PRIME TIME WRITERS
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Prime Time Writers Selections from the Prime Time Writers Groups at Emmanuel Baptist Church Spring 2008
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Copyright Š 2008 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editors: Debra Kirschner and Diane Goettel Layout: Deborah Clearman Cover Photograph: Colin Rodney, Clever Looks Photography Prime Time Writers contains writing by the members of creative writing workshops for participants in the Prime Time Ministry conducted by NY Writers Coalition at the Emmanuel Baptist Church. NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that provides free creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 80 Hanson Place #603 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org Prime Time Ministry of Emmanuel Baptist Church is an intentional ministry designed by, with, and for adults 50 and over in our church and community. It seeks to promote the well being of all its members in areas affecting their physical, socioeconomic, and spiritual needs. Emmanuel Baptist Church, located in the Ft. Greene / Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn, NY, provides contemporary and dynamic Christian teaching, preaching and discipleship development to an intergenerational congregation of approximately 4000. The Church is led by Senior Pastor, Rev. Anthony L. Trufant. Rev. Rose Jones-Wilson is Associate Pastor for Prime Time. Emmanuel Baptist Church 279 Lafayette Avenue Brooklyn, NY 11238 718-622-1107 info@ebc-ny.org www.ebc-ny.org
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Peggy Horton 5
CONTENTS SENSES A SECRET June Barrow……………………………………….13 ODE TO MY TEAPOT Elizabeth Shell Carr………………….14 ME AND THE GENIE Marrietta Mason……………………...15 THESE OLD EYES Jacqueline Murray…………..…………...16 BERMUDA Jean Hill……………………………..…………...18 SUNSET OF STARBURST ORANGE Rose Jones-Wilson….20 INSOMNIA Jacqueline Murray……………………………….22 THE BEST MORNING B.B. Jackson……..…………………..24
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES FAVORITE FOOD FROM CHILDHOOD Sarah Thomas…...26 I REMEMBER Jean Nelson…………………………………...28 HAVING A CONVERSATION WITH MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD SELF Sheryl Eason….…………………….30 MEMORIES B.B.Jackson……………………………………...31 AN EARLY MEMORY June Barrow……….………………...32 BIRTHDAYS! MY BIRTHDAY! Shirley N. Bland…………..34
FAMILY THE SPACE UNDER THE DOOR June Wilkins……………..35 SISTERHOOD Ruth G. Smith………………………………...36
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FAMILY REUNION Sarah Thomas…………...……………...38 THE STATE OF THE UNION Alice Hyman…………………39 THE VESSEL FILLERS Marietta Mason……………………..41
LOVE MY FIRST LOVE Catherine M. Copney……………………..45 UNTITLED Linda Thomas……………………………………47 BACK IN THE DAY Ruth G. Smith………………………….48 JIM DANDY Jean Hill………………………………………...49
MUSIC AND DANCE GET UP ON THE FLOOR Mildred Park……………………..51 THE PERFECT BIRTHDAY PARTY Shirley N. Bland……..53 ONCE YOU’VE HAD IT Ruby Ellerbe Scott………………...54 THE BLUES Mildred Park…………………………………….60 LISTEN TO YOUR HEART BEAT AND DANCE TO IT Elodia Mowatt…………………………………………………62 SWEET LITTLE ROCK-N-ROLLER Alexandra McDaniel…63
THANKFULNESS FOR/TRIBUTE TO GOD WHAT IF ? Doris De Young………………………………….66 UNTITLED Linda Thomas…………………………………….68 PEACE ON EARTH: A CHRISTMAS STORY Rose Jones-Wilson……………………………………………..71
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INTRODUCTIONS The creative process is an intimate one. Through writing we reveal the deepest parts of ourselves. And each week at the Emmanuel Baptist Church, I have had the fortune to be let into some rich and fascinating lives through essays, stories, and poetry. From day one I knew I was lucky to be assigned to the Prime Timers. I could immediately tell this was a group of hilarious, intellectual, spiritual women with stories to tell. I knew the writing would be excellent. And on top of that, they often cooked and served incredible meals in class! How lucky can one writing facilitator get? What I couldn’t ever anticipate was how much each of these women would soon mean to me. Each week—if anybody was absent—she was sorely missed. On November 29, 2007, we got the devastating news that Peggy Horton passed away—news delivered directly to the group from her grieving son. She will forever be missed. Peggy had a smile that lit up the room—and a sense of humor that kept all of us laughing. She told the kind of jokes that would keep you giggling all day. Her sharp wit and warm spirit permeated her writing as well as her incisive and generous comments on the writings of others. After receiving the news, we held hands and said prayers together. And I was shaken by this loss. We all were. At this moment we were all reminded of how much we mean to each other. It seemed we all 8
came to one conclusion all at once—we would dedicate this book to Peggy. I cannot express enough how much I adore each and every one of these women. They truly are a shining example of what it means to be in the prime of your life. They worked hard all of their lives for everything they have and they are spending their retirement in style. From the way they cook the tastiest, most decadent delicacies and enjoy them as they’re meant to be enjoyed…without apology…to the way they attend the hottest Broadway shows, concerts, and dance performances, to their lives filled with travel and art. And at the heart of it all is an unending and infectious spirituality. Their imaginations know no bounds! We dedicate this book to Peggy Horton. A Prime Time Lady who knew how to live. She will be remembered and missed. She inspires us still. Debra Kirschner, Workshop Leader March, 2008 Every Thursday afternoon I spend two hours writing with a phenomenal group of senior citizen women at Emmanuel Baptist Church. We've been meeting for nearly two years, since September of 2006. The women in my class refer to me as their teacher, but I don't think of them as my students. Rather, they are role models, inspiration personified, and residents of my heart. We write about all kinds of things together; I give them writing prompts and, for ten to twenty minutes thereafter we sit in the gorgeous church meeting room with lofty ceilings and portraits of 9
reverends from former eras, in silence except for the sound of pens on the page and the hum of our imaginations working to create new poems, characters, stories. In our class, we imagine and we also remember. Luminous stories from childhood, stark remembrances of young motherhood, and reflections on every era of life—including the present—are shared during our weekly meetings. Sometimes they make us laugh so hard that we all have to push away from the table just to take a breath; other times they make us silent for a moment, regarding the power, beauty, or sadness of what we have just heard. Whether we have recovered from a giggling fit or wiped away a few tears, we always bring it back to the writing. "What did you like?" I ask the women. "What do you remember about what we just heard?" We write together. And every week we discover how similar we are at the core, at the basic human level of ourselves. We also discover and rediscover how much we have to learn from one another. Every Thursday, from roughly twelve-thirty to half past two, I am afforded a bundle of gifts in the shape of June Barrow, B Jackson, Marietta Mason, Elodia Mowatt, Linda Thomas, June Wilkins, and everything that they have taught me. We, together with the members of Debra's writing group, share in the dedication of this volume to Peggy Horton. While Peggy was not a member of our class, I knew her through the parties and events that have joined our two classes together. The women in my writing workshop, of course, also knew her as a beloved member of the congregation at Emmanuel. Diane Goettel, Workshop Leader 10
