LifeTimes issue 3 | winter 2019 - Friends of the Lexington Council on Aging
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LifeTimes
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issue 3 | winter 2019
Welcome to the Neighborhood!
We invite you to discover a place where your loved one with
Alzheimer’s disease or dementia will truly feel at home, with
the support of specially trained care partners and the freedom
to define their own days. Opening Spring 2019, our all-new
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Visit our sister Artis Community in
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Creating positive partnerships the Artis way!
welcome center: 1840 Massachusetts Avenue, 2nd Floor, Lexington, MA 02421
coming spring 2019: 430 Concord Avenue, Lexington, MA 02421
www.artisseniorliving.com
An Equal Opportunity Employer-M/F/D/V
Certification from the Executive Office of Elder Affairs is pending.
About This Journal
issue 3
The Friends of the Lexington Council on Aging Editorial Board
are happy to sponsor this third edition of Mimi Aarens
lexington LifeTimes: a creative arts journal. Cristina Burwell
This twice-annual publication, which showcases Nancy Hubert
the creative talents of seniors who live or work in Pamela Marshall
Lexington, was started in 2017 based on a Bright Pamela Moriarty
Ideas grant proposal from Lexington author Mimi Cammy Thomas
Aarens. The Journal is overseen by a volunteer Kiran Verma
editorial board which sets the criteria for submission Copy Editors
and selects entries for inclusion. Distribution is Pamela Moriarty
primarily electronic with a limited number of Cammy Thomas
printed copies available.
Starting with the Summer 2018 edition, the Managing Editor &
Journal has gratefully received underwriting support Designer
from local businesses, recognized on the front and Kerry Brandin
back covers. The Friends can extend this opportunity
Friends of the
to others wishing to express their care for and about
Council on Aging
Lexington seniors. If you would like to become a Liaisons
Journal underwriter, please contact the Friends by
Janice Kennedy
sending an email to friends@Friendsof theCOA.org Jane Trudeau
or by mail to: Suzanne Caton
Lexington Friends of the Council on Aging
P.O. Box 344 Printing
Lexington, MA 02420
LPS Print Center
If you are interested in having your creative
work considered for a future edition, please see
the submission guidelines on the Friends of the
Lexington Council on Aging website: On the Cover
www . friendsofthecoa . org byHayg Boyadjian
front: Nine
back: Time Beast
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 1
Table of Contents
3 18
Winnowing Ironing Man
by James Baldwin by Nancy Kouchouk
6 19
Helpless Colors of My Messiah
by Irene Hannigan by Christin Milgroom Worcester
7 21
Leaving Home Lost and Found
by Don Yansen by John R. Ehrenfeld
Illustration by Lynne Yansen
10 22
Lunch Lessons #METOOSWEET16
Geraldine Foley
by by Barbara Dickenson Simpson
Illustration by Linos Dounias
12 24
What Are Words Worth? Back to Torretta
by Robert Isenberg by Sgt. Dan H. Fenn, Jr., 767th Squadron
13 28
Breathing Ming and Me
by Victoria Buckley by Rebecca Baker Morris
14 31
Watercolor Gallery: Picture This Contributors
Maureen Bovet, Lynne Yansen,
by
Mardy Rawls & Joanne Borstell
2 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019
Winnowing
by James Baldwin
My dear, sweet 59-year-old soul mate wife a cozy condo. We are at the “winnowing”
has suddenly emerged from the basement, stage. Winnowing is not that easy. It makes
rivulets of tears trickling from both eyes. Try- us adventurers in a jungle of family memo-
ing to talk while she cries, she struggles to rabilia, discovering and recovering ancient
get the words out. “I—need you—to help clippings, trophies, baseball cards, letters,
me with this—decision.” meaningful T-shirts, photographs (oh there
My initial reaction is surprise and concern. are endless photographs) and now, today,
There are, after all, lots of tears. But then the stuffed animals.
I smile both inside and out because in her Had we considered it in advance, we prob-
arms she is clutching five stuffed animals. ably would have expected to be emotionally
Each of the five has a name. ambushed somewhere on this adventure,
The largest is a tiger, Elaine, but the power of a rediscovered letter home,
named in honor of one of the a photo of the two older boys holding their
several older sisters who be- little brother and now the stuffed animals
stowed the beast on my wife. is still shocking, somehow debilitating yet
There is a skunk named Louel- exhilarating at the same time, and bitter-
la, a panda named, sweet. It seems that time
of course, Teddy. has passed not
Piglet is there, too. just way too
The quintet is com- fast. It seems
pleted by a small to have utterly
baby duck known to disappeared.
my wife as Laurie’s And now
Duck. Laurie is the stuffed
another of animals.
my wife’s They aren’t
older sis- my stuffed ani-
ters who mals. They are my
had, for wife’s. She’s discovered
reasons unknown, abandoned the crea- them in the bottom (naturally) of a trunk,
ture many years ago. My wife, being my wife, under the eaves in a remote corner of the at-
naturally adopted the orphan and has loved tic. While she is, in fact, the one who packed
it ever since, despite its unromantic but his- them originally (and how many times now
torically accurate name. since she was, what, 12 years old?) she was
And now she arrives in the kitchen in rath- still caught off guard, her emotional detec-
er desperate straits with this entourage of tors at parade rest when Elaine and friends
ragamuffins. suddenly appeared bringing with them the
Recent empty nesters, we are now mov- power of countless sweet and innocent
ing out of our family home of 15 years into memories.
