Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit

Posted on January 9, 2020 by hdh

Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit

“Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit;” it’s the first thing you are supposed to say on the first day of every month, in order to ensure that you will have good luck for the rest of the month. At least that is how the folk legend goes. (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabbit_rabbit_rabbit) 

I should have known that folk legends are just that, stories made up to make people believe that something really happened or will happen. At the time, I was not a storyteller yet, that wouldn’t happen for another 8 years, so I was rather naive. 

The year was 1972. Her name was Noya as in Annoya and Paranoia. I was 21 and she was my first car. She was a 1966 Mercury Comet sedan. Buying a used car was all I could afford, and for the price that I paid for her, Noya was mine.  Of course, when you buy a used car you have to expect there will be some extra expenses that come along with it. I knew that would happen, but I wasn’t prepared for the amount of them I would have to deal with.

The first clue I had was the windshield wipers. It didn’t rain the first month I had the car, so I had no clue that there was a problem with the wipers. However, I was out one evening driving on dimly lit roads when a torrential downpour occurred. I switched on my wipers and they worked for a very short time and then froze in place. Choosing to pull off the road, I turned on the turn signal to let everyone else know that I was exiting the road, when low and behold my wipers started working again. Well, sort of…every time my turn signal light went on, the wipers moved, and every time the turn signal blinked off the wipers would stop. So as long as the turn signals were on I would get a stuttering set of wipers, which as soon as my turn was complete and the blinkers reset to neutral, the wipers stopped again completely in whatever position they were in. For the long trip home, cars behind me had no clue what that crazy driver in front of them was doing. 

The next big event I had to go to was the wedding of my friends Allen and Nancy which was to take place in New Rochelle, NY, about 60 miles away from where I lived in Stony Brook, NY. I was taking another one of their friends, Robin, to the wedding. It only took us 25 minutes, about 12 miles from our starting point on a parkway, when I heard the loud clunk then screeching sound, and felt the car slow down. I pulled the car off onto the grassy side of the highway, little knowing that when the driveshaft that connects the front car wheels with the rear wheels snaps in half you can furrow a deep trench in the ground. Needless to say, the car was shot, had to be towed, we had to hitch a ride back to Stony Brook, so Robin could get her car and drive us to the wedding reception, having missed the actual wedding. 

Skidding on ice on my way to student teaching one winter’s day on tires that should have known better also gave me an understanding of why Noya was so aptly named. 

And those are just a few of the minor/major repairs that I had to deal with during my first few months of owning Noya. She co-existed with me for more than a year. As I was preparing to begin what would be a 33-year teaching career in Shoreham-Wading River, I decided that I would have to put her out to pasture. In the end, she cost me about 3 times more in repairs than her original purchase.  

———————

It was August 1, 1973, when I woke up very hopeful. The first thing out of my mouth was…Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit. It was time to give up on used cars. I was about to start a real job. Thus began the story of “Little Hoops”. A 1973 Plymouth Duster, a manual shift car with the shift handle on the column, not the floor. Of course, I had never driven a shift car before. A tale for another time. 

 

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Work!

Posted on January 2, 2020 by hdh

Work!

Harry was beside himself, alone in his cubby, in a windowless office, staring at his computer screen. The clock on the wall read 4:00. Another hour of drudgery sitting behind his desk, reading reports, verifying the information online and trying to ignore all the loud comments from others about all the mistakes he was letting get through. Not only did he need a break from this tedium now; he needed a break tomorrow, and the next day and for the rest of his life. 

In his mind he could see himself, relaxing in a comfortable chair, a glass of Jameson in his hand, gazing out from his porch at the snow-capped mountains in the distance, while giving orders through his headset to all the sub managers working under him, making everything up as he went along, not having to deal with all of the crap his job entailed and getting paid for it. 

It was now 4:30. Wouldn’t it be more fun, if he was his own manager? He was in command, instead of being ruled by those around him. 

