My email address
is: hmaysavitz@aol.com
Writers of the
Round Table of Bradley Beach, N.J.
Our History
In February of 2001,
author Harriet May Savitz, at a Senior Citizens meeting,
extended an invitation to any interested persons to come
together and form a creative writing club. That was all
that was necessary. The rest is history.
On February 14, 2001 a
group of eight Senior Citizens, namely Rose Cirelli, Milton
Edelman, Mildred Koweek, Ann Marzano. George H. Moffett,
Elia Reyes, Harriet May Savitz and Edna Wilkins met for the
first time under the enthusiastic leadership of Mrs.
Savitz. We named our group, most appropriately, the Writers
of the Round Table of Bradley Beach. The Writers of the
Round Table of Bradley Beach meets on Wednesday of each week
at 10:00 A.M, the Carman A. Biase Community Center in the
Municipal Complex, 719 Main Street, Bradley Beach, N. J.
07720.
As the writers group
continued to meet weekly, a bond formed among the members
and we knew we were here to stay.
The following are
essays written by the members of the Writers of the Round
Table of Bradley Beach.
THE
CHARITY BOX
By:
Ruth J. Abramowitz
As a child my
parents gave us a penny and said, Put it in the charity
box. This was a square shaped blue box mom kept on the
kitchen shelf. Every month a man from the Workmans Circle
group came and picked up the money in the box to give to
families in need. Growing up in the depression years, we had
little money, but always found a couple of pennies for the
charity box.
I remember
everyone helped each other. If a parent was not home when a
child came home from school, a neighbor or friend was there
with milk and cookies. No child ever felt alone or
helpless. The older children cared for the younger and
people helped each other. Our doors were open for anyone to
enter. Doing good deeds was part of living well. We had
little money, but the richness of friendships and the things
we did together, no money could ever buy. We were happy.
As the years
passed, things began to change. Families still lived close
to each other, but the children wanted to spend more time
with friends than with family members. My family continued
the Friday night tradition of eating together and putting
pennies into the charity box. In my later years I can still
hear my mothers voice, My children, it isnt what you say
but what you do that will make a difference in your life.
I found that time is something you cannot replace. Many
waste it thinking of what they did not do yesterday rather
than what they can do today.
I started
volunteer work in my teen years and realized the importance
of helping others. I joined a couple of organizations. One
has a motto, "There be no price tag on life." Members of an
organization have the opportunity to do things they could
not do alone. I spent many hours going to a Veterans
Hospital with my Veterans Post. We played bingo games,
read and wrote letters for the veterans, served snacks and
drinks, gave toiletries and cards they would use after we
were gone. The welcome we received upon arrival and the
thanks when we left made those hours priceless. Hours of
time are often more beneficial than money.
I am now in my
eighties and feel blessed. I drive a car, work part-time as
a data entry clerk, take friends and neighbors shopping and
to meetings, do my own housework and write. A charity box
stays on a kitchen shelf in my home.
I was born in 1920
on a farm; I began writing at age twelve and have lost two
husbands during my lifetime. My life was spent working,
volunteering and raising my son. At eighty-six years, I
continue to work part-time as a data-entry clerk, help
charitable organizations and am writing a book. Helping
others gives me the greatest satisfaction.
Ruth Jobrack Abramowitz
Waste - Food
for Thought
By Lee Anderson
When I casually
mentioned the subject of waste to a friend, she responded,
Waste not-want not. It was also the first thought I had.
Waste occurs in
time, money, utilities, material things, thoughts, words and
actions. We have all been guilty in the past and present.
A thrifty individual is considered frugal.
Years ago, we
cashed in bottles for five and ten cents deposits. Now
municipalities are cashing in with the recycling of various
materials which requires machinery and manpower. Even waste
becomes profitable.
In a small way,
we deal with waste having rummage sales, garage sales, house
sales, which are a form of recycling. Someones trash is
anothers treasure. The waste of others which I observe
daily, bothers me. I have no knowledge as to the extent of
government waste, but I feel it is beyond my imagination.
