Nost algia
Veronica Coldiron
Carole C. Koch
Sandra Lemire
Darlene Pistocchi
Poetry
Nikki Allen
J. Bisicchia
Alison Brechtel
Lucia Haase
Lorelei Kay
Marcella Kumer
Ruth Lee
Debbie Murphy
Sarah O’Brien
Susan Van Pelt Petry
Elizabeth Smith
Paula Timpson
Eva Tortora
Claudia Wysocky
Short Stories
Arielle Haughee
IA Moore
Vicki Smith
Evelyn Fletcher Symes
Kresha R Warnock
Deanna Wolverton
Why is it…
That no matter what you do… how well you do it…how hard you try… it never seems that you are doing enough? Is it a Mum thing that we feel that way?
I think when your child is born you automatically get a gigantic helping of guilt to carry with you along with the sleepless nights and endless worry.
After all... it wouldn’t be motherhood without it.
Debbie Murphy
DARLENE PISTOCCHI Editor-In-Chief
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WINTER CONTRIBUTORS FreeLancers & Recurring Guests
NIKKI ALLEN ◆ J BISICCHIA ALISON BRECHTEL
VERONICA COLDIRON
ARIELLE HAUGHEE
LORELEI KAY
SANDRA LEMIRE
IA MOORE ◆ SARAH O’BRIEN
SUSAN VAN PELT PETRY
ELIZABETH SMITH
VICKI SMITH
EVELYN FLETCHER SYMES
KRESHA WARNOCK
CLAUDIA WYSOCKY
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 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. Images, clipart, graphics, artwork courtesy contributors, FreePik, Picryl, RawPixel, AI and Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.†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 2024.
Letter From The Editor
◆ D Pistocchi
Trinity’s Birthday
◆ Sarah O’Brien - Poetry ◆
Autumnal Notes
◆ Lucia Haase - Poetry ◆
A Snapshot of Seedlings
◆ Arielle Haughee - Short Story ◆
Beautiful Boy
◆ Paula Timpson - Poetry ◆
Becoming Dad
◆ Kresha Warnock - Cover Story◆
Eyes of Gold
◆ Eva Tortora - Poetry ◆
Sundays in Brooklyn
◆ Darlene Pistocchi - Nostalgia ◆
Miss Veronica’s Cookies
◆ Veronica Coldiron - Recipe ◆
Those Tantalizing Reds
◆ Lorelei Kay - Poetry ◆
Mom
◆ Vicki Smith - Love Letter ◆
Silent Night
◆ Ruth Lee - Poetry ◆
Intermission
◆ Shameless Plugs - Centerfold ◆ GRRRRRRRRRRRR!!
◆ Deanna Wolverton - Humor ◆
Plight of the Scooter . . .
◆ Patricia Lynne - Humor ◆
Rainbow
◆ Alison Brechtel - Poetry ◆
The Navigator
◆ Evelyn F Symes - Short Story ◆
Cosmic Wonders -
◆ Marcella Kumer - Poetry ◆
Finder of Things
◆ Patricia Lynne-Contest Winner ◆
My Kingdom
◆ Eva Tortora - Poetry ◆
The Friendly Forest Animals
◆ IA Moore - Short Story ◆
It Takes A Rodent
◆ Elizabeth Smith - Poetry ◆
Sonnet For Naomi
◆ Nikki Allen - Poetry ◆
My Christmas Baby
◆ Carole C. Koch - Nostalgia ◆
Empty Nest
◆ Susan Van Pelt Petry - Poetry ◆
Our Last Christmas Together
◆ Sandra Lemire - Nostalgia ◆
Let’s Talk!
◆ Screamin Plug - Podcast ◆
Foolish Understanding
◆ Claudia Wysocky - Poetry ◆
You Are Our North Star
◆ J. Bisicchia - Poetry ◆
Welcome to another stirling edition of ScreaminMamas - a collective work of literary art which celebrates an amazing group of people - Moms. There is no greater being and I am honored and grateful to have shared a small connection of this journey with each of you - newcomers and rock steadies alike. Every issue seems to form its own theme as the process is wholly organic. Stories and poems are placed on empty pages; colors, fonts and graphics are found or created from your words, dabbled with and laid out. Stories get moved, graphics get changed - it’s like fitting together a jigsaw puzzle until it all weaves together in some sort of cohesive pattern. It is a quite the process, magical really, and it does take time. So, your undying patience is necessary and so greatly appreciated! Thank you! This issue brings a wonderful balance of recognition to sons and daughters alike, as well as grandparents, fathers, mothers and ourselves - as mothers, woman and autonomous beings apart from our children and familiesthough that can be difficult to achieve for a mom, it is imperative that we continue to reflect & nurture ourselves so we can be the best we can be. So, pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, tea, a glass of wine, whatever gets you comfy and cozy, cause there’s a lot going on. Enjoy & Happy New Year!
Susan Van Pelt Petry had a forty-year career as a choreographer and dancer, creating solo and group works for herself, her company, and other professional and collegiate companies. She taught in US and overseas programs. Since retiring from her last job at The Ohio State University, she is writing poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction and has pieces published in Firewords Literary Magazine, Ephemeral Elegies, October Hill Magazine, The Curie Review, and Tiny Moments Anthology of Bronze Bird Books. She lives in Maine and Ohio. ◆ ◆ ◆
Lorelei Kay is the author of a multi-awardwinning memoir, From Mormon to Mermaid— One Woman’s Voyage from Oppression to Freedom, available on Amazon. She became hooked on poetry when her dad helped her write her first poem. She later attended Brigham Young University on a journalism scholarship. Her poems have appeared in anthologies, online publications, and magazines. She also won the 2021 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Contest with her poem, Straightening Flower Fields. ◆ ◆ ◆
Elizabeth Smith was born in Washington D. C., raised on a barrier island in New Jersey, and spent most of her adult life in southwest Ohio. A lawyer by training (U of Dayton/BA 1981; JD 1985), a writer by vocation, and a multi-tasker by necessity, and along with her husband, raised three very spirited children in Cincinnati. She now lives Nederland, Colorado. Being a mother continues to be a lifelong vocation for Elizabeth and nothing has brought her more joy, and sorrow, than this deeply spiritual commitment. ◆ ◆ ◆
Nikki Allen is the author of Hotwire (River Dog Press ‘21). Her work has appeared in Muzzle Magazine, Gasconade Review, Nailed, Crash, Profane Journal (Pushcart Prize nominee ‘14/’15) and Encyclopedia Destructica among others. She is a freelance editor & teaching assistant for the Poems that Don’t Suck and After the Ode writing workshops. She believes in revolution and strong coffee. Find her on substack or at honeydunce.org. ◆ ◆ ◆
Sarah O'Brien is a writer, painter, and mama living in Lincoln, Nebraska with her boyfriend DJ and their daughter Trinity Rose. She is the author of two books of poetry: Shapeshifter and Lover Sar. Currently Sarah is teaching toddlers and writing her first novel. She also reads tarot and performs standup comedy in her free time. Follow her on instagram/twitter: @fluent_saracasm. ◆
Alison Brechtel is a writer and English teacher living in Chicagoland with her two children, two rescue dogs and husband. She graduated from Elmhurst University with an English degree specializing in journalism. Her work has appeared in Suburban Life Newspapers, The B(e)aring All Project, and A Walk in the Woods: Poetry to Soothe the Soul. ◆ ◆ ◆
J. Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, he has written four published collections of poetry. He also has composed hundreds of individual works that have been published in over one hundred publications. He earned his BA at La Salle University and is currently on the MFA track at Lindenwood University. To see more of his work, visit widewide.world. ◆ ◆ ◆
I will birth this child any day now. My karma is clear; my heart is pure. I’m ready as I’ll ever be, aside from the messy apartment, unboxed car seat.
I will birth this child any day now. My karma is clear; my heart is pure. I’m ready as I’ll ever be, aside from the messy apartment, unboxed car seat.
