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Life� ��������Times ���� ������� issue 3 | winter 2019 Welcome to the Neighborhood! We invite you to discover a place where your loved one with Alzheimer’s disease or dementia will truly feel at home, with the support of specially trained care partners and the freedom to define their own days. Opening Spring 2019, our all-new Memory Care Assisted Living community is built on more than 20 years’ experience creating supportive environments for those living with memory loss.

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Creating positive partnerships the Artis way! welcome center: 1840 Massachusetts Avenue, 2nd Floor, Lexington, MA 02421 coming spring 2019: 430 Concord Avenue, Lexington, MA 02421 www.artisseniorliving.com An Equal Opportunity Employer-M/F/D/V Certification from the Executive Office of Elder Affairs is pending. About This Journal issue 3

The Friends of the Lexington Council on Aging Editorial Board are happy to sponsor this third edition of Mimi Aarens lexington LifeTimes: a creative arts journal. Cristina Burwell This twice-annual publication, which showcases Nancy Hubert the creative talents of seniors who live or work in Pamela Marshall Lexington, was started in 2017 based on a Bright Pamela Moriarty Ideas grant proposal from Lexington author Mimi Cammy Thomas Aarens. The Journal is overseen by a volunteer Kiran Verma

editorial board which sets the criteria for submission Copy Editors and selects entries for inclusion. Distribution is Pamela Moriarty primarily electronic with a limited number of Cammy Thomas printed copies available. Starting with the Summer 2018 edition, the Managing Editor & Journal has gratefully received underwriting support Designer from local businesses, recognized on the front and Kerry Brandin back covers. The Friends can extend this opportunity Friends of the to others wishing to express their care for and about Council on Aging Lexington seniors. If you would like to become a Liaisons Journal underwriter, please contact the Friends by Janice Kennedy sending an email to [email protected] Jane Trudeau or by mail to: Suzanne Caton Lexington Friends of the Council on Aging P.O. Box 344 Printing Lexington, MA 02420 LPS Print Center If you are interested in having your creative work considered for a future edition, please see the submission guidelines on the Friends of the Lexington Council on Aging website: On the Cover www.friendsofthecoa.org by Hayg Boyadjian front: Nine back: Time Beast

winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 1 Table of Contents

3 18 Winnowing Ironing Man by James Baldwin by Nancy Kouchouk

6 19 Helpless Colors of My Messiah by Irene Hannigan by Christin Milgroom Worcester

7 21 Leaving Home Lost and Found by Don Yansen by John R. Ehrenfeld Illustration by Lynne Yansen

10 22 Lunch Lessons #METOOSWEET16 by Geraldine Foley by Barbara Dickenson Simpson Illustration by Linos Dounias

12 24 What Are Words Worth? Back to Torretta by Robert Isenberg by Sgt. Dan H. Fenn, Jr., 767th Squadron

13 28 Breathing Ming and Me by Victoria Buckley by Rebecca Baker Morris

14 31 Watercolor Gallery: Picture This Contributors by Maureen Bovet, Lynne Yansen, Mardy Rawls & Joanne Borstell

2 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Winnowing by James Baldwin My dear, sweet 59-year-old soul mate wife a cozy condo. We are at the “winnowing” has suddenly emerged from the basement, stage. Winnowing is not that easy. It makes rivulets of tears trickling from both eyes. Try- us adventurers in a jungle of family memo- ing to talk while she cries, she struggles to rabilia, discovering and recovering ancient get the words out. “I—need you—to help clippings, trophies, baseball cards, letters, me with this—decision.” meaningful T-shirts, photographs (oh there My initial reaction is surprise and concern. are endless photographs) and now, today, There are, after all, lots of tears. But then the stuffed animals. I smile both inside and out because in her Had we considered it in advance, we prob- arms she is clutching five stuffed animals. ably would have expected to be emotionally Each of the five has a name. ambushed somewhere on this adventure, The largest is a tiger, Elaine, but the power of a rediscovered letter home, named in honor of one of the a photo of the two older boys holding their several older sisters who be- little brother and now the stuffed animals stowed the beast on my wife. is still shocking, somehow debilitating yet There is a skunk named Louel- exhilarating at the same time, and bitter- la, a panda named, sweet. It seems that time of course, Teddy. has passed not Piglet is there, too. just way too The quintet is com- fast. It seems pleted by a small to have utterly baby duck known to disappeared. my wife as Laurie’s And now Duck. Laurie is the stuffed another of animals. my wife’s They aren’t older sis- my stuffed ani- ters who mals. They are my had, for wife’s. She’s discovered reasons unknown, abandoned the crea- them in the bottom (naturally) of a trunk, ture many years ago. My wife, being my wife, under the eaves in a remote corner of the at- naturally adopted the orphan and has loved tic. While she is, in fact, the one who packed it ever since, despite its unromantic but his- them originally (and how many times now torically accurate name. since she was, what, 12 years old?) she was And now she arrives in the kitchen in rath- still caught off guard, her emotional detec- er desperate straits with this entourage of tors at parade rest when Elaine and friends ragamuffins. suddenly appeared bringing with them the Recent empty nesters, we are now mov- power of countless sweet and innocent ing out of our family home of 15 years into memories. winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 3 Totally surprised, she was overcome by she needs me to do what good mates do in their sudden appearance at a time when we these circumstances. Help her come to a dif- are supposed to be winnowing. Countless ficult decision. times in the last few weeks she has been the Initially, I have to admit to chuckling at the strong one, rhetorically asking me, “when is scene. Her tears and emotion seem dispro- the last time you used that?” as I clutch one portionate to the downright forlorn and rag- of somebody’s old lacrosse sticks. The words tag group of animals her arms encircle. My of some wise but emotionless person ring in years of experience save me though, and I my mind. “When in doubt, throw it out.” recognize that I’m on the border of danger- But these…these are the stuffed animals. ous territory, a territory with which most Every morning, for years, they were carefully, husbands are quite familiar, and risk being comfortably arranged on their bed. Clearly, disrespectful of her feelings. This is not rec- they are not lacrosse sticks or soccer balls. ommended. They are something else entirely. Catching myself, I search for the words Yes. They are now several shades of grey that might calm her and provide the wisdom darker than in their youth. Most of the furry she’s looking for. This, too, is a mistake. She parts have coalesced into various little balls has a gene that allows her to see through scattered about their worn cloth skin. Elaine any manipulation. No, she will demand to the tiger came with two piercing, metallic hear what I really think, what I would do, not blue green eyes (somewhat like her donor). what I think she wants to hear. Once mesmerizing they are now a dull plastic So I proceed with care. I explain that I green. Their dilapidated condition, though, know what those animals once meant to her, matters not a whit to my wife. Their faces are not that they’ve lost any meaning over the as lovable as ever. These were her “friends,” years, mind you. I venture that we’re enter- her confidants. They were loyal and true. ing a new phase of our mutual lives together They were sources of solace. They were de- and that this is the perfect time to move on pendable. They were always there for her. and leave things like this behind in a literal And now, faced with this painful decision sense, although I acknowledge they will al- she is paralyzed. It is a moment when I see ways be with her in spirit. I say these things several of the sides of my wife. There is, as with as much calm as I can muster, but hon- always in times like these, the practical side. estly am not so sure of them myself. Will I, We won’t have much space in the new house. for example, be able to discard my son’s first If we don’t exercise some good judgment baseball glove? I am not so sure. and discipline in the winnowing process, Then I watch with great interest and, ad- we’ll be out of storage space in short order. mittedly, some trepidation as my wife’s prac- And these are scruffy old stuffed animals, tical and emotional selves grapple with com- for goodness sake. “I haven’t even looked at promise. Through her tears she reasons. them since we moved in here 15 years ago,” “Well, I—can’t just throw them—away,” the practical wife reasons through the tears. she stammers and the very thought of that Seconds later the years of love and friend- brings more tears. Then she arrives at the ship overwhelm her reason, and she stam- compromise. “I need to help them find a mers that she knows she has to toss them. new home,” she decides. But that reality is a bit too much to bear, and With that she marches outside to the

