Winter Edition 2023
ScreaminMamas Features
The Voice of Everyday Moms
• Jennifer Bonn • Faleeha Hassan • Nicolette Hylan-King • Lyna Lopez
Holiday Magic • Patricia Lynne • Carole Christman Koch • Paula Timpson • Jen Waldron
Humor • Debbie Murphy • Carol Runyan
Poetry • Lucia Haase • Marcella Kumer • Debi Lewis • Lorelei Kay • Eva Tortora • Alice G. Waldert
Short Stories • Ashley Gigous • Gloria Jean Hansen • Ruth Lee • Diane Sigala • Becky Walker
A Literary Storybook Written By You
TM
“Sledding,” Johann Franz Čačka Vienna, Circa 1974 † Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Let’s be positive! Eva Tortora artist & Writer in NYC
Let’s Let’s be be positive! positive! There’s There’s so so much much to to be be grateful grateful for!!!!!!! for!!!!!!! One One step step at at aa time! time! Each Each day day is is aa new new beginning! beginning! Let’s Let’s embrace embrace the the positive positive and and forget forget about about the the negative! negative!
THE SCREAMINMAMAS TEAM SCREAMINMAMAS
EDITORIAL
WINTER HOLIDAY EDITION 2023
The Lifeblood of our Existence
EMAIL: ScreaminMamas@gmail.com WEBSITE: ScreaminMamas.com
DARLENE PISTOCCHI Editor-In-Chief DENISE WEATHERBY The Listener DEANNA WOLVERTON Whipping Post
CONTACT/CONNECT We’re Here, There & Everywhere! BLOGS: ScreaminMamas.Blogspot.com ScreaminMamas.Wordpress.com DUOTROPE: Duotrope.com/ listing/29901screaminmamas Facebook: ScreaminMamas Twitter:@ScreaminMama YouTube.com/c/ScreaminMama Pinterest.com/harmonipro/ screaminmamas Instagram.com/ScreaminMamas Tumblr: ScreaminMama.Tumblr.com
BLOGGERS/POETS/WRITERS Our Social Media Mavens
WRITERS/CONTRIBUTORS Our Mojo & Staying Power
JENNIFER BONN Living Well/Mom Vlogs RUTH LEE Poetry/Whimsy PATRICIA LYNNE Poetry/Stories DEBBIE MURPHY English/Humor PAULA TIMPSON Poetic Thoughts EVA TORTORA Artist &Writer
DIANA DEANDA Nostalgia/Short Stories GLORIA J HANSEN Humor/Nostaligia CAROLE C. KOCH Humor/Nostalgia MARCELLA KUMER Poetry/Stories JANET SOBCYZK Poetry/Short Stories KELLY SULLIVAN Network/Short Stories JEN WALDRON Humor/Network/Stories
FEATURED POETS/WRITERS Patient FreeLancers & Inspiration ASHLEY GIGOUS LUCIA HAASE - Recurring FALEEHA HASSAN NICOLETTE HYLAN-KING Recurring DEBI LEWIS -Recurring LYNA LOPEZ CAROL RUNYAN LORELEI KAY - Recurring DIANE SIGALA ALICE G. WALDERT BECKY WALKER
Cover Photo of Charlotte, 3, and Chelsea, 1, taken in front of the Christmas display at Kraynaks toy store in Hermitage, Pennsylvania in December 2022. Courtesy their mom, Nicolette Hylan-King. Disclaimer: As a grassroots group of Moms, our publication dates vary. We work around the kids, the chores, the dogs, the dishes, the laundry, the bills... but, through the grace of God, and everyone’s continued faithfulness and patience, it gets done. Very thankfully. We scour for errors intriplicate but some still squeak by. Apologies in advance. We accept submissions throughout the year, please visit our website for what we look for: screaminmamas.com. You may submit on our website or email: screaminmamas@gmail.com. All work published remains that of the author/artist. Layout and Design remains that of ScreaminMamas. Photos & artwork courtesy contributor, clipart, Adobe Stock or Public Domain.†Denotes a tag for author’s work after 100 years or fewer. No part of this may be reproduced without express permission. All rights reserved 2023.
Table of
P r i n t Co p i e s A v a i l a b l e a t ScreaminMamas.com Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10-11
‘Cutting Christmas Trees,” H. A. Brendekilde, Circa 1885, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Page 12-13 Page14-16 Page 17 Page 18-20 Page21 Page 22-23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26-28
Letter From The Editor ◆ D Pistocchi ◆ Every Mother’s Child ◆ Lorelei Kay - Poetry ◆ Toddler Power ◆ Carol Runyan - Humor ◆ Flashback Lil Red ◆ Debbie Murphy - Humor ◆ Poop, Falls & Grief ◆ Ashley Gigous ◆ Christmas Time ◆ Patricia Lynne ◆ The Band ◆ Diane Sigala - Short Story ◆ Clarification ◆ Lucia Haase - Poetry ◆ Her Neighbor Prince Valiant ◆ Lyna Lopez - Romance ◆ Holiday Magic ◆ Eva Tortora - Poetry ◆ One’s Place ◆ Marcella Kumer - Center ◆ Christmas Haiku ◆ Paula Timpson - Poetry ◆ Letter to the New Mama... ◆ Nicolette Hylan-King ◆ Cigarettes & Guilt ◆ Becky Walker ◆
Contents
The Gift Page 29 ◆ Ruth Lee - Poetry ◆ Growth With A Son Page 30 ◆ Paula Timpson ◆ Chill & Relax Page 31 ◆ Debbie Murphy - Humor ◆ I Had No Choice Page 32-33 ◆ Alice G. Waldert - Poetry Teenagers & Prayer ◆ Page 34 ◆ Jennifer Bonn ◆ Prism Page 35 ◆ Paula Timpson - Poetry ◆ Cookie Swap Page36-37 ◆ Jen Waldron - Recipe ◆ First Sliding & Family Fun Page 38 ◆ Paula Timpson ◆ Happy Holidays Page 39 ◆ Eva Tortora - Poetry ◆ A Little Bit About Nothing Page40-41 ◆ Ruth Lee - Short Story ◆ Cabin By The River Page 42-43 ◆ Gloria Jean Hansen ◆ War and Me Page 44-45 ◆ Faleeha Hassan - Book ◆ The Most Beautiful Santa Page 46 ◆ Carole Christman Koch ◆ Sisters Page 47 ◆ Debi Lewis - Poetry ◆ Santa’s Journey Back Cover ◆ Patricia Lynne ◆
‘“Decorating the Tree,” Carl Larsson. Swedish, Circa 1917, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
WINTER HOLIDAY EDITION 2023
Letter from the Editor Hello Fabulous Moms & Contributors!
Well, we made it through another year and able to get out three (3) amazing issues this year - thanks to all of your wonderful stories and poems and laughs and cries. You ROCK, Mamas, and I mean it. I am so humbled reading through your work, I hope you feel it too. That special bond that I truly believe only moms can know - when you feel like a failure or a success, when you want to yell and scream or laugh and cry. There is no greater job in the world than that of being a Mom and that is why to me, you are all miracle workers, sprinkled with magic from above to help us navigate life. No matter how desparate our situations become, in the end, we always pull through. And so it is with great joy that I offer you this beautiful magazine proudly featuring your ups and downs and round and rounds. I would like to welcome newcomers Ashley Gigous, Becky Walker, Diane Sigala, Carol Runyan, Alice G. Waldert Faleeha Hassan and contest winner Lyna Lopez! Welcome, Ladies! Plus, you’ll get an abundance of short stories, articles and poems from many wonderful recurring guests and our solid staff, who we could not survive without, so THANK YOU to ALL!! I wish you the very merriest of holidays!!!
Lots of Love, Darlene
~ CO N T R I B U TO R S ~ Lorelei Kay is a mother, a grandmother, a writer, and a poet. “I’ve loved poetry ever since my dad sat me down and helped me write my first poem. He then signed me up for high school journalism where I became the editor of the school newspaper. Later I attended Brigham Young University on a journalism scholarship. My writing ambitions have sprung back into life. I’m active in the High Desert Chapter of The California Writer’s Club, and have written an award-winning memoir. I find ideas for poetry popping up all around me, and I love breathing life into them. With several poems already published—my fun is just beginning.” Nicolette Hylan-King is a writer who lives in State College, Pennsylvania with her two girls, Charlotte, 4, and Chelsea, 2, and her husband, Kyle. Her poetry and creative nonfiction have been published widely.