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 3
Totally surprised, she was overcome by she needs me to do what good mates do in their sudden appearance at a time when we these circumstances. Help her come to a dif- are supposed to be winnowing. Countless ficult decision. times in the last few weeks she has been the Initially, I have to admit to chuckling at the strong one, rhetorically asking me, “when is scene. Her tears and emotion seem dispro- the last time you used that?” as I clutch one portionate to the downright forlorn and rag- of somebody’s old lacrosse sticks. The words tag group of animals her arms encircle. My of some wise but emotionless person ring in years of experience save me though, and I my mind. “When in doubt, throw it out.” recognize that I’m on the border of danger- But these…these are the stuffed animals. ous territory, a territory with which most Every morning, for years, they were carefully, husbands are quite familiar, and risk being comfortably arranged on their bed. Clearly, disrespectful of her feelings. This is not rec- they are not lacrosse sticks or soccer balls. ommended. They are something else entirely. Catching myself, I search for the words Yes. They are now several shades of grey that might calm her and provide the wisdom darker than in their youth. Most of the furry she’s looking for. This, too, is a mistake. She parts have coalesced into various little balls has a gene that allows her to see through scattered about their worn cloth skin. Elaine any manipulation. No, she will demand to the tiger came with two piercing, metallic hear what I really think, what I would do, not blue green eyes (somewhat like her donor). what I think she wants to hear. Once mesmerizing they are now a dull plastic So I proceed with care. I explain that I green. Their dilapidated condition, though, know what those animals once meant to her, matters not a whit to my wife. Their faces are not that they’ve lost any meaning over the as lovable as ever. These were her “friends,” years, mind you. I venture that we’re enter- her confidants. They were loyal and true. ing a new phase of our mutual lives together They were sources of solace. They were de- and that this is the perfect time to move on pendable. They were always there for her. and leave things like this behind in a literal And now, faced with this painful decision sense, although I acknowledge they will al- she is paralyzed. It is a moment when I see ways be with her in spirit. I say these things several of the sides of my wife. There is, as with as much calm as I can muster, but hon- always in times like these, the practical side. estly am not so sure of them myself. Will I, We won’t have much space in the new house. for example, be able to discard my son’s first If we don’t exercise some good judgment baseball glove? I am not so sure. and discipline in the winnowing process, Then I watch with great interest and, ad- we’ll be out of storage space in short order. mittedly, some trepidation as my wife’s prac- And these are scruffy old stuffed animals, tical and emotional selves grapple with com- for goodness sake. “I haven’t even looked at promise. Through her tears she reasons. them since we moved in here 15 years ago,” “Well, I—can’t just throw them—away,” the practical wife reasons through the tears. she stammers and the very thought of that Seconds later the years of love and friend- brings more tears. Then she arrives at the ship overwhelm her reason, and she stam- compromise. “I need to help them find a mers that she knows she has to toss them. new home,” she decides. But that reality is a bit too much to bear, and With that she marches outside to the 4 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019
curb, Elaine et al in hand, where we have left flow freely just as all the memories do, rec- an array of other items also looking for new ognizing the age of innocence gone by in a homes: bookshelves, desks, bins of toys, flash. the remains of thirty years of family life that Now I’m operating purely on emotion. seem to disappear magically once deposited There is only one thing to do. I quickly but at the curbside. tenderly gather up Piglet, Elaine, Teddy, At this point I lose track of this drama as Louella and Laurie’s Duck. They do not need I focus on the next box to pack. I don’t re- a new home. They have one, and so it shall alize that my wife has reentered the house remain. And I have to confess, the feeling of and resumed her winnowing tasks. Not hav- them in my arms really helps. I am doing the ing seen her for what seems like a long time, right thing. I go outside to check, and she’s nowhere to Much as my wife started this drama, I en- be found. I imagine the worst. I envision her, ter the house with my arms full of stuffed despondent, wandering the neighborhood animals, my eyes full of tears. I am both trying to cope with her grief. surprised and relieved to hear her footfalls I get to the curbside to a touching scene. echoing in the now vacant kids’ bedrooms Each of the five animals has been carefully upstairs. She isn’t sadly pacing through the placed. Elaine on a bookshelf. Louella perched neighborhood after all. lovingly on the edge of the toy bin. Each one I call to her and ask her to come to the looking outward at their hoped for rescuers. top of the stairs where she peers down and But each one quite—alone. I can only con- sees me laden with her friends. The woman jure that my wife has assumed that one per- I love bursts out laughing at the sight. She, son who would take the whole lot of them of course, had departed from her place of is very unlikely. So each one is adorable, but sadness. She had accepted that the universe quite alone, abandoned, plaintively search- would find them a new home, and it was ing and hoping to be rescued by a passerby, time to move on, but she hadn’t taken me someone who may have more sympathy for with her to that place. Didn’t even realize their plight and appreciation for the pure she had to. unconditional love that only a stuffed animal Smiling, she comes down the stairs and can bring. embraces all of us. Together we laugh at As I witness this scene, I think of my the poignant absurdity of it all. Together we wife walking off her sadness as she trudges place each of them, Piglet, Elaine, Teddy, through the neighborhood. Louella and Laurie’s Duck, snuggled close to Then my eyes settle on those of Laurie’s each other, in the corner of the living room Duck, and it hits me. The animals unleash all couch. We assure them that they will be the memories for me as well. All the Little moving with us. League games. The backyard games of catch. We take iPhone photos of the group to The games of h-o-r-s-e at the basket in the keep for posterity, and to remember this driveway. The stories. The love. They all crazy moment. come cascading down on me, and I, too, am Perhaps only they know that there will be ambushed. Standing there at the curbside another trunk in another remote corner of before an audience of five stuffed animals, I the attic in the cozy new condo. ♦ am amazed and powerless as my own tears winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 5
Helpless
by Irene Hannigan
Only a lamppost
remains
at the street’s edge
where the white Cape
with black shutters
and red door has been
for generations.
Every single maple and pine—
chopped, hacked, severed, split,
enlarging the parcel of land
that was big enough
for so long
for so many.
The backhoe’s jaws
crunch the shingles,
bash in the windows,
crumble the foundation,
devour the bricks
of the latest victim
as I wait for the epidemic
to spread to the
house across the street
from mine
that is
FOR SALE.
6 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019
Leaving Home
by Don Yansen
I left home September 5th, 1959, deter- teens, lots of girls my age—and the real me.
mined never to return. Five years earlier, my Outwardly, I went through the daily motions
father moved our family of five, without ask- of life on the farm like a robot—a dreaming
ing, from suburban Seattle to a small island robot.
five miles from the Canadian border. The In the Fall of ‘58, I applied to MIT and to
island had 50 fulltime residents and three my joy, and my father’s amazement, they
children in the one-room schoolhouse. accepted me. From the moment of my ac-
Our new home was a dilapidated, un- ceptance, I was simultaneously petrified and
heated farmhouse built by subsistence impossibly overconfident. One moment I
homesteaders in would be fantasiz-
1895. There was ing about stepping
no running water up to the podium
or indoor plumb- in Sweden and ac-
ing—no tv, a hand cepting my prize in
cranked phone on physics, the next,
a 20 party line and I pictured flunking
a two-seat out- all my classes and
house down the going back to the
hill a ways. The farm—a truly hor-
house came with rifying thought.
