A Thanksgiving Letter (re-visited)

Thanksgiving Day, 9 a.m.
Dear Ava,
    
I’ve been up since six, bet you were too, and I wish I could have come over but Daddy says it’s slutty the way I run over to your house all the time and I told him it’s not slutty when it’s two girls but he said he’s speaking metaphorically and anyway this is Thanksgiving (like I didn’t know that) and it’s meant for families to be with families, which is just plain stupid, but anyway that’s why I’m writing to you and not talking to you in person and as soon as I can get out the front door without being caught I’ll run this over and put it in your mailbox. I hope you look there. Try to read my mind this second: M-A-I-L  B-O-X.
    
Do you like this paper? It’s not really purple. I know it looks purple but it’s called mauve and no I didn’t spell it wrong, my grandma sent it with a note telling me the color because she’s always trying to improve my mind, so get used to this mauve, you’ll be seeing a lot of it, who else would I write to?
    
She also sent me a book, “A Child’s Garden of Verses,” she is so two centuries ago, but I don’t want to be mad at her because the reason she’s sending me this stuff instead of waiting until Hanukkah is she thinks she might be dead by then which is really sad. But on the other hand it’s not sad because there’s nothing wrong with her, she just gets seasonal dread she calls it, but if she’s still alive on New Year’s Day then I’m really going to be mad at her for being so negative about life.
    
There was a lot of activity in the kitchen early this morning, Dad and his new live-in girlfriend playing around with the turkey, giggle, giggle, giggle. I stayed up in my room because watching them make out over a naked animal would turn my stomach, but now they’ve gone back to bed and it’s quiet as the grave though any second I expect to hear her panting and oh-my-god-ing and I'm sure this is not good for me, mental health-wise, but Dad, being a psychologist, would probably say “Facts of life, Dorrie, get used to it.”
    
So I'm just wondering about something: “quiet as the grave,” what do you think? Is it quiet in the grave? I doubt it. Gross. Hold on a sec, I’m going to change the channel in my mind. Okay, I’m back.
    
My ex-step-mother and her two gnomes will be here at noon. Is this the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of? My father is like one of those men with a harem, he gets his ex and his current to come and fuss over him with their cranberry sauces and we’re all supposed to act like it’s normal. He says “We make the rules, not society” but by “we” he means “he” because if I made the rules I’d be at your house right now and we’d have mac-and-cheese from the microwave and we'd play with the Ouija board until our finger tips fell off.
    
One of the things I’d really like to know is how a woman who is old enough to drive still can’t figure out the meaning of the word vegetarian. When Dad’s live-in realizes I’m not going to eat a single ounce of that 300 pound turkey there’s going to be World War 4 in the dining room. My ex-step-mother might even start crying. She’ll be sad because now that she’s a guest in the house she won’t get to call me names and throw fits. But you never know, anything can happen, I’m sort of hoping for a food fight with the two gnomes, for old time’s sake.


So now it is so much later, how did this happen?
    
You might have noticed I still haven’t managed to get this letter into your mailbox, hope you haven’t been waiting there, that is if you read my mind in the first place. Did you?
    
There’s something of a scene going on downstairs, I’ll tell you every single detail when I see you tomorrow, but for now just try to picture this: After the so-called feast my ex-step-mother stood up and recited a poem she wrote especially for the occasion. I thought she would have outgrown that sensitive phase of hers, but apparently not. It was a very long poem, seemed like 3 hours, and I didn’t understand all of it, but I think it was supposed to be erotic, and it kind of upset the live-in who might be living out soon. Hallelujah.
    
This is the last letter you’ll get from me on this mauve paper. You remember Jeffrey, one of my former step-gnomes, well he was hanging out in my room — don’t ask me how he got through the barricade — and it turns out mauve is his favorite color, which was something of a shocker but not in a totally bad way, so he’s taking the whole box of stationery off my hands except for one sheet which I’ll use to write a thank you note to my grandmother. I couldn’t get him to take “A Child’s Garden of Verses,” though. What did I expect? It’s only Thanksgiving. They don’t promise you miracles on Thanksgiving.

Look for me early in the morning, I’ll be right there on your doorstep. You'll know it's me because in spite of everything that happened today I still look the same. On the outside.

Love, Dorrie

Here I Am (revisited)

{A story that I wrote years ago, after hearing the poem “Here,” by Grace Paley}
 

I was just pulling myself out of bed when Garrison Keillor’s voice floated by. “And now a poem by Grace Paley,” he crooned, in that overly familiar tone of his. But still, I sank back into the mattress, my ears stretching closer to the radio, and the man I sometimes call “Mr. Smarmy” (though, to be fair, who else reads us poetry in the  morning) began to recite the poem “Here.”         

Of course I’d rather have heard it in Grace’s voice, the opening words, “Here I am,” spoken around a white sugared square of Chicklet, or a smooth mentholated cough drop. She doesn’t stand on ceremony, I’ve been told.
    
“Here I am in the garden laughing . . .” the poem begins, and then goes on, how she sits there with her “heavy breasts” and her “nicely mapped face,” with her “stout thighs,” and her little grandson sliding on/off her lap. Not “on and off” but “on/off” — and I see that squirming boy in my sleep-fogged brain, wriggling all over his grandmother.
    
She tells us more, this aging woman, this poet gardener, about her husband, over there, on the other side of the yard, talking with the meter reader, explaining how it’s not a good thing, our dependency on oil, talking and teaching, while the poet watches, listens, patient and bemused.
    
She says to her grandson, “Run over to the fence and get Grandpa, tell him I’m too tired to come myself, tell him I’m tired but still I long to kiss his sweet explaining lips.” Not in those exact words, but something very similar.
    
And then it’s over, there is no more poem, and while the words are still lingering in my ears I begin to cry. I lie against my warm pillow and let the tears come, not so much for the last words as for the first: “Here I am.” It is a perfect opening, isn’t it? Three words that are themselves a prayer, an invocation. “Here I am” she says, “Here I am — in the garden — laughing.”
    
She is so clear in my mind, in her loose, generous skirt. I imagine her not-quite-clean feet pushed into worn-down sandals. A white cotton peasant blouse, or some other nice blouse, definitely not a T-shirt. This is before her grandson comes to join her, before her husband sees the meter reader and calls out “Wait, I have something to tell you.” This is earlier in the morning, while there is still some trace of a breeze, while the dew dampens the tomato vine, and she is up to her wrists in dirt, the dirt working its way under her fingernails.
    
A smudge settles on the bridge of her nose where she rubs her finger against her slipping-down glasses, the same finger that has pressed down on so many pens and pencils over the years, the finger that hits the “H” key on the keyboard. (Years ago, she might have used a Smith Corona Selectric. Today, the “H” of her iMac, the “H” of “Here I am.”)
    
She is in the garden, making things right, and later, when her son calls on the phone to ask after the boy, perhaps she’ll tell him “I was out puttering today, I was laughing, it was good.”
    
And I’m crying because I know that even if some day I grow up to be a woman who can say “I’m happy with my heavy breasts and my stout thighs and my nicely mapped face,” I will never be able to begin a poem “Here I am, in the garden, laughing.” I see no gardens in my future. I can picture Grace, patting a seed into place, pulling up handfuls of weeds. But not me.
    
My poem would start like this: “Here I am, at the window, watching.” That is where I place myself, an old woman framed by a rectangle of dark wood.
    
Like my great-grandmother, Ethel. Every day, all day, she sat at her window, pillows propped behind and under her. Her thin, tired old face breaking into a smile as my mother and grandmother approach, waving, calling out “hello, hello” while lifting me from my carriage.
    
“Make a kiss for Great-Grandma,” they coo at me. And I make a kiss, the first actual bit of body coordination I learn. A slight puckering of my lips, fingers lifted to mouth, then pulled away in a reckless arc. And that sound, like the ocean separating from sand, “mmmmmwhaaaaaa,” so that everyone laughs, even the shrunken old woman in the window. A silent laugh, her yawning, toothless mouth cavernous as any baby’s.
    
That’s what I picture for myself: “Here I am, at the window, watching.” Watching it all pass by — cars, bicycles, skateboards, young mothers pushing baby carriages, young fathers hoisting their infants onto their hips, carrying them around like big fat footballs. Teenagers, in packs, laughing and cursing, exhaling smoke. The boys trying to keep their pants from slipping down their narrow hips, acting like they don’t care, either way. The girls, skinny or plump, a bit on edge, nervous, just that much louder than they really want to be, putting on a brave front. And all the while there I am, invisible, at my window.
    
My great-grandmother was not invisible. The whole neighborhood saw her — strangers and friends alike — they’d wave and call “good morning,”  “good evening.” An Italian neighbor had a special greeting; one day she told my mother it meant “old grandmother, who sits all day in the window.” There isn’t a pretty phrase for that these days. More likely I’d be called “snoop,” “busy body,” “bitch.” So I’ll hang back, won’t lean over the ledge, won’t catch the sun’s rays on my upturned wrinkled face.

But still, I can see myself there, in the shadows, giving a silent “right on” to the loud-mouthed girls, blowing kisses to the big-eyed babies from behind the half-opened shades, sinking back into the embracing darkness.
    
I’m waiting for that day. I’ll be older, grayer, sagging in even more places. And if I’m lucky I’ll be able to begin my poem: “Here I am, at the window . . .  laughing.”

====

Grace's poem:

Here, by Grace Paley

Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face

how did this happen
well that's who I wanted to be

at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration

that's my old man across the yard
he's talking to the meter reader
he's telling him the world's sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips.