We would like to thank Reverend Rose Jones Wilson for her leadership and commitment to the Prime Time group, and Emmanuel Baptist Church for hosting us. We would also like to thank Deborah Clearman of NY Writers Coalition for her dedication to the development of this book. We extend additional thanks to Aaron Zimmerman and Nancy Weber, who, along with Deborah, work at the helm of NYWC to create safe spaces all over the city where people can write and have their voices heard. Debra Kirschner and Diane Goettel, April 2008
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SENSES
A SECRET JUNE BARROW A secret can destroy you if you do not share it with someone, but who can you tell of this one thing that is eating at you? You look at all of your closest friends and try to figure out which one can be trusted with your secret and each one seem to disappoint you; then you think of your pastor and wonder what will he think of you after you disclose this secret to him; and it seem impossible to approach him. You try writing it down but it seem even worse on paper so you tear it up. As you tear the paper up you feel as torn up inside, like the torn paper. Then you begin to pray asking God to help you to overcome this terrible thing that you have done and like the torn up paper the secret seem not to be a secret anymore, and you did not tell anyone. Yes, you did tell someone; you told God, for he alone knows all secrets. Then you have no fear of anyone finding out. Now you know that you do not have to feel guilty about those little terrible secrets, as you have someone to talk it over with.
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SENSES
ODE TO MY TEAPOT ELIZABETH SHELL CARR I heard the siren call. It sounded through the fog as I lay sleeping, and then in the piercing call I awoke in the parlor of Elizabeth, Queen of England. Green and flowered, proud and tall stood my teapot, as water, hot and scalding, cascaded from its lips. Careful not to spill a drop of its fragrant contents unto the exquisite Persian rug, we sipped our tea. Later in the afternoon, I thought back to the moments of sheer pleasure my teapot gave: the sheen like new sunshine that glowed in the morning light as the siren quietly whistled its song; this treasure so precious, fulfilled all my fantasies even before I murmured them; it has been my true and constant companion during times of distress, and Oh! the flavors that passed through it and through me. It gives off scents of the desert flower, the jasmine from the hills of Tuscany, the ocean side at San Juan, the peppermint that grandma gave each of us kids as she stepped out to collect the mail. I love the colors of teapots used through the years—black, yellow gold, blue and green—colors rich as tapestry. And the long spout of my teapot is the bow of a tall ship, traveling to strange places, taking me far, far away.
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SENSES
ME AND THE GENIE MARIETTA MASON Hi! I’ve been waiting for you. Sit down, stay awhile. I’d like to ask you some questions. The legend goes that you appear out of nowhere and grant three wishes to the person you appear to. First, how did you get the job of granting wishes? Secondly, what educational credentials did you need? And why was the number of wishes you can grant set at three? Oh, and are the wishes you grant tax free? And…Hey! Where are you going? Sit down; this interview is not over. Ah! Ha! Just as I though, it’s a scam.
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SENSES
THESE OLD EYES JACQUELINE MURRAY With these old eyes I see old things I see tiny teacups, and lacy things I see. Black and white movies and Birthstone rings. With these old ears, I hear old songs Those you tap your feet to And sing along. I hear Frank Sinatra and Doris Day. I hear Sarah Vaughn and Johnny Ray. With these old hands I scrub the floor, Wash the dishes and much much more. I sweep the rug, no vacuum here, I sew on buttons, And bake pies with care. These old legs go everywhere, they Walk the street and climb the stair. The knees are weaker, not nearly as strong, But on a good day they go All day long.
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My back is bent, not quite as straight. I’m an inch shorter now, guess that’s my fate. Can’t stand too long, as parades pass by, But my foot taps along With the drummer’s song. Indeed a calendar to keep the days straight, To remember the day and remember the date, To keep track of appointments and keep me sane, Because not much is retained In this old brain.
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SENSES
BERMUDA Jean Hill Lucinda was on vacation. She decided to take a stroll along the beach. As she looked over at the water, it was crystal clear with the touch of blue green. She then looked up at the sky to see the clouds which looked like a big ball of cotton. While she was walking she came across a archway made of stone. As she approached it, there was a bed of flowers, all color. The closer she came to them, she could smell the aroma of lavender. Lucinda continued to walk. She put her hand in her pocket. She felt something. It was a sand dollar. Lucinda clasped it in her hand. She said to herself, when I get home, I will put it in my wall unit. Every time I look at it, I will remember the day that I strolled along the beach in Bermuda.
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SENSES
SUNSET OF STARBURST ORANGE ROSE JONES-WILSON Having once lived in a Co-op in Brooklyn, high up, (fourteen floors), facing downtown Manhattan, offered me a ring side view of the World Trade Center (before 9/11). At nights, during the week especially, when workers and cleaning people were in the buildings, the sky was adorned with lights shining from so many windows, like diamonds hanging in the sky. Yet these lights were dwarfed by and no comparison to the sunset over the East River in the late afternoons/early evenings. From my large picture window that ran the length of the living room and terrace, facing west, I was privileged to the evenings’ sunsets of starburst orange. I could see the edge of the water of the East River that mirrored the same color. I could hear the colors speak to my mind. They told me of the wonders of God and how he chooses His colors to fit the day. On clear days, mornings are dressed in sky blue and white clouds; on cloudy days they are robed in grey. But, in the evenings where the sun is going down, I could taste the beauty of the starburst orange, and like the psalmist says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” I could smell the orange as in a piece of fruit. God chooses the colors that make the day and nothing is ever out of place, making me feel all warm inside. He chooses starburst orange to announce the close of a day—like an explosion—like fireworks at the end of the Fourth of July. 20
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SENSES
INSOMNIA JACQUELINE MURRAY Black as a pit. Oh Lordy me Look out the window, nobody to see. Everybody’s sleeping, everybody but me. So long ago I climbed into bed Lay on my pillow and rested my head. I opened my eyes expecting to see Sunshine and daylight, but it’s only three. The time clock’s ticking, it’s three AM, I’m tossing and turning, waiting, for day to begin. How much longer must I lie awake. I go to the kitchen for that last piece of cake. Head to the bathroom for another pee. Everybody’s sleeping, everybody but me. With hesitation I turn the TV on Half dozing and snoring while the news goes on. With one eye open and one eye closed I watch while a fly lands on my nose. I am so tired of lying here Waiting for dawn, and sunlight’s glare. I need to sleep now. Maybe I’ll drink some tea. Everybody’s sleeping, everybody but me.
