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HHH Residents Write Issue 26 November 2021

E D I T O R I A L S T A F F :

❖ Ro Metcalf

❖ CB Doub (& typist)

❖ Nan Kaplan

❖ Sue Edge

These are original writings of Havenwood Heritage Heights’ residents and cannot be reproduced without the expressed consent of the author (s). Any questions should be directed to the editorial staff. The Programs Department has final say in what it feels is inappropriate for publishing (i.e. political or controversial topics).

Confessions of a Former Opera Chorister

Robert B. Davies

Local opera companies rely on volunteer local residents to fill the roles of the chorus, an important part of any opera production. Soloists need the chorus to provide a wall of sound as a backdrop to enhance their singing.

I was an opera chorus member in thirty operas and operettas for twenty-two years. The difference between those two formats is that an opera lasts for three hours and a character dies on stage. While the latter lasts for two hours all emotional issues are resolved and the audience goes home humming those memorable waltz melodies. There are other differences. Opera plots deal with power relationships that can be deadly. Opera characters are not happy. For them life is serious and their survival is not

A Little Hard of Hearing By George Lynch

So, this is Sunday morning, and I am serving as a Eucharistic Minister. My job is to pass the chalice during communion and do whatever the Episcopal Priest tells me to do. We are in the service and things are going as expected. I am standing apart from the altar looking religious. Just before communion, the priest comes over to me and says, sotto voce, “After communion, we are going to bless three stalls. I’ll take one, you take one and the acolyte can take the third,” and she returns to the altar. I’m standing there, thinking “Three stalls, three stalls, three stalls?” All I can think of is Jesus on the mountain with Moses and Elijah where Peter asks Jesus if the disciples should make three stalls. I’m a little nervous. Communion is over and the priest looks at me, nods and we all leave the altar. I’m afraid that we are going to be down there in front of the congregation and the priest is going to expect me to do something. I am resigned to the fact that I am going to have to admit that, “I have no idea what you are doing”. So, we get down there and the priest reaches into the first pew and picks up three prayer shawls.

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assured. By contrast, operetta characters see life as filled with possibilities for romance.

A local opera chorus member could be characterized as a normal person who likes to prance about on stage in funny costumes, wearing makeup, and pretending to be someone else while singing loudly. The chorus represents the local townspeople who observe and who comment upon what is happening on stage. Their function is to react with surprise to changes in the stage action.

The benefits are that they sing and hear great music during both the rehearsals and the performances, while the audience hears that music only once

Who is in an opera chorus? My experience is that it is a cross section of the local community that may include professors, school teachers, students, housewives, professional men and women, and retirees of all ages, all of whom like to sing in a large group on stage.

In the final week of nightly rehearsals, the chorus becomes a family. The stage manager has already coupled together men and women who most likely are strangers to each other at first but who form a close acting and singing partnership for the run of the opera. There are times when the partners may share glimpses of their private lives, which can be both interesting and disconcerting. Sometimes the men of the chorus would give their partners flowers before the final performance, as a fleeting token of their new friendship on stage.

As for costuming, the chorus is either dressed in burlap as the poorest of the poor of that society, or in white ties, white gloves and tailcoats for the men and

ballroom gowns and elaborate hair styling for the women, as members of a high society they are trying to portray on stage. There is no middle-class dress for the chorus.

A live on-stage performance can, at the same time, be both exciting and terrifying. A missed cue or a forgotten line of spoken dialogue can be unnerving. This happened to me during Naughty Marietta. Another actor and I were on stage for a bit of light banter. As my prop on stage I carried a small notebook with my lines, but not his lines. His memory went blank and I stumbled to ad-lib some dialogue. The silence was deafening! We quickly exited the stage. For the following night’s performance, we rehearsed our lines repeatedly. Our performance was flawless and brought a short laugh from the audience as the scene intended.

All was not hard work. There were instances where humor during a rehearsal was both a surprise and appreciated. During the rehearsals for Show Boat, the musical director and the stage director had been at verbal odds with each other for many days. On April first, the tension broke between them. The conductor pointed a revolver at the stage manager and fired. He fell on the stage with a loud thud. His wife, who was knitting nearby, let out a shrill scream!!! The 30 or so chorus members just stood there, having witnessed a murder and not knowing what to do. After a pregnant pause, both men started to laugh. The mini drama we all witnessed was for our benefit to watch the director more closely. It worked.

In the third act of Tosca, I was in the firing squad that shoots the tenor We used ROTC rifles with .30-caliber blank

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Confessions ... - continued from page 1


perform, the chorus people l knew are now much older or have gone on to where

opera choristers go.

“He’s My Friend!” By Joyce Edwards

On the night that this happened, my husband, Bill, and I were living in Littleton, New Hampshire. It had been raining for several days and the kitchen door would not close because of the dampness, so I could not lock it that night. It was up to me to do that, as Bill was at the end of his cancer. Hospice helpers came in during the day to help, but at night we were on our own.

So, when a loud crash woke me in the middle of the night, and I realized that Bill was not in the bed, I was afraid that he had fallen down the stairs. But just then, into the bedroom he came.

“What was that noise?” said I.

Putting on his bathrobe, he said, “Bear! There’s a bear coming up the stairs!” and out the door he went.

I immediately concluded that the strong pain killers the doctor gave him must have confused him. I put on my bathrobe and went after him.

As I went down the stairs into the dining room, there was Bill, standing face to face with a huge live bear. They were right next to the open cellar door. I crossed the room, grabbed the cordless phone, and punched in the 911 numbers. I was terrified!

“There is a very large bear in our house, standing right next to my husband!” I exclaimed.

ammunition. While backstage awaiting our cue, one of our squad suddenly admitted, after we all had loaded the cartridges into our rifles, that he had never shot a rifle. For safety’s sake, we unloaded his rifle, took the cartridge from him and proceeded to march on stage. The tenor had previously warned us not to aim at him as the wad from the rifle blast could hit him. The stage lighting was low, so when we fired the rifles, the loud noise and the flames from our barrels made it very dramatic. The director was pleased.