Again Harry’s mind wandered. There’s that mysterious benefactor that takes him away from all this monotony.  Harry is listening to the sweet sounds of nature around him. Feeling wanted by those he works with. Able to work from home, lots of flex time. That’s the life he wishes for and hopes for. 

The time clock finally reaches 5:00 and his workday is done. Time to go home and wish some more. 

Be careful, Harry, sometimes what you wish for does come true. But make sure you read the fine print.

Five weeks later…

Harry did have a benefactor. An unknown granduncle passed away and left Harry his entire animal farm, with just enough money, so that Harry could quit his job, sell his house and live on whatever he could make out of the farm. He chose to make it an animal sanctuary. 

It’s now 4:30 a.m. Harry is awoken to the sounds of nature, that would be the roosters crowing and the chickens and guinea hens calling to be let out from their coops. 

As he steps out onto the porch, a thermos of hot coffee in hand, he can see the mountains of hay and not to mention the piles of manure to be dealt with. Today is the day that not many volunteers show up to do the muck work, so he has to go out and do it himself. He finds himself going from pen to paddock attempting to get the pigs and horses to do his bidding, while he fills the water troughs, distributes the food, graciously donated by local food markets. Brushes the animals down and makes sure they are all healthy.

Yes, his animals love him for what he does, they must, for they never stop crowing, neighing, grunting, and howling.  The volunteers do help in doing some of the chores. Donations help sustain the farm, so he’s able to make do and survive. 

And the day progresses. The clock may eventually reach 5:00 p.m. but there are no set hours on a farm; all time is both scheduled and flexible. It’s rise at dawn and stop when every chore is done and the animals are put up for the night. 

Harry sits on the porch at the end of the day, flask of Jameson in his hand, as his mind wanders; Wouldn’t it be nice to work in my own cubby all day for a set period of time, have weekends off, not have to think about what must be done, just stare at a computer screen making sure everyone else did things correctly. One can only hope. 

————————————

Author’s note – I encourage all my readers to support local or regional farm animal sanctuaries. If you have none nearby, or want to learn more about them, here is the one that I support: https://www.unityfarmsanctuary.org/

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Saying Goodbye

Posted on December 19, 2019 by hdh

Saying Goodbye

It’s never easy to say goodbye.

You try to avoid it, you don’t even try.

You know it’s the last time that you will see,

The person you’re leaving, you must let it be.

So take a deep breath, let your thought be your guide.

Remember the good times, things you did by their side.

You were two, became one, and together you flourished.

With each passing day, your love it was nourished.

It’s time to let go; it’s time to move on.

Let the memories remain, though they’re physically gone. 

Let the music play forward and your song fill the air;

Let it fly through the sky, they will know you are there.

You remain in their hearts; their thoughts are of you.

They will never forget, you are one of the few.

So take solace, be brave, it’s okay if you cry;

‘Cause it never is easy when you say goodbye

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Stories Spark…

Posted on December 16, 2019 by hdh

Stories Spark

I feel saddened by the fact that kids growing up nowadays are missing out on all the wonderful stories that I grew up on. The fairytales, folktales, even some of the books we read are no longer shared with kids.

I’m a storyteller. So when I talk to children about certain fairytales and folktales, I get blank stares at times as if I’m talking in a foreign tongue. Even reading to children in some households has changed. I was explaining to an elementary class the other day that I used to read to my son up until he was in Middle School. That statement surprised the class. One student even said his parents stopped reading to him when he was about 2 years old because he was able to read to himself.

Stories are powerful tools. They help enhance your imagination and creativity. Research has even shown that they improve memory and learning. I can attest to that, things that kids tell me they remember from my tellings years after I shared that folktale or personal memory.

Nowadays children are given formulaic ways to write and think. I was in a class a few years ago where a consultant from Teachers College was doing a demo writing lesson for teachers in the class I was working in. He started the lesson by saying, “Boys and Girls, today we are going to do some freewriting; here’s how I want you to write.”

