By Joanna Price

    I’m so incredibly sad.  It’s an emptiness in my chest.  I almost can’t take a deep breath.  I’m glued to the sofa.  I can’t move.  Dead weight.  I feel dead.  So heavy.  There’s a black hole in my chest that’s full of nothing.  Dense and dark—black and dense.  Yet there’s nothing there but sadness and emptiness.  I’m surprised that a breath can even reach into that place in my chest.  It’s a black, carved-out space that’s empty and yet dense.

    How can I pick myself up?  Yes, I like the music on Pandora. I can breathe.  I find myself taking deep sighs automatically without thinking.

    How is it that the people in my therapy group feel better?  Is it their medication?  Mine never helped me.   George lives with his girlfriend.  I am alone with my kitty, and I’m glad she’s here with me.  But I have no hugs or kisses.

    Peter has a job he is returning to, and he has a wife.  They are remodeling the kitchen.  I have been looking for work, and yet I wonder how I would find the energy to work. 

    Bob in the group is managing to change his bedsheets and shower.  I’m not doing those things.  I can’t make myself do them.  I don’t care enough.

    I remain glued to the couch, as if forces from the center of the Earth are holding me here.  I am immobilized and unable to move.

    So, who can help me?  I can’t help myself.  The group makes me feel more depressed, sad, and helpless. 

    I can see how people can get addicted to ketamine which is being prescribed for the depression.  It produces quite a nice high.  I wish I were there now.  I don’t think I could drink enough wine to get me that high.  Chocolate won’t even do it now.

    I’m in the depths.  I feel like I’m on the basement floor, in the dirt.  I don’t think I could get any lower.  There are no grab-bars with which to lift myself.  My arms are too weak, anyway.

    No one can see this huge, gaping hole in my chest.  This deep, dark, dense hole is sucking the life out of me.  There’s no reason it’s there—it’s not from the pandemic, like George. He fell into depression because of the pandemic isolation after having felt well for the previous 67 years. How jealous I am of him.  He has a live-in girlfriend, and the pandemic and social isolation will end one day.  Whatever this sadness is that’s ripping my life apart seems to have had no beginning, and it seems like it will have no end.

    My head is aching and throbbing despite the medication I took.  That’s how it all seems to go—things that work for others don’t help me at all, whether it’s the depression or migraines or relationships.

    I did enjoy the comedian on YouTube last night.  I was laughing out loud alone here at midnight.  Shall I spend my days on the couch watching comedians?  I can really see how people might turn to drugs.  This sadness is wickedly painful.  Of course, we want an escape, some relief. 

    I don’t understand how people can be happy.  How do they do that?  What do they know that I don’t?  What do they have that makes them happy?  I don’t even know how it’s possible to be happy. 

    If I could cry right now, I would.  The antidepressant keeps me from crying.  That’s all it does. 

    Of course, I’ve had group therapy and individual therapy my entire adult life.  They would tell me now to think positive thoughts and to make a gratitude list—to think of all the good things I have in my life.  Yes, I am thankful I have good vision and I can walk.  I’m thankful I can use my fingers to type on the keyboard.  Thankful I can put my thoughts down in a document.

    Despite knowing everybody’s romantic relationships are not all perfect, I yearn for a warm and close romantic relationship.  I imagine that everyone’s relationships are wonderful.

    I guess everyone’s smiles may not be genuine, either, just as I put on my “outside face” when I go out into the world.

    How can this sadness and emptiness be so strong?  What have I done to have earned this?  When will I be happy?  Will I ever be happy?  I can’t even imagine it, let alone expect it for myself or make it happen.

    Of course, even if I were to try some drugs (I have no idea how to go about finding drugs), they would not make me happy, but only temporarily take away the pain. Right now, that sounds wonderful.

    I am still glued to the couch with such a tight pull as I have never experienced before.  My head aches worse now.

    I have to get myself out of this.  Breathe.  I’m thankful for my new computer.