The saddest moment for me is at the end of an operetta. The leads have pledged their final vows to love each other for eternity in that magical land where love duets never end and where love conquers all obstacles. That stage magic ends with the final chord from the orchestra and the closing of the curtain. For the chorus, the work is just beginning. We take off our costumes, remove our make-up and grab a hammer, screwdriver, or power tool to strike the set.

After that job is over, it is off to someone’s home for the cast party. In my experience, not all parties were the same. On occasion, we were all very tired and the party noise was subdued, while other parties were wild. Several times, the women rewrote the men’s chorister’s lines, with new words, that they sang lustfully to everyone’s loud approval. The opportunities for romance are usually present at those parties. Beyond that I will say nothing. Sometimes a spouse of a chorus member would attend a party and was usually so bored at hearing all the insider stories and jokes from the cast, that he or she did not attend the next party.

All things considered; those years were fun years for me. While the Fargo-Moorhead Opera Company continues to

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“Stay on the phone, “said the dispatcher. “We will be right there!”

Holding tight to the phone, I walked toward Bill and the bear, and grabbed Bill’s hand “Get away from him!” I said, “He’s dangerous!”

“No he isn’t,” said my husband, “He’s my friend!”

The bear suddenly turned and disappeared down the cellar stairs. I slammed the cellar door and locked it, just as two police troopers burst into the house.

The officers told us to stay upstairs in our bedroom and to keep the door closed while they removed the bear from our house.

“We will put an officer outside of your room and keep you posted!” we were told.

In the basement, there was an outside door. Three windows looked out on the fields and woods behind our house. Shining their flashlights in those windows, the officers said they could see the bear still clinging to the cellar stairs.

More cruisers had arrived, plus a Fish and Game vehicle, all with lights streaming. As my husband calmly watched television in bed, more reports were sent into our bedroom. “We are leaving the cellar door open and putting food outside in hopes the bear will go after it.” The bear did not. He did not move from the stairs, they said.

Another report: “We will need to harvest this bear as yours is not the only house he has broken into.”

Me: “Well, can’t you tranquilize him?”

Police officer: “We can’t do that with a 450-pound bear! Please stay where you are if you hear shots fired!”

Finally, another report: “We are turning off all the lights in the house and on the cruisers in hopes the bear will try to escape.”

We turned off lights and TV in our bedroom. Dead quiet. For a long time. Then, shouting. And then came the report: “Officers with rifles were stationed on both sides of the basement door, but that bear ran out into the woods so fast, he got away!”

The police managed to lock the doors before they departed.

As my husband slept late the next morning, I rose with the sun and surveyed the bear damage. The loud noise I had heard was a long, heavy deacons bench which was lying against the dining room table. The bear had apparently been climbing on it to escape out of the window; the shade and curtains were shredded.

Because a frost had been expected that night, I had moved containers of plants into the breezeway where the bear had pushed his way into the house. He had stepped in all of these, broken the containers and toppled the plants. Then, tracking the pot soil, he apparently tried to get out of the windows there and had shredded the blinds. Somehow, he had also tried to remove the threshold to the kitchen.

I did not know how to begin cleaning up the mess. I called Lisa, my daughter-in-law, in Keene. She was also my insurance agent. “Do we have coverage for bear damage?” said I.

Horrified, she called her husband, our oldest son, Bill, Jr., who was on his way to Portland, Maine to make a business call, and each headed separately to Littleton.


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When they arrived, they found me sitting out on our deck, still in a daze, and my husband having a late cup of coffee in the dining room beside the toppled deacons bench. They set about repairing and cleaning up all the damage.

The police officers, who had answered our call for help the night before, arrived to say that they would continue to try to locate the bear.

But I think that bear made his escape for

good.

After Lexington Eliza’s Story Part 2 June, 1776

By Jane Miner

(If you are curious, you can read Part One “A Knock at the Door” in HHH Writes issue 23, May 2020 on the HHH Residents portal website.)

It was late June. The small farm in the rolling country of central Massachusetts was awash with shades of green, from the dark green of the tall pines in the woods to the pale green of the early sprouts in the field. The air was cool, Eliza shivered as she stood at the gate and stared off toward the town of Lexington. As she often did, she remembered the night her father and brother rode away to join the militia. The night Paul Revere pounded on their door.

She was startled from her thoughts by a shout from her neighbor, approaching on horseback and waving a letter. When she looked at the envelope her heart skipped a beat. She recognized her father’s handwriting. “Mama, Mama! Look what I’ve got!” she screamed as she ran back to the house. Everyone came running. “Take a seat everybody. Eliza, open the letter and tell us what your father has to say.”

The family gathered around the table in the kitchen. This was the first word they had had from either their father, Amos Mattox, or their oldest brother, William, since the battle in the town common. Eliza scanned the letter.

“Da wrote this on June 19, just over a week ago!”

He was safe. He had not had a chance to speak with William but knew that he also had survived the fighting. He told them of rumors that tens of thousands of militiamen were encircling Boston. These were volunteers from all parts. He wrote: “These are men like us. They are not soldiers, not yet.”

Their retreat was a disgrace, but more regulars were dead than militiamen. Their own regiment had acquitted themselves proudly. He hoped to return home in time to help with the harvest. He doubted that William could be persuaded to leave. A few tears of joy were shed around the table. The boys, Henry who was 12 and George who was 10, could only talk about going to join the fight. Both of them insisted they were old enough and needed to go. Their mother insisted that they were needed at home. She knew better than to say they were still boys, too young to face death in a war, no matter how righteous it was.

Eliza and Mary, who was only seven years old, said nothing. Eliza felt frustrated that her responsibilities had not changed. Her household duties were the same as ever, with just more farm work added on. She wondered if there was any way that she could offer a meaningful contribution to the cause. Mary sat with tears in her eyes. She did not like any of this at all. She wanted to go back to the way things were, with Da and William in


the fields and with everyone around the supper table in the evening.