4 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 curb, Elaine et al in hand, where we have left flow freely just as all the memories do, rec- an array of other items also looking for new ognizing the age of innocence gone by in a homes: bookshelves, desks, bins of toys, flash. the remains of thirty years of family life that Now I’m operating purely on emotion. seem to disappear magically once deposited There is only one thing to do. I quickly but at the curbside. tenderly gather up Piglet, Elaine, Teddy, At this point I lose track of this drama as Louella and Laurie’s Duck. They do not need I focus on the next box to pack. I don’t re- a new home. They have one, and so it shall alize that my wife has reentered the house remain. And I have to confess, the feeling of and resumed her winnowing tasks. Not hav- them in my arms really helps. I am doing the ing seen her for what seems like a long time, right thing. I go outside to check, and she’s nowhere to Much as my wife started this drama, I en- be found. I imagine the worst. I envision her, ter the house with my arms full of stuffed despondent, wandering the neighborhood animals, my eyes full of tears. I am both trying to cope with her grief. surprised and relieved to hear her footfalls I get to the curbside to a touching scene. echoing in the now vacant kids’ bedrooms Each of the five animals has been carefully upstairs. She isn’t sadly pacing through the placed. Elaine on a bookshelf. Louella perched neighborhood after all. lovingly on the edge of the toy bin. Each one I call to her and ask her to come to the looking outward at their hoped for rescuers. top of the stairs where she peers down and But each one quite—alone. I can only con- sees me laden with her friends. The woman jure that my wife has assumed that one per- I love bursts out laughing at the sight. She, son who would take the whole lot of them of course, had departed from her place of is very unlikely. So each one is adorable, but sadness. She had accepted that the universe quite alone, abandoned, plaintively search- would find them a new home, and it was ing and hoping to be rescued by a passerby, time to move on, but she hadn’t taken me someone who may have more sympathy for with her to that place. Didn’t even realize their plight and appreciation for the pure she had to. unconditional love that only a stuffed animal Smiling, she comes down the stairs and can bring. embraces all of us. Together we laugh at As I witness this scene, I think of my the poignant absurdity of it all. Together we wife walking off her sadness as she trudges place each of them, Piglet, Elaine, Teddy, through the neighborhood. Louella and Laurie’s Duck, snuggled close to Then my eyes settle on those of Laurie’s each other, in the corner of the living room Duck, and it hits me. The animals unleash all couch. We assure them that they will be the memories for me as well. All the Little moving with us. League games. The backyard games of catch. We take iPhone photos of the group to The games of h-o-r-s-e at the basket in the keep for posterity, and to remember this driveway. The stories. The love. They all crazy moment. come cascading down on me, and I, too, am Perhaps only they know that there will be ambushed. Standing there at the curbside another trunk in another remote corner of before an audience of five stuffed animals, I the attic in the cozy new condo. ♦ am amazed and powerless as my own tears winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 5 Helpless

by Irene Hannigan

Only a lamppost remains at the street’s edge where the white Cape with black shutters and red door has been for generations.

Every single maple and pine— chopped, hacked, severed, split, enlarging the parcel of land that was big enough for so long for so many.

The backhoe’s jaws crunch the shingles, bash in the windows, crumble the foundation, devour the bricks of the latest victim as I wait for the epidemic to spread to the house across the street from mine that is FOR SALE.

6 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Leaving Home by Don Yansen I left home September 5th, 1959, deter- teens, lots of girls my age—and the real me. mined never to return. Five years earlier, my Outwardly, I went through the daily motions father moved our family of five, without ask- of life on the farm like a robot—a dreaming ing, from suburban Seattle to a small island robot. five miles from the Canadian border. The In the Fall of ‘58, I applied to MIT and to island had 50 fulltime residents and three my joy, and my father’s amazement, they children in the one-room schoolhouse. accepted me. From the moment of my ac- Our new home was a dilapidated, un- ceptance, I was simultaneously petrified and heated farmhouse built by subsistence impossibly overconfident. One moment I homesteaders in would be fantasiz- 1895. There was ing about stepping no running water up to the podium or indoor plumb- in Sweden and ac- ing—no tv, a hand cepting my prize in cranked phone on physics, the next, a 20 party line and I pictured flunking a two-seat out- all my classes and house down the going back to the hill a ways. The farm—a truly hor- house came with rifying thought. 200 acres of forest and poor, rocky, farm I imagined Boston teeming with people, land. Everything needed fixing, 5 miles of yes!—even Jewish people—I wondered if falling down fences, collapsing hay barns, they looked different. I couldn’t wait! the homestead itself. Finally, the day came to leave. On the drive Initially, it was exciting for a boy like me, with my parents from our farm to the ferry living the rural farm life—felling trees, chop- dock (about 3 miles), three things circled my ping fire wood, driving tractors, pickup mind: I was never coming back, I would be- trucks, hunting and fishing year round—but come a great physicist and finally, I hoped I by my mid-teens the “Little House on the could figure out how to get girls to take their Prairie” had turned into my nightmare. clothes off. At that point, I knew more about I was lonely. There were no other teens. cattle than teenage girls. With a father whose parenting style was Beneath those thoughts, though, an omi- “my way or the highway” and an evangelical nous voice whispered, “You can’t manage Christian mother, immense, unspoken frus- your life away from the farm.” That voice, tration brewed. I felt imprisoned. unfortunately, was never far away. By 16, I was obsessed with getting as far Arriving in Boston at dusk, I was let out of from the farm as possible, but was afraid to my cab from the airport in Kendall Square. tell anyone. I began living two lives: a secret, The air was nauseating with the smell of soap silent life—one filled with interesting people, and chocolate. It was, also, deserted—my

winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 7 heart sank. I walked over to the back of MIT seemed genuinely puzzled by my situation. and was met with old wooden army build- He looked at me for a few seconds, then ings from WWII. I was shocked. This was advised me to “read the book.” I cringed, nothing like the University Bulletin! It sud- thanked him, and left. Walking back to my denly hit me, I knew no one, this place was room, visions of being sent back to the farm old and ugly and I was probably not smart flashed in my mind. “No!” I screamed to enough anyway. “I can’t do this” rang inside myself. “Hell or High Water, I will learn this my head. I wanted to turn around, but all I stuff.” had was a one way ticket and not much mon- I survived. I didn’t grow to love my college, ey. I had to stay. but I really loved my new home, Boston, and The next morning I walked to Back Bay and the people that came to live here. I realized instantly fell in love with Boston. Thousands most people have their “farm” or “calculus.” of students and young people were mov- Though I moved 3000 miles away, parts of ing into apartments, dorms and fraternities. the farm, my parents, are still with me. In Back Bay, girls were everywhere. Boston Last summer I took my two oldest looked like nirvana. grandsons on a hike I often did when, as a My first class was, oddly enough, Humani- teen, I needed some alone time. It was a ties. I was characteristically overconfident mile or so of bushwhacking west from the for no reason. I came into the class with a farm through primeval forest. new friend from Chicago. As we entered our We walked under huge Douglas firs, over row in the middle, three boys rushed past sunny knolls covered with 6-inch thick moss, us to grab seats right in front of the Instruc- following deer trails everywhere—no roads, tor. From the moment the instructor started no houses, no power lines. speaking until class was dismissed, those I told them stories of life on the farm when boys wrestled verbally to demonstrate that I was their age—the once a week baths in each one knew more than anyone in the sheep watering tubs, the whole family in class, including the instructor. one big bed one night during a fierce winter They tore apart accepted ideas, proposed storm, nights of hearts and charades often new theories, and constantly challenged the by candle light, shooting my first deer. instructor. I soon learned they were from The woods were just as I had left them 60 the Bronx High School of Science—what was years ago. that? I was aghast—how had they learned so Like a wild bird suddenly freed from much? More worrisome was—how could I learn enough to even talk with them? Al- a cage so small that it could not ready shy about asking questions, now I was open its wings, I flopped along the petrified to even open my mouth. If I did, it would be clear to everyone—I was essential- ground, finally rising haltingly into ly illiterate. the unknown, powered by dreams of I also had trouble, initially, with calculus. Panicked about flunking such a core course great heights and far distances. at mid-term, I went to my faculty advisor in the Math department, Prof. Abramson. He ♦