200 acres of forest and poor, rocky, farm I imagined Boston teeming with people,
land. Everything needed fixing, 5 miles of yes!—even Jewish people—I wondered if
falling down fences, collapsing hay barns, they looked different. I couldn’t wait!
the homestead itself. Finally, the day came to leave. On the drive
Initially, it was exciting for a boy like me, with my parents from our farm to the ferry
living the rural farm life—felling trees, chop- dock (about 3 miles), three things circled my
ping fire wood, driving tractors, pickup mind: I was never coming back, I would be-
trucks, hunting and fishing year round—but come a great physicist and finally, I hoped I
by my mid-teens the “Little House on the could figure out how to get girls to take their
Prairie” had turned into my nightmare. clothes off. At that point, I knew more about
I was lonely. There were no other teens. cattle than teenage girls.
With a father whose parenting style was Beneath those thoughts, though, an omi-
“my way or the highway” and an evangelical nous voice whispered, “You can’t manage
Christian mother, immense, unspoken frus- your life away from the farm.” That voice,
tration brewed. I felt imprisoned. unfortunately, was never far away.
By 16, I was obsessed with getting as far Arriving in Boston at dusk, I was let out of
from the farm as possible, but was afraid to my cab from the airport in Kendall Square.
tell anyone. I began living two lives: a secret, The air was nauseating with the smell of soap
silent life—one filled with interesting people, and chocolate. It was, also, deserted—my
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 7
heart sank. I walked over to the back of MIT seemed genuinely puzzled by my situation.
and was met with old wooden army build- He looked at me for a few seconds, then
ings from WWII. I was shocked. This was advised me to “read the book.” I cringed,
nothing like the University Bulletin! It sud- thanked him, and left. Walking back to my
denly hit me, I knew no one, this place was room, visions of being sent back to the farm
old and ugly and I was probably not smart flashed in my mind. “No!” I screamed to
enough anyway. “I can’t do this” rang inside myself. “Hell or High Water, I will learn this
my head. I wanted to turn around, but all I stuff.”
had was a one way ticket and not much mon- I survived. I didn’t grow to love my college,
ey. I had to stay. but I really loved my new home, Boston, and
The next morning I walked to Back Bay and the people that came to live here. I realized
instantly fell in love with Boston. Thousands most people have their “farm” or “calculus.”
of students and young people were mov- Though I moved 3000 miles away, parts of
ing into apartments, dorms and fraternities. the farm, my parents, are still with me.
In Back Bay, girls were everywhere. Boston Last summer I took my two oldest
looked like nirvana. grandsons on a hike I often did when, as a
My first class was, oddly enough, Humani- teen, I needed some alone time. It was a
ties. I was characteristically overconfident mile or so of bushwhacking west from the
for no reason. I came into the class with a farm through primeval forest.
new friend from Chicago. As we entered our We walked under huge Douglas firs, over
row in the middle, three boys rushed past sunny knolls covered with 6-inch thick moss,
us to grab seats right in front of the Instruc- following deer trails everywhere—no roads,
tor. From the moment the instructor started no houses, no power lines.
speaking until class was dismissed, those I told them stories of life on the farm when
boys wrestled verbally to demonstrate that I was their age—the once a week baths in
each one knew more than anyone in the sheep watering tubs, the whole family in
class, including the instructor. one big bed one night during a fierce winter
They tore apart accepted ideas, proposed storm, nights of hearts and charades often
new theories, and constantly challenged the by candle light, shooting my first deer.
instructor. I soon learned they were from The woods were just as I had left them 60
the Bronx High School of Science—what was years ago.
that?
I was aghast—how had they learned so Like a wild bird suddenly freed from
much? More worrisome was—how could
I learn enough to even talk with them? Al-
a cage so small that it could not
ready shy about asking questions, now I was open its wings, I flopped along the
petrified to even open my mouth. If I did, it
would be clear to everyone—I was essential- ground, finally rising haltingly into
ly illiterate. the unknown, powered by dreams of
I also had trouble, initially, with calculus.
Panicked about flunking such a core course great heights and far distances.
at mid-term, I went to my faculty advisor in
the Math department, Prof. Abramson. He ♦
8 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019Lynne Yansen Acrylic on canvas board Old Hay Barn 12” x 16” winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 9
Lunch Lessons
by Geraldine Foley
Illustration by Linos Dounias
Should there be a prearranged agreement her teacher-husband home from school as
as to who will explain the facts of life to the it was time to collect her for the impend-
children? Maybe a sentence or two in the ing event. They would drop their 5-year-old
prenup setting forth whether it falls to the daughter off with us enroute to the hospital.
mother to tell the girls, and the father to tell The husband would come for her after the
the boys, for instance. Or I suppose, there’s birth. It all went smoothly, and as planned.
always putting a plan in place to move to a Within the week we got together and met
working farm so that it could all take care of the new little one. My sons did not appear
itself. very captivated with this rather inert little
It’s just that it is all so awkward. creature who had just joined the play group.