We redefine abundance, in our style. I wear a blue butterfly in my pink hair. You take time to procure me a better chair when I complain of discomfort in the café.
We redefine abundance, in our style. I wear a blue butterfly in my pink hair. You take time to procure me a better chair when I complain of discomfort in the café.
Bricks outside a window, bricks inside on this wall. The snow is melting in the sunshine. Soon enough I’ll be moving into a new home. Bricks on the path leading to our front door.
Bricks outside a window, bricks inside on this wall. The snow is melting in the sunshine. Soon enough I’ll be moving into a new home.
Bricks on the path leading to our front door.
You return from a long trip in my dream.
You return from a long trip in my dream.
I greet you in a dress; you hand me love letters. There’s a baby here and a bouquet of flowers. My baby moves within me, happy to exist.
I greet you in a dress; you hand me love letters. There’s a baby here and a bouquet of flowers. My baby moves within me, happy to exist.
Sarah O’Brien
Whose trees these are in Autumn’s glow I need not guess, I surely know. as foreordained within their place, in hymnal verses, cool winds blow.
Take time I hear, for by His grace, leaves flow with ease and set the pace.
A praising vibrance rustles near of peacefulness lent to embrace.
For here it is, this time of year of celebration, and it’s clear, enthralled by beauty of God’s hand, His presence sings so vivid here.
Bright psalms of joy across this land fulfills my soul at His command amidst these falling leaves, as plannedamidst these falling leaves, as planned.
Arielle Haughee
Click. The shutter snaps back into place. I flip open the viewing panel and check out my shot. Then quickly hit the delete button. Nothing seems to be working out for me today. The boys laugh and chase each other in the front yard, completely unaware of my frustration. Sweat drips down the side of my face. Even though the sun is beginning to set, it’s still as hot as a potter’s kiln in September in Central Florida.
I’ve been taking classes, but I’m slow to figure out my new mirrorless Fujifilm camera. It can do a thousand things, but I can’t seem to make it take one decent shot. I scroll though the menu and check out my options again.
That’s strange. There’s a new option I hadn’t noticed before. The icon looks like a small clock with a snowflake on the corner. Probably not meant for a Floridian, but hey, I couldn’t do any
(Continued next page . . . )
worse at this point. I turn it on and bring the camera up to my face for another attempt.
My oldest, Luke, puts his arm around his younger brother, his curly mop of red hair blowing in the breeze. Little brother Caleb squirms but tolerates it, knowing he only has to stand this close for a moment.
“Say cheeseburgers,” I direct, then press the button.
I look into the viewing panel and grin. “We did it!” I laugh and smile at my handiwork. I actually took a good photo of the two of them without any motion blur or overexposure or anything. A miracle!
“Boys?” I ask again.
I’ve had children for some time now, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that they don’t stay still. Especially boys. Something is definitely up.
“Let’s go inside for a snack,” I say, knowing that will get them moving.
They stare back at me, perpetual smiles on their sweet faces. I take a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. Then another one.
I pull out my phone, ready to dial my husband, but it won’t leave the lock screen no matter how I swipe. What in the world is going on?
“ Now I have what every mother wants: a way to freeze time. Should I keep them this way forever? Young and sweet and always with me? I bring the camera up to my eye one last time. Click.”
I flip the camera around to show them, and they stare back at me, smiling and motionless, still with Luke’s arm draped across Caleb’ shoulder.
“Boys?”
They don’t move.
I glance around and realize the breeze has stopped blowing and the street is unnaturally quiet. Strange. There is always a leaf blower going or neighbors chatting or something happening on our street.
My mind races like the Daytona 500, and I go over every single scenario that could possibly be happening. I land on one thing…the camera. I pull it up to my face and click once more.
Caleb shoves his brother’s arm off his shoulder. Birds chirp in the tree above, and a car backs down a driveway.
A Cheshire cat smile spreads across my face.
“Oh boys?” I click the camera again.
(Continued next page . . . )
They both are looking at me with expectation but don’t move.
“Free ice cream to the next person who jumps,” I say.
No movement. My delight is a water sprite dancing on a river.
This is it! I can do whatever I want!
Should I rob a bank? Prank my husband? Or even the unthinkable…take a nap?? I revel in all my choices. But my heart knows exactly what to do, exactly what I want.
I approach Caleb and slide a hand through his hair, then down his soft cheek. Not too much longer, and it will be covered in stubble. But not today. I stare into his hazel eyes, trying to see what color they are the most today. I could stare at them for hours and never have it figured out.
I turn to Luke, who is now almost as tall as I am, and hold his cheeks in my hands. One day soon he will outgrow me. But not today. I lean in and smell the same scent he’s always had. Something homey and welcoming like warm spaghetti to my soul.
Who knows where they will end up living when they get older. Across the street or across the world. They will leave and spread their wings, flying forward into their futures. But not today. Today I drink in their bright eyes, soft skin, and kind hearts.
Now I have what every mother wants: a way to freeze time.
Should I keep them this way forever? Young and sweet and always with me?
I bring the camera up to my eye one last time.
Click.
“Let’s go inside for a snack,” I say. This time they both rush past each other, racing to see who can get in the door first. I laugh to myself. The clock has started again. They will grow, they will change, they will move forward with their lives.
As much as I want to keep them young
and by my side forever, I need to set them free. You can only tend to a seed so much; it must be allowed to be on its own to grow into a beautiful flower. And I can’t wait to see the beauty they grow into today, tomorrow, and forever. ◆ ◆ ◆
Arielle Haughee is a seven-time RPLA winning author, editor, speaker and publisher. She is the owner of the small press Orange Blossom Publishing and was previously the Executive Vice President and Marketing Chair for the Florida Writers Association. She was honored with the President’s Award from FWA in 2020 and in 2021 Pling’s Party was awarded Children’s Book fo the Year.
Arielle has also contributed several short stories to ScreaminMamas, first appearing in 2014 with her righteous story “Finding Freedom.” She has also been a guest on our podcasts, and is great fun to talk to and share stories of motherhood and life with. Please be sure to take a listen either on our website or on Spotify. ◆ ◆ ◆
I remember
Being
Pregnant, dancing
Feeling a Beautiful boy
Within my womb
Strong as the wind
Open as lavender fields
Singing boy at seventeen, Now he grows
Rises to look up
Finding his help in heaven
Eternal glory
Be his Amen
Love Forever, Mum
Paula Timpson
“We’re going to the hospital,” my son barked at me through the door of the guest bedroom where I was sleeping. “Do you want me along?” I mumbled, knowing the answer had to be “yes” with his wife suddenly bleeding, a two-week old babe-in-arms to care for. It was late, but I quickly got dressed. I was learning to be a grandmother.
I suppose all new parents are unconsciously practicing emergency readiness, getting the baby into a warm sleeper, strapping them into the car seat, having a prepared diaper bag at the ready… Because everything with a new baby is urgent, if not an emergency. But this was different. We were all
buckled into the car in under five minutes. Record breaking.
I wondered if my son felt like he was back in Iraq, making sure his squad got out of a skirmish safely. Or if he was using his professional work-day skills as a police officer, herding a bunch of civilians to safety out of the path of shots fired. As he exited the freeway, getting into light city traffic, he was definitely in “we’ll get there as fast as possible” driving mode, completely in charge of his RAV4, cutting off a driver or two as he barreled up the steep hill to the ER.
(Continued next page . . . )
We pulled into the three-minute drop-off spot. My son grabbed the carseat, led us through the crowded entrance. He carried himself like a master sergeant, taller than his five feet ten frame, broader than his wide shoulders, face determinately grim. But even his presence couldn’t get us through the inevitable check-in questions. The receptionist apologized that she was required to ask every patient if they have a Living Will or Final Directive. His attorney wife suggested that she would fill one out later. And the wait began.
This wasn’t the public hospital where a police officer would take a gunshot victim or a person
“
mentally out of control, but it was still a city emergency room. The baby was two weeks old; her immune system new.
My son continued in protective mode and asked me to take her back out to the car while he and his wife waited to be seen. I’d already completed that day’s Wordle; I read the New York Times on my phone.
