Ninety-two Degrees, by Barbara Cartwright

It was Sunday afternoon, around four o’clock, and most people in Lawrenceville were sitting around, relaxing on the porch, or in the shade of a tree, or inside the house, near a fan. Or two. Or three. Yes, it was hot all right. But it was summer. And the citizens of Lawrenceville tended to take life easy in July and August.

Lawrenceville could be so damp and rainy in the fall. And cold and snowy in the winter. And teasingly warm and sunny as spring approached. Then suddenly all wet and drizzly as that promised season receded, not yet April but oh-so-sick-of-March.

So today, despite the heat — the radio had said it was 92 degrees — people were content.

Or somewhat so. Because you see when you mix a lazy afternoon with warm air and nothing to do, you get time on your hands. And the mind begins to wander. The mind takes on a life of its own.

Cynthia Huxtable could not stop thinking about her ringless fourth finger. She moaned in despair: “I can’t even call it my wedding hand. It’s just my plain old left one. The one I don’t write with. Don’t play tennis with. Can’t open jars with. My left hand was born to be married. And here it is: ringless, purposeless, with nothing to do in August of 2012 and it’s friggin’ 92 degrees outside.”

The worst of it, Cynthia realized, was that she had no prospects. In her teens, she had dated at high school but never anyone in particular for too long. And come to think of it, it was always too long between anyone in particular.

Her choice of college had been a good one academically but it was an all-girls school so no groundwork had been laid in the Prince Charming department. Now here she was back in Lawrenceville, where there were no single men, not a one, unless you counted Mr. Richards down at the hardware store. Yuck. Who was even counting, she thought.

Across the street, Edna Louise was washing the last of the floury bits off her hands and preparing to put her two peach pies in the oven. She was bound and determined to win the Lawrenceville peach pie contest this year and refused to entertain even the slightest possible notion that Mrs. Garrett would take the blue ribbon yet again. Mrs. Garrett did not have her secret ingredient. Mrs. Garrett was getting forgetful. And Mrs. Garrett was . . . well all Edna Louise could think of was that even though Mrs. Garrett had won three years in a row, this year the Best Peach Pie in Overton County belonged to Edna Louise.

Twelve-year-old Bobby Martin, over on Millerton Circle, was preoccupied. He wasn’t thinking about pie. He had no intension of getting married ‘cause girls sucked, in his opinion. And right now all he could think about, as he sat under the big maple tree in his front yard and slammed his genuine autographed Chicago Cubs baseball into his well worn leather glove — the one his brother Todd had given him just last year before he signed up for what he called the war in Eye-Rack — was why Tommy Tupper had chosen to bicycle out to Carson’s pond with Richard and Tyler and those two new girls in town, Kaneisha and Alyessia, when this was the time they always, and I mean always — without fail! — played catch over at Riverton Middle School.

Thwack. That was the sound Bobby’s ball made as it landed in his glove, never missing that well-warn dent in the palm. Thwack. Never losing the beat. Thwack. Never breaking with Bobby’s hypnotic routine and maybe, just once, flying up into the air over Bobby’s head, which would require Bobby to look up, anticipate and gauge the arrival of said ball and stretch out his gloved hand. No, there was no chance of that happening. Not today.

Thwack. Bobby’s hand reached in to get the leather orb, raised it, threw it — with such intension — right back in. Thwack. Damn you Tommy Tupper, Bobby thought. Thwack. Damn you too, Tyler Wells. Thwack. Damn you Richard and Keneisha and Alyessia, or whatever your names are. Thwack. Damn you all to hell.

And then, without knowing why or how, Bobby looked up and over at his bike and wondered how long it might take him to ride on out to Carson’s Pond. It was 92 degrees, for Christ’s sake. Time to swim. Time to hang out with friends. And later it would be time to go downtown and eat peach pie. Now where had his mother put his swim trunks.

“Mom,” he yelled as he walked toward the house. “Where are ya?”

  

I Used to Be, by Summer Killian

I used to be a tire 

and now I am the road

I used to be a toadstool 

and now I am the toad

I used to be an elephant 

and now I am her trunk

I used to be a stink 

and now I am the skunk

I used to be a swing 

and now I have been swung

I used to be a fly

and now I have been flung

I used to be a push 

and now I am the shove

I used to be a turtle 

and now I am the dove

Voices from Childhood: Instructions, Admonitions, Rules, Guidance, Advice, Etc.

