After setting up the Christmas tree this year, I left the decorating to Paula. I planned to swoop in after most of the decorations were put on and hang a dozen or so items just to feel like I contributed to Paula’s work of art.

She has kept every decoration we’ve ever purchased or received, and manages to hang then onto branches already loaded with knickknacks, My hanging favorites are mostly M&M characters, Tasmanian devils, and other male-oriented objects.

This year I came across a ceramic Santa Claus, brightly colored and festive. One leg was glued on, the result, I guess, of having been dropped in the past. I read the inscription on the other side: To Tom, From Bob, Christmas 1998.

I had forgotten about it. This was three years into Bob’s illness, one that would last thirty-five years until he succumbed to Covid. In 1998, Bob was enrolled in occupational therapy to keep his mind sharp and to pass the long days.

So, as Christmas approached, the aides had residents create ceramic ornaments for their families. It didn’t impact me at the time and I filed it away along with other gifts I would soon forget.

Yet, this year, maybe as a reminder of the real spirit of Christmas, I found the ornament again, reread the inscription, and hung it in a place of prominence.

I’m sure Bob forgot about the ornament even hours after he made it, as he had a short-term memory deficit. I forgot about it also, due to not understanding what it represented.
​
But it hangs this year, and will in the future as a reminder of what has passed, and what we need to remember.

2423 North 5th Street, Philadelphia, Pa. was a three-story row house in West Kensington. This was the home of my grandparents, Mary and Michael Fecinko, and their three surviving children, Irene, my mother, my Aunt Mary, and my Aunt Agnes. The other children died of the Spanish flu.

The home was later bought by my Aunt Agnes, Uncle Joe, and cousin Rosemary. It occupied 1960 square feet with an enclosed entry foyer to hold raincoats, umbrellas, and muddy shoes. There was fine woodwork throughout the house and high ceilings in the living areas.
​
Between the home and the neighbors was an alleyway leading to a small backyard. The alley was barely wide enough for one person to walk through at a time. It provided an unexpected sanctuary from the bustle and danger on the street. It was primarily used by my uncle to take the trash out to the sidewalk on the designated day.

The house was heated by coal which was delivered by truck and dumped via a chute into the bin in the basement. My uncle would shovel the chunks into the furnace whose fire would deliver warmth to the rooms above.

The residence occupied a sliver of a white working-class neighborhood. My Uncle Joe would return from his job at the Schmidt’s brewery and settle in for an evening of reading the paper and watching a small screen black and white tv. My Aunt Agnes, a nineteen-fifty’s housewife, would putter around in her housedress, and occasionally walk to the small store at the end of the block for groceries and to chat with her neighbors. My cousin Rosemary, already a teenager when I was born, was in and out of the house between hanging out with her friends.

There were no driveways in such a congested area, so street parking was essential to the one-car families. Forget reserved spots, you grabbed what you could, although the tradition of leaving a lawn chair or trashcan in front of your house was mostly honored as ‘dibbs.’

Three marble steps led to the front door. These steps also doubled as seating on a warm night as neighbors talked about their day and current events, after sweeping their front walk.

Crime eventually encompassed the neighborhood as those with less income and opportunity replaced families seeking the suburbs with their promise of large lots and quieter surroundings. My aunt and uncle stayed through difficult times, careful of where and when they walked or even ventured out to their car.

In 1960, the Eagles played at Franklin Field for the NFL championship. No sports network televised the home game, so my uncle, entreated to bring his young nephew along, drove his sedan around the neighborhood streets to listen to the play-by-play on the AM car radio. The grey car had bench seats on which you could slide into the dashboard if the brakes were applied unexpectedly. The doors were also thick enough to stop a bullet.

We were paused at a red light when Chuck Bednarik landed on Jim Taylor at the ten-yard line and wouldn’t get off until the final seconds ticked down to the Eagles victory, the only playoff game Green Bay coach Vince Lombardi lost.
​
The ride back to 2423 North 5th street was windows-down as we enjoyed our personal victory parade.

In early September, my granddaughter Lydia started kindergarten. After almost five years of daycare at a small preschool, she entered into the public school system, got familiar with riding a school bus, and began the process of meeting new friends and teachers.

For five and three-quarter years, Lydia was the closely guarded secret of her parents, grandparents, family, preschool friends, and their social media connections.

Now, she’s a publican, the name given by us Catholic elementary school kids for those going to public schools.

And Lydia adjusted seamlessly, riding the bus with her down-the-street, playdate friend, Naima,  and charming her teachers.
​
Her parents, my daughter Maureen, and son-in-law Jason, raised her right, giving her the responsibility and freedom she needed to take this next step in life.