In my own instance the issue was some- They looked, asked her name, and then went
thing I hadn’t even contemplated. As the swiftly on with their busy lives.
mother of two sons, I was blindsided. However, it seems they were not as non-
I suppose it all started because a pregnant plussed as it first appeared. This became
friend had asked if her oldest could stay the evident when about a week after that, the
day with us when it came time for her to question came: “So where do babies come
deliver. The families had often visited back from anyway?” I was gobsmacked.
and forth and our children were well used to My sons were 3½ and 5 at the time and
each other. sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for their
On the randomly appointed day, I got the lunch. Astoundingly, it was the youngest son
call from the mother that she had summoned who was making the inquiry. The older one
10 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019looked at him admiringly, then looked to me. That shut him up and they both skulked out And so it would go as the eldest remained of the kitchen and away from their agitated speechless, as if he were watching a very in- mother. I was drained. I couldn’t be expected teresting tennis match, while the younger to paint a complete picture all in one sitting, one did all the heavy lifting with a ceaseless could I? They were of such tender ages. They volley of questions, one right after the other, would have to fill in the details with their fa- trying to get to the bottom of it all. ther at some later date, I determined. They I was at the kitchen counter, my back to- didn’t need any further information from me wards them, making sandwiches, multiple any time soon, in my estimation. sandwiches! I pretty much stayed in that Several weeks after that, we were driving mode until the counter was full of them. I into Boston, to meet up with their father, was wondering if I could start stacking them who would then relay them home. I remem- up in the refrigerator. The idea of eye contact ber it still, exactly where we were (the street throughout this line of questioning seemed next to the Museum of Fine Arts), but most more than I was capable of. It was all too especially, I recall the sound of the sigh that much too soon. And I was furious that it was heaved out from the depths of the small falling to me to be the sole respondent. Why, boy’s being. I knew it was serious, maybe ur- for the love of Mike, couldn’t they address gent. their concerns to himself? No, the explana- I immediately pulled over, turned off the tion of the origins of life was landing com- car, turned around, and asked, with undivid- pletely in my lap and I was practically a kid ed attention: “Darlin’, what is it?” myself. I gave it my best shot, blithering on With a pause and another pent up exhala- about the eggs and the sperm and how they tion, the tortured little one said: “I just will all got together and grew into a baby, in the never be a daddy when I grow up.” mommy’s stomach, for 9 months. So there “What do you mean you won’t be a dad- you have it. dy?” I said, flabbergasted. The child couldn’t quite wrap his head “Well, nobody will tell me how to do it,” he around the dynamics and unrelenting follow said soulfully. up clarification was persistently sought. So I “Alright,” I said, pausing to collect my cour- went for a book. It was kind of a children’s age, “the daddies put the sperm in with their book I had put aside for when the day came. . . penis.” The two boys gave out an almighty But, alas, the day had come, years ahead of shriek, as if someone was being ax murdered. my expectations. I flipped through the book Given the customary use of their personal with chickens and cows and puppies, with equipment, I announced: “It is impossible to all their respective paraphernalia. Words like go to the bathroom at the same time.” “uterus” and the “birth canal” were bandied The screaming stopped. . . the dismay too, about. They studied the pictures and consid- I gather, as mercifully there was never an- ered the words, and still were not quite get- other question on the subject after that.— ting the hang of it. “But how do the sperm get And by the way, the interrogator is now the in?” the small man demanded to know. Ex- father of three. ♦ asperated, I exclaimed: “For god’s sake they get in the same way it all gets out, through the birth canal . . . now finish your lunch!” winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 11
What Are Words Worth?
by Robert Isenberg
A while ago I wrote a piece suggesting that word said is very boring. Ms Shelton seems
the word so may look small, but it was defi- to be saying said is oversaid!
nitely a bully. I also said that so is an obnox- I can imagine said’s reaction after it read
ious braggart. I explained what so had done this book. I’m sure said would have said
to the word very. something like, “After all the times you peo-
For many years when accepting a favor or ple have used me, it finally comes to this?
a gift, most people would say, “Thank you I guess you’ll finally be happy when it’s all
very much.” So being so set its sights on very. been said and done.”
Now people say, “Thank you so much.” This writer doesn’t stop with said. She
When so applied for this job it showed off wants the reader to be roused. For instance,
by saying, “Look what I can do that very can’t she cites an example, “He backed away from
do!’ So took a deep breath, exhaled and tiny the growling dog.”
so became sooooooooo. Her point is this is a very boring sentence.
So grinned and offered, “I can be as large Leilen’s suggestion is, “Slowly and carefully,
as you want me to be. It depends on the size he backed away from the dog.” My sugges-
of the favor or the gift you’ve received.” tion is that he ran like hell from the growl-
Now very is sitting on the sidelines practic- ing dog. Having had some experiences with
ing deep breathing. growling dogs, the last thing I want to do is
I cannot tell you how many letters I re- move slowly. When dogs growl, I don’t worry
ceived from fans of both very and so. Fans about being boring.
for so were upset that I had implied so had This author even takes umbrage with the
been a blowhard in order to get the job. word boring. In no uncertain terms, she ar-
Very fans were just very upset. gues that the word boring is boring. How
One letter read: “I read your column re- can the word boring, which is so devastating,
garding very and so. I was FURIOUS! I’ve be boring? What is worse than being called
been using the phrase thank you very much boring? Trust me, lady, in the world of name-
all my life and I’m not about to change now!” calling, there are very few substitutes for the
Signed, So What. word boring.
Another letter: Dear Mr. Robear, “Don’t In the article about so, I also wrote about
you think there is enough competition in the yet. I mentioned that few people were able
world? You didn’t have to pin very against so to define yet. I’m truly grateful for the hun-
to make your point. This letter was signed, dreds of letters I received defining yet. Or
Mr. I. Rate. should I say trying to define yet.
Someone just wrote, “Soooooo very Yet’s biggest complaint is being misunder-
troubled!!!” stood.
It seems someone has dared to take on I received a letter, “So is the definition of
an even more inflammatory subject. I just yet ‘up until now’ or ‘at this time’?
discovered a book asking to Banish Boring They signed off, “I’ll advise, but not yet.” ♦
Words! by Leilen Shelton. This piece says the
12 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019Breathing
by Victoria Buckley
It is another day, The air outside is thick and muggy;
Another 5:30 in the morning. The dawn light is dusky with smog.
The machines breathe There is no noise, no wind.
Wheezy like an old accordion. I pause, tipping my head back,
The green and red lines jerk Leaning hard on my crutches.
Across the screen, I glare up at the gray-gold sky.
Demanding attention. I yell, my voice angry and breaking,
“I need a miracle!”
His hand in mine is cold and dry, I hear light footsteps behind me.
A large bald man lying still, I peer through tear-stained contact lenses
His stomach a big snowdrift under the sheet. And see a slight woman with kind eyes
I hear the sheet rustle like dried leaves. Framed by long brown hair.
He cannot speak or see from so far away. I do not know her,
I wish he would return. Yet she gently embraces me,
His hand squeezes mine; Strong thin arms in a sleeveless dress.
