On April 13, 2017 the Thursday Morning Writing Circle devoted 10 minutes to writing on the theme of "Round Things." Here you will find the pieces that were written by 10 members of the group. But even before we did that, we spent 5 minutes writing small poems about our most recent sensory experiences. I've included those small poems at the end of this entry.
Annie Wexler
Ever since I could remember, my father was bald. When I was a little girl I thought he was the most handsome man in the world, though later I realized that he was quite average looking. I loved his round shiny head with the little fringe of hair circling his ears. He got dressed every day in a suit and tie. He polished his shoes. He wore a fedora, as every man did in that era. He didn't drink, except for a glass of Manischevitz on Friday nights at Shabbos dinner. He didn't smoke, except for the occasional cigar. He didn't curse or raise his voice. I idolized him. My mother, on the other hand, was truly beautiful, with her lustrous black hair and gorgeous figure. It must have been hard for my father when people said things like "This must be your daughter, she is so beautiful." One day when I was about 10 years old my father came home wearing a toupee. It was black, with a bit of a shag, and a part down the middle. He was very proud. He must have looked in the mirror and felt that finally he was attractive, maybe actually handsome. My mother started it — she just pointed at his head and laughed. Then I followed, and after me, my brother. We couldn't stop. The toupee must have gone in the garbage that day. We never saw it again and it was never talked about. My father seemed a bit down for a day or two but then he resumed being his happy bald self for the rest of his life.
Barbara Anger
In the hospital, my mother's belly was round with death, as hard as my brother's baseball. What happened to the soft button that attached her to her mother's life? When the full moon was hidden in the mist of the night, her mother lassoed her with an umbilical cord stronger than the one I had held tight in my heart. It circled her many times and pulled her beyond reach. She is now a shadow seen across time. I no longer remember her soft touch.
Fran Helmstadter
We walked along Eighth Street in Greenwich Village, one spring early evening. I wanted Tom to visit the bookstore where I spent so much time and money, and which had become the place where I felt deep contentment. But he pulled me past that place, and across the street, to the small jewelry shop. We walked through the door, under the sign "Wedding Rings." In the cool darkness we looked at trays of rings. Tom caught the attention of a sales clerk, probably the owner. I had never purchased a ring. The clerk sized my ring finger and put several trays on the counter. Tom looked, and waited. The choice was up to me, and I had never given any thought to my wedding ring. A gold, shiny band— braided, and 1/3 of an inch wide — caught my eye. Of the multitude of rings on offer, I tried on just this one.
Reba Dolch
"Duck, Duck, Goose" was not my favorite circle game in 1957. We had to sit on the ground in the Hope Valley Elementary School playground in Durham, North Carolina, even though all the girls wore dresses. We had to. One first grade classmate was chosen to be "it" and he went around the circle tapping everyone on the head saying "duck, duck, duck, duck, duck, duck." When he finally said "goose," you, the goose, had to stand up and run around the circle after him until he took your place and then it was your turn to be the tapper. I didn't like it because it was a popularity contest and some people never got to be goose. Once, sitting on the ground, waiting forever to be a goose, I got a chigger bite on my bum and it itched for the rest of the day.
Rob Sullivan
There was plastic wrap to contend with first. It encased the cardboard rectangle and the paper sleeve that housed the sleek, shiny, black vinyl disc. Grooves were etched into the surface, providing a sonic road map of the musician's journey. Here was lightning trapped in a bottle and unleashed through speakers and headphones. One brief moment of time captured for the ages.
Spike Schaff
The earth is round. The wind around my ears makes a circular sound. Vibrating at 440 cycles per second, like the middle A on a piano surrounded by the orchestra, all playing Tasha O's concert-o, "Wagon Wheels #2."
Stacey Murphy
Basketball manipulated magically. Spinning on top of one thick finger, falling off other smaller ones. Orange, black, gray — or red, white, and blue — the persistent thud-thud-thud down the hallway, the living room, the driveway, the street, bouncing amplified by as many boys as there are balls, a percussive din by young athletes who don't know they're also musicians. Bounce-passing, three pointers, layups, jump-balls, and fast breaks. Constant dribbling, with one hand, then the other. Dribbling while watching TV, while brushing teeth, while waiting for the bus. But NOT while showering. A basketball boy yearns to merge with his sphere, extend his arm and release the ball at only the right moment, every bounce making the ball a part of him. Or himself at one with the ball.