Her grandparents, myself, Paula, Ike, and Rita, stood just enough out of the way, to let Lydia grow from infant to toddler to school-aged kiddo, even if our inclination to kibbitz seemed overpowering sometimes.

Lydia is now enrolled in dance, ballet, and baton twirling classes and continues to surprise us with her blossoming maturity.
​
In the meantime, the grandparents wonder where the time went, and hope that they’ll be around to smile, and, of course, gloat when Lydia takes on high school, college, and whatever path she chooses in life.

(Previously published in Commuter Lit)

Focusing on a social media post, Sam opens his bottle of water and drops the cap. He checks his desk and the surrounding floor. No cap. He pushes himself on his rolling chair and surveys the carpet. Nothing to be found.

His OCD kicks in and he drops to his hands and knees. With his flashlight, he scours the room like a crime scene investigator.

Giving up after a few minutes, he resumes his internet surfing, still preoccupied. Where’s that damn cap? Another search, this time into places the vacuum dare not go. It can’t just vanish into thin air.

“Dinner, Sam,” Lana, his wife, calls out, Sam abandons his search, for now, and trots downstairs fantasizing on the roast beef awaiting him.

Following the meal, the evening news, and Jeopardy, he climbs the stairs and prepares for his evening ablution. While scrubbing the days grime, then rinsing, he thinks back on the missing cap. He pulls back the shower curtain, and something goes flying across the bathroom, rolling on the floor, and stopping at the door. The cap. Where did that come from?

He makes a self-inspection, front and back, and notices a red circle around his belly button and pin-sized markings around the perimeter. No. That didn’t happen. Must have come from somewhere, though.
 
A few weeks later, while studying the football statistics on Yahoo, a Junior Mint falls from his hand and disappears. Determined to disprove that dropped objects hide in belly buttons, he lowers his pants and examines his navel, removing accumulated lint. He dons his reading glasses and makes a closer inspection.

Lana walks bye, opens her mouth to say something, thinks the better of it, and continues past.

Sam pulls up his pants, sits down, and scratches his ear. The mint flies out and bounces on the floor.
 
A month later, Sam visits his doctor for a routine examination. He mentions the bottle cap and the mint.

“My colleague, Dr. Slivovitz, from Vienna is here for the week,” say Dr. Goldman. “I want him to look you over.”

Dr. Slivovitz hems and haws while examining every square inch of Sam. “Vell… this is quite mysterious. But lost things must reappear sooner or later.”

Sam dresses and thanks the doctor, still uncertain about his condition.
 
Days later, Sam drops a potato chip while reading a story about Kim, Pete, and Kanye. After searching the floor, he stands, removes his pants and scratches his ear while rubbing his hand over his navel. Lana has the misfortune to see this. She shakes her head and sighs.

Sam hears her and explains his actions. Lana smiles out of sympathy.

That evening at dinner, Lana says “You know, Sam, I was sewing on a button earlier when I dropped the spool of thread. I can’t find it anywhere.”

Sam nods. “It will turn up eventually, Lana.”
 
The next day, Lana sneezes, loud enough to shake the foundation of the house. She walks into the living room as Sam reads the comics.

“I found the thread,” Lana says, while holding her nose.

Sam folds the paper, leaving Dilbert to his troubles. “Vell… this is quite mysterious,” Sam says. “But lost things must reappear sooner or later.”
 

(Diamante)


Writing

Explosive, Quiet

Liberating, Constraining, Confounding

Paper…, Ink…, Glue…, Emotion

Validating, Nerve-wracking, Self-Doubting

Excited, Relieved

Writing


(Cinquain)
​

Winter

Night conquers Day

Cold numbs our hands and feet

Until Spring frees us to emerge

New Life


(Haiku)

Sunrise chirps outside

Purple Finch stands on a branch

Wake up, humans. Thrive. 

I am primarily of Slovakian and German heritage with a little Irish and Ukrainian tossed in. My father passed away in 1955, leaving my mother a widow at forty with four children. For the most part, my father’s family lost touch with us, leaving my mom and her sisters as our primary links to the past.

Irene, my mother, Aunt Mary, and Aunt Agnes were born to Michael and Maria Fecinko early in the 20th century. They were the surviving three of sixteen children. The Spanish Flu claimed the others. It’s hard to imagine suffering such sustained loss but my mom and aunts persisted.

Aunt Mary, the oldest, would greet us with “Jak se máš” when we visited. It means “How are you” in Czech. Little did we know that most people would eventually associate that expression with Borat.