The young parents eventually decided that the young mother wasn’t in imminent danger and
could probably go home. Some residual bleeding after a healthy birth is not unusual. We’d call an Aid Car if she started bleeding again, because an hour of useless waiting was all the exhausted couple could handle. Thankfully, it had been a false alarm. Everyone performed their duties adequately, even the tiny little one, who had slept the whole time.
I woke up to the quiet house first the next morning. No crying baby yet, and I was a little concerned, so I snuck into their bedroom and saw my son and his wife sleeping peacefully, his arm slung over her back; the baby swaddled in her bassinet.
I suppose all new parents are unconsciously practicing emergency readiness, getting the baby into a warm sleeper, strapping them into the car seat, having a prepared diaper bag at the ready . . . Because everything with a new baby is urgent, if not an emergency.”
Soon enough, the house woke up, and I got the request to do her first diaper change of the day. Actually, it was no surprise that my son could follow his training and experience and herd us safely to the ER. He has had more life-training in staying calm in an emergency than anyone should.
I am not surprised, either, by his immeasurably gentle love for this already fragile-strong little girl he and his wife brought into the world, but he has had to work hard to restore the tenderness needed to be a good father and husband, to heal from the
(Continued next page . . . )
ugliness, pain, violence of war and police work. Like the shrapnel that will forever be lodged in his body from an IED explosion in Iraq, I’m sure he has images and memories darker than any I will ever know. He protects me and doesn’t share.
I am grateful that he has done the work — years of therapy, mindfulness, religious community -- so he can delight in those middle of the night hours he shares with his newborn, grateful for the joy he takes in each new smile and coo. Practically, I am grateful that he has four months of parental leave so he can share in the day-to-day of his baby’s first months, obviously not a given in our country.
By Father’s Day, he will be back at work, but of course, he’ll always be a father. So Happy First Father’s Day, my darling son. It is not just a Hallmark card sentiment to say I am proud of the man you have become! ◆ ◆ ◆
is a writer living in the Pacific Northwest with her husband… and only thirty miles away from her brand new granddaughter. She is writing a memoir contrasting her days as a campus radical to her current role as the mother of a police officer. Her essays have been published in The Brevity Blog, Amethyst Review, Remington Review, Persimmon Tree, Moss Piglet, Jewish Women of Words, Fahmiddan, Instant Noodles, and the anthologies Pure Slush and American Writer’s Review 2022. For a complete list of her writing, please visit her website, www. https://kresharwarnock. com/. Follow her on Instagram @kresharwarnock or Twitter/X @krwwriter. ◆ ◆ ◆
Seeing you in eyes of gold
Seeing you in eyes of gold
Let the secrets slowly unfold
Let the secrets slowly unfold
Catching butterflies with folded wings
Catching butterflies with folded wings
On this Tuesday, imagining things
On this Tuesday, imagining things
Things will bend and things will shake
Things will bend and things will shake
But my heart for you no one can take
But my heart for you no one can take
My love for you knows no bounds
My love for you knows no bounds
This silence, peace I've surely found
This silence, peace I've surely found
Eva Tortora
Sundays and Brooklyn. A match made in heaven. I remember every Sunday, after the divorce, Dad picking us up in his lounge-sized Chevy. God, cars were so full of comfort back then. King-sized cushiony sofa seat in the back complete with large roll down windows and an extra triangle for the ultimate in breeze control. That’s where I headed while my sister took the front. She thought she was getting the better deal and maybe she was. Windshields back then were spectacular, offering an expansive 3-D view of the roadway and its landscape. I don’t know why but gazing out at the trees running along the Southern State morphing into the Belt Parkway and the projects intrigued me so. It’s painful to see things evolve in such diminishing ways or become obsolete because of technology, economy, even necessity. But, they can’t take the
memories and lounging in the back seat of that car is part of those glorious files for me.
After the bridge, we’d roll into Sheepshead Bay and park in front of a corner bakery under the el train so Dad could purchase the proper Sunday dinner desserts - cannolis, napoleans and sfogliatelles (I pronounce it “svee-uh-dell”). But, I tell you, those car windows had to go up, because the smell of the Bay... well, let’s just say was one for the books. Still, that didn’t take away the quaint charm of the bakeries, the delis, the pizza parlors, the els, the big old yellow taxis. Everything seemed so full of romance. It is forever locked in my memory and I’m thankful I got to capture it. But the best part of the ride was getting to Grandma and Grandpa’s.
(Continued next page . . .)
Memories in the Kitchen
Dad got back in the car with the goods and Sheepshead Bay faded out, along with it’s distinct aroma, soon to be replaced with a bouquet of basil, garlic and oregano stewing in sweet tomato sauce for Sunday dinner. 59th Street was quite the affair for Italians. And, anybody else walking down the road. Windows were always open and everyone was always cooking. Inhaling whatever was stewing in everyone’s kitchen was for sure a treat.
Getting out of the car and entering Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment building was just as thrill-
the banister watching us climb up. There were lots of hugs and smiles before we got shooed into the small but cozy apartment. Grandma came out wearing her flour-spattered apron, swatting us inside with her wooden cooking spoon. My sister and I hurried into the kitchen while Dad and Grandpa took to the living room and started talking politics and handicapping horses for the next race at Aqueduct. Gong to the racetrack was all the rave for them but the rave for me and sis was in the kitchen with Grandma.
“ My turn came. Oh boy, was my tail wagging! The squares slid into my bowl like silk, one after the other, gently plopping into place. After everyone’s plate was full, Grandma blessed the table with a deep-rooted ‘Mangia!’ and it was a mad dash for the sauce, parmesan and fresh bread.”
ing. I couldn’t wait to open the front door, run my fingers over the names engraved on the long row of lock and key mailboxes and then ring the voluminous brass buzzer that followed. I had to stretch on my tippy toes to reach the tiny black button nestled right in the center and when I did it returned a screeching sound, nothing short of an obnoxious quacking duck, but to me, it sounded like a zap giving life to Frankenstein. My imagination just went wild. Then we’d wait for Grandpa to reciprocate and voila, the heavy black-framed double glass doors would open. What. A. Thrill.
The journey up the stairs was quite the climbthree full flights of 15 steps each, steep and narrow and a climb I loved then, but could never do now. LOL. Grandpa would be hunched over
Millie was a little thing, 4 foot 10, but boy was she spicy! Her cooking gave life to my insatiable love of food and pasta and all that’s Italian and delicious and Milly. Part of me hates this love because it lives on my hips and my backside and my always expanding waist but it is a part of me and for that, I love it.
On the kitchen table, Grandma had already kneaded the dough, now it needed to be rolled out along the kitchen table. My sister and I loved sprinkling flour about as needed and using the rolling pin, but being the eldest, she was a bit of a bully and always made me wait extra for my turn. Oh, it made me so mad! But, once I got the roller in my hands, life was good again. When the dough was all stretched out, we would drop
spoonfuls of fresh ricotta about an inch apart, in rows of five or six across and ten-twelve down. It was a big table, long and narrow that expanded when you pulled it apart and added the extra leaf. All the while, we would enjoy the savory fragrance of Grandma’s wonders on the stove.
Once the dough was ready with filling, the three of us would carefully lay the second sheet of rolled out dough on top of it all. Then we would take turns using the crimper until we had about 50 neat little squares ready to drop in the boiling water, ten at a time. The pot was bigger than Grandma, but she was surely a pro. When they floated to the top, she would carefully ladle them out.
While Grandma was busy at the stove, we washed up for dinner, then set the table. Dinner plate in the center topped with a bowl, salad plate to the side. Two forks and a napkin to the left, knife and spoons to the right. A big hunk of parmesan cheese, a grater, saucers filled with Millie’s heavenly concoction and a loaf of fresh, warm bread from the bakery around the corner were laid out spaciously in the center of the table. Then it was time to sit and say our prayers, all the while I would be drooling for the feast to begin.
