting into a cab on 59th Street and being taken to Grand Central by way of Pennsylvania. In any event, he preceded with such competence that my scar is barely visible.

Blessedly, what would have taken a couple days in the good ole U.S. of A had been expertly performed in three hours from beginning to end, but that only reduced the time until I’d have to confront the bill. What was the limit on my American Express Card? Did Italy have debtors’ prisons?

Knowing that our medical insurance wouldn’t cover foreign treatments, Amy had gotten us limited coverage via travel insurance. She’d already contacted them and been told that they would only cover what they deemed reasonable and necessary, insurance-speak for they’d pay bupkis.

As I approached the business office, I felt my heart beating quick and shallow at the base of my throat. Perhaps they’d have the courtesy to offer me a blindfold and a cigarette.

They presented me with the bill.

I looked.

I gasped in disbelief. My concussion must have been worse than I thought. I blinked several times and looked again, but number didn’t change. Then it hit me like a grand piano falling from a billionaire’s penthouse—it must be an Italian custom to leave out the final two zeros.

“Is this correct?” My voice trilled up like a high school nerd asking out the girl of his dreams.

“Si signore.”

“But 356 Euros, that’s like 425 dollars.”

“Si, I think so.”

A few weeks later I received, from Fly-By-Night Insurance Co. Inc., a check for $998. Accustomed to U.S. medicine, their computer program couldn’t pay less than that for a CAT scan and plastic surgery without decomposing into a puff of smoke and a mass of undifferentiated 0s and 1s.

The moral: We don’t know how bad we have it.

Robert N. Chan is a semi-retired litigator (Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in) and author of 10 published novels–see www.robertnchan.com. This piece was written for the IRP Writers’ Workshop expertly coordinated by Charles Troob and Leslie Bedford.

 

 

Tea Ceremony

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by Leslie Bedford

The room is silent. Our hostess, Sumiko, tucks the hem of her kimono under her bent knees. In front of her on the tatami are the utensils laid out for tea ceremony: a small ceramic tea bowl, a larger container for water; a lacquered tea canister, and a bamboo dipper, scoop and whisk.  Resting her left palm, fingers extended together, against her thigh, she reaches out with her right hand to ladle hot water from a large black pot into the tea bowl, swirling it briefly around before emptying it into the large container. Then, unfolding a red silk cloth from her obi, sash, she wipes the bowl two times. Once she has poured fresh water into the warmed bowl, she opens the lacquered canister to scoop out a measure of powdered tea and add it to the water.  Holding the bowl in one hand and the whisk in the other, and rhythmically tapping it on the rim of the bowl, she whips the tea into a green foam. Throughout, she holds herself still, her hands moving in choreographed, economical gestures, her eyes focused on each task.

It is our first tea ceremony and we are poorly prepared. But Sumiko, a long-time student of tea and other traditional arts, has promised to teach us what to do. We have taken off the house slippers she lent us to duck down into the entrance to the chashitsu, tearoom, positioning ourselves on the tatami, our legs folded under our thighs, our buttocks back against our feet. In front of us is the tokonoma; on this afternoon in early February, this alcove holds a tall white vase with a few artful branches of plum blossom and a hanging scroll with calligraphic Chinese characters brushed down its surface. Our hostess suggests we pause to admire it.

Sumiko nods to my husband to go first. She turns the bowl in both her hands until the more beautiful front side faces him and places it down on the tatami. He picks it up with both hands, turns the front away from himself and takes two or three short sips. Then she repeats the same series of steps and offers the bowl to me. The tea tastes very bitter.

The serene and silent flow of ritualized movements puts us in a meditative trance.  We are in a space without time or connection to everyday life. But this tranquil moment comes to an abrupt end with the appearance of two, small, lacquered dishes of cookies.  These are not the tasteless but exquisite sweets—perhaps tinted pink in subtle homage to the plum blossoms—we were expecting to accompany the tea. Instead, they are the lumpy, slightly burned, homemade chocolate chip cookies we’d made in the kitchen of the Catholic girls’ school up the hill from our apartment. We’d brought them as a hostess gift to Sumiko.  I gasp and then stifle an embarrassed giggle.

It would be some time before I learned that despite all its forbidding rules, tea ceremony is, at heart, simply about serving a guest a bowl of tea. The chocolate chip cookies belonged there as much as we did.

Leslie Bedford currently co-coordinates the Writing Workshop study group. Her professional life was spent working in, consulting to and teaching about museums.  This piece is part of a series called Tokyo Madeleine she wrote about the years she and her family spent living in Japan.

