Puerto Rico In my Heart

airplane flying under white clouds during night time — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I wrote this story sometime last year in response to a prompt about a map and the best trip we ever had. On occasion, I pull it out and tweak it a little. With protests occurring all over the world in support of the people of Puerto Rico, I decided to share it again.

“I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I’ve ended up where I needed to be.” Douglas Adams.

On a jet plane

One summer as soon as school was out, I found myself on an international flight sitting next to my little brother; with my mom and the twins across the aisle. We were headed from JFK to San Juan. It was the late 1960’s; it was the year my paternal grandfather died two days before my thirteenth birthday. His death was unexpected. I don’t remember him, and I don’t think he ever met the twins. My father didn’t join us on this trip; he had been there in the winter for the funeral. When my father returned, he and my mother started planning this trip for us to spend the summer on the Island.

I was in Puerto Rico as a toddler when our parents returned to start a business. Their venture didn’t work out, but my brother was born there, and as soon as they thought he was old enough to travel, we returned to the mainland to start over again. I’ve seen the photos, but I’ve no memory of being there.

I don’t know if it was my grandfather’s sudden death that created the urgency for my parents then. I expect that while he was there, my father noticed that the Island was rapidly changing, moving beyond his treasured memories. The facts were that every one my parents knew back home was getting older, and we were growing up without them. Things were shifting all over the world, and after so many years, it seemed like it was time to get us over there to meet the rest of the family.

I was apprehensive about this trip. I had a lot going on at thirteen. I had been thrust into a different world the summer before, and I was finally starting to get my bearings. I preferred to be ready for what was coming, but all I knew about Puerto Rico were the anecdotes of people and places that my parents remembered; history lessons tainted with nostalgia. Whenever we got together with my aunts, uncles, and older cousins, they would repeat the same stories of the “good old days.” The trip had always been one of those things that seemed more like a warning from my parents “we’ll go someday,” but now we were actually on our way. “Puerto Rico is a beautiful place!” they said. “You will love it; wait and see.”

In my American History class, all I learned was that Puerto Rico was an island that Spain gave to the United States when they lost the Spanish-American War. Since I grew up in the era before Google, I spent many afternoons at my local public library researching for the trip. The little information that was available to me was exciting but unsettling none the less. I found out the Island sat on one of the corners of the Bermuda Triangle, and there was huge radio satellite telescope somewhere in the mountains, actively trying to contact life on other planets! As a nerd, I didn’t think it was a coincidence, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

I knew from my parents that they were born American citizens. I learned that Puerto Rico became a United States territory in 1898, and the people were granted United States citizenship one month before we, entered World War I in 1917. President Woodrow Wilson signed the Compulsory Military Service Act two months later. Puerto Ricans have been serving in the military ever since, and there were several military bases opened on the Island. That explained why we were “Americans” even though Puerto Rico was not a state.

Who are we?

Adolescence is a time when we are all trying to figure out who we are and where we are going. Things were a bit complicated for me as I started the process of growing up. When relocated to this neighborhood, one of the first things my parents told us before we moved in was that we could only speak Spanish inside our apartment. Understandably that raised a lot of questions for me. At home, conversations flowed easily from one language to the other. I had never given it a second thought. Some of my new friends also spoke different languages at home. It was a blue-collar neighborhood of first and second-generation immigrants. Some kids even spoke two languages in addition to English. Joey spoke Lebanese and French; Barbara spoke Ukrainian and Polish, Anna spoke Italian. What was wrong with Spanish? Should I be ashamed to be able to speak Spanish?

Since I was the oldest, my parents explained that to get this apartment in a “better neighborhood,” my dad had lied and told the landlord that we were Italian. One of his friends from work, who was Italian, had a sister who was married to a Cuban who worked with real estate rentals. That was networking in the ’60s. I remembered going to the office and minding my siblings as we sat quietly waiting for the adults to finish meeting with the agent. As it turns out, all these grown-ups had decided that it was best to tell Mrs. Mary DeVito a little white lie until she got to know us better. Should I be ashamed to be Puerto Rican in this neighborhood?

We are a light-skinned bunch with “good” hair, and my mother had green eyes. We were able to pull it off – we “passed.” The Fair Housing Act was signed in 1968. In my Current Events class, we touched on the Civil Rights Movement that rocked the country at the time; we saw it on the news. One time driving back from my aunt’s house, we saw the multitude marching, but I didn’t make the connection to what was happening to us. When my parents thought it was safe to do so, they told Mrs. DeVito the truth. We went on to live there for many more years as Puerto Ricans (African/European/Taino.)

What a beach!

As our plane approached the Island, I began to feel excited. My siblings and I strained to catch a glimpse through the tiny windows. Maybe this trip wasn’t a bad idea, after all. The colors were the first thing that amazed me. From the sky, we could see the vibrant greens and soft browns of the mountains with ribbons of rivers running through them. We could see the crystal clear turquoise waters and sandy beaches like refined white sugar. There were no boardwalks and no amusement park rides. It was just palm trees, sand, and water. It was breathtaking. The pastel-colored houses and buildings in the cities looked festive from our birds-eye-view. I remembered when my aunt visited us a few years before; she was so disappointed to see the beaches in New York. “You call this a beach? You have to come and see what a real beach looks like.” She laughed. Now I understood what she was talking about. This was a paradise compared to Manhattan Beach, Brighten Beach, and Coney Island. I decided then; I was going to enjoy this adventure.

My mother’s youngest sister, Rosita, still lived at home with her parents. She took time off from work to show us around. Our first day-trip was to the beach, of course. I couldn’t get over how clear and warm the water was. The waves didn’t crash on shore; they gently rolled in and quietly rolled out. We didn’t need a beach umbrella; we had put our things between two palm trees and hung a hammock. To this day, Luquillo Beach is still my favorite, and my go-to mental place is a vision of effortlessly rocking in that hammock and listening to the rhythmic sounds of that beach. On our way home, my aunt took us to the thatch-covered eateries that lined the road by the beach. We each tried something different Rellenos-de-papas, (deep-fried meat-filled potato balls), alcapurias de jueyes (mashed green plantain ovals filled with crab meat), and meat-filled turnovers, to name a few. We were in heaven! Everything was delicious.