When all was said and done, Grandma would ladle the ravioli in everyone’s bowl. My mouth would water as she made her way around the table. Being the youngest, I was always last.
My turn came. Oh boy, was my tail wagging! The squares slid into my bowl like silk, one after the other, gently plopping into place. After everyone’s plate was full, Grandma blessed the table with a deep-rooted “Mangia!” and it was a mad dash for the sauce, parmesan and fresh bread. Biting into that first blurb of dough was magnificent - the oozing center of fresh ricotta cheese melting in my mouth as I lopped up the sauce with a chunk of fresh, warm bread. Out. Of. This. World.
After a few bouts of second helpings and a frenzy of grating, pouring sauce, ripping bread and flying utensils, we all enjoyed a round of tummy rubs and a few hearty belches. But that was just the end of round one - there was still salad and sausage and meatballs and sfogliatelles and Grandma’s honeydew melonballs rolled in honey and colorful sprinkles and nuts and demitasse with Anisette. I could feel my gut pushing at the top button of my jeans. It didn’t matter. It was Sunday in Brooklyn. I was always ready for more. ◆ ◆ ◆
Darlene Pistocchi is the founder & creator of ScreaminMamas, thanks in large part to her son & daughter, James & Raquel. Now that they are grown, she is a full-time Film, Media & Debate teacher for high school. She also sponsors The Quill Society (writers group), the school’s National English Honor Society chapter, and is ready to graduate from SNHU with her Masters in English & Creative Writing. It has taken six years but one thing she has learned, God NEVER closes the doors on your truest talents and desires - as long as you don’t give up.
Darlene has also been a voice-over and freelance writer for over 25 years, her works range from radio spots, commercials & television segments for the Balancing Act, as well as numerous features & articles for Relax News, Hollywood Gazette, Tonight/Today and East Mag. Her essay, Masterpiece, won international acclaim for Echoes of the Right to God, and her poems Redeemed and Warrior appear in Collective Whispers. Her favorite things to do are: eating, cooking, writing, storytelling, working on ScreaminMamas, playing piano & guitar, enjoying nature, and spending time with her family, friends, doggies & kitties. ◆ ◆ ◆
Nostalgic Recipe
Over the years, I have perfected a lovely sugar cookie recipe and thought I would share. These don’t come out too crunchy or dry and can be used as little “tea cakes” if you just use a round cookie cutter and serve them at a ladies brunch or something. They’re best served slightly warm.
• 1-1/2 Cups of Sugar
• 1/3 Cup of Crisco
• 1/3 Cup of Butter or Margerine
• 2 Eggs
• 2 Tablespoons Milk
• 1 Teaspoon Vanlla Extract
• 3-1/4 Cuprs of All-Purpose Flour
• 2-1/2 Teaspoons Baking Powder
• 1/2 Teaspoon Salt
** This recipe must be prepared either early in the day, or the day before you make them, as the dough has to be refrigerated for at least four hours before cutting and baking.
In a medium sized mixing bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt and set it aside. Then in a larger mixing bowl, cream together the butter, shortening and sugar with a mixer. Then add the eggs, vanilla extract and milk. Once you have that blended, add the dry ingredients a little bit at a time. I try to add about a third of the flour mixture at a time. Once it is all combined, the dough will leave the sides of the bowl as you’re mixing it. With your hands, shape the dough into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least four hours.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees and lightly spray the cookie pan with cooking spray. Cut about a third of the dough away from the rest of the mixture and place on a surface lightly dusted with flour. Re-wrap the un-used dough and put it back into the refrigerator to keep it from warming up while you’re working with the rest of the dough. With the third you’ve placed on the floured surface, knead the dough into the flour surface until it’s solid and ready to roll. With the rolling pin, roll the dough to about 1/8” or 1/4” thick. With a lightly floured cookie cutter, cut out cookies and place onto the pan. Pick up the scrap dough, knead and then re-roll and cut.
Decorate the cookies and bake for 8 to 10 minutes, or until very lightly browned on the edges. Let cool for 5 minutes and eat! *** Tip: If you’re decorating with sugary sprinkles, lightly brush canned milk, or an egg white slightly beaten with 1 tablespoon of water, then sprinkle.
Veronica Coldiron is a Christian, wife, mother, accountant, singer/songwriter, author, bookkeeper, web-designer, artist, house painter - chief cook and bottle washer and likewise all around jack of all trades. She uses life experience to create books, many of which are just for others to enjoy. Having been born up North, then migrating South after her parents divorced, she’s seen both the good and bad sides of living on either side of the Mason Dixon line, giving her a unique perspective and sense of humor, which comes out in all her projects. Please find her on Social Media by typing “Veronica Coldiron” or “Ronni Right” in the search window. ◆ ◆ ◆
Lorelei kay
From grocery bins they beckon, plump in their ripe beauty, round and full of nature’s textured nectar, begging to be thumped, hefted, and carted home.
One now sits on my kitchen counter, reminiscent of home, long ago. And Mom.
Oh, how she loved her watermelon.
In the heat of July, she’d buy three or four— one for now, the others to cool on the grass under draped towels with hoses dripping cool water down their smooth sides.
After she’d serve us our slices, we’d eat and laugh, as the red juice dribbled down our fingers and ran in sticky streams down our arms. Juice the color of her hair.
Then came the summer the kitchen floor wore through. These two cosmic events— Mom’s love of melon and the worn linoleum floor, lie ever entwined in my mind.
New floors cost money and Dad’s pockets were bare. But Mom was an artist and also, a redhead. These two facts explained a lot.
First, everything she drug from the kitchen, until an empty floor, her canvas, appeared. Pale charcoal in hand, she sketched a half melon, its rind radiating out to the edges of the room. Then she gathered her artistic supplies—palette, brushes, tubes of multi-hued paints. She’d paint over the worn out and old with fresh smelling and new.
Dawn found her mixing greens of emerald, spring leaf and thyme, blending just the right shades for the melon’s outer shell The greens crept into each corner, under the crevices by the sink, around the stove which refused to move, under the windows overlooking her garden. Then she edged with a circle of pale-mist, which separated the rind from the empty center core. Now it must dry so she could kneel on the greens all around to paint the red center which would dominate the floor.
Then, like a goddess creating the earth, she moved round the orb applying loving strokes of red vermillion, bits of scarlet, touches of crimson.
A day passed, then another, as she blended her colors to watermelon perfection. As dusk approached on the third day, she mixed final swirls of pale yellow with softest cloud white.
Pushing strands of auburn hair back from her freckles, she observed her creation. A few more black seeds needed there. Another here? No. Just like that.
Looking over her work she beheld a melon worthy of Eden’s first garden. And she pronounced her artwork— Good.
Yes, Mom loved her watermelon. Never was there a daughter more blessed than I, because I had a kitchenfloor-painting, red-headed Mom.
“
Vicki Smith
Her cognitive functioning is so limited but she can tell you what she feels if you are listening in your spirit. She is at peace, there is no agitation in her spirit.
“
She moves slowly to the window and looks out. The snow is coming down and the cat is waiting to come in.. But she can’t open the window. She moves to the gate and softly shakes it. My sister looks down and tells her dinner will be ready in 10 minutes. Mom continues to shake the gate. Finally Kathy comes down and helps her upstairs. She seats her at the table and places some fruit on a plate in front of her. She begins to eat the fruit and looks out the window. What else is there to do?
I can’t begin to express the state of mind of my mother. She is 96 and in the latter stages of Alzheimer's. She can’t hear or speak. She can’t understand what anyone is saying to her. All of her communication is on another level entirely. Her cognitive functioning is so limited but she can tell you what she feels if you are listening in your spirit. She is at peace, there is no agitation in her spirit. Mostly she just sleeps on the couch in the morning and in her bed at night. She eats her meals with the family but doesn’t enter into the conversations. To us, her life seems like an utter waste. Why doesn’t the Lord take her? We think it would be the most merciful thing to do. But we don’t understand everything, that’s why He’s God.
