Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

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

October 4, 2006

Today’s announcements

 I received an email from Paula and someone else about breast cancer and The Breast Cancer website, and since my mom had breast cancer (she's an 8 year cancer survivor now) I wanted to tell everyone about donating a FREE mammogram to those who cannot afford one by clicking on that site. So check out what I wrote about it on my blog...

TheCatsMeowForWritersReaders

Rosanne
(a.k.a. R.C.Kayla)
Publisher: The Cat's Meow for Writers & Readers Ezine (an online progressive magazine)
http://www.rosannecatalano.net
Author: Touch of Tomorrow - In Loving Memory (book of poetry) and numerous short stories, poetry and articles published online & in print, with more to come... http://thecatsmeowforwritersreaders.blogspot.com
Senior Writer: Storytime Tapestry newsletter; http://subs.zinester.com/98907
COMING SOON: Columnist for Wt~In Spirit Literary Magazine; http://www.wynter.ca

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Queue Stories

~**~**~

THIS BABY EVELYN

 Louise Nomani

            Deborah is here with baby Evelyn.  What a love!   Baby takes my finger and holds my hand. I know her for she is a piece of me too.  The connection is strong, and I will my strength and love into her.  She’s maybe 8 pounds at this point and nearly 3 weeks old.  Time flies by, and I can’t catch it!   Can it really be so very long ago that my baby Deborah was as raw and new and easy to love?

This baby has dark hair and dark eyes.  What color are they we wonder, and we look again and make guesses..  Is that hair going to be curly?  I   think so.  Her mother has glorious curly locks, and father’s were curly too he tells us.  Yes, of course, her hair will be curly,   well, we know that it will either be curly or straight.  It does not matter.  It will be a glorious crown on that fair face.

Evelyn is beginning to take notice of the mother and the father and the others.  She looks at us and listens to our questions.  She becomes quickly bored with the discussion.  She doesn’t know the answers to the questions.  She closes her eyes shutting out our distraction. 

This baby is undergoing metamorphosis, and each day we study her to catch the changes in her face, in her voice, the focus of her eyes, the texture of her skin and the length of her hair.  We measure the space of her naps and the time of her meals.  Her eyes have started to sort us out, and she looks at her mother with wonder and calm as together they contemplate mealtime.  She is quickly turning into the butterfly that gives beauty to our gardens.  She is a beautiful girl baby, and she brings new wonder to our home.

            Evelyn favors her dad in looks—especially through the eyes and mouth, and I joke with Mark that she will be a much prettier version.  Of course he is quite handsome, but I could never tell him that!  I look at her some more and I see Kathryn in this infant...  How does one see such things? At this age   babies are a piece of modeling clay, and they change from day to day and, you can’t take your eyes off them or you miss the changing.

              I think Evelyn has Mark’s temperament as well for if she is not wailing for a meal, she lays contented measuring the arms that are all greedy to hold her. Deb says, she’s not real particular about whose arm holds her, just let there be arms and a warm chest and shoulder for her to grow on.  This little quirk may be a problem when she turns sixteen!  The serenity of being well fed----and often--- gives Evelyn a tranquility that I associate with Thanksgiving, and the peace that follows the imbibing of a little wine and turkey and dressing and, and ----. This baby is easy and does not require the complex menu.  Mother’s meals are perfect!  She is quiet in her gratitude, and her little hand relaxes against the breast.

Riz says that she has big feet, and then, of course, her fingers look very long,; and the mother is measuring them I know to see how well they will fit over piano keys or cello.  What a marvel she is!   What dreams we carry for this tiny bit of humanity who enriches our lives.  She makes us smile, but then our breath catches as we grasp the perfection of those tiny limbs and sweet face.

             Riz loves the role of papa, and he tucks this little one warm and snug against his chest.  When he thinks that no one is looking, he will study her hand so that he can sort her out and know her future. He may find those dreams in her hand.   Did you know that Riz reads hands? Thank God he only shares the good stuff?   Well you know that I do not believe in it, and I laugh at him but then he examines my hand and reads it line by line, and then a little wonder worms itself into the maybes, and I can never be certain.  ANYHOW he will measure Evelyn’s promise, her dreams, her loves, her children and wealth.  He will ascertain her passion and artistic nature.  He will, with stoic face, closely look for broken lines and supporting lines; He will ascertain the cleanness of the palm's lines, the length and width and placement of them.   He will examine her health and life with objectivity and hopefully when he has concluded his search, he will sit back in his chair, smile, take her tiny hand in his and tell her a story of the mother and this grandmother.   When she is older he will tell her the story of papa (this grandpa) who so adores his grandchildren.  That is a long story.  That is a story of another day.