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SENSES
THE BEST MORNING B.B. JACKSON Apple cinnamon tea and blossoms from a tree… These are really, truly, wonderful things to me. Jair sleeping peacefully, snug as he can be… Apple cinnamon tea and blossoms from a tree. Jair asked for pancakes from his MamaBea… Apple cinnamon tea and blossoms from a tree. Pancakes browning in a pan round and plump you see… Apple cinnamon tea and blossoms from a tree. Walking to the bus stop hand in hand you see… Apple cinnamon tea and blossoms from a tree. Puppies jumping playfully, round about we see… Apple cinnamon tea and blossoms from a tree. A kiss "Good-Bye" in front of school… "I love you, MamaBea"… Apple cinnamon tea and blossoms from a tree.
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CHILDHOOD MEMORIES FAVORITE FOOD FROM CHILDHOOD SARAH THOMAS My favorite food or meal that I remember most vividly was, and probably still is, baked potato, broiled pork chops and green peas. The peas had to be the frozen ones. Pork is so aromatic, when it’s broiled. As it broils you can hear it spitting back at the fire as it slowly turns from raw pink to a beautiful crusty brown. The fat ’round the edges of the chop that we are not supposed to eat is just too tempting not to eat. I ate it then and I still do. The potato scrubbed with a little oil rubbed over the skin is baked until soft. It is then taken out of the oven and split and crunched and put back into the oven until it becomes crispy around the edges. A slice of butter is put into the split that was made earlier. The green peas (frozen) are cooked just the right amount of time; they are beautiful bright green and a little al dente. To see this meal on a plate was a treat; the beautiful brown pork chop, fluffy brown and white potato, and bright green peas, and it taste as good as it looked. Every bite of the creamy, buttery potato and the crisp sweetness of the green peas, along with a tender piece of pork, gave the taste buds a happy treat.
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CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
I REMEMBER JEAN NELSON All aboard. All aboard. The little girl got on the train. She was carrying a suitcase and a shoebox that she was holding very close to her. She goes to the left of the train, to the segregated car of the train. She looked out the window and sees the family that she loves so dearly and a tear comes to her eyes. She is very happy to be going to her grandfather’s farm in Georgia, but very sad to be leaving the family that she loved so dearly. The train begin to move and she waves goodbye to the family. Clingedy-clang down the railroad tracks was the sound she heard. The mother had received a letter from the grandfather: “Dear Bell, I hope you and family are fine. Please let one of the girls come down for the summer to help out on the farm.” The older sister said she didn’t want to go; the younger sister was too young to go. The little girl, who was twelve years old but large for her age, begged the mother to let her go. The little girl was always very adventurous. The mother decided to let her go. The mother made a nametag and pinned it on her. The mother made the little girl’s lunch—her favorite food, fried chicken and pound cake—and neatly wrapped it in wax paper, packing it in a shoebox. The mother knew the little girl could not eat in the dining car of the train. “Now, don’t eat up everything at once,” the 28
mother said, because she knew the little girl had a hearty appetite. The little girl began to think about her beloved family and how much she missed them but was looking forward to seeing her grandfather. The little girl had fallen asleep and awoke to the sound of the conductor saying, “Hazelhurst. Hazelhurst.” That was the little girl’s stop. She looked out the window and it was dark and looked like in the middle of nowhere. She saw a man and woman with a lantern standing by the railroad tracks. They said to the little girl, “We are your aunt and uncle. You will stay with us tonight and tomorrow we will take you to your grandfather’s farm.” That little girl was me, and I was looking forward to a great adventure on my grandfather’s farm.
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CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
HAVING A CONVERSATION WITH MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD SELF SHERYL EASON Wow! I’m not quite sure how to do this. Well, good morning, Sheryl. How are you today? S: It’s cold today. There’s leaves falling on the ground. They’re all wet. It’s also dark today. I don’t like the dark. At night my Mommy has to put her hand under my bed so there’s no animals there. I’m afraid of the dark. At night I don’t sleep all the time. It’s dark and it’s quiet, too. Sometimes I hear things at night. It’s too dark. I don’t like the dark. Halloween is coming soon. We trick or treat right after school. Can’t trick or treat in the dark, ‘cause there’s mean kids who play tricks and scare you. We can only trick or treat in our building; it has six floors. We get lots of candy, but Mommy has to check it before we eat it. I like Christmas. It’s not dark when we open presents and Christmas is my birthday. I will be six years old! I like Christmas. We open our presents in the morning. It’s not dark on Christmas morning.
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CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
MEMORIES B.B. JACKSON Children can always be counted on to make “something out of nothing.” I can remember as a child playing the in the area of Norfolk called “Rosemount” with the children in the neighborhood. There was a semi-forested area in the back of our house that we pretended was a “jungle.” Yes, we would march into the “jungle” and pretend to see ferocious animals and beasts. Sticks became swords, bows and arrows, and clubs. Little streams became raging rivers that were a challenge to cross. Oh, the hours of fun we had each day. Sometimes, we would pack a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and go off on a special mission. We would venture to the edge of the “forest” and peek into “forbidden land.” Beautiful homes were on the other side with people who looked different than we did. A cry would go out… “They saw us…Run!” With fear in each breast, we traversed the raging river, the huge fallen trunks of trees to safely land back in “friendly” territory. Yes, we kids had fun…inventing playing time with nothing more than our vivid imaginations.