A little bit of background:

Last Monday morning I was talking with some friends about TV shows — especially Westerns — that we used to watch when we were kids. "Sky King" was mentioned (and also his niece and nephew, Penny and Clipper) and that got me thinking about the Wonder Bread commercials ("Helps Build Strong Bodies 12 Ways"), specifically the way they showed sandwiches being cut into triangles. That was amazing to me! Our sandwiches got cut into rectangles. I asked Mom to make us triangle sandwiches, like they did on TV, but she said "We don't do any cutting on the diagonal in this house."

Which got me wondering …. what are some things that other people remember being told when they were children? I posted the question on Facebook, sent out an inquiry via e-mail, and annoyed everyone I came into contact with for almost a week. Here are the "voices from childhood" that people shared with me:

The only person you can trust with a secret is your mother.

Too much spice spoils the rice.

All the vitamins and nutrients in your food are stored in the very last bite you take, so eat up.

When in doubt, throw it out.

Don't sit on the "good couch" — that's just for company.

Chew with your mouth closed.

Go to the bathroom at least once, preferably twice, before leaving the house for school or a party or a car ride, etc.

Don't talk on the phone for more than 3 minutes at a time.

Tuck a subway token, a quarter, and a folded dollar bill into your sock, in case of an emergency.

Never accept a cigarette from anyone because a) don't you know you shouldn't be smoking!! and b) it might be a "funny cigarette" (marijuana).

Be more suspicious of your relatives than you are of strangers.

Play any kind of music you want as long as nobody outside of your bedroom can hear it.

Never answer the phone if you're home alone.

Always make friends with a librarian (and/or a policeman).

Don't slurp your soup.

Don't believe anyone who says "Honest to God and hope to die."

Don't whistle, not ever.

If you go to a party or a dance with a boy you have to come home with that same boy.

No Hellmann's mayonnaise — only Miracle Whip. 

We don't talk about this (or this or this or that) outside the house.

Don't pass gas in public.

No fans, not even on hot and humid summer nights in Brooklyn, because fans blowing on you while you sleep is unhealthy.

Don't drink anything while you're eating because it's not good for the digestion.

Don't eat ice cream in the street.

Get 8 hours of sleep a night.

Always shower before you go to bed.

Close the curtains when it gets dark, particularly those in the kitchen on the window that faces the neighbors.

Never hit your brother or sister in the stomach or other soft parts.

Don't tell the neighbors about Mom and Dad's fights.

Don't stare.

Don't pick up things from the ground.

Spit on the bait.

Take your shoes off in the house.

Only mommies are allowed to chew on the chicken bones because they know how to do it without choking.

Get in and out of the shower quickly; no dawdling.

Never fight with your sister in public.

Obey the rules of a Kosher home: no pork or shell fish; dairy products and meat are never cooked together nor eaten at the same meal; use separate sets of dishes, silverware, cooking utensils, pots and pans for dairy and meat. 

Don't plant lilies or tulips because they "aren't Jewish flowers."

No one has the right to ask anyone else how they voted in an election, because "America is about not having to tell."

Don't leave the table until everyone is finished eating.

Don't wear anything white before Easter or after Labor Day. 

Girls should behave with modesty; no sitting with legs crossed or raised up in any way.

Always dinner before dessert.

What goes on in the family, stays in the family.

Nobody, but nobody, sits in Dad's chair at the dinner table.

You must wear white patent leather shoes, and a hat, on Easter, along with a whole new outfit.

A little lip gloss and rouge is appropriate, but never eye shadow, especially not light blue eyeshadow, which is trashy.

No wrestling, not even on the futon.

You can stay up as late as you want as long as you don't wander around the house in the dark.

Don't cross your toes for too long.

Don't chew on someone else's water bottle.

Don't be mean to telemarketers when they call.

Don't do other people's homework for them.

When you eat out in a restaurant keep your pocketbook in your lap, never put it on the floor and certainly not on the table.

Under no circumstances wear horizontal stripes.