I believe Mom was glad I was here. She didn’t know me cognitively but on another level she knew exactly who I was. We often sat together watching movies and then she fell asleep. She likes to see me sitting at the table, doing puzzles and just being around. She enjoys looking at magazines and books.
She doesn’t go out much. It's too cold for her already. I took her once in the wheelchair, but all together with her and the chair it’s about 150 lbs to push up and down the crooked sidewalks and I was exhausted! If she could still use a walker, it would be so much easier. And I remember not too long ago, she didn't even use a walker. I know I will miss her when she goes, even though one could say she’s not really with us now, I will really miss her. I really didn’t appreciate her until now.
Vicki Smith is a new writer. For the last thirty years she has been involved in social services. She worked as a case manager in several rehabilitation programs and was the owner and operator of halfway houses. From her experiences she has gained a unique understanding of human behavior which enhances her writing. She writes from a Christian perspective, which offers hope to her readers and encouragement to the downhearted.
quiet, please Carols and chaos and last-minute toys! The angels sing louder to drown out the noise— people hustling and bustling to get Christmas right, when what the world truly needs is just one silent night
quiet, please Carols and chaos and last-minute toys! The angels sing louder to drown out the noise— people hustling and bustling to get Christmas right, when what the world truly needs is just one silent night
Ruth Lee
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At what age do kids stop being so damn stubborn???? Cuz it doesn’t look like 19 is that age. Omg… there’s no way I could have been this bad.
Best
In our apartment, my daughter and I use puppy pads as back up for, you know, mistakes. I came in having trouble with my scooter, it seems the battery was dying. I must admit it got me home.
I failed to see a puppy pad on the floor near the door. Of course it got into my wheel on my scooter. There I was.
My battery was dying—which it shouldn’t have been by the way, I charged it all night.
I saw the pad stuck in my wheel. What should I do? I reached down trying to pull it out. Wasn’t going to happen. I should mention reaching down to the floor is not an easy task these days.
I thought about being stuck in the snow in winter and how you rolled the car back and forth to get it unstuck.
Yes, I used what was left of the power to go back and forward over the puppy pad. Guess what, it didn’t work. It was thoroughly stuck now.
Getting scissors from the nearby drawer, I poked at it, cut it, pulled at it. A little at a time all that nice little white padding in the puppy pad was flying out all over the place, but the pad was hanging in there despite my efforts. Even my curious cat was trying to help me.
In the meantime, I called maintenance and yes, said, I had something stuck in my scooter wheel, but I truly did not say what. He was at lunch. Lucky break for him.
I remembered a steak knife I had with a fancy sleeve and everything. I used my walker to go get the steak knife to get back in the scooter and start at it again. I had some success as it was pointed on the end and very sharp and could get in the crevices.
Now, it was down to just the part caught in the wheel, all together in a ball.
Next, my daughter gave it a try. “Mom, how did you do this?”
“Well, you see, my plan didn’t work to get it loose.”
“I can see that.”
She worked on it for quite awhile, and we both walked away from it for a bit to brainstorm.
My daughter came and gave it another go. She was able to get the final glob out of the wheel and it turned once more.
We celebrated. Another senior moment foiled.
Now, there were tiny white pieces of puppy pad everywhere. I told her I would vacuum it up. She said, “With what vacuum?” as we had moved here recently and many things went by way of the trash trying to downsize. Luckily, I had a tiny bit of wisdom at the time, knowing how messy the pets were, and of course, I was, to pack it.
So I am sitting on my walker, vaccuming all this up. I didn’t know that I could do, by the way, sitting down. So many talents, lol.
Needless to say, I will never run over a puppy pad with my scooter, who knew?
I saved the best for last, the puppy had peed on the pad previous to this little mishap making it totally, awfully more messy with many verbal “yuks” being expressed by all. ◆ ◆ ◆
“As a writer for a blog for seniors, I just had to write this...”
On my way to get coffee, I passed a man with a goofy grin And it made me think of you. I think about what could have been What would have been.
I think about the love we have And the love that could have been That wouldn’t have changed But everything else would.
Would I resent the stares?
Would I resent those that would not be able to get to know the real you? The real you that I never knew.
Would I resent all the medical bills? All the appointments in the name of love? The IEP meetings. Discussing how to make your life easier
Our life easier.
The lessons you would teach us
The ones you did teach us
That night when I learned to listen to myself
Rather than the random opinion of others.
That night when I asked the heavens what to do
What to do with you
What to do with us.
I saw you. I saw me. I saw me looking at you.
You in pigtails, watching your brother play baseball underneath the lights
With a rainbow painted across the sky. That shine brighter together.
Though you are not here now
You live inside my heart.
Just like the rainbow
Our rainbow shines brighter
Would I know Brooks as well? Or would he take a seat to our second child Who has more needs.
And in turn Have less time for you.
From you.
With you. because of you.
Beautiful layers of emotions that are not separate from each other
Alison Brechtel
“Comanches,” he says. She ignores him and looks at the map using the dash lights. She knows the rules of night driving with her father:
1. The navigator doesn’t turn on the interior lights to read the map.
2. The navigator gives the driver warning before turns.
3. The navigator must accurately calculate the miles between two points. She’s never been the navigator. She counts the miles to the next town—twice—and comes up with different numbers, gives up, and watches the evening’s light drain to a line on the horizon. Her mother and brother sleep in the back. She peeks at them. At the last service station,
(Continued next page . . . )
her father handed her the map and told her mother to sleep. In the front seat, she’s safe in the insular world of her father.
4. Stay awake. (To her mother, this means boring conversation or irritating romantic banter. To her brother, it’s reading from Madd Magazine.)
What will she do? As the youngest, she’s always slept during the night drives. She has no store of conversation, no interest in the antics of Alfred E. Neuman. The car is quiet. Her history with her father, though as long as her life, entails being carried on his shoulders through the pas-
Comanche warriors. (Her father, an armchair historian, is particularly enamored with Comanches.)
They catch glimpses of them as they scurry from sage brush to rock melting into the wilderness to bring back reinforcements. Her father points out ravines and dry washes where he spots small bands of them. The family’s progress toward the next town becomes an exciting gauntlet of thrilling near misses with one noble savage after another in hot pursuit. Speeding over the final miles to reach safety, her father would shoot his tanned arm out the window to salute the chief of
“ The family’s progress toward the next town becomes an exciting gauntlet of thrilling near misses with one noble savage after another in hot pursuit. Speeding over the final miles to reach safety, her father would shoot his tanned arm out the window to salute the chief of their worthy adversaries and call out to him in the noble tongue, “Algonquin, Pawnee, Demerol, trigonometry, slàinte, greatee-greatee.
tures, whiskery five o’clock kisses, occasional bouts of algebra homework which they both abandon as soon as they can, and stories. Her father is a consummate story teller. When she was only hours old, he told his first story to her.
Restaurants go quiet when her father spins tales for his children. The stories he tells on vacations are the best. They never know when he’ll capture one from a distant ridge or from the wavering shadow of some bird traveling with them for a few brief moments. One minute, they’re in the car, hot and bored. The next, the landscape is alive with
”
their worthy adversaries and call out to him in the noble tongue, “Algonquin, Pawnee, Demerol, trigonometry, slàinte, greatee-greatee.”
Resting his arm on the open window, he would look into the distance as though scouting for buffalo, his jaw jutting, his steel blue eyes squinting into the hot Western sun.
“Did you know him?” her brother would say, breathless.
“When we were boys,” he would answer, “we hunted together.”
(Continued next page . . .)
Her brother and she would gaze sightless out the windows, loath to leave the world he created for them. Her mother, hand resting on her father’s thigh, would slyly wink at him.
Later, she would realize those moments after his stories were the closest thing to stasis she would ever experience. The spell would last until the car was unloaded at the motel.
“Warriors,” he repeats. But she’s almost twelve, too old for childish distractions.
“It’s dark,” she says.
They drive in silence. When the air is cool, they roll up the windows. Her father nods knowingly at lights in the distance, a ploy he’s used before.