I remember Aunt Agnes for often saying “The hurrider I go, the behinder I get.” When I would act up, she’d say, “Come over here so I can hit you.” She never actually hit me and instead put up with a nephew asking to stay over in their three story North Philly row house, originally owned by Michael and Maria Fecinko.

The sisters built their own lives, Irene and Agnes had children and grandchildren, while Mary went childless and lost multiple husbands until marrying Uncle Johnny late in life. Johnny ended up murdering his neighbor and was sent off to prison. Mary was alone again.

The three maintained a close, if not sometimes, contentious relationship, with Mary dominating her younger siblings. It’s hard to judge her given her lifetime of loss. Agnes bore Mary’s disapproval with a stoic nature, accepting her status as youngest, even into her seventies. Irene, caught in the middle most times, became the Switzerland of the three, keeping harmony when possible.
​
We read of close, happy sisters in fiction, but the truth is usually more skewed. Surviving, maintaining contact, and doting of nieces and nephews while loving each other in their own way, is as much as we can expect from siblings when life has other plans for us.

Cycling up Spring Lane, I stand on the pedals of my Schwinn and churn  to battle the hill. I swerve back and forth in a probably misguided attempt to conserve my strength for the climb. I could just dismount and walk the last hundred yards or so, but that would be wimping out.

Four packs of Topps baseball cards rest in my pocket. I just bought them from the drugstore in the small shopping center on York Road. A little farther now and I’ll be home, ready to unwrap my treasure.

Got ‘em … got ‘em … need ‘em. A modest success overall. Too many doubles, but I did get Tony Taylor. I remove the planks of bubble gum from each sticky wrapper, jam them in my mouth, and chew, knowing that a fresh wad is unlikely. How long did the gum sit in the pack? Months, probably.

I am ten and indestructible. Girls are still aliens, and pick up baseball, football, or basketball games are my method of social interaction. I live in a heavily Catholic neighborhood, which guarantees lots of kids my age, also itching to get out of their house and play. It was so simple.

As I’ve aged, and life gets more complicated, I ignore the advancement of my internal clock and discard the reality of illness or even death. I glance at the obits once in a while, and am still surprised when someone my age has passed. How is this possible? It can’t happen to me. I’m Tommy, on his bike and hoping for a Roberto Clemente card.

My sister, Irene, passed this year. Besides the sadness of losing her, I realize she was the last member of my original family to go. My link to a simpler past is broken and I’m floating through the unknown. I’ll be seventy soon, and my thoughts of riding my bike as a kid no longer comfort me.

While I stay occupied with my writing, there’s still a feeling that someone in the heavens is leafing through an eternal calendar and searching for my appointment date.

How do I reconnect the tether and keep the orbital station of life from pulling away as I hang on? I’m guessing it’s my current family and especially my granddaughter who thinks I’m larger than life.
​
Someday soon, she’ll be riding her bike up a different hill, happy and indestructible. Grandpa will be there, smiling, and ready to pick her up if she falls. I accept this role as my new reality, and hope Lydia will remember and cherish Grandpa when he has floated away.

I’m looking over the newspapers, waiting for my order number to be shouted out. One line of customers is being served by a Wawa clerk ringing up clients. A pretty coworker mans the adjacent register keeping up with the barrage of coffee, burritos, and newspapers.

When both lanes clear, the clerk turns to her and says “Did I tell you my nightmare about Friendly’s?”

Well, well, a gift from the literary deities, a naturally occurring writing prompt. What horror occurred within the ice cream wonderland? Did the milkshake mixer pull in an unwilling arm? Does the chocolate syrup have the consistency of blood? Did the clown’s face in a Kids Sundae frown and hand a balloon to a little girl?

I amble closer pretending to look over the lottery tickets. It’s loud in the store as people chat and approach the registers. The clerk mentions something about a fish sandwich and pistachio ice cream before the throng cuts the conversation short. I drift over to the sandwich counter pondering the meaty details of this dream.

I assume he’s having dinner at Friendly’s after a day of pouring out soup, or refilling the coffee urns. He settles into the booth and looks over the placemat which serves as the menu in these times of Covid. The table is sticky from the last child occupying his position on the red plastic seat. The menu has chocolate fingerprints positioned over the entrees.

Between the thumb and forefinger is the description of the Fishamajig Super Melt. He’s starving and craves Haddock, fries, and Cole slaw.

He orders his entre, to be proceeded by clam chowder. He’s going full Catholic Lent, possibly in atonement for placing the bag of Doritos back on the shelf after sneaking a few chips.

