Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

September 20, 2006

Today’s Queue Stories

~**~**~

A BAG FULL OF AUTUMN

By Ron Gold

I think of my father each autumn.

And each and every winter, spring and smmer, too.

But more graphically in autumn.

Dad loved to walk in the park with me and marvel at the beautiful fallen leaves.

He told me that as trees aged, they lose their leaves.  “But don’t feel sad,” he cautioned me.

“new ones grow back.”  

“These leaves are beautiful,” he’d say, “because they lived well.  They gave us beauty.  They cooled us from the hot summer sun.  They sheltered us in the winter.   They blossomed in the spring, giving their gifts of fruit.  And they become even more beautiful as they drop their leaves in the fall.”

Then he’s bend down, scoop up a handful of leaves and marvel.  “See all the different beautiful colors in these green leaves now.”  He saw trees and leaves as a family God blessed, telling me each leaf is a tree’s child: beautiful, lovely, and meaningful.

“Just like you.”

When he told me that someday I would leave our family to start my own family, I said I

would never do that. He’d smile, not wanting to continue that conversation with a five-year-old.

As we walked, he’d smooth the leaves in his hands, tracing each color line.  He told me he could not remember seeing such beautiful leaves as a young boy in Russia.  And, later, in Harlem and The Bronx. The only trees he saw were pictures in his schoolbooks—until he visited New York City’s Botanical Gardens and became infatuated with nature.

“I loved the trees I saw when I went to work in Connecticut,” he said.  “They were almost as

beautiful as your mother.”

We shared this ritual park walk several times each fall for more than a handful of years.

He missed his autumn leaves when he and Mom retired to Florida’s perpetual summer.

So I’d walk the park again, at least once a year, collecting a handful of multicolored leaves in a clear plastic bag, which I mailed to him with love and a more mature understanding of life’s relationships.

Dad’s gone now but his memory—and his lessons in life—are still with me—tree solid.  I see him as different leaves and wishing I could mail him another handful.

I wish we could walk shoulder-to-hip on future walks.  And I’d love to hear him explain the tree-leaves family concept to my daughter and to her husband, who he never met.

My father’s spirit still warms me like one of his grounded leaves.  And I will keep growing, clinging tightly to the limbs of his ever-beautiful blessed memory.

Ron Gold

outthinkresumes@aol.com

~**~**~

Memories

Sharon Bryant

I read somewhere this week that we who are older, tend to remember our youth, our good days, our lives, often.

I do that.

As I age, I am beginning to wonder, when I pass on, how will I go?  In an auto accident?  Cancer?  Heart attack?

I was lucky growing up because I have wonderful memories of my childhood with great parents and grandparents who were all in my lives daily.  I watched my own grandmother age and I worried about her so much.  I never wanted to lose her.   And yet, here I am, everyone's gone but myself and my siblings.  I can't pick up the phone anymore and say, "Hi Mom, Hi Dad, Hi Gram."  I have to remember doing that.

The other day I was explaining to my child my wishes, telling him that I've got my living will made out and my regular will.  And like I once was, he really didn't want to talk about it.  Yet, I must make sure these things are taken care of before I leave this world.

I notice many who are older, write about their life when they were younger.  I call those times, "The Good Old Days."  At least for me they were.  Things I played with as a child, I never see anymore.  Jacks was one of my favorites.  Skipping rope.  And finally getting to where I could skip two ropes together.  Now if you could do THAT, you were the talk of the block!  I assume my games from my youth would be thought "silly" today.

When I had my little tea parties, my mom and gram made real tea for my tiny cups.  I remember one year getting a little baking set with tiny muffin pans.  Mom made real muffins in that pan and I had my neighbor friend over for a tea party.  I learned very young how to lift my pinky too!

Now these days as I've aged I recall so much of my youth.  My childhood years.  My teen years, and all the wonderful memories.

I look in the mirror these days and I see age approaching faster than I had hoped it would.  And for the life of me, I can never figure out WHY I still don't FEEL my age.  Oh, the back aches a lot, thanks to arthritis.  My legs get tired after standing on them all day at work, but what the heck, I've been doing that for over 50 years, so they're bound to ache.

My outer appearance is changing quickly.  And yet.....my inner appearance still seems the same.  Young at heart, is that what they call it?  Dad used to tell me if you think young, you'll stay young.  He was 85 and could have passed for 65, so I know that what he told me is possible.

I wish I didn't have the thoughts that come so often now about how much longer I have left.  But on the other hand, it makes me move faster, trying to get more done.  For I know, we never know what tomorrow will bring.  When I wake up mornings now, I open my eyes and always say, "I made it another day." 

I had always asked God to grant one wish for me.  I've always wanted to live long enough so that my children have memories and would remember me.  He allowed me to have that wish.  I laugh when I hear my son telling a story that I passed on to him.  I grin when he tries to use the same face expressions that I always did.  But I'm glad that he's retained so many of the things that I taught him.  I know after I'm gone, he's going to be ok.

My other son, Andy, died at age 5 in 1977.  I have one daughter whom I adopted in '79.  Then by a miracle the doctors told me would never happen, I was pregnant at 35 with my remaining son.