The family did not hear from Amos Mattox again, but in early October, just when the fall harvest was getting to be more than the lonely group could handle, they were astonished when Mary insisted that Da was coming down the road. Indeed, it was true. His obligation to see that his family had food on the table for the coming winter outweighed the call to defend his country. His brief visit was welcome, but bittersweet. His presence energized them all and when he was confident that their stores were adequate, he shouldered his army pack and headed back to his company.

Eliza, at almost 17, felt that she was getting too old for the public school in Lexington, and since the beginning of the war she had skipped it. She really didn’t miss most of it. She could read and do sums pretty well. But Mrs. Mattox did her best to keep the boys attending whenever they could. They both did well, although Henry seemed more academically inclined, but farming was probably what their future held. They had not been attending school during the summer, but when Amos Mattox came home briefly for the fall harvest, he insisted that they forget about fighting and go back to school. “When all this is over, we will need healthy young men like you, who are not battle weary like me, to keep this new country running. So, get you back to that school and learn what you can while you can.” And that ended that discussion.

It was mid-winter, a dark February, evening. The Mattox family was sitting around their supper table. Henry spoke up, “Ma, I have been waiting for a chance to tell you and Liza about what the schoolmaster read to us today. It was a

new pamphlet called ‘Common Sense’, of all things!” He laughed. “That sounds like something we should all read, Henry. I think we’re in the midst of a fight for common sense. What did it say?” asked Mrs. Mattox. “Ma, we should not have an English king! It said the monarchy is a bad thing. It said we could make a different kind of government: no king, no parliament, in a new, independent country!”; Henry spoke with conviction. “Treason?” their mother asked. Eliza spoke up, “Oh, Ma, Da and William are fighting British soldiers, that is treason, you know.” Mrs. Mattox shook her head in dismay. “Of course, you’re right Eliza”. Eliza turned to Henry. “My goodness Henry, school sounds like it has gotten a lot more interesting since I left. Political tracts! That is quite a change from Bible recitations.”

“Well, the new master that replaced Master Cotter is pretty old, but he has some new ideas.”

Later as she cleared away the supper things, Eliza thought about Henry’s pamphlet. “There’s bound to be more talk about this around Lexington. I would like to read that pamphlet, If the schoolmaster is talking about it in class, it must be well known. Maybe I can find a copy to borrow.” Of course, Eliza was right. She and her mother spent many of the long winter evenings reading and mulling over the ideas Thomas Paine had expressed so well.

The fighting raged and the Mattox men were still in the midst of it. Amos Mattox had not returned home since his visit in the fall of 1775 and the family had not seen William since the battle at Lexington, a lifetime ago in Elizabeth Mattox’s mind. The letters were few and far between, but there had been no official

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communications from the Continental Army, thank God.

The farm was doing pretty well. The boys worked like men, although they both were aching to see action in the war. They hoped their mother did not know that they practiced killing Redcoats in the back 40. Of course, Elizabeth Mattox knew very well what they were up to. Eliza could sympathize with them. She hated the inaction. She was so sick of cooking and washing and planting and weeding. She imagined herself on the battlefield bringing water, caring for wounded or even being a spy among the British! In her heart she knew that she was already just where she was most needed. Mary and her mother needed her presence, not just for the work she did, but to keep them company and give them comfort when things looked so dark. She feared that there would be more dark days before things were over, no matter how it turned out. She promised herself she would at least find time for sewing and knitting woolens for those brave farmers-turned soldiers in the winter that was upon them.

The snows of winter gradually melted and the busy spring planting began. Brief welcome letters from both Amos and William assured the family that they had survived that terrible winter, although they had little to say about their condition or their experiences. Neither made it home to help, but everyone in town worked hard and the spring planting became a community effort.

It was a lovely July morning. Eliza called to Mary, “Are you nearly ready for school, Mary? I’ll ride with you. I have a few things to buy, and I feel like getting away for a while.” The two of them went out to the yard where George had the wagon ready

to take Mary to school. “I’ll drive the wagon, George. I would like a trip to town,” Eliza called out.

George acknowledged with a wave and headed off to the fields. This was not the time of year when he could be spared for classes, but it was a nice day, and he was looking forward to the outside work.

The ride into the center of Lexington was short and as they approached the schoolhouse, Eliza noticed people milling around and a crowd was gathering at the town hall. “Look,” said Mary, “I see the school master, and there’s Anna and Beth from my class. Something’s happened. Let’s stop and find out.”

Eliza was finding a place to leave the wagon when she noticed her good friend, Abigail, waving to her. “Oh, Eliza, come and see. They’ve done it! It’s up on the board. School’s out today, Mary. Come and see.”

Quickly, Eliza settled the horse and wagon, and they joined the crowd at the Town Hall. Her friends from town made way for her. Almost everyone seemed excited, although there were some who just looked worried. Eliza held Mary’s hand as she read. “It begins by talking about dissolving the bonds and being of equal station. Oh, Mary, this is independence! This is about the colonies being our very own country! Let’s go home and get Mama and the boys. They have to come and read this for themselves.”

On the ride back to the farm, Mary, who had been very quiet, looked up at Eliza. “Lizzie, is the war over?” Eliza put her arm around Mary. “Oh, no Mary, I am so sorry. This is just a notice to the King of England that we are independent. It gives us an inspiring purpose for our fight. It is a


granddaughter and her reclusive sister, who doesn’t acknowledge that she “hacks” into computers – she merely “explores” and “pokes around”.