Spaceships in the mountains

Our next outing was to El Yunque National Forest, the only tropical rainforest in the United States. My aunt said that many people believed spaceships regularly landed on the very top of this mountain. I told her about my research, and she promised to take us to Arecibo to see the Observatory in a few days. I was not worried anymore. If beings from another planet had chosen this place, they were OK by me. We spent the rest of the day exploring the trails and the waterfalls. Before we left, we swam in one of the pools that form along the river as it flows down to meet the sea. I had never been swimming in the river! The water was cold and cloudy after it rained. I was concerned now about what creepy crawling things might be swimming there with us. Fortunately, I couldn’t see any. On the way back, we bought tropical fruit from a stand on the side of the road. They were terrific; juicy and sweet, just as our parents had told us.

During that summer, we traveled around with other aunts and older cousins visiting many beautiful places. We crisscrossed the Island at least a couple of times. There are plenty of travel sites and tourist magazines that talk about the natural wonders of Puerto Rico, but my story is not about the tangible but about perception and self-discovery. It’s about a young girl confronting the unknown to find her truth.

Who are these people?

As we got to know family and friends across the Island, I began to see Puerto Rico different from the images I had formed in my head. We visited my paternal grandmother on her farm just outside of town. We were told that her small farm was a remnant of a large plantation that had been in her mother’s family since Spanish colonial times. From old photos, we recognized her thin figure wearing a black headscarf and dressed in mourning gray. She was waiting for us on her small porch as we drove up the long gravel road to her house. Her eyes, black as coal, glistened as she greeted us. Her skin wrinkled and tempered by the sun felt leathery on my cheek. She was a woman of little words, but she quickly went in to get something for us to eat. We had fresh bread and homemade white cheese from the two cows she kept for that very purpose. We had refreshing tropical drinks from her fruit trees, and of course, the smell of fresh coffee filled the air. As the grown-ups talked, we were encouraged to go outside and explore the farm, but I didn’t know where to start everything was so bright, warm, and impressive.

Nearby, we met our uncle’s children. These cousins were kids our age; boys and girls who laughed and played like our friends in Brooklyn. They used dried palm tree shafts like sleds to go down the grassy hills in the countryside. They confidently ran right by the cows, pigs, and horses as we followed staring and walking cautiously slow, afraid that any sound or fast movement might call the animal’s attention to us. Our cousins shook their heads and laughed at us. I thought it was all fun and exciting.

In Brooklyn, I didn’t know any Puerto Ricans outside of my family. The ones I saw depicted in movies or on television did not reflect my reality. No one in my family had been to jail or belonged to gangs or sold drugs on the street corners. We went to work or school and church. My family in New York was made up of all hard-working folks, trying to survive all the challenges that came their way in this new land. They were printers, handymen, electricians, seamstress, and clerks. I didn’t know of any Puerto Ricans who were doctors or lawyers. In school, we didn’t learn about the artists, poets, musicians, songwriters, and authors.

Here while visiting extended family, we learned that both of my grandfathers had brothers who had been the Mayor of their respective hometown. Our great-grandfather had been a well-known “troubadour” in the region. Other family members were respected members of the community educators, laborers, merchants, and artists, to name a few. It was a life I had seen on TV, but here the characters were real, and they were Puerto Rican!

For the love of art, music, and literature

I was glad my entire family took turns to take us to museums to show us the stories of our people. We saw folk dancers demonstrating the variety of cultural influences from Europe and Africa. We heard traditional music, played on instruments that originated on the Island. We got to listen to some of the Danzas, and ballads that were written by Spanish and Puerto Rican composers.

There was a Symphonic Orchestra! When I was assigned to my school’s strings orchestra the year before, I didn’t know which instrument to choose. I preempted a conversation with my mother by telling her that I didn’t want to play a squeaky violin. I loved the more profound, soulful sound of the cello but was afraid that for cultural reasons, she would think the cello was not an instrument for young ladies and would balk at the idea. To my surprise, she told me that there was a Spaniard that played the cello and lived in Puerto Rico. I was glad to hear it. I chose the cello. Although I never got to see Pablo Casals perform in person, it was great learning about him and knowing he was there in Puerto Rico. I was fascinated to hear about the Pablo Casals Festival established on the Island; maybe next time I visited, I would get to go.

Heart of the matter

I fell in love with Old San Juan and the “fort” that protected it, El Morro (Castillo San Felipe del Morro) where I could look out to open sea and get lost in all the wonder. I felt the strong winds that seemed to gather there, and it filled me with boundless enthusiasm for this adventure and the future. To this day, I can’t find quite find the words to describe what I felt.

Despite necessary modern upgrades, the city was still picturesque and quaint; something that one would see in Europe. It was old Spanish Colonial architecture painted in pastels with cobblestone streets. I imagined the aristocratic senoritas from Spain walking with parasols and chaperones to the Plaza on a Sunday afternoon.

I was amazed at all the cultural richness that I found in this tiny place. By the end of the day, I was absorbed entirely in all of it. I wanted to twirl on the lawn of El Morro and dance down the narrow streets of the Old City like a character in a Roger’s and Hammerstein musical. Picture Julie Andrews as Maria Von Trapp singing “The hills are alive with the sound of music”; now transform the image to a brown-eyed girl singing Le lo lai, and Hector Lavoe’s “Que Cante Mi Gente” while strumming a guiro in her hands. Suddenly I understood why my parents loved to sing “En mi Viejo San Juan” whenever they had a chance. From this day forward, I would sing along with them.

A new me

When school started again, I was excited to share this marvelous adventure with my friends. My aunts had given me books and souvenirs that told our story, the story of my people. I brought these things to school on the first day. My friends were not interested, not even the pictures of cute Puerto Rican pop stars from la Discoteca Pepsi made them look. They were still in seventh and eighth grade, and the world didn’t matter much beyond the pretty boys in the next class.