Such a Happy Day (revisited)

“Once there was a girl and her name was I Can’t Hear You, and whenever someone asked her her name she said I Can’t Hear You, so then they’d ask her again and she’d say I Can’t Hear You, and then ....”

“Honey,” I say, “I get it.”
    
“You do?”
    
“Uh huh.”
    
“Do you think it’s funny?”
    
“Yes, it’s hilarious.”
    
“I made it up.”
    
“You’re a very clever girl.”
    
We walk on, she and I, west to east across the city, which isn’t as far as it sounds because we aren’t all the way west and we aren’t going all the way east.

I push some stray hairs behind her ears. It’s very windy out today but she wouldn’t wear a hat because the sun is shining and she wants to feel it on her head.

“Once I owned the sun,” she says, “no, not owned, I mean once we were friends and we played together all the time. Even when nobody else could see the sun I could because she was my best, best friend. ”
    
“What happened?” I ask.
    
“Hunh?” she asks.
    
“What happened with the sun? Are you still friends?”
    
“Of course we are. Can’t you tell?” She throws her head way back so that her face is exposed to even more of the sun's rays.
    
There’s an ice cream truck up ahead so I reach into my purse for my wallet, but she grabs my hand. “We can do better,” she says. It’s the first time she’s used this expression. I hear my mother’s voice in her; it makes me feel mushy inside, right next to my heart.
    
“Once,” she says, “there was a man and he wasn’t very nice and he carved an ugly face on a pumpkin, but then a fairy came and she made the pumpkin beautiful and she put the ugly face on the man.”
    
“That’s only fair,” I say. We stop for the light.
    
“I like red,” she says. “Red Bed Dead Said Red Led Wed Fed Red.”
    
The light changes and we hurry across. We’re holding hands. I give her fingers a little squeeze. I could say something about that one word, dead, but I keep my mouth shut.
    
“I like green, too,” she says, and she starts to skip in that hop-jump way she has. “Green Bean Seen Mean Teen.” She gives a little laugh. “Teen Teen Teen Teen Teen Teen.” She looks up into my face and says it again. “Teen.” This is her favorite word.
    
“One day when I grow up I will be a teenager,” she says, for the umpteenth time, and I say, “You surely will, Honey.”
    
I don’t think she knows any teenagers. Her cousins are eight and three, her babysitter is 54. Still, she knows being a teenager is the best thing in the whole wide world. She tells me this all the time.
    
“Once,” she whispers, so I have to bend over to hear her, which is very awkward, but I do it, “there was an old lady who lived in a shoe and when she went to sleep at night she had to lace herself in so no one could hurt her, but what do you think happened?”
    
“I don’t know,” I say. 
    
“But what do you think?”
    
“Did someone come along and steal the shoe with her in it?”
    
“No, they did not.”
    
“Then I’m afraid I don’t know.”
    
“Don’t be afraid, I’ll tell you. A magic person found the shoe and sprinkled magic dust inside, in the holes, you know, for the laces, and in the morning when the old lady woke up she was an orange.”
    
“An orange?” I ask.
    
“Uh huh. The kind you eat.”
    
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
    
“Yep. But not for an orange.”
    
“We’re almost home,” I say.
    
A woman on the other side of the street is walking under a huge striped umbrella.
    
“It isn’t raining,” she says.
    
“I know.”
    
“She is wasting her umbrella.”
    
“Yes,” I say, “she is.”
    
“Once,” she says, “a very silly lady who was also foolish, and had once been an orange, decided she wanted to learn how to fly so she jumped up onto a little bird’s back, but the bird was in a tree and it wasn’t flying that day so the silly lady never learned how to fly.

“Once,” she says, barely taking a breath, “there was a boy and he was very bad and his mommy made him eat nails, and they tasted like,” she pauses for a second to think, “they tasted like dirty nails.”
    
“Yuck,” I say, “that doesn’t sound so nice.”
    
“It isn’t nice, because you know why?”
    
“Why?”
    
“Because he wasn’t nice. He was — he was throw up.” I know where this is heading. “He was a big fat disgusting stinky blechy ball of throw up.”
    
“Okay,” I say, “that’s enough.”
    
“Is it?” she asks.
    
“Yes, I think it is.”
    
“I don’t think it is. I think it’s not enough.”
    
I give her hand a little squeeze and she squeezes mine back and she says, “Okay, it is enough, I guess.”
    
By now we’re at our corner and she waves to a stranger in the dry cleaning store. Whenever we walk past the dry cleaning store she waves, and if there’s no one to see through the big window she just waves at the window. She loves the dry cleaning store. She tells me every day that her favorite smell in all the world is the smell that's inside the dry cleaning store. I could worry about this, but I decide not to.
    
There are so many things I could worry about but today I decide not to worry about any of them.
    
We take the elevator upstairs and leave our sneakers in the hallway by the front door. We slip our feet into slippers. We both love doing this. She loved it first and I learned it from her.
    
She runs to the bathroom to pee. I can hear her singing from her perch on the toilet: “Tinkerbell Stinkerbell Honeybell Moneybell Vunderbarbell.” She has a clear, strong voice. She sings very loudly.
    
I’m preparing two bowls of vanilla ice cream. Baby marshmallows and blue M & M’s go in hers.
    
When she comes out of the bathroom we take our bowls to the living room and sit on the couch. Her feet don’t touch the ground. Not even close. For a second the sight of her legs dangling over the edge, in those blue dungarees with the cuffs folded back and the red plaid flannel showing, almost makes me sob. But then I laugh, instead. She wiggles her feet up and down until her fuzzy purple slippers fall off and she laughs, too.
    
“This was such a happy day,” I say.
    
“What happened today?” she asks.
    
“Nothing,” I say.     

The Loneliest Night of the Year (family fiction)

(Sharing this story again, for Christmas Eve)

It was the summer when every pink transistor radio was playing beach party music, and every girl every place wanted to be Annette Funicello. It was the summer of skimpy two-piece bathing suits that were not quite bikinis, and teased hair; of smoking candy cigarettes like they were the real thing; of begging to be allowed to shave your legs.
    
We were in Far Rockaway — my parents, my grandparents, my sister and me — staying in a little yellow rented bungalow with a screen door. It was the screen door that impressed us the most, even more than the ocean a block away. We were from the Bronx. In the Bronx you don’t have screen doors.  
    
In Rockaway we lived like regular Americans, walking around in halter tops and short-shorts, with cheap rubber flip-flops on our feet. We ate on paper plates with plastic knives and forks. There was watermelon every night, and corn on the cob, not corn out of a can.
    
Late on Friday afternoons my father and grandfather would show up at the bungalow, pale from their weekday city lives, ready to transform themselves into beach bums. After my father changed into a sports shirt and a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts, and my grandfather substituted a short sleeved white shirt for his usual long sleeved white shirt, we’d walk half a dozen blocks to the China Palace. This was our ritual. I thought all Jewish families celebrated Shabbos with eggrolls and wonton soup. Sure, spareribs, why not?
    
But this one night I want to tell you about, this night that was different from all other nights, my father stopped, right there outside the restaurant, and inhaled.
    
“Eve,” he said to my mother, “I  smell something.”
    
“You’re standing next to the vent, Morty, of course you  smell something.”
    
“I’ve got a headache, Eve. Just from smelling, I’ve got a headache.”
    
“Stop it, Morty.” My mother wasn’t having it.  “If you’re so concerned, we can tell the waiter to leave it out.”
    
At that, my grandfather jumped in. “If you have to tell the waiter, already it’s not good. What guarantee do you have that he’ll remember?”
    
My father and grandfather were worried. They’d heard rumors. This is what men thought about, alone in the city, in the heat, with their families far away by the cool, wet, ocean. On the long Friday afternoon subway rides, the men worked themselves up with worry.
    
The women, made of tougher stuff, wanted egg foo young.
    
“Come in,” my grandmother said, ushering us toward the front door. “If we feel sleepy, we’ll take a nap later. A headache? A headache won’t kill us.”
    
Who knows if it would have killed us. We never found out because before we could even order, while we were still dipping our crispy noodles into the duck sauce — ”Duck sauce, Morty? You think they put it in the duck sauce? Eat it. You love your duck sauce" — the woman at the table next to ours keeled over. Keeled right over onto the floor. Her chair fell back and she was O - U - T, out. Out like a light. Fainted.
    
She’s fainted. Fainted. Fainted. Fainted.
    
It buzzed around the restaurant like a gust of stinky hot air.
    
Then:  MSG. It must have been the MSG. Sure, what else could it be? MSG. MSG. MSG.
    
The place emptied out in three minutes flat. My family made an instant conversion from China Palace Shabbos to White Castle Hamburgers Shabbos.
    
A couple days later, there was talk in the sandy alleyway where the women spent late afternoons hanging up wet bathing suits and towels.
    
Maybe that lady, you know the one, the one that fainted in the Chinese restaurant, maybe she was just a little bit pregnant.
    
Sure, have you seen her stomach lately? Did you see it in that orange bathing suit?
    
Could be she had a little indiscretion, a little accident, even.
    
I see the way she is with Feingold, the pharmacist. How many people get shmutz in their eye every day, she needs him to take it out with a Q-tip?
    
And always with the smile, always making with her tushy.
    
Fainting, that’s a sign, don’t you think?
    
Could be. Could be.
    
That woman at the table next to ours, maybe she was pregnant. Or maybe she wasn’t. But as far as my father was concerned, the vote was in. The verdict was guilty. And the blame was placed firmly on the MSG. He didn’t even know what the initials stood for. All he knew was: stay away from it.
    