Eva Tortora
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Carole C Koch
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Jennifer Bonn
Marcella Kumer
Carol Runyan, now retired, was once a university public health professor. A mother of one, she and her husband enjoy telling tales of her son’s capers to their grandchildren. ◆ ◆ ◆ Debi Lewis
Lucia Haase
Patricia Lynne
Paula Timpson
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Every Mother’s
CHILD
‘Matternal Admiration, William-Adolphe Bouguereau, French, Circa 1869, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
Dressed in Sunday best, I bounce her on my knee—this perfect baby girl of mine. The sun has never shone its light, nor the moon ever streamed its silver beams on such a child—as this. A pig-tailed girl in the next pew pivots, her eyes wide as she tugs her mother’s sleeve. “Oh Mom! Look at her – she must be the most beautiful baby in the whole world!” I beam. I know it’s true. After all, strangers shower her with praise. Some even place gifts in her small hands while cooing adulations above her angelic face. The mother turns to look, smiles, drapes her arm over her daughter’s shoulder, then whispers, “Oh, she’s pretty, but Sweetie, you should have seen you— when you were a baby!”
Lorelei Kay
Carol Runyan
HUMOR
TODDLER POWER Carol Runyan
“Then, he wound up and bellowed in his loudest outdoor voice: “WILL YOU SHUT UP?!” It was something only another toddler could get away with. . .” In the late 1980’s, the three of us were flying somewhere, I don’t remember where. The airlines gave us the bulkhead seats, A, B, and C. My husband, Des, was on the aisle. I had the window and Alex was safely between us. He was an alert and wiggly boy who invariably had no intention of falling asleep during a flight. At an earlier age Alex had always wanted to stand on our laps and fidget with the safety card and try out all the overhead gizmos. We soon realized that we had to keep a close watch so that the safety card wasn’t launched into another row and that he only punched the button for the lights and fan and not for the flight attendant. Occasionally we were not quick enough to keep him from summoning the crew. They were usually forgiving. Once he had turned two and we had to pay for his seat, we began hauling a car seat onto the plane with us and buckled him in, keeping watch if he decided to kick the seat in front but mostly so that he couldn’t reach anything except what we handed him – usually little cars, books or a delightfully soft brown and white bear named Dadoo that had been a gift from his uncle in Australia. Dadoo travelled everywhere with us and had taken a couple of extra FedEx rides after disastrously being left behind in hotels. On this particular trip Alex, then about four, was not in a car seat and was being remark-
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ably calm, holding Dadoo as we waited on board for the plane to push away from the gate. As the cabin doors closed and the smell of jet fuel diminished, we noticed another less patient child with his parent across the aisle. That child, less than two and in his parent’s lap, clearly was not happy about being there. He was waving his arms and screaming loudly despite the best efforts of his adult companions to distract him with toys, books, and snacks. He was inconsolable and very loud, his wails piercing through the entire cabin. Taking things into his own hands, our usually rambunctious son calmly peered across the aisle at this other boy, seemingly assessing the situation. Then, he wound up and bellowed in his loudest outdoor voice: “WILL YOU SHUT UP?!” It was something only another toddler could get away with though undoubtedly what every other passenger was thinking and wishing that they, too, could shout. The kid across the aisle, whether out of fear or respect for another small person, was immediately silent and did not utter another peep for the remainder of the trip. While initially a little embarrassed, I quickly realized what a favor Alex had done for the whole plane. I imagined the rest of the passengers behind us smiling gratefully and silently thanking our son for his bravado. ◆ ◆ ◆
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HUMOR
Best of the Blogs
Debbie Murphy
Christmas Flashback with
Little Red… Debbie Murphy
So the holidays were approaching fast, and impatient to get the decorations and tree down from the attic I declined the invitation to wait until the family returned from a grocery trip and decided to just go it alone. Big mistake. Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house… nothing was stirring… well, nothing except for Little Red’s Mumma, who was perched precariously on the top of a ladder wedged in the attic opening. The Christmas tree box was in full view but after several unsuccessful attempts to pull it through as it seemed unduly heavy I decided to give it one more huge tug before giving in…with all my might I pulled on the tattered (strangely heavy) box and was somewhat alarmed to say the least to feel it not only give but come hurtling towards me along with some other huge shape!!!! Screaming in what can only be described as a completely curse-ridden, newly-found language I
went down that ladder like a woman possessed closely followed by the huge tree box along with... what you see to the right. LOL. My family arrived home at the precise time I managed to clear the entire staircase screaming at the top of my lungs whilst this monstrosity tumbled down the stairs after me. The moral of the story is this: Remember where you hide those gigantic annoying toys your child wins at the fair before you venture into a dark, dusty scary loft. P.S. I might have left the crazy 6′ stuffed frog in the garage for my partner to find later that night when putting his bike away…!!!! A girls gotta get her kicks somewhere. Ha! ◆ ◆ ◆
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Mommin’ for R eal
Poop, Falls & Grief Ashley Gigous Jojo fell off the bed the other day. It was pretty traumatizing...for me. He's really into the blinds right now, and from the outside of my bedroom window it would appear that I have a puppy because the blinds are broken and half eaten. I guess, in all of this I-can-pull-myself-up-andstand-confidence, he felt like reaching for the blinds further away. The ones at the end of the bed, past the end of the bed. I had him sitting on my bed while I got dressed.
I've never heard before coming out of him. A long silence in between yelling where he doesn't breathe (iykyk) and then more screams. Crying and crying and crying. No blood, no bumps, no vomit, no falling asleep. Just sobbing. And a boatload of shame on my end. As my dear friend described it when I told her, he will be okay, but you will have a dark cloud over the rest of your day.
“I turn around and he is face down on the (wooden) floor.
There is a pause of silence as I run to him. Then...”Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Screaming, like I’ve never heard before coming out of him. He was playing, and started to crawl toward the "safe" blinds. I turned around to pull a shirt out of my dresser drawer (I am in my bra and leggings trying to get dressed) and literally this might be for a total of 7 seconds...and I hear a LOUD thump. I turn around and he is face down on the (wooden) floor. There is a pause of silence as I run to him. Then..."Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" Screaming like
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And I did. All day I felt miserable, seeing him like that. I felt like the worst human ever. Why would I even leave him on the bed? Why don't I put him somewhere safe? Why am I even taking chances? I'm going to ruin him, I'm too unstable, too messy, too chaotic to do this. Hours later I am thinking about this and thinking about how badly I want someone to tell
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P O O P, FA L L S & G R I E F me it is okay. I want someone to tell me I'm doing a good job, despite the mistakes. I want someone to tell me that Jojo loves me and will be okay. I want this someone to be my dad who passed away two months before J was born. ... Fast track a week later, many coffee table head bumps later for J, as he navigates the living room from a new perspective (on his feet!), we are back on antibiotics for yet another ear infection + pink eye. He wakes up this morning kinda whining, kinda crying. I think he wants a bottle, and he pushes it away. I go to pick him up and feel he is wet on the side. Ummm, I had no idea how is it all over his side - I changed his diaper several hours ago in the night? Unbuttoning his onesie and taking off his diaper, right on my bed, I realize there is poop in his diaper. I hadn't even smelled it, and am super surprised because he has only pooped at night once so far. His bare butt is on my bed, so I quickly lift him up before any poop gets on the quilt. I place him inside his stand up toy in front of the mirror (exersaucer? whatever you call it) and go back for coffee. I come back with his dropper of antibiotics to give him and sit down on the floor to start this process, because generally he doesn't make it the easiest- depends on the day. As I sit down, I still smell crap...which is weird to me. I washed my hands, is it on me? Well, looking down at Jojo's leg, there is orange-ish red liquidy poo running down to his feet. His feet are already jumping in a puddle that has apparently escaped his diaper. Facepalm. Okay, I get a bath ready... slowly pull him out of the exersaucer, seeing that the poop was more on the side than center and essentially missed the diaper, but was chunky and runny at the same time up to his hip and right side (and in the toy). Needing to get the diaper off to place him in the bath, I stand him on the sink, trying to avoid any surfaces, but little dancing toes has red poo all over his feet from jumping in it earlier and is now marking up the bathroom sink with his poop feet as I get the diaper off. (I have yet to drink the coffee, fyi). I put him in the tub and attempt to clean up
Photos of Jovanni (JoJo), & Ashley’s fath e r.