Out of curiosity, I approached managers of supermarkets and
questioned them about what happened with the leftover fresh
and cooked foods. Some said they reduced prices at night
and didnt have much left over. Waste supposedly amounts to
about 3 to 5%. Even 10% in some departments. Many items
have expiration dates. I was told that expired yogurt in
dairy is returned to the distributors. Supermarkets have a pig barrel for which they receive compensation. The waste
feeds the pigs. The biggest waste is 12% in fish and meat
departments. The bakeries donate most of their leftovers to
Food Banks and needy facilities. I believe waste
escalates purchase prices and the cost of living.
I try to waste
as little as possible. Whatever is left over at my table
goes to the stray cats, the squirrels and the birds. We can
always find someone who needs what we do not.
?I am one of five
children. My parents were Italian immigrants. I have six
children and spent most of my life as a certified nurses
aid and was hospice trained. I was caregiver to many men
and women.. At 88, I continue to volunteer to help others.
I crochet and take pleasure in feeding stray animals.?
Lee Anderson
Guilt
By Milton Edelman
While standing
in front of my shop, I noticed a young German Shepherd dog
pass by slowly as if looking for friendship. I said,
Hello, Pooch, but he ran in fear under a nearby car while
looking at me.
I came over and
tried to convince him that I was a friend and wanted to pet
him. It was a challenge. After about five minutes, he came
out slowly and finally let me pet him. It seemed that he
had been mistreated and was very young.
I went into
work. After several hours, I came out and there he was,
waiting at my door. I realized that he might be hungry or
thirsty, so I fed him. He then wanted to come in, but I
refused, because I had toxic chemicals in my shop which
could be harmful if he licked them. I had the feeling I
was being adopted. He was indeed a smart dog and did not
bark at passers-by.
When I went out
for awhile, he would lie on a grassy spot across the
street. As soon as I returned, he bounded over for hugs and
petting. This went on for several weeks until I went away
for a week-end. Upon returning, there was no dog, and
suddenly I realized that I loved this dog and wondered why
I didnt make a place for him.
For days, I
searched the neighborhood but to no avail. I hope he found
a good home.
Miltonisms
By Milton
Edelman
A group of spiders
decided to go modern and started a web.
The most explosive
time bombs are the results of a ticking brain.
Only photographers
have the right to talk about negatives.
Don?t ever let words
stumble over your thoughts.
A guy took a gun and
held up time.
Guess what the
professor said? I trust to a degree.
Those who manufacture
gift items are living in the present.
Along the way there
comes a time
We put precious
thoughts into rhyme.
Neatly penned for all
to see,
Cherished for
eternity.
Anno Domini 1922 was
my beginning in Baltimore, where I ingested art galleries,
museums, ships, and became street smart. Completed tenth
grade and went to work. Many jobs, almost three years
military service. Graduated photography school in 1949 and
operated portrait studios for many years. Also manufactured
printed circuit boards for 27 years. I love writing and
inventing.
Milton Edelman
It Has Nothing
to Do With Being Smart
By Veronica Cullinan
Lake
I was thinking of getting a Golden Retriever. It was my idea of a dog, if
you liked them big. My friend cautioned, "Don't get a Golden
Retriever. They're not very smart. They don't do anything;
just eat huge quantities of food and lie around." I didn't
expect a dog to balance my checkbook or discuss art history.
If he was willing to go on walks, eat his food, and keep me
company, that was enough. Maybe I was selling myself short,
so I thought about my friends and their pets. What were they
accomplishing together?
Hugh, my upstate friend's cat, sleeps in the living room on the mantle
piece. A dog swam across the lake, spied Hugh, and chased
after him, with Kathy trailing behind. The dog chomped on
the cat for a moment, and then Kathy whacked him with a
broom. The Lab let go, plunged into the lake, and swam away.
For security purposes, the cat now permanently resides on
the mantle.
Subsequently, Lizzie, a dainty female, had the run of the house. I
interrupted the unpacking of my suitcase during one visit to
go downstairs for a cup of tea, and returned to find water
spilling over my clothes. I called my friend to discuss
Lizzy's "accident". She grabbed my things and apologized
profusely. "Lizzy marks her territory ever since Hugh has
resorted to living on the mantle piece. I'll put everything
in the washing machine and drier. They'll be done by
supper." I spied Miss Lizzy on the bed propped up on three
pillows looking pretty pleased with herself.