It hurt my feelings at first, but no one could take away what I had learned that summer. I wrote about my experience in my English class and had a piece published in the school yearbook. I argued with my history teacher and told him whatever he was teaching had nothing to do with me. We talked after class, and he became one of my favorite teachers. It was in his class that I learned to paraphrase George Santayana’s philosophy that if we don’t learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it. I Aced his class. That year in my Orchestra class, I played my cello as if I was playing a solo at the Pablo Casals Festival in San Juan.

The new me was glad we made that trip, and Puerto Rico continued in my dreams for a long time.

“…y asi le grito al villano. Yo seria borincano aunque naciera en la luna.” Juan Antonio Corretjer

A Writer’s Illusions and Delusions

My heart quivers in anticipation

As a thousand butterflies do pirouettes in my belly

Photo by Dids on Pexels.com

Inspiration:

I’m awake and breathless with anticipation.

Or is it my allergic asthma because of the old oak tree outside my open window?

My belly quivers as if a million caterpillars crawl around trying on butterfly wings

Or… was it the chicken and curry from last night’s dinner?

When is it an illusion or a delusion? When does a delusion become an illusion or is it the other way around. Is it that difference in perception that makes one appear “crazy” or impractical?

Ah, the questions that keep writers up at night.

Why Bring Flowers?

Used to be Love, Flowers, and Goodbye

Tildie slowly exhaled and closed her laptop. Every morning after meditations, she checked her emails and social media. Now and then Tildie would come across the story of the eighty-year-old man who walked five miles to have breakfast with his wife in a memory care facility. When people asked him why he continued to go daily for so many years if she didn’t remember him; his answer always gave Clotilde “Tildie” Delsapo reason to pause: “She doesn’t remember me, but I remember her, and I haven’t forgotten how we used to be.”

Tildie dressed this morning with an old Barbara Streisand – Neil Diamond duet on her mind. The song, “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” had taken on a new meaning for her. On rough days she would sing it fighting back the tears.

Today Tildie decided to stop on her way and buy fresh flowers from the garden nursery. She knew Sergio could still appreciate the beauty and perhaps the sweet fragrance would trigger a memory. She would make sure there were sprigs of lavender with hopes that somewhere in his new world he would find her.

At one time Sergio and Tildie were two spirits bound by love flying high above the clouds and earthly troubles. It wasn’t all rainbows and chocolates, but she had chosen to file the bad memories in a separate place. Tildie remembered the laughter, the tenderness and the adventures they shared. She remembered their late night talks. In her arms he was able to unlock the complex emotions he kept hidden from the rest. Tildie recalled how finding a smiley face on a post-it note in her notebook, kept a silly grin on her face for the rest of the day.

Sergio Miviere taught her many things about the world, about love, about herself. He helped her believe in her talents and pursue her dreams. Sometimes as they ate ice cream by the seashore, they would people watch. They would sit close together and whisper stories. They could build on each other’s imagination to create vignettes about their surroundings. “How do you come up with this stuff?” he told her often as he giggled like a small boy.

He had a scholar’s mind and could rationalize or give explanations in great detail about anything. Teaching was second nature, everything was a life-lesson, and she loved to hear him talk about the world around them. Yes, she thought, intelligence IS sexy.

She first started to notice a problem, when he talked to her of people she didn’t know, or he would say, “Remember the other day we were at …” but she had never been there. He had been there for business or with friends. She wanted to ignore the signs, but others started to ask concerned questions.

By far the saddest moment was when Sergio finally put aside his pride and acknowledged that his difficulty went beyond distraction or the stress having a lot on his mind. She watched him change before her eyes as he became angry and fearful of what was to come. Tildie promised Sergio all her love; to be with him forever.

In the years that followed they took extra care to cherish every moment. Every sunrise and sunset marked another day they were together. They received each day in gratitude, but little by little Sergio went down a path that left Tildie behind, alone to make difficult decisions.

The day Sergio moved to the care center was just another day of muddled talk and confusion for him. He stared at the ceiling as they helped him to bed unable to find words to ask questions. In that bed, Tildie left a shell of the man she loved, but also a piece of her heart. That night she couldn’t sleep, and the next morning she was at the Center by his bed before he awoke. He didn’t know who she was, but she knew him. She remembered who they used to be, Sergio and Tildie.

On good days Tildie thought there was a flicker of recognition. He would let her lay in bed with him. She liked to believe that his spirit remembered hers. She held him and sang to him “May I have this Dance?” until he fell asleep.

Today there was a vase of fresh flowers on the desk by the window with sprigs of lavender. Sergio’s eyes widened, perhaps in recognition of a memory they shared, but he no longer had the words. These moments had become Tildie’s life. How could she learn to say goodbye?

The more I write, the more I become aware of my process, and I’m beginning to see patterns in my writing. Even though I don’t post every day, I make it my business to sit down and work on something. I wrote this piece for my critique group this week. It’s flash fiction, and my challenge is trying to stay within the 750 words. I looked at some things in my drafts folder and started a few other stories, but nothing seemed to motivate me enough to put energy into it.

I went to see the new “A Star is born” last weekend. It was excellent on its own but some aspects still reminded me of Barbara Streisand. I started playing some of my favorites and was inspired to write this story with limited knowledge on the subject. It was well received in the group. Coincidently, another writer shared a personal account and a few poems about the same topic from a different point of view followed by some interesting discussion. I got some great suggestions which I will work on in the future, but it will certainly be more than 750 words.

(Pictures are not my own. Borrowed from Pexels on WordPress)

Just Friends, For all Time

Alondra Elena Delopas sat on a swivel chair in her lanai listening to the rain as the winds picked up and thunder clapped in the distance. Baby Girl lay with her legs sprawled but her nose pressed against the screen. She struggled to see what was moving in the conservation land that bordered the small condo-villa community where they lived. If Baby Girl saw something coming closer, she jumped and whimpered excitedly thinking she would get a chance to run out to chase after it.

Can’t Turn Back Time

Alondra or “Lonnie,” as close friends and family called her, was having a rough week. Today, clients canceled the only two appointments she had scheduled. They didn’t want to look at houses in a storm; maybe they just weren’t ready. It’s happened before. She usually found listening to the rain soothing, but today, the stormy tropical weather didn’t help her mood. She felt tired, cold and lonely. She went back inside to read but couldn’t wrap her head around on another “kick your business into high gear” self-help book. She turned to the mindlessness of surfing the net on her phone where she found the same stories, memes, and jokes all over again.