At some point Rose (perhaps channeling her author’s understanding of where her readers now are) remembers traditional advice: “Follow the money.” Everybody says that. Rose can’t fathom where the money is, let alone track it. To Longwood, she is worth seven grand a month on the hoof, if she is alive, but Longwood has a waiting line. What with baby boomers beginning to lose their collective marbles, dementia care is a seller’s market.” Rose is an eccentric, 68-year- old artist who dresses in bright, funky clothes, practices Buddhist meditation, and subscribes to left-wing politics. She may seem a world away from Barr’s younger heroine, park ranger Anna Pigeon, whose derring-do has, by now, played out in most of our national parks, but Rose’s escapades prove her to be just as tough. All-too-unbelievably, soon after her ordeal in the nursing home, Rose is fighting off a would-be assassin on the roof of her own home.

Sticky notes, rather than physical agility or Buddhist meditation, save the day for the sadly-demented Maud, the heroine of 2019’s British television production Elizabeth is Missing based on an earlier 2015 novel with the same title by Emma Healey. British publishers have been at least as quick as their U.S. counterparts to acknowledge their aging readers. In January of this year American viewers had the rare treat of watching the incomparable actress Glenda Jackson play Maud when the British production landed on PBS Masterpiece.

Maud uses sticky notes, stuck everywhere, to aid her failing memory in solving two

wonderful thing, but I am afraid this war is nowhere near over. Mary’s face was serious, and her eyes were moist as she turned to Eliza. “Da and William aren’t coming home then?” Eliza stopped the wagon and put down the reins. “Mary, love, this war will not be over for a while. We will pray to God to keep them safe while they are gone, and someday they will come back, and we will celebrate peace and our new United States of America.”

Mary sighed and smiled a little. “Ok. -----

Lizzie, can I drive the wagon home?”

Murder and Mayhem in the Geriatric Set

by Joan Bowers

Who knew that suspicious death among the elderly and the demented is a thing? That the doddering can be deadly? Well, publishers have certainly realized this truth just as the huge demographic wave of readers known as Baby Boomers moves into retirement. These are retirees who want to read about themselves, not about those high-school-looking Millennials rapidly taking over the world.

I first became acquainted with this phenomenon back in 2019 when I picked up Nevada Barr’s stand-alone novel What Rose Forgot. As the story opens, Rose finds herself wearing a short, all-too-revealing hospital gown and being dragged by two burly orderlies back into a Memory Care Unit of a nursing home from which she has tried to escape. But what is she doing there? Rose has a strong feeling that she doesn’t belong in a nursing home, and after drugging a nurse with her own un-swallowed pills, she gradually begins to reclaim her life with the help of her spunky

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crimes: one that occurred years earlier and a current one, the case of the missing Elizabeth. An advantage of using elderly characters for a writer is that there can be two or more linked crimes over the years that can be handled with intersecting timelines and varied points of view in one novel.

2019 marked yet another entry in the genre of crimes among the elderly. This novel, No Sunscreen for the Dead by Tim Dorsey, crosses genres with something that is often referred to as “Florida noir” (a kind of book I typically save for the worst depths of a New Hampshire winter). Carl Hiaasen is the king of this genre which incorporates fluorescent-colored book covers, over-the-top plots, wacky characters, concern for vanishing Florida ecosystems, and satire directed at the kinds of political and business corruption that can result in elder abuse or buildings collapsing.

In No Sunscreen for the Dead, Dorsey’s two anti-heroes – Serge A. Storms (who has been called a “psychopath with a conscience”) and his painkiller-addicted sidekick, Coleman, arrive to check out future retirement possibilities in the “largest retirement community in Florida.” The novel alludes to the rumored explosion of STD’s at Florida’s largest retirement community, The Villages, (and the actual sexcapade there in 2014, which resulted in the arrest of a couple for cavorting in an outdoor pavilion). Serge A. Storms and Coleman are more interested in solving a series of scams directed at the vulnerable elderly than in keeping their new friends from seeking out whatever fun and games they think they have missed out on in their youth.

Yet, readers will soon realize that the past was not some golden age of sex, drugs,

and rock and roll, if they ponder a novel by Caroline B. Cooney, published earlier this year, entitled Before She Was Helen. Set in a similar, southern, golf-course retirement community this book has a very different tone compared to Tim Dorsey’s novel. Although there is plenty of humor, periodically the author reminds the reader just how bad it could be 50 years ago – especially for women growing up in repressive, controlling families. The main character, known as Helen to her new retiree friends, tries to check on a missing neighbor by snooping in his condo, but when his murdered body is discovered in his own golf cart in his own garage, Helen quickly realizes that her fingerprints being found where they don’t belong may attract unwanted attention from the police. Helen risks losing the new identity forged over the years since she was, in fact, named Clemmie at birth and, as Clemmie, may or may not have committed a crime when she was a young woman. As in Elizabeth is Missing, what ensues is an artful exploration of two or more crimes, in two different time periods, with the horrors of the past ever threatening to impinge on the crimes of the present.

The history of the setting itself intrudes into the crime-ridden present in Britain’s latest offering in this category of novel, The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman (2020),

The sudden opportunity to purchase a former Catholic convent, after the last nun dies, proves irresistible to Ian Ventham, the sleazy developer of Coopers Chase, one of the most luxurious retirement communities in England. Ventham has moved away from low-cost care homes, since the “worst thing for his business is when clients die. If up to the admin, rooms

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those I have been reporting on, we might, at this point reflect on a final observation made by Isabel Wilkerson in her magnificent nonfiction work Caste. As she states, “Even the most privileged of humans in the Western world will join a tragically disfavored caste if they live long enough. They will belong to the last caste of the human cycle, that of old age, people who are among the most demeaned of all citizens in the Western world, where youth is worshipped to forestall thoughts of death. A caste -system spares no one.”

The wonderful thing about these novels set in retirement communities is that their doddering elderly refuse to be demeaned. Though some of them may be deadly, they can also, like the famous and not-so-young sleuths, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, join forces and become detectives ferreting out the crimes committed among and

against them.