Carol, another friend of mine, fostered a Pomeranian named Josh from
the shelter. I always thought of him as ginger caterpillar
on stilts. One of his legs doesn't bend or rest on the
ground. On walks, Josh passionately collects cigarettes.
Cigarettes you can't pry out of his mouth. Put a beret on
his head and a scarf around his neck, he'd look very
French. Josh wants only warm soggy bread for food. At night
he hides under Carol's bed fearful of the dark. The dog
loves sitting next to her. He'll poke his nose under her arm
until she lifts it, then scuttles under pressed against her
body all happy. Come to think of it, there might be a good
chance he is French!
My sister has a lion-like chow that doesn't do much of anything but
block the doorway. Supposedly this was their job in China:
to protect the king's palace. Kimba eats lying down with her
legs outstretched on the floor. She woofs when she needs her
plate rotated. Everyone in the family obliges. It takes
three woofs to finish a meal.
It Has Nothing To Do With Being Smart
Janet's basset hound, all eighty pounds, can't manage the steep steps
to her apartment. She has to move to another apartment..
Hauling Cleo up those steps is breaking both their backs.
Janet travels to conventions where basset hounds can
associate with one another. They wear party hats.
Scout, a boarder
collie, jumped over a wall and nipped a jogger coming too
close to Sandra's property. She was fined and taken to
court. When her son got a bunny for a pet, the jogger
situation vanished. The dog spends the entire day corralling
the black and white rabbit until the rabbit's exhausted,
hops into his cage and collapses; the dog ever on guard
beside him.
Thinking over this list, I realized choosing a smart pet had nothing to do
with it, for some of these animals couldn't even take care
of themselves. All the owners stepped in to accommodate
their little quirks and aberrant behavior. They were made to
feel comfortable and safe. That I realized was the best
criterion for choosing a pet: wanting them for a friend.
I live in
Manhattan and at the Jersey Shore. I enjoy writing, water coloring, working in my garden, reading, and taking long
walks on the boardwalk all of which I can do now that I am
retired from teaching.
Veronica Cullinan Lake
Its
Madeline
By Ann Florio Marzano
There are people
in our lives who leave a lasting fond impression with us.
Such a person was Madeline, with her face of an angel, big
heart, gazelle looks and two left feet.
We attended a
small grammar school together. When we changed classes, we
went up and down stairs. Madeline?s feet would get in her
way and boom bang down the stairs she went. It happened
often and it got to the point when in unison, everyone could
be heard saying, ?It?s Madeline!?
She kept her
Guardian Angel busy and thankfully she would only bruise
slightly. At a school dance, she tripped over her partner,
bumping into another couple and all of them went down on the
gym floor. This followed with the familiar refrain, ?It?s
Madeline!?
At Christmas, we
always had the same pageant year after year. Madeline
entered as an angel with large extended wings, along with
two other angels. Sure enough, she missed a step and angels
and wings went flying across the stage. The audience was
surprised to hear from offstage, ?It?s Madeline.? At the
finale, she was given a standing ovation as she had livened
up a play that had been seen many times before.
Through the
years, I lost track of Madeline, but never forgot her. ?Til
this day, when I hear a commotion or bang, under my breath,
I say, ?It?s Dear Madeline!?
Thank
You, Old House
By Ann Florio Marzano
I call you,
?oldlovingly because we have both aged together over the
last fifty plus years. When I first came to you, I was
healthy and strong and you were mighty and beautiful. You
have protected and sheltered me and my family from the
ravages of nature. You have shared our joys, sorrows,
disappointments and successes. My children have known you
in infancy, childhood and even adulthood. Friends and
family always received a welcome and happy times from you.
Many, many years
have gone by and I am no longer robust. I now walk with a
careful, slow step. You too have groans and creaks and
always need repairs. I do not know what the future holds
for us, but I know as two old, good friends that have
weathered many storms, we will see it through together.
?I am in my
eighties and have been married over fifty six years. My
husband Anthony and I grew up in New York, married in our
twenties, moved to New Jersey and have been living in our
present home over fifty years. In younger days, I loved
working as a Librarian.
Ann Florio Marzano
STUCK
By George H. Moffett
I
was stuck in life. I felt like my life was
on hold, both in the secular
world and the spiritual world. I felt like my days were
unfulfilled even though I was busy each day from 6:00 a.m.,
when I arose, until sometime after 11:00 p.m., when I turned
in.
