Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

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

May 11, 2008

Happy Mothers Day one and all; I hope you are all having a greet day and being loved and pampered

Today’s Announcement

 Janice Bumbalough Marler is the featured poet for Starlite Poetry please congratulate her on a job well done:  poetrybujan@nc.rr.com

Here it the notification:

We are pleased to announce that you have been selected as a Starlite Poetry Featured Poet.  Each day at 9 PM (CST), the system picks ten poets to be featured on our front page: http://StarlitePoetry.com?stay=yes

Note: You can see your picture listed on the front page with the menu

selection of Go To Front Page.  You can also return to your home page with a similar link on the front page.

Your selection as a Starlite Featured Poet will advertise your poetry to more people. As traffic comes into our website from search engines and referrals, your picture will greet them.  To learn more about you and your poetry, they will click on your picture.  Once on your homepage, they can read your bio and the titles of your last 10 poems.  The titles of your poems will entice the visitor into reading them.  Being a Starlite Poetry Featured Poet will not only help promote your poetry, but that of your friends also.

Again, CONGRATULATIONS on being selected as a Starlite Featured Poet. And, thank you for making Starlite the best poetry web site on the internet.

 Howdyroooo,

Just wanted to share that Snuffer -- The Lighthouse Beagle goes to the printer today.   This is a special Leeloo Memorial Edition.   I still have a couple of days before I have to give the printer a copy number, so if you would like a book, please let me know.  ($15 + $2 shipping).

unkie

aka Bruce

and the Baskerbeagles  http://baskerbeagles.com

Call for submissions:  Storytime Tapestry is in need of more stories, please keep them coming in.

Help support the continued running of Storytime Tapestry join me on mylot and get paid while we talk to each other and others all over the world:  http://www.mylot.com/?ref=winterose  if the link doesn’t work just cut and paste

From my son Steven Roach:

I was thinking you should advertise the link regularly in your newsletter if the link doesn’t work just cut and paste

 
http://greenhorse.com/join_now.ghc?r=177952857
 
tell them it would help support the newsletter and they can earn money from it. They need to sign up and install it but they don't need to do anything else. They just do what they normally would anyways on the net and they earn money while it’s on. In other words they just keep it running while they are online. It’s small doesn't take up much system resources and they can earn more if they advertise their own link and get people under them as well. Let them know some people make 5-10$ a day on it and its been open since 2002. 

Don’t forget to order your copy of Angels Watching Over Me, the story of an ordinary woman facing less than ordinary challenges.  Angels Watching Over Me is a story of family love, sacrifices, poverty and an undying faith that makes heroes out of all of us. Here is the link in case you have forgotten it: http://www.lulu.com/content/964306

Important notice: Storytime Tapestry is a free e-zine, however donations are always needed to help with the operating expenses of running the newsletter and to keep Storytime Tapestry the quality newsletter you are so accustomed to.   You can make your donations to paypal at: winterose@videotron.ca, or if you would prefer to use the mail system contact the publisher at the same email address: winterose@videotron.ca

 ~**~**~

 Mother’s Day Thoughts

 Dianna Doles Petry

Mother’s Day is approaching and this year the day will be difficult for me.  I have an empty spot in my heart and life that wasn’t there last year or the years before.  This day will be difficult for many, I’m sure of that.  Like Christmas, Mother’s Day is a day of celebration for those who have a mother to celebrate it with or those anticipating motherhood.  There are, however, those of us who have lost a mother or a child and others who have not been blessed with a child no matter how hard they pray or attempt to conceive. For these mothers, this day will be a painful reminder of what so many others are enjoying.

I am blessed to still have my own mother living here with my family. She no longer enjoys being on her feet and the days of going shopping together or just having a long chat over a piece of chocolate cake and a cup of coffee have faded into yesterday along with black and white photos, Roy Rogers and gasoline that cost only $1.50 per gallon.  In a strange way, we are, however, standing on common ground because many of the best parts of our lives are now nothing more than memories.

