MEMORIES

Photo courtesy of dreamstimefree_245756     
     Childhood, family, friends, first love, someone disliked--perhaps hated. They all stick in a writer's memory waiting until they can be placed on a page. Transformed--usually--until they're unrecognizable.
     My first short story was about family--though I didn't realize it at first. It took place in my apartment and was about remembering happenings with parents, aunts and uncles while waiting to travel to a service for my grandmother.
     My grandparents escaped a pogram in Russia and came to America. The story of their escape depended on who in the family was telling the tale. I liked my mother's story best--she tended to embroider and I hung on every word. They lived--first on the lower east side of New York and then in Bristol, Rhode Island where my grandfather worked in a shoe factory. My mom told me stories about jumping over puddles, being chased by a bull because she was wearing a red dress and ending up in the Old Soldiers Home. One of my favorite stories was about Christmas and the landlord who rented them the house they lived in. the landlord came by making my grandfather very nervous. Grandpa thought he would evict them because he and grandma had seven children; instead he presented my grandfather with seven pullets--one for each child.
     I adored my aunts--Claire was modern and read the latest magazines. Molly, the youngest, I asked for advice on dating. Betty--the do-gooder in the family--belonged to charitable organizations and Gus was the intellectual who took me to see Japanese films. The uncles all had a sense of humor and gatherings were filled with jokes and puns. I have a lot of material to draw from...how about you?

Bests,

Elise

SIDE EFFECT

June 28th was a memorable day in my life. The day when Scene Stealer was launched by Carina Press, I can’t remember what the weather was like but in my mind it must have been sunny, warm and lovely. I expected to receive “Congratulations,” from family and friends and I eagerly and nervously awaited reviews but something I never expected would happen—happened—once a few of the relatives and friends read the book and expressed their secret desire to write. My problem was they wanted to partner up and write with me. How do you tell the people you love and care about that you’re a loner enjoy characters that emerge from my imagination and—in your humble opinion—they should sit down with pen, paper, typewriter or computer and give it a try.

It isn’t easy. One relative continued communicating but I don’t think he finished the book. A friend took my advice but I’ve heard nothing further.

How many of you enjoy a partner? How many are loners like me? How many have friends who suddenly decide to write?

Bests,

Elise

Grandma's House

Sunday. When I was a child, we spent Sundays at grandma's house-really an apartment in upper Manhattan across from Baker's Field. If we sat on the fire escape we could see Columbia students playing football (actually half a field of football.) The fire escape afforded a restricted view but hey-it didn't cost a cent and none of had any money to spare. Don't why we called the apartment grandma's, grandpa lived there too. he had a wealth of stories and though he claimed to be an agnostic, they were almost all biblical stories.

The entire family spent Sunday at the apartment. We brought cake-a Sunday treat. One aunt would make a chicken, another a brisket and my mother would make her pea soup complete with marrow bones. While we ate each relative would try to outdo the other by making a pun. I.E. "I cod eat more than you." "The halibut you can." "Clam up." They were pretty bad.

Afternoons would be spent discussing politics and the discussion would get louder and louder. Everyone had their say including the children. The discussions kept us reading and aware of the world during our childhood and into our adult years. I miss those afternoons.

Bests,

Elise