What I learned from a Difficult Time By Vivian Horne

I learned that you could survive every parent’s nightmare…the loss of a child. Even though nothing is ever exactly the same again, you need to focus on the fact that Life is for the Living. That is a very difficult thing to do after burying your only son.

I learned that it was vitally important not to forget that his two sisters had suffered a devastating loss too. They needed to know that their parents were still there for them as they dealt with the loss of their big brother.

I learned not to let the pain of the tragedy we had suffered make you retire from life; not to retreat into a foggy place where you

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would be left idle as new clients were found, and, worst of all, you’d have to deal with families. Now, the richer the clients are, by-and-large, the longer they will live. Also, the richer they are, the less their family will visit, as they tend to live in London, or New York, or Santiago. So Ian moved upmarket. . . .”

The obnoxious Ian Ventham becomes the obvious suspect for the first murder that occurs in this novel, which beautifully balances laugh-out-loud humor and genuine pathos. One of the funniest scenes occurs early when a young policewoman, who has dreams of solving serious crimes in areas far removed from this beautiful but decidedly rural locale, arrives to give a talk about security to some of the residents of Coopers Chase. She gives the same advice each time: The absolute, paramount importance of installing window locks, checking ID cards, and never giving out personal information to cold callers.” But after being challenged by her listeners for the patronizing, useless nature of her advice – and then being invited to a two-bottles-of-wine gourmet lunch, PC Donna De Freitas woozily begins to realize that these four members of the Thursday Murder Club are not her typical elderly audience.

Given Richard Osman’s usual careers of television game-show host and comedian, his novel makes, perhaps, surprisingly sophisticated use of varied points-of-view, multiple voices, and a complex interplay of past and present. This is the book that has friends of mine from across the country recommending it – and has left me wanting to re-read it and looking forward to Osman’s next novel in this series, The Man Who Died Twice, which has just been published.

For those of us who have spent most of the past year reading more serious works than


just existed and went through the motions. I learned that well-meaning people had trouble finding the words to express their sympathy, and others who, unknowingly say all the wrong words; or just say nothing at all. I get that. It is a very tough thing to handle watching your family member or friend or neighbor go through such a tragedy.

I learned that those who said, “I know how you feel!” can’t possibly know unless they have walked that path. Those who said, “You are so strong!” had no idea what it was like inside of me.

I learned that it was all right to laugh again and to enjoy your friends and family, just like you always did. I found out that no two people grieve alike and that I needed to give my husband and our daughters the privilege of grieving in their own way and to step back until they indicated that they needed to talk about their feelings.

I learned, because our son died in an automobile accident and we never found out who caused that accident, that I had some mixed emotions about that fact. At times I wanted to know, and then I decided I did not in case it might be someone we knew. Did I really want some other family to have to deal with the pain and suffering they would have to face?

I learned that we had two choices. One was to let it invade every living moment of our lives and focus just on that loss. The other was that we could pick up the pieces and live our lives one day at a time. We needed to focus on his two sisters. We needed our girls to know that we were still there for them, not shut them out or force them to be our strength. Together we were stronger. We leaned heavily on each other’s strength and supported each

other’s weakness. Together we survived and had a great faith in one of my mom’s favorite mantras that, “Whatever doesn’t

kill you will make you stronger.”

Sailing Ships By Barbara Gogolen

What is more stately than a sailing ship Plowing the ocean waves With its dipping and diving Always surviving As it crests each swell and sway. Be it schooner, three masted or two A fine crafted ketch or yawl To name a few, Even a simple sloop. They are all powered by wind and sail Whether it’s a gentle breeze Or a fearsome storm’s gale. The sight of this craft Makes one’s heart beat fast And brings joy to one’s whole being. It can make one’s day In a wonderful way And give one a reason for living.


Nearly Killed By George Lynch

During the years 1962 – 1964, I served as a military police officer in the 508th MP Battalion in Munich, Germany. The battalion had two missions. One was to maintain peace and order in Munich and surrounding areas, and the other was to evacuate civilians to France in case of war.

Periodically I pulled duty officer in Munich and usually I had the same driver, a tough MP corporal named Blankenship. As an officer, I was there to supervise and not get involved in hands-on police work. Of course, if I were on patrol, that was impossible. Anyway, our routine was that, on a call, I would stop just inside the door of an establishment with my back to the wall and let Blankenship talk to the troublemaker. For the most part we never encountered anything really dangerous, but of course there were some moments.

Riding around all night, we got to know each other fairly well. I came to rely on him to keep me out of trouble, which he did on a few occasions.

Our MP headquarters was located in what was called a Kaserne, a former Nazi military compound housing several buildings. One of those was #24, an administrative building about a block long. It comprised a ground level floor of offices and two subterranean floors of jail cells. Standard Operative Procedure required Building #24 to be checked for security at least once after midnight. This meant walking down a long, dimly lit corridor checking to see if offices were locked and ascertaining that there was nothing unusual going on.

We would alternate; sometimes I would walk, sometimes Blankenship would. One night following a boring evening downtown, I decided that I would do the security check. I got out and entered the building. I was in the habit of first stopping, turning off my flashlight, and listening, studying the long corridor that seemed to disappear in the distance. It was eerie with the silence and the shadows. You could easily imagine Nazi flags with black swastikas adorning the walls and Hitler’s SS officers moving about or taking prisoners to the cells below. Even though I had walked this several times, at night that building always seemed to engender a vague sense of disquiet. All it lacked was the music from Jaws.

The most important check of this tour was the finance office. The finance office had a little unlit waiting area off the hallway just before the entrance. I stepped into this small area to approach the door and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure up close, crouched, holding something over his head.

I would like to say I took some defensive action, but I didn’t. I momentarily froze. Nothing happened. I recovered and stepped out of the way, turning my light on him. What I saw was a life-sized cardboard cutout of an infantry soldier holding a rifle over his head and with the words, “We Want You”, emblazoned on his chest. I sat down.