Nana Louise

windmill@tdstelme.net  

~**~**~

The Trouble With Trebles. ( I almost named this " Getting Hooked Up With A Great Piece of Bass")

by Mike Firesmith

My friend Steve was stuck to a fish, drunk, and had no way to keys out of his pocket. Steve had been married for less than a year and when he was dating there had been no problem with him slipping out of the house at dawn to go fishing. But his new wife was throwing a party that night and she didn't want him dragging in late and smelly.
Steve snuck out anyway, and went fishing in a pond that a friend owned about twenty miles away.

Steve can drink at any time of the day. When he fishes, he drinks. He'll drink beer all day long if he doesn't have to drive, and to his credit, the plan was to drink early, then drive home when he was sober. Steve breaks out the rod and reel, and opens the cooler. Life is good. A six pack later Steve was feeling good. A few more beers and Steve wondered if it wasn't time to slack off a bit. Then the fish struck. It was a large bass and Steve fought the damn thing forever before landing the fish. And what a fish it was, too! It must have weighed seven or eight pounds! What a beauty!

A few things about fishing lures before we continue.

The lure that Steve was using looked like a minnow but it had three joints in the body to make it wiggle in the water. Each joint had attached to it a treble hook. A treble hook looks like three hooks that have been joined together at the back. All these hooks makes it very hard for a fish to thrash free of the lure.

The fish was stuck, and stuck good on the lure and Steve was trying to get the hook out of the fish's mouth. The fish began to flop around and Steve tried to grab it with both hands to keep it from escaping. The fish hooked Steve with the other two hooks.

But it's even worse than it sounds.

One of the hooks dug deep into the back of Steve's right hand, and the other dug deep into the thumb on his left hand. Try it. Take the back of your right hand and place it two inches from the thumb on your left hand. Now imagine that there are hooks embedded there. Can you see a way out of this mess? Now throw in a seven pound bass who is dying.

Steven had to kill the bass by bumping it against the hood of his truck. It took forever and an hour for the fish to stop moving. Then he had to break the fishing line by wrapping it around his boot and pulling. Then, and then, and then ...what? He was at a loss. There was simply no way to get the hooks out of him by himself.

Steve started walking.

Steve walked for about a half hour before he saw the first truck. He held the fish up and walked towards the truck as it came down the road. The man inside waved, grinned at him real big, and kept going.

" What?" Steve later ranted. ' Did they think I was out walking my damn fish? Do people usually walk around that part of the world with fish? Is that common?"

Steve kept walking.

After a while he came upon a house and once he got up to the door he discovered that ringing the door bell was going to get fish all over the button, and part of the door. But at that point he had been stuck to a fish for about an hour. His hands were cramping up. His shoulder hurt. The fish had finally died but it is marginally, very marginally, better to be hooked up with a dead fish rather than one alive.
A woman came to the door but wouldn't open it. Steve held the fish up and tried to explain. No, the woman said, you can't come in. No, I won't call anyone. You'll have to wait for my husband to come home, and no you can't wait here.

" What?" Steve ranted later. ' Did she think I was pulling the old ' I'm stuck to a fish' routine again? Yeah, that one never fails!"

So Steve decides that he'll just sit it out. He sits down on the porch and tries to figure a way out. There is none. A half hour later a man, the woman's husband, drives up in a pick-up truck and he's gets out all pissed off at Steve. The man simply does not believe the story. Steve hold up the fish and the man inspects the evidence. The man is still pissed, and Steve can't figure out why.

As it turns out the man wanted to go fishing in that same pond but Steve's buddy told him no. Harsh words were exchanged, and now this damn drunk shows up with a prize fish from that damn pond and he's stuck closer to it than bad breath to a hog. The man offered to call Steve's buddy to come get him loose. Steve couldn't believe his bad luck.

Steve started walking but there aren't too many people out there who will let a man walk away like that so the man called him back and after what turned out to be a two hour ordeal, clipped the hook off of Steve's hand and thumb. Steve said that his shoulder were killing him, his arms ached, and his back hurt. He offered to pay the man, and offered to give him the fish, but the man still wasn't very happy with him. The man didn't offer him a ride back to his truck, and Steve set out on foot, fish in hand but sans hooks.