Everything changed for the worse after that. My mother and grandmother, bored by the predictability of White Castle hamburgers, turned their attention to cleaning. God forbid a speck of sand should make its way into our little bungalow. My grandfather spent Friday nights with other weekend men, playing pinochle. He never won anything and it aggravated his ulcer.
    
My father started in with crossword puzzles, which in his case was not an individualized sport. “What’s a five-letter word for a wooden shoe, Eve?” Or:“T-blank-blank-K; what does that spell, kids?”
    
Somehow, in extreme misery, my family managed to drag itself through the rest of that Rockaway summer. Then we returned to the Bronx and staggered into the fall. Friday nights were long, sad expanses of unrelieved deprivation.
    
And then, before we knew it, it was late December. Christmas Eve. The loneliest night of the year for Jews. Let’s face it, what’s Christmas Eve without a pu-pu platter? Something inside my mother cracked.    
    
“Listen to me, Morty,” she said, through clenched teeth, “no one is trying to poison you. It’s Christmas Eve! For God’s sake, we’re going.”
    
We bundled into our hats and scarves and walked around the corner to meet up with my grandparents. They were standing outside of their apartment building, waiting for us with nervous smiles on their faces.
    
Together we made our way toward the Grand Concourse, and that night, in the dark recesses of the Pink Pagoda, we gorged ourselves on moo shu pork, shrimp in lobster sauce, and sweet and sour everything.
    
Life was back to normal. Somehow, we’d learned to live with the threat of MSG. We were survivors.
    

Each One an Individual: a story about fish (with art by Matisse)

Let me tell you about my brother Seymour. He was a fish lover. I am not talking flounder. I’m talking gold.
    
It started early for him, this strange attraction. Five or six years old. Probably because he was an unhappy child. He had bad habits. People stayed away from him. So he gravitated towards fish.
    
Let me tell you about the fish. There were many fish. It would not be an exaggeration to say, even, thousands. We are talking a lot of years. A moderately long life. For Seymour. Not for the fish. Thousands of fish. One at a time. Get the picture?
    
In the fish bowl, by his bed, my brother Seymour had, at all times, one fish. When that fish died he replaced it. In this way, he went from one to many. This is how a life is lived.

I, myself, could not see much difference between them.
    
Seymour disagreed. “Each one an individual,” he was fond of saying.

Still, he gave them all the same name. Goldie. My brother was a modest man. He made no claims to an imagination. “Goldie” was good enough for his first fish, so why change mid-stream. That is a little joke he used to like to repeat. As I said, Seymour was a modest man. In terms of wit and talent. If it were not for the fact that I am his sister, I would say he was a moron. But as his sister I will not say that.
    
Let me tell you a story. One day Seymour got married. Her name was Ruby. She, too, was modest. In terms of intellect and also appearance. Don’t let her name fool you, she did not sparkle. Which is to say, she was exactly the right wife for my brother. Everyone had high hopes for the marriage. That was a mistake. Things went wrong from day one. There was an incident at the wedding itself. Blood was spilled. Not a lot, but some. From there, it went downhill. Until the separation. The entire marriage lasted twelve days. Most people did not take sides. They were equally unsympathetic to Ruby and Seymour. You would be too, if you knew the details. Which you don’t, nor will you, ever. This is just to say, during the duration of the marriage, there lived eight different Goldies.

The fish, it should be noted, had nothing to do with anything. Not the spilled blood, not even that little problem with Ruby’s brother, Bad Arnold. Which resulted in the brief arrest. All you need to know is, there were eight fish, in and out, while my brother was a married man. In case you find such details interesting.
    
Let me tell you another story. One day a man from a newspaper came to interview my brother. He had heard about the fish. It’s no mystery where he got his information; his uncle and aunt ran the pet store where Seymour bought the Goldies. They were trying to help their nephew out. Give him a leg up. A head start. A hot tip.

He came to the door with a sharp new pencil tucked behind his ear. He was eager. All he wanted to do was talk with my brother about the fish. Seymour didn’t let him in the house. There was a little accident on the front stoop. Involving the pencil. Again, some blood was spilled. And that was the end of the big scoop. There wasn’t any. I heard the young man quit the newspaper business soon afterwards and became a podiatrist. Apparently he’s done quite well for himself. Just goes to show, you can never tell how something will turn out.
    
Let me tell you another story. I knew a way to get under my brother’s skin. This is how I did it. I would call to my brother when he was up in his room. I called him like this: Seeeeee Moooorrrre. He hated it. I probably shouldn’t have done it. But I did. In fact, I took quite a bit of pleasure in it.
    
Now, as you already know, the Goldies were kept in a fish bowl on a table beside my brother’s bed. But here is something you don’t know, because I haven’t told you yet. The table was tippy. The fish bowl was not secure. In other words, the Goldies never had a chance.
    
I want you to picture something. Picture me calling, as loud as a person can possibly call: Seeeeee Moooorrrre. Now picture this. My brother, in his room, growing redder and redder. In his face. Also under his arms. And behind his knees. And between his toes. As I called, again and again. And again. Seeeeee Moooorrrre. Seeeeee Moooorrrre. Redder and redder. Until finally, my brother slammed his bedroom door. And the tippy table toppled. And the fish bowl crashed onto the hard wooden floor.
    
Aghhhhghhhh. That’s the sound of a goldfish, gasping for its last breath. Maybe I should have warned you at the beginning, that this tale is full of violence. Well, now you know.
    
This is the last story. In case you’re in a hurry to go someplace, you can put your coat on now. My brother Seymour, he died. It wasn’t tragic. And I’m not saying that just because he was my brother. Anyone would tell you the same thing. So, he died. Let’s move on.
    
After his death I discovered, much to my surprise, that I myself had developed something of an attachment to goldfish. Ironic, isn’t it? Without them, I sensed a certain void. So I filled it.
    
I bought a large tank from a pet store in the mall. And a fancy pump. And a special filter system. I placed that tank on a big, sturdy table and I filled it with water. Then I bought a goldfish. I named her Carlotta. I fed her. Exactly as much as the instructions on the fish food carton said to feed her. No more, no less. She looked healthy. But not happy. Obviously, Carlotta was lonely. I am not much of a conversationalist, despite appearances.
    
So I went back to the pet store. I bought another goldfish. I named her Seraphina. Everybody should have a companion. If they want one. Carlotta and Seraphina appeared quite content. Until one day. When they made it crystal clear to me, as only goldfish can do, that they would appreciate a few more friends. I was happy to oblige them. I went back to the pet store and returned with Maybelle, Zoey, Felicia and Snookums. This seemed to liven things up. Couldn’t be better, in fact.
    
One day, when I was passing the tank, I saw the fish were having a little birthday celebration. I’m not sure who the birthday fish was. It was probably Zoey, although it could just as easily have been Seraphina. It’s hard to say. Everyone seemed to be having a splendid time. In their own quiet way. Quiet, but festive. I think that’s a good way to describe goldfish.
    
This never would have happened when Seymour was alive. Joy and rapture in the fish bowl? I don't think so. My brother did not provide a conducive environment. It might not have been, entirely, his fault. There could have been extenuating circumstances. Who knows? I haven’t made a study of it. But this much seems an indisputable fact: no good has ever come from a man who loves fish.

(a collage, made on July 31, 2021, to accompany a story written many years ago)

small poems about winter (written over the course of many years)

 

old year
new year
the cat sleeps

New Year’s day
waking the frozen
wind chimes

before my eyes
amaryllis plant blooms
first dream in the new year

yew tree
holds its breath
first snow

snowflakes
sweeten
the ocean

halfway across
the frozen river
coming or going?

after the snow
100 paper cranes
cling to the evergreen

up to our knees in snow
taking the long way
home

snowflake
do you wish you were
in Paris this morning?

patiently waiting
tea cools
snow falls

climbing this mountain
counting footsteps
counting snowflakes

shoveling
around a chatty neighbor
snow piles up

spinning spinning
disguised as a crow
swallowing snow

far from the storm
watching the weather channel
my father shivers

lazy day
watching icicles melt
nothing more

midwinter present
flowers  
wrapped in snow

in the meantime
a year passes
her blue shawl unravels

spider
i’m happy to share the bathroom with you
this cold winter night

shoveling snow
under the full moon —
my neighbors seem friendlier

plastic plant
on the side of the road
do you feel the cold?

midnight loneliness
drip drip drip drip drip
icicles

heron
fishing for the moon
one long cold evening

sweeping snow
the broom loses strands of straw
what do I lose?