I finished my tour and returned to the car. Blankenship asked if everything was okay and I told him, “No, I almost got killed in there.” We both had a good laugh and went back on the road.

I am sure the story spread like wildfire in the barracks, and I am also sure that I acquired a few nicknames along the way

but none was ever disclosed to me.


Concord, NH 1930s by Kay Amsden

My grandparents, Dr. Henry and Grace Amsden, lived at 217 North Main Street, directly across from the Kimball-Jenkins estate. I loved visiting them and was shown many fascinating places around the city. My grandfather was an ENT (ear, nose, and throat,) doctor and shared an office on So. State Street with Doctor Blood and Doctor Graves. This combination of names was a source of much humor in our family.

I would ride with him as he visited his patients in one of the two hospitals as well as at St. Paul’s school. (Of course, I stayed in the car.) One hospital, the Margaret Pillsbury was on the current Pillsbury Street. The other, Concord Memorial, was between South Spring and South State streets. The building is still there and is now a city office.

Other memorable places no longer exist today. The railroad station which was at the foot of Depot Street housed one of the famous Concord coaches. The well-known Page Belting Company was in the building under the brick tower you can see at the right as you drive into the city on route 393. Page Belting was founded by my great grandfather, Charles T. Page, Grace’s father. This company made the leather suspension belts that were used on the body of Concord Coaches. There was a Howard Johnsons on Rte. 3 at the present location of the Common Man restaurant. The well-known and magnificent Eagle Hotel was replaced by Eagle Square.

In addition to showing me many places around Concord, my grandfather would entertain me with wonderful stories. As I

sat on his lap, he would recount many Uncle Remus tales. My grandmother would entertain me with wonderful piano playing in their parlor. She also made delicious donuts once a week. My grandparents also had two beautiful cats, Punch and Judy, who were subjected to an outdoor tea party I set up in the side yard.

Since Grace did not drive, she walked to market once a week, fully attired in long coat, hat, and gloves. When visiting my grandparents, I joined her on that walk. It was a very long walk to her favorite Greek Market on Warren Street. Can you imagine that walk on a warm sunny day?

As I drive around Concord today the memory of these places is very clear in my

aging mind.

Spring By Kay Amsden

With spring brings the sight

Of lilacs in bloom On the wind even a kite

This is really nature’s room.

Soon comes a great smell From lilacs so bright A color that is swell

Whether purple or white.

Early morn brings the sound Of a red robin’s call

As she searches the ground For a worm near a wall.

Everyone loves the spring

Many smells, sounds and sights And birds on the wing

We call them spring rites.


The “Ages” of Mankind By Doug Lowe

My personal introduction to the concept of humankind existing through a series of ages was probably in 9th grade English class. We were reading Shakespeare’s “As You Like It”. The seven stages of life, from infancy to senility, were spelled out in a dramatic fashion. In addition, our life experiences have taught us about the “Ice Age”, the “Atomic Age”, and the Dark Ages.

Cleverly and quietly woven into the fabric of middle-class life in the western societies, there are also the B&B ages. They are three separate periods that deserve recognition. The first B&B age comes around the age of thirty-five. The kids have developed well, they are asleep in bed, and Mom and Dad can sit in the comfort of the living room and enjoy a B&B; a Benedictine and Brandy.

Even more welcome is the second B&B that emerges around the age of 50. The kids are grown, out of the house, and seem to be faring well. There is now time to do a bit of traveling to out of the way destinations and enjoy the pleasures of a B&B; in this case a Bed and Breakfast. Alas, along come the 80’s and with it the third B&B. This is the time we face the

dual challenge of Bowel and Bladder.

River Rapids Ride By Bob Carel

We lived in Japan when I was in my freshman to junior years of high school. Every summer the Grant Heights military housing area provided an activity program for the dependent youth. There were usually several trips for the older kids and one year there was a river rapids boat ride.

After the bus ride to the starting area, we were given a talk and demonstration of how the trip would be and how to safely ride through the rapids, should we find ourselves out of the boat. (I don’t remember there being any lifejackets in use.)

Following the talk and demonstration, we had time to explore the area and a couple of friends and I walked up-stream. Finding an area where the river broadened out and seemed rather shallow, we decided to wade across to an island not too far from the shore. All was going well for me with the water about halfway up to my knees when I slipped on the rocks and went down on my knees. Bad results!

Between the slippery rocks and the current, I was unable to get back up to my feet and ended up having to put the recently learned techniques into practice. I was able to navigate through a stretch of rough water into a “calmer” area where the river made a bend. I relaxed a bit until I saw that the current was heading towards a high bank with the water flowing underneath it. That didn’t look like a safe way to go; so it was swim hard to a beach before the bank where I could get to land. Once there and having caught my breath, I was able to make my way back to the boat launch spot with a somewhat


bloody toe, and only missing one sneaker. After that adventure, I am afraid I don’t remember much of the boat ride. Back at home, I went to the dispensary to have my big toe looked at. As I watched the doctor reach for a piece of equipment, the next thing I knew he had yanked the toenail completely off. OUCH! Then, with a bandage, I was sent home. (That was just the first of many lost toenails over the years.) That was just one of the many summer trips I was on while in Japan. Not all of them were as exciting! Below is a picture of a boat much like the one we were on. I don’t remember the name of the river but this looked similar and was the only rapid river ride I found when looking on Google. The picture below is captured from the video at the link below. It will give you a look at the scenery as you travel down

the river.

https://www.hozugawakudari.jp/

To see the video.

Squeaky Mouse By Richard Burnside

When Squeaky Mouse came to our

house She was just a tiny ball of fur, No bigger than a little mouse

Yet a meow so loud came out of her

“You’re really cute, but you cannot stay, For there are people here with allergies

And there are four big cats as well Who’ll be mean to you and tease.”

But Squeaky Mouse did not care

She’d been rescued from traffic on the street.

And having no fear tried to convince all four cats

That playing with her would be such a treat.