We're planning a wedding.  It's all set for November.  If I'm lucky, I might get to be a grandma before God calls me home.  Unknown to my son and his fianc?, I've already made some knitted baby things, just in case, well you know....that I'm still here whenever they decide to have a child of their own.

Ah....yes, the memories.  The photo albums help a lot.  I was looking at an old photo the other night and the clothes I had on in the photo.  I remember I wore it on my first date.  Now, that's a memory!  And hanging in my closet (don't tell anyone this) is an old blouse, paisley print, from my high school days.  I kept it.....well you know......for memories.  It's so old the fabric must be worth a fortune today! 

I've been cleaning out closets this week.  If that doesn't bring back memories with what I've got packed in boxes, nothing will.  I even found my old wig from the 60's.  I can't believe I even wore that thing.  Sad thing is it's frosted.  Today, I don't need that frosted look.  It's all natural now.

Well I'll close.  Just decided to stop looking in boxes for a while and jot down these words.  But my life is on the shelves in my closets.  In the albums stacked there.  Beneath tissue paper.  Tucked away in corners.  That's where I keep my memories.

Sharon Bryant

1946@bellsouth.net

~**~**~

Poetry Section

~**~**~

~~My Secret Beauty~~

Mary Dees

        You are my ocean, My sunset
                        My dream.
                 Without your love,
            My beauty can't be seen.

                   I'd lock it away,
                I'd wrap it up tight.
               Until you came for me,
              It would be out of sight.

              I'll never be as pretty as,
           The sunlight morning's hue.
           Unless of coarse, I lie there,
              Watching it with you.

By Mary M. Dees

marlena7694@yahoo.com

~**~**~

The Visitation

Pamela Blaine

I merely walked across the room
I had no scheme or plan
When suddenly I felt you there
Did you stroke my hand?

Did you slip into my room
Brush fingers through my hair,
Or was it just a puff of wind
That touched me in the air?

Did I feel a ray of light
Ascend the window’s place
Did I sense the warmth of you
Flowing down my face?

I’d forgotten how it felt
To have you near to me
It seemed I was a child again
Cherished, loved, and free

Beloved without condition
And cared for come what may
Life seemed so very simple then
So different from today

What happened to the pathway
The one I used to know
Where God walked hand in hand with me
 A long, long time ago…

It seems I’ve missed a lot of things
As trials choked my way
Yet my Savior came and touched me
And loved me anyway

By
Pamela R. Blaine,
 ©2003

My Website:
http://www.blaines.us/PamyPlace.htm
e-mail: pamyblaine@blaines.us

~**~**~

A Painting Of Love, From The Master Painter

Linda Ann Henry

On a clear day, I see a painting in the sky

I see myself painted so loving and so new

When I look I see the wonder, people now can view

My eyes are the deepest blue

Like the ocean in the sky

My heart is red with color

From the Master who created

With His beautiful eyes

For He told me I am a miracle

He wanted all to see

So that is why He desired to paint the life of me

For He has seen me crying

He saw me laugh with joy

The picture of what He made

He loves to paint the beauty that He knows

And you can watch the color

He paints in my life to tell you so

If you wonder why I am painted

It is because I can feel

What makes a person

Who is so very real

Sometimes I did not think I could hold on to God

Who paints what others do not find

But God's art is all around me

I will see the Master Painter

In his own time

Jesus has protected me

As I walk in this world so true

When He paints me

The angels are singing too

I have seen His finished work

God was very kind

For He only painted the blessed things

Which He proudly shows

I am glad I met my Master Painter

For I love Him so.

Linda Ann Henry © 2006

Do you remember me

The people's poet

linda11231949@aol.com

Written with love to the Master Painter, who knows us all.

Readers Feedback

Re my appointment as senior writer:  -
Carol, I hope Steven had a really great birthday, I know that I did. Being surrounded by the love of family is such a blessing. Much love....Mary M. Dees

I am overwhelmed and really happy.  It is an honor to be associated with Storytime Tapestry.  Again, Thanks a great big bunch.

carol dee meeks

Senior Writers

Chief writer: Sharon Bryant

Chief researcher/historian: Hartson Dowd

Agee, Vance; Apted, Violet; Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al; Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela; Boda, Ginger; Booher, Paula; Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.; Costner, Joan Clifton; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Dees, Mary; Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria;  Dowd, Hartson; Dowd, Helen; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Gold, Ron; Goodier, Steve; Grisham, Mary-Ellen; Braun-Haley, Ellie; Harris, Kathy Anne; Henry, Linda Ann; Hunt, Sharlett; Hymes, Christina; Jacobson, Gary; Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Kevin, Tim; Jenkins, Pamela; Liles, Norma; Lily Jodi Flesberg; Lock, Joyce; Marlor, Janice Bumbalough; Mazzella, Joe; Meeks, Carol; Mizrany, Mary Carter; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Smith; Michael; Streidel, Saskia; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam; Verhoeff, Jan; Walker, Bill; Walker, Joe; Warner, Gordon, K; Walsh, Sue; Weymouth, Barbara J.; Whirity, Kathy;

Wainland, David; Westerfer, Clara; White Robert;

Storytime Tapestry Staff

Carol Roach - Founder/publisher

Thelma Hartselle - Co-Founder, Moderator

Clara Westerfer – moderator

Bob Johnston - moderator