For safety, sit in the first subway car where the conductor is.

No roller skates in the house.

No singing at the table.

Be in before sundown, or the mosquitoes will eat you.

Don't touch the spiders, or you'll go to the graveyard.

Don't interrupt adults while they are talking.

Stay out of the pond; there's quicksand.

Don't talk back.

Eat what is in front of you and don't complain.

No crying unless you are visibly, physically hurt, and then only brief crying is acceptable.

Do not ride anything but the school bus to and from school.

Never lie about your age.

Don't go into any strange basements.

Spelling always matters.

It's better to show up early than late.

Look in the mirror and practice your most sincere-looking smile.

Unless you're planning to become a doctor you better improve your handwriting.

No dogs on the kitchen table.

Never let them see you sweat.

The good china must stay in Mother's china cupboard at all times, unless very special people are visiting, not just any guests, but very special guests.

Don't let the dog into any room that has carpet on the floor.

Rise and shine! Get out of bed before eight on Saturday mornings and start cleaning the house; the vacuum cleaner is waiting for you. 

If you like the night too much it means you are being influenced by the devil.

Don't climb the tree until you change out of your dress.

Never show someone else your underwear.

Sit down and practice the piano before you go out to play ball.

Never use the word ain't.

Hold your silverware correctly, you're not shoveling food into your mouth.

The word "stupid" is as bad as a curse.

No sugar after five o'clock.

Don't play with Silly Putty on the carpet.

Pull your pants up.

Don't crack up.

There is a Right Way, a Wrong Way, and a Best Way — seek solutions outside conventional thinking, don't automatically follow the expected, usual path.

Whenever possible, carry an extra pair of socks with you.

Change out of your "good clothes" and into your "house clothes" as soon as you come home from school.

Homework first, before anything else.

The whole family must sit down together for Sunday dinner, no matter what you would rather be doing.

Brush your teeth before you eat breakfast so you don't end up swallowing all of the germs that grew in your mouth overnight.

If you don't wash your dirty dishes immediately after use, at least rinse them with warm water before leaving them in the sink.

Always be sure to wear clean underwear to a doctor's appointment.

No horseplay while eating hard candy.

Don't eat your mocos (boogers).

Never show up to a party empty-handed.

You can't say you don't like something until you've tried it at least once.

If it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down.

You have to have a fever of at least 103 degrees in order to have a bottle of (closely hoarded because Dad grew up with it and you can't buy it in New York) Vernor's Ginger Ale.

Never cut crusts off bread or throw away the end pieces of a loaf "because people are starving in Biafra."

When you have a birthday party you must invite everyone in your circle of friends.

If you are too sick not to go to school, obviously you are too sick for any fun activity.

If a person asks for a tissue, never bring them one tissue, always bring them three.

Sit up straight at the table. 

If someone punches you in the eye . . . punch them right back.

Whatever route you take on a drive you must take a different route back home.

No one but the cook is allowed to criticize a meal.

If someone unsavory asks for your phone number don't say no because that might make them angry, but reverse the last 2 numbers and then walk away as soon as you can.

You are not allowed to miss a birthday party that you've been invited to: "How would you feel if no one came to your birthday party?" 

If you are sharing some treasure with another person (say, a piece of chocolate cake), one person divides it, and the other person chooses.

If you can't do it right, don't do it at all.

Hold back on food when guests come for dinner.

No talking politics at the dinner table.

Eat everything on your plate.

NIL (napkin in lap)

EOT (elbows off table)

"Stop running around upstairs! I want bedtime to be PLEASANT!"

Look up from your book when someone is talking to you.

Keep the compost and the trash separate.

Don't run around the house naked unless someone tells you it's okay to do so.

Don't chew on your shoelaces.

Refrain from shooting squirrels in the backyard.

Certain scissors may be used for cutting paper; other scissors are only used for cutting fabric.

Ask before using your mother's pens, paper, twine, gardening implements, saw, ladder, scissors, pruners, or anything else, really.

If you see deer, shout loudly to shoo them away from the garden.

Be polite when your father corrects your grammar.

Don't eat pepper when you're sick.

Take care of the books.

All the trees need to be looked at and admired every day.

If you make a cake for school you need to make another for home.