One story caught her eye. It was another of those stories where old friends from high school find each other and decide to spend the rest of their days making up for lost time. All of it made possible through the magic of social media. The funny thing is that she recently had been thinking about her friend Bobby from high school. They had been in school together since seventh grade. She’d adored him during high school and college but never in a romantic way. Outside of school, they were part of the same social group from church, and they worked at the same summer jobs. Bobby and Lonnie enjoyed a lot of the same things, and she liked hanging out with him. He was smart, witty, and amusing; they could talk for hours even when everyone else had gone. Bobby had introduced Lonnie to her boyfriend Harry, and he started dating Bernice.

Many years later a co-worker told her that it was impossible for men and woman to be “just friends.” She had started to argue the point by bringing up her friendship with Bobby, but before she opened her mouth, saw a memory flash before her. It was a crisp autumn day in Upstate New York when Bobby’s parents invited her to drive with them when he returned to the State College after the break.

Trip Back to School

It was a two-hour ride, and his parents had made plans to stop at their friend’s house for lunch along the way. Afterward, while they waited for his parents to finish their visit, Bobby and Lonnie went for a walk in the wooded land behind the house. They chatted talked and laughed like so many times before, but in some way, Alondra sensed that it was not a day like every other. At times she could be intuitive and sensitive to subtle changes in her surroundings. There seemed to be something in the air made her feel obligated to comment that it was too bad that Bernice could not come along. She believed Bernice would have enjoyed the beautiful landscape dressed for the fall. Bobby quietly agreed, and they walked on.

They stopped on a small wooden bridge as they crossed over the swollen creek. A burst of cold air made Alondra regret that she had left her jacket back at the house. Bobby stepped closer and put his arm timidly around her shoulder. She felt his face so close to hers, and then as he gently turned her toward him, she felt his soft lips lightly brush hers. Her immediate impulse was to push him away. “What are you doing?” she reprimanded. The hurt in his loving eyes pierced her heart, and she took his face in her hands and looked tenderly into his gentle mismatched eyes, one blue, and one hazel. She told him she was crazy about him, how could she not; he was her dearest friend, but they couldn’t do this to Bernice. Bobby nodded in agreement, and they started to walk back to the house in silence.

Awkward quiet moments always made Alondra respond with humor. She elbowed Bobby in the ribs now and said jokingly that the bridge must have been bewitched because she had felt something strange too. He sheepishly chuckled and added that without a doubt the setting was perfect for a romantic moment. “What were we thinking? “ They said in unison, which caused them to laugh again and end the uncomfortable moment. When they got back, his parents were ready to continue the trip. At his dorm, they said their goodbyes as old friends do. They promised to stay in touch and would see each other when he got back at his next school break. And so it was until she left the state. Their friendship survived.

That’s What Friends are For

Alondra never told Bobby of her conversation with Bernice several weeks prior. Bernice told Alondra that she was feeling insecure about her relationship with Bobby. She confessed that she wondered if Bobby, by spending so much time alone with Lonnie was feeling an attraction beyond friendship. “You know, you are cute, petite and always dressed nice. Maybe…” the words were left hanging in the air. Alondra looked at her friend as if with disbelief. First of all, Alondra considered herself too short and was often frustrated with her thick and wavy brown hair. Although she filled her clothes in all the right places, they were just hand-me-downs from her older cousin which she had adapted with accessories and trims from the five and dime so that they looked more age appropriate.

Bernice had powder blue eyes and baby fine blond hair that she always wore straight down as was the norm among their group. She was tall and lanky; sometimes it seemed that she was still getting used to her young-adult body. Alondra found the whole idea absurd and pooh-poohed Bernice’s fears. Although she and Bobby never spoke of such things, Alondra reassured Bernice that Bobby loved her; that he was just a supportive friend who didn’t want Lonnie to deal with her recent break-up alone.

On her way home from State College with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Alondra played that conversation over in her head. She didn’t see it coming but did Bernice know anything before. The incident was never spoken of again by anyone.

Not that Person

Alondra didn’t know if it was the rough week that just past combined with the dreary, stormy weather that made her feel vulnerable enough to want to reach out to her old friend. She had to admit that after that day in the woods, the “what if” would haunt her now and then. Lonnie got a cup of tea and found herself searching Facebook profiles for Robert James Smith from Brooklyn, NY. She quickly became overwhelmed by the number of profiles with the same name all over the world. She scolded herself and gave up the search. “This is ridiculous. I will not be that person.”

Alondra Elena Delopas was not one to let a life lesson slip by. Her life experiences had taught her that. She remembered from somewhere a suggestion that moments stay in our memories so that we could retrieve their message when we need them. She was sure these vivid memories of her friendship with Bobby came back to her so vividly for a reason now. Maybe, she thought, it was merely to confirm that Karma is a b!+@h. “Hum,” she thought. “so this is what it feels like?”

Another verifiable cliché

Indeed the story seems familiar, almost too fresh in her memory. It seemed played out in reverse with older actors. As she considered the analogy, she realized that her friend Nan was right when she paraphrased Gabriel Garcia Marquez. “Just because someone doesn’t love you the way you want, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they have to give.” Remembering her platonic love for Bobby helped her understand what confused her for years. Remembering her relationship with Bobby was the missing piece of the puzzle. As she accepted this truth, she let go of the pain and hurt. She became aware that there was nothing to forgive. At that moment, she chose to remember the good times, the adventures, even the caring and affection.

Alondra Elena Delopas realized that she had been more fortunate than most. Love is meant to be shared, offered expecting nothing in return. She had shared something special and given her love more than once. Each time in a different way, with a different purpose and intensity but authentic, it was a true love. No one could say differently.

She added another verifiable cliché to her list: “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. “

A couple of years later she felt that restlessness to try to find Bobby again. For the sake of their friendship, she wanted to connect to see how his life had turned out. She found him and wrote a letter that she never sent.