“Dead Horse Ranch Campground,” she says, thwarting his opportunity to create a make-believe Comanche village.
He sighs.
She reaches for the radio, hesitates, and sits back into the silence. They pass a road sign. He looks to be sure she’s seen it. She’s the navigator. She knows where they are.
From the corner of her eye, she watches him. He scans the gauges on the dash, glances out the window to see the darkening plains, stretches his legs, and rubs the back of his neck. Surprised, she realizes he’s tired. She’s never known her father to be tired. But she’s never looked at him. He’s always just there carrying her sleeping from the car or checking her temperature at night when she’s sick. When he isn’t working in town, he’s working on their farm: plowing, repairing the barn roof, fixing the tractor. He’s one of those men who does everything.
Once she sees his fatigue, she sees the lines at the corners of his eyes, the thinness of his hair, the sagging shoulders that once carried her. She blinks. Who is this ordinary man? He can’t keep her safe from Comanches. She puts her face in the air from the vent and gulps.
“Sugar,” he says softly. “Pour Daddy some coffee.”
As she twists to reach the thermos, her eyes burn. Her mother and brother lay curled into themselves sleeping. I should be sleeping in the back seat, she thinks. But—she’s almost twelve. Time to take her turn as navigator. She fills the cup and hands it to her father.
The cars speed by too fast, too close. Her brother, snuffling in his sleep, startles her. She turns to see her mother’s face. Tears well in her eyes. Her father takes her hand and rests it on the seat his eyes never leaving the road. She sleeps.
At a service station, her mother’s voice wakes her. “Sweetheart, need me to navigate?”
“No. Our girl’s doing fine.” He figures the mileage and enters it into the vacation loge.
“See any Burma Shave signs?” he asks her.
“No,” she says.
“In an hour, we’ll be at the motel. It’s by the river where your mother and I stayed on our honeymoon.” He pats her hand and gives her a wistful smile. “We’ll stay a couple of days. We’ve all the time in the world to get where we’re going.”
As the night deepens, in the soft, matterof-fact voice he uses when explaining algebra, he teaches her how to figure gas mileage and estimate the time it takes to drive from one place to another.
Without the spell of her father’s stories, there are no Comanches. There are no heroes. There’s only the sleepy eye of a gibbous moon watching as they travel through the night. And she’s the navigator.
Evelyn Fletcher Symes comes from a family of traditional storytellers. Her stories have been featured in Consequence Forum, Everyday Fiction, The Opiate, and other magazines and journals.
Do you ever wonder why things are? Do you think change is change? Are there coincidences or is life planned ?
As we travel through the paths of our lives, is our destiny a map that has been drawn from start to finish?
Do you wonder who you will meet on your journey through time? Do people meet by accident or do you meet who you must?
I don’t think we will ever know the cosmetic plan. I have in my own journey encountered many people good and bad. Each person that crossed my path was there for a certain purpose or a particular reason.
I met a very special person one day not knowing that this woman could change several people’s lives without actually realizing it was happening. She was off the wall sometimes Not even knowing that this was a quality that made herself come alive. These two people became friends because of the similarity that each one possessed.
The two strangers became friends on several different levels. One being older also became a mother figure right along with being a friend. Unconditional caring is a rare commodity that humanity doesn’t care enough to use so that could be why a lot of people are lost and the world is slowly losing its compassion.
When two people touch each other’s lives hopefully it is to make it for the better. They can learn, listen, laugh, cry and share their deepest or darkest thoughts. Whatever time brings forth, these two people will always be there for each other . Friends for moments, or friends for life.
Marcella Kumer
I am a finder of things. Pretty straightforward, I guess. Of course, I blame it all on genetics. I descend from a long line of finders.
It all started when I brought the first alien puppy home. It was wondering around the planet looking so lost. The tiny augmented bionic treasure settled right into my space pod. Living here in cyberspace, I often interact with bionic creatures.
As I am also a dimension hopper, I can travel to many realities and decades.
I use dimensional hopping to search the galaxy. I collect treasures from different time zones and bring them back to my planet for my parents to analyze. In my space pod, Molly sorts and stores everything digitally.
My home is in Dome City where I am safe from our harsh environment. My parents are neuroscientists there.
.My holographic projector displays my next search.
I set my jump drive for 1969, get into my space pod, and off I go, excitement running through my wires.
I arrived at light speed at the K-type planet in nanoseconds. Quickly shape-shifting, my bobbed haircut and hip huggers fit right in. Walking in these clogs, however, was quite challenging. I was searching for a megastructure. My tracker set me down the path given. The titles on small buildings flashed by: The record store, Woolworths, Ben Franklin, such odd names.
My red laser flashed ahead and there stood the “megastructure” - with tall columns and a marble staircase, There were people yelling everywhere, shouting, screaming.
(Continued next page . . .)
On the stage in front of the structure were four males with matching haircuts; one sat at a set of round things; two had something hanging around their neck; one was singing. At the top of the stage was a banner that said “The Beatles”
My translator indicated, “music” and they were singing, “twist and shout’. Girl humans were crying and yelling at the same time.
As a finder of things, I had to have one of those things hanging around their neck. I moved in closer to the stage. When he moved his fingers over strings it made a beautiful noise. I grabbed my replicator, got up close, zapped it, and there it was. I snatched it up. Searching, my translator indicated it was called a guitar. A musical instrument.
Being very pleased with my treasure, I decided to look for more.
Using my travel jumper, I now stood before a great big screen. There were old cars that humans used to get around. There were talking boxes attached to the windows Humans were dancing on the screen. The first words were “Grease is the Word.” With my fabricator, I copied the car marked “Buick” to sit in and watch.
I have time to jump again in 1969. Opening the large wooden door, I stood in awe. There were shelves and shelves of books, art displays, and a little grey-haired woman sitting at the desk.
“Welcome,” she said. I used my language translator to translate her words.
“Would you like a library card, young lady?”
“Yes, please.”
“Your name?”
“Liberty Star.”
“Your Address?”
I quickly searched my data and found a useable address.
“4054 6th Avenue”
Kenosha, Wisconsin”
“Your phone number?”
“9494337.”
“What school?”
“St Joseph.”
She hand printed all this data on a small yellow card, signed it, and handed it to me.
(Continued next page . . .)
“ Using my travel jumper, I now stood before a great big screen. There were old cars that humans used to get around. There were talking boxes attached to the windows. Humans were dancing on the screen. The first words were ‘Grease is the Word.’
With my fabricator, I copied the car marked ‘Buick’ to sit in and watch.”
You may take three books and keep them for thirty days. If not returned, you will pay a fine of five cents a day.
“Thank you,” I said. Where to start? Everything was in an old alphabet system from A to Z. I’ll start with S for space. There was a photo of Apollo 11. It looked quite antiquated, not at all like Molly. Under the photo they described it as the first space ship to land on the moon. Bud Aldrich was the first to step on the moon.
Wow, I have been to the moon many times. I replicated the photo. This was really for my personal collection.
Turning around, there was a human child with a small square device and white things in her ears standing by the S’s. I set my translator to communicate. I lightly touched her arm and asked, ‘What is that?;
She said she was holding a boombox and listening with ear plugs.
“Can I try that?”
“Sure!” she gently put the ear plugs in my fabricated ears.
The music was very pleasant. I can use this. I zapped it with my replicator. The girl child’s eyes widened as she saw I had one, too.
“How did you do that?” she asked,
“I used my replicator. I am a finder of things from another galaxy.”
“Do you have a spaceship?”
“I have a space pod named Molly.”
“Can I come see it?”
“No. I’m sorry. A finder of things needs to work alone.”
I quickly left and headed to my next treasure. I heard guns firing, rockets exploding, and saw men dressed in camaflage running.