Don't mush the couch pillows.

Don't sing while your father is talking to you.

Do not, under any circumstances, bathe the cats in rose water.

Don't feed the raccoons who come to the backyard.

Don't pull the cat's tail.

Don't crack your knuckles.

Don't do anything that makes you sweat.

Never sign your real name on a petition or the men from the government will come to take you away.

Walk around barefoot if you want to but don't come whining to me when you step on a nail and have to have your foot cut off.

Take care of yourself because nobody else can do that for you.

When someone is your guest they get to pick what to do.

When you go under water be sure to blow out through your nose.

In general, just don't.

Empty your pockets when you come in from the park so no one has to go pick up the pebbles, pieces of wire, snails and frogs that will fall out later. 

Don't mix plaids and stripes.

Wipe that smirk off your face or you'll be laughing out of the other side of your head.

Always be kind.

Do something, even if it's the wrong thing.

Don't shuffle.

Don't smack your lips.

It's as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.

Only two cookies a day.

Don't swear around your grandparents.

If you made dinner, you don't do the dishes.

If you keep making those silly expressions your face will freeze that way.

Get your hair out of your eyes.

Turn off the lights when you leave a room.

Don't bounce your ball in this house.

Clean your plate before dessert.

Don't wiggle your hips. 

Vacuum the floors every six weeks whether they need it or not.

Don't spend any of your allowance on candy.

Close that door, you weren't raised in a barn.

No TV in the daytime.
No chewing gum, ever.
When you call someone on the phone you must say "Hi, this is ___, is ___ there?" even if you know that the person answering on the other end will already know it's you.
Only if the forecasted high is above 50 degrees are you allowed to wear shorts.
Don't drink milk from the carton.
Never lend your friends money, not even fifteen cents for candy at lunch, and don't ever borrow any money, either.
No reading at the table (except the backs of cereal boxes, artfully arranged at breakfast time on the kitchen table between you and your brother, who absolutely do not want to have to look at each other in the morning).
Do not lend anyone the George Carlin album you bought, because even though it's very funny, we don't want anyone else to know that we would have such a thing in our house.
Do not discuss any family problems with anyone else.
You are not allowed to know/ask how much money your father makes.
Never reheat food twice.

Be useful as well as ornamental.

Get out there on stage, smile, and be really cute.

Eat anything you want for breakfast, except rocks.

Thank you to all these contributors, listed entirely randomly and definitely NOT alphabetically, because it's time to break some rules:

Lynne Taetzsch

Sue Hirschberger

Logan Hagstrom

Phoebe Lakin

Antonia Matthew

Sharon K. Yntema

Karen Koyanagi

Judy Kugelmass

Weiwei Luo 

Lisa Todzia

Deirdre Silverman

Diane Sullivan

Sue Norvell

Kris Ebert-Wagner

Janie Carasik

Greta Singer

Courtney Schroeder

Barbara Force

Carol Bossard

Peter Quinn-Jacobs

Barbara Nowogrodzki

Martha Blue Waters

Zee Zahava

Laura Levinson

Aimee Hart

Deanalis Resto

Timothy Weber

June Wolfman

Laura Gates-Lupton

Draya Koschmann

Katy Heine

Randi Prieve

Chris Bankert Wray

Nancy Koschmann

Phoebe Shalloway

Seraphina Buckholtz

Patti Witten

Barbara Mink

Tim Turecek

Virginia Fenton

Bernice Magee

Sylvia Taylor

Pilar Greenwood

Ana Ramanujan

Caroline Gates-Lupton

Karina Burbank

Kengo Onishi

Sophia Hiller

Larry Roberts

Nikki Sayward

Kim Falstick

Richie Holtz

Jai Hari Meyerhoff

Sue Perlgut

Nancy Gabriel

Peggy Adams
Sara Robbins
Summer Killian
Linda Keeler

Two Poems, by Deanalís Resto

A Lesson in Praise

Where were you when you discovered applause?

on a stage?

on a field or court?

behind a microphone?

Were you crossing the finish line?

Were you singing? dancing?

Were you taking a bow?

Were you wearing a graduation cap?

or a uniform?

a costume?

Were you alone?

or with a company of players?