As I was growing up, I vowed to be totally different than the person I viewed my mother to be at the time.  I wanted a June Clever kind of mother and instead, mine was more of cross between Lucille Ball and John Wayne.  She had figured out what the really important things in life were to her and let me tell you, it was not cooking elaborate meals and constantly making home improvements that made her smile. Those things have been a part of my daily routine but she avoided them like the plague.

My mother was a stay at home mother, something nearly unheard of these days, and yet she did not care whether or not Mr. Clean lived in our bathroom and God only knows that when Swanson developed frozen dinners, my mother was one of their best customers.  She loved them so much that my father came home after a long shift at the mines to find a 22 cubic foot upright freezer in our house that was filled from top to bottom with frozen dinners, frozen vegetables and ice cream. I am surprised this man who insisted on meat with every meal and plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables didn’t have a heart attack right then and there.

I guess you could call her a homemaker although she never mended the clothes, cooked big meals only when totally necessary and never had a license to drive.  She did not worry over dirty windows or cobwebs on the front porch the way I do now, and instead of catching us when we started to fall, she preferred to keep us from running or riding our bicycles in the first place.  What she did have that carried all of us through the worst of times was a child like sense of wonder and a sense of humor that she passed on to me. 

She instilled in us a sense of adventure that I also passed on to my own children. Nothing was written in stone during the days of my youth, especially after my younger brother was born with a determination and energy level that was too much for my mother at the age of thirty-nine years. If the only way to get us to eat broccoli was to dip it in chocolate pudding first then you better believe there would be a big bowl of chocolate pudding on the table. If we thought the little silver pot pie tins from Swanson would make nice wall decorations, she didn’t mind at all hanging them up there with as much pride as someone else might have hung an original Picasso.

My mother taught me in her round about way exactly what mothers give to their children.  They sacrifice their bodies, their sleep, their appearance, any remote idea of a social life and most of all, their own dreams. I learned on my own that sometimes, as a mother, you are forced to sacrifice your heart, your sanity and your very faith.

The child I lost was my nephew but I had brought him up here with my two birth children.  I felt so blessed to share in his life and watch him grow into a fine young man.  I felt so helpless the night he was in a car accident.  I stood there and watched him lying lifelessly on a hospital table with no movement, no response, no way to communicate with him and knowing that nothing; not money, or power, or medical technology could keep him alive and my only instinct was to touch him and keep telling him that I was there and that it was okay for him to go home. 

The years when I had my daughter, my son and my nephew here were the best ones of my life. My children gave me a purpose and helped me to focus on the simple pleasures of living. I learned what was most important to me just as my mother had learned what was important to her when her own children were young. I developed more patience than St. Teresa herself and like my mother; I learned to allow my inner child to roam freely so that I could explore the world through the eyes of my children.

This will be my first Mother’s Day since Kyle’s death. I will miss the three Hershey’s chocolate bars he gave me every year to mark the occasion.  Last year my son asked Kyle why he didn’t give me a “real” gift instead of the chocolate.  Kyle responded by saying, “Heck, the yard is full of flowers and she don’t need anything else to work with. I want to give her something she will really use and enjoy.” Most of all, I will miss his home made cards, his hugs, his giggles, and his precious smile.

This may also be the last year I am able to spend Mother’s Day with my son who will be leaving for college in the fall.  He will be starting his own life as my daughter has already done.  I will enjoy the day with him and maybe take my mother outside to sit in our swing and talk about the old days even if she doesn’t remember much about them. I’ll look at the lawn and instead of an empty yard; see a yard full of children eager to begin the summer by cleaning out the swimming pool that once took up a large part of the front lawn. I’ll see dogs running along behind little boys as they play “Tag” and maybe even see the teenage girls that used to sit out there for hours talking about boys, music and how to get the car keys so they could take an evening cruise through town. I see these images a lot when I’m outdoors walking around. They are the mental images that bring me comfort, warmth and a sense of accomplishment.

Until Mother’s Day, I will sit here and watch the endless commercials on television that keep reminding people to buy a gift to give on Mother’s Day and I’ll walk through the grocery store that has greeting cards for the occasion sitting in the middle of the main aisle, flowers and candles on tables and even cakes decorated in bright icing for the festivites. I will even buy some of these things for my mother, not because the commercials tell me to but because I know now more than ever what sacrifices she has made as a mother and she has earned so much more than I could ever possibly give to her.