“Reflex only” they say but I know better. And she says, “Let’s pray.”
I squeeze back matching the wheezing We are alone together on this high hill
machine. In the city still asleep at dawn.
We stay connected. I say, “Heavenly Father, come here
There are five tubes in and three out. And be with him, bring him healing
Now he twists around in bed, power.”
Restless movements going nowhere. She prays, “Lord, have mercy and draw
The beeping machine gets agitated too. near.”
I lean closer, and whisper to him, We hug each other.
“The Holy Spirit is entering you now, Am I leaning too hard?
Let it heal you and do not fight it.”
I drive to work.
He quiets and the sheet is still again. There, the phone light is blinking red—
There is a message—
No more bad news please—
Hold your breath—
Push 2 for messages—push 0 to listen—
“It is amazing—
He is breathing on his own now.”
I breathe out—
Have I been holding my breath for days?
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 13watercolor gallery
Picture This
Maureen Bovet Watercolor
English Robin 10” x 7”
14 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019Lynne Yansen Ink with Watercolor Wash Three Pots On Window Sill 12” x 15” winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 15
Mardy Rawls Watercolor
The Chiesa Farm on Adams Street 22” x 28”
Mardy Rawls Watercolor
The Morehouse’s House on Vinal Haven Island 22” x 28”
16 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019Joanne Borstell Watercolor and ink
St. Brigid’s Church, Lexington 18” x 24”
Joanne Borstell Watercolor and ink
Sacred Heart Church, Lexington 18” x 24”
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 17Ironing Man
by Nancy Kouchouk
His bent posture framed “I must buy tangerines!”
by the doorway, he sweeps he says, searching his
desert’s dust from his pockets for coins.
one room shop. He hesitates mid-step.
The ironing man labors Chickens cluck their
disapproval underfoot.
over cloth, pressing at seams.
His frayed gallabiya sways Minaret calls.
to the clip-clop of hooves, He closes louvered doors,
flute man’s trills, and walks towards the mosque
greetings of the day. fingering his amber beads.
Hand poised mid-air,
he glimpses the floral
fabric of a nubile girl.
He grips rag around iron’s
hot handle on its way
back down to work.
Iron meets wet cloth
with a hiss. A bed of red
coals flickers in the half light.
He folds warm linen
with a smile.
He sees her again:
delicate ankles, same
floral dress. She stands
at the fruit seller across
the narrow street.
18 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019Colors of My Messiah
by Christin Milgroom Worcester
When confirmed in December 1963, by the isn’t enough, so I pull the coat onto my lap.
first black Episcopal bishop, I become I’m too cold. I tuck the coat behind
an official member of my church. I me and refill the sleeves. Adjust-
receive a white communion ing my hat, I worry my hair will
wafer and sip red wine from “muss” before the coffee hour
a golden chalice held by the following the ceremony.
Right Reverend Burgess. Ceremony… Hmmm. If I’m
Why he is “right” and my ready for this honor, I’d
priest, Reverend Foley, only be listening not fidgeting.
“reverend” is a mystery to Without moving, I peek at
me. At eleven, I assume be- my mother. She glares with
ing the “Suffragan Bishop eyes that say, “Sit. Still.” I
of Massachusetts” makes know fidgeting doesn’t fit
Burgess more correct. this grown-up passage into
With damp hands I hold the church community.
my new, red leather prayer After receiving my
book on my knees. A cross prayer book at Confirma-
and my name are em- tion four months ago, I
bossed in gold. With a cu- decide to become a “faith-
rious fingertip, I trace the ful servant” to God. That
letters CHRISTIN LEE MIL- proves impossible. I con-
GROOM and grin. My par- tinue to shift and squirm.
ents call me Christin only I easily avoid Mom’s wrath
when there’s trouble. My by appearing to follow
attention, like my moving along in my book. My
fingertip, slides up, down quiet gasp and sideways
and across as I try focusing glance assure me she’s
on Bishop Burgess’s drone. too busy praying to notice
It’s a mosquito buzzing two cards fall to my lap.
during the wrong season. The Duty of the Commu-
Raised seams on my nicant card reads, “Strive
white cotton gloves fight earnestly to follow Je-
embossing for atten- sus Christ as Lord and
tion. Distraction shifts to Savior by patterning his
my ever-fidgeting body. daily habits…” This card
I’m too hot. I free arms doesn’t use her, so I de-
from sleeves and slide cide it is only for boys. I’m
my coat onto shoulders as I’ve watched my relieved. I’m challenged enough by parental
mother do. Soon, this grown-up gesture expectations. My focus wanders away after
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 19reading phrases like, “Apostolic Rite of Lay- by cross-carrying, taper-bearing acolytes. ing on of Hands. . .” Choir members in matching cassocks follow. Each Sunday since Confirmation, I search Backs against wooden pews, heads slightly for comfort on the wooden pew, and stare bowed, and eyes gazing upward at the gold- ahead at the stained-glass pieces of Jesus, en cross atop the altar, girls worship. This the Good Shepherd, for whom my church pageantry fills my Sundays for a decade. in Waban is named. Once my mind joins my Shortly after my Confirmation, Father Fol- eyes fixing on colors streaming in with the ey transfers, and we leave Good Shepherd. morning sunlight, I feel calm… for a moment. Dad stops singing, brothers stop serving, The weekly sitting, standing, and kneel- Mom takes us to Church of the Messiah. Go- ing are habitual, so I appear to be dutifully, ing from shepherd to messiah seems a move piously engaged as lips mouth memorized in the right direction. Unfortunately, Father words. Years of sitting quietly between fidg- Mike’s too casual and, surprisingly, I think I eted minutes in hour-long services fill my miss incense and bells. So, I refuse to attend head with word placement on the prayer services. My precocious rebellion rises at book page. By these words and movements age twelve in February 1964. that crowd me every week, I track the time “Practicing religion is important to our left before bell ringing, incense burning, and family, Chrissy. We’ll have to find a way. You hymn singing will end. belong to the church and it’s what we do.” Knowing my four brothers are more un- “Nope. Father Mike isn’t even ‘almost comfortable than I in their wool pants and right’ like Father Foley!” button-down collars provides little solace. Mom has a plan. The first of many conces- Watching my oldest brother, Freddy, pinch sions to me follows. On Wednesday after- Wally who is pulling at the tie squeezing his noons, she drives me to Messiah. I spend one neck entertains me. He often forgets the hour in the deserted sanctuary. No sounds. “over, under and around the tree” formula No words. All I hear are my thoughts as they for knotting his tie. Michael dutifully enter- shift into feelings. Solitude sparks an under- tains my youngest brother, Carson. standing that religious ritual isn’t spirituality. Pinching thighs, shifting bottoms, and sti- I don’t need church to feel peace reach into fling giggles doesn’t contribute to an uplift- my soul. Temperature’s perfect. No brothers ing, holy experience. But, we are a family in poke or pinch. Being gloveless and hatless church. My mother “dresses” the altar dur- is the key. This feeling needs no incense or ing women’s guild. My Jewish father sings bells. tenor in our choir. Eventually, my brothers The wonder of colorful windows around will assist the priest as gowned acolytes. the sanctuary fills my mind. Mesmerized by Girls smile in stiff dresses, matching hats, the afternoon light’s dance through the glass, and white gloves. We don’t serve the con- I embrace the rainbowed walls as symbols gregation anything but coffee. Once the of God’s presence. I kneel. My heart feels organ playing begins, the only women prayer; I no longer recite what’s in my mind. allowed near the altar are in the choir. Mom touches my shoulder as Wednesday Wearing elaborately embroidered vest- church ends. My smile greets hers as I stand. ments dictated by the church calendar, Fa- Although creaking, my knees don’t mind… ♦ ther Foley processes down the aisle flanked 20 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019
Lost and Found
by John R. Ehrenfeld
The Kolin Torah moves toward the Bimah,
Its story once more being told.