8 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Lynne Yansen Acrylic on canvas board Old Hay Barn 12” x 16”

winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 9 Lunch Lessons by Geraldine Foley Illustration by Linos Dounias

Should there be a prearranged agreement her teacher-husband home from school as as to who will explain the facts of life to the it was time to collect her for the impend- children? Maybe a sentence or two in the ing event. They would drop their 5-year-old prenup setting forth whether it falls to the daughter off with us enroute to the hospital. mother to tell the girls, and the father to tell The husband would come for her after the the boys, for instance. Or I suppose, there’s birth. It all went smoothly, and as planned. always putting a plan in place to move to a Within the week we got together and met working farm so that it could all take care of the new little one. My sons did not appear itself. very captivated with this rather inert little It’s just that it is all so awkward. creature who had just joined the play group. In my own instance the issue was some- They looked, asked her name, and then went thing I hadn’t even contemplated. As the swiftly on with their busy lives. mother of two sons, I was blindsided. However, it seems they were not as non- I suppose it all started because a pregnant plussed as it first appeared. This became friend had asked if her oldest could stay the evident when about a week after that, the day with us when it came time for her to question came: “So where do babies come deliver. The families had often visited back from anyway?” I was gobsmacked. and forth and our children were well used to My sons were 3½ and 5 at the time and each other. sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for their On the randomly appointed day, I got the lunch. Astoundingly, it was the youngest son call from the mother that she had summoned who was making the inquiry. The older one

10 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 looked at him admiringly, then looked to me. That shut him up and they both skulked out And so it would go as the eldest remained of the kitchen and away from their agitated speechless, as if he were watching a very in- mother. I was drained. I couldn’t be expected teresting tennis match, while the younger to paint a complete picture all in one sitting, one did all the heavy lifting with a ceaseless could I? They were of such tender ages. They volley of questions, one right after the other, would have to fill in the details with their fa- trying to get to the bottom of it all. ther at some later date, I determined. They I was at the kitchen counter, my back to- didn’t need any further information from me wards them, making sandwiches, multiple any time soon, in my estimation. sandwiches! I pretty much stayed in that Several weeks after that, we were driving mode until the counter was full of them. I into Boston, to meet up with their father, was wondering if I could start stacking them who would then relay them home. I remem- up in the refrigerator. The idea of eye contact ber it still, exactly where we were (the street throughout this line of questioning seemed next to the Museum of Fine Arts), but most more than I was capable of. It was all too especially, I recall the sound of the sigh that much too soon. And I was furious that it was heaved out from the depths of the small falling to me to be the sole respondent. Why, boy’s being. I knew it was serious, maybe ur- for the love of Mike, couldn’t they address gent. their concerns to himself? No, the explana- I immediately pulled over, turned off the tion of the origins of life was landing com- car, turned around, and asked, with undivid- pletely in my lap and I was practically a kid ed attention: “Darlin’, what is it?” myself. I gave it my best shot, blithering on With a pause and another pent up exhala- about the eggs and the sperm and how they tion, the tortured little one said: “I just will all got together and grew into a baby, in the never be a daddy when I grow up.” mommy’s stomach, for 9 months. So there “What do you mean you won’t be a dad- you have it. dy?” I said, flabbergasted. The child couldn’t quite wrap his head “Well, nobody will tell me how to do it,” he around the dynamics and unrelenting follow said soulfully. up clarification was persistently sought. So I “Alright,” I said, pausing to collect my cour- went for a book. It was kind of a children’s age, “the daddies put the sperm in with their book I had put aside for when the day came. . . penis.” The two boys gave out an almighty But, alas, the day had come, years ahead of shriek, as if someone was being ax murdered. my expectations. I flipped through the book Given the customary use of their personal with chickens and cows and puppies, with equipment, I announced: “It is impossible to all their respective paraphernalia. Words like go to the bathroom at the same time.” “uterus” and the “birth canal” were bandied The screaming stopped. . . the dismay too, about. They studied the pictures and consid- I gather, as mercifully there was never an- ered the words, and still were not quite get- other question on the subject after that.— ting the hang of it. “But how do the sperm get And by the way, the interrogator is now the in?” the small man demanded to know. Ex- father of three. ♦ asperated, I exclaimed: “For god’s sake they get in the same way it all gets out, through the birth canal . . . now finish your lunch!” winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 11 What Are Words Worth? by Robert Isenberg A while ago I wrote a piece suggesting that word said is very boring. Ms Shelton seems the word so may look small, but it was defi- to be saying said is oversaid! nitely a bully. I also said that so is an obnox- I can imagine said’s reaction after it read ious braggart. I explained what so had done this book. I’m sure said would have said to the word very. something like, “After all the times you peo- For many years when accepting a favor or ple have used me, it finally comes to this? a gift, most people would say, “Thank you I guess you’ll finally be happy when it’s all very much.” So being so set its sights on very. been said and done.” Now people say, “Thank you so much.” This writer doesn’t stop with said. She When so applied for this job it showed off wants the reader to be roused. For instance, by saying, “Look what I can do that very can’t she cites an example, “He backed away from do!’ So took a deep breath, exhaled and tiny the growling dog.” so became sooooooooo. Her point is this is a very boring sentence. So grinned and offered, “I can be as large Leilen’s suggestion is, “Slowly and carefully, as you want me to be. It depends on the size he backed away from the dog.” My sugges- of the favor or the gift you’ve received.” tion is that he ran like hell from the growl- Now very is sitting on the sidelines practic- ing dog. Having had some experiences with ing deep breathing. growling dogs, the last thing I want to do is I cannot tell you how many letters I re- move slowly. When dogs growl, I don’t worry ceived from fans of both very and so. Fans about being boring. for so were upset that I had implied so had This author even takes umbrage with the been a blowhard in order to get the job. word boring. In no uncertain terms, she ar- Very fans were just very upset. gues that the word boring is boring. How One letter read: “I read your column re- can the word boring, which is so devastating, garding very and so. I was FURIOUS! I’ve be boring? What is worse than being called been using the phrase thank you very much boring? Trust me, lady, in the world of name- all my life and I’m not about to change now!” calling, there are very few substitutes for the Signed, So What. word boring. Another letter: Dear Mr. Robear, “Don’t In the article about so, I also wrote about you think there is enough competition in the yet. I mentioned that few people were able world? You didn’t have to pin very against so to define yet. I’m truly grateful for the hun- to make your point. This letter was signed, dreds of letters I received defining yet. Or Mr. I. Rate. should I say trying to define yet. Someone just wrote, “Soooooo very Yet’s biggest complaint is being misunder- troubled!!!” stood. It seems someone has dared to take on I received a letter, “So is the definition of an even more inflammatory subject. I just yet ‘up until now’ or ‘at this time’? discovered a book asking to Banish Boring They signed off, “I’ll advise, but not yet.”♦ Words! by Leilen Shelton. This piece says the