December morning
wearing 8 different shades
of black

winter fireflies
the flickering lights
in my neighbor’s window

this long red light
enough time
to inhale winter

waking from a deep sleep
nothing is the same
winter solstice

waiting for the snow to arrive
that’s how much i miss
having company

moonglow (revisited): a collection of small poems

lonely moon
i know a heron who would
welcome you into her nest

sleepy moon
i crocheted an afghan
for you to snuggle under

ballet moon
utterly adorable
in your tangerine tutu

shakespearean moon
surely it is better to be
than not to be

bear moon
i'm all out of honey
but please come for tea anyway

laughing moon
i love the way
your belly rises and falls

haiku moon
each syllable
brings me closer to you

walking moon
in your brand new sneakers
i can hardly keep up with you

patient moon
inching toward you
your friend the spider

upside-down moon
now the rivers don't know if
they're coming or going

nearsighted moon
how often have you mistaken
dustballs for dragons?

matchmaker moon
what a brilliant introduction
bee, meet flower

insomnia moon
when you can't sleep
do you count stars?

old woman moon
still looking through
young woman eyes

rebel moon
breaking all the rules
you make for yourself

forgetful moon
may I suggest
mnemonics

possessive moon
you'd have more friends
if you shared your pretty marbles

brave moon
you stood up for me
i'll do the same for you

fashionista moon
on you
the hot pink feather boa is divine

yoga moon
perhaps you've been standing on your head
long enough

mango moon
impossible
to get enough of you

disheveled moon
you look like you were tossed around
by your dreams last night

thrifty moon
shopping with you isn't as much fun
as i thought it would be

bronx moon
i'm sorry to have to say this
you can't go home again

march moon
your heart opens
the songbirds return

grieving moon
countless waves
carry your tears away

tango moon
claiming the horizon
as your own private ballroom

worn-out moon
now is the time
to sink into a lavender bubble bath

curious moon
go right ahead
ask me anything

hula hoop moon
spinning winter
into spring

new moon
take a flashlight
the next time you go to the outhouse

no-poem moon
all i can do is love you
there are no words

roller skating moon
who would have thought you could be
so graceful on wheels

turtle moon
leave your shell on the sandy shore
let's go skinny dipping

purple moon
i almost mistook you
for a field of irises

zen moon
i dropped by to help you
rake your rock garden

cautious moon
you must be weary
sleeping with one eye open

mother moon
i think of you each year
at lilac time

ice cream moon
not everyone can handle 3 scoops
but you can

garden moon
thank you for reminding me
nobody owns the flowers

full moon
when you feel shy
come hide behind my curtain

flirtatious moon
there you are
playing footsie with the stars

rejuvenating moon
when i feel old and tired
i look for you

bewitching moon
the window shades refused
to shut you out last night

snowy day moon
so lucky
nobody expects you to shovel

pen-pal moon
after all these years
i still can't read your handwriting

midnight moon
we're both still awake
come down and cuddle up

stay-at-home moon
put your feet up
have another cup of cocoa

solstice moon
longest night of the year
let's play hide and seek in the dark

Aunt Willa Goes Green: A Hanukkah Tale

The family is becoming increasingly concerned about Aunt Willa, my mother's oldest sister, the one who has adopted an environmental stance more radical than you might expect from a woman who, until recently, proclaimed as her personal motto: “More More More!”
    
But now it's “less less less” and she is vigorously pruning — her closets, her cupboards — which is all well and good, but for some reason the concept of anonymous re-giving holds no appeal for Willa. She has turned her back on the Salvation Army Thrift Store, as well as numerous consignment shops in her neighborhood, and has chosen to recycle her old garbage in the direction of her relatives, whether we like it or not. And we don't like it.
    
It began last year when she sent everyone a tuna can for Hanukkah. The cans were empty — either a plus or a minus, depending on your opinion of tuna fish — and haphazardly adorned. Some were lined with cotton balls, some with felt; some with what appeared to be bits of old socks. You either got a tuna can with used gift-wrapping paper taped around the outside, or one that was entirely undisguised and let you know exactly what it used to contain: albacore or light, solid or chunky, packed in water or in oil. Nothing was left to the imagination.
    
Aunt Willa enclosed notes, written on the back of used envelopes, instructing us that the tuna cans could now be used to store our tchochkes and what-nots. But in typical Willa fashion she admonished us. “Why do you continue to accumulate tchotchkes?” she demanded, in her large loopy handwriting. “Down with tchotchkes! Go Green!” she added.
    
We all disposed of the tuna cans immediately. I know this because we have a cousins list-serve and some of us (naming no names) did not actually recycle the cans, but tossed them directly in the trash. (I know, I know: shame on me.) And since none of us are inclined to accumulate tchochkes and what-nots in the first place, Aunt Willa’s Hanukkah gift was appreciated by not a single soul.
    
For my birthday last spring, Willa sent me a paperback copy of Crime and Punishment. It was the very copy she'd read in college, copiously annotated, margin notes on nearly every page. It came as no surprise to discover that Aunt Willa had an opinion about everything. “Raskolnikov!” she scribbled on page two, “get a new hat already! Where are your brains?”
    
I consulted with my cousin Lilian. She received a book for her birthday as well, a tattered volume of Hamlet. “It was horrifying,” she told me. “The things our aunt wrote, nobody should have to read that. There were curses in 4 different languages, including Danish. She's totally ruined Shakespeare for me.”
    
Over the course of a year the entire family has been subjected to similar assaults, as Willa ruthlessly clears her bookshelves. Cousin Harry, who's always been a little twitchy, is worried that the Peter Pan she foisted off on him could land him on the “dangerous persons” list with homeland security. He buried the book in his backyard, which is something Harry could do because he lives in Tenafly; anyone else would have thrown it down the incinerator chute in their apartment building and been done with it. Now his wife Rosalie, who is even twitchier than Harry, is afraid some dog will dig up the book and Harry will be hauled off and never seen again. His fingerprints are all over that Peter Pan.
    
My own father became apoplectic when he saw Willa’s margin notes in her old copy of Portnoy's Complaint.

“Why did he keep on reading?” I asked my mother. “That,” she said “is the million dollar question. To which there is no answer.”

I'm worried about what this Hanukkah will bring. Mom's already warned me that Aunt Willa has been going through the letters she received, and saved, over the last seven decades, reading each one over and over again. We suspect she will now return them to those senders who are still alive.

Who wants to be reminded of what you wrote to your aunt from summer camp in 1961? “Made three laniards today. Went swimming. Stepped on a worm.”

And knowing Aunt Willa, she won't merely return our letters to us, she'll persecute us. “What do you mean, 'stepped on a worm?' What kind of maniac murderer are you? You're no relative of mine. You’re worse than Raskolnikov.”

I've never dreaded a holiday as much as I'm dreading this one.
    
Perhaps I should strike first. I could always give Aunt Willa an empty tube of toothpaste: “For storing your long skinny tchochkes and what-nots,” I'd tell her.

But I won't. Why start a war I know I can't win?

A Thanksgiving Letter (revisited)

Thanksgiving Day, 9 a.m.

Dear Ava,
    
I’ve been up since six, bet you were too, and I wish I could have come over but Daddy says it’s slutty the way I run over to your house all the time and I told him it’s not slutty when it’s two girls but he said he’s speaking metaphorically and anyway this is Thanksgiving (like I didn’t know that) and it’s meant for families to be with families, which is just plain stupid, but anyway that’s why I’m writing to you and not talking to you in person and as soon as I can get out the front door without being caught I’ll run this over and put it in your mailbox. I hope you look there. Try to read my mind this second: M-A-I-L  B-O-X.
    
Do you like this paper? It’s not really purple. I know it looks purple but it’s called mauve and no I didn’t spell it wrong, my grandma sent it with a note telling me the color because she’s always trying to improve my mind, so get used to this mauve, you’ll be seeing a lot of it, who else would I write to?
    
She also sent me a book, "A Child’s Garden of Verses," she is so two centuries ago, but I don’t want to be mad at her because the reason she’s sending me this stuff instead of waiting until Hanukkah is she thinks she might be dead by then which is really sad. But on the other hand it’s not sad because there’s nothing wrong with her, she just gets seasonal dread she calls it, but if she’s still alive on New Year’s Day then I’m really going to be mad at her for being so negative about life.
    
There was a lot of activity in the kitchen early this morning, Dad and his new live-in girlfriend playing around with the turkey, giggle, giggle, giggle. I stayed up in my room because watching them make out over a naked animal would turn my stomach, but now they’ve gone back to bed and it’s quiet as the grave though any second I expect to hear her panting and oh-my-god-ing and I'm sure this is not good for me, mental health-wise, but Dad, being a psychologist, would probably say “Facts of life, Dorrie, get used to it.”
    
So I'm just wondering about something: “quiet as the grave,” what do you think? Is it quiet in the grave? I doubt it. Gross. Hold on a sec, I’m going to change the channel in my mind. Okay, I’m back.
    
My ex-step-mother and her two gnomes will be here at noon. Is this the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of? My father is like one of those men with a harem, he gets his ex and his current to come and fuss over him with their cranberry sauces and we’re all supposed to act like it’s normal. He says “We make the rules, not society” but by "we" he means "he" because if I made the rules I’d be at your house right now and we’d have mac-and-cheese from the microwave and we'd play with the Ouija board until our finger tips fell off.
    
One of the things I’d really like to know is how a woman who is old enough to drive still can’t figure out the meaning of the word vegetarian. When Dad’s live-in realizes I’m not going to eat a single ounce of that 300 pound turkey there’s going to be World War 4 in the dining room. My ex-step-mother might even start crying. She’ll be sad because now that she’s a guest in the house she won’t get to call me names and throw fits. But you never know, anything can happen, I’m sort of hoping for a food fight with the two gnomes, for old time’s sake.


So now it is so much later, how did this happen?
    
You might have noticed I still haven’t managed to get this letter into your mailbox, hope you haven’t been waiting there, that is if you read my mind in the first place. Did you?
    
There’s something of a scene going on downstairs, I’ll tell you every single detail when I see you tomorrow, but for now just try to picture this: After the so-called feast my ex-step-mother stood up and recited a poem she wrote especially for the occasion. I thought she would have outgrown that sensitive phase of hers, but apparently not. It was a very long poem, seemed like 3 hours, and I didn’t understand all of it, but I think it was supposed to be erotic, and it kind of upset the live-in who might be living out soon. Hallelujah.
    
This is the last letter you’ll get from me on this mauve paper. You remember Jeffrey, one of my former step-gnomes, well he was hanging out in my room — don’t ask me how he got through the barricade — and it turns out mauve is his favorite color, which was something of a shocker but not in a totally bad way, so he’s taking the whole box of stationery off my hands except for one sheet which I’ll use to write a thank you note to my grandmother. I couldn’t get him to take "A Child’s Garden of Verses," though. What did I expect? It’s only Thanksgiving. They don’t promise you miracles on Thanksgiving.