Ashley Gigous
what I can so that our home is not also a haven for pink eye (like daycare). I clean all the toys after I get him out and all is well. Until I go to the bathroom and have a (much appreciated) BM and the toilet clogs and now needs plunged. Pardon the expression, but a sh*t-filled morning indeed. Hilarious, of course. But just like last week when I needed reassurance, I would have given anything to call my dad and laugh with him about this, send him pictures, leave a voicemail even. Sure, "he's still with you," and "he can still see this and is laughing right there." But he's not. And this is grief, I'm finding. Missing that person in the hard times, missing them in the joyful moments, and trying to accept that they really aren't here anymore. Every day brings so much adventure with the birth of J, and yet a small tear at the hole missing in our life. ◆ ◆ ◆
About The Author Ashley Gigous is a writer
of memoirs, letters, and lists. She is an avid journaler and in addition to her practice of creative writing, she holds space virtually for therapeutic writing as a Wild Writing instructor. Her full-time work is in the substance use treatment and recovery field, but her favorite job is being a mom to her 14 month old son. Ashley and Jovanni currently reside in South Carolina. You can read more about their adventures on her blog: becomingmamagigs.blogspot.com. ◆ ◆ ◆
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“Winter,” Boris Mikhailovich Kustodiev Circa 1916, Russian † Public Domain in the US via Wikimedia Commons
May you never be too grown up to search the skies on Christmas Eve. ~ Anonymous ~
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Patricia Lynne
Christmas Magic
I feel the fantasy of Christmas down to my tip-toes. The beautiful lights decorating my town, Christmas music playing everywhere.I do realize these are very real, tangible things, but there is a magic to the season. People seem kinder, actually may greet one another on the street. Adult children make time for their moms and dads, grandparents. The Santa Claus theory is quite diverse. However, it seems to be a worldwide phenomena in some shape or form. The ideal of a North Pole where Santa and the elves live working tirelessly to make toys for kids has been the theme of many Christmas movies for both young and old. The magical fireplace that Santa comes down at all costs is quite numerous really. Yet many families put out cookies and milk for him You will also find magic in snowmen who come to life and thrill the neighborhood kids, corn cob pipe, two button eyes and a carrot nose. Of course there is adorable Rudolph, who leads Santa and his sleigh around the world on Christmas Eve. That is a slice of magic on its own. Hallmark Christmas movies are another timeless fantasy where a certain pattern is followed: romance, Christmas tree lighting, ice skating, possibly a Festival of Lights and hot chocolate for all. These movies take us away from our worries and stress for a bit. As long as we are not swept into fantasy in our real life no harm done Church seems to welcome more people than at others times of the year If you celebrate Christ’s birth in Bethlehem at Christmas churches provide music, concerts, activities for all. And yet for many, it is just another day because there are so many other wonderful holidays this time of year. But this piece just speaks of Christmas. Back to Santa. The fantasy of Santa Claus opened the world up to stories of magic, science fiction, thinking outside of the box. A story that has been passed down generation after generation, ‘Twas the night before Christmas” is read to children by their parents. The fantasy of a grey-bearded old man dressed in a red suit carrying toys in a sack on his back is quite harmless so hopefully everyone can enjoy the decorations, music, and family time that comes with it. ◆ ◆ ◆
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S H O RT S TO R Y
The Band
Diane Sigala The band practices at my house. Four young musicians, preferring Metallica and Nirvana to jazz, rehearse and jam regularly in my youngest son’s bedroom. They’re juniors in high school, ages sixteen and seventeen, a bass, two guitars, a singer, and my son, the drummer. When they first began rehearsing, the rhythm-guitarist’s father would ask me, “How can you stand it?”
They’ve been together since eighth grade when they played their first gig together at the middle school. By the time they reached high school, they were on to bigger stuff, like the pep rally. The band played the theme songs from King of the Hill and Sesame Street. The rallied teens went wild. My job was moral support and video taping. Such are my duties as a parent-fan.
I could only reply, “I know where they are and what they’re doing. And I can think of plenty of other things they could be doing that might be worse than making music...such as it is.
My son prefers his guitar to the drums, but he’s becoming a great drummer and the band needs a great drummer. His need to drum, and I say “need” because I think it is just that, was revealed by accident one day while visiting with the school counselor who asked him what he might like to
Besides,....” I would add, “that’s when I vacuum”.
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E V E R Y D AY R O C K S TA R S do with his life. I was stunned when he said he wanted to be a drummer. “What? Since when? You never mentioned it.” But then I realized it made perfect sense. I reprimanded him many times for his incessant drumming on the back seat of the car while I was driving. He’d also pace around the dining room table while talking on the phone, the rest of us, his father, siblings and I, watching in amazement as he’d circle the room at a steady rate, talking and fidgeting. He had a nervous energy that “needed” some place to be released. That’s when we found him a drum teacher. Within weeks, we found a used drum kit, which led to better drum lessons, which led to finding others to jam with, which led to the band. The rhythm-guitarist called me one Saturday afternoon to ask, if he were able to get a ride to my house for rehearsal, would I get him back home in time to go to work at the pizza parlor? I told him I was very busy, which I was, and I didn’t think I had time to drive him back to town. After I hung up the phone, I thought better of it and called him back, agreeing to be his ride to work. He arrived early, before the other boys and so we had a halfhour to ourselves. As I went about my work in the kitchen, he told me about the neighbors who had
Diane Sigala
and drugs and what the court threatened until he promised to get turned around. His dad had died of heroine overdose. I tried to be gentle with my questions, though he was more forthcoming with his answers. He told me his mom had died of the same when he was six. I stood there in my kitchen with my dinner cooking on the stove, looking at this young man. I thought about the effort he was making just to get out to my house to make music. He was working, he was in school, and he was in a band. All this kid was asking for was a ride to work. An hour ago I believed there wasn’t time in my day. The lead-guitarist hasn’t had his mother in his life since he was two. Consequently, he’s pretty independent when it comes to finding ways to get what he needs. His mom entered the picture when he was finishing middle school and they’ve been working hard at building a relationship. Still, he likes my cooking and the attention he gets at my house. He calls to brag about his improved grades or to share his depression about the girl he’s not allowed to date. He asks how the songs sound and hugs me every time he comes over. He’s smarter than he thinks he is and he’s very funny. He used to tell me that he sometimes hated my son because he knew my son was having a hot breakfast and
“The rhythm-guitarist called me one Saturday afternoon to ask, if he were able
to get a ride to my house for rehearsal, would I get him back home in time to go to work at the pizza parlor? ... As I went about my work in the kitchen, he told me about the neighbors who had taken him in during the last few years now since his dad died.... [he] had died of heroine overdose... He told me his mom had died of the same when he was six. I stood there in my kitchen with my dinner cooking on the stove, looking at this young man. I thought about the effort he was making just to get out to my house to make music. He was working, he was in school, and he was in a band. All this kid was asking for was a ride to work.” taken him in during the last few years now since his dad died, and how good these people have been to him. He told me how he had been involved in gangs
maybe a ride to school. He couldn’t imagine what that might be like, having someone there to cook dinner for him every night. I would chide my son (Contined next page . . .)
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THE BAND and ask him if he was listening. Occasionally, the phone would ring at 5:00 a.m. I’d nervously answer, wondering who would be calling so early. Usually, it was the lead-guitarist calling for a ride, asking a question or, as he did one week, calling to say he felt sick and wondered what he could eat to make his stomach feel better. Freshman year, he determined to rise from the D’s and F’s on his report card. He and my son enrolled in a psychology class at the local community college and I drove them both to their class two nights each week that semester. We were all so excited when the guitarist’s highschool grades rose to B’s. Something in him had changed; was it the band’s influence that changed him? Perhaps he finally saw something in himself that could succeed? I often make turkey-cheese sandwiches for the drummer’s lunch and occasionally find myself making them for the lead-guitarist who appreciates them more. There are late weekend night gatherings at a local restaurant where the band, roadies, fans, and groups of girls crowd into the largest booths and occupy long tables, much to the chagrin of the waitresses. Before they had their own driver’s licenses, and to make sure they would behave themselves and tip the waitresses, I would find myself accompanying them. More often than not, a band member would lean over the booth and whisper to me, “Can I borrow some money?” If I had too little, they would order a soda. The bass player is a puzzle. He’s intelligent, witty, clever, and talented but is doing poorly in school. He plays the bass brilliantly, sometimes running elaborate rhythm patterns and wide reaching hand shapes along the neck of his bass, all the while sitting casually on an amplifier. During band practice, I’ve peeked in and found him asleep on my son’s bed, his bass cradled in his arms and protective as a shield across his chest. It took the band three years of working together to find a singer. At first, the lead-guitarist tried singing but that was a mistake. One singer they auditioned sang proudly: his cologne, hairstyle and
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Diane Sigala jewelry screaming as loudly as his semi-trained voice. Another prospective singer was so wellmannered, I was waiting for him to say, “My, your outfit is lovely, Mrs. Cleaver.” The instrumentals worked so smoothly together, it seemed that they could read each other’s minds. They were, what they called, “tight”. But the band lacked that one element until they found the girl who has had no experience singing, but, at 16, is quite beautiful and courageous. She’s what they needed to pull the act together. In their fourth year together, they’ve become a unit, a democracy, a success. They have a purpose. They play parties and concerts. They have fans, tee-shirts, 8 X 10 glossies, and a CD. Most importantly, they have each other. ◆ ◆ ◆
About The Author Diane Sigala raised
her children and stepchildren on a twenty-acre ranch in the parched Mojave Desert. She retired from 30 years as a sign language interpreter and is now a freelance writer. Her articles have been published in Bella Grace magazine. In 2021, Diane published a biography. She is currently writing a memoir. NOTE: Originally sent in 2017, this beautiful piece got lost in the shuffle of Irma and COVID. I reached out to Diane and she provided a Postscript for us: Since this article was written, the members of the band have moved on into their active adult lives. Some of them have children of their own. The lead-guitarist stays in touch, calling or sending a text on Mother’s Day. My son, the drummer, still enjoys jamming with other musicians in his free time. ◆ ◆ ◆
Clarification larification AAseething seethingin inof ofnoise noisedistorts distortsthe theway; way; we weact actand andreact, react,blinding blindingus usto tosee… see… say saywhat?...the what?...thesoul soulencompassed encompassedby bythe thefray fray
“Snow Maiden,” Viktor Mikhailovich Vasnetsov, Russian, Circa 1899 † Public Domain in the US via Wikimedia Commons
relinquishes relinquishesthe thepeace peacethat’s that’smeant meantto tobe. be. Magnetic Magneticsecret secretplaces placesoften oftensnag snag our ourwits witsin inwant wantof ofheartfelt heartfeltpeace peaceto toscour; scour; stagnated stagnatedthoughts, thoughts,we wetend tendto tozig zigand andzag, zag, core coretiming timingfelt feltin ingrasp graspof ofone onemore morehour. hour. Forever Forevercraving cravingcalm, calm,we wefind findthe thedoor, door, inviting invitingus usto toenter enterand andbegin, begin, score scoremelodies melodiesof ofbalm balmfelt feltmore moreand andmore; more; din dinfades fadesaway awayand andtakes takesaadownward downwardspin. spin. Sustaining Sustainingsolitudesolitude-aamoment’s moment’sgust; gust; just justlisten listento toyour yourinner innervoice voiceand andtrust. trust.