    The sun is warm on me, and it feels good.  I like Simon and Garfunkel music on Pandora. Breathe. I will get ketamine next week.  It’s once a week now for 3 more weeks.  Can I call a friend?  Who would be helpful?  Maybe Diane.

    “Help someone else when you feel depressed.” That is a good suggestion.  I have been helped by that.  I got the most benefit from volunteering at the free clinic for adults, seeing patients who had no health insurance. Many were impoverished illegal aliens, sometimes not speaking English.  I’m feeling a little less heavy just thinking about it.  I enjoyed socializing with the nurses and the other doctors.  It reminded me that not everyone has their own home and adequate finances and a stable living situation.  It made me really appreciate my American citizenship, having an education, and a safe place to live.

    Breathe. Get something to eat, and listen to Jim Croce on Pandora.

By Evie Andrejczyk

     “Oh you chopped it.  What a messy job!”

    The words really hurt my feelings and I was wishing she didn’t speak so loudly. This was a project we were working on at church summer school. My ability in cutting out cards was not perfected yet and I felt really frustrated with this teacher.

    My ego is like a train ride. It goes up and down and even stops sometimes to pick up new growth.  

   It also has been damaged by hurtful words at times.

    I enjoyed the attention I received in becoming prom queen and getting the lead role in the senior class play but soon that was in the past and down in the valley went the train.

    When I entered nursing school it became a whole new adventure but at a cost. I soon learned the reality of life with its joys and sorrows. Witnessing pain and suffering of others was a solid form of my maturing.  The sorrows that others have to face became part of my sorrows as did the joys of their lives. And the train ride continued.

    The adventure of marriage, raising a large family and seeing its growth brought me many joyful moments and a big boost to my ego but soon I realized there is still more to life.

    I realize now we have a creator who endowed us with particular gifts. How we employ  them or deny them can burnish our ego. It’s our choice.    

   It is good for me to thank God for all I have experienced in life however I end up or others see me. It is up to me and my God. The train continues and if I want to keep my ego healthy I will do whatever good I can in the time left on this journey.

    I have one request:  Don’t ask me to cut out pictures

                                                .#

By Claris Bergman 

    Her name was Scottie because she was a black Scotch terrier, but we almost always called her by her nickname, Girlie. She was the first dog I ever knew. She was my grandparents’ dog and the family all loved her. 

    She wasn’t the only pet.  They also had a canary, Peter, a wee bird in a cage. Grandpa, a World War I disabled veteran, would spend hours with his face up at the open cage door with a piece of lettuce between his lips, making little noises, intended to coax the bird to pick the vegetables from his lips.  Grandpa’s patience paid off. 

     Peter soon became very tame, indeed.   

     Until I was about 14 or 15 years old, I never heard or saw television. Yet I heard lots of stories and plenty of drama. As I say, Grandpa was a full pensioner. He listened to the soap operas every afternoon and he kept everyone up to date. In addition, family stories were passed down from generation to generation. Also, there were mementos to remind us. So we didn’t forget.

    I remember a picture of my mother at 3 years of age, with her mother and two brothers.  Grandma wore a floor-length gown and a Gibson girl hairdo.  She blushed whenGrandpa told how he saved up money to buy a ticket for her to make a trip home because she was so homesick. When she met friends in England who had forgotten who she was, she was eager to get back to her husband in Canada. They went on to raise eight children.

     One evening, Grandpa stopped in a tavern on the way home from work. While there he was persuaded by an army recruiter to sign up to fight for “God, king and country.”  Fortunately, they had a large family to help grandma with the little ones while Grandpa was overseas doing his duty, as he saw it.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

     On Grandpa’s tilt top desk in the hall, was a small picture frame with three or four medals from the heroic days of The War to End All Wars. I remember seeing a rare sepia photograph of my grandfather having one of the medals pinned on his uniform by Princess Alice.  The English princess and the soldier were laughing joyously. 

     “Why are you laughing, Grandpa?” 

    “The princess asked me what I would do if she accidentally pricked me with the pin.”

    We all enjoyed the joke. 

     In spite of his wounds, my grandfather lived to be quite old.  He was a pleasure.  I would love to see him again.