Look for me early in the morning, I’ll be right there on your doorstep. You'll know it's me because in spite of everything that happened today I still look the same. On the outside.

Love, Dorrie

A Young Woman's Diary (1916) — presented in weekly installments

A quiet hour of reading this morning.

Mother had a sick headache and did not come downstairs all day.

Very weak sunlight, but not too cold.

I have been thinking about the planets.

The roast was too rare so I ate no dinner.

The good vase broke today, the violet-colored one.

Mother said she wanted to go for a walk but then she changed her mind.




Alas, I did not have a quiet hour of reading this morning.

Miss W brought over a jar of preserves. I will have to bring her something, but not until next week.

I did not sleep well last night.

A flock of geese, just after one o'clock.

Fluffy caught her paw on a nail. Quite a crisis.

A trip to the library to exchange my books.

The Tapper sisters stayed too long and spoke a lot of nonsense.




No one can locate the largest serving spoon. Much distress.

Miss W asked how we liked the preserves. I said they were very fine. I must remember to try them. I have not yet brought her anything in return.

Mother says she is longing for her garden. I told her "soon" but we both know it will be a while.

Mr D came for tea. Uninvited. He looks sickly.

I have been thinking about the number seven.

The serving spoon has been found.

I did not sleep well again last night.




My embroidery is getting worse, not better.

Mother complained of a sick headache and asked for breakfast in her room. As usual.

There have been strange noises in the pantry.

I wonder if the piano will ever be in tune again.

The light was glorious today but it is still too cold to stay out for long.

A quiet hour of reading before bed.

Mother was humming in the bath. What can that mean?




Where is my little gold locket?

Miss W asked if I baked the scones myself. I assured her that I did.

There hasn't been any sunshine for two days.

Mother stayed in bed all day. She did not eat much. I ate two eggs.

I had no trouble falling asleep last night and this morning I was up with the worms.

A quiet hour of reading in the afternoon.

It was impossible to get warm today.




Mr D said there is something very important he wants to ask me. I said "Please don't."

I have still not found my gold locket.

There seems to be something wrong with my left eye.

My eye is completely better today.

I heard Mother humming again but I did not recognize the tune.

Received a letter from L today. She is now in Venice. I try not to care.

Fluffy is going to have kittens. She is behaving strangely but I suppose that is to be expected.




Mr D appeared in the afternoon and I told him to go away.

I have decided never to wear yellow again.

My latest books from the library are all disappointing.

Mother is not pleased with me but refuses to explain why.

I have been thinking about the planets again. And also about the stars.

I will soon need a new hat.

The light was good today. I sat at the window and watched the clouds.




A quiet hour of reading this morning and another hour before bed.

My gold locket has been found! It was in my glove box all along. Mysterious.

I asked Miss G for assistance today when I visited the library. She was gracious and accommodating. I returned with two new novels and high expectations.

I purchased a new bottle of ink this morning and spent the afternoon writing letters that I will not send.

Mr D arrived, uninvited, and offered to read to Mother. I informed him that Mother would not find that to be a pleasurable experience and he departed quickly.

Fluffy has disappeared.

Miss C asked if I would be willing to pose for her. I replied that I did not feel simpatico with the camera. She said perhaps she would ask me on another day.




A quiet hour of reading this evening.

Miss W brought a small bouquet of flowers from her garden. Mother had a sneezing attack.

Fluffy was found behind the kitchen stove, along with her babies — five adorable kittens.

A perfectly nice day. I considered going on a picnic but then decided it was pleasant enough indoors.

I have been thinking about this: what is a good omen, and what is a bad omen?

Received another unsatisfying letter from L. It was polite and vague.

Mother remained too long in the garden. Now she has a sick headache.




A quiet hour of reading this morning.

The eldest of the Tapper sisters is now married. Very suddenly (and secretly?). To Mr D. I hope I managed to look pleased when the news was announced.

There are many picnics being planned and I am invited to all, but I do not feel tempted.

The relish bowl is shattered. Fluffy is innocent.

There is to be a new post-mistress. She is the niece of Mr B-K.

Miss C asked me to pose for her, once again. Everyone seems to be entranced by her camera, but I am not. Not in the least.

I wanted to go for a walk this morning but I could not find my hat.




It rained all day. I spent a pleasant hour with a book.

My visit to the library proved most satisfactory.

Miss W brought a bouquet of flowers, again. There is no need for her to do this as our garden is also flourishing. I found a slug on the underside of a leaf. Fortunately Mother did not notice.

There has been no word from L and I think perhaps there never will be.

Mother has entirely lost her voice. This is puzzling, since she rarely uses it.

Miss W wants to start a reading club. I told her not to invite me to join.

I will scream if I am forced to eat another lettuce leaf. Or even a tomato.




The doorbell rang at 3:06 in the afternoon, but when I went to answer it no one was there.

Two china cups are missing.

The birds seem frantic. Do they dislike change too?

I wonder if anyone will bring us a pie? I hope not.

A pleasant day: sunshine.

I have been thinking about the moon and the tides.

Surprise! L arrived home and seems to be in good spirits. She brought many sweet gifts. All is well. For now.




Miss C passed by the front gate, holding her camera, but she did not stop in.

Father's old pocket watch appears to be lost. Or perhaps it has been stolen. Mother says it was not valuable but I think it was.

I doubt I slept at all last night.

People are so kind. I wish they would not be.

I told Mother it is time for us to do something about the curtains.

The new post-mistress has watery blue eyes.

Where have my old hair ribbons gone?



Fluffy is missing. So are the kittens. This is all terribly distressing.

Mrs S has a cold. I wrote and told her not to call on us until she is entirely recovered.

I am trying to be more patient.

I cannot find my ivory comb.

I don't remember the last time I felt young.

L has gone to Boston, suddenly and mysteriously. She left yesterday morning. I don't care.

The younger Miss Tapper wanted to lend me a novel by Mrs Q-M but I told her I already read it, even though I have not. I prefer never to borrow anything from that family.




Spent the afternoon mending. I am in a foul temper.

A murder of crows has set up home in a tree in the side yard. Neither Mother nor I are the least bit pleased.

Mrs S has recovered from her cold. She offered to tune our piano for us, which is a ridiculous suggestion and I told her so.

A very bad night. Hardly slept at all. Dreamed of crows and clocks and spiders.

Miss W brought over not one, but two, pies. What will we do with them?

I wonder: where does the sun go when it wants to hide?

Miss J (a friend of Miss C's) came to tea. She was crying. I offered what comfort I could but I hope she does not return.




A quiet hour of reading this evening.

It has been two weeks and I have not received a single letter from anyone.

Three small stones were left in a pile on the back steps.

Mrs R stubbed her toe. I doubt we will see her again this year.

Went for a walk with the new post-mistress. She asked me to call her Clara. I said I would rather not.

The clasp on my bracelet is broken.

Mother is talking about Barcelona. I fear the worst.




There are rumors that the elder Miss Tapper, now Mrs D, is expecting a child. I don't believe this can possibly be true.

Suddenly all my dresses are drab and droopy. It does not matter.

Miss F has begun taking French lessons. She is so very earnest.

L has written to announce her engagement. She met him at her cousin's house in Boston. I am shocked. But not surprised.

Miss J is hosting a salon next Wednesday. I told her that Mother and I will be resting that day.

I miss Fluffy and the kittens. I fear the worst has befallen them.

Spent one hour practicing my penmanship, for no reason at all.




A quiet hour of reading this morning.

Miss W asked me to accompany her to Philadelphia next month. I pretended I did not hear her.

A disappointing visit to the library. There doesn't appear to be a single book I am interested in.

I doubt I will ever sleep through the night again.

I asked Mother if she has seen my beaded bag. She claimed not to know what I was talking about.

I just noticed today: my right hand is apparently slightly larger than my left hand.

Father's pocket watch was discovered under a pile of linen. Relief.




I have replenished my supply of paper and ink.

Mother asked me to air out the guest room but I see no need to do so, as we are not expecting any overnight visitors.

I must have slept for a while last night since I remember dreaming about a lion.

Received unpleasant news this morning.

Mother was exaggerating, things are not as dreadful as I feared.

I saw Miss J in the library yesterday. She was not crying, but still I made a point of avoiding her.

Mr and Mrs D are expecting twins. I have heard it on the highest authority (Dr N). I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I think I will laugh.

Do You Remember: A Fictional Family Saga

In this Family Saga there are 11 main “characters.”
Each question is asked by an unnamed person, addressing her unnamed sister, in our present time.

All the questions concern people and events from their past.

The two sisters were living in a large household with their relatives: Uncle Roland, Aunt Cosmos, Aunt Bobo, Aunt Lilian, cousins Delia, Reggie, Bizzie, Sadie, and Fig.


Do you remember the picnic where, at the very last minute, Aunt Bobo refused to come, even though she had all the food with her, and we ended up nibbling on blades of grass and sharing a single chocolate bar between ten of us?

Do you remember the day Delia stood in the middle of the garden reciting the names of all the flowers in Latin, but later we found out she was just talking gibberish?

Do you remember when Bizzie believed she was a bird and never stopped chirping from the time she woke up in the morning until she finally fell asleep?

Do you remember those weeks when Reggie and Delia were absolutely consumed by ping-pong?

Do you remember when a pigeon followed us home from the park but we weren't allowed to keep it as a pet and Aunt Bobo threatened to roast it if we didn't shut up about it?

Do you remember how much we looked forward to taking long train rides and how awful it was when Aunt Cosmos came along and lectured us on Good Manners and Proper Comportment and wouldn't let us play even a single game of War?