On Mother’s Day this year I will visit the cemetery and thank Kyle for letting me share his life. I will come home and thank my son and my daughter for giving me the gift of motherhood. I have a feeling that my son will make sure I have chocolate and I will enjoy it as I always have. It is a simple indulgence but like so many other things in my life, it comes with a lot of memories. I may have given them birth, but together, the three of them gave me life.

©Dianna Doles Petry

May 7, 2008

http://diannapetry.tripod.com

www.myspace.com/diannawv

~**~**~

Eating Lemons With My Mother

On A Sunday Afternoon

by

James Colasanti Jr.

          My home has always been a very special place to me and

the kitchen has always been the heart of my home.

          I can remember the day before I left for college, August 1967,

sitting at the old red and white formica-topped kitchen table with

my mother, Mary. Every Sunday afternoon each of us had a small

dish with a big fat fresh lemon, a knife, and a shaker of coarse salt.

Sometimes the lemons were picked from our own lemon tree and

sometimes they came from the store. But they were always the

biggest and the juiciest that we could find.

          My mother's old world wisdom was, "If life hands you lemons,

sit down, consider the situation, take out your paring knife, peel

away the problem, sprinkle it with coarse salt to make it more

palatable, and eat them. Your life will always be better."

          And she was right.

          My mother had come from Sicily in the 1920's. Her dreams

of becoming a high school English teacher never materialized. Due

to financial circumstances she was forced to work in a garment

factory to help her family with expenses.

          But aside from being an expert leather coatmaker, she also

became the best cook in her family even outshining her 3 sisters in

Italian cuisine.

          There wasn't anything she couldn't cook:  3-meat lasagna,

Italian bread, pizza from scratch, soft-breaded veal cutlets, and an

array of different vegetables and fruits--most of which came from

my father's garden.

          She was also a real whiz with a pressure cooker. My father

would bring in ears of corn fresh picked from the tall cornstalks

in the back yard and in minutes we would have steaming hot

sweet corn drizzled in fresh homemade butter. Each meal was

different and each was just a little bit of Heaven.

          Often our neighbors witnessed my mother and her sister,

Tina, on their hands and knees manicuring the lawn with a small

knife and a large brown paper bag. What they were really doing

was rooting out the dandelion greens from the grassy yard. We

would have big plates of salad made from dandelions (a great

source of vitamins and iron) saturated with a homemade Caesar

dressing made from red-wine vinegar, anchovies, and extra-virgin

olive oil. And this was all free for the taking with Mother Nature

providing the ingredients.

          In addition to feeding her immediate family, mother always

made sure the animals were fed and we always had a lot of animals.

Though we lived within the city limits, we had chickens, rabbits,

cats, and a dog.

          When I was a teenager, our family dog, Butchy, passed away

at the ripe old age of 16. It was absolutely devastating to everyone

because she had grown up with me and she was a real member of

the family. She had been my protector and my companion for all

those years.

          My mother knew in her heart that my father could not stand

the sight of the empty dog house for long. One day without telling

anyone, my father went to the animal shelter and adopted a 2-year

old collie-shepherd mix and named him Pal.

          Pal was my father's dog. He listened to him and to him alone.

He obeyed my mother because she always brought the food dish

but he was always at my father's side.

          Pal had to learn to eat like an Italian. We never fed our cats

and dogs "bagged" food. They always ate what we ate and there was

never a thin dog or thin cats at our house.

          Because I was their only child and the only family member to

have gone to college, there was a real celebration the night before

I left. For a going-away treat, my mother made her Sicilian country-

style Italian meatballs with homemade pasta. It was a divine meal

that would remain in my mind and my heart forever.

          The next day we stood in our front yard waiting for my ride

to college, the old 1919 3-story gray frame house dwarfing us as

we stood silently. Although I am not a very tall person, I towered

over my parents who were barely 5-feet tall.

          As the car approached we said our "goodbyes" and I shook

hands with my father. It was the Italian-thing to do.

          My mother grabbed me, hugged me, and whispered in my ear,

"Go make great memories, but make sure you make them with

dignity so you will always be proud to look back on them."