In over six decades of living this was not
the first time I had been stuck. From high school through
age 21, I was really stranded on a sandbar. Those years
were totally wasted. I had no clue as to what I wanted to
do with my life. I couldn?t find anything that motivated
me, except maybe living on the beach during the summer
months. But, how long can you do that?
In my 21st year, a light went on in my head
and I decided to go to Petty Institute for three days of
testing to find out what my special interests were. The
testing was laborious but it was worth the search to
discover some direction in my life. What a joy to find out
that I had no special interests. The last thing I needed
was for this learned body of experts to tell me I was stuck
in life. I already knew I had a strong inferiority complex,
low self-esteem, and no confidence, and now I was told I had
another problem.
I showed them. I went totally beyond
anything the experts indicated I was capable of doing. I
made a decision that would knock their hats off and mine
too. I immediately joined the United States Marine Corps.
I was so excited. I was unstuck for at least three years.
But, I have to tell you I was petrified upon arrival at Boot
Camp. However, it was the right decision, because in those
three years I made Staff Sergeant and became so highly
motivated that I realized I was capable of fulfilling my
potential, whatever it might be. I was unstuck for longer
than three years, thanks to the experts who motivated me by
telling me I had no special interests.
There were other ?stucktimes in my life
which I worked my way through. But who would expect to be
stuck at age 75, having been happily retired for 13 years.
Those years were filled with helping people, volunteering
for various causes, actively supporting my church and my
belief in God, and recently attending classes to learn how
to do creative writing. What a delight!
I knew, with all humility, that I was a good
person, but I also felt that there was much more I should
have been doing in my worldly life and my spiritual life. I
prayed that God would grab a hold of me, stir me up, and
give me a good shaking. I wished God would really give me
a jolt of lightning, a blessing that would rock my soul. I
even asked a few friends to pray for me; something I had
never done before in my life.
Maybe through the prayers of some of my
friends and the blessing of God I would gain more wisdom.
Even at age 75, I realized that I had to do the work
myself. Ultimately getting unstuck was up to me. Beliefs
determine one?s behavior, so if I changed my thoughts I
would change my life.
I then started to become unstuck. It didn?t
happen all at once. It was a gradual process of struggling
over a period of many days. It was a mind game. One day
yes; the next day maybe, or even no. Indecision was the
enemy of progress. The first decision I made to rejuvenate
myself, which was the correct one, was to start writing
again. It wasn?t easy. I really had to search inside
myself to find the creative juices. I had to force myself
to find a topic and once I did, it was a long thought
process before I even typed the first letter. Once I began
typing, the process gained momentum. I was on a roll. It
felt so good to write again; to be creative. My mind
started brewing up things to do. How could I have ever
thought of living without writing? I also resumed working
out five days a week at my health club. Things were
happening; positive things. Living started to feel good
again. The stress of being stuck was replaced with the
serenity of knowing that I had found my way once more.
I was reminded that one doesn?t grow old;
one becomes old through inactivity. Living a life that is
less than what we were meant to be, less than what we could
be, would be leading an unfulfilled life. I broke out of my
mired existence and strived to live the life I imagined. I
was getting closer to the day that the person I was and the
person I wanted to be would meet.
Born 1930 in
Bradley Beach, N. J. where I was employed as the Borough
Clerk/Treasurer and served 4 years on the Board of
Commissioners. I lift weights, run, play racquetball, eat a
healthy diet and strongly believe in Jesus Christ, all in my
quest to become a centurion. Now I am a writer with many
stories to tell.
geomoffett@yahoo.com.
A Tribute to my brother. Nick
By Elia R.
Monticello-Reyes
For many years, we celebrated Christmas Eve
at my brother's house with the family. The house cheerfully
decorated with holiday ornaments, delicious food, beverages,
baked goods, many gifts and loving cheer. It was a gala
event we looked forward to every year.
Nick was a compassionate loving person and most of all our hero. He stood
by us unconditionally and firm in his beliefs. His presence
made us feel secure and safe, and his handsome face was a
pleasure to see.
Nick was a United States Marine and served in the Korean War. He was one
of the Marines who were trapped in the "Chosen Resevoirand
they left no Marine behind. He was an electrician with the
Newark Housing Authority for 34 years. Nicholas J. A.