Between television, graphic novels, and the like, words take a back seat to the creating of your own images. The pictures in your mind are the ones you see on the page in the book or on the screen, not the ones you create. What a shame.

We need to bring back the spoken word. Bring back some of the stories and experiences of our youth. Share our own stories so that our legacy gets passed on.

It’s been said, “Those that do not learn from history, are destined to repeat it.”If we don’t share our stories, then there is little hope for us to learn from them.

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These times, they are a-changin’

Posted on December 12, 2019 by hdh

These times they are a-changin’

I grew up in the ’50s and ’60s. Television was becoming a household necessity. And with the growth of television came the growth of ads for everything, especially food and drink ads. Think to yourself what those ads and jingles meant to you as a kid. Those catchphrases like, “Have it your way” (Burger King), “Double your pleasure, double your fun.”(Doublemint Gum), “You deserve a break today.” (McDonald’s), naturally followed by “Give me a break” (Kit Kat), “Hot dogs, what kinds of kids eat Armour hot dogs? Fat kids, skinny kids, etc.” (Armour) “Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t” (Almond Joy and Mounds), and “Finger-lickin’ good” (KFC).

As a kid, each of those ads and jingles meant go out, eat and drink. Eat as much as you can; Any way you want it; Drink as much as you want; It’s what everyone else is doing, and “You’ll feel great!”.(by the way that’s Frosted Flakes). Of course, you had to end it all with Alka Seltzer (Plop, Plop, Fizz Fizz, oh what a relief it is) after eating and drinking so much just to settle your stomach.

Now I’m much older and those jingles periodically still pop up in my head as earworms. Sometimes their meanings sneak through to my head and stomach and still encourage me to eat and drink.  *Note that the drink sizes are greatly increased from my youth. 

The jingles’ catchphrases, on the other hand, have different meanings as an adult. “Have it your way” usually involves being stubborn and having disagreements with others. “You deserve a break today” and “Give me a break” usually involves administration and unions. “Sometimes you feel like a nut…” I’m sure involves politics and watching the news. “Finger-lickin’ good” has nothing to do with chicken, more so to do with baking cookies that involve a lot of melted chocolate. “What kinds of kids eat Armour hotdogs?” There are way too many labels that we put on kids nowadays including gender identity, learning disability, shape, size, intelligence, and more, to be able to list them all in a jingle. “Double your pleasure, double your fun…” Censors would probably prevent you from even considering an ad/jingle for that. 

And driving the last 40 miles until you finally find that rest stop after 5 hours of driving in stop and go traffic to a gathering with family and friends, knowing that you drank lots of brand name coffee, not to mention that big cup of soda that accompanied that lunch you had at the beginning of the trip at the fast-food restaurant, certainly gives “Plop, Plop, Fizz, Whiz” the true meaning of “Oh what a relief it is.” 

 

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The Power of a Word

Posted on December 5, 2019 by hdh

The Power of a Word

He knew the word of power, yet he always forgot to use it when it could be used effectively. Because of that many refused to give him the support that he needed every time he was put in a defenseless position.

It was a simple word. He could use it countless times, for its power never weakened. When he was young his mother first taught it to him. His father tried too.  But he modeled his behavior after his older brother. His brother was strong and everyone listened when his brother talked. His brother rarely used the word, so he probably didn’t need it. He had friends and belonged to groups that may not have been well respected but people followed them. 

But times had changed. His brother and friends eventually did not do well. And he watched as his brother was taken away. Now he was left on his own; No model to follow.

His thoughts returned to the lessons that he had been taught by his parents. And the word.  Would it be so hard to try and use it? Was his reputation so tainted by the acts he had followed of his brother that it would have no power anymore? What was there to lose?

 

It was hard at first, both remembering the word and knowing when to use it. But the more he used it, the more he gained. People began to look at him differently. He got help when he needed it. What’s more, his whole countenance changed. He became friendlier. Others asked to be his friend. Even his work habits improved. He became a different person. He became the role model for others. All because of the word. 