Do you remember that man who used to live down the road, Harold Hopsworth, who dropped his H's and wished us Appy Olidays, but when we called him Arold Opsworth he was not amused?

Do you remember when Sadie said she saw someone lurking behind the fence taking photographs of us dancing in the garden, and it turned out she was right and Uncle Roland had to chase the man away with a broom?

Do you remember when Aunt Cosmos and Uncle Roland tried to teach us how to tango and how Uncle Roland kept tripping over his feet and how he almost broke his ankle?

Do you remember when the Scottsdale cousins came to visit and Aunt Lilian insisted they were twins even though Priscilla was 11 and Bonnie-Belle was 6?

Do you remember when Fig taught herself ventriloquism and how upset she was when Uncle Roland hid her little dummy-doll and she refused to speak for days?

Do you remember when Uncle Roland bought those night vision goggles and took us out looking for owls, but Bizzie got lost and we wandered around in the dark until we found her, and somehow Reggie got poison ivy on his behind?

Do you remember when we were all small, but not small enough to live inside the dollhouse?

Do you remember how we used to go tromping through the muddy creek bed collecting rocks and how Bizzie and Sadie tried to sell them to the neighbors for $1 each?

Do you remember when Uncle Roland was so unhappy, for so long, and you and I made a list of 111 things we thought would cheer him up and I read the list to him but he didn't laugh until I got to #63 and then he said I was a funny girl, and you asked "what about me?" and he said you weren't that funny?

Do you remember how much Delia hated it when you called her Deli Mellie Pachelli, but you didn't stop doing it until she threatened to smash that old ceramic elephant over your head?

Do you remember that November when Fig still wanted to wear her pirate costume and when Aunt Cosmos said Halloween was over Fig said "pirates don't have calendars"?

Do you remember when we saw mold growing on the kitchen wall and Delia said she would bake a mold pie and make us eat it and you got the hiccups from crying?

Do you remember when Bizzie asked Aunt Bobo to teach her how to knit so she could make tiny hats for the chickens, to keep them warm in winter?

Do you remember how Reggie made the same exact wish every year before blowing out his birthday candles, and how we told him not to say the wish out loud or it wouldn't come true, but every year he said it out loud and that's why he never got to go up in a hot air balloon?

Do you remember Miss Felicity, the librarian, and how much she used to hate us, but when she realized we would always return our books she changed her mind and called us her little angels?

Do you remember when you wanted a bicycle and Aunt Lilian said you should ask your Uncle Richie-Rich-Rich but you didn't know she meant Uncle Roland so you didn't ask and you never got a bicycle?

Do you remember how Bizzie insisted on naming everything — socks, worms, loose teeth, dirty tissues — and how she called all these things Pete?

Do you remember how Reggie could make something break just by standing next to it, especially electrical appliances?

Do you remember how Fig always wanted us to trade shoes with her but we said no because she had such weird feet?

Do you remember how the hot chocolate always tasted like dirt when Aunt Cosmos made it, but it tasted like clouds when Aunt Bobo made it?

Do you remember the Thanksgiving when Uncle Roland forgot to pick up the turkey and Aunt Bobo was so mad she served American cheese sandwiches with grapefruit marmalade for dinner, and later she threw a spoon out the window?

Do you remember when you dreamed you made 1,000 origami birds and they all flew away?

Do you remember when Aunt Bobo got so mad at Bizzie she called her "Elizabeth Charlotte Poppie Marie" and that was the first time any of us knew that Bizzie wasn't just Bizzie?

Do you remember how Fig used to stay up half the night waiting to meet the Sandman?

Do you remember when Aunt Lilian thought we should all have piano lessons but Aunt Bobo said she was allergic to music and the piano was "Off Limits For the Duration"?

Do you remember how Bizzie tried to catch up with her shadow so she could step on her own head?

Do you remember when Aunt Lilian told Sadie she couldn't be a ballerina because she didn't have a graceful bone in her body?

Do you remember when Bizzie thought pennies brought her bad luck, but she didn't care if you got the bad luck so she gave you all her pennies?

Do you remember when Cousin Germs came to stay for a whole week and Aunt Lilian was terrified he'd find the hidden fireworks and then he did?

Do you remember how Sadie’s turtle, Zilantria, was dead for two weeks before anyone realized it?

Do you remember when Delia said she'd kill anyone who used her hairbrush and how we never told her about Fig?

Do you remember how Reggie could never zip up a zipper?

Do you remember how we always knew where Aunt Lilian was because her shoes squeaked when she walked?

Do you remember when Fig won the Groundhog Day Talent Show because she could wiggle her eyebrows, whistle through the gap in her teeth, snap her fingers, stomp her feet, and swirl around, all at the same time?

Do you remember when Sadie went on strike against the vowels?

Do you remember how Bizzie was the best at hide-and-seek and how annoying it was when we couldn't find her for hours and hours?

Do you remember when Fig made up that song about the tap-dancing mermaid with the chorus that went "tip tap tip, swish swash swish, swash swashily swashily away"?

Do you remember when Delia got her new library card and could go into the Adult Room but we still had to use the Children's Room, which was so unfair because Delia didn't love books the way we did?

Do you remember when Sadie ran away from home but she only got as far as the corner before coming back because she said she missed us so terribly much?

Do you remember when Uncle Roland said he wished he could go off and be a shepherd someplace high in the mountains and Aunt Cosmos said she would be happy to pack his knapsack for him.

Do you remember when Aunt Lilian got a letter with lots of foreign stamps on it and she was so secretive and mysterious about it and never told us where it came from, or who sent it, no matter how many times we asked?

Do you remember how Reggie was always saying there were too many girls?

Do you remember the tree house Uncle Roland was always promising to build?

Do you remember when Delia was going through her polka dot phase and Uncle Roland cut off her allowance until she promised not to buy any more of those awful nylon scarves?

Do you remember when Sadie and Bizzie poured the waffle batter into the toaster and how surprised they were when things turned out the way they did?

Do you remember how much we loved going through the aunts' things, especially Aunt Bobo's, because she had the prettiest slips and bras and underpants?

Do you remember when Fig swallowed the goldfish by mistake and Aunt Lilian said one day we'd all be eating goldfish if things kept on the way they were going and Aunt Cosmos said "Get a grip, Lilian"?

Do you remember when Aunt Bobo threw away all the cookbooks because she was sick and tired of taking orders from people she didn't even know?

Do you remember when Sadie and Bizzie renamed the downstairs bathroom The Lavatory/Laboratory and launched their Sadizzy Lotions and Potions Empire?

Do you remember when Delia used to introduce herself to strangers as our nanny?

Do you remember how the aunts acted like they were deaf every time Bizzie asked to get her ears pierced?

Do you remember when Fig dressed the scarecrow in Reggie's clothes and Aunt Lilian asked what Reggie was doing standing out in the garden all day?

Do you remember Aunt Bobo said girls in our family should never wear blue because it made us irresistible to men and Delia went right out and bought a blue sweater and a blue blouse?

Do you remember how Fig was always snipping away at her hair so nobody would notice it getting shorter but eventually it got really short and Aunt Cosmos said "How in the world did that happen"?

Do you remember when Aunt Bobo's roses went missing?

Do you remember how Uncle Roland was always saying Fig was incapable of sitting still for a minute and then she proved him wrong by sitting perfectly still, cross-legged in the living room, for two hours?

Do you remember the terrible crush Reggie had on Miss Felicity and how he wanted to spend all day in the library just looking at her and Delia was very mean about it?

Do you remember how Sadie had that way of turning up the corners of her mouth when she told a lie?

Do you remember how we were never allowed to go to the zoo, no matter how much we begged, because the aunts were deathly afraid of elephants and Uncle Roland said he couldn't possibly handle us on his own?

Do you remember when Delia had that secret boyfriend who wasn't a secret to anybody?

Do you remember the day Bizzie discovered the 32 broken black umbrellas in the back of the hall closet and thought they were giant bats?

Do you remember when Sadie glued all her fingers together?

Do you remember when Aunt Lilian worried that we weren't getting enough culture so Aunt Cosmos offered to teach us how to fold napkins into animal shapes?

Do you remember when you were first learning how to juggle and you practiced with the crystal wine glasses?

Do you remember when Reggie put an advertisement in the paper that said "Boys Wanted" and the police came to the house to investigate?

Do you remember the night Delia said the dictionary was the most seditious book in the world and Uncle Roland said she wouldn't even know the word seditious if it weren't for the dictionary and Delia called him a bourgeois reprobate and Aunt Cosmos said she was going to lock up the dictionary and throw away the key?

Do you remember when Aunt Lilian went away for a few days and Aunt Bobo said she was entitled to a lost weekend (even though it was not a weekend) and when she came home she seemed so much more cheerful?

Do you remember when Delia's not-so-secret boyfriend came for dinner and no one liked him, not even Delia?

Do you remember when Sadie and Bizzie invented a concoction in their Lavatory/Laboratory, made out of butter, bananas, dandelions, dirt, and grape jelly, and claimed it cured freckles?

Do you remember when Aunt Cosmos suddenly started reciting poetry in Russian?

Do you remember when Uncle Roland grew a mustache and waxed it and twirled it and Aunt Lilian said he treated his lip hair like a pet?

Do you remember how Aunt Bobo always cut the crusts off the tuna fish sandwiches, but never the egg salad sandwiches, and we never knew why?

Do you remember when a bible salesman rang the doorbell and Bizzie went out onto the porch and talked with him for hours?

Do you remember those Sunday nights when we gathered around the dining room table to play Parcheesi and you always won and Delia said “this game is rigged”?