#

By Ed Baranosky

    When I was a boy my father made pencil drawings of deer, dogs and birds for me. He took up the fad of the time, painting by number.

    When he retired, I would tell him “Dad you should try doing your own paintings no matter how they would come out.” He never did. 

    To prove a point I bought a box of paints with all the colors.  I bought a Robert Foster book on oil painting, brushes, turpentine and linseed oil. I made an easel and painting knives.    

   I was ready to find the “artist” in me. 

   In the beginning I copied landscapes from the Foster books. I bought books on seascapes, faces and animals. I learned as I went along about mixing hues, shading and subtle color changes of light and dark.

    With the Robert Foster and Robert Wood books. I began to see a difference in the quality of my work. 

   It wasn’t long before I was giving paintings to my relatives, friends and neighbors. 

    In 1980 my wife’s aunt was here on a visit from Scotland. She saw one of my early landscapes and remarked she liked it because it reminded her of where she had grown up. When she was ready to go home I took the painting from the frame, rolled it up and gave it to her. 

    Last night while watching Antiques Road Show from Glasgow, Scotland there was my painting being critiqued by the art expert. I didn’t recognize the woman who brought it to the show.

    With a pointer he described how the winding road in the foreground leads the viewer into the painting. The wisp of smoke rising from the chimney of the house in the middle ground takes you to the faint yellow mist in a vale reflecting a morning sun that is only hinted at by the hue of the sky off to the left. Distant verdant hills brings the viewer full circle.

       He told the woman that there was an interest among collectors in works by unknown artists for this type of art. He learned of a similar landscape by an unknown artist sold for 12,000 Euros at auction.

    He said he thought her landscape brought to auction should bring approximately the same price.

    Did I mention among my other achievements I’m now a World Famous Artist?

By Mary McPadden 

    I know when a girl likes me. I can tell by the way she stares at me and then when I lift my dark eyes up to hers, she turns her head away. She tries to pretend that she didn’t just lock eyes with her crush. But I can tell by her breathing that her heart is racing.

    I don’t even like them, the mediocre girls, but I do enjoy giving them that thrill. I see them all turn and look at me when I pass down the hall. And just a little smile or a stare can send their young bosoms into a rapid pulsing.

    I’ve got the good looks of my father. My younger brother has them too but he doesn’t know it yet. 

    But Kylee, she never seemed to bother with me. She is my equal. She’s got the good looks, the long flowing hair and the perfect body. Like me, she is a runner too. She is the top tier and she fits the part. Her body is elegant when she runs. Her arms flow rhythmically and her long, slim legs stretch forward as she seems to leap, almost dance down the track. And the curve of her butt always just sneaks out of her tight shorts.

    She never seems to pay me any mind. She never looks at me the way the other girls do. If I catch her eye, she always seems to have a look of disgust. 

    Of course we’ve talked. At Greg Dunnan’s party she sat near me around the firepit. All the guys were filling beer cans with gasoline and lighting them on fire. She told me I was being a jerk but I know she thought I was cool. It wasn’t like anyone could get hurt. We did that all the time.

    So when I saw her running in the woods, I just wanted to talk to her. She was far away and I couldn’t catch up to her. So I threw a rock to get her attention. I didn’t mean to hit her. I panicked when I saw the blood trickling down her face. I brought her down to the lake and rinsed my hands at the water’s edge.

                                                                 #

By John-Paul Marciano 

    Two turns and less than a half mile from home it was apparent this wasn’t your ordinary ride to the grocery store. Lucky for you my wife was driving, giving me the opportunity to observe unencumbered by the rigors of driving.

    As we came over a rise there was a policeman standing in the road. My wife began slowing down even before the officer raised his hand for her to stop. She stopped well short of where he was standing and he started walking toward the car. Ignoring my wife’s query of what was happening, I quickly took in the scene before me. 

    There were five squad cars and an ambulance parked at the bottom of the hill on the left side of the road. Another officer was blocking oncoming traffic about 300 yards down the road. What piqued my interest was that none of the vehicles had their emergency lights flashing implying this was not the scene of accident. Also, there were no work vehicles so it was not a work zone. 