Lucia Haase
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LYNA LOPEZ
Her Neighbor Prince Valiant
Gretal shoved the stray black strands of hair from the front of her face for the third time that morning, and they weren’t even her own. She switched her daughter to the other arm. Lucy, her youngest, continued to cry on her shoulder, mumbling incoherent words about ‘not finding
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her favorite pink sweater.’ The girl was getting way too heavy, and it was getting harder to comfort her with one hand, while she rummaged in her closet for the lost sweater. Kaden ran down the stairs, almost tripping over the discarded skateboard and dirty sneakers
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CONTEST WINNER
ROMANCE
he must’ve left there last night in his rush to play video games. Her middle child, Julian, shoved his glasses back up his nose as he fought to grab the jumping frog and place him back in his box. Triumphant, Gretal found a purple cardigan. “Oh, Lucy, look at the beautiful flowers on this sweater.” Lucy wasn’t convinced. She shimmied down Gretal’s curves and ran from the room. She sighed. “Mom! We’re going to be late for the bus,” Kaden yelled from the first floor.
Lyna Lopez
almost ran right into her neighbor Mr. Valiant. The ever exciting to look at Mr. Valiant moved into their neighborhood about a year ago, and every single mom on her block have tried making a move on him at one point or another with no success. She was content just watching him from her window when he was out front stretching his muscles before a jog like the creepy stalker she was. The man never paid attention to any of the pretty single women in town, so what would make her think that he’d be interested in a seasoned woman with kids?
“
A broad grin reached all the way up to his ears as he leaned away to let her go. The loss of his warmth was immediately felt throughout her entire body. Shaking it off, she pulled the lapels of her robe tighter together as if the action would less expose her feelings...” “Right!” Gretal jumped into action. She ran down the stairs, careful to skip over the deadly debris, and into the kitchen. Her boys were polishing off a bowl of cereal. Julian licked his fingers. Oh, I hope he washed those hands before he started eating, she thought. Lucy was reluctantly shoved into the purple sweater. Gretal grabbed their lunches from the fridge. She shoved them inside cluttered book bags and handed them over to her children. Pulling the robe tighter around her waist, she grabbed her now cold cup of coffee from the counter and delighted in sipping the hazelnut goodness. Julian grabbed the box with his pet frog inside and shoved it under his arm to reach up and kiss his mother. “Be careful with my prince,” she joked. Julian’s features scrunched up in disgust. “Ew, gross mom.” If he only knew. Sighing for the second time that morning, she pulled open the door to let the kids out and
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She reeled back before spilling her drink on the sweat-drenched man who was coming by to drop off her mail again. Gretal was shocked to see quick reflexes grab the cup from her with one hand and wrap a strong arm around her waist with the other. “I’m sorry to have startled you, Mrs. Rivers.” She merely replied hazily, “It’s Ms. Rivers” and then regretted the words as soon as they came out. A broad grin reached all the way up to his ears as he leaned away to let her go. The loss of his warmth was immediately felt throughout her entire body. Shaking it off, she pulled the lapels of her robe tighter together as if the action would less expose her feelings. She heard the dishware thrown into the sink. Gretal flinched at the loud sound. Either she’d go back to the sink and see broken dishes, or if she did, be grateful they at least remembered to put them in there in the first place. (continued on next page....)
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W inner of our Valentine’s Day Contest H E R N E I G H B O R P R I N C E VA L I A N T Her eldest, Kaden, shoved her to the side in his haste. “Bye, mom!” He yelled from the end of the drive. She was about to wave goodbye when he sprang backward as if he had forgotten something. “Oh, later Mr. Neighbor Dude.” She laughed when Mr. Valiant expressed his shock with a hand to his chest and large green eyes going wide. Kaden’s bus stop was in front of her neighbor’s house, so it wasn’t the first time they had met or that her friend had tried reaching out to the boy. She was grateful Trevor Valiant persisted in breaking down Kaden’s walls. Ever since their father left without a word, Kaden had shut himself away from any type of male bond. Julian and Lucy’s shuttle pulled up to the front of her house, right on time. She moved to the side to let Julian pass, secretly grateful when Trevor put his arm up behind her, his fingers treading lightly on her back to keep her from falling into the bushes. She leaned down to kiss her boy and an infuriated Lucy on the cheek. “You both have a good day at school.” Julian nodded and went to grab Lucy with his free hand. Trevor leaned down after ruffling Julian’s hair with the hand not occupied with her back. “Lucy, I absolutely love those beautiful flowers on your pretty purple sweater.” He lightly pinched her cheeks. “They make your dimples that much cuter.” She didn’t know who blushed more—Lucy or her. Lucy’s dimples were a trait she inherited from her mother, and the indirect compliment most definitely appreciated. Lucy stood up prouder, pushing out her sweater covered chest. “Mama bought it for me,” she praised. He looked up at Gretal and whispered, “Your mama has very good taste.” Her knees buckled, and she had to hold onto the door frame for support. Gretal watched from her doorstep as Lucy pulled her brother to the bus. The box underneath his arm began to rattle and she watched in horror as the contents slipped out and a giant frog with beady black eyes hopped away. She ran towards his direction, completely forgetting about her neighbor as she dropped like a sumo wrestler ready to take down his opponent and then like a football player as she dove for the amphibian. Her son cheered as
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Lyna Lopez
the slimy creature continued to squirm from within her grasp. Using her elbows for leverage, Gretal got off of the ground but slipped on the wet grass. Her hands flew up. The frog leaped from her fingers, right towards her face. Her entire body hit the ground, knocking the wind from her sails. She blacked out just as the slippery creature landed right on her lips. When her eyes fluttered back open, she looked into a pair of jade eyes, followed by a crooked smile. Nature was on his side as the sun created a halo around his head and the wind blew those gorgeous blonde locks from his handsome face. “Are you my Prince?” She whispered. He lifted her off of the ground to stand. Trevor’s nimble fingers pulled grass from her hair and then pushed the strands behind her ear. He took one step closer to her. Their bodies almost touched. Then he whispered right back, “God, I hope so,” and leaned in to kiss her. This mom definitely got her man. ◆ ◆ ◆
About The Author Lyna Lopez has an obsession
with reading stories that separate her from the real world and writing about fantastical places and things. She loves watching Asian dramas and anime whenever she can. For a while, she taught children with emotional, behavioral disabilities, and inbetween grading assignments and curbing behavior, she earned her Bachelors in English Literature with Grand Canyon University and her Masters in Creative Writing with Southern New Hampshire University, as well as writing articles for The Odyssey Online. Now, Lyna spends as much time as she can writing books that can transport her readers to whole new worlds. She lives on a mini-farm in Florida with her five crazy kids, rascal-of-a-husband, three wacky dogs, three prissy cats, and all the chickens and ducks—cows coming soon. Please visit her website LynaLopez.com. ◆ ◆ ◆
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You are life Song and breath Not knowing where The pieces fall next Today I'm quiet Reeling you in Taking freedom and virtue For a wild spin
“The Snow Queen,” Rudolf Koivu, Finnish, Circa 1946. † Public Domain in the US via Wikimedia Commons
And who is this My soul has kissed Shimmery and sparkly Lost in rythym and bliss Today I'm warm Like a firey glow Miss you stars Like summer snow
Eva Tortora
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‘Central Park”, William James Glackens, American, Circa 1905. This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain, as part of a project by the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Dream an illusion of one’s reality Dream a time to have ones truth To be in a place that seems safe To be where reality cannot be World that can bring happiness World that can bring sadness World that can bring hope World that can bring love Colors I see inside of me Colors that are not by name Red is not red Blue is not blue Smell is all around me Hair a smell of clean Flower a smell of sunset Water a smell of hope Touch is within my fingertips Touch a dog stress no more Touch a flower happiness emerge Touch the grass fulfillments inside See the miracle of dreams See the objects of time never been See the one who will never be See heaven from my bed. Taste a chocolate sundae never tasted Taste a cheek never kissed Taste a morning never felt Taste a tear never cried. Dream’s a place each can see Dream’s a place I wish to see Dream’s a place I go to now Dream’s a place that will always be. 22