Read it at this link from a previous post. https://rosalind.life/2018/05/28/the-letter-i-never-wrote/

#shapingyourstory #DigDeeper

Oh coffee, dear coffee

Friday RDP: Coffee

I like to say I’m a social drinker when it comes to coffee. My favorite is espresso, and I have such weakness for its aroma. The taste must not be bitter or harsh as it goes down the throat and lands warm in one’s belly. It’s not unlike a fine brandy that goes down smooth and velvety but then can burn a hole in your stomach when

it hits bottom.

Lately, tea sits better in my stomach. Black English tea with oatmeal cakes for breakfast is part of my morning ritual and green tea infused with fruits for during the day. Sometimes, an herbal tea gets me through the night. When I’m visiting with a coffee drinker, however, I can’t resist the smell, the heavenly fragrance of a good cup of coffee; the intoxicating aroma of espresso does make me a bit tipsy, and I struggle with the temptation knowing I will regret it later.

Although you can get a great coffee smell and of course good coffee from the single cup pods, I prefer an authentic espresso maker. To be clear, I’m not talking about the big digitalized models that take up half one’s counter space; I’m speaking of a small pot on the stove top. It brews coffee by passing boiling water pressurized by steam through ground coffee. I’ve concluded, that the secret to both good tea and coffee is in the boiling water – a hot running boil. Sometimes if I’m feeling really daring, I will have my espresso with milk, steamed and made foamy with a handheld frother. I know I’m going to lie awake thinking about it tonight, then I can say “ I couldn’t sleep last night because of the coffee.”

Seriously though, besides the physical pleasure from the coffee, I also have an emotional attachment. I don’t have to taste the coffee to feel I’m at my mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen table feeling safe and loved. When we were young, we would have a cup of hot milk with a couple of drops of coffee. We felt so grown up when we were able to participate in having a “café con leche” with the elders.

Many years later when I lived alone in an apartment building in an old mill city in New England, there lived an older gentleman at the end of the hall near the exit door. Every morning as I set out to go to work, I would be assaulted with the smell of freshly brewed espresso. I knew he was making it like my grandmother and I was often tempted to knock on the door and invite myself in. He didn’t seem like a friendly fellow; I wonder what would have happened if we were to share a cup of coffee and a piece of warm homemade bread with real butter. What stories would he have to tell? What stories would we have in common?

What’s your relationship with coffee? Is it just a way to make it through the day? Does the smell of coffee connect you with a memory of a loved one? An old friend perhaps?

My first week at #RagTag Daily Prompt. #coffee

This was fun! Is the format OK? Not sure about pingbacks.

The fragrance of our lives

I wonder how the month of May compares with Christmas for the retail industry. It seems there are people out shopping for Mother’s Day, Graduations and let’s not forget Father’s Day and June weddings.

On the weekend right after Mother’s Day, as Blaise walked into a major department store, he found himself accosted by a beautiful young woman who was dressed as if she was on her way to a night on the town. She blocked his path and with a coquettish smile asked “wanna try?” He froze as he took her in. Her makeup was perfect- her lips just the right shade of red; her long black gown was open to show her long legs and she smelled wonderful. As he regained his composure he realized she had a bottle of cologne in her hand, she was a fragrance model. “It’s called ENOUGH, its debuting today and it’s guaranteed to make your girlfriend realize you’re all she’ll ever need.” She smiled again and winked at him and said, “Hi, my name is Marcy”

Blaise didn’t come in shopping for cologne but when Marcy wearing that big smile, pointed at him with a spritzer bottle, he responded: “sure, why not.” He found that he did like the fragrance. Smells like a man, he thought. He enjoyed feeling fresh, clean and masculine with a touch of cologne or aftershave. It reminded him of his dad. On Sunday morning his dad told them that a man needs to clean up and be ready to stand before God. He would wear his best shirt and use his best cologne. During the week he would head straight for the shower when he came home from the shop. After a while his dad would come down with nails clean, hair combed back and smelling like a dandy just to please Mom. That’s what a family man does his dad had taught him, always come clean to the dinner table. Without a second thought, Blaise had Marcy ring it up. The fragrance would be his present for Camille, his wife.

On Monday Blaise had to be up early for work. After he showered and dressed, he remembered the new cologne he’d bought over the weekend. Because he was going to the office, he sprayed himself lightly, just ENOUGH he smirked to himself at the clever play on words.

In the bedroom, Camille was getting a whiff of something powerful coming from the bathroom, and she felt her stomach turn. What on earth?! When she sensed Blaise coming into the room, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She still had another hour before the alarm rang for her. Blaise stood over the bed trying to decide whether or not to wake her so that she could enjoy him and his new cologne. Camille wishing for him to go away with that smell, kept her eyes closed and pretended to roll away from him in her sleep. Blaise tiptoed out of the room and headed to work.

Blaise was greeted by Mrs. Meddles at the front desk like any other morning. She was an older woman who reminded him of his mom. She was always ready with a smile and a cheerful good morning as everyone came in. “Don’t you look dapper today?” Blaise gave her a shy smile “just as I do every day” he told her and continued on his way down the hall. She stared after him a little longer as he walked out of sight and then it hit her, it was the fragrance that made him look different. He was wearing cologne today and she could swear he had a spring in his step. Or did he? She asked herself. She remembered Bill when he was that age. He would get playful whenever he wore cologne. She loved that clean fresh shaven smell. It was like the chicken or the egg. Did he get frisky because he was wearing cologne or because of her reaction to him? It was so long ago, she felt lonely all of a sudden. It had been years since she and Bill….. The last heart attack took her Bill away. The stranger in her house just stared at her when she got home each evening. Did he remember? Fragrance is a powerful thing. She wondered if she were to buy his old cologne or her perfume would he have a reaction? Would there be at least a flicker, a bit of recognition in his gray eyes? “Good morning, don’t you look nice today?” she was grateful for the interruption. “Good morning, Mrs. Meddles. It’s always nice to see your smiling face in the morning.” said Mary Grey. Mrs. Meddles was glad to have people streaming in regularly now as she greeted each one with a smile and a cheerful comment.