    Since there was nothing but pasture on my right I focused on the houses on my left. There were four houses between us and a side street and all of the emergency vehicles were parked in front of the last two houses. As I scanned the property of the two houses closest to us I noticed a policeman lurking in the trees between the two properties with his back to us. He focused on the second house. 

    As the officer that stopped us approached us, my wife rolled down her window. “I know it’s a tight turn here but you need to stay away from this house.” 

    Sticking my two cents in I pointed and asked, “Can we turn around in that driveway?”

    Without replying the policeman looked to where I was pointing and walked over to move a garbage can to make the maneuver easier for us. This made me happy because it afforded me a better view. 

    Again I ignored my wife when she asked me what was happening. As we turned into the driveway, I noticed the officer lurking in the trees had his gun drawn with the classic two-handed grip. He appeared to be aiming toward the front door of the second house.

    It was at this point that my wife gasped and said, “Oh my God, they’re shooting! We have to get out of here.” 

    We quickly backed out of the driveway and headed back in the direction from which we came. “Did you know he was there?” my wife asked. She glanced at me and noticed me smiling. “Of course you did. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

    “I didn’t want you to get nervous.”

                                                              #

By Sherry Anderson 

    When I walked into my daughter’s condo, after weeks of COVID-19 restrictions, I saw my 12-year old granddaughter had cut her long, beautiful hair to chin length with green highlights. Her appearance was considerably enhanced and it was apparently cooler in summer. 

    And for months, dressed in baggy pants and oversize shirts, she talked about her developing body and puberty, her first bra and becoming a teenager.  

    Except for students in her school she had little interaction with other young people. 

    But the change in hairdo finally took me by surprise. It was obvious now Mandy no longer looked like a girl. 

    Later Mandy told her mother and me that she, Mandy, she decided she is a Trans-boy and she wants to be referred to as he or him. She said she hates that her breasts are growing and she bought something to flatten her chest. 

    I told Mandy I was a tomboy until I was about her age. She explained she is Trans which is different.  

    One saving grace may be that the school kids all talk about transgender topics and don’t seem to find it all that strange.  Everyone will move on but in what direction? 

                                                          #

by Joanna Price

    “You’ve Got Rocks in Your Head!”  That was my father’s usual way of speaking to us kids.  He never cared for our ideas, and he certainly never solicited them. He never thought there was anything of much interest going on with kids—thoughts, concerns, desires.  Maybe he really thought there wasn’t anything up there but rocks, after all, nothing worthwhile.  We were just kids, so how important could our thoughts be?  Why would he care what we had to say?  Could he ever imagine someone at school being mean to us? Or our having a hard time with some school work?  Or our being afraid of the priests and nuns? Or my feeling sad about leaving my eighth-grade friends and going off to high school? Or my being afraid of boys and that’s why I chose to go to an all-girls high school? Did he ever know that teaching and nursing were the only careers I ever thought possible for a woman in 1969?  Could he ever imagine that I really wanted him to notice me and to talk to me? How could I tell him? Why would I think he would care?  I don’t think he ever imagined how important he was to me.  I don’t think he ever could have imagined how much I needed him to care about my thoughts and my feelings. 

    Of course, nobody ever cared about his thoughts or feelings.  His parents were poor, uneducated, and focused on surviving.  His parents lived on a farm in Costellucio Valmaggiore in the province of Foggia, Italy, population of 1,292. They grew olives and figs.  My grandfather made several trips to America alone, working and saving money before he had his wife and children join him here.  He worked in a factory and spoke broken English. My grandmother didn’t work outside the home, and she never did learn English.  There were 8 children.

    My grandparents lived a harsh life.  They were concerned with hard work and survival.  Showing love was definitely not a priority.  They could be harsh and cruel, using severe physical punishment often.  I doubt anyone ever told my father he was loved or valued.