 

Great Explorations

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by Tom Ashley  

My great-grandfather, Sir James Benston, was born in Mansfield, Ohio, on May 12, 1865, the penultimate day of the American Civil War. He was an engineering graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and was the inventor of many navigational aircraft and automotive instruments. His electrical navigation devices would save many sailors’ lives. His invention of shatterproof glass was universally accepted by airplane and automotive manufacturers. He owned substantial stakes in Ford, Chrysler, and General Motors. By the age of forty he was a wealthy man.

Those were days of great adventure and exploration in both the United States and Europe.  His prowess made him so well known that he came to the attention of Sir Ernest Shackleton, resulting in an invitation to join the team of the legendary Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition (1914-1917). He was the only American in the fifty-four-man crew. He was also the eldest by four years.

The story of his ship, The Endurance, has been a well-told tale for over a century, but my grandfather gave me further insight into his father’s psyche and how, for over eight hundred days, he feared each would be his last. However, my great grandfather survived and was knighted by George V and returned to Detroit, his wife, two sons and his business. He was shattered by his experiences and began to sell off all of his companies. He realized he had a larger calling. He convinced Henry Ford and the powers behind General Motors, Albert Sloan and Charles Kettering, to donate millions toward the cure of the devastating diseases of cancer and cardiac arrest. These automotive giants’ names now appear on two of the world’s greatest innovative research organizations. My grandfather and his brother lived comfortably but not extravagantly. They served on the boards of both charities until their deaths. My great- grandfather donated his entire estate to the study of disease. He died peacefully at age ninety-four on my seventh birthday, April 1, 1957.

As a boy I dreamed about walking in my great-grandfather’s footsteps. I’d see polar bears, I’d live in an igloo with Eskimos, I’d spear fish for dinner. Cold weather wouldn’t faze me. After all, I’d survived the forceful, dank Detroit winters in my seven or eight years. Shackleton’s Antarctic venture was voraciously covered in the then age of great exploration – essentially a failure on one hand – that had left three dozen men stranded on the ice for over two years. But for a young boy to be directly related to one of these men was awesomely important, and I too would head off into this world of adventure.

I dreamed of returning home and telling my friends stories of sailing the great oceans, meeting indigenous peoples, mushing my team of huskies through ice floes and of all my difficult but satisfying exploits. I’d be given a key to the city and be on the front pages of the Detroit Free Press, the Detroit Times, and the Detroit News. I would even be called to Washington to meet Ike at The White House. Maybe later I’d take my team to the North Pole and be the first person to do both expeditions and return to even further acclaim.

But I’ve abandoned those visions and now dream of having a vodka martini on the patio at the Ritz Carlton in Malibu, overlooking scantily clad sun bathers gracefully draping themselves by the Pacific Ocean.

I came to love writing fifteen years ago when I joined the writing workshop at the IRP. It became a learning and bonding experience.  Thoughtful critiquing led me to expand on memoir and fantasy, and the talents of others has proved a great source of inspiration.

 

A Slight Misunderstanding

by

by Tom Ashley

(Based on an Overheard Conversation While Waiting for my Appointment at Sy Sperling’s Hair Club for Men)

“In defense of myself, I did NOT say you look fat! All I said was you look like you put on a LITTLE weight. I mean big deal, who cares!”

xx“indecipherable response”

“If you would let me complete my thoughts –  you NEEDED to put on a few pounds.”

xx“indecipherable response”

“Don’t you remember when we went to The Met a few years ago? And we were looking at the Rubens? Well THOSE were larger women and I told you then how they looked sexy … and beautiful, too! Remember?”

xx“indecipherable response “

“Well, I DO! CALM DOWN, CALM DOWN, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! Look, we’ve ALL gained a couple of pounds over the years. Well, even I HAVE, though not that many. I think there’s just a bit more of you to love.”

xx“indecipherable response”

“You don’t feel that way? A couple of extra pounds can help to smooth some wrinkles on a person’s face. It can make you seem even prettier. I hardly notice anymore.”

xx“louder indecipherable response”

“Are you getting angry with me? I meant this as a compliment. You BARELY had any wrinkles and as far as I’m concerned, you have NONE now!”

xx“even louder indecipherable response”

“HOLD ON! HOLD ON! As a matter of fact, just the other day I told someone your face, as far as I was concerned, showed NO SIGNS of aging. And you don’t even use Botox.”

xx“further indecipherable response “

“I think you’re taking this entirely the wrong way. Look, thirty per cent of the country is obese. And I certainly don’t consider YOU, of all people, OBESE!”

Pause.

“Hello, hello? Are you there? Hello?”

I came to love writing fifteen years ago when I joined the writing workshop at the IRP. It became a learning and bonding experience.  Thoughtful critiquing led me to expand on memoir and fantasy, and the talent of others has proved a great source of inspiration.