12 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Breathing

by Victoria Buckley It is another day, The air outside is thick and muggy; Another 5:30 in the morning. The dawn light is dusky with smog. The machines breathe There is no noise, no wind. Wheezy like an old accordion. I pause, tipping my head back, The green and red lines jerk Leaning hard on my crutches. Across the screen, I glare up at the gray-gold sky. Demanding attention. I yell, my voice angry and breaking, “I need a miracle!” His hand in mine is cold and dry, I hear light footsteps behind me. A large bald man lying still, I peer through tear-stained contact lenses His stomach a big snowdrift under the sheet. And see a slight woman with kind eyes I hear the sheet rustle like dried leaves. Framed by long brown hair. He cannot speak or see from so far away. I do not know her, I wish he would return. Yet she gently embraces me, His hand squeezes mine; Strong thin arms in a sleeveless dress. “Reflex only” they say but I know better. And she says, “Let’s pray.” I squeeze back matching the wheezing We are alone together on this high hill machine. In the city still asleep at dawn. We stay connected. I say, “Heavenly Father, come here There are five tubes in and three out. And be with him, bring him healing Now he twists around in bed, power.” Restless movements going nowhere. She prays, “Lord, have mercy and draw The beeping machine gets agitated too. near.” I lean closer, and whisper to him, We hug each other. “The Holy Spirit is entering you now, Am I leaning too hard? Let it heal you and do not fight it.” I drive to work. He quiets and the sheet is still again. There, the phone light is blinking red— There is a message— No more bad news please— Hold your breath— Push 2 for messages—push 0 to listen— “It is amazing— He is breathing on his own now.” I breathe out— Have I been holding my breath for days?

winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 13 watercolor gallery Picture This

Maureen Bovet Watercolor English Robin 10” x 7”

14 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Lynne Yansen Ink with Watercolor Wash Three Pots On Window Sill 12” x 15”

winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 15 Mardy Rawls Watercolor The Chiesa Farm on Adams Street 22” x 28”

Mardy Rawls Watercolor The Morehouse’s House on Vinal Haven Island 22” x 28”

16 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Joanne Borstell Watercolor and ink St. Brigid’s Church, Lexington 18” x 24”

Joanne Borstell Watercolor and ink Sacred Heart Church, Lexington 18” x 24”

winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 17 Ironing Man

by Nancy Kouchouk

His bent posture framed “I must buy tangerines!” by the doorway, he sweeps he says, searching his desert’s dust from his pockets for coins. one room shop. He hesitates mid-step. The ironing man labors Chickens cluck their disapproval underfoot. over cloth, pressing at seams. His frayed gallabiya sways Minaret calls. to the clip-clop of hooves, He closes louvered doors, flute man’s trills, and walks towards the mosque greetings of the day. fingering his amber beads. Hand poised mid-air, he glimpses the floral fabric of a nubile girl. He grips rag around iron’s hot handle on its way back down to work. Iron meets wet cloth with a hiss. A bed of red coals flickers in the half light. He folds warm linen with a smile. He sees her again: delicate ankles, same floral dress. She stands at the fruit seller across the narrow street.

18 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Colors of My Messiah by Christin Milgroom Worcester When confirmed in December 1963, by the isn’t enough, so I pull the coat onto my lap. first black Episcopal bishop, I become I’m too cold. I tuck the coat behind an official member of my church. I me and refill the sleeves. Adjust- receive a white communion ing my hat, I worry my hair will wafer and sip red wine from “muss” before the coffee hour a golden chalice held by the following the ceremony. Right Reverend Burgess. Ceremony… Hmmm. If I’m Why he is “right” and my ready for this honor, I’d priest, Reverend Foley, only be listening not fidgeting. “reverend” is a mystery to Without moving, I peek at me. At eleven, I assume be- my mother. She glares with ing the “Suffragan Bishop eyes that say, “Sit. Still.” I of Massachusetts” makes know fidgeting doesn’t fit Burgess more correct. this grown-up passage into With damp hands I hold the church community. my new, red leather prayer After receiving my book on my knees. A cross prayer book at Confirma- and my name are em- tion four months ago, I bossed in gold. With a cu- decide to become a “faith- rious fingertip, I trace the ful servant” to God. That letters CHRISTIN LEE MIL- proves impossible. I con- GROOM and grin. My par- tinue to shift and squirm. ents call me Christin only I easily avoid Mom’s wrath when there’s trouble. My by appearing to follow attention, like my moving along in my book. My fingertip, slides up, down quiet gasp and sideways and across as I try focusing glance assure me she’s on Bishop Burgess’s drone. too busy praying to notice It’s a mosquito buzzing two cards fall to my lap. during the wrong season. The Duty of the Commu- Raised seams on my nicant card reads, “Strive white cotton gloves fight earnestly to follow Je- embossing for atten- sus Christ as Lord and tion. Distraction shifts to Savior by patterning his my ever-fidgeting body. daily habits…” This card I’m too hot. I free arms doesn’t use her, so I de- from sleeves and slide cide it is only for boys. I’m my coat onto shoulders as I’ve watched my relieved. I’m challenged enough by parental mother do. Soon, this grown-up gesture expectations. My focus wanders away after winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 19 reading phrases like, “Apostolic Rite of Lay- by cross-carrying, taper-bearing acolytes. ing on of Hands. . .” Choir members in matching cassocks follow. Each Sunday since Confirmation, I search Backs against wooden pews, heads slightly for comfort on the wooden pew, and stare bowed, and eyes gazing upward at the gold- ahead at the stained-glass pieces of Jesus, en cross atop the altar, girls worship. This the Good Shepherd, for whom my church pageantry fills my Sundays for a decade. in Waban is named. Once my mind joins my Shortly after my Confirmation, Father Fol- eyes fixing on colors streaming in with the ey transfers, and we leave Good Shepherd. morning sunlight, I feel calm… for a moment. Dad stops singing, brothers stop serving, The weekly sitting, standing, and kneel- Mom takes us to Church of the Messiah. Go- ing are habitual, so I appear to be dutifully, ing from shepherd to messiah seems a move piously engaged as lips mouth memorized in the right direction. Unfortunately, Father words. Years of sitting quietly between fidg- Mike’s too casual and, surprisingly, I think I eted minutes in hour-long services fill my miss incense and bells. So, I refuse to attend head with word placement on the prayer services. My precocious rebellion rises at book page. By these words and movements age twelve in February 1964. that crowd me every week, I track the time “Practicing religion is important to our left before bell ringing, incense burning, and family, Chrissy. We’ll have to find a way. You hymn singing will end. belong to the church and it’s what we do.” Knowing my four brothers are more un- “Nope. Father Mike isn’t even ‘almost comfortable than I in their wool pants and right’ like Father Foley!” button-down collars provides little solace. Mom has a plan. The first of many conces- Watching my oldest brother, Freddy, pinch sions to me follows. On Wednesday after- Wally who is pulling at the tie squeezing his noons, she drives me to Messiah. I spend one neck entertains me. He often forgets the hour in the deserted sanctuary. No sounds. “over, under and around the tree” formula No words. All I hear are my thoughts as they for knotting his tie. Michael dutifully enter- shift into feelings. Solitude sparks an under- tains my youngest brother, Carson. standing that religious ritual isn’t spirituality. Pinching thighs, shifting bottoms, and sti- I don’t need church to feel peace reach into fling giggles doesn’t contribute to an uplift- my soul. Temperature’s perfect. No brothers ing, holy experience. But, we are a family in poke or pinch. Being gloveless and hatless church. My mother “dresses” the altar dur- is the key. This feeling needs no incense or ing women’s guild. My Jewish father sings bells. tenor in our choir. Eventually, my brothers The wonder of colorful windows around will assist the priest as gowned acolytes. the sanctuary fills my mind. Mesmerized by Girls smile in stiff dresses, matching hats, the afternoon light’s dance through the glass, and white gloves. We don’t serve the con- I embrace the rainbowed walls as symbols gregation anything but coffee. Once the of God’s presence. I kneel. My heart feels organ playing begins, the only women prayer; I no longer recite what’s in my mind. allowed near the altar are in the choir. Mom touches my shoulder as Wednesday Wearing elaborately embroidered vest- church ends. My smile greets hers as I stand. ments dictated by the church calendar, Fa- Although creaking, my knees don’t mind… ♦ ther Foley processes down the aisle flanked