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CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
AN EARLY MEMORY JUNE BARROW I remember coming home from school, changing into my home clothes, and going outside at the side of the house to play and to make mud pies and dolls. While playing I remember looking up into the dounce tree and seeing a few ripe dounce. I dare not tell my brother who was a few years older than I because he would climb up, get them for himself, and then laugh at me while eating them. So I decided that I would climb up and get them for myself. Now dounce tree has very sharp prickles on the limbs, so you have to be very careful or you can get hurt or cut badly. I climb up to where the ripe dounce were and as I reach out and grab the dounce the limb broke and I came down, landing into the sharp pine bushes that were under the tree. I scream. My brother came running to see what had happened to me and then he began to laugh. There I was all cut and bleeding in the pine bush, the branch with the dounce in my hand. Guess what my brother did. Took the dounce, ate them, then helped me up. Boy, did I want to kill him.
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CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
BIRTHDAYS! MY BIRTHDAY! SHIRLEY N. BLAND What a topic, “Birthdays.” I can’t remember too much of my childhood birthdays, but I’ll do the best that I can. Let’s see, my nineteenth birthday, I remember I came home, my mother said, “Shirley, please don’t come into the house right now; stay on the porch for a few minutes.” I obeyed the order. So I started swinging in the swing on the porch. It took her so long, so I called my mother and asked if she needed help. She said, “Child, come on in here!” I went inside; I heard voices saying “Happy Birthday to you!” My friends from the neighborhood and school were there. It was a very nice party. Now I have birthdays at the centers with whoever birthday is in May. We all share birthdays together. Plus we are all ages. Hey! That’s all I can remember right now. I’m sixty nine. Thank you Jesus! Oh! These birthdays at the center are for twelve months only. P.S. I help to give birthdays for my friends and family often. It’s a blessing.
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FAMILY THE SPACE UNDER THE DOOR JUNE WILKINS I’m in my apartment; the bathroom has a space about a quarter inch between the door and the floor. When my youngest son was between the age of twelve and thirteen (the time when little boys are more stinky than sweet smelling). When the boys came home, after a hard day’s play. The ritual was sneakers on the terrace, socks soaking in the Lestoil, and then into the shower. The oldest was glad for a good shower. Now the youngest always had a delay to getting in the tub. In previous days I noticed he seemed to smell the same. This made me suspicious. I persisted on the shower. Now I heard the water running. Looking through the space under the door, I saw feet outside the tub and the water running. I opened the door and the surprise and embarrassed look on his face was priceless. Needless to say he jumped quickly into the tub and pulled the curtain closed. I opened it and proceeded to wash him with soap (thoroughly). He eventually became a lover of soap and water.
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FAMILY
SISTERHOOD RUTH G. SMITH Sister, I’ve been blessed with eight sisters of which I’m the youngest. Lily, Thelma, Mayble, and Anna are decease now, but my heart still holds the loving memories of them. Being the youngest, there are many things I don’t remember about them, but what I do remember is that I was very special to them. My sister Anna was a second mother to me. I didn’t have to want for anything, for me or my children, when she was alive. She would call and ask me what Kay, Prudence, or Daryl was doing in school or church. Is anything special going on? And, depending upon what was happening, she would either mail what was needed to me or send the money to purchase what they needed. I remember one day telling her about the problem I was having with my sewing machine. A few days later there was a knock on the door. A Gimbles delivery man was at the door with a big box. “I have a delivery for Mrs. Smith.” “I’m Mrs. Smith,” I replied. Much to my surprise, it was a sewing machine. I felt like it was Christmas in July. Joy to the World! Talking about sisterhood, she was a hood all by herself. There were times when I didn’t know where our next meal was coming from. My allotment was small and I had three children to feed and clothes to buy. The 36
phone rings. “Hello?” “Hi Sis, it’s Anna. You need anything? The children all right?” Sisterhood!
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FAMILY
FAMILY REUNION SARAH THOMAS Family reunions are viewed differently. Family members don’t always agree on what a reunion is about. For some, reunions are pleasant and fun, but for others, reunions are frustrating and nerve-wracking. For those members who enjoy reunions they are a time for seeing family members they haven’t seen since the last reunion. A time to share good times and good food. A day when they play games they played as children, dance to the oldies and goodies, sharing jokes and family history, to remember those who are no longer present. The food table is a display of everyone’s best dish. Aunty Susie makes her secret recipe potato salad; Cousin Mae, her fried chicken; Grandma Lois, that delicious coconut layer cake; it goes on and on, with each cook presenting their best. However, there are those, of which I belong, who go to be the food tasters, and we taste until we can’t taste anymore. On the other hand, there are those who think of a family reunion as a time of dread; if they had their “druthers,” they would “druther” stay home. The joy of seeing each other soon disappears and the bickering begins. The old hurts, resentments, and anger surface, causing more hurts, resentments, and anger. Even so, families still want to come together to make connections; to know there are people to whom they belong still around. 38
FAMILY
THE STATE OF THE UNION ALICE HYMAN Well, here we go again – George Bush hogging all the main TV channels with his State of the Union address. Once again I was not in the mood to watch this man, this poor excuse for a leader. I swear he was a special ed kid – whose parents must have purchased his degree from Yale. You know, one of those huge endowment numbers. I cannot believe this knucklehead has the same esteemed alma mater as my brilliant daughter! I was not open to his lies about the economy, his stance on the Mideast and, in general, what a fantastic job he and his cronies are doing for us and the world – ugh! I turned on cable to one of those home improvement shows. I forget which as I paid very little attention to the TV that evening. Instead I decided to telephone a number of friends and family to inquire about the state of their lives. How’ ya doing? What’s up? Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Folk with whom I’d disconnected due only to lack of time and too much TV. Folk who you might not communicate with for months at a time, but the conversation flows like we just chatted two days ago. Folk you just love and always promise (and they likewise) to call real soon, hang out together – you know the spiel. Anyway, we chitchatted the night away on issues of love, God, children, money, food, clothes, politics – 39
lots of stuff—way after the post comments on Bush’s state of the nation and world had ended. Mr. George Bush, dear, thank you for the opportunity you gave me to bring the State of the Union into my home; that of genuine warmth, unrehearsed humor, intelligence, good advice, honesty, love, caring and sharing. Hey George, you should try it some time – I just might tune in.