    My father was the oldest boy.  He was twelve years old when he came to America.  Because they didn’t speak English, he and his brothers were put into first grade with 6-year-olds.  I guess they muddled through and picked up the language as best they could.  There was no instruction in English as a Second Language back then.

    During the Depression my grandfather lost his job, as so many did.  At age nineteen, my father was just a freshman in high school.  By then he had learned barbering by spending time in barbershops as an apprentice.  He quit school to join the Civilian Conservation Corps to help his family during the Depression.  The boys lived at camps all over the country. They worked in parks creating trails, digging ponds to collect rainwater for fire-fighting, and building stone buildings that still stand today.  They were paid $30 per month, and $25 of that was sent home to the families.  Since my father knew barbering, he made money giving haircuts to the guys in the camp for five cents each. 

    So, my father had a career as a barber.  He was a hard worker and very bright.  He earned his GED, and he took the necessary courses to obtain his barber’s license.  Of course, he became an American citizen and served in the Army during WWII.  He was sharp enough to run his own barbershop after he had worked in several other shops.  He supported his family of 4 children with that work and worked in it into his 80’s.

    When I was in high school, I tried to make conversation with my father.  I desperately wanted him to notice me.  Of course, my fear of him, my shyness, and my lack of conversational skill made this a total disaster.  I never could get him to speak to me.  I concluded he just did not know how to make small talk.  Imagine my astonishment one day when I was in the barbershop for a haircut when I heard him with his customers.  “Hey, Joe, how was your vacation?”  “How was the golfing?”  “Hi Bob, good to see you!”  He sure did know how to make small talk with his customers!  Maybe because they gave him money, and money was so hard to come by. 

    My father was abusive to my mother, as well.  He was intense and serious.  My mother was afraid of him, as we all were.  She told me that before they had children, he would slap her.  My mother worked in a factory and had little money. That didn’t stop my father from yelling and criticizing her when she used her own money to buy something small, such as a small table for the living room.

    I think one of his greatest regrets was that he was not able to attend college.  Once, when I was grown and had graduated from college and was out living on my own, he showed me his report card from his first and only year of high school.  Of course, he had excellent grades, and he was very proud of that report card.  He had saved it for so many years.

    My father saw education as the key to a better life.  Education was extremely important to my father, and he passed on those values to me and my two sisters, as well as to my brother.  In the 1950’s he would tell all of us, over and over, “Go to college and get your degree.  I don’t care what you do after that, just get your degree.”  I owe a great deal to my father for that encouragement. He probably didn’t even realize there was anything more available after a Bachelor’s degree. 

    Of course, I was still trying to gain his approval, even after I earned my Bachelor’s degree in Nursing.  I felt driven to achieve more, being a typical first-born.  I felt compelled to obtain a Master’s in Nursing.  That degree and teaching Nursing was not adequate for me.  I felt compelled to do more.  Medical school was next on the schedule for me.  After medical school I did residency training in Obstetrics and Gynecology and ran my own practice for 21 years.  Sadly, he did not attend my medical school graduation.  I was living 500 miles away, and he said, “She will graduate whether I’m there or not.”  He truly did not realize how important he was to me.  He missed out on the pride and the joy we could have shared.

    I had the most satisfying time with my Dad when he was in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s the last year of his life.  By then he was mellow.  That’s when he told me how beautiful the family’s farm in Foggia was and how much he wished he could go back to visit.  He was happy to have my attention at that point.  We had time alone together when I visited.  At the end of the visit, I would tell him I loved him.  We had never used those words before then.  He would respond, “Me too.”

    Dads, when your little girls tell you about the little things that don’t seem to matter, listen and pay attention.  Because, then, when the really big, important things come along, your little girl will know you are there for her to hear her and to believe her. Girls and women are too easily dismissed as being emotional or hysterical.  Little girls need a Hero and a Champion. You will be her Hero. 

By Juliana Lavitola

   Dee-Dee became agitated and began talking to herself.  Did she make the right decision?  After pacing back and forth, wringing her hands, she finally decided to phone her son for his advice.