          As the car pulled away I turned and looked back.  There they

stood the smallest couple in size but in stature they held the biggest

part of my heart.

About the author:  James Colasanti Jr. is a lead clerk with Barnes &

Noble Booksellers. A past president of the Animal Rescue & Foster

Program of Greensboro, James shares his home with a housemate

and 13 dogs. His stories have appeared in New York Dog Magazine;

Dog & Kennel Magazine; Best Friends Magazine; Pasta Magazine;

Greensboro News/Record; and also in the archives at Petwarmers.com.

He can be reached at:  onegooddog1@bellsouth.net.

 Sicilian Country-Style Italian Meatballs

8 oz. ground veal

8 oz. ground chuck

8 oz. lean ground pork

8 oz. sweet Italian sausage, castings removed

3/4 cup whole milk

1 1/2 cups, divided, unseasoned bread crumbs

3 large eggs

1/2 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

1/2 cup freshly grated Percorino-Romano cheese

2 tsp. dried oregano

1/4 cup chopped fine fresh Italian parsley

1 tsp. coarse salt

1 tsp. freshly ground pepper

1 large clove garlic, very finely minced

3 Tbs. olive oil (for searing)

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

2 cups low-sodium beef stock

          Mix together 3/4 cup bread crumbs, whole milk, both cheeses,

oregano, parsley, salt, pepper, and garlic. Mix thoroughly.

          Add meat to mixture and combine together.

          Add eggs one at a time mixing each in thoroughly.

          Use your hands to produce a smooth mixture.

          Form the mixture into small meatballs, then roll them in

the remaining 3/4 cup of bread crumbs.

          Heat the olive oil in a saute pan. Add the meatballs and sear

all sides until golden brown.

          Put the meatballs into a 13x9x2 inch baking dish.

          Mix 1/2 cup of flour with beef stock whisking together

thoroughly. Pour over the meatballs in baking dish.

          Bake in 350-degree oven for 35-40 minutes.

          Serve with any pasta.

Recipe by Mary C. Colasanti

Poetry Corner

~**~**~

 Mamma"
                    by
          Joyce L. Blume

Mamma is like a one word song
        That has a special ring,
and every baby in the world
                Very early in its life does sing.

Mamma, is like a sweet melody
      A special name that came from heaven,
And is a title honored by everyone
           A beautiful sound that was God given.

Mamma, is a song that has no rest
          For millions of voices continually chime,
   The wide world over in sweet harmony   

  ,
            and if could be heard would perfectly rhyme.

Mamma, is sung by the young and old
      Was the most precious sound given unto men,
    And will be perpetually heard o'er all the world
                 Until the very end!
Joyce Blume

jjblume@juno.com

~**~**~

 The Touch of My Mother’s Hands

Janice Mumbalough Marler

I can still feel the touch
Of my mother’s hands
As she rubbed my forehead
And dried my eyes
When they filled with tears,
Her hands chastened,
They comforted me every day,
 And throughout my years;

Her hands weren't always
Soft and tender,
But she had a healing touch
 That sustained me 
No matter how far away

We had our own minds,
Clashing like thunder
With lightening force,
Each refusing to yield,
Yet on the same course,

Time and distance separate us
Under God’s blue sky,
And over His vast land,
Nonetheless, not a day goes by,
When I don't think about
 The touch of my mother’s hands

© Janice Bumbalough Marler
poetrybujan@nc.rr.com
2008

  Mailbox

Here is our Storytime Tapestry Angels: Also, I would like to thank those of you who chose to be a silent angel and gave an anonymous donation to keep Storytime Tapestry up and running.

Clara Westerfer, Mark Crider, Rosanne Catalano, Paula Booher, Kay Seefeldt, Mariane Holbrook, Mary Ellen Grisham, Louise Nomani, Sharon Bryant, Angela Walker, Hart and Helen Dowd, Keith Ready, Ginger Morgenstern, Ellie Braun-Haley, Surinder Jandu, Bob Shaw, Carol Meeks, Charlotte Hilliard, Marilyn Sink, Victor Buhagiar, Clarice Hinson, Conrad