59/365 bread

My father was a baker, and made countless types of breads.  White bread, rye, pumpernickel, sourdough; you name it, he made it.  His giant hands would form the bread so evenly each time.  And the taste, oh, the taste -- better than anything I will ever taste again, I dare say.  He taught me how to like sardines on rye bread.  I miss him, and I miss his bread, too.
Throughout the years, bread has been a substantial part of the dinner table.  Maybe just a loaf of white, or a nice semolina with Italian food, or pumpernickel to slather with butter to go along with your salad.
Bread is holy in its way.
My dad worked seven days a week when he had his bakery, and said he figured God would forgive him for not going to church on Sundays, because he was making The Daily Bread.
I hve never made my own loaf of  bread, odd as thta may seem.  Now that my father is gone, I've lost my teacher, you might say.
Bread.  So rich in carbohydrates, it's the bane of all the dieters.  But how could you deny the body such sustanence, as rich as a piece of crusty and soft bread.

dad and me, 1981

*A free-write is a type of automatic writing, where you just go with your stream of consciousness non-stop. There's no thought to spelling or grammar, and no editing of words. Supposedly this opens the mind up to greater creativity. They can be 5, 10 or 20 minutes long. Suggestions for freewrites are always welcome. Visit Evie, with whom I freewrite, at the space between colors.

in remembrance



My dad is buried in Calverton National Cemetary. He served in the Army, during WW2, in New Guinea and the Phillipines. I've barely visited his grave in the past 21 years... just twice, in fact. It is far from here, and I wouldn't go without my mother, who has the motorized wheelchair, which is impossible to take apart and put in a car. The one thing I would worry about, if he were not at Calverton, is how much disarray the tombstone is in. Is it over-strewn with twigs and dead leaves? Did someone knock the stone over? These things would bother me. But, I can rest assured that the grounds around my father's grave are beautifully groomed at all times.


Tomorrow, Memorial Day, there is a special ceremony on the grounds of the cemetary. Each and every tombstone has a small flag placed next to it. I imagine it must be very touching. Maybe next year me and my mom will get to see it somehow.

I wish everyone a Happy Memorial Day, and lets not forget the meaning of the day. Hope you wore your poppy proudly.
  (not my pictures)

a day to remember

My niece is going to be induced today.... a significant day in that my father died 18 years ago on this day, and John Lennon died 28 years ago on this day... both heroes in my life....... so it turns out this day will be a birthday! I am glad about that. My dad would be glad about that, too. I trust he is looking down on his grand-daughter and smiling.


I am going to go down to the hospital to join my sister and my niece in the waiting, which is bound to be long, as the process has not even started yet.

I have put up my tiny Charlie Brown tree. It is maybe 2 ft. high. I couldn't find any of my hanging ornaments, or the manger, or the star... they are all at the bottom of a storage closet that I just can't tackle. But I did what I could to add a little Christmas charm, lol.  The little elf sitting in the tree was found on the street by my father many years ago.. it was tattered and torn, but he felt it deserved to be on a tree, so he picked it up and took it home.

friday night

I was writing my novel, and came to what was a flimsy ending, saying in one paragraph what should have been said for another thirty pages, probably. This made me feel like I was done with it for a couple of days, so I started editing it from the beginning. I kept having a nagging feeling that I wanted to write more, and felt bad I had ended it.... As if I didn't have the power to undo that.. or do it up better, rather. So, tonight I deleted that last paragraph, and I will be continuing to live with my characters for a while longer. Forget trying to edit on the computer; I need a hard copy for that, and have no ink in the printer right now.

My niece, who was due on Nov. 27th, still hasn't given birth yet. She is anxious as can be, and we are all anxious for her. Come on, little guy, come out and greet the world!

I am finding it hard to believe it is December. I'm not feeling very Christmassy yet, and I think that could change when the baby comes.

The 18th anniversary of my father's death is December 8th, so this is usually a rather down period of time for me. It would be something if the baby was born on that day, transforming it completely. Of course, it is already transforming this time, I believe.

I think about the 18 years since my father has died. I have never been the same since. I never truly regained the joie de vivre that I used to have. He was the dearest father, and my best friend. Such a large presence in my life that his absence is a huge hole unable to be filled, no matter how many years go by.

hometown

The "Creative Every Day" theme for this month, is "Words"... and so I thought I'd begin with a bit of personal history.

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I have lived in Brooklyn all my life. Except those times when I lived somewhere else. I was born in Maimonides Hospital, which no one pronouces correctly, with the probable exception of Jews. I know how to pronouce it, but I am not Jewish.

When I was in the first grade, at Public School 169, I made my father an ashtray out of clay. I carried it home, holding it in both hands, intent on keeping if safe. I walked the two long blocks from seventh to fifth avenue. The street to the left of the sidewalk, the rock wall of Sunset Park to my right.

As I stepped off the curb, I studied my hands holding the ashtray, and in that split moment it fell to the street, and broke in too many pieces to ever be put back together again. That's what happens when you study your hands.


My mother would pick me up for lunch every day. We would go to Meyer's or Holstein's. Real Ice Cream Parlours. I ate tuna on light white toast, and a bowl of cream of chicken soup. Every day. Sometimes mom would make the tuna sandwiches, and we'd sit in Sunset Park, across from the school.
The park went from 5th avenue to 7th ave, and from 44th street to 42nd street. Diagonally to the park, on the 5th avenue side, was Sunset Bakery. My mom and dad's bakery.
Mom was brilliant with her full red lips, and vibrant laughter. Sometimes she'd have a box with my Young People's Book Club selections... bringing it along because she knew how hard I'd wait for them. My mother is 81 now... ever brilliant, though her full lips are a more demure shade of frosted pink. Her laugh is still full of life... despite all odds.