20 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Lost and Found

by John R. Ehrenfeld

The Kolin Torah moves toward the Bimah, Its story once more being told. Torn from its home in Czechoslovakia By Nazi soldiers passing through the town, Tossed in a pile of exotic artifacts From other Temples throughout Europe, No more than a relic of a people lost— A symbol of the Glory of the Reich— To be ungraciously put on display in A Museum—never-to-be-built— Nor were the false dreams of the horde That stripped it from its rightful home.

Found by a miracle, after the closing of the war, Too old and worn to share the comfort Of the other Torahs in the sacred Ark, It rests, in its own display case, in safe repose. The Torah comes alive once more each year, Moving down the aisles, touched and kissed, On its way to bare its ancient words That remind us of our place in time. It asks us to remember how we lived this year, And hands us words to guide us through the next. It offers us a choice to live or die, not literally, But in the kind of person we will be.

It shouts to us its story: “I have died,” it says, “And so have those who heard the words That rose from my parchment body to their ears.” Lost, not at the hands of the Great Decider, Who sits in judgment on this Day of Days. But by those of men who thought they Were Better Than All the Others. Their mistake might just be the error That Yom Kippur exhorts us not to make. In its lonely Torah coils, I find the strength I need to face the challenge of a world Where Lost and Found do alternate too much. winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 21 #METOOSWEET16 by Barbara Dickenson Simpson It was a crisp late autumn afternoon the Suddenly I fully comprehended what a ridic- week before Thanksgiving in Carnegie, Penn- ulous idea it was to think his wife would in sylvania, a small borough of Pittsburgh. I was any way be able to do anything. Why would returning from an afternoon of holiday shop- she even care? ping downtown. All day Sunday I found myself distracted by I was walking up our 300-foot driveway a growing anger I was experiencing for the and just arrived at the front of the three-story first time. Why, I began to question, does this ornate Victorian when the ground floor man feel so entitled to do this, to force him- tenant, Hank, a 30-something stockbroker, self on me? Maybe entitled wasn’t the right stepped from behind a huge old oak. word. Safe. He knew nothing unpleasant was “Look at my cock, Barbara. I got it hard just going to happen to him. He had touched me for you.” once—molested was the technical term— I’d seen Hank’s penis once and made the Summer I was 12, my first visit with my sure never to look again. I just kept my gaze aunt. But it had happened only that once straight and ignored him, my strategy for the because I made sure never to be alone with past four years. I went up to my Aunt Louise’s him and within his arm’s reach again. attic apartment where I had been living with But it was my powerlessness to avoid him her for the past year, since August 1967. that was at the crux of my despair. The lay- Louise was reading, her main activity every out of the house was such that there was day. Her slope-ceilinged garret contained 12 only one entrance to the second floor apart- bookcases each with dozens of hard-bound ment occupied by aged Mrs. Daly, and our tomes which comprised the most eclectic li- attic. Hank’s first-floor bathroom window brary I’ve ever encountered. was directly beside it and he stood naked “Hank just did it again, Louise,” I an- behind the huge double-hung window and nounced, as I set my four shopping bags on tapped on the glass every morning when I the sofa to unpack. left for school. He simply listened for my No response. “Are you going to do any- footsteps as I descended the stairs. Then, as thing, Louise? Talk to Connie?” No response. I passed the front door on my walk down the “Alright, Louise. I’m on my own then?” I driveway, I’d hear more insistent rapping and thought to myself. Why wouldn’t she say his calling, “Barbara? Barbara?” Every morn- anything to his wife? She knew I wasn’t ly- ing since September 6, 1967. If I went by the ing. Her own sister had told her last summer back door he just showed up there. of Hank’s exposing himself to her for the past Meanwhile, Dick, my elder brother by three three years. Yet Louise remained silent. years, was severely mentally ill with paranoid Then a moment’s AHA! But WHAT could schizophrenia. After he violently destroyed she do? Perhaps my aunt’s lack of action was our small suburban tract house in Spring- rooted less in a lack of will to protect me field, VA, a growing city 15 miles south of than in sheer lack of information as to how to D. C., I went to my school guidance counsel- get a man to stop engaging in that behavior. or and asked what I could do to be safe. My

22 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 parents were struggling to run their fledg- As I sat on my bed and wound the key on ing small hardware contracting business and the back of my clock I saw myself walking up deal with the complexities of a son whose ill- the steps of the Carnegie Police Department. ness was a source of deep confusion, pain Then I lay my head down and went to sleep. and shame. I was simply overlooked. The next morning I sat in front of Police Years later my father would explain to Chief Bernier describing the above situation. my utter astonishment that both he and my I looked him straight in the eye and I used the mother thought I was unaware on the whole word penis. He sat returning into my eyes my that anything was seriously wrong with my intent stare. He asked me a few questions— brother. Dad died never He was always home when knowing that beginning at I left for school at 7:45am? the age of seven my brother His full name, age, any other periodically subjected me to incidents of a sexual nature? scenes of torture, maiming I knew I’d I gave him five quick thumb- and killing of small domestic nail sketches of exhibition- and wild animals. I wanted have to deal istic encounters. The Chief out of that home in Virgin- said, “I’ll pick you up tomor- ia. Thankfully, the guidance row and take you to school counselor suggested I ask with Hank, in my cruiser. I’ll meet you at my maiden aunt, the 7th the entrance to your aunt’s and 8th grade history teach- apartment.” er for the past 18 years in but then It took a moment for his the Carnegie school system, words to register. He was if I might live with her. what choice coming to the house! Tears I presented my case to my came unbidden but I turned parents and Louise. None away quickly. What was of them could deny the re- did I have? wrong with me? ality of Dick’s house trash- As we walked around ings and my obvious knowl- the house, the Chief took edge of them. Finding the notes and pointed broad- living room TV set kicked in and seeing my ly to each entrance. We were staring art supplies smeared angrily on my bedroom into the huge glass cube that formed the walls, my parents finally admitted perhaps I walls of the kitchen when Hank strolled in shouldn’t be there in Virginia, a latch-key kid wearing only his boxer shorts. He almost with a brother prone to escaping from what- laughingly did a double take then bolted from ever mental health facility he was in. the room. Hank never bothered me again. I knew I’d have to deal with Hank, but then Fifty years later I now do what I didn’t what choice did I have? After a weekend’s do then: I report the news of a resourceful considerations my father gave his consent resilient young girl who figured out how she and by the next Sunday I was a Pennsylvania could procure a bit of peace for herself. ♦ resident. The next Wednesday, my first day at school, I became a registered sophomore at Carnegie High School. winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 23 Back to Torretta by Sgt. Dan H. Fenn, Jr., Administrative and Technical Clerk, 767th Squadron