Monticello, died on July 25, 2005. He was named Nicholas,
after our father Joseph, Mom's brother and Anthony our
maternal grandfather.
Six New Jersey State Trooper cars and two unmarked State Trooper cars
escorted the funeral entourage. They stopped at every
intersection directing traffic. At the entrance of the
church stood an Honor Guard of NJ State Troopers and a bag
piper playing the US Marine Hymn. As the family and friends
entered the church the organist played Amazing Grace. The
priest commented at the funeral, the display of love and
devotion for Nick was seldom seen.
At the burial site were two US Marines. They folded the American flag,
presenting it to his wife, Pauline, and thanked Nicholas on
behalf of the President of the United States and the US
Marine Corp. for serving his country well.
My brother Nick, will be missed by all of us. May his soul rest in peace.
ROCCO'S FENCE
By Elia R.
Monticello-Reyes
Growing up, we lived on
Littleton Ave. in Newark, a quiet middle class neighborhood.
We lived on the third floor; the landlady on the second
floor, and my Aunt and Uncle on the first floor.
My younger brother, Rocco, at four
years old, was playing in the backyard with the Landlord?s
grandson who was a few years older. Rocco was crying when
he called Mama. She asked why he was crying. Rocco
replied, "Tommy said I can't touch the fence because it's
his fence and his house."
Mama shouted back, "Yes, Rocco, you
can touch the fence because you pay rent."
When Papa came home that night, Mama
reported to him what occurred. Right then and there Papa
contacted a realtor to purchase a house so Rocco could touch
the fence. He bought a three family house just a few
blocks away.
To this day, forty years later, we tell Rocco that if he
hadn't touched the fence on Littleton Ave., we would still
be living there.
Haircut # 1
By Herbert
Porter
Many
years ago, my mother took me for my first haircut. For six
years my hair grew uncut into long beautiful curls, rivaling
those of Shirley Temple. I was about to lose the hair that
brought me recognition, praise, and the feeling of being
important every time I encountered females from six to
sixty.
Family legend has it that my father wanted a daughter so
badly that he forbade my hair to be cut
until my mother
delivered a girl. Apparently six sons were enough. My
sister Geraldine was born August 1938, yet my hair was left
to grow until I was scheduled to enter school.
Considering the
ordeals of a boy with a nickname Sue, a boy with girly hair
should have some teasing experiences to tell about. I do
not. Maybe I blocked them out. Maybe there were none.
I believe my
brothers were as proud of my hair as my parents and I were.
I have
never forgotten the barber shop I entered that autumn
afternoon. The sight of it sent pangs of trepidation
through me. My thoughts were not conducive to a good hair
cutting experience.
And, in actuality, the
worst was yet to come.
My
mother collected each curl and wrapped it in white tissue as
the barber handed them to her.
They could have
been sold for cash like in the story of the magi. Our
family could have used the money but I believe the pride my
mother and father had in my curls made them an unsalable
family treasure.
They remain in the
family memorabilia collection to this day.
The
barber used scissors to cut the long curls, then electric
clippers to further shorten my hair.
Then I felt the
warm foamy lather the barber spread above and behind both my
ears.
I heard the slapping
noise of his razor on the heavy leather strap, which hung
off the side of the chair. I thought he was going to shave
me. My father used a straight razor and lather on his face
each morning without event. So I closed my eyes still with
fearful expectation. Then it came, a sharp pain in my ear
from the cut the razor put there. Though startled, I could
not raise my head for the barber had been pushing my head
downward to be sure I didn?t move. My now opened eyes saw
the blood dripping all over the white barber sheet. With
quick dabbing strokes, separated by pats with a cloth, he
applied a septic stick to stop the bleeding. My desire
was to bolt from this slaughter house and head for home
shouting repetitions of "never again" "never again" I was
being traumatized like no kid had ever been, or so I
thought. How did I know the ear wasn't cut offHe wanted
me to look in the mirror. I did not even look up. My eyes
were now fixated on the many new red spots on the white
linen.
The ear healed
quickly. My psyche took longer. For years thereafter I
would use every excuse possible to delay, postpone or avoid
a haircut. Grayness, receding hairline, and potential
baldness finally solved the problem.