 

And what was that word? It’s not a secret. It’s not meant for the powerful alone, the superheroes, the rich, the privileged. It’s meant for everyone. When you learn it, and I’m sure you all have, keep it safe and use it often. Just remember to say, “Thanks.”

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the Power

Posted on November 21, 2019 by hdh

The Power

Being the smallest in my class had its problems. Everyone was bigger than I was. And Sam was the biggest. He never left me alone. It was the third time this week that he asked me to provide him with my lunch money. No matter how many ways I tried to avoid him, he managed to find me, whether it was on the playground, in the boys’ bathroom, or just on line waiting for the bus.

That all changed when my mother found out about it. She caught me taking money out of her dresser and I ‘fessed up. She said she would go to school and speak to the principal. I pleaded with her not to and told her to wait just until the middle of the following week. I said I would deal with it.

It’s a good thing that my mother had trust in me. It was also a good thing that on the weekend, she took me to the garage sale at Old Man Klein’s house. I was a little hesitant to go. Everyone in town knew that he was crazy. He would always yell at kids in the neighborhood if they made too much noise. He was even known to throw eggs at us when we waited for our school bus outside his house. But my mother was with me, so I felt safe to go to the sale.

Among all of the things, he had out on one of his tables I noticed a strange-looking stick. It was pretty small and only cost 5 cents. It had some writing on it, but not in a language that I understood. As I gazed at the stick, a gnarled hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to look into the face of Old Man Klein.

“I see you have good taste,” he said, staring into my face. I stood still, too scared to run or make a sound.

“That stick is meant for you. It has magical powers.” He paused and held it out to me in his hand, “Go ahead take it. Feel its power it will make you strong.”
As I held it in my hand, something came over me. I don’t know if it was power, warmth, or just confidence. I put my hand in my pocket and handed Old Man Klein, the nickel I had brought. The next thing I knew he was gone.

I put the stick in my pocket and forgot about it.


When Monday came Sam was there and as per usual demanding my lunch money. I remembered about the magic stick in my pocket, the confidence that I felt surged through me, and I said, “No! And if you try to do this again, I will make you give me your lunch money.”

Sam looked at me in awe. Whatever he saw in me, scared him. He backed away and stuttered, “Su..S..ure. You you keep your dirty old money. There are plenty more fish in the sea to fry.” And he left.

The magic stick had worked. I felt great. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that I wasn’t wearing the same pair of pants I wore at the garage sale. You know, the one that had the magic stick in the pocket.

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To be invisible…

Posted on November 14, 2019 by hdh

To be invisible

His wish was simple. He wished he was invisible. 

Why was it that every time he came to work, he was always needed by someone. “How do you do this?” “Can you help me with that?” “I’m having a serious problem, with that task; if I don’t finish it, I will lose my job. They told me to come to you.”

The problem was he had a job of his own to do which didn’t involve working with others. But he also knew that he was going to help all these people and answer all of their questions because that was the kind of person he was. He would have to complete his own work on his own time.

He wished he was invisible.

Unfortunately, that was not going to happen at home until the kids went to sleep. For at home the requests continued. “Dad, can you help me with my homework?” “Dad, you were going to show me how to set up the computer.” “Dear, I’m running late for my PTA meeting, can you finish making supper?

He wished he was invisible.

So there it was late at night, everyone nestled cozily in bed while he was left alone in his study, writing. For that is what he did. He wrote. Unlike writing fiction, which had a self-imposed deadline, he was a journalist who had a fixed deadline. The news must be current and well written enough to entice their readers to stick with the journal he wrote. A loss of readership meant a loss of a job. So late hours it was, with little sleep, as days dragged on. 

Oh, how he wished he was invisible. 

But then during those short hours of sleep, he dreamt. And it was the same dream that recurred. It was like the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life”. He becomes invisible and there before him he sees a world of chaos and depression and anger that occurs without him there to be seen, without his support and help. 