All things for play – A plastic bag, a

rubber band, And so many things to just explore.

A quick dash here, a quick dash there, “Watch out, that pretty vase has hit the

floor.”

But one sad day she found a way outdoors

To a yard, some bushes, and a tree to climb and sit in

But curiosity of the dangerous road beyond

Proved fatal to our lovely little kitten.

Limericks by Mary Lou Fuller

I once was able to see

And life was a “fiddle-dee-dee”

But then I got old

And wasn’t so bold

When I went to the toilet to pee!

There’s just no way we can measure

All that’s done here for our pleasure

We sleep and we eat

Never missing a beat

Havenwood life is a treasure!

https://www.hozugawakudari.jp/


Pining By Lyn Kimball

How I long to stand straight and properly proud, healthy in trunk and branches; Sure that life is good despite war and tragedies Suffering and death that would deny that. So much that is beautiful and precious lasts for such a short time. Must it be removed to make room for other beauty? Is God filling time and eternity with blossoms picked in their prime, eggs broken before they’re hatched? Is the whole world a cutting for God’s glory? The wounded one who bids us share his wounded body as our meat and drink, The first rose cut from the garden, invites us to grow in his Sharon among the lilies. I fear I am not strong enough to bear the heat or teeth of little foxes. I let my faulty wisdom drag my feet. In trying to avoid death and pains, I am blinded to the beauty in sacrifice. The sunset would not be exquisite if it lasted forever. Being dust ourselves we need a dusty world; being stardust we long to return to the Star.

Why By Vivian Horne

We walked hand-in-hand on the beach

Left our footprints in the sand. We stood in awe at the foot of N. H. And Vermont’s majestic mountains. We picnicked on the shores of Lake

Sunapee After the summer crowds had gone and

We listened to an old man play the mandolin

Soft and quiet, unaware of our existence.

We sat by the fire on warm summer evenings

And listened as the eerie cry of the loon Shattered the quiet night.

We cuddled by the fire and watched the snow fall silently, covering the ground in a blanket of

white. we did the things that brought us joy

and filled our hearts with wonder enjoyed being just You and I

so good together just You and I! but why did we never kiss under the

mistletoe or dance in the moonlight?

Why? Love Why is that?

Why did we never kiss under the mistletoe

Or dance in the moonlight? Why?

Limerick inspired by a recent fall By Mary Lou Fuller

My friends always called me just, Lou No matter what I was trying to do Then one day on a spree I feel out of a tree They called, “Mary, what are you trying to do?

Limerick by Mary Lou Fuller

There once was a fellow named Ray Who always had plenty to say He was forced to go south With his foot in his mouth Where he knew it was safer to play!!


Taking Out the Trash By Richard Burnside

The evening went fine

Just checking the Emails A little net surfing

And then to the TV- A new drama, the news,

And late-night jokes.

Finally, to the bedroom But then – Oh My,

There still was the trash To take to the curb,

With pick up so early It had to be done then.

So, I gathered it up

And stepped out the door To suddenly – a different world

Warmer than the inside AC But balmy, and with a breeze So fresh and lightly scented.

Up above, the moon, nearly full,

Slipped out from a cloud And lit with a brilliance

the landscape all around The sky held just one other light

Jupiter, I thought, but oh, so bright.

I placed the trash in a can There by the curb

Then paused and quietly Breathed in the wonder

Thankful that this simple task Had brought me such joy.

Remembering Military Service By Tom Stevens

For Want of a Jack I served for one year as a platoon leader in the 100th Engineer Company (Float Bridge) in Vietnam. When we were not busy building a float bridge or a raft, we fulfilled our secondary mission of transporting supplies wherever they were needed.

The equipment in each platoon consisted of twelve 5-ton bridge trucks and one World War II vintage Jeep. We made many re-supply trips by convoy from our home base at Long Binh (northeast of Saigon) to Tay Ninh (northwest of Saigon).

During one return trip from Tay Ninh one of our trucks became disabled with a flat tire on the right front wheel. If the flat had been on a rear tire, we just would have continued our journey as the other rear wheels would have picked up the load. A flat tire on a front wheel does not enjoy this luxury.

My Jeep driver pulled over so we could lend assistance. We sent the rest of our trucks along with the convoy. That left four of us (the truck driver, his passenger who rides as a shotgun, my driver and me) all alone on an open road surrounded by rice paddies. There was no place to hide from snipers late in the afternoon, with nightfall about to occur.

We began to change the truck’s tire but quickly discovered that the truck’s jack was for the smaller, more common 2½ ton truck. It was not suitable for a 5-ton bridge truck.

I gave a fleeting thought to dropping a hand grenade into the gas tank of the truck and running like hell. We would then all get in the jeep and drive home.

Continued on page 18


But I quickly realized that the result might be:

1. The grenade might not work, leaving a live grenade inside a gas tank,

2. The grenade might blow all of us up in the process,

3. This action would certainly result in an investigation, and probably a court-martial of me.

I then remembered a wise saying from my brother Bob regarding general problem solving, “If you can’t raise the bridge, lower the river.”

We drove the truck as far as possible to the side of the pavement and raised the jack all the way. Our next step was to dig out the pavement below the flat tire. We then removed the flat tire and successfully mounted the spare tire. As the sun set, we quickly resumed our ride home to safety.

The following day the men who had stayed with me presented me with the bullet they had removed from the flat tire. I used it for many years as my lucky Monopoly token.

This incident inspired me to recall the wisdom about the importance of attention to details in the centuries-old poem “For Want of a Nail.” Here is my personal version of this poem.

“For Want of a Jack” For want of a jack, the tire was lost. For want of a tire, the truck was lost. For want of a truck, the driver was lost. For want of a driver, the crew was lost. For want of a crew, the battle was lost. For want of a battle, the mission was lost. And all for the want of a suitable truck

jack.