Had you just done something heroic?

something courageous?

something dangerous?

something terrifying?

Was it your first risk or your third?

Do you think you deserved it?

Where was I when I discovered applause?

My kitchen.

My mother.

My second Christmas.

Or maybe it was my third.

Feliz Navidad.

Communicator's Lament

Once upon a time idle thumbs would twiddle

Nowadays they fiddle with cell phones, they diddle

How many apps?

How many games?

How many times a day

can I update my Facebook status?

Tweet my life away?

How many texts can I send

from AM till the PM?

I can annoy some people

ignore some people

and never leave my couch again!

How many things will I miss

fail to hear, fail to see?

Because I've let something so tiny

become the boss of me.

3 Poems about Hands, by Sue Norvell, Sara Robbins, Donna Holt

My Hands, by Sue Norvell

The index fingers twist 

improbably —

the little finger joints 

warp south.

They are

my grandmother's hands

my father's hands 

my hands.

I am reminded 

of bread baked 

seams sewn

hair smoothed 

tears soothed.

My hands 

reflect my years

but they remember 

our past.

Fingers, by Sara Robbins

I remember your hands — large and thick,

nails bitten down to the quick.

You told me, when you were younger

your mother had tried to keep you from

the nasty habit — she'd painted something

bitter on your nails — to no avail.

Here you were, 17, still biting.

I held your hand in mine.

"Give me your hand," I'd say,

and then you didn't bite.

Your littlest sister said you had

loafy fingers and she was right.

She also said you had big teeth.

Loafy fingers and big teeth — an

unfiltered Camel cigarette held in your

right hand, me holding your left hand —

a speck of tobacco on your front tooth

which I pick off with my then-pretty hand.

This detail so clear in my memory.

Your loafy fingers in mine, our kiss

tasting of smoke.

Opposable Queens, by Donna Holt

Thenar Eminences —

pleasure to make your acquaintance,

dear Graces. 

My apologies,

for taking your gifts for granted,

neglecting to give thanks for the countless ways 

you make my daily life easier —

jar tops

socks & shoelaces

doorknobs

origami paper

tick removal

knotted muscles

ignition keys

a single almond or raisin —

how would I manage these

without your benevolent presence?

Thank you, your Highnesses

for working your magic

day after day

despite my ignorance of

your royal nature. 

And to think I called you thumbs. 

Great Grandma Bond’s Hands, by Peggy Adams

My right thumb has begun to warn me. Maybe once a week it protests — I pick up a skillet or unscrew a jar of pickles, and my thumb shrieks in pain. Nothing special, but it’s a signal. Bone on bone, my doctor says. As we age, the cushion of cartilage thins, and bone scrapes bone.

My great grandmother, Orah Belle Tuttle Bond, was born on October 15, 1871. She lived in Guernsey County, Ohio, for 101 years. I loved watching her hands, two motions in particular. The first — stringing beans. She’d sit with a bowl of green beans and a colander — with her thumb and index finger she’d top and tail the beans, snapping off the tail, then pulling the string down from the top, unzipping the bean. She’d put them in a big pot of water with a hunk of ham from her smokehouse, and then she’d let those beans boil — delicious!

The second hand movement — we’d cross the road to the barn, where she’d pick up a chicken, and in the blink of my eye, she’d snap its neck. I see her flashing hands, the odd angle of the bird’s broken neck, and then the flurry of rusty feathers as she plucked the chicken. A scary, mesmerizing start to a great chicken dinner.

Grandma Bond’s hands became gnarled, her fingers thick at the joints. She never said so, but I imagine they ached. In her eighties, the backs of her hands showed ropey blue veins under splotchy brown liver spots. Her hands looked like maps, rivers branching, valleys in between.

In her nineties, the ropiness gave way to swelling, the brown mottled skin on the back of her hands stretched taut and shiny. Her bones and veins were less visible, and her hands looked tight, the backs squared off. I remember watching her struggle with the black iron latch on a cupboard door, but her hands never failed her. 

She lived alone in a little apartment across from my Aunt Emma’s house in Old Washington. Her hands always served her — even at one hundred, she could make my father’s favorite coconut custard pie; she could reach out to touch her great-great-grandchild’s cheek.