Torn from its home in Czechoslovakia
By Nazi soldiers passing through the town,
Tossed in a pile of exotic artifacts
From other Temples throughout Europe,
No more than a relic of a people lost—
A symbol of the Glory of the Reich—
To be ungraciously put on display in
A Museum—never-to-be-built—
Nor were the false dreams of the horde
That stripped it from its rightful home.
Found by a miracle, after the closing of the war,
Too old and worn to share the comfort
Of the other Torahs in the sacred Ark,
It rests, in its own display case, in safe repose.
The Torah comes alive once more each year,
Moving down the aisles, touched and kissed,
On its way to bare its ancient words
That remind us of our place in time.
It asks us to remember how we lived this year,
And hands us words to guide us through the next.
It offers us a choice to live or die, not literally,
But in the kind of person we will be.
It shouts to us its story: “I have died,” it says,
“And so have those who heard the words
That rose from my parchment body to their ears.”
Lost, not at the hands of the Great Decider,
Who sits in judgment on this Day of Days.
But by those of men who thought they
Were Better Than All the Others.
Their mistake might just be the error
That Yom Kippur exhorts us not to make.
In its lonely Torah coils, I find the strength
I need to face the challenge of a world
Where Lost and Found do alternate too much.
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 21#METOOSWEET16
by Barbara Dickenson Simpson
It was a crisp late autumn afternoon the Suddenly I fully comprehended what a ridic-
week before Thanksgiving in Carnegie, Penn- ulous idea it was to think his wife would in
sylvania, a small borough of Pittsburgh. I was any way be able to do anything. Why would
returning from an afternoon of holiday shop- she even care?
ping downtown. All day Sunday I found myself distracted by
I was walking up our 300-foot driveway a growing anger I was experiencing for the
and just arrived at the front of the three-story first time. Why, I began to question, does this
ornate Victorian when the ground floor man feel so entitled to do this, to force him-
tenant, Hank, a 30-something stockbroker, self on me? Maybe entitled wasn’t the right
stepped from behind a huge old oak. word. Safe. He knew nothing unpleasant was
“Look at my cock, Barbara. I got it hard just going to happen to him. He had touched me
for you.” once—molested was the technical term—
I’d seen Hank’s penis once and made the Summer I was 12, my first visit with my
sure never to look again. I just kept my gaze aunt. But it had happened only that once
straight and ignored him, my strategy for the because I made sure never to be alone with
past four years. I went up to my Aunt Louise’s him and within his arm’s reach again.
attic apartment where I had been living with But it was my powerlessness to avoid him
her for the past year, since August 1967. that was at the crux of my despair. The lay-
Louise was reading, her main activity every out of the house was such that there was
day. Her slope-ceilinged garret contained 12 only one entrance to the second floor apart-
bookcases each with dozens of hard-bound ment occupied by aged Mrs. Daly, and our
tomes which comprised the most eclectic li- attic. Hank’s first-floor bathroom window
brary I’ve ever encountered. was directly beside it and he stood naked
“Hank just did it again, Louise,” I an- behind the huge double-hung window and
nounced, as I set my four shopping bags on tapped on the glass every morning when I
the sofa to unpack. left for school. He simply listened for my
No response. “Are you going to do any- footsteps as I descended the stairs. Then, as
thing, Louise? Talk to Connie?” No response. I passed the front door on my walk down the
“Alright, Louise. I’m on my own then?” I driveway, I’d hear more insistent rapping and
thought to myself. Why wouldn’t she say his calling, “Barbara? Barbara?” Every morn-
anything to his wife? She knew I wasn’t ly- ing since September 6, 1967. If I went by the
ing. Her own sister had told her last summer back door he just showed up there.
of Hank’s exposing himself to her for the past Meanwhile, Dick, my elder brother by three
three years. Yet Louise remained silent. years, was severely mentally ill with paranoid
Then a moment’s AHA! But WHAT could schizophrenia. After he violently destroyed
she do? Perhaps my aunt’s lack of action was our small suburban tract house in Spring-
rooted less in a lack of will to protect me field, VA, a growing city 15 miles south of
than in sheer lack of information as to how to D. C., I went to my school guidance counsel-
get a man to stop engaging in that behavior. or and asked what I could do to be safe. My
22 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019parents were struggling to run their fledg- As I sat on my bed and wound the key on
ing small hardware contracting business and the back of my clock I saw myself walking up
deal with the complexities of a son whose ill- the steps of the Carnegie Police Department.
ness was a source of deep confusion, pain Then I lay my head down and went to sleep.
and shame. I was simply overlooked. The next morning I sat in front of Police
Years later my father would explain to Chief Bernier describing the above situation.
my utter astonishment that both he and my I looked him straight in the eye and I used the
mother thought I was unaware on the whole word penis. He sat returning into my eyes my
that anything was seriously wrong with my intent stare. He asked me a few questions—
brother. Dad died never He was always home when
knowing that beginning at I left for school at 7:45am?
the age of seven my brother His full name, age, any other
periodically subjected me to
scenes of torture, maiming I knew I’d incidents of a sexual nature?