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FAMILY
THE VESSEL FILLERS MARIETTA MASON It was a beautiful Monday morning. The sun was shining very brightly, as if it was trying to make amends for the brutal winds and bone chilling temperatures that we had so recently endured. I was on my way to a ten o’clock routine appointment with my ophthalmologist. I was missing my Tai Chi class which was also at ten Monday mornings. I would ask for another day in the week when scheduling my next visit to avoid a conflict. As I made my way carefully down the three steps leading into the office, my ears were alerted to the sound of someone talking in a loud voice. When I opened the door my hearing was beyond alerted; it was assaulted by the voice of a woman speaking at an above-conversational volume. Vulgar, caustic utterances spilled from her mouth like the rotten contents of an overturned garbage can. She seasoned her verbal onslaught with a four letter word she seemed comfortable with using over and over again. The waiting room was filled with patients, and five staff members were in the reception area. The presence of others did not deter the woman; in fact her voice became louder. She kept shouting that she didn’t care about the referral forms that she needed in order for the doctor to see her daughter. She wasn’t missing another day of work for nothing, and she wasn’t leaving without seeing him. 41
Suddenly the doctor came out of his office and approached the ranting woman. He spoke to her in a calm but firm voice. He explained (as his staff had done earlier) that he would not be able to see her daughter without the proper forms. She continued shouting and cursing, hardly pausing to breathe. The doctor then tried to appeal to any ember of decency smoldering within the woman’s combustible behavior. He told her she was embarrassing herself and her child, and she should stop. The doctor’s statement heightened her anger and her determination to get her way. She continued to scream and curse. The doctor (still remaining calm but firm) asked her to leave the office and never return. The woman turned abruptly and with a violent movement of her hand swept everything that was on the reception desk off onto the floor. She then pushed the door open and went out, followed quickly by a girl who I think was about six or seven years old. The patients in the room reacted as if they all had just awakened from the same bad dream. They slowly began to pick up candy, candy dish, magazines, business cards, and the sign-in sheets that were littering the floor. They returned those items to the desk and went back to their seats. The receptionist also seemed to awaken, saw me standing in front of her, asked my name and which doctor I had come to see. She told me to sign in. I signed the sheet and took a seat among my fellow patients, who were beginning to talk about what they had so recently witnessed. They spoke in quiet voices almost as if they thought the violent woman would come back if they talked too loudly. My doctor (who shares the office with a colleague) was not aware of the earlier disturbance. I filled him in on the morning’s event and asked if they 42
had any security. He said all they could do when something of that nature occurred was to call 911. After my examination, I stopped at the desk to schedule my next appointment, asking for a day besides Monday so it wouldn’t conflict with my Tai Chi class. The receptionist looked at me with a disbelieving smile, perhaps doubting that I could be a student of a martial art. Looking straight at her I said in a perky voice, “You guys could have used my skills earlier today.” My statement made both of us laugh, and she playfully agreed that they could have used my help. I left the office and walked to the bus stop where I was joined by a woman with two small girls. I was drawn to their conversation. One girl asked, “Mom, what does donate mean? My teacher wants us to donate shoes, donate coats, donate dresses, and other stuff for kids that need them.” Her mother explained that to donate meant to give something to someone who didn’t have what they needed, and didn’t have a way or money to get things for themselves. She also told her child that it was good to share with others that weren’t as fortunate as she was. The girl seemed satisfied with her mother’s answer and added that she would donate some toys for the kids. Her mother told her it was a nice idea. The bus arrived, we all got on, and I was no longer able to hear any further exchange between mother and daughter. As I rode along on the way home my thoughts turned to the two events that had taken place that day and the vivid differences in each one. I found myself imagining that the girls in the two events were vessels and that their mothers were Vessel Fillers. One mother had chosen to fill her vessel with 43
angry language, disrespect for self and others, lawlessness and violence. While the other mother had chosen to fill her vessel with helpful knowledge, compassion for others and the value of sharing with those less fortunate than she was. My mind took a look into the distant future when the girls would become women and perhaps be blessed with their own vessels. I wondered, how would they choose to fill them?
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LOVE MY FIRST LOVE CATHERINE M. COPNEY As I sit here in my golden years rocking back and forth in my tattered straw rocking chair, my mind slips back to another day and time. To the days of my youth and my long lost loves. I remember my first love. We were in sixth grade. His name was Billy. At twelve years old he had been held back a grade. Some would call him slow. But with those wide dreamy eyes and prominent overbite buck teeth, Billy was cute to me. To my delight I received a note from him. To which I wrote back: “Turn those C’s into A’s or leave me alone.” You see, even back then I had no time for underachievers. My next love I remember was in high school. Again it started with a note from soft-spoken, wellmannered Vincent. It read: “Will you be my girlfriend? Yes □ or No □.” I checked yes, of course. In those days being girlfriend and boyfriend meant him carrying my books and holding hands as he walked me to my gate. We were so young and love was new…. Until he met that new girl Sue. But life goes on. I graduated and went to college. I stayed focused. I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to let just anyone into my life, unless he was sent by Jesus Christ. 45
And wouldn’t you know it? God had His way. Once again it came in the form of a note. It read: “Dear Catherine, I know it’s been a long long while, but I have not forgotten your beautiful smile. Or your challenge that you posed to me twelve years ago in history. Life for me has been awfully hard. But I made it through with the grace of God. The words you wrote to me were pretty profound. I knew I couldn’t let you down. I knew someday that I would make you a believer. So I come to you today as an achiever. I wrote this letter many times before. But I thought it best to deliver it to your door.” It was signed Billy.
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UNTITLED LINDA THOMAS Please don't hug me. I might like it. I might even smile. It might feel so good that I look forward to it. But what happens when it doesn't come When I let you or anyone else in for a moment When I reach out and the air is empty I can't chance it right now Let me think about it. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.
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BACK IN THE DAY RUTH G. SMITH My best friend Gladys and I, with our boyfriends Jimmy and Harold, were on our way to a club called The Duck Inn. That’s where we hung out most Friday nights. Harold said to Jimmy, “Turn the radio on, man. The King of Soul is going to be on KISS tonight. His music really speaks to my soul.” Just then James Brown came on the radio. “Please, Please, Please, Please.” My girlfriend Gladys turned to her boyfriend teasingly saying, “Jimmy honey, you don’t have to beg.” And we all started to laugh and laugh. No sooner had we stopped laughing than another song came on the radio. “I’m Not Too Proud to Beg.” We began to laugh again. We laughed until we cried. Harold pretended to really cry and began to sing, “Don’t leave me this way. I’ll be so lonely baby, without you.”