I find
that being a 72 year old male retiree permits me to write
free of obligations to family, professors, or employers
Herbert Porter
SOLITAIRE: THE GREAT
ESCAPE
By
Amanda Porter
As a baby-sitting
teenager, I played Canfield solitaire while my charges
slept. It involved laying out the standard seven piles of
playing cards, one in the first pile up to seven in the last
pile. The game "cost" one dollar per card: $52 and paid $5
per card put on the ace to king piles for each suit at the
top--$500 if the player went out, i.e. ended with four piles
of each suit: clubs, hearts, spades, and diamonds stacked
from ace to king.
This time-consuming game has been replicated on
computers. By looking for "accessories," or directly for
"games," the menu usually includes solitaire. By merely
pressing the "game" button, then the "deal" button after the
Solitaire board has come on, your deal for that game will be
laid out for playing. Under "deal" are some choices:
"undo," "deck," "options," and "exit." "Exit" will remove
the game. I have never used it as there are other ways to
leave; but I assume if your boss walks in, this method is
the fastest way to get back to work. "Undo" does not
function until you are playing and want to put a card back.
I have never used it either because it is so easy just to go
on to a new game. "Deck" gives you a choice of decorative
backs of the card deck. If you pick the beach scene, at
every 50 units of time (in the right hand corner of the
screen) the sun in the upper corner of the deck will become
a face that sticks his tongue out at you. You will have to
experiment to see if any of the other decks play with you.
Knowing that you have used 50 time units (probably seconds)
is more nerve-wracking than helpful.
"Options" gives you the "draw" choice of one or three
cards at a time; the "scoring" choice of "standard,"
"Vegas," or "none." If you choose "none," you will lose the
thrill of improving the score that you are eschewing.
"Vegas" plays like Canfield (who also operated a gambling
den, I believe) with one's score expressed in dollars.
Drawing once in Vegas allows you to draw on the deck only
once; three at a time gives you three runs through the
deck. In "standard" either kind of draw can be done over as
long as one wants. Of course, when you note that you are
getting no closer to going out (I call that "spinning my
wheels"), the wise move is to re-deal.
The other "options:" "timed game," "status bar,"
"outline dragging," and "keep score" depend somewhat on your
previous choices. You only have the option of "keep score"
with "standard." "None" automatically means no scoring,
although you can use "timed game" and Vegas automatically
scores games. "Timed game" is self-
explanatory and "status bar" puts your ongoing record in the
right hand lower corner below the board. The key to
improving one's score is to play the standard game, draw
optional (I prefer one at a time), timed game, with status
bar to show your results. And practice, practice, practice!
The use of "outline dragging" eludes me, so I never add
it. The need to practice to improve comes from the "timed
game" rewarding one with a greater "bonus" score when one
goes out in the shortest time one can. When I became aware
of this, I tried to get my time below 100. On my old
computer I was able to achieve a time of 71 which gave me a
score of 10511, my personal best, which I have not been able
to repeat in years of trying.
Some other hints include re-dealing any hand that looks
unpromising, meaning there are two cards that are the same
color and number (black fives, red Jacks). The most action
that precedes your drawing from the deck, the better. If
there is little or no action after you have drawn about ten
cards, you may as well re-deal. The more games that you
start, the more likely you will hit on a good one that will
go out. Also to try to move faster, keep the card you may
need to complete a move in your mind as you draw. Then when
your red four, for instance, shows up, you are geared to
move it with your mouse quickly. The attempt to be speedy
is only stressful if you get interrupted by family or
phone. But, after all, it is only a game and-so far as I
know-no one is offering prizes. Enjoy the "great escape"
aspect.
Being
an easily distracted procrastinator, I have thought many
more solutions than I have communicated, thus denying a
better world for my progeny, as well as others who would
have benefited from living in the utopia envisioned in
Edward Bellamy's "Looking Backward," a world of sharing and
caring. Amanda Porter
MY
JULY FOURTH 2006 INSPIRATION
By Kalinka
Shumanov
Fifty years
ago a new young immigrant arrived in America on the wings of
hope and dreams of opportunities in the land of freedom.
That young immigrant was me.
Many years
have passed and I have experienced ?the luxuryof freedom.