The Tour By Robert B. Davies

“What are you going to do after you retire?” a colleague asked one quiet afternoon when no students came during his office hours. “Oh, I plan to tour, as a pianist,” Bruce quickly replied. Bruce Kattenhorn was known in the department for his one-line quips, which was why his office visitor paid little attention to what he had just heard. Bruce began to think seriously for the first time about his remark, the substance of which had been in his thoughts for some months following the sending of his letter of resignation. He was somewhat surprised at how quickly the Dean and the President had accepted his letter.

With his resignation accepted, Bruce began to think seriously about how he was going to fulfill his proposed retirement plan. He had always enjoyed playing the piano, and had taken lessons when he was an undergraduate. But now, after years of neglected practice, he was a poor sight - reader and was never able to complete reading through any piece of music. His technique was sloppy and very inaccurate. He had some ability to generate passion in his playing when a passage called for it, but it was the notes that got in the way of his accurately playing what a composer had written. He was looking for an easy way to fulfill his plan that did not require the hard discipline of serious piano lessons to develop his keyboard technique and to expand his repertoire. He was soon to learn, to his chagrin, that there were no short cuts to music performance.

He decided he would offer to the directors of retirement communities a



free concert for their residents as part of his advertised “farewell tour.” That designation would give the impression that he had had a long and very successful musical career that was now coming to an end. Before he left the world stage, he wanted to share his love of music with others while he was still able to perform.

Now that he had selected his intended audience, what would he play at his recital? The easiest piece he could think of was the one he first learned as a teenager, “Chopin’s Prelude in A Major”. It was the only piece he still could play from memory, but one that needed lots of practice to get it right. In addition, he would play salon pieces by Levitsky and Durand, leaving out the difficult parts and simplifying the rest.

His family took little interest in this project, other than to say that his playing needed lots of practice. He was not to be deterred by such naysayers. For Bruce, it was full speed ahead with his plans and damn the real challenges that lay before him.

The next step was to schedule some bookings. He sent emails to the directors of regional retirement communities, offering his services and suggesting several open days in his farewell national tour. He was careful to mention that there would be no fee charged for his concert. All he asked for was a piano, without any requirements as to its size, or that it be in tune. He assumed that a piano would be standard furniture in such establishments. Soon, one director accepted his offer of a free concert.

His planned format would be to talk with the audience about what he would play and to tell interesting, but not always accurate, stories about the composers.

To get away from the usual concert attire of a white tie and black tailcoat, Bruce’s wardrobe was an old sport jacket of many colors, that to some may have resembled a vaudeville performer’s costume.

On a Wednesday afternoon, he drove to a nearby Senior Community Center. On entering the center he met briefly with the director. An intercom announced that Bruce Kattenhorn, the world-famous concert pianist, would give a concert in the social room and residents who wished to attend should move there now. He stood up, smiled, and introduced himself by saying how pleased he was to be there to play for such an intelligent and alert group, which they all probably were years before.

The piano was tuned sometime during the previous century and was an upright model made by a long defunct manufacturer. No one knew how old it was, other than it had been gifted to the Center. He announced that he would begin by playing “Chopin’s Prelude in A Major”, which he said, erroneously, was composed by Chopin for one of his young and attractive pupils who had a romantic crush on the composer.

He sat down on the swivel stool and looked at the yellowed ivory keyboard. The moment of truth had arrived. What he had thought would be a pleasant experience for his ego, suddenly became a harsh reality. He stared again at the keyboard. His hands became moist, and his breathing shallow. He panicked because he had forgotten where to place his hands to begin the piece. Stage fright hit him hard for which he was completely unprepared. He racked his confused memory of how to begin what had gone reasonably well the day before in the



comfort of his living room. He asked himself how he could get out of this mess he had gotten himself into. After what seemed to him to be a very long silence, he blurted out that the swivel stool was too unsteady for him to perform up to his normal standard. He announced that he was changing the program and instead he would substitute a group sing -along from a book of old favorites he had noticed earlier on top of the piano. As he opened the music, he realized that his skills at sight-reading music were not up to playing the accompaniment to the songs. He decided to play a few notes of a song’s melody and try to carry the tune from there. The audience did not follow his lead and remained silent while he sang a song, which he did not know very well, in a pitch higher than his normal range. On good days, he was an indeterminate baritone. Today, his nerves and the sudden awareness that he was completely unprepared, and had publicly embarrassed himself, contributed to his voice being in a higher range than he had ever sung before.

To salvage what he could of the deteriorating situation, he tried humor. What was a humorous story to him was in bad taste or off-color to his audience. No one laughed. A few asked loudly, “What did he say?” Silence reigned supreme. In desperation, he tried again to play the Chopin prelude but his technique, that had been adequate at home, failed him completely as he dropped one note after another with the result that the sounds that came out of that old piano bore little resemblance to what the great Polish composer had written.

It was apparent to everyone in the front row of wheelchairs that Bruce was dying on stage. The beads of sweat were clearly visible on his forehead. His quaking voice advertised his condition. His shaking hands did not help in his performance.

At the end of the piece, one alert and kindly grandmother, who was closest to Bruce, began to clap quietly. She smiled knowingly at him as if to forgive him for the musical disaster she had just heard. It must have reminded her of the hesitant attempts by her children and grandchildren to play in public at a piano recital years before. Bruce turned and smiled ashamedly at her, as if to apologize for his inexcusable performance. A few also made the polite motions of clapping. Some just seemed to be in a daze at what they had just seen and heard. Bruce quickly got up from the piano stool, nodded stiffly to the residents, and ran out of the room and the building with a loud cry without saying a word to anyone. He had made both his debut and his farewell appearance on his tour. His feeling of helplessness was intense. He had humiliated himself in public by deceiving, not only his audience, but his family who asked when he returned home, “How did it go?” The tone of his wife’s voice clearly said “I told you so!”

Bruce finally realized that he loved music as a listener not as a performer.

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