My translator indicated, “Viet Nam” war zone. This must be the down side of 1969. What treasure will I find here? Over the hill, I saw a red, white and blue flag. It had stars on it. My translator indicated it was a flag representing the United States of ‘America. I fabricated it and zapped back to Molly. She greeted me in my home language and I loaded my treasures in my space pod. Molly documented my treasures. 1969 sure was an interesting time in history. Punching the ‘Dome’, Molly and I transported home. ◆ ◆ ◆
Pat Janke, a/k/a Patricia
Lynne I am a writer. My first poetry teacher started class with everyone saying their name followed by “I am a writer”. That statement identified me.
I write poetry, essays, fiction, non-fiction for Screaminmama’s magazine. I submit to contests, anthologies, and have a children’s book on Amazon. My blog is Patricia’s Gold.
I am 70, quite golden! I enjoy writing inspirational pieces for seniors as well I invite you to follow me. ◆ ◆ ◆
Step by step, frozen words of you. And hints of red and white and blue.
Freedom is fabulous and so is truth. I remember lost pieces of soul in our youth.
I stand by you here I have your back. Where roses of blood are carefully tacked.
My flag is of words and blood and stone. You are my wisdom, my guide, my home.
You are my truth my core my throne. Kingdoms come and kingdoms go,
With swords of dust and rosaries thrown, If I had you here I’d let you go,
nce upon a time, in a magical forest filled with towering trees and chirping birds, there lived a group of adorable animals. There were squirrels, rabbits, deer, and many more creatures who called this forest their home. Among them was a curious little fox named Felix.
Felix was a mischievous fox who loved exploring every nook and cranny of the forest. One sunny morning, as he roamed through the woods, he stumbled upon a cozy burrow hidden beneath a bush. To his surprise, inside the burrow were three tiny rabbits - Rosie, Benny, and Lily.
(Continued next page . . .)
Short Story
Rosie, the eldest of the three, explained how they had lost their own burrow in a storm and had been searching for a new home ever since.
Felix's heart melted with empathy. "Well, you're welcome to stay here until you find a new burrow. And I'll help you look for one!"
From that day on, Felix became the rabbits' loyal friend. He showed them the best places to find food, protected them from any dangers, and entertained them with his playful antics.
As they journeyed through the forest, Felix taught Rosie, Benny, and Lily the importance of being
able nest for their new friend.
Together, they nursed the bird back to health, feeding it seeds and berries until its wing healed. And when the time came for the bird to fly again, they cheered with joy as it soared into the sky, free as can be.
From that day on, Felix and his friends continued their adventures in the forest, always lending a helping hand to those in need. And as they roamed through the trees, they spread kindness and compassion wherever they went, reminding everyone that in the great circle of life, every creature deserves love and respect.
“ A nd as they roamed through the trees, they spread kindness and compassion wherever they went, reminding everyone that in the great circle of life, every creature deserves love and respect.”
kind to all creatures, big and small. He showed them how to share food with the birds, how to be gentle with the butterflies, and how to respect the squirrels' nests.
One day, while they were frolicking near a sparkling stream, they came across a wounded bird with a broken wing. The poor bird chirped in pain, unable to fly.
Without hesitation, Felix sprang into action. He gently picked up the injured bird in his mouth and carried it back to the burrow. Rosie, Benny, and Lily gathered leaves and twigs to make a comfort-
About The Author
IA Moore has worked and played with animals for many years. Her most recent passion is writing stories about them! Inge is a mother or 2, a grandmother of 4, and a great grandmother of 2!
Her stories and books have been published in numerous magazines and broadcast on radio. She resides in Fort Erie, Ontario, Canada, with her husband and two dogs. You can find her on Amazon, just search IA Moore.
Elizabeth Smith
Our daughter once babysat a gerbil one of her housemates kept in a cage in a house they shared in college.
One 1920’s craftsman bungalow, six sophomore girls, the first day of Thanksgiving break.
Yet here she was on speaker with her mother, at 9 AM and panicked.
The littlest housemate had slipped its noose. Any clue as to who opened the cage
lost in a sea of Solo cups, crushed craft cans, bongs, butt-filled trays, and one
itty-bitty latch unhinged. Still, there was hope in her hungover voice.
A textbook shoved halfway under the TV stand appeared promising
till all it produced was a dust ball. I could feel the flag in her step
same as those grade school days the morning of a test I knew nothing about
because she forgot to bring the book home to study. And here she is, at 20 years old
and headed to the kitchen when “I think I found it!” came over the airwaves.
A scratch of miniscule feet in the vicinity of the stove led her to the single saucepan
the house possessed—dried out mac’ n’ cheese—the slump of her shoulders was as palpable
as when she didn’t make the varsity basketball team freshman year in high school
despite the intense training program she committed to. I watched her pitch that ball at the hoop
an hour at a time, oh, I’d say at least three times a day, a whole week before the tryouts
so I knew she was cupping her hands right now, pouring all the care she was capable of
into the leaky vessel of her task, her lips twitching side to side like a key catching in a lock
earnest as she was on her first day of kindergarten, the connection between us as inseverable and fraught
as the day she was born, when I heard her say “Okay. I think I know where it is.” “Now, I just have to figure out how to get it.”
My daughter is the sun and the soil from which new vines of softness grow–ruckus of sweet, the depths of deep. Song of each bird. When she begs me to stay, I cannot leave. Tiny arms of hers wrapped around my legs. I don’t mind unchoosing all that isn’t her. And yes, when it comes to my daughter I make up words like unchoosing because current nomenclature is not enough. On visible mornings she gifts hello to the moon. Hugs with entire body. Will touch her hair and whisper “bootiful.” Unruly nucleus; epitome of all that is good. My most vicious love.
Nikki Allen
Memories of a Daughter & a Granddaughter
My one daughter, Mande, and her daughter, Jessica, who had just given birth to my 4th greatgrandchild, were living in Florida at the time. They were planning on moving back to Pennsylvania, but hadn’t made definite plans.
That year, 2015, my husband and I had our usual Christmas gathering with our family. Before opening gifts, I set the refreshments on a table in another room.
While I was in the other room, filling my plate with goodies, my oldest, granddaughter, Nicole,bombarded me with questions. But, truly, all I wanted was to get back to the den, eat, and open our gifts. (I found out later, she was told to keep me there for a surprise.) Finally, she stopped asking questions and both of us went back to the den.
I headed towards my husband to ask him a question. In a very loud voice, he said, “Carole, you’re being quite rude. You haven’t even said hello to our guests.”
Thinking my hubby was the rude one, I glanced around the room to see who I missed.
There, to my wandering eyes should appear, but a mother, holding a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. No, it wasn’t Baby Jesus, but still quite precious.
It was my new great-granddaughter, Eva, who had flown home from Florida with her mother, Jessica –hopefully in time to surprise me for Christmas. My daughter, Mande, would be driving to Pennsylvania later in the week.
With tears in my eyes, I ran over and hugged them both. Then, I picked up my favorite Christmas present---Baby Eva. ◆ ◆ ◆
Carole Christman Koch has been one of our strongest encouragers and supporters for the last 10 years. She is the mother 4 children (1 deceased), grandmother to 5 granchildren and great grandmother to 6 great grandchildren. She is a constant inspiration. Now in her 80s she says she is “still growing and learning. ◆ ◆ ◆
Susan Van Pelt Petry
The boys have been bugging me showing up in the cereal aisle begging for Cap’n Crunch then wafting away to the candy piles where I can’t keep up with their opinions about Pez and Peeps and the boys smell like Jujube’s.
While I wait for the Doc the boys have been tugging me scrambling on the chairs
squirming up the table snuggling me flesh on flesh they ask how much will it hurt mom mom I stare at the clock and the boys feel ineffable.
Sneaking into the back of the car stoic and silent the boys have been cunning with Power Ranger dreams and Pokémon thrills and secret fears
etching across their foreheads. Oh it will hurt I say as I howl out loud
because I needed a little longer then and wish a forever now.
In 1979, a year after our marriage, we got a distress call from Gaymom (my grandmother) and Auntie Dinah. Gaydaddy had Parkinson’s disease and Gaymom was trying to take care of him all by herself. After a stroke put him into a wheelchair, he could not talk anymore. They lived in Ajo, Arizona and needed our help. They were both in their eighties.