I gave him five quick thumb-
and killing of small domestic nail sketches of exhibition-
and wild animals. I wanted
out of that home in Virgin-
have to deal istic encounters. The Chief
said, “I’ll pick you up tomor-
ia. Thankfully, the guidance
counselor suggested I ask with Hank, row and take you to school
in my cruiser. I’ll meet you at
my maiden aunt, the 7th the entrance to your aunt’s
and 8th grade history teach-
er for the past 18 years in
but then apartment.”
It took a moment for his
the Carnegie school system,
if I might live with her. what choice words to register. He was
coming to the house! Tears
I presented my case to my came unbidden but I turned
parents and Louise. None
of them could deny the re-
did I have? away quickly. What was
wrong with me?
ality of Dick’s house trash- As we walked around
ings and my obvious knowl- the house, the Chief took
edge of them. Finding the notes and pointed broad-
living room TV set kicked in and seeing my ly to each entrance. We were staring
art supplies smeared angrily on my bedroom into the huge glass cube that formed the
walls, my parents finally admitted perhaps I walls of the kitchen when Hank strolled in
shouldn’t be there in Virginia, a latch-key kid wearing only his boxer shorts. He almost
with a brother prone to escaping from what- laughingly did a double take then bolted from
ever mental health facility he was in. the room. Hank never bothered me again.
I knew I’d have to deal with Hank, but then Fifty years later I now do what I didn’t
what choice did I have? After a weekend’s do then: I report the news of a resourceful
considerations my father gave his consent resilient young girl who figured out how she
and by the next Sunday I was a Pennsylvania could procure a bit of peace for herself. ♦
resident. The next Wednesday, my first day
at school, I became a registered sophomore
at Carnegie High School.
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 23Back to Torretta
by Sgt. Dan H. Fenn, Jr., Administrative and Technical Clerk, 767th Squadron
Several years ago, my late partner and I certain, that I told her about how and why I
were studying a pile of brochures advertis- found myself on that erstwhile farm in south-
ing various cruises. We quickly put aside the eastern Italy about sixty-five years earlier.
floating hotels which did not interest us at For me, it started back in Kearns, Utah after
all and concentrated on smaller sailing ships. several military schools, when the adjutant
One promoted a trip to Northern Italy, from of the 767th Bomb Squadron chose me and
Rome to Naples. Obviously, I had seen most several others to join his squadron. Captain
of that area during the war, but Patsy had Ray Wilcovitz, who later became a judge in
never been to Italy and was very enthusiastic New York, was a slight, bright, spry man. I re-
about the idea, so off we went. call particularly the time in Torretta when he
Since the voyage ended in Naples, it oc- volunteered to be defense counsel in courts
curred to me that it would be fun to take an martial. His acquittal rate was so high that
extra day and go back to Cerignola and to he quickly was shifted to be the prosecuting
Torretta where I had spent nearly eighteen attorney!
months as a sergeant in the orderly room As I told Patsy of my thoroughly undis-
of the 767th Bomb Squadron, 461st Bomb tinguished wartime history, the memories
Group. Patsy agreed, so we hired a driver came flooding back and all those comrades
and headed east across Italy. from those days came out of the mists of
On the drive I suspect, though I am not time. Our squadron CO was Major–later
24 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019General—James Knapp. We were somewhat around our living space came in very handy! anxious when he took over because he was Three weeks after we embarked, we moved a West Point graduate and we were afraid he past Gibraltar into the Med. At twilight I was would be really GI, which was not the culture on deck when suddenly our Marine detach- of our organization. We weren’t like MASH, ment rushed up in helmets and flak jackets but weren’t rigidly by the book, either. But, and started firing. We were under attack by though outwardly stern, he turned out to be bombers and, we thought, submarines. Since OK. But I’m getting ahead of myself. our ship was carrying ammunition, we were From Kearns, we went anxious. I was reading a to Wendover Field on the book by Walter Lippman, Nevada-Utah border, and the noted columnist and then to Hammer Field in pundit, about the post- Fresno, California. The war world as the explo- rumors kept circulating sions crashed around us that we were going to – until one of my com- get furloughs before we rades called my atten- went overseas – but of tion to the fact that I was course we never did. The holding it upside down. Army was rife with misin- Coolness under fire! formation! I well remem- After a week in the ber the Bamboo Room in Bay of Tunis waiting for Fresno when I met Tom a spot to disembark in Collins for the first time. Naples, we went across The next morning was a the Med to that beauti- disaster. And I recall call- ful harbor, dominated by ing home—Cambridge, a smoking Mount Vesu- Massachusett on Christ- vius, and got off on an mas Eve. How different upside-down vessel that communications were in had been partially sunk. those days—it took half Trucks transported us to an hour to establish the nearby Bagnoli where connection going pain- an abandoned school fully slowly through LA, Chicago, Boston to awaited us. No cots—body bags filled with reach my home and family. straw. One night there was a German air raid Then by troop train across the country to but we were too stupid to move to shelters Hampton Roads, Virginia and boarding the so we stayed in the school rooms which had Liberty Ship, the John Jay. Bunks stacked five been pretty well destroyed by earlier raids. high. Two very mediocre meals per day. To- Nearby was a hill called the Vomoro, as I tally buttoned down at night. Sailing in con- recall. At the top was a collection of beehive voy across the Atlantic. A wild storm off Cape ovens. I wrote home to my family that I had Hatterras which clobbered all those of our discovered this absolutely delicious Italian company who had never been at sea before food called “pizza.” No such thing existed in —those fifty-gallon cans strategically placed the US at that time. winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 25