On the other side of town, Camille was arriving at work. As she got in the elevator, she heard Winnie Madison call out “hold it for us!” Winnie came running to catch the elevator to their office, followed closely by her boyfriend, Randall. Camille had heard all about Randall who worked on the same floor of their office building. Winnie and Randall started saying their goodbyes, and Camille tried to focus on the numbers above the door in front of her as the elevator made its way up to the 22^nd floor. Winnie told her it was difficult for her to be apart from him during the day. “Doesn’t he smell wonderful?” Winnie asked “I can just eat him up” Camille didn’t know where to look, but she had noticed a smooth, wood and musk fragrance as the elevator doors closed. She was feeling lightheaded as she got off the elevator. Camille didn’t want to remember all the intimate details Winnie had shared but found herself wondering if it was true what they said about fragrances and pheromones. She thought of Blaise.

During the coffee break, Camille asked about Randall’s fragrance. She admitted it was pleasant and told Winnie that she was thinking of getting new cologne for Blaise for Father’s Day. She told her of the incident that morning with whatever cheap, awful smelly thing that he wore after he showered. “Of course, I know what kind it is; I bought it for him this weekend. They were presenting it to the public at the mall. It was a little pricey, but I think it’s worth it. It’s called ENOUGH but be careful, it may be too much for you and Blaise.” They shared understanding giggles. Camille decided to go after work to pick up a bottle, but Winnie teased, “Fragrances don’t have the same reaction on everyone you know.” Camille smiled; she didn’t think she would wait for Father’s Day to find out.

Day Eighteen: Compose a Series of Anecdotes; the same narrative from a different point of view. #everydayinspiration

School Ratings, Beyond the Number

abc books chalk chalkboard — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The task for this assignment was to “mine” material, or story ideas from the web, old drafts, social media, etc. the inspiration came at me from Discover on Reader. The post is https://integratedschools.org/2018/05/30/the-problem-with-great-schools/comment-page-1/?blogsub=confirming#blog_subscription-6 Author Ali McKay from Integrated Schools.org, wrote an article which addressed questions that had been on my mind for some time. I understood the piece was encouraging parents to look beyond the numbers published by the GreatSchools.org rating systems. She explained that based on her own experience, she was pleasantly surprised that although the school she chose for her family was not in the top percentile, the school has been a good match for her children of different ages and skill level. The system does not give a complete picture of whether or not that school is a good fit for your child as it doesn’t take into account other tangibles such as the human factor. Ms. Mckay also notes there appears to be a correlation between racial percentages and the number indicators. The author notes that GreatSchools’ president, Mathew Nelson, encourages parents to visit the school and talk to parents in the community before making the decision that’s right for them. Where I come from that is called CYA on the part of Mr. Nelson. Check out the article attached for more.

There are many aspects of the public education debate that cause me to have concerns. As I was doing additional research to substantiate my post, I went down the proverbial rabbit hole. I found more unsettling articles about where our political leaders are taking public education, and as I have said before, these problems did not start with the 2016 elections but at least back to the Reagan area. I decided to leave a good portion of my findings to dole out in smaller increments and will publish them over the summer.

Questions about the future of public education have been swirling in my head for decades; since I sat on School Improvement and Education Reform meetings when my own kids were in school. However, now that I have a granddaughter who just finished Kindergarten in a Public School system this year, I’m forced to look at the question that I’ve been avoiding – “now what?” On a personal level, we are grateful that she had an uneventful year, considering that active shooter drills are now part of the school experience. Some liken them to fire drills or duck and cover drills in my era – but not quite. She’s a bright, resourceful and caring child but she is not a fan of going to school because she hates just sitting around for long hours (paraphrasing). She enjoys learning, and her parents make sure she and her sister have plenty of resources at home to complement their education.

The school, my granddaughter, attended last year was about a couple of miles from her home and was rated an overall 7 and 8 for test scores by GreatSchools.org. According to the report on the site, the student body is 85% white, 4% mixed race/ethnicity, 3% black and 12% are considered low-income families. For the most part, her parents heard good things about the school and yet at the beginning of the school year, they worried about the choice to send her public schools. Both parents are college grads, volunteer on a once or twice a month on a regular basis. They find the administrative support staff is pleasant and the teachers that they have encountered seem interested in the success of the students. The school has one principal, no assistant, and one counselor hour for every one hundred students. There is one nurse and one art teacher that come to the school two days a week and work at another school two days a week. They have a resource room to watch pre-recorded lessons, a library and they have a computer room. It appears that this school’s focus is teaching to test scores.

By comparison, a friend of the family has children in public schools within the city limits approximately ten miles from the other school. On GreatSchools.org that school has an overall rating of 5 and for test scores a 6. The student body makes up is 43% white, 36% black, 10% mixed ethnic/race, 67% low-income families. Both parents also college grads and both parents also volunteer in the school. The school has a more interactive educational approach and a fine arts and recreation program which include music and art lessons after school. The kids seem to have a more enjoyable experience, but l may be projecting.

When this family wanted to move, they tried to find an affordable house within that school district. With the fluctuation of the housing market, they did not find what they were looking for. The other option was to move out of the city limits, which would put the kids in the County’s School system and they could then apply for the School Choice Option. If accepted the parents had to pay fees comparable the city’s cost per child rate. On paper the idea sounds great, at least if they don’t live in the district, they can take still take advantage of the school’s programs, without using tax dollars. Keep in mind this is a “low rated” school.

I worked Real Estate for several years and more often than not, I would meet young families with corporate transfers who had researched schools online and would not consider anything outside of the recommendations of the school rating system, often these homes had bigger price tags. Interesting to note is that many of the ads on these sites are sponsors by real estate companies. Ali McKay’s article presents this as an example of modern segregation in today’s education system and consequently the Real Estate market.

To emphasize Ms. MacKay’s point about GreatSchools.org ratings, I found just by comparing these two schools; the score is not necessarily a reflection of how good or bad a school is. The school in the city with a more varied student body was rated 2 points lower than the other school. I find it ironic that the school with the better test scores and higher rating has limited resources in some essential areas. Is it that the school has not requested additional funds or it is overlooked in the budget because the school with the better scores has already tested well? What are we missing? What is the X factor?