And he realizes that he is, who he is and whether invisible or not, he would never let those that needed his aid and assistance remain helpless. They might be confused a bit, having invisible counsel, but in the end, they would be satisfied with the help received. And he would still get his work done and little sleep. Such is life. Hiding yourself from what you really are, deceives only you and in the end can only disappoint others. 

So for heaven’s sake!… Be the person you are meant to be. And visible.

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A Story

Posted on November 9, 2019 by hdh

A Story

It was so real. I was told that the virtual reality system would be but never believed that I would be so entranced within it. 

It started as just a simple day in the forest. There I was walking amongst the trees enjoying both the sights and sounds around me. And then she appeared. Standing slightly bent over from age, with long streaked gray hair, hobbling toward me, using a cane for stability. Despite the frail stature, I could see a strong life force within. She stopped and said nothing. 

I tried to engage her in conversation but she remained mute, only pointing to a bare space in the woods. As she ambled in that direction, I followed. We arrived at a square patch of dead ground, fallen leaves hid a wooden door in the ground. She opened the door and I followed her down a set of steps until we arrived at a room filled with pictures. The pictures were of me. Pictures from my youth to the present day. And in each one, she was there hidden behind me, watching over me and following everything I did. 

I tried to ask her who she was, and what all the pictures meant but got no reply; Only her finger pointing again, directing me to a table and chair. On the table, there was a notebook and a pen. I sat down and opened up the notebook and read its contents. It was all of the writing I had done in my life. My research, my creative thoughts, my memoirs. Everything. And yet the notebook still had lots of pages yet unfilled. 

I looked at her; her eyes glistened as she smiled and said, “I’ll always be with you. Now write.”

My time had run out. The scene before me went blank and I was back in the empty VR room. I paid my fee, went home and sat down at my writing desk knowing that my muse was there and wrote. 

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Room to write

Posted on November 1, 2019 by hdh

Room To Write

It’s writing time and I must find a place where I can sit down and be alone with my thoughts. Since I’m at home, a place should be easy to find. There’s the loft, my designated workspace; an open room laden with electronics. As I sit at my desk to write the shades are drawn in front of my window facing desk. No need to watch my neighbors dealing with their decks, lawns, and playing with their dogs. Though the glass sliding doors to my right are open and the sun shines brightly down through the overhead skylight, my focus is straight ahead, looking at my computer screen, searching for that one thought to write about that eludes me. Bookcases surround me, overstuffed with unopened music books on my right. Equally unused childhood books and language books on my left, daring me to read them and be distracted from the task at hand. Behind me tall shelves of story books; each filled with adventures from all over the world, calling to me, “Don’t write, come to me and I will tell you a tale of great people and adventures they had.” Though there are comfy chairs to sit in, I station myself at my desk, lean forward in my chair awaiting the thoughts needed to begin to scribe. Piles of scrap paper scattered all around me on my desk, taunt me with failed attempts to begin. Too many ideas, once started, never finished. I’m lost in a sea of nothingness. So much to write, but nowhere to begin.

But then a spark…Another room awaits.

Downstairs, there’s a room. It’s seldom used. There’s a writing desk against a blank wall, painted in a grayish blue hue. Shades closed on windows that provide little light, even in daytime. The warming glow of the standing lamp by the desk projects serenity, leaving my mind free to wander within itself. Yes, there are papers on the desk, but in this instance, they are neatly stacked and organized with story prompts, finished pieces of writing, collections of sentences in French and German; all there to encourage and inspire. The room has a bed on one wall, two dressers on opposite sides of me, separating his from hers, a small bookshelf from days past used by others to hold schoolwork and games

But all that disappears leaving only me, a chair and my desk. I am surrounded by the sweet smell of clarity, the low hum in the air of success. From within I hear, “Write, Write, Write… Coalesce those thoughts that are wandering through your head and put them on paper.  Move those fingers on the keyboard and Create, Imagine, Explore, Invent, and Write.”

And so I do.

My writer’s desk
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