Soon we were transported to a railyard and that Venosa was not fit for man nor beast loaded into railroad cars for a trip over the nor B-24s and back we went into the trucks mountains to our permanent base. It was, to move to Torretta. I explained to Patsy, early February 1944. As Patsy and I drove—were driven—from The Italian sun burned warm and bright. And Naples to Cerignola more than six decades then it got dark and we were up in the hills later, I had trouble recognizing the scenery. and it was freezing cold. We lit a little fire in A big wide highway had replaced the narrow the boxcar to help but the officers thought winding road I remembered. When we got this was not a good idea and made us extin- to Cerignola, though it had grown consider- guish it. ably, the cathedral, the plaza and other vistas When the sun came out the next day, it were unchanged. It was eerie to see it again was better but still pretty chilly. The train after all those years! stopped constantly. On one of those pauses, Since the driver had no way of knowing a cook whose name I think was Earl Clark, where Torretta was, he had arranged with had to answer a call of nature, so he got off the local police to guide us out there. Once, and squatted in a field. That picture still sits again, I saw little along the route that I rec- firmly in my mind. Suddenly the train started ognized and, when the police stopped their to go. As he was a very big man indeed, there cruiser and said: “Here is Torretta,” I really did was no way he could catch the moving train. not see anything familiar. When I mentioned Somehow, he did find us several days later. I that fact to the cops, they asked: “What do always wondered how he made it. you remember?” And I told them about the After thirty-six hours, in the middle of the Baron’s house which was group headquar- night, we disembarked—somewhere. Load- ters, the bull ring, the farmer’s quarters, the ed into trucks, we drove in the dark—but it olive grove. “Oh,” they said, and kept going a seemed to us that the truck drivers didn’t few hundred yards, around a corner, and sud- know exactly where they were going. We denly—there we were. Like Brigadoon. Just thought we could hear artillery fire, at which as I had left it that day in May 1945. (Captain point the drivers seemed to change direc- Wilcovitz had told me a month before that tion. But what did we know and, of course, there was an opening for a Warrant Officer nobody told us anything. in the Mediterranean Theatre and I should Finally, we were dumped off in the dark in take the exam. I studied ARs, took it, got the a field of mud and snow and a few tents. And highest score in the Theatre and got the ap- cold. Very cold. Literally bone chilling cold. pointment. The only question I remember And no hope or possibility of warmth. With was: “How many horses do you have at a what—candles? Kerosene lamps? No cots— Corporal’s funeral?” For some reason, I re- just the straw-filled body bags. But we did membered that one! Like who cares?) receive a pile of mail from home which had As I say, there miraculously, it all was. The accumulated during our month-long trip on building used for flight briefings and courts the SS John Jay. Thanks to Hughes Glantz- martial. The chapel across the ravine. The berg’s comprehensive and informative book storehouse we used for those horrible mov- Al Ataque, I now know it was a place called ies about “Why We Fight.” The chaplain’s Venosa. And I learned that General Glantz- office. The farm building we converted into berg (then Colonel), the Group CO decided an Enlisted Men’s club where, under the 26 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019
watchful eye of Cpl. “Tulley” Thuleson we early thirties and that was pretty ancient to
drank 3.2 beer and smoked cigars. The hill us in those days.) He was an especially im-
where I sat alone when I heard that my grand- portant part of our circle because he had an
mother had died. The cow barn we used as a unusual blood type. The Red Cross would
mess hall, the remains of our squadron em- pay $25 for a pint of Pop’s blood – more than
blem still visible on the walls. The flagpole enough to stake us all to a weekend of R&R
on Group headquarters. The olive grove. in Naples.
The volley ball court. The place where our Then I walked into the smaller room of
tent stood, where six of us lived for all those what must have been the home of a farmer
months, just longing to go home. Was it ever where the officers held sway. Col. Knapp, the
wonderful when we got an electric light! And CO; Major Herald Bennett, the biology pro-
a stove, fashioned from a 50-gallon German fessor from West Virginia, the Executive Of-
drum cut in half with a notch cut out of the ficer; Captain Wilcovitz, the adjutant, who
bottom to hold a shell casing which, in turn, scrounged fresh eggs and produce for our
held the mixture of oil and gas dripping in mess until some higher authority made him
from a jerry can outside. Fortunately, we had stop. I could see their familiar faces, hear
no tent fire, but others did. In spectacular their voices once again as I surveyed those
fashion! places which once they had occupied. Years
It was in that tent that, early in our time later, Ed gave me the key to that orderly room
at Torretta, Sergeant Howie, who had swiped which he had “liberated” when the squadron
a parachute and traded it to the British an- left to go home, as Hughes has described in
ti-aircraft group on the base for a bottle of his fine and useful book.
scotch and a bottle of gin, had broken open I looked at the sky overhead, now peace-
the scotch and we passed it around among ful in its lovely Italian blue, and remembered
the six of us. It was so good, we decided to with pain how we on the ground would look
go ahead with the gin. Big mistake. Inspec- up anxiously as the planes returned from a
tion the next day. Oh, my! mission, counting the missing places in the
When I walked into the orderly room, now formations.
filled with bales of hay, the ghosts of my Empathetic as Patsy was, I doubt that
friends and colleagues appeared. There was even she could comprehend the waves of
the bespectacled Sgt. Howie. In the opposite emotion which I felt, being back in that so
corner was the payroll expert, Sgt. Rice. Next familiar place, seeing and hearing once more
door was the domain of Sgt. Geary, in charge those long-departed men who had so fully
of supply with his assistant George Eaton. occupied that brief, encapsulated two-and-
First Sgt. Fisher from Mahonoy City, PA. And a-half-year piece of my life.
my dear friend, S/Sgt. Ed Latal from Chicago, And as we drove away from Torretta that
whose family sent us the most delicious Pol- day, I thought I could hear once again the
ish sausages which were heated or cooked voice of a GI disc jockey in Italy who called
on our red-hot tent stove. Ed and I stayed in himself “The Great Spectacled Bird,” saying,
touch until he died from a fall a year ago. as he always did at the end of his show, “Take
And then there was “Old Pop” Payne who Care of Thee.” ♦
worked at Group Headquarters. (We called
him “Old” and “Pop” because he was in his
winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 27You can also read