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JIM DANDY JEAN HILL Jim Dandy and Mary were friends. Back in the day, dancing was their thing. Since they both love to dance, they decided to take up dance and figure skating. They took part in competition and won trophies. Whenever Jim and Mary went to a dance or party, they were the first on the floor to get it started. Jim and Mary would dance the night away. One day Mary was walking in the park. She ran into Jim. He said, “What’s happening?” She said, “Nothing. Just walking. Want to come?” “Sure,” he said. They found a bench. Started talking about old times. Jim told her, “I had you on my mind. I’m swing dancing now. This weekend I’m going to the Savoy. Want to come?” She said yes. When she got there she heard the big band sound. She was very excited. She was in awe of the club; it was so beautiful with the winding staircase. Everybody in their finery. Those were the days I wish we can bring back. The memories I have of the Savoy will live in me forever.
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MUSIC AND DANCE GET UP ON THE FLOOR MILDRED PARK Ever since my teens, it only takes music on the upbeat to get me up on the floor. Not so often lately but in years past I’ve literally danced all night and sometimes into the next day. There were hops in my high school gym or the YMCA. In NYC the Savoy and Renaissance Ballrooms; Fort Dix Army Base during the Korean War to dance with the troops. Cha Cha and Mambo at the Palladium. You name it, I tried to dance it. There were no camcorders so I have no record of how I looked on the dance floor, but I know I felt free as a bird. I would be cleaning house and a song would come on the radio and I’d dance with the mop or broom or whatever I was holding. I also enjoy watching dancers like modern, tap, or ballet. Whether at the Apollo, City Center, Lincoln Center or the Metropolitan, Alvin Ailey, Dance Theater of Harlem, Gregory Hines, Savion Glover, Honey Coles, Nicholas brothers, Astaire and Rogers, Cyd Charisse, Gene Kelley. I still watch every chance I get. Occasionally now some tune will get my arthritic body up out of the chair to swing and sway. I call Sunday at Emmanuel my weekly party where we have the Spiritual Dancers. I remember when I decided to move to NYC after high school my Dad asked was I planning to study dance. I told him it was too late to start formal training. I don’t dance for an audience, only for myself. 51
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THE PERFECT BIRTHDAY PARTY SHIRLEY N. BLAND Gee, this perfect birthday party was a drag. It was a comfortable place to have fifty people. Only twenty-five showed up. The food got cold; the DJ had rap music. The seniors couldn’t dance and won’t dance. All the gifts were from Avon. They were dressed like they were coming to the church. It was real early in the day; the weather was terrible. Twentyfive seniors came anyway. The other twenty-five didn’t care, call, or do anything. Like “what!” The Birthday Girl was happy it was over; the party was the perfect birthday that ended so nicely.
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ONCE YOU’VE HAD IT RUBY ELLERBE SCOTT It was the night of the district phys ed demonstration at Long Island University and we were ready. The gym was crowded and ninety percent of the crowd had seen us perform in previous years. They knew we were hot. The level of anticipation was up there with the ninety degree temperature. My drill team always demanded attention. We hit the floor running through the cheers and screams with me in the lead position. Our black and white outfits were hotter than the gym. The white v-neck tees identifying us as the PS 3 Tigerettes were tucked neatly into the short black flared skirts (my skirt was boot length) that sported a white lightning rod running left from the waist to the right hemline. The wide brim Mexican style black hats cocked sassily over each right eye. Those hats didn’t make a move as our white majorette boots beat out a rhythm that had no comparison. We hit them hard with a special routine for ten minutes and slowed down for the finale. Feeling excited and satisfied with ourselves we stood still as the roar of the crowd covered us like a warm blanket. There is no feeling like it and once you’ve had it you never forget. Just as the crowd settled down I called out with power and that strong feeling of togetherness and expectation, “A-TEN-SHUN!!!!!” The stomping 54
response could be felt in my feet as the girls answered in total unison. Their rhythm was on, they were moving as a team. I gave directions, did a sharp about-face as all eighteen of my girls stepped sharply and formed a perfect line behind me. “ARE YOU READY?” I asked. “YES,” was the response. Again I asked, “I SAID ARE YOU READY?” “YES,” was even louder than before. I knew; I could feel the readiness, but I wanted them to know that they were ready. I started a trot that was cool but smart; the rhythm was vibrating as the girls picked it up and brought the tempo to a deeper level. The audience came to their feet gently gyrating, swaying to our beat. The girls were feeling it; they were at their best. We would discuss the experience in our next group session. The process had me excited. The girls not only worked well on the floor but they had come together in their small group. The leaders had emerged in both arenas. Windy and Cassandra kept them tight and focused. Cassandra was the verbal half of the duo, with Windy creating and demonstrating. Of course they were good friends and lived next door to each other. With their enthusiasm and love for stepping we had three years of growing and good times. As I faced them watching them build the step, the passion was building in each rhythmatic step. They were working, each girl bent at the waist with left hand on her hip and the right hand reaching for the sky. Up kick and a three-step turn. The skirts were popping to the rhythm of the boots. Windy took over 55
and I stepped to the side. It was their show. As quick as lightning Windy ordered “TIGERETTES HALT!” Together, forty boots did a one-two stomp and halt. “ON THE THREE FOLLOW ME,” she directed and started a quick step counting one-two three, flip. At three she did a forward flip landing on both feet to start the count again without hesitation. Without hesitation the girls kept a three-step halt process. Cassandra followed and at each three count another girl joined the three-step flip. Windy was looking fresh. She had that contagious energy and this step was another one of her creations. The girls were on fire and the crowd was cheering them on. They were in another realm now, moving quick and with precision. All eighteen skirts flipping, showing their matching black shorts and well greased thighs. “ALLEYOOP-A-TEASE.” Together they landed for the last time and came to that sharp one-two halt. They had formed a complete circle in the middle of the floor. I could see the pressure this movement had on them. They were breathing hard, taking deep gulps of air and looking calm and cool. The leaders wisely gave them an extra few moments to rest in the rapture of the excitement coming from the crowd. They knew not to become too relaxed and they knew the importance of remaining focused. There was no count. You just had to be ready for the next command. I saw it coming. Windy snapped her head back like a wild stallion checking his herd. “A-TEN-SHUN!!!!!” They did the sharp one-two with hands to their 56
sides. I smiled. No one had lost a hat. I told them to keep those chin straps tight and anyone losing a hat would be escorted off the court by me. “CATCHING THE EIGHTH AVENUE” Windy hollered and together they started to step in place to a rhythm that was named as a result of its sound of a train. “HEAD-UM-OUT!!!!!” I winked as she passed me, tired but happy, not seeing how the circle she left behind was uncurling like a snake as each girl stepped off to exit. Each one of them made eye contact with me when they passed. Their eyes questioned me. Although they felt it, they still needed my validation. I was the one who made the promise. I was the one who had to assure them that this was it. They all grew two inches when they recognized the pride and joy in my eyes that sometimes came with a nod or a wink. These were my girls and they had pleased the crowd tonight. Again we were the best. The crowd was still standing as I ran off behind the last girl, my mind on the performance. I was also enjoying the feeling of the crowd. They knew these were my girls. Pride they say always accompanies a fall, or is it, comes before a fall? Well, we were high and it happened. Just as I reached the sidelines an exercise mat caught my left toe, and I saw myself falling almost in slow motion. I had no control and I knew I was going down. Bammm! I hit the floor with force. All one hundred and ninety-five pounds. I always say it was my oversized breast that cushioned my fall. The crowd roared upward to another level. There was no time to be concerned, hurt, or embarrassed, because we were still onstage and the 57
show must go on. The crowd was hollering, “Encore! Encore!” Tonight I would follow my dad’s advice, “Leave them begging for more.” The girls were so excited they didn’t even know I had fallen and I could not interrupt their glow. In the locker room they were hugging, kissing, and out of breath, but they were feeling it. This was the high that I promised them when they agreed to become a part of my positive alternative activity. I had told them that when they learned to synchronize their movements and seek perfection they would never accept less than their best. They were hot; they were feeling it. It was the same feeling that had me drunk with pride as I stood leaning on the locker room door. The fall forgotten, I was just enjoying the sight, wishing I could do it again just for them, God’s gift to parents. The children.