Several years ago, my late partner and I certain, that I told her about how and why I were studying a pile of brochures advertis- found myself on that erstwhile farm in south- ing various cruises. We quickly put aside the eastern Italy about sixty-five years earlier. floating hotels which did not interest us at For me, it started back in Kearns, Utah after all and concentrated on smaller sailing ships. several military schools, when the adjutant One promoted a trip to Northern Italy, from of the 767th Bomb Squadron chose me and Rome to Naples. Obviously, I had seen most several others to join his squadron. Captain of that area during the war, but Patsy had Ray Wilcovitz, who later became a judge in never been to Italy and was very enthusiastic New York, was a slight, bright, spry man. I re- about the idea, so off we went. call particularly the time in Torretta when he Since the voyage ended in Naples, it oc- volunteered to be defense counsel in courts curred to me that it would be fun to take an martial. His acquittal rate was so high that extra day and go back to Cerignola and to he quickly was shifted to be the prosecuting Torretta where I had spent nearly eighteen attorney! months as a sergeant in the orderly room As I told Patsy of my thoroughly undis- of the 767th Bomb Squadron, 461st Bomb tinguished wartime history, the memories Group. Patsy agreed, so we hired a driver came flooding back and all those comrades and headed east across Italy. from those days came out of the mists of On the drive I suspect, though I am not time. Our squadron CO was Major–later

24 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 General—James Knapp. We were somewhat around our living space came in very handy! anxious when he took over because he was Three weeks after we embarked, we moved a West Point graduate and we were afraid he past Gibraltar into the Med. At twilight I was would be really GI, which was not the culture on deck when suddenly our Marine detach- of our organization. We weren’t like MASH, ment rushed up in helmets and flak jackets but weren’t rigidly by the book, either. But, and started firing. We were under attack by though outwardly stern, he turned out to be bombers and, we thought, submarines. Since OK. But I’m getting ahead of myself. our ship was carrying ammunition, we were From Kearns, we went anxious. I was reading a to Wendover Field on the book by Walter Lippman, Nevada-Utah border, and the noted columnist and then to Hammer Field in pundit, about the post- Fresno, California. The war world as the explo- rumors kept circulating sions crashed around us that we were going to – until one of my com- get furloughs before we rades called my atten- went overseas – but of tion to the fact that I was course we never did. The holding it upside down. Army was rife with misin- Coolness under fire! formation! I well remem- After a week in the ber the Bamboo Room in Bay of Tunis waiting for Fresno when I met Tom a spot to disembark in Collins for the first time. Naples, we went across The next morning was a the Med to that beauti- disaster. And I recall call- ful harbor, dominated by ing home—Cambridge, a smoking Mount Vesu- Massachusett on Christ- vius, and got off on an mas Eve. How different upside-down vessel that communications were in had been partially sunk. those days—it took half Trucks transported us to an hour to establish the nearby Bagnoli where connection going pain- an abandoned school fully slowly through LA, Chicago, Boston to awaited us. No cots—body bags filled with reach my home and family. straw. One night there was a German air raid Then by troop train across the country to but we were too stupid to move to shelters Hampton Roads, Virginia and boarding the so we stayed in the school rooms which had Liberty Ship, the John Jay. Bunks stacked five been pretty well destroyed by earlier raids. high. Two very mediocre meals per day. To- Nearby was a hill called the Vomoro, as I tally buttoned down at night. Sailing in con- recall. At the top was a collection of beehive voy across the Atlantic. A wild storm off Cape ovens. I wrote home to my family that I had Hatterras which clobbered all those of our discovered this absolutely delicious Italian company who had never been at sea before food called “pizza.” No such thing existed in —those fifty-gallon cans strategically placed the US at that time. winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 25 Soon we were transported to a railyard and that Venosa was not fit for man nor beast loaded into railroad cars for a trip over the nor B-24s and back we went into the trucks mountains to our permanent base. It was, to move to Torretta. I explained to Patsy, early February 1944. As Patsy and I drove—were driven—from The Italian sun burned warm and bright. And Naples to Cerignola more than six decades then it got dark and we were up in the hills later, I had trouble recognizing the scenery. and it was freezing cold. We lit a little fire in A big wide highway had replaced the narrow the boxcar to help but the officers thought winding road I remembered. When we got this was not a good idea and made us extin- to Cerignola, though it had grown consider- guish it. ably, the cathedral, the plaza and other vistas When the sun came out the next day, it were unchanged. It was eerie to see it again was better but still pretty chilly. The train after all those years! stopped constantly. On one of those pauses, Since the driver had no way of knowing a cook whose name I think was Earl Clark, where Torretta was, he had arranged with had to answer a call of nature, so he got off the local police to guide us out there. Once, and squatted in a field. That picture still sits again, I saw little along the route that I rec- firmly in my mind. Suddenly the train started ognized and, when the police stopped their to go. As he was a very big man indeed, there cruiser and said: “Here is Torretta,” I really did was no way he could catch the moving train. not see anything familiar. When I mentioned Somehow, he did find us several days later. I that fact to the cops, they asked: “What do always wondered how he made it. you remember?” And I told them about the After thirty-six hours, in the middle of the Baron’s house which was group headquar- night, we disembarked—somewhere. Load- ters, the bull ring, the farmer’s quarters, the ed into trucks, we drove in the dark—but it olive grove. “Oh,” they said, and kept going a seemed to us that the truck drivers didn’t few hundred yards, around a corner, and sud- know exactly where they were going. We denly—there we were. Like Brigadoon. Just thought we could hear artillery fire, at which as I had left it that day in May 1945. (Captain point the drivers seemed to change direc- Wilcovitz had told me a month before that tion. But what did we know and, of course, there was an opening for a Warrant Officer nobody told us anything. in the Mediterranean Theatre and I should Finally, we were dumped off in the dark in take the exam. I studied ARs, took it, got the a field of mud and snow and a few tents. And highest score in the Theatre and got the ap- cold. Very cold. Literally bone chilling cold. pointment. The only question I remember And no hope or possibility of warmth. With was: “How many horses do you have at a what—candles? Kerosene lamps? No cots— Corporal’s funeral?” For some reason, I re- just the straw-filled body bags. But we did membered that one! Like who cares?) receive a pile of mail from home which had As I say, there miraculously, it all was. The accumulated during our month-long trip on building used for flight briefings and courts the SS John Jay. Thanks to Hughes Glantz- martial. The chapel across the ravine. The berg’s comprehensive and informative book storehouse we used for those horrible mov- Al Ataque, I now know it was a place called ies about “Why We Fight.” The chaplain’s Venosa. And I learned that General Glantz- office. The farm building we converted into berg (then Colonel), the Group CO decided an Enlisted Men’s club where, under the