My husband Jack and I flew to Ajo together and arranged for them to come to Reno to stay with us. Jack loaded all their clothing and personal items into Gaymom’s car. He drove it back to Reno by himself. I flew back with both my grandparents in a commercial airliner. It was not easy since Gaydaddy was unable to stand at all. We seated him between us on the plane.
We landed at Reno’s airport exhausted. Jack arrived ahead of us and had an ambulance waiting at the bottom steps of the plane departure door. The EMT’s were able to put Gaydaddy on a gurney designed for airplanes. They put him into the Ambulance and headed “red lights” flashing to our home 12 miles away up on the Mount Rose Highway. Jack got our luggage, loaded Gaymom and me into her car and we followed the ambulance to our home. It felt like a miracle for us to manage to get both transported when they were so incapacitated.
This was such a wonderful experience for my kids, Deane and Crystal. They were 14 and 13 and loved every minute they got tospend with my Grandparents. Gaydaddywas only able to smile and point his one finger to communicate. He could not speak
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Christmas With The Greats
any words. He stayed in his wheelchair except when going to bed. We had to tie his wrists to the hospital bed rail with cloth ties to be sure he didn’t try to get up in the night and fall.
Gaymom loved to crochet all her adult life with beautiful lace patterns for table clothes or bedspreads. She made everyone in the family a bedspread. They were all different and beautiful. That kept her busy and content once she knew she had help to care for Gaydaddy. He loved being there with us as well.
She also loved to watch her TV soap operas. It was a team effort to take care of Gaydaddy who
need a drink?” We kept asking until at last he would smile and shake his finger. Then we knew what he wanted.
When Deane came in from school, he’d take his baseball cap off and put it right on Gaydaddy’s bald head, a little crooked. Gaydaddy loved that. Deane would sit a few feet away from him on the floor and toss his basketball into Gaydaddy’s lap. He had that happy smile on his face. He was totally aware of everything. His cognition was fine. He had always been brilliant.
He loved to sit in his wheelchair by the back sliding-glass door overlooking our two acres of pas-
“ We spent the winter cherishing every moment, every meal, and I was so glad my children would have wonderful memories of their great grandparents.”
needed to be fed, showered, clothed, and put to bed every day. He always smiled and was happy to be with us. He adored Deane and Crystal. This was their first experience with having grandparents in the family. We had always lived so far apart we never got to go visit them before now.
Any time Gaydaddy needed anything he would raise his hand and point his finger. Our job was to ask the right questions to see what he needed. He understood everything perfectly, he just couldn’t speak.
We’d ask, “Are you cold, tired, hungry? Do you
ture fenced for the horses and cows.
Jack said, “Harry, when the snow is gone and spring comes, you and me, we’ll take those two horses for a ride up in the hills. Would you like that?”
Gaydaddy grinned and nodded his head. He loved to watch the horses run and come in for feed when Deane went out. He was so happy those many last months with us.
Soon we were preparing for Christmas. We decorated the Christmas tree and Gaydaddy watched it
all. The bright colored lights reflected off his glasses and he just kept smiling. Finally, it was Christmas Eve. After dinner we sat around the tree to share stories. The kids were sitting on the floor next to the tree. Gaydaddy began waving his arm with his finger pointed.
We asked if he wanted something. He let us know just with his expression that he wanted us to wait and listen. One by one, he said each of our names. Clear as a bell. We were silent as he went around the room and said our names to us. We laughed and cried at the same time. These were the first words he had spoken in years. Gaymom was so thrilled. That was our Merry Christmas from Gaydaddy. I know my kids will never forget. We had such a special night and memories we will always share.
We spent the winter cherishing every moment, every meal, and I was so glad my children would have wonderful memories of their great grandparents. Then Gaydaddy had another stroke. He was unable to stand even with our help long enough to shower or dress. Gaymom said it was time for them to return to Ajo. Gaydaddy needed to be in the hospital.
We returned to Ajo just like we came. Gaymom and me, one of us on each side of Gaydaddy on the airplane. Jack drove Gaymom’s car back to Ajo. We took Gaydaddy straight to the hospital. They were waiting for him. It broke our hearts to say “Goodbye.” We knew he was close to the end, but we were so happy to get the many months’ time we’d had together.
During this visit we planned on Gaydaddy’s headstone it would say, “Waiting at the Gate.” This was because he always went to the bus station, train station, airport or whatever, always waiting at the gate whenever anyone came home.
Because Gaymom was the “storyteller” her head-
stone was to say, “She Loved to Tell the Tale.”
Gaydaddy passed 18 days later. Gaymom lived many more years after moving up to Colorado Springs where she was close to Auntie Dinah and her family. This was our best family Christmas ever!
Sandra T. Lemire is a woman with vast experience and many talents, including her love for writing. Her latest book, Take a Time Out!, shares insight on her many levels of experiences, including tips on Writing, Funny Stories, Children’s Stories and valuable information on today’s health issues for all ages. She is the mother of two, grandmother of four and great grandmother of ten! Plus, she has created nine companies, four of which were corporations, and she is a self-proclaimed scientist working in microbiology. Her studies have been shared with Brigham and Women’s Hopstial in Boston. At age 79, Sandra is always on the go, researching, educating, teaching and storytelling through a thoughtful and often humorous lens based on her own philosophies of life. She was also among the first to contribute and support ScreaminMamas. We are so happy to catch up with her again and share her work. Visit SandraLemire.com
We hope you have enjoyed/are enjoying this Edition of ScreaminMamas. As you can see, Moms always have something to share and we are always honored to share their Voice in our magazines, on our website, social media, blogs and now our Podcast streaming on Spotify and our website!! We invite you to join us and be part of these fun and inspiring conversations. If you are interested in being a Guest, email: screaminmamas@gmail.com.
Join this fun conversation with Jen & Nancy as they take us on a “Sea Glass” adventure through motherhood, friendship and Best Friend “Seasters!”
Jackie shares her story of writing, imagination and living life to the full est at 70! You can also visit her at: jackiemarenda.com/
Arielle shares her adventures in motherhood while continuing to foster her love of writing, networking & her own press, Orange Blossom Publishing!
From Laguna Beach, California, Rina Palumbo talks about being a mom, writer, editor, advocator for moms and literary artists. Check out her magazine at third-street-review.org/ and find out more about Rina at rinapalumbowriter.com.
Join ScreaminMamas Deanna & Darlene share their laughter and journeys as moms, friends and women.
Claudia Wysocky
Claudia Wysocky, a Polish poet based in New York, is known for her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions in her writing. She firmly believes that art has the potential to inspire positive change. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, Claudia, at just 16 years old, has had her poems published in local newspapers and magazines. For her, writing is an endless journey and a powerful source of motivation. She is a true inspiration to all.
Claudia Wysocky
The things I thought unmeetable—unattainable—as if from Eden— Forever luring us with what could never be pure in value as it might have been—
The things I thought unmeetable—unattainable—as if from Eden— Forever luring us with what could never be pure in value as it might have been—
Or so we’ve all been told: But why should my heart believe it this for so?
Or so we’ve all been told: But why should my heart believe it this for so?
This is what I know!
This is what I know!
My dreams!
My dreams!
As clear as the words of my own ears—
As clear as the words of my own ears—
Unencumbered by notions of what I was or would be.
Unencumbered by notions of what I was or would be.
Just a child at that point in time;
Just a child at that point in time;
Unaware of the traps or whims of foolish understanding.
Unaware of the traps or whims of foolish understanding.
Always trying, always striving.
Always trying, always striving.
And now, standing here--where was I standing before?
And now, standing here--where was I standing before?
Fixed, still, steady nightlight, you are for us our guide. And we now know the skies, and all the celestial nebulae, your train north to south, west, east.
Love’s light is what we need especially in the darkness, all of forever now easily seen because of you, yes, you. And we can see ourselves, all the brilliant glitter maybe overlooked, Mother, if not for you.
J. Bisicchia