Day Sixteen: Mine Your Own Material #everydayinspiration

A book that opened eyes

The previous assignment was quite a challenge for me. It was to recreate a single day with no backstory, flashbacks, or foreshadowing. Imagining what may be ahead is part of my nature. To look beyond what I see in front of me is part of my writing style. Everyone has a backstory; sure some may call it baggage, but regardless it does affect our actions and who we are in present day. I was feeling boxed in by staying within the confinement of the day. Every time my mind wandered to the past or the future, I had to reign myself in.

Today’s #everydayinspiration option: Tell us about a book that opened your eyes when you were young, or younger in my case. I chose this option because I knew exactly which book I can effortlessly talk about. It is “The Four Agreements” by Dr. Miguel Ruiz. I have referenced this book in part in my previous posts, and today I decided to take the opportunity to tell you a little more.

I was given this book many years ago by a new neighbor. Her name was Nora; we had spoken a few times, and one day as I was checking my mail, she stopped me and said: “I think you’ll like this.” She handed me the book and walked back to her apartment. I took it upstairs, read the cover, rolled my eyes and put it down. It read, A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom, The Four Agreements, A Toltec Wisdom Book.

After a couple of days, curiosity got the best of me, and I picked up the book and started reading. After all, how many times had I heard that you couldn’t judge a book by its cover? I read a few chapters that night, but quite frankly, I was not in the mood for the mumbo-jumbo about dreams and energy of the light and the stars, the earth and humans. I put it away. When Nora asked, I told her I had started to read it but got too busy with work and classes and family.

Fast forward to a year or so later, and I was between flights at an airport looking for something to read because I had forgotten my book. On display out front of the store I saw, From The New York Times Bestselling Author, Don Miguel Ruiz – Wisdom from The Mastery Of Love. Bestseller? Well, whadda ya’ know? I picked up a copy and started reading. The four-hour flight was enough to get me hooked. This seemed an easier read, or maybe I was ready to understand it. When I finished, I dug out the other book and read it too. It all made sense now. I’ve read each book a few times, and when the author and son teamed up to explain the Fifth Agreement, I read that too.

The “Wisdom” is not magic or beliefs of rituals with supernatural powers. It’s actually common sense insights that we have heard before from our parents, teachers, and preachers or in this case, from Toltec healers. The simple way the message is delivered is part of the charm. This wisdom is broken down into an uncomplicated formula- The Four Agreements. I will share my impression of what I’ve read.

Be Impeccable with Your Word: I take great care to make sure that when I speak, I speak with integrity. I think I show immense strength when I am honest in sharing my thoughts, and I try to be clear for others to understand me. If I disagree, I am mindful not to attack the person but to address the behavior. I think when one is conscious of how words are used, and the effect they can have on another person, one demonstrates respect for the power of the word.
Don’t Take Anything Personally: This agreement is one I find is particularly liberating for me. You may have noticed that on my blog I often bring up the idea that each person is living his or her own story. Each one is dealing with issues that may be foreign to the next person. The basic premise is that nothing the other person does is because of you. They are wrapped up in their reality; each one is the “star” if you will, of their movie. Sometimes we are hurt by someone because of their belief system. Once we learn that their opinion does not define us, we are free.
Don’t Make Assumptions: You probably have heard the saying that starts – When you ass-u-me you make… . The truth is when we assume; our imagination goes beyond the reality which can lead us to distress. Clear communication is such an essential part of our lives to avoid misunderstanding, sadness, and drama. When we make assumptions, our preconceived ideas make it almost impossible to move toward a solution. Learn to ask the right questions that will get you the answer you seek.
Always Do Your Best: Our best changes from day to day or even from each moment. Our best is different when we are in good health or when we are ill. The important thing is to put in all your effort. Don’t judge or abuse yourself in any way just because your approach is different from the mainstream. When you do your best – whatever that means to you, be proud that you did it to the greatest of your ability –no regrets.
Be Skeptical but learn to listen: This is another great truth that you’ve heard before. Just because a leader sad so, doesn’t mean you have to jump off the bridge. I have also written about listening to different opinions but in the end, research to confirm the truth. Just because you are trying to be “impeccable with your word,” doesn’t mean everyone else is. I remember a colleague used to say. “There are two sides to every story, and the truth lies somewhere in the middle.”

Revisiting these agreements at different times has helped me take another look at situations in my life. I have found that they blend well with my belief system and at times I have felt “enlightened” when I am moved to practice them. There was a time when I was giving this pair of books to family, friends, and colleagues. I know some people were able to take it to heart and expressed gratitude. Some even said it had changed their life by taking another look at some simple truths.

Day Fifteen: Take a Cue from Your Reader #everydayinspiration

This post is not a paid endorsement; just a response to an assignment as stated above. I hope it was helpful. Thanks for stopping by.

Book cover — The Four Agreements by Dr. Miguel Ruiz courtesy of Barnes and Nobles

The Girls were home today

alarm alarm clock antique bell — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The alarm went off as usual at 6:30 AM even though it was the weekend. She heard Cason go into the shower and wondered where he was going so early today. She rolled over got comfortable again. It was too early to the day to start. She heard him getting dressed and in a short while he mumbled something about the Club on his way out the door. Whatever the reason that got him up and out this morning, she was grateful.

Time to get moving

The sun peeked through the blinds, and Arielle Delsapo jumped out of bed with excitement. It was already 7:30 in the morning! The kids were home for the weekend, and she loved it! She planned to cook their favorite meals and pour on the loving. Arielle still liked to make everything special for them whenever she had a chance. She believed that if they found love and tranquility in their home, the world would seem like a better place.

Not ready to tell them

Arielle pulled the curtains and opened the windows. It was important to let the bright morning sun and fresh spring air fill every corner of the house with the beginning of a brand new day. She quickly stuffed the bed covers in the hall closet and arranged the cushions on the couch. She wanted to enjoy the day and not waste time explaining why she was sleeping on the sofa bed. Satisfied that everything looked, as usual, she went to the room to shower and change.