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MUSIC AND DANCE THE BLUES MILDRED PARK Couples swaying together in a smoke-filled dimly-lit room, half filled glasses on the table, piano, bass fiddle and drummer giving the beat. It’s Saturday night and they just got paid. A husky voiced singer with a guitar, B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday, words of lost love, bad luck, faithless lovers, all these speak to me of the blues. Music born of a need to tell their stories to a world not too sympathetic. Gut bucket, raunchy, down and dirty. “He Done Me Wrong,” “Oh My Man I Love Him So,” not upbeat like swing but downbeat music, for juke joints, not night clubs, until later times and other writers smoothed off the rough edges. Lacking the hope of gospel or spiritual but wrung from the similar soul’s travail. The Blues ain’t nothing but a pain in the heart. Odd, blue is the color of the sky, the ocean, why should it denote such sad music and why not the Grays or Blacks. Guess it’s the Navy Blues, dark like night, not bright like day. Porgy and Bess an opera in Blue, with the crippled man, fallen woman, drug dealer and murder, yet the music can soar. Speed up the beat and you can do a joyful dance, but then it wouldn’t be the blues.
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LISTEN TO YOUR HEART BEAT AND DANCE TO IT ELODIA MOWATT Unbelievable, unbelievable At last the hour has arrived. Here I am at Liberty Airport, Newark, NJ waiting to board the Continental Flight that will take me to finalize my dreams of so many years, my childhood dreams becoming a reality in these older years of my life. Barcelona, Spain I “hear” your welcome, I “see” your welcome I “feel” your welcome and “taste the savory” of your cuisine and wines. Barcelona, Spain. Here I come; it seems that I have been in your arms before. Yes mentally I have been there, spiritually, musically, Ethnically, and tasted of your culinary treats. Spiritually in your churches and cathedrals Musically in your Flamenco, Paso-Dobles, Gypsy Caravans, Symphonies Culturally in your Prados, Barrios, Museos, Teatros, and literal masterpieces and architectural wonders of Moors and castles Your culinary treats and variety of wines are known through the world. At last I am going Home—to Spain the Home of my Dreams a Home away from my Present Home. 62
MUSIC AND DANCE
SWEET LITTLE ROCK-N-ROLLER ALEXANDRA MCDANIEL It was a cold dark, dark night and all the lights were out. Jane went to the light switch and turned it on. Nothing happened. She tried it again and again. No lights. Jane found herself thinking, damn, now I got to go downstairs in the basement to check out the fuse box. Suddenly she went to the window and noticed that all lights were out. Up and down the block dark; the stores on both corners no lights. Jane was convinced that it was a blackout. She remembered that there were some candles and matches in the kitchen’s junk drawer. Jane started to feel her way through the parlor, then the dining room, and finally the kitchen. She could not help from feeling somewhat frightened. Her hands were shaking so much that it took four matches to light one candle. After a moment Jane went to the fireplace and started a fire. She felt a little better. The warmth from the fireplace relaxed her. She went to sit in her oversized recliner, then started to close her eyes for a short nap. Whenever Jane slept she would refer to it as a nap, because she couldn’t sleep more than three hours at a time no matter how tired she was. Laid back on the recliner, feet up, and a light blanket over her legs, her eyes were heavy, and she was about to close them. When suddenly there was a 63
thump, thump, thump. Someone was knocking at her door. At first she thought that she was dreaming, but the thump, thump, thump continued. Jane pulled back the blanket and took the candle and went to the door. Before she opened the door, she looked out of the window and saw a shadow in the dark which appeared to be a woman, or at least, that is what Jane thought it was. Jane asked, “Who is it?” A voice said, “It’s me, Paula.” “Paula who?” “Paula, your neighbor.” Jane said, “Well, what do you want?” “I just want……..” Then, total silence. Jane looked out the window again, and there was no one there. Jane returned to her recliner, convinced that she was dreaming. She fell back to sleep. She must have been asleep for at least an hour. Thump, thump, thump. Jane said, I’m not moving. I’m dreaming again. She closed her eyes again. The thump continued for what seemed like five minutes. At this point Jane was getting angry. She got up and went to the window. The woman was back. Jane yelled, “WHO IS IT? WHO IS IT?” The voice of the woman said, “It’s me, Paula again.” “PAULA? I DON’T KNOW A PAULA.” “I’m your neighbor.” This time Jane went to the door to open it. The door would not open. Jane thought perhaps the locks were on. After all, she had three locks on that door. Jane started to unlock the door, but again, the door would not open. She fumbled with the locks and still 64
she could not open it. Jane yelled, “I CAN’T OPEN THE DOOR.” Paula asked, “Why?” Jane said, “Because.” Then there was total silence. Jane was back in her chair looking at the fireplace and listening to the crackle from the wood burning. Jane laughed out loud. She had turned on her little battery operated transistor radio. An old song was playing “Sweet Little Rock-N-Roller.” She slowly moved her head to the beat of the music, singing along. After the song went off, the news came on. It was a warning: an escapee from a mental hospital about five miles away had escaped. Name, Paula, she is extremely armed and dangerous. Ten minutes later, all the lights were on again. Jane went to the window and looked out, when she noticed that her door wasn’t locked after all. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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THANKFULNESS FOR TRIBUTE TO GOD WHAT IF? DORIS DE YOUNGE It was a lovely warm summer day. The day I will long remember. God sent an evangelist, in the person of Pastor Wilson, to extend an invitation to visit the Emmanuel Baptist Church. “We have a program called Prime Time Ministry. This program includes older seniors and retired persons,” Pastor Wilson said. “I think you will enjoy being with us.” Before I go further in my experience at Emmanuel Baptist Church, I would love to say, every moment has been a pleasant experience, from the first day to this present day. The activities cover an almost endless program to enhance the senior’s retired life and bring more joy to his or her life: spiritual, physical, mental, social, and more. Imagine learning computer skills if you are a beginner or advanced in the skill. Small group devotional, exercise classes, for all needs. Trips, some one-day, theatre, health, concerts. Just a small list. Such a storehouse of activities will help you enjoy these precious days of your life. There is always something to engage your attention. We have workshops conducted by professionals in their vocation, bringing the very best and latest information with references to pursue the information 66