One the way back to the pond a truck stopped and asked him if he needed a ride, and by the way, boy, what are you doing with that damn fish? Steve rode in the back of the truck, and made it back to the pond in one piece.

Believe it or not, he had the fish mounted.
Take Care,
Mike

~**~**~

 Pacemakers

Birdie Jaworski

I ran the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon. I ran it with my newly adult son, 18. I ran it because prom night was the night before and he didn't attend, didn't take a girl, didn't take a boy. I live in So Cal, but my town grows red, grows conservative children, and my son isn't entirely welcome. He skipped prom, chose to stay home, and when I understood this, I paid one hundred twenty dollars each for our privilege of pain. Might as well use our feet, our legs, while your friends are sleeping off hangovers, I said. He didn't agree. He didn't disagree. We ran.

I pinned my number to my shirt at 3:30 am. My son pinned his one minute before race start. I drank two cups of yellow gatorade, downed three cups of water and one half a sesame bagel one hour before race start. My son bummed a sip of my water. I stretched hamstrings, quads, calves. I meditated. I centered my thoughts, my mind, spread my spiritual essence upon the blacktop before the race. My son stared into space, didn't acknowledge my nutrition, my plan, my being. We ran.

One mile, two miles, three. We ran. We didn't speak. I was nervous. I never ran this far in my life. My son was frustrated. He didn't say No before the race. He didn't think to drop out, to tell me No, to tell me Forget It Man, to leave me with my PowerBars and extra safety pins at the gate. He stood next to me. We ran.

He turned 18 that morning. I remember his birth. I remember I wasn't much older than he is now. I remember my African American midwife with the tie-dye smock, the way my water broke at K-Mart and my husband wouldn't take me to my birthing room until he bought his stuff. I remember my son's first best friend and his loneliness. I remember the way he hated school and the way he loved me. I remember his favorite foods and his first word. I don't think he thought about these things Sunday morning. I don't think he thought anything but My Mom Is A Fricken Nut. I could read his mind. I could pull that thought into my field of view, hold it in front of those fifteen thousand runners like an airplane banner. Nut. Freak. But I Love Her. That was there too. We ran.

We called people on my cell phone. Actually I called them, made them say Happy Birthday to my son. He held the phone, looked frustrated, tired, but he talked, made jokes, made small talk, just ran. We ran.

And at mile 18 I wondered what the hell I was doing. I wondered exactly what the hell I was doing. It's mile 18, I said! I said it bright, blonde hardwood bright, smiled, grabbed his arm to slow us to a walk, pointed at the mile marker, the time bar, held my palm out for a high five, said it again: Hey! It's Mile 18! And you are 18 today! This is your mile! He rolled his eyes, didn't answer me, didn't do anything but walk. We walked.

Somewhere around mile 22 I hit my wall. I realized I pulled my son into some ritual he didn't understand. This was my role playing game, my recreation of childbirth, my personal sweat lodge moment, and I confused it with celebration, with a rite of passage he wasn't ready to make. But then it was too late. We ran. We walked. We didn't talk.

And then we passed the marker for Mile 24. Two miles to go, two miles to cross the line, get off this crazy train, tend our blisters and our sanity. But something funny happened. We ran, our feet slapping ground between strides, a shuffle dance, slow and deliberate and pathetic. And a woman passed us, a woman gray as granite, short, stooped, heavy, sixty-five if she was a day, and she scooted a white cane in front of her, the thin echo cane of the blind, and she wore a T-shirt emblazoned with Caution! Blind Runner! And we laughed. Hell, we laughed. We hugged each other and laughed at our turtle pace, at the old fat blind woman passing us, at all the old weird incapacitated people passing us left and right, and we stopped, grabbed our stomachs, somehow reconnected as mother-son unit. Somehow found enough tempo to beat our final notes, to cross the line holding hands, to grab our medals and pose.

Three days later I hear my son talk to his friends on the phone. Yeah, I ran a marathon this weekend, he says. Yeah. I ran with my mom.

Birdie Jaworski

littlebirdie@mac.com

~**~**~

Readers Feedback

Hart Dowd – September is Fragrance Month: I am not a big fan of pickle food but I think I will try one of these recipes. However, I do have several friends who love pickles and cooking so I will send this newsletter to them...Tannia

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