Time to Cook it up

She looked at the time. She was glad Cason has gone to the club early this morning; he would probably be gone all day. That worked out fine. It was 8:30 AM, surely the girls were awake already. Like her, they were early risers but were enjoying a lazy Saturday morning, reading in bed and cuddling with the cats. She knew once she started cooking, the smell of all their favorites would make it impossible to stay in bed. She lovingly prepared pancakes, scrambled eggs, crisp bacon. Her Dad would be here soon with an Italian breadstick warm from the bakery, and they would have real butter.

She knew the kids would want coffee. She took out her mom’s stovetop espresso maker for some old fashion “café con leche.” The coffee would go on last to make sure they had a freshly brewed pot. She knew they would be out in the kitchen as soon as the fusion of aromas reached the bedrooms and announced that breakfast was ready. She put out food for the cats and sat to drink some by the window as she waited for them all to get up. She enjoyed the smells and the sounds of a peaceful house. The curtains waved gracefully in the morning breeze hypnotizing and transporting her to another place full of anticipation and hope. She sipped her tea and let it take her away…..

The Kitchen smells of love

Arielle was snapped back to her kitchen as quickly as she had slipped out. Lovey came into the kitchen sniffing the air with her eyes closed. “The cat wanted to get out. Hmmmm, yum – where’s the coffee? “ Annie followed shortly after, she put her head down on the kitchen table and grumbled, “coffee?” Relieved for the interruption of her thoughts, Arielle jumped up to get a couple of mugs.

The Grandpa and the fresh bread

As expected, her Dad arrived on cue with the warm bread, at 9:30 am. The girls were always happy to see him. “Abuelo!” Hugs and kisses all around. Lovey grabbed another mug and plate, and Annie got the milk. They all sat around the table. They ate, laughed, and put on another pot of coffee. Before they knew it, it was almost noon, and the girls were still in their pajamas. Her Dad said he had errands to run and managed his goodbyes, without shedding a tear but he marveled one more time at how grown-up they were.

An eventful day

The girls wanted to get some things before they got back to school. All three headed to the Mall. The warm Spring weather was encouraging as they searched for jeans, sandals and sleeveless shirts. It was 1:30 PM. They were just about done but decided to check out which movies were playing. Surely they could get a matinee in before dinner. The girls had planned to meet up with friends afterward, and they tried to negotiate a time. Arielle called Cason to see if he had a preference for dinner, but he said he couldn’t make it and they should make plans without him.

Matinee and dinner

They picked a “chick flick” a romantic comedy about mothers and daughters adapting to major life changes. It was almost 7:00 pm when it was over. They chose a new restaurant nearby. It was trendy with just the right lighting, music and the food was good. While they were waiting for dessert, Ariel took a deep breath and said “I’m done. I’m getting a divorce.” The girls looked at each other and finally Annie said, “Well its about time!”. “No kidding” echoed Lovey. They hugged their mom. They were not children anymore. They had seen the writing on the wall.

They enjoyed their desert and headed home. Lovey and Annie crossed paths with their step-dad Cason, who was going out for the night. The girls decided to stay home with their mom and played Forty-Fives for awhile before going to bed. Arielle went to the hall closet and took out the bedding for the sofa-bed. She was glad to have spent another great day with her girls. She went to their rooms and kissed each one good night. They were reading, and each one had a cat snuggling under the sheets.

Day Fourteen: Recreate a Single Day #everydayinspiration

Beach after the Storm

Beach and rain — a hint of sunlight in the distance in an otherwise gray and dismal day.

Even though we have had severe weather warnings and plenty of rain, I decided to take the scenic route this afternoon. Rather than go a short ride up the Interstate, I decided to drive along the shore to one of the only beaches in the area where I can go with my Baby Girl. She’s not a fan of the beach or too much sun and heat. It doesn’t matter that she was just groomed and her hair is short. She hates getting her feet wet or walking for too long on the hardened sand that still manages to get in between her toes and stuck to her.

I have to excuse her; she is a mixed-breed, and her identified ancestral lineages were designed and destined to be lap dogs for royalty. She likes to play catch and tug-of-war, but she is perfectly content if she is cuddling with a human on the couch or in bed. I don’t usually take her to the beach, but if the weather is right, she doesn’t mind the outdoors and is happy to sit quietly with me to people watch.

We saw the black clouds hanging in the sky at a distance as we crossed the bridge to the island. It’s always a treat to look over the bay and inlets as we drive over. We noticed that water was starting to accumulate on some of the front lawns and gardens. I was wondering if any streets were going to be a problem, although it was probably too soon for any roads to be underwater. I was hoping we were driving just behind the rainstorm so that we could stop in at the beach and sit for a bit. We opened the windows to smell the ocean air and minimize the wet-dog smell.

The beach was gray today. On the far end of the shore, the clouds parted to let the sun peek through, but here the sky and the water, even the sand took on the gray tinge. The wind was steady and strong; it seemed to have rummaged through the depths of the sea to bring up the pungent smells of musty seaweed and briny marine life. My Baby Girl didn’t like that either; she squinted her eyes when the wind picked up around her and sniffed the air. Not far away another dog barked excitedly when he saw her, but she prefers to play with people. She looked up but ignored him and continued on her way examining all the smells along the shoreline as we walked.

Except for the wind and crashing waves of the unusually turbulent surf, the beach was quiet. Snowbird season is over, lawn furniture was put away, and many houses looked vacant. There were people sprinkled about on blankets and a few walkers near the water. There was not the usual laughter, the noisy buzzing of conversations or music playing. A group of young people talked among themselves trying to decide if it was worth it to put up the volleyball net. They seemed to have decided it was. Baby Girl and I sat on a bench for a little bit longer but she was getting restless, and it was getting late. We could hear the traffic start to form on the road, so we packed our things and headed home.

Day Ten: Let the Scene Write Itself #everydayinspiration
Please remember that I am looking for ideas for my assignment #15. What do you think I should write about and how? Add a comment to this post or go to Contact Me at the top of the page. Thanks, much appreciated.

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