Do you remember when Sadie got a mosquito bite and Aunt Lilian thought it was the first sign of measles and she sent Sadie upstairs and put a "Quarantined" sign on the door?

Do you remember how Reggie used to go out early in the morning after a big storm and place little mounds of snow on the fence posts and call them snow boobies?

Do you remember when Sadie got a perfumed letter from the Scottsdale cousins, inviting her to visit, and nobody else was invited so then we knew for certain that Sadie really was the nicest one of us?

Do you remember the time Aunt Bobo said she would only cook foods that began with the letter R and that meant a lot of rhubarb, radishes, rice, raisins, and rutabaga?

Do you remember when Aunt Lilian took us to the Botanical Gardens and Reggie said he would never live in a glass house because then people could see him on the toilet and Aunt Lilian said "Never say toilet in public" and Reggie said "You just did" and Aunt Lilian said she was never taking us anyplace again?

Do you remember when Bizzie had dozens of pen-pals and invited each one to stop by for Kool-Aid and cookies as though they lived around the corner instead of on the other side of the world?

Do you remember when Delia got her driver's license and you didn't want to get in the car with her and I said it would be safe but it turned out that you were right and I was wrong?

Do you remember when the ghost moved into the storage room and everyone could see it except Aunt Bobo?

Do you remember when Sadie said she wanted Aunt Cosmos to be her mother and Aunt Lilian said she wanted Aunt Cosmos to be her mother, too?

Do you remember the huge mirror in the front hallway and how every single time you saw your reflection you would say "That's not me"?

Do you remember when Reggie had more than 1,000 marbles and he insisted on counting them every night before going to bed, to make sure none of us had stolen a single one?

Do you remember when Fig said she would hold her breath until she got a pony and we were so scared because we didn't want her to die?

Do you remember when Delia went to see a hypnotist and he told her she was Cleopatra in her past life (or at least, that’s what she said he said)?

Do you remember the awful shoe store man who pinched our toes hard and said that would make our feet stop growing so quickly?

Do you remember when Fig said if she couldn’t have a pony then she wanted to be one?

Do you remember when Delia went bowling with her new boyfriend and ended up breaking three fingers and two toes?

Do you remember when Bizzie wanted to change her name to Barbie, and Sadie wanted to change her name to Susie, but Fig said she was happy to be Fig forever and ever?

Do you remember those Saturday afternoons when Aunt Lilian listened to the opera on the radio and cried in her room for hours?

Do you remember when the aunts took us to see Peter Pan and Sadie got a crush on that flying boy but Reggie said Tinker Bell gave him a toothache and he would like to wring her skinny little neck?

Do you remember when Delia came to every single one of us and said “I’m sorry” but she never explained what she was sorry about?

Do you remember when Aunt Bobo baked a cherry pie and ate the whole thing by herself and didn't even share a teeny tiny crumb with anyone else?

Do you remember when Reggie said he wanted to be a cowboy when he grew up, or if not a cowboy then a professional gambler or an astronaut or a mind reader or a lion tamer?

Do you remember when Uncle Roland threatened to move out and go live in the doghouse, but we didn’t have a doghouse, not even a dog?

Do you remember when Aunt Cosmos offered to give Aunt Bobo a make-over and Aunt Bobo said “over my dead body” and then Aunt Cosmos said “you already look like a corpse”?

Do you remember when Fig walked around the house wearing her ice skates because she was lonely for winter?

Do you remember that time Bizzie found some mothballs and thought they were candy and the ambulance had to be called?

Do you remember when Aunt Bobo accused Uncle Roland of hiding all her shoes and it turned out that he really did do that?

Do you remember when Sadie swore she would wear purple for the rest of her life, but the next day she forgot and wore her orange blouse with those awful green shorts?

Do you remember the day the census taker came to the house and got so confused and said he had a splitting headache and could someone bring him an aspirin?

Do you remember when you went out looking for 4-leaf clovers and found all those bunnies instead?

Do you remember when someone left a dozen roses on the front steps and Delia thought they were for her but it turned out they were for Aunt Lilian and she never told us who sent them?

Do you remember when we discovered Uncle Roland was colorblind and Aunt Cosmos said “that explains everything”?

Do you remember when Fig kept saying “That’s not fair” and Aunt Lilian said she would give her $5 if she never said that again and then Bizzie and Sadie said “That’s not fair” and Aunt Lilian walked out the door and didn’t come home for two days?

Do you remember when you guessed how many jelly beans were in the jar in the window of Downer’s Pharmacy but you didn’t win anything because Mr. Downer accused you of cheating and we all agreed we would not set foot in that store ever again?

Do you remember the day the house plants died all at once and Reggie looked so guilty but he never admitted to anything and the terrible mystery was never solved?

Do you remember all the millions of times you and I wished Mommy and Daddy were still alive?

WRITE ABOUT … any (or all) of these!

I compiled this list of writing ideas to share with people in my writing circles at the end of 2019. Now I want to share it with everyone who sees this blog. Some of these "sparks" I thought of myself; some I borrowed from other people. You might find something here that appeals to you; if you do....pick up your pen! Start to write!!


Write about your earliest memory.

Write about a kiss. Any kiss. You'll know which one to choose.

Write a list where each entry begins with the phrase “And then….”  They don't have to be related (but they can be).

Write in response to one or both of these phrases: In my last life / In my next life.

Write about a compulsion, or compulsions.

Write about the face you show to the world and the face you show to no one.

Write a love letter (however you define “love letter”) to someone or some thing; maybe even to yourself.

Write about an encounter with a stranger.

Write about an umbrella.

Write about a coat (or jacket, sweater, poncho, cape, etc.)

Write about something that happened long ago.

Write about your Ideal Family (the whole family or just one person, for example “My Ideal Mother”).

Write about something that you can NOT do.

Write about something that happens within a small space.

Write about 3 wishes.

Write in response to the phrase “Things I did for love.”

Write about tea; teacups; teapots; tea cakes; High Tea; etc.

Write about all the things you are not going to think about for the next hour.

Write about lies you have told your mother; write about lies she has told you.

Write about eyes.

Write about where you live now.

Write about the first time you heard a particular song, band, or musician.

Write an apology to someone; write an apology you would like to receive from someone.

Write a letter to your younger self (at any age).

Write about being lost; write about some object that is lost.

Write about a door (opening/closing/slamming/etc.).

Write about yesterday.

Write about things that are disappearing.

Write about ice cream.

Write about games you used to play when you were younger, or games you play now.

Write about a friend's mother, truth or fiction.

Write about a (favorite?) sandwich.

Write about a secret.

Write about something you have stolen (or something that was stolen from you).

Write about nicknames (yours, someone else’s, a nickname you would give yourself, etc.).

Write about something red.

Write about something you never want to do again.

Write about an experiment (it could be a science experiment or a life experiment; something you did or heard about; etc.).

Write about a refrigerator, or a toaster, or any other kitchen appliance.

Write about tomorrow.

Write about one or more of your ex-partners. Variation: imagine what one or more of your exes might write about you.

Write about something that has happened to you in the last 7 days.

Write in response to this: if/then.

Write about a stuffed animal.

Write about things you do not (or will not) miss.

Write a list where each line begins with the words “I am waiting.”

Write about crying.

Write about rules/instructions (those you follow, or have followed; those you break or have broken).

Write about something sneaky (or someone sneaky).

Write about a ghost.

Write about an apron.

Write about rain.

Write about a doll.

Write about something tiny and/or something large.

Write about a mistake.

Write about a train trip.

Write about things people do not know about you.

Write about apples.

Write about things that have not changed.

Write about someone with red hair  — someone you know, or knew, or a character you create.

Write about hands.

Write about things you are not (or were not) supposed to hear (or say; or touch; or see; etc.).

Write about polka dots and/or circles in general.

Write about fish.

Write about something that happens at midnight.

Write about something that is not yet open.

Write about “that night.”

Write about a gift you have received — loved it? hated it?

Write about what is in your pocket, pocketbook, wallet, tote bag, backpack, etc. — right now.

Write about what it would be like to be an animal for a day.

Write a what-not-to-do list.

Write about before and after.

Write about a box (just the box, or something that is kept in a box).

Write about what you are willing to walk toward; what you are willing to walk away from.

Write about a grandmother (yours, someone else's, or a fictional grandma). Variation: write about your grandmother's childhood; feel free to make it all up if you don’t know anything.

Write about a room where something unusual (or hilarious, or awful, etc.) takes place, or took place.

Write about something you are letting go of, or want to let go of; write about something you want to hold on to.

Write a “praise piece” (poem or prose) for something ordinary: a toe, a pencil, a daffodil, etc. Write extravagantly, heap on the praise, make something ordinary seem extraordinary.

Write about a day in the future — be as specific and detailed as you can be.

Write about an uncle and/or an aunt.

Write about a dream, in as much detail as possible. Your memory of the dream might be fuzzy and vague but in your writing let yourself fill in any blanks.

Write on any subject you like, but each sentence should begin with the word “Maybe.”

Write about TWO — two objects, people, ideas, places, etc.

Write about coincidences.

Write about grown-up “merit badges” you would like to receive — they shouldn't be exclusively for scouts, right?

Write about a cat or dog — or choose any other animal friend/companion you have had.

Write a brief story from your life as truthfully as possible. Then write it again from the point of view of someone else who was there.

Write about a person you know well (or once knew) and hold them in your thoughts as you write sentence after sentence beginning with the words “You are…”

Write about “the other me” — a person living someplace in the world, with your name; go deeply into this imagined persona.

Write about opposites: off/on, hot/cold, in/out, wet/dry, soft/hard, near/far, slow/fast, up/down, left/right, etc.