Sue Crowley
Jezebel has hyperthyroidism, requiring 1 pill a day, cut into 4 tiny pieces. These go into chicken- and salmon-flavored pill pockets that I carefully roll into perfect little balls, while she rubs circles impatiently around my ankles. Always, every day, twice a day, we repeat this ritual. And every time, as I begin rolling the pill pocket closed, she steps away from my feet and begins talking to me. It's only one sound really. A sound just like that demented cartoon cat made. An "ack" sound. Jezebel says "ack," and "ack" again if I lollygag while refining these little morsels into perfect balls. "Ack!" which I translate as "Stop playing with my food and just give it to me already." Yes, all that in an "ack, ack." Jezebel is a very expressive cat, to my mind's ear.
Susan Lesser
In our wedding ceremony, 41 years ago, the officiant, as we say today, explained that the round rings we were exchanging were a symbol of the unbrokenness of the marriage bond. We did not laugh, but we thought about it. When Bill and I became engaged he was resolute in his decision that he did not want a wedding ring — never, no way. Couldn't stand the thought of it. Fine, I said, okay by me. However, four days before our wedding we were doing some Christmas shopping in a nearby town. One shop window had a display of locally crafted jewelry and Bill suddenly decided he liked one of the rings he saw skewered on the pointy display prop. It was a hippie-style ring — silver with silver curlicues stuck on, and a small stone in the center. But it was too tight for his finger and there was no time to have it sized. So the proprietor/jeweler simply sliced through the band and stretched it. There was a noticeable gap. This ring was not continuous. It did not go around forever and ever. But it was Bill's wedding ring. Over time I have come to think that this ring is a worthy symbol of marriage. It is important to honor the space between partners, to embrace not just each other but the need for each to take a breath, and to be separate for a time . . . before rejoining the perfectly imperfect circle of togetherness.
Yvonne Fisher
No matzoh balls for me this Passover. I'm too busy preparing to fly around the earth. Or part way around this great globe, this blue dot. There I will be in the night time dark, trying to sleep as we hurl ourselves through the starry sky around and around across the ocean, to another place. Another place, indeed. I will try to trust that a fine good pilot will take us safely around the world in the dark. I will try not to think about it too much, us up there flying through space around the globe. I might pray a little. I might take a little pill. I might list all that I am grateful for. I only hope there are stars to guide us.
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small poems:
gospels in French
my husband meditates —
holy week
- Annie Wexler
matzoh half eaten
apples and walnuts
will horseradish keep until next year?
- Annie Wexler
radio stirring my oatmeal
Russia and U.S. mixed
with blueberries and bananas
tastes like anxiety
- Barbara Anger
message from the middle
dig deeper to unfold
space
- Fran Helmstadter
restless limb
fixed in space
no go
- Fran Helmstadter
skin covers and reveals
red alarm
touch the message
- Fran Helmstadter
wet washcloth . . . cool clean sheets
dogs tucked against me like sentinels —
remembering mother's healing hands
the flu recedes
- Rebecca Dolch
car door whooshes shut
engine revs to start
radio hums ode to Maybelline
- Rob Sullivan
deer running into the road
new fertilizer on the grass
and on my shoes
- Spike Schaff
breakfast in the car
coffee banana coffee
cinnamon coffee
- Stacey Murphy
spicy laughter
sweet mellow beer bubbles
catfish sausage gumbo
- Stacey Murphy
night air in spring
the earth opens slowly . . .
hints of scents to come
- Sue Crowley
gentle cat opens her eyes
and closes them —
too early too early
- Susan Lesser
English muffin
the toaster pops —
too hot too hot
- Susan Lesser
she came over this morning
her lyrical voice
we had a fight
- Yvonne Fisher
news on NPR
turn it off
favoring silence
- Yvonne Fisher