26 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 watchful eye of Cpl. “Tulley” Thuleson we early thirties and that was pretty ancient to drank 3.2 beer and smoked cigars. The hill us in those days.) He was an especially im- where I sat alone when I heard that my grand- portant part of our circle because he had an mother had died. The cow barn we used as a unusual blood type. The Red Cross would mess hall, the remains of our squadron em- pay $25 for a pint of Pop’s blood – more than blem still visible on the walls. The flagpole enough to stake us all to a weekend of R&R on Group headquarters. The olive grove. in Naples. The volley ball court. The place where our Then I walked into the smaller room of tent stood, where six of us lived for all those what must have been the home of a farmer months, just longing to go home. Was it ever where the officers held sway. Col. Knapp, the wonderful when we got an electric light! And CO; Major Herald Bennett, the biology pro- a stove, fashioned from a 50-gallon German fessor from West Virginia, the Executive Of- drum cut in half with a notch cut out of the ficer; Captain Wilcovitz, the adjutant, who bottom to hold a shell casing which, in turn, scrounged fresh eggs and produce for our held the mixture of oil and gas dripping in mess until some higher authority made him from a jerry can outside. Fortunately, we had stop. I could see their familiar faces, hear no tent fire, but others did. In spectacular their voices once again as I surveyed those fashion! places which once they had occupied. Years It was in that tent that, early in our time later, Ed gave me the key to that orderly room at Torretta, Sergeant Howie, who had swiped which he had “liberated” when the squadron a parachute and traded it to the British an- left to go home, as Hughes has described in ti-aircraft group on the base for a bottle of his fine and useful book. scotch and a bottle of gin, had broken open I looked at the sky overhead, now peace- the scotch and we passed it around among ful in its lovely Italian blue, and remembered the six of us. It was so good, we decided to with pain how we on the ground would look go ahead with the gin. Big mistake. Inspec- up anxiously as the planes returned from a tion the next day. Oh, my! mission, counting the missing places in the When I walked into the orderly room, now formations. filled with bales of hay, the ghosts of my Empathetic as Patsy was, I doubt that friends and colleagues appeared. There was even she could comprehend the waves of the bespectacled Sgt. Howie. In the opposite emotion which I felt, being back in that so corner was the payroll expert, Sgt. Rice. Next familiar place, seeing and hearing once more door was the domain of Sgt. Geary, in charge those long-departed men who had so fully of supply with his assistant George Eaton. occupied that brief, encapsulated two-and- First Sgt. Fisher from Mahonoy City, PA. And a-half-year piece of my life. my dear friend, S/Sgt. Ed Latal from Chicago, And as we drove away from Torretta that whose family sent us the most delicious Pol- day, I thought I could hear once again the ish sausages which were heated or cooked voice of a GI disc jockey in Italy who called on our red-hot tent stove. Ed and I stayed in himself “The Great Spectacled Bird,” saying, touch until he died from a fall a year ago. as he always did at the end of his show, “Take And then there was “Old Pop” Payne who Care of Thee.” ♦ worked at Group Headquarters. (We called him “Old” and “Pop” because he was in his winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 27 Ming and Me by Rebecca Baker Morris It was hot in Massachusetts that July. I don’t attack two years ago. The doctors operated mean seventies hot or eighties hot. I mean on me for twelve hours. They said I was lucky nineties hot. Too hot to be outside in the to survive. I had to spend a whole year in middle of the day. Too hot to sit in the shade. rehabilitation.” He had a very soft voice and Too hot not to water my beloved flower his English was not clear. I strained to under- garden twice a day. stand him. “Ming, is watering okay for you Yes. Twice a day. Even so, the flowers and I to do?” I was worried. “Oh yes, it’s fine,” he wilted like a southern belle in the heat. said, “But I’m hoping for rain.” Mother Nature would not best me. I was I hoped for a lot of rain in Massachusetts escaping to a cooler Maine in the morning but, of course, not in Maine. even if I couldn’t find someone to water my When I returned from vacation, I pur- garden. I looked wistfully at pink peonies chased a gift card from Beijing, a local res- with yellow centers and white hydrangeas taurant in Lexington. I rang Ming’s doorbell laced with pink highlights: an array of pastel again. “I wanted to give you this for watering hues and sweet fragrance dazzled my brain. my garden.” Ming smiled. His eyes beamed My perennial hibiscus was counting on warmth and gratitude. No language barrier me. Six feet tall and four feet wide, it had tak- there. Ming was truly touched, but he said, en over the middle of my flower bed. It had “I can’t eat at Beijing. Most of their dishes huge dark purplish green leaves and looked contain soy sauce. Soy sauce is bad for my like it belonged in “The Little Shop of Hor- heart. However, when my two sons and their rors.” There would be flowers, though, enor- wives visit me next week, I’ll take them to mous white flowers with tints of purple and Beijing for dinner.” yellow the size of dinner plates when I re- He said something about lunch and lob- turned home, but only if they were watered. ster. I smiled back even though I didn’t quite Hmm, maybe I could ask my new upstairs understand what he had said. Did he invite neighbors. Asking for favors was something I me to lunch? I wasn’t sure. rarely did, let alone asking someone I didn’t Three weeks later, I was in the kitchen know. Desperation disguised as courage making a Greek salad for my lunch with a side made me do it. I rang their bell. order of sour grapes. I was in a blue sort of A man answered the door. “Hi,” I said. “My mood with no plans for the day. Chop. Chop. name is Becky.” We shook hands.“I’m Ming.” Chop. Hey, don’t take it out on the salad. It He was slim with short jet-black hair with will turn to mush if you don’t watch out. specks of gray, and brown eyes. I got right Yeah, mush is what my life feels like. I talk- to the point. “I’m going to Maine for a week, ed back to myself. and I was wondering if you would water my So, sign up for a course. Call a friend. Take garden while I’m gone.” He nodded, “Yes.” a swim. Do Something. Only you can change We went out to the garden, and I showed your life. Nothing like the voice of reality to him what to do. After I finished talking about cut short a good sulk. the flowers, Ming said, “I had a massive heart The doorbell rang. It was Ming. “Do you

