All posts by Sandra Lee Schubert

Childhood home From another perspective

Offering up samples of writing prompt exercises, I have done. This series is from Chris Brogan’s book – Find Your Writing Voice. These are mostly unedited not meant for publication. The title reflects the writing prompt. Do you want to join in? You can buy the book and share your samples.
Or just create your own prompts to share.

Childhood home From another perspective

I am so weary of this place. It has grown gray and dry with age. The warmth of firelight is gone. The old mantelpiece has been bricked in so no real warmth is allowed in anymore. The little girls have turned on the oven and are wrapped in blankets vying for some warmth. Their mother, full of sorrow and loss, is inclined to rest in her bed. Her redheaded man has died and she is left with these dark-haired girls to care for and all she really wants to do is die herself.

I remember her husband, as a boy, living with his mother and father. He was pale as ice, laced with freckles with a swath of red hair that seemed to glow in the dark. Like his dad he was training to be Press Man, the stain of ink was already permanent on his pale fingers. At night, under the gaslight, I would watch him draw into the morning. The cold glint of the morning light would come through and he would put on the water for tea and cereal hastily putting away his drawings from unapproving parents. His talent was real, but this was idle folly. Nothing could come of it. He used his talent to draw out images for the vendors that needed something for advertising. His real talent would be lost to time. His sister who suffered from Cerebral Palsy would stir first. Her twisted body uncomfortable from her stiff little bed. He helped her to the chamber pot taking care of her needs before her mother roused.

His mother would suffer the same sorrow of his future wife, losing both her husband and daughter within six months. Later her red-headed boy would die young and she would leave his young wife to her sorrows while she went to the Crazy house to suffer hers.

I was here from the start – when this place was a showplace, the first garden apartments. The mahogany banisters curved up, and the fireplaces kept the main rooms warm. The gaslight gave the rooms a dark glow, making everyone’s features soft. There was nothing around at the time and there was a direct line to the East River and the Steinway Piano Factory that gave work to the local men and some of the women. The gardens were filled with roses, and lavender and scented the air. At night the fog horn could be heard warning the boats to be aware.

I was happy here as a young wife. Until my husband took to drink and late nights and violent moods. And then I lost my baby girl, her tiny frame turning pale blue in my arms. I am afraid I began the sorrows that have pervaded this place. The wooden frame darkening from it over time. It was the dark night when my husband’s rage took me too. I gladly gave myself over to death. But no one would mark the death of another woman and so I have kept watch over the family’s here. Growing fond of the red-headed boy and his sweet little girls, happy when they left to be released from the sorrow of this place. Now I am just a wisp that lingers over the new construction. Tickling the neck of a workman, or knocking down a can of paint. Silly stuff really. I wait. There is a red-headed boy coming down the block.

Books link to my Amazon Associate account. I may get five cents, but hey, five cents adds up. Buy me lunch…. someday.

 

My favorite meal…

Offering up samples of writing prompt exercises, I have done. This series is from Chris Brogan’s book – Find Your Writing Voice. These are mostly unedited not meant for publication. The title reflects the writing prompt. Do you want to join in? You can buy the book and share your samples.
Or just create your own prompts to share.

My favorite meal…

Should I write about my favorite meal of all time? Well, that would not be possible – I have enjoyed so many. Sometimes I like take shoestring French fries out of the freezer, slicing up garlic and bake them until crispy with a little-added salt and pepper. Yummy. Or roast chestnuts and have them for dinner.
I enjoyed the Sunday after church meals I used to have when I lived in NYC and attended the Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine. A loose group of us would gather like shards of metal to a magnet and thru some equally loose consensus, we would decide on a place to eat. Chris (not Brogan) would always demand a place where alcohol was served. I think that meant he was not so secretly in charge. So that left out cheaper locations to eat. But it didn’t matter because from 3 to 10 or more of us would traipse out to a local West Side eatery. There used to be an inexpensive Chinese restaurant across the street, that served nice food at a good price and had the long tables to accommodate us all. Or, we would go the local Greek eatery, where you had to go downstairs to get there. The place was overly painted and the menus were drawn by the same artist and hard to read. John was only and ever the only waiter there. He took excellent care of us. He knew to get coffee right to me and Hal, the others could wait. One time I went there with brother-in-law, sister, and niece for an after service B-day lunch for me. My sister who suffers from the very bad effects of a stroke was gently cared for by John. My brother-in-law lived in Astoria and was half Greek chatted with John amicably in Greek forever cementing John’s love for me. Even now, three years after my move to NJ he asks after me. And a couple of times I have gone back to visit and eat, he hugs and kisses me asks about my sister. And of course, the coffee comes served with love.
Really how can you hate a meal when the waiter caters to you with love? The best part of these expansive group meals is the sharing of food with people… we laughed, we fight, we roll our eyes and sigh, but each week we would glom together for our meals. Moving to a car town I sorely miss these meals. Me, carless and living alone feels the deep void of not having a shared meal. I find people just don’t go out to eat in the same way. There is very little of the spontaneity of let’s go and eat. I find that sad and lonely for me. Don’t get me wrong I have tried. Let’s go eat? Emails go out – but people have their lives. Sigh.
When I lived in Queens, every Thursday the local Irish market would make Pot Roast. Now they had food every day, but Thursday was Pot Roast day and I loved it, craved it and miss it so much now. The meat was fork tender, served with a big side of mashed potatoes a soggy vegetable and rich dark gravy. I would bring it home adding butter, of course, onions and salt and pepper. An $8 container would last me for a couple of meals and I can tell you I was in frigging heaven. Pot Roast was Sunday dinners and all the best of my childhood rolled into metal containers with a cardboard top.
I can’t forget Japanese food, or Indian food or the spiciness of Thai food. The place down the block serves a mean burrito. And I love Turkish food with my whole heart and soul.
I am a squeamish cook, squirrelly about handling meat or hacking a raw chicken down the middle. I am also a cook that can make a decent soup out of leftovers and can fold a mean omelet.
However, if you invite me over I will bring cookies, and offer to clear the table. My favorite meal (s) invoke the joys of companionship, the delight of frolicking conversation and the pleasure of my taste buds snapping like the synapse of my brain. I cannot help but offer up clichés on a bed of crisp lettuce with a side of well-done fries. Food is life. And you can enjoy it all, and I do, but eating a meal with friends and family can be a memorable and delightful experience.

Books link to my Amazon Associate account. I may get five cents, but hey, five cents adds up. Buy me lunch…. someday.