I have achieved many of my dreams, and many more than I have
ever hoped for.
Every year when I
celebrate the 4th of July, I revive my memories
from the beginning to the present of my life in America.
The celebration of this holiday and remembering what it
stands for brings me to the highest level of emotions. I
might describe my feelings like the fire works in the sky
all over America, the colors and shapes and sounds of
celebration.
I was watching
the people?s faces from little babies to centurions while
they were waving their flags showing pride and happiness for
this fantastic moment reminding them who they are. These
feeling of pride being an American should never be lost. I
wasn?t born in America, but if I was given the choice, I
would have chosen to be born here. God Bless America!!! We
should cherish it and protect it.
?I was born in
Bulgaria, but grew up in neighboring Yugoslavia. My family
experienced the horrors of Nazis and Communists invasions.
Finally we escaped to Italy where we waited three years to
come to the Free World. I came to America in 1956 and
worked as a Microbiologist. Now I teach and interpret in
courts.
Kalinka Shumanov
They Dare To Write
By Harriet May
Savitz
Each week
I meet with the Writers of the Round Table of Bradley
Beach. Each week they sit around a round table with
notebooks and pens in hand. Each week they do not know
what will be said or what ideas will be presented.
Their writing adventure continues as it has for the past
several years. They are unafraid as they travel down
the road of unknowns.
I must
tell you about these writers of the round table. I see
them as warriors, as heroes, as role models. I would
like you to know them, perhaps not as well as I do, but
at least well enough to understand what they are
attempting to do. Know that each of them has been
published in newspapers and magazines.
Ruth
Abramowitz is in her mid-eighties. She is writing
essays and stories about her growing up years. She is
putting together a book, a history of her family and of
herself. (including the day she had her tonsils removed
on the kitchen table) It will be her journey through
life. She talks of this book with the energy of a
teen-ager. Wisdom will live in its pages.
Milton
Edelman is a professional photographer and writer. He
too is in his eighties. Still taking photographs.
Still capturing beauty and history wherever he finds
it. Milton can say everything in two lines of writing.
We call them Miltonisms.
Ann
Marzano is approaching eighty. She has a way of summing
up life that deepens ones understanding of it. When Ann
reads her work, we listen carefully because we know
somewhere along the way we will learn something about
ourselves we did not know before. She captures the
everyday moments and makes them glow.
George
Moffett is in his mid seventies. He writes about
feelings. His own and those of others. His words offer
hope and a sensitivity that few men would admit. He is
not afraid to write about crying and to admit that he
does.
Elia Reyes
is in her eighties . She has often documented our
meetings. Eagerly taking notes of what we have said and
discussed and debated. She captures this in her trusty
notebook. No one asked that she do this. But she
thought it valuable to keep what was discovered at the
Round Table.
Kalinka
Shumanov came to the Round Table recently. In her
seventies, she has suffered the wounds of war in the
country she lived in years ago. She writes of this now
and of the Science she has studied. Her heart is in her
words.
Lee
Anderson, in her mid eighties, has a keen eye for
detail. She will take a subject and dig into it until
we know as much as she does. (such as what happens to
the leftover food in food markets-where does it go?)
She writes about things not everyone takes time to
think about. As she tries to understand the world..
Veronica
Lake is an artist. She also paints with words. She is
the youngest of the group, approaching her older years.
With her artist?s eye, she tells a story that comes to
life. It becomes a portrait of truth.
Each week
they come together. They believe they have something
to offer, to share. Everyone around the table speaks
openly about their feelings. And later they write about
them and read their works aloud. No matter how many or
how few attend, they write, they share, they trust and
they deliver their messages. To each other. And then to
the public. They do this in spite of health issues
that might shadow their days. In spite of loneliness
that might haunt their nights. In spite of the
frustrations of aging. Of being thought of as old. Of
being thought of as unimportant. Of being lumped
together as ?seniors.
Through it
all, they write. They write because they deserve to be
heard. They write because they have something important
to say. They write because they have young minds that
refuse to surrender. They write because they have the
courage to be honest about themselves and about the
world in which they live.
Each week,
on a Wednesday morning, these writers gather in a circle
around a table. And soar as high as their minds will
take them. Wherever you are, whatever day you choose,
perhaps you could also.
www.harrietmaysavitz.com
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