28 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 want to go for lobster now?” you might as well go with the flow. “Right now?” I responded. The flow was not so good. It took over So what if you hardly know this man and three and a half hours to get to Wells, Maine. can barely understand him. I attempted to make conversation. Our con- So what? This is not like you. . . versation was like the traffic: It started and I told Ming, “Okay.” stopped all the way. “Meet me outside when you’re ready,” I could only understand about every third Ming said. Then, he left. word Ming said. Even so, I learned that Ming I glanced at my face in the mirror. Blue was from Taiwan and came to the United eyes surrounded by poufy, slightly unruly sil- States thirty years ago to study computer ver hair which used to be blonde. I gave it a programming. He went to college in Louisi- few cursory swipes with a brush and grabbed ana because of the warmer climate. When he my purse. graduated, the only jobs he could find were I climbed into Ming’s car and said noncha- in Boston. After the heart attack, his doctors lantly, “So, where are we going?” said cold weather was too hard on his heart. “To Wells, Maine. It’ll take an hour and a As a result, Ming and his wife had decided to half.” I was shocked into silence as we drove move to LA in the spring. to Rt. 128 and headed north. When our conversation lagged, he turned Wells, Maine. Oh my God! What have I on some music. At first, it was soft and gotten myself into? What were you thinking? soothing. Then came a reading of the 23rd That’s the trouble. You weren’t thinking! Psalm.“The LORD is my shepherd;” So, there I was riding to Maine with Ming, “I shall not want.” I finished the line in my in the middle of a massive traffic jam on a head. While I am spiritual, I’m not very re- mid-day Saturday afternoon. The traffic ligious. I preferred silence over psalms. But stood still but my thoughts raced ahead. I could see that the music and psalms were Hmm, it was going to take much longer than soothing to Ming which was a good thing one hour and a half to get there. Maybe I since the traffic was bumper to bumper and could suggest that we turn back. I didn’t. intense. With my obsessiveness in high gear, I Finally, a sign appeared for Wells, Maine. continued to chastise myself all the way up Yes! Thank God! I cheered silently and glanced to the New Hampshire border where Ming at my watch. We had left around noon, and pulled into a rest stop and said, “You go to it was now 3:30 p.m. A few minutes later, we the lady’s room.” arrived at “Wells Lobster Pound” and went When was the last time someone told inside. Ming ordered two lobster dinners. me what to do? I wondered, as I obediently He turned to me and said, “Would you like walked to the lady’s room. No one told me clam chowder with your dinner?” what to do at home or at the bank where I “No thanks,” I said, wishing I had said, managed dozens of employees. “Yes,” but mindful that Ming planned to pay. I bought a coke and returned to the car, “You can sit over there by the window.” still ruminating about this trip. Ming said, His words rang in my ears. Still dutiful, I “Soda is bad for your health.” sat down at a small bare table by the window “I know,” I replied, as I sipped my drink. across from two large lobster tanks. This is Well, like it or not, you made this decision, kind of unusual, his telling me what to do. winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 29 But his words didn’t have an officious over- I was sure we had walked all the way to the tone like some bosses or like an overbearing Ogunquit Beach, over five miles away. parent. I decided to let it go. I said, “I’d like to go back now, Ming. When he sat down, Ming said, “I bring the “Go back, now? Okay.” youth group from my church up to Wells to Wow! His response surprised me. I real- go to the beach.” He said more but I couldn’t ized the only person keeping me from turn- quite understand him. I already asked him to ing back sooner was me. repeat himself several times. I didn’t want to Slowly, I put one foot in front of the other offend him by asking again so I just nodded. and walked back down the beach. Ming di- Our lobster arrived shortly. It was the rected me to sit on some rocks. My legs were best lobster I have ever eaten. The lobster stiff, and the rocks were jagged, uneven and was cracked in all the right places and was tricky to climb. I managed to find a semi- cooked perfectly. Twelve minutes only. Even level rock and sit down without falling down the meat in the claw was tender and juicy. I and considered that a success. I brushed the realized that most of the lobster I have eat- sand off my feet and put my shoes back on. en has been overcooked with rubbery claw The rocks were hard and cold to sit on. My meat. What do I know? I’m from Ohio. backside shrieked but my legs said, “Thank We finished our dinners in awkward si- you!” lence. I tried to offer Ming some money, Soon I was soothed by the soft rhythmic but he shook his head, “No.” He pointed to sound of the surf, a sound that echoes back the restroom and said, “You go wash your to a childhood spent beachcombing. The se- hands while I pay.” My hands did need to be rene look on Ming’s face told me he was as washed so I went to the lady’s room. Once enthralled as I was. We left the beach as the we were back in the car, I thanked him for his first stars appeared in the sky. A soft breeze generosity. He nodded and said, “Now, we’re walked us back to the car. going to walk on Wells Beach and watch the On the way back home, we drove through sunset.” the center of Ogunquit. A warm cloudless The beach was expansive and beautiful in summer day turned into a warm cloudless the early evening. Ming and I were the only summer night. Streams of vacationers filled people on the beach. I could see sand, more the stores and milled about on the sidewalks. sand, the sea, and the sun ready to slip away Not an inch of sidewalk was visible. It felt as for the day. I rolled up my pant legs, took off if we were in the middle of a party. It was a my shoes, and waded into the ocean. Ming party I wanted to join. followed suit. I bet Ming would have stopped if I had The waves lapped my ankles, reminding asked, but I didn’t. It was getting late, and me of what everyone in New England already we had a long way to go. The traffic heading knows: The ocean in Maine is anything but home was surprisingly light. We rolled into warm. My pant legs were now soaked and Lexington around 9 :30 p.m. I thanked Ming coated with sand. for lunch or was it dinner and a wonderful My feet were cold and demanded I get out day. of the water and walk on the sand still warm I was still glowing as I prepared for bed from the afternoon sun. and thought maybe, just maybe, I had made An hour and a half later, I was getting tired. a new friend. ♦

30 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 Contributors

James Baldwin is a retired advertising agen- Victoria Buckley, MS, cy principal and high school OTR/L, CCAP is an occupa- English teacher. Rediscov- tional therapist and mas- ering writing in his retire- ter’s level clinician with ment, he covers sports for over 35 years of experi- Gatehouse Media and the ence in mental health. She Lexington Minuteman and is a Town Meeting Member from Precinct 9 maintains his own blog at www.Storyguy.net. and chairs the Lexington Commission on Dis- ability. Joanne Borstell studied at Salem State and Massa- Born in Greece, Linos Dounias chusetts College of Art. She graduated from Athens Col- works in various mediums lege, was a Fulbright grant- and has exhibited in several ee, and received his MA at collections, both local and the U. of Illinois. Before re- to a wider audience. tiring, he was a partner at the architectural firm Arrowstreet Inc. Maureen Bovet has lived in Lexington since 1981. She loves being outside in nature es- pecially in a garden with bird song. She has John Ehrenfeld, long retired, came late to studied drawing and paint- poetry. An MIT-trained chemical engineer, ing over the years at sev- he returned there after working in the en- eral places including the vironmental field for many Concord Art Association years. He authored Sus- and the Lexington Arts and tainability by Design and Crafts Society. co-authored Flourishing: A Frank Conversation about Hayg Boyadjian, Grammy nominee and Sustainability. award-winning composer, was born in 1938 in Paris, Dan Fenn was Staff Assistant to President France. He started his mu- Kennedy, Vice Chairman of the US Tariff sical studies at the Liszt Commission and Founding Director of the Conservatory, in Buenos Kennedy Library. A Lexing- Aires. In 1958, he immi- tonian for 69 years, he was grated to the USA where he studied at the a Selectman and continues New England Conservatory and Brandeis to serve as a Town Meet- University. His compositions, both cham- ing Member. He teaches at ber and symphonic, have been performed Harvard’s Kennedy School. throughout the world. winter 2019 Lexington LifeTimes 31 Geraldine Foley is a retired psychiatric regis- Margaret (Mardy) Rawls, moved to Lexing- tered nurse and attorney who specialized in ton in 1960 and has been mental health guardianship much involved in Town law. She has lifelong inter- politics ever since, though ests in writing poetry and at 91 she has had to slow prose, fabric art, travel― down a bit! In 1990, she predominantly to Ireland, was accepted into the New and Irish set dancing. England Watercolor Society and has shown at a number of art associations. Irene Hannigan, a retired Barbara Dickenson Simpson has lived in Lex- educator, enjoys writing and ington for thirty years. She sketching. She has recently is a weaver, artist, poet and been exploring poetry. Her writer. She and her hus- latest book, Write On! How band, and their 12-year-old to Make Writing a Pleasur- doggie daughter live in Up- able Pastime, was published in September. per Turning Mill. Robert Isenberg has been the humor colum- nist for the Lexington and Bedford Minute- After teaching English for 35 years, man and other Gatehouse publications. His Christin Worcester retired recently published book, Why Men Are Sus- and began her writer’s picious of Yoga, contains 55 journey by creating pieces of his amusing essays. He for her memoir—a work has performed his work at in progress. She actively a variety of venues. He can volunteers in several com- be contacted at robear68@ munity programs in Lexington. gmail.com Don Yansen, originally from Shaw Island, WA, worked in high tech startups for many years, While living 8 years in Egypt, Nancy Kouchouk then in international devel- wrote and edited at American University and opment in Africa and India. Cairo American College. Her He held many different jobs work with a blind poet, an from fisherman to rocket anthropologist who discov- scientist—some more -suc ered an isolated tribe, and a cessful than others. flamboyant storyteller, con- tinues to color her poetry. Lynne Yansen, Lexington resident since 1969, retired in 2016 after Previously a financial services executive, fifty years as a clinical social Rebecca Baker Morris has worker/psychotherapist. A been writing memoirs and graduate of Clark Univer- short stories for the last sity, she is a member of four years. She hopes to many local art, garden and complete a collection of historical associations. Her work can be seen family stories. at: www.Lynneyansenart.com

32 Lexington LifeTimes winter 2019 William Raveis Real Estate Joyce Murphy & Meaghan Murphy Tel (781) 771-5146 Providing personal guidance, expertise and resources that come from over 40 years combined experience in local Real Estate. � � � � � � � � �

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