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One’s Place Marcella Kumer
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Green - life to be lived Red is for passionate love Christmas joys present
Love, Paula
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Photo of Nicolette Hylan King’s Precious Daughter, Charlotte, doing arts & crafts, 2021
Christmas Haiku
Nicolette Hylan-King
Letter to the
New Mama who is struggling Dear Mama, I see you. Your body is bleeding, broken, bruised. Your breasts are heavy, leaking. Your baby is beautiful, but let’s not erase you. I have been there, birthing two girls, walking through postpartum blues, eventually emerging healthy and whole. Whether your journey is similarly challenging, or less so, let me offer some words I hope will provide comfort in those tough moments, when you discover a new meaning of the word “tired.” The postpartum period is unbelievably hard, even under the best circumstances. We don't always know this until we’re in it (because society don’t tell us), but know that you are not alone. You have just been through an incredible trauma (yes, childbirth is a trauma). Give yourself grace as you allow your body and mind to heal. Adjusting from life as “just” a person to life as a parent — and a mom, in particular — may well be
P hoto of Nicolette & daughter,Chelsea
the most significant and profound transition of a woman’s life. The old you dies, and a new you is born. For me, there was incredible grief there. Eventually, after being goo in a cocoon for a while, I emerged as a butterfly. You will, too, Mama. You may have been told to enjoy every moment, and that is possibly the least helpful advice one could offer. Rather, take each day as it comes; some will be harder than others, and that is okay. If you do not feel joy right now, that is okay. You will eventually. If you do not feel all that bonded to your child right now, that is okay, too. You will eventually, and you are not alone. My final bit of advice is, simply, to accept all the help you can get during these tender days and weeks, and do not feel one tiny bit guilty. We were never meant to do this alone.
With love, A mama who has been there S creaminM amas - 25
M O M TA L K
s e tt e r a ig
C
Becky Walker
t l i u G &
Becky Walker ‘I’m just going for cigarettes!’ I call out as I dash for the door. I hear the thud of them launching themselves from the sofa to scamper after me for hugs, hoping to get to me before I get to the door as I hope to make the door before they get to me.
Else I’ll never get away. Before I can hear it being questioned. Because, no. Enough now. I’m done now. I whip through the inrush of air and the door taps smartly into it’s frame behind me, shuddering slightly it closes on – everything.
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It is strangely fixed firm in front of me as I leave it behind, that slightly shabby red door, with – everything – behind it, diminishing with each stride, it looms large. Once proud, it was never our pride, we have no time for pride. It was not us with care enough to cut in carefully inside the recessed panels leaving neither drip nor runnel. It was not us that took care not to leave excess on an edge, an overhang, frozen, forever waiting to fall, waiting to run. It was not us that hung seasonal wreaths, preserved by cold crisp air, from the oxidising clout headed nail, positioned with care at the optimal height so as the ghosts of pride past still look slightly down upon you as you stand upon the threshold. I don’t think we have a wreath, I’ve never had the kind
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C I G A R E T T E S & G U I LT of pride that notices. I think on this rather than what I am doing, walking out into the gloaming. And I think about that word, and how language is lovely enough to have a precise word for a particular phase of the day, but not allow you the words to express all your meaning with the all meaning you feel. The red door is now only fixed in front of me, distance and the gloaming have divorced me from the other though the same paint now blisters upon both. The wood beneath when the paint first flakes
Becky Walker
red door is fixed firm before me still. As is my relief, and my guilt. I start walking again, and I think on the sort of pride I never seem to have time for anymore. Of seasonal wreaths. Of picket fences who’s fallen nails are tapped back in as they are found to have fallen, and who’s pickets are regularly repainted until they are replaced, as repainting will no longer render them neat. Of lawns that are regularly mown and window boxes that contain more than baked weeds.
It is growing now, the red door before me, pulsing larger with each step I take...I walk, and still I come toward it or it comes towards me, and I walk...And I walk, until it is becomes clear that it is in fact me that comes toward the door. shows in a pale tight grain. The years of failure to maintain shows in a rich spectrum of colours visible in the wood exposed by preceding flakes. It runs from pale all the way through to a yellow that suggests at brown but doesn’t quite get there, like so many other things. It is prominent as I pause and pull a packet of cigarettes out of my pocket. I fumble, and the irritating break seal strip, breaks, and I am distracted. My whole is occupied in this moment, patiently scratching scratching scratching, until there is enough of an edge up to get a nailtip grip upon, and I carefully peel the now fragile seal from the pack. I light and look up and the
Of cars cleared of car-seats and crumbs at the end of every trip.
It is growing now, the red door before me, pulsing larger with each step I take. And sharpening. Held in my view, it sharpens now. First it’s outline, then the shadows deepen, throwing the cut-out panels into starker relief and showing up the blistered paint in sharp three-dimension that is somehow now increasingly extra. The spectrum showcasing the chronology of failure maintain growing clearer now, revealing more of itself as I walk until it seems I (Contined next page . . .)
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C I G A R E T T E S & G U I LT can see near infinite variation in it’s range. And I walk and I walk, and it grows and it sharpens, this red door with – everything behind it. Until I am no longer sure if I am coming to it or it is now somehow coming to me.
I walk, and still I come toward it or it comes towards me, and I walk. Through the gloaming that is ending now and the settling dusk that is rhythmically staved away from my face by the glow of the last of the cigarette that spotlights the inrush of my relief and my guilt. They flood my system as the door floods my, all.
Becky Walker
me, all day long, it overwhelms me. and then the guilt at being overwhelmed overwhelms me and I don’t remember the last time I had time to myself, just for me, and I hate that I feel like I need it, and I resent that I don’t feel I should have it. And sometimes, just sometimes I cannot bear it a moment longer
So I keep cigarettes ready in my pocket. So when it’s too much, when he’s home, I can dip out. And be absolutely, utterly, unbothered and ALONE.
And I walk, until it is becomes clear that it is in fact me that comes toward the door.
With my relief, and my guilt. Just for a little while.
I am here now. I stop, and the door it calls to me. It calls me in. It calls me through.
About The Author
I hesitate, then I reach out my hand to open this overwhelming red door with – everything, I walked away from behind it, and I step through.
‘MUMMY!!!’ I hear two-thuds as they bounce off the settee and pelt into my knees hobbling me in the hall. In their pyjamas now, nearly in bed now, I smile and tell them I love them, and I do.
Oh gods I do. But their need, Oh my god their need of
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Becky Walker is a multi-disciplinary artist
working across a range of media within the visual arts and frequently performing spoken word at open mic events. Having always written extensively in support of both these art forms, she has begun developing her writing for the sake of writing itself. She once demanded cheese in lieu of chocolate as a thank you as she likes what she likes. Further examples of what she gets up to can be found here beckywalkerartist.wixsite.com/art-wordsspokenword. ◆ ◆ ◆
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Winter Pine Forest, Aleksandr Gorlov, PDM-owner, Circa 2023, Russia?, † Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons
t f i G Ruth Lee
what I breathe out the trees breathe in—a small gift but it’s all I have About The Author
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We Werise riseabove above the thechallenges challenges Our Ourmoods moodsour ourways ways Every Every day day flowers flowers with with hope hope and andpromise promise We Welose loseourselves ourselves We Wegain gainlove love Lessons Lessons travel travel into into our our hearts hearts We Weare arenot notever everthe the same. same .