Write about forgetting. What do you hope you'll never forget? What do you wish you could forget? What do you think you have already forgotten? What have people forgotten about you? How do you preserve your memories? Here is a quote by Doris Lessing: “Why should we suppose that what we remember is more important than what we forget?” You might want to start by writing a list where each entry begins with the phrase “I forget….”

Write in response to this phrase, posted by the writer Elizabeth Gilbert on Facebook, March 3, 2016 (accompanied by a photograph of her teen self): “13 is always hard.”

Write a story that someone else has told to you.

Write about what is (or was) “around the corner.”

Write about something you wouldn't want to live without.

Write about invisibility.

Write about forgiveness — how you did or did not forgive someone else; how someone else did or did not forgive you.

Write about a basement.

Write about an attic.

Write about good juju or bad juju.

Write about a mirror/mirrors.

Write about bliss.

Write about an altar you have created or one that you imagine creating (intentional or accidental).

Write in response to this question: “Wouldn't it be nice if . . . ?” Suggestion: keep it personal and specific rather than broad and general.

Write about things that change quickly; write about things that change slowly.

Write about a hotel.

Write a list where each entry begins with the phrase “And then….”  They don't have to be related, but they can be.

Write about something that is broken.

Write about a book you remember from childhood.

Write about mean girls.

Write about superstitions.

Write about things you collect.

Write 2 truths and 1 lie. Make the truths be things that someone would be surprised to learn about you. Make the lie sound as though it could be true.

Write about television shows and/or movies that were important to you in your youth.

Write down a geographical location, a date (month, day, year) and a time. Use this as your title. Then write a piece, truth or fiction. Additional suggestion: if you wish, make the piece have three characters.

Write about writing “tools” — pen, pencil, typewriter — but not computers.

Write about work: work you have done, whether it was paid work or not, whether it was a “job” or not. 

Write about time travel.

Write about your hometown.

Write about a bridge.

Write about something that happens in a kitchen.

Write about sleeplessness/insomnia.

Write about a reunion.

Write about beginnings and endings.

Write about a birthday: past or future; yours or someone else’s.

Write a shopping list or a to-do list for a fictional character. How does the list give you insight into the character?

Write about morning; create a morning poem or haiku if you wish.

Write about a journey (or part of a journey) in as much detail as you can; draw a map of how to get from one point to another.

Write about what makes you happy.

Write about shopping.

Write about family traditions/celebrations.

Write about the ideal you; the ideal day; the ideal home; etc.

Write a piece where every sentence is in the form of a question.

Write about listening, or not listening.

Write about quitting something; stopping; leaving; walking away; deflecting; letting go; detaching; etc.

Write about a bath (bathtub).

Write about disappointment.

Write about high school.

Write about a bicycle / bike ride.

Write about the weirdest thing you have experienced, or heard about, or imagined.

Write about a smell — a familiar smell; a terrible smell; a delightful smell; etc.

Write about a time when you said one thing but wish you had said something else.

Write about a promise; a promise given and kept; a promise broken.

Write about something that “disturbs” you.

Write about a scar.

Write about the worst thing you've ever done (the more cringe-worthy the better).

Write about bread.

Write about walking (in general, or going on a particular walk).

Write about a friend of yours.

Write about unexpected or accidental encounters.

Write about milk.

Write about a teacher you have had.

Write about a lucky number.

Write about a dream in as much detail as you can remember; don't hesitate to make up some details to fill in blanks in your memory; embellish if you wish. If you only have vague fragments to begin with start there and keep on building as the words and images come to you.

Write about royalty.

Write about a tree.

Write about a baked dessert (cake, pie, cookies, etc.).

Write about fire.

Write about being late and/or being early.

Write about the public library of your childhood years.

Write about a guilty pleasure.

Write about sacred space.

Write about taking a leap of faith.

Write about night.

Write about teeth.

Write about changing your mind.

Write about a crush (or crushes) you have had (or have right now).

Write about a pair of shoes (your favorite? a lost pair? a painful pair? etc.).

Write about a rug/carpet.

Write about things you worry about and/or things you are afraid of.

Write about water.

Write about cheating.

Write about being in a big crowd.

Write a song.

Write about solitude.

Write about a time you were embarrassed, or a time when you embarrassed someone else.

Write about mending/repairing.

Write about dust.

Write about wrinkles.

Write about danger; something dangerous that you did; something dangerous you avoided; something dangerous you witnessed; etc.

Write about a sister or a brother (your own or fictional).

Write about a hat.

Write about a camera/taking photographs/having your photograph taken, etc.

Write about something true that doesn't seem true.

Write about laundry/laundromats/clotheslines.

Write about “the old house.”

Write about a round thing (or round things).

Write about “how to be tough.”

Write about leaving home.

Write about small annoyances; things that irk you.

Write about eyebrows.

Write about something cold (or being cold).

Write about ink.

Write about a nose, or noses.

Write about how you became yourself.

Write about things you do not want to know.

Write about something you’ve never told anyone else.

Write about the flower name (or “nature name”) you would choose for yourself, if you were to do such a thing.

Write a good-bye letter to someone or something.

Write about doing something (experiencing something) for the last time.

Write about the lies you tell yourself.

Write about creating a ritual for something that is ordinary; pay close attention to things we don’t usually pay attention to; focus on the tiniest details.

Write about running away.

Write about chaos.

Write about ANYTHING you want to write about, in any form you choose (a list, a poem, a story, a memory, etc.).

Aunt Willow Goes Green: A Hanukkah Tale (revisited)

I wrote this bit of Family FICTION a few years ago and I've shared it on this blog, around Hanukkah time, before. Now I'm sharing it again, and I do hope it makes you smile. Love and latkes to all!


The family is becoming increasingly concerned about Aunt Willow, my mother's oldest sister, the one who has adopted an environmental stance more radical than you might expect from a woman who, until recently, proclaimed as her personal motto: "More More More!"
   
But now it's "less less less" and she is vigorously pruning — her closets, her cupboards — which is all well and good, but for some reason the concept of anonymous re-giving holds no appeal for Willow. She has turned her back on the Salvation Army Thrift Store, as well as numerous consignment shops in her neighborhood, and has chosen to recycle her old garbage in the direction of her relatives, whether we like it or not. And we don't like it.
   
It began last year when she sent everyone a tuna can for Hanukkah. The cans were empty — either a plus or a minus, depending on your opinion of tuna fish — and haphazardly adorned. Some were lined with cotton balls, some with felt; some with what appeared to be bits of old socks. You either got a tuna can with used gift-wrapping paper taped around the outside, or one that was entirely undisguised and looked exactly like what it was: albacore or chunk light, packed in water or in oil. Nothing was left to the imagination.
   
Aunt Willow enclosed notes, written on the back of used envelopes, instructing us that the tuna cans could now be used to store our tchochkes and what-nots. But in typical Willow fashion she admonished us. "Why do you continue to accumulate tchotchkes?" she demanded, in her large loopy handwriting. "Down with tchotchkes! Go Green!" she added.
   
We all disposed of the tuna cans immediately. I know this because we have a cousins list-serve and some of us (naming no names) did not actually recycle the cans, but tossed them directly in the trash. (I know, I know: shame on me.) And since none of us are inclined to accumulate tchochkes and what-nots in the first place, Aunt Willow's Hanukkah gift was appreciated by not a single soul.
   
For my birthday last spring, Willow sent me a paperback copy of Crime and Punishment. It was the very copy she'd read in college, copiously annotated, margin notes on nearly every page. It came as no surprise to discover that Aunt Willow had an opinion about everything. "Raskolnikov!" she scribbled on page two, "get a new hat already! Where are your brains?"
   
I consulted with my cousin Lilian. She received a book for her birthday as well, a tattered volume of Hamlet. "Zee, it was horrifying," she told me. "The things our aunt wrote, nobody should have to read that. There were curses in 4 different languages, including Danish. She's totally ruined Shakespeare for me."
   
Over the course of a year the entire family has been subjected to similar assaults, as Willow ruthlessly clears her bookshelves. Cousin Harry, who's always been a little twitchy, is worried that the Peter Pan she foisted off on him could land him on the "dangerous persons" list with the FBI. He buried the book in his backyard, which is something Harry could do because he lives in Tenafly; anyone else would have thrown it down the incinerator chute in their apartment building and been done with it. Now his sister, Rosalie, who is even twitchier than Harry, is afraid some dog will dig up the book and Harry will be hauled off and never seen again. His fingerprints are all over that Peter Pan.
   
My own father became apoplectic when he saw Willow's margin notes in her old copy of Portnoy's Complaint.

"Why didn't he stop reading it?" I asked my mother. "Oh you know how it is," she said, "it was just like watching that Jerry Springer show, you can't stop yourself. He had to read to the very end, even though he hated every second of it."

I'm worried about what this Hanukkah will bring. Mom's already warned me that Aunt Willow's been going through the letters she received, and saved, over the decades, reading each one over and over again. We suspect she will now return them to those senders who are still alive.

Who wants to be reminded of what you wrote to your aunt from summer camp in 1961? "Made three laniards today. Went swimming. Stepped on a worm."

And knowing Aunt Willow, she won't merely return our letters to us, she'll persecute us. "What do you mean, 'stepped on a worm?' What kind of maniac murderer are you? You're no niece of mine, Zee Zahava, you're a regular Raskolnikov."

I've never dreaded a holiday as much as I'm dreading this one.
   
Perhaps I should strike first. I could always send Aunt Willow an empty tube of toothpaste: "For storing your long skinny tchochkes and what-nots," I'd tell her.

But I won't. Why start a war you know you can't win?