you would desire. I could go on further. However, I must say in all sincerity: What If?? I had not accepted the invitation of dear Pastor Wilson. What If?? I had said, “Later. I have a church to attend.� I personally feel what an experience and adventure I would have missed. This writing class that is part of the program would not have caught my attention. So God bless the program, Prime Time Ministry. Come and see what wonderful things are going on at Emmanuel Baptist Church. I would not have known if I did not accept the invitation in my soul and heart to come and see. What a wealth of knowledge is available to share and be enlightened.
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THANKFULNESS FOR/TRIBUTE TO GOD
UNTITLED LINDA THOMAS Why, oh why, oh why? My, my, my. I lied and God, yes, I am paying for it now. Why in the world, in this life time did I agree To go antique shopping with Lucy? When she first said shopping, of course I said yes. Later on, when she said antique shopping, I groaned. But it was too late, we were almost there. Off the road a bit sits the Olde Antique Shoppe. A museum of things from the past. I tell Lucy take your time, while I browse. I sit on this couch mulling over the situation. Then I spot it. But it couldn't be. I must be having an allergic reaction to the dust in here, must be hallucinating. Ha. Hallucinate. I once did way back when I took some uppers because I was down, way down. He left me with not as much as a note. But this couldn't be the same typewriter that sat in his room. The one where the “a� stuck. There is still a letter in it. Dare I look? 68
It says De r You (with the “a” missing from “dear”) I had to leave with the “a”s missing from “had” and “leave”) Because __________________. p.s. A voice says God never wants to punish you.
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THANKFULNESS FOR/TRIBUTE TO GOD
“GIVING AGAIN” B. B. JACKSON “What? Giving again?” I asked in dismay. “Must I give all that I have away?” “No,” said the angel, piercing me through. “Just give until God stops giving to you!” My childhood pastor, Rev. E. Paul Simms, would say this each Sunday just before collection was raised at First Baptist church in Norfolk, Virginia. As a young girl growing up in the South, I always felt that I had to give my best in all I did. My mother always made sure we had a few pennies, a nickel, dime, or occasionally a quarter for Sunday School or church. I knew even as a child that she struggled to provide for us, but we always gave because God gave to us. God is very special to me. I cannot but feel that with all His gifts, I can always give to Him… my time, my talents, my love, yes… even my treasures. Yes, I am giving again because God continues to give to me.
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THANKFULNESS FOR/TRIBUTE TO GOD
PEACE ON EARTH: A CHRISTMAS STORY ROSE JONES-WILSON It was Christmas Eve and she had been shopping in Richmond for Christmas gifts and was now on her way home to the suburbs. Every year I shop later and later, she thought. I’ve got to stop that. Just then a hitchhiker flagged her down. She stopped because during those years people were not afraid to pick them up. “How far are you going?” she asked. “I’m trying to get to Falls Church, in Northern Virginia. I want to make it before Christmas.” “Well, I am not going too far,” she said. “But I am sure someone else will pick you up where I drop you off. It’s Christmastime and everyone ought to be home for Christmas. Hop in,” she said, and he got in the back. After he was in, she put the radio on and I’ll be Home for Christmas was playing on the air. “See, it was just affirmed,” she said. “You’ll make it, I am sure.” She had brought lunch on her way to the car but had not taken the time to eat. “Have some lunch,” she said. “I’ve got more than enough.” Before he could answer, she was pushing the bag with hamburger and chips across the seat. “I am truly hungry,” he thought, and quickly 71
gobbled down the food. “What is your name,” she asked. “Everyone calls me Speed,” he said. “That’s my nickname but that’s good enough for me.” She talked to him about family and how important it was to have one. She told him her family did not have much when she was growing up. “We did not have material things but we were rich in love. Love is the important thing. That is what Christmas is all about you know. God loves us so much that he came down from heaven like a baby so he would not frighten us half to death by his appearance. He wanted to be with us.” “Oops! I almost drove past my own house. This is as far as I am going. I am sure someone else will pick you up. You’ll be in Falls Church before Christmas.” She let him out as she pulled into her drive way and saw him with his hand up trying to hitch another ride. Three days later when she open her mailbox, which was located at the entrance to her drive way, she saw a letter addressed to the resident of Box 140, Chamberlain Height, Richmond, Virginia. She opened the letter and read its content. It read: “Dear Resident of Box 140, When you picked me up on Christmas Eve, I had all intentions of robbing and killing you. But no one ever spoke to me as kindly as you did. No one every treated me with the dignity you showed me. If you don’t believe me, just lift up the cushion on the back seat of your car and you will find the loaded gun. I left it because I have no use of it anymore. Thank you.” Consider what your kind words can do to save lives! 72
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NY Writers Coalition Press