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“Winter Landsape,” Wilhelm Schröter, German, Circa 1882 † Public Domain in the US via Wikimedia Commons
Growth Growth With With A A Son Son
◆◆◆
Best of the Blogs
HUMOR
Chill & Relax Debbie Murphy
I recently spent a weekend away with my little redhead (12-year-old son) at the coast. I promised myself before we even set off that I would try not to say NO to every suggestion/idea and that I would make an extra effort to really listen to him. Ever hopeful of the perfect Mum and Son bonding moments that would present themselves, we set off full of hope and promise. We had no sooner left the end of the road before I realised my conversation was, indeed, completely one-sided as little red had already plugged himself into some musical appliance and was tapping away oblivious to my ramblings. The only time he unplugged himself was to tell me he was hungry and would, in fact, pass out if we didn’t stop for food immediately!!!!! With a loving Mother's smile plastered firmly in place, we stopped for food and refreshments and even managed not to disagree over the pile of junk that made up dinner. I think I was actually making him a little nervous as at one point he did turn round and tell me to “chill and relax." Cutting a long story short, the weekend was a success. I remained chilled and relaxed (well,
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other than a few stand offs...) and we both agreed that time away together was well spent. I think he may have even called me "pretty cool" at one point…well, either that or he was asking to go to the pool, but I’m sticking with what I heard! Anyways, just a reminder that sometimes you really do need to make the ffort to take a step back and really just chill and relax... it will make you cool!!!! ◆ ◆ ◆
About The Author Debbie Murphy
hails from England, penning the blogs, “Thoughts of an English Mum” & the Adventure of L’il Red”. “I have many titles, some cannot be printed!! I am a Mum, a daughter, a sister, a friend, all of which I take very seriously and honestly (well, most days)! I do try and do the best I can in all areas. As for titles – I am also constantly tired, frazzled, scatty and lately rather clumsy as I try to multi-task too many things at once. I love being a Mum. Although I don’t always get it right, my heart is firmly in the right place and whilst I avoid confrontation like the plague… mess with my kids and Tiger Mum comes into full force!!!!” ◆ ◆ ◆
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M Y M OT H E R S P E A K S
I HAD NO CHOICE I left you in a baby cot, in a home for unwanted children. You stared at me through white bars, pulled yourself onto unsteady feet, stretched your arms to me. I had to turn my back paid a woman ten dollars. Three weeks later, I came back. found you in the same cot, your clothes were gone, you had only a diaper. Too weak to stand or cry coughs contorted your skeleton you turned hydrangea blue. At the hospital doctors and nurses shook their heads.
Alice G. Waldert
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In Love & War
Alice G. Waldert
When I received this poem, I felt a very deep story. A feeling from one mom for another. I reached out to Alice, the author and asked if she would share. She replied and said that it was a long story but she would do her best to summarize it for us. I want to thank Alice, for sharing and giving us a glimpse into this backstory. It is such a strong reminder that we can never know what another person goes through, in life, which is why I believe we need to always be kind, caring and compassionate. We are all in this together and again, I want to thank Alice for sharing. Here is a very brief summary from Alice. . . “My mother and father were children during world war II. My mother was a German holocaust survivor, and my father, a German-Czechoslovakian, was placed in a brutal Russian-Soviet forced labor camp at age 15 in 1945. They immigrated separately and later met in Canada where they lived together for five years. My father’s trauma led him to become addicted to gambling. He did not want me from the day I was born. He repeatedly told my mother to put me up for adoption. One day, for the second time, my mother discovered he had gambled away all of the furniture. She wanted to leave him but needed to find work because she had no family to help her. She decided to place me in a home where a woman was taking in children. It was horrible.
The shorter version is this: To escape a miserable life with my gambling addicted father, my mother left me in the hands of strangers for weeks so that she could work. Footnote: Alice did finally reunite with her mom (pictured rights) and went to live with her at age 9. ◆◆◆ About The Author
Alice G. Waldert’s poetry has appeared in Mistake
House 2023 (which featured Carl Philips in the same edition), Muleskinner Magazine, and she has had five poems appear in the British international Poetry Anthology Addiction.. Arc Poetry Magazine, Prometheus Dreaming, Masque and Spectacle, Survivor Lit, a Poet's Choice anthology, and has work forthcoming in the Evening Street Review. She holds a B.A. and M.A. from Carleton University and an MFA in poetry from Manhattanville College. ◆ ◆ ◆
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Teenagers & Prayer
a teenager is no walk in the park. On the surface we see video “ Being crazed, social media obsessed, and Netflix needy young adults, but in reality it’s one of the most difficult times in a person’s life. A teenager is at that in between stage, no longer a child, but not quite an adult.
Jennifer Bonn They want independence but they still need consequences and structure. They are beginning to think about college and career, but they still need time to act like a child. They are trying to figure out where they fit in, who are there friends, and why the adults in their life are so crazy. On top of all that, their bodies are changing and making them act oddly. There are mood swings which make parents think that they are living with Dr. Jekell and Mr. Hyde, hormonal fluctuations and a massive need for sleep when their schedule least allows it. This is a time when depression can rear its ugly head and teens need all the help that they can get. Prayer can be a lifeline for teens. Here are some reasons why introducing teens to prayer can help them. It helps them learn how to let it go. When someone can speak about issues that have become burdens, just speaking about them is a release for the person involved. The burdens are no longer locked up for one individual to deal with because the teen has released the problem to God and anyone else involved. Someone else can now help to carry the load. In my class, I am able to take prayer requests before class starts and then I pray for everyone. (This is at a private Christian school). I always feel blessed that my students will share so openly what they are dealing with at any given time. I am also saddened by how heavy some of their burdens are. They know
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”
that I always include in my prayer, “Father, please help anyone who needs you but who is unable to voice that need.” The prayer time allows me to know where they are emotionally, but I can also tell that it is a comfort for them to tell everyone what they are worried about at that time. There is strength in community There is a big difference between feeling like you are all alone trying to cope with a million emotions, and having a group of people or even God alone praying for you. When other people pray for someone or someone prays to God, there is a feeling of support and understanding. Many of my students have seen the power of group prayer. Prayer offers powerful hope When someone is struggling, hope can be a huge comfort. Prayer gives someone the hope that it will be alright. It doesn’t mean that the outcome may necessarily be exactly what you are hoping for, but it does offer the feeling that no matter what, it will be o.k. Prayer offers focus where there may be chaos Prayer can offer that quiet calm in the middle of craziness. It can provide a focus when it is needed most. Prayer is an invitation to God Prayer is an invitation for God to enter a young person’s life at a time when he is most needed. He offers a teen someone to believe in and life teachings to follow. He provides a structure through the Bible where there not be any other guidance in a teen’s life. ◆ ◆ ◆
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“In the Heart of the Ozarks,” Thomas P. Barnett, Circa 1925. † Public Domain in the US via Wikimedia Commons
Prism Being Being aa Mum, Mum, wife, wife, daughter, daughter, sister, sister, and and friend friend is is aa Prism. Prism. Colors Colors of of life life twirl, twirl, Swirl Swirl Dancing Dancing dreams dreams In In hope hope is is life. life. Amazing Amazing is is His His glory glory Seen Seen after after prayer prayer Over Over and and over over Shiny Shiny as as light. light.
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H O L I DAY M A G I C
Jen’s Annual
CCookie ookie Swap SSw wap
“Inside the back cover of an old cookbook, there’s a photo I’ve taped there. No one saw me take it, and the value is mine alone. I close my eyes, and that moment in time, the photo comes alive in my memory.
”
It is that time of year again, Jen’s Annual Cookie Swap. The faithful friends and family willing to endure my strict rules (absolutely nothing storebought) are walking through the front door. Soon my home is filled with happy noise. My sister is laughing. My friend Barb is carrying a large wrapped grab bag that looks and smells suspiciously like an evergreen wreath. I know there will be a fight for that one. Another friend is gathering coats. My Auntie Dawn arrives with her famous ‘grown-ups-only’ Rum Balls. The air still smells like hundreds of freshly baked sugar cookies. Soon we’ll sit down to decorate. Hot chocolate steams on the stove, and the fridge has extra whipped cream. Chatter is all around me. I hear lots of “I want that recipe” and “so good to see you”. There is honest-to-goodness peace and joy. We swap our cookies and begin traditions.
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It’s cold outside as we bundle up to go caroling. Snow is blowing around us as we head down the street to begin our serenades. After singing off-key Christmas songs at a handful of homes, we stop last at my next-door neighbor’s house. She is terminally ill. Our singing moves both her and her husband to tears. We give them cookies, and he tries to pay us $50, which makes us laugh despite our heavy hearts. We give hugs and head back to the house to start the cookie decorating contest. When everyone is sitting at the table frosting cookies, I feel inexplicably led to take a photo. So I do. I open my eyes and smile even though I feel tears rolling down my face. So much has changed. Some in the photo are no longer here. I didn’t know it then, but it would be my last cookie swap.