   She told him the Monroe Health Department wanted to schedule an appointment for her to get a Covid-19 vaccination–and she declined it.  Being quarantined for the last 12 months because of the pandemic raised her anxiety level.   

   “What did you do that for?”  He responded with a raised voice.  “The risks are extremely rare.”

   Nervously, she replied: “I’ve only had one flu shot in my life, back in 1976 when the country was in the swine-flu pandemic.  Gerald Ford and his wife Betty encouraged us to be vaccinated.  I was one of 25 percent of the total population who received the shot.”

   “We were told that because it was a pandemic emergency, the vaccine had been produced in only three months, resulting in increased reports of a condition known as Guillain-Barré Syndrome.  They stopped vaccinating immediately saying it was not the right vaccine.  That turned me off from getting any flu vaccinations.  I never got the flu.  Why should I change my position on vaccines now?”

   “Well, this is different.  We all should get this vaccine,” he insisted.

   “I feel a little shaky.  I’m afraid of a reaction.  I’ve had allergic reactions to blood pressure medications, sulfites and other things,” Dee-Dee argued.

   “Mom, you’ve got to get this vaccine.” 

   Her granddaughter Courtney, a pre-med student, concurred with her son.  She reported: “I worked at the vaccine clinic of Griffin Hospital in Shelton.  We did almost 1,000 inoculations a day.  So far we haven’t had a single patient with a bad reaction.”

   Because her son and granddaughter strongly opposed her decision, she reluctantly changed her mind and got herself back on the schedule for Jan. 27 at the senior center.

   That day she woke to a snow-covered driveway.  While clearing the downfall, a sense of well-being and peace came over her.  Her apprehension began to disappear. 

   At the senior center, after a painless injection, she was led to a group of seats staggered six feet apart to wait out the 15 minutes of recovery time.  An EMS crew stood by in front in case someone had a reaction.  They were provided a card showing the name of the vaccine as Moderna and establishing a date a month away for a follow-up dosage. 

   Later, recalling the advice of her son and granddaughter, she came to the realization a change of mind was not only good for herself but also for the protection of everyone else in the world.

                                                          #

By Karen Szamotula

  I crouched behind a yew bush and watched the old man.  Dusk was falling in swirling shades of pink

and orange, pulling the impending night behind it.  What is he doing with that shovel?  I thought.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t working.  He dropped it, walked from behind the shed to the front and went

inside. I could hear him rifling around in the darkness.

   When he finally came out, he was carrying a large, heavy-looking pickax and carried it back behind

the shed.  I heard the rhythmic thumping of the old man’s ax, the scrape of his shovel and his

guttural grunts that followed each one. 

    When he was finished with both he slowly walked the short distance to his back steps, taking deep,

labored breaths along the way and carefully sat down (so he wouldn’t faint and break any bones, I

suppose).  The thick Carolina air was an ever-present presence, bothering and wetting us all. He pulled

 a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and neck, blew his nose and rested a spell until he

caught enough breath back into his lungs.  He looked up at the sky in a searching way but I couldn’t tell

if he was judging the time or looking for God.  I think it might have been both.

     It wasn’t long before he got up and went back in the house.  When he came out, he was

dragging something big down the stairs, slowly, with a heavy thump and pause at each step below.

It was wrapped in heavy burlap and tied with jute rope. It had the shape of a body.  Holy Lord!  I nearly

peed my pants when I saw it and then I heard my mom calling my name and ringing the dinner bell.  I

laid as flat and still on my belly as I could and crawled across the ground like a Marine at Camp

 Lejeune.

    Five minutes later I was still crawling and mom was still yelling and ringing that damn bell, so I jumped

to my feet and ran the rest of the way home hoping the old man didn’t see me.

     I ran up onto the porch and into the house, slammed the door, set the lock, and slid down to the

kitchen floor trying to catch my breath.  My mother was standing over me looking down, hands on hips,

towel in hand, with a scowl on her face.  My entire body was shaking as I looked up into my mother’s

eyes and said, “He killed her mom! He killed her and buried her behind the shed!”