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CO O K I E S WA P A job transfer soon sent me 1,000 miles away. I taped the photo in my cookbook as a reminder of a Christmas filled with the joy of giving. What I remember almost every Christmas is the promise and the hope. No matter where we are or what life holds, Christmas is Christmas. Showing the light and sharing the love keeps the memories forever held in our hearts. Just close your eyes and see. To help, I’ll even share a recipe.
Sugar Cookies
Ingredients: • • • • • • • •
Instructions: • • • • • • • •
Mix all ingredients together. Shape into a ball and refrigerate for a couple of hours. Roll out and cut into desired shapes. Preheat oven to 400* Bake for 8 minutes. Allow cookies to cool and frost with your favorite icing.
Decorate and Enjoy! About The Author
3 cups flour 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder 1 1/2 cups sugar 2 tablespoons cream 2/3 cup shortening 2 teaspoons vanilla 2 eggs 1/2 tsp salt
Jen Waldron Jen Waldron was
My secret ingredient: •
Jen Waldron
The zest of one large orange
and then baking and writing.
born and raised in New England. now resides on the coast of Maine. When not working as a registered nurse, time is spent writing and baking,
Previous and current publications are based upon personal memories and the humor in life. She is incredibly thankful for three wonderful sons, all with halos (wink, wink), and the inspiration they provide. Vacations are spent along a multitude of coastlines because secretly she wishes a ‘sea glass hunter’ were an actual occupation. ◆ ◆ ◆
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“Children Sledding on the first snow in Maribor” Photo by Josz Gal, Slovenian, C1st printed before 1945, 1† Public Domain in the US via Wikimedia Commons
HOLIDAY MAGIC
First Sledding and Fun Family Times Paula Timpson Our son was around two years old when he enjoyed his first sledding experience with his Da Da, Mum watching, happily. We were living on Long Island at the time. It was Winter and a big hill near a Shrine in Manorville where we enjoyed going to pray was full of snow and it had a great sledding hill. Our son was free, smiling the whole time as he went up the hill and down on a sled with his Da Da, as he called his dad. His dad was enjoying himself very much, too. This is a sweet memory is in
Center image of Paula’s son, Jimmy, 2 years old.
our hearts forever. When I was young, I loved sledding with my older brother, Paul at Beardsley Park in Bridgeport, Ct. It was the best, biggest hill we could find. I would sit on the back of our long wooden sled and hold on tight to my big brother. I would laugh, feeling safe riding with him. Years later, I rode with my husband on a sled down that same hill and felt thankful, excited as a child, my eyes teary from the cold air, my heart full of real joy. ◆ ◆ ◆
~ Sledding is fun family time. ~ 38
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Photo of Editor, Darlene Pistocchi & very close friend, Franci Sindlinger, circa 1970s in the Massapequa Preserve.
Happy Holidays!!
From all of us at ScreaminMamas!
By: Eva Tortora
Keep believing. Keep strutting your stuff. Keep confidence. Keep shining. Keep amazing yourself. Keep positive. Keep productive. Keep being you!
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E V E R Y D AY M A G I C
A Little Bit About Nothing Ruth Lee
Once there was a boy who did nothing. At
least nothing important that the grown-ups could see. The children would stare out the car windows at the boy as their parents drove them to dance class or art lessons or soccer practice or piano lessons or little league. Once they saw the boy walking along the sidewalk kicking a can, and once they saw him throwing a ball at his front steps. Once they saw him hauling boards and junk along in his wagon. All of this puzzled the children. The boy never seemed to have a grown-up along teaching him how to do these things. Curious, the children began sneaking over to the boy’s yard as often as they could, between being whisked off to this lesson or that. One time, they stood by the fence and watched as the boy leaped about, kicking his heels. He threw his arms wide and spun in a circle until he collapsed in a heap, laughing. “What are you doing?” asked the oldest child. The boy grinned and scrambled to his feet. “Nothing,” he said. “Dancing.” “That’s not dancing,” scoffed the middle child. “It’s not ballet or jazz or tap or modern.” “It’s fun,” said the boy.
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“Who showed you how to do it?” asked the smallest child. “No one,” said the boy. “Want to try?” But the children had to leave for a ballet recital. Another time, while walking home from school, the children found the boy squatting on the sidewalk, drawing huge lines and circles with a rainbow of colored chalk. “What are you doing?” asked the oldest child. The boy looked up and smiled. “Nothing,” he said. “Drawing.” “That doesn’t look like anything,” snorted the middle child. “I like it,” said the boy. “Did you learn how at a Chalk Art class?” asked the smallest child. “No. I just do it,” said the boy. “Try!” But the children were late for their History of Modern Art class and had to scamper home. One day the children ran from school to soccer practice only to find that practice had been cancelled because the coach had chicken pox. “Might as well walk home,” said the oldest child. “Yeah, nothing to do here,” agreed the middle child. “A whole hour?” said the smallest child. “What can we do for a whole hour?”
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Ruth Lee
The others shook their heads and started walking. As they passed the boy’s house on the way to their own, they heard music. They stopped. They peeked over the fence. They saw the boy lying on his back on the grass, looking up at the sky and whistling. “What are you doing?” asked the oldest child. “Nothing,” said the boy. “Watching clouds.” “Why?” asked the middle child. “Are you studying meteorological patterns for a science project?” The boy laughed. “No, I’m just watching the pictures.” The children glanced up, puzzled. “What pictures?” asked the smallest child. “There’s only clouds.” “You just have to look,” said the boy.
“Where?” asked the oldest child. “Do you mean that cumulo-nimbus cloud over the sugar maple?” “I guess,” said the boy. “It’s that fluffy one that’s turning into a three-horned rhino.” “Wait! Wait!” cried the smallest child. “I see it! Only it looks more like a boat on a mountain!” “No,” said the middle child. “It’s a guitar player with big ears.” “No, a unicorn!” That was the oldest child. The boy smiled and resumed his whistling. Thirty-five minutes later when the mother came looking for the children to take them to their piano lesson, she found them all still lying in the boy’s yard, staring at the clouds drifting overhead. “What are you doing?” the mother asked the children. “Nothing,” they replied. ◆ ◆ ◆
“What are you doing?” asked the oldest child.
“Nothing,” said the boy. “Watching clouds.” “Why?” asked the middle child. “Are you studying meteorological patterns for a science project?” The boy laughed. “No, I’m just watching the pictures.” The children glanced up, puzzled. “What pictures?” asked the smallest child. “There’s only clouds.” “Want to try?” He lay back, whistling again. The children looked at each other. “Well, we’ve still got thirty minutes until our piano lesson,” said the oldest child. “What do we have to do?” “Nothing,” said the boy. “Lie down. Look up.” The children came through the gate and lay on their backs in a row. “Now what?” asked the middle child. The boy said, “Just look. See that elephant dancing on the mushroom?”
About The Author Ruth Lee resides in the small town
of Hudsonville, Michigan, where she is a quiet, unassuming 50+ year old librarian in the short rest periods between being the crazed mother of a 27 year old, a 23 year old and (the bonus prize) a 17 year old! Ruth has long practiced the therapeutic art of shoving frustration into little poems and turning it into “funny.” She hopes that someday her children will quote her works to her grandkids (in a nice way). Ruth is also a practicing Luddite! We are honored with her presence. Ruth also pens “A Poem A Day” on Facebook. She never misses a day! ◆ ◆ ◆
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“Illustration of Kitsch,” Unknown Author, Hungary, Circa 1933 † Public Comain via Wikimedia Commons
FO R T H E LO V E O F W R I T I N G
CABIN BY THE RIVER
†
Gloria Jean Hansen Why, oh why do I write? Why can’t I be satisfied with a yappy lap dog and a pair of knitting needles crazy-glued to my knuckles as I watch the seven thousandth episode of ‘Young and the Restless?’ Why can’t I be satisfied with early retirement from the fast lane, and twice-yearly trips to Vegas with my former co-workers? Why can’t I be content to stare across the morning paper at a grizzled life partner as he scratches himself and crosses off the days until his final coronary bypass graft? Why? Because, somewhere up There, where they hand out penances for the doomed, I have been chosen to write for the rest of my days. They wondered why my mother had such damaged
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nether areas after my birth. It wasn’t the usual tearing of primiparous delivery—it was the quill pen I carried from my equally-cursed ancestors. It tore through the vaults of the birth canal, clutched tightly in my fetal fist. I was born with this restless reluctance to accept the status quo. So here I sit, not with a lap dog, but instead with a lap top, forever tapping the keyboard to rid my mind of lurking brilliant and not-so-brilliant phrases, stringing them together in some sort of logical sequence to tempt the editors of this world. At least, that is the lofty answer to why I write. It has taken the collective reviews and replies of a writing circle to pierce through fifty years of fog and deliver the straight answer to the burning
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CABIN BY THE RIVER question of my reason for writing. It was driven home about an hour ago, as I read the bio of a fellow writer. The answer lies in locale. It is about where I want to be. I need to be in a certain place to write well, and I need to write well to be in that certain place. A conundrum. Several, in fact most writers I know live in remote, rural, country, out-of-the-way places, and some have attained their writers’ dream. They have the cabin by the river. THAT is why I write. I must finish out my days in a cabin by the river. I know this to be true. I hungrily devour writing magazines. Where do they (the writers) live? A cabin by the river. They may attend book signings in New York, or fly across the world as keynote speakers, but they come home to roost in a cabin by the river.
Gloria J. Hansen
on the tranquil shores of the remote Temagami River with her beloved Golden Lab, Sunny Boy. Every day is a page in her ongoing series of Rural Roots. It is that series that sent her packing to this paradise, and it is that series that will keep her here, content, until she joins the Master Writer. She extends invitations to fellow writers to visit her, if they can find the place. In winter, they will need a snow machine, in summer, a boat, or an all-terrain vehicle. Today, a burden has been lifted from my work-bent shoulders. To know the reason of life is enlightening. I have always been told the reason for life is the pursuit of happiness, but the specifics have eluded me. The dawning realization is mindboggling. I know why I write. I write for a cabin by the river. ◆ ◆ ◆
My first thoughts in the morning are God, I wish I were anywhere but here, and that I didn’t have to work for a living. Translated, that is God, I wish I could wake to the cry of a loon, and do nothing but write for the rest of my life on the porch of my cabin by the river. My last thought before I sleep is of water, be it a shower, or a glass of water, and finally, the painting at the foot of my bed of a cozy twilight winter scene—a trapper’s cabin on a frozen river, the snow around bathed in the soft glow of lamplight. My first thoughts in the morning are God, I wish I were anywhere but here, and that I didn’t have to work for a living. Translated, that is God, I wish I could wake to the cry of a loon, and do nothing but write for the rest of my life on the porch of my cabin by the river. So now that I know why I am writing, I must figure out what it is that will take me to my coveted cabin. I have given myself a five-year plan. At the end of this time, I will have changed my bio to read as follows: The author makes her home
About The Author Gloria Jean Hansen
was born and raised in the small Scandinavian farming community of Kipling in Northern Ontario, Canada. She is mother of four, grandmother to eight plus, retired nurse, and bluegrass musician who enjoys playing and jamming at various festival circuits with her friends. In her spare time she enjoys writing, painting, skiing, camping and fishing with her family. She has been featured in ScreaminMamas on multiple occasions since 2015. You can find her books on Amazon and other bookstores online. ◆ ◆ ◆
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Faleeha Hassan
This is a wonderful book by Faleeha Hassan, known as the “Maya Angelou of Iraq”. She is mother to a beautiful daughter and has followed ScreaminMamas for a number of years. She has contributed several pieces to our blogs and networks. We thank her for sharing this very personal narrative and her unique perspective on this subject, which has received critical acclaim (see next page). We are happy to help promote it with our audience. You can find her books on Amazon and around the web.
“War and Me is a memoir available to all English- speaking readers and there is something for
every reader. For example, those who love Adventure will find characters who went to the battlefields looking for their brothers or their fathers; those who are curious to learn about Iraqi families during war time will see how Iraqi families suffered from the scourge of poverty and starvation; and those who enjoy learning about other cultures will discover the rich customs and traditions of Iraqi society and how this Society deals with the living and the dead. Most importantly, War and Me will serve as an important reminder to all of how wars and sieges affect ordinary people whether they are a Soldier, a women or just a kid.” ~ Faleeha ~
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B o o k Co r n e r “I believe this book is an important book in Iraqi history because it is a record of the shocking great event that Iraqi people faced during the Iraqi Iran War that lasted for 8 years and the economic blockade that’s lasted for 12 years, The reason I wrote this Memoir is to allow others to understand the harsh consequences the war can cost for any warring nation -, in my opinion there is no real victory in any war.” Notable Reviews * Faleeha Hassan, “the Maya Angelou of Iraq,” Wields a Mighty Pen.” OPRAH magazine * “Throughout, Hassan renders her harrowing experiences in an authentic, heartfelt manner, offering important testimony of personal and national courage. Kirkus Reviews Issue: June 15, 2022” * “War and Me is a remarkable demonstration of what a woman can do to survive.” Words Without Borders magazine September 14, 2022” * “In Faleeha Hassan’s memoir, War and Me, she recounts what life was like during the IranIraq war and goes into the heinous aftermath of the conflict. This is not your standard war story. Hassan details what life was like for her and her family, Iraqis struggling to maintain some sort
of day-to-day existence as combat raged around them.” THE ARTS FUSE , September 1, 2022. * “This was such an eye-opening book, and I was just astounded by the author’s bravery both in the way she lives her life and in writing this book with such an intimate look at that life. War and Me will go on my shelf of favourite books I’ve read so far this year.” Literary QUICKSAND, August 4, 2022. * “War and Me” tears down the preconceived notions we Americans have about Iraq. Yes, its authoritarian government and strict moral codes did constrain the actions of many Iraqis. Nonetheless, the country’s culture is complex and full of life. Hassan’s very persona repudiates the typical Western idea of Muslim womanhood; she is stubborn, full of agency, and often finds power through her relationship to Islam and not in spite of it.” Washington Independent Review August 24, 2022” . * “ In War and Me: A Memoir, author Faleeha Hassan invites readers into her life, one that’s shaded by so much darkness she sometimes wonders if her destiny contains no light. She writes of love and heartache marked with the artistry of figurative language.” Manhattan Book Review, 01-Aug2022”. ◆ ◆ ◆ Find this book, and other books by Faleeha, on Amazon and other bookstores.
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H O L I DAY M A G I C
Reprint (2013 1st use, local Berks Mont News; Morning Call, Allentown 2014)
The Most Beautiful Santa
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It was a cold, wintry day in December that Gladys had her birthday party. Upon arrival, the sisters were ordered to “hang out” in the basement until Mom called us. We fussed quite a bit about having to be in a cold, unheated basement a length of time. Gladys insisted it would be worth it. Some 30 minutes went by until Mom called, “OK, you can all come up now!” Carole Christman Koch
As an adult, I was told Pop dressed up as Santa for his ten children. He’d arrive on our front porch, clad in a red suit with a large bag thrown over his shoulder. Someone would open the kitchen door and Santa would reach in his bag and throw oranges, apples, and candy on the floor. And then Santa was gone. Although I was told this story many times, I myself could not remember the Santa of my childhood. In time, we, the ten siblings, grew up and had our own children with their own visions of Santa. Once our children were grown, it was my sisters---Anita, Jannetta, Mary Alice, Dorothy, Gladys, and me, Carole---who started celebrating our birthdays together each year. The sisters ranged in ages 60 to 40 years old when our father, in his 80s, had a stroke. It was then the ten children set
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up a 24-hour care giving service for Pop. Thus, our six traditional birthday parties were celebrated in our parents’ home. It was a cold, wintry day in December that Gladys had her birthday party. Upon arrival, the sisters were ordered to “hang out” in the basement until Mom called us. We fussed quite a bit about having to be in a cold, unheated basement a length of time. Gladys insisted it would be worth it. Some 30 minutes went by until Mom called, “OK, you can all come up now!” Guess who was sitting in the rocking chair, with presents on his lap, as we entered the living room? SANTA CLAUS. He was bedecked in a red suit, broad smile, a right jolly old fellow. Santa delighted in each of his daughters sitting on his lap and handing us a present. Yes, Pop was the most beautiful Santa we had ever seen! ◆ ◆ ◆
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Sisters ‘“Decorating the Christmas Tree,” Antoni Piotrowski, bPolish, Circa 1916 † Public Domain in the US via Wikimedia Commons
Robins chasing each other in the branches the woods fill with your song as you play Me first Sissy A piece of wood to swing on just right for two when one is quite small Birdsong echoes Tree to tree chasing
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Reindeer tiptoe on the roof Santa whispers, “Who lives here?” Rudolph’s red nose Shines on the tag Hanging out of his bag... Grabbing the gift Taking magical steps He jumps down the chimney Then jumps back out... What a busy night! Hot cocoa awaits him Back at the pole Marshmallows for Rudolph Mrs. Santa’s good cheer... Than a long nap While elves clean his suit And cherry red cap... Rudolph will rest Until next year He will visit the children And light the way For Santa’s sleigh!
Santa’s Journey Patricia Lynne
Merry Christmas and and aa Happy Happy New New Year! Year!
Illustration: Susan Clausen Art Studio
ScreaminMamas.com