A vanilla milkshake will wash things down. It arrives in a chilled metallic container, sweating moisture from its shell.  He takes the straw, opens the end, blows into it, and torpedoes the paper wrapping into the noggin of a lad in the next booth.

He looks down, minding his own business, but glances up, just a little, for a reaction. The  boy calls out “Hey” and looks for the perp. His mother glances around also, appears to suspect the clerk, but shrugs and tells her son to forget about it.

The clerk reaches for the long spoon after an unsuccessful attempt to suck the thick concoction through his straw. Ladling ice cream into his mouth, he swallows, invoking sheer ecstasy as the fluid plunges into his stomach. Shock sets in as an ice cream headache triggers. He holds his head and moans.

The boy and his mother see this and chuckle. Surely karma has struck this malefactor.

The chowder arrives. It’s steaming and burns the roof of his mouth. His poor head has experienced extreme cold and hot over just a few seconds. He blows on it, adds in those tasty chowder crackers, and dares a second swallow. He slurps the shake and is rewarded with unthreatening sweetness.

The fish sandwich arrives. He touches the toast for temperature extremes and samples a French fry. Not too hot and just the right amount of grease. He downs the meal, and, as the plate is whisked away, studies the desserts. Two scoops of Pistachio would be just right.

He orders M&Ms as a topping. When it arrives, he rearranges the candies into a happy face. He turns the whipped cream into a beard.

The young boy, the victim of the surprise assault, walks by with his mother, who is holding their check. The lad mumbles a ‘heh, heh’ which unsettles the clerk.

Wait a minute, what did he do? Is he in cahoots with the waitress?  He examines his ice cream. Are those pistachio nuts or boogers? He digs in anyway, but, increasingly convinced that his dessert has been befouled, stops and runs off toward the Men’s room, holding his mouth. The restroom is near the entrance and he sees a car pulling out with his nemesis in a car seat in the back. The boy sees him, then sticks his finger up his nose and smiles.
​
This is the end of my imagined retelling. I push through the Wawa doors, a tuna shortie in hand. I see the clerk puffing away under the No Loitering sign. His companion is chewing gum and listening as he finishes the story. He stubs out the cigarette as they reenter the store. He shakes his head. “No more Friendly’s, or for that matter, Pistachio ice cream, for me.”

Hey, this is pretty sweet. A nice large pond in beautiful Washington Township, New Jersey. Pretty idyllic. Other koi swim by, their coloring unique, and their bellies full from the supporting aquatic life.

The humans stroll around, sit on benches and talk, or play their sporting contests. We share an uncomplicated co-existence, enjoying the tranquility and the sounds of our avian friends.

We, in the pond, float and scavenge. Our own little United Nations. Ducks, turtles, geese, anything that chooses to swim in harmony.

People stop by to admire nature at its simplest. Humans are cute. The tall ones, short ones, young ones, old ones. Somehow navigating on just two limbs. I wonder how they breathe. I don’t see any gills.

Anyway, we have quite the human assortment: families, singles pensive or carefree, I even saw a writers’ group a few weeks ago, carrying their notepads and chatting away.

Hey, there’s a family coming now. Looks like a mother, father, daughter, and son. The prefect American shoal. The mother and daughter find a spot on the grass and point at the wildlife before them.

The father and son walk away toward the trees near where I’m circling. The father says something to the son, and they both pull at their pants. 
 
Oh, no. Not that. Hey, buddy, there are rest rooms a little farther down. Hey, we don’t pee in your pool! Ewwww, the father just hit Lenny with his stream. Right in the snout. Poor guy, he just moved here from Philly last week.

The father’s pointing while talking to his son. He’s proud of his distance, like an Olympic shot putter.

I’ll teach him not to befoul our pond. I’ll just swim over there and give him a piece of my mind. I navigate close to the edge and splash the pair. There take that!

UH, OH, the son almost fell in the water, rescued by a yank from his father, who is still performing his business one-handed.

The father’s foot lands in the water. You deserve that, buddy. He pulls out his muddy appendage, yells what must be an obscenity, and picks up a rock. He flings it and it misses me by an inch.

The father zips up and bends over again for another projectile. He picks up goose poop, an unexpected result from the look on his face.

I surface and chortle. The father raises one hand, and with it, it seems, does an impersonation of a bird in flight.

A sparrow flies over and splatters him with that white gunk they somehow emit.
​
My other koi friends have seen this last interaction. We laugh and swim away. Not a bad day after all.

(Based on the prompt "The Heat was On!")

The heat was on! It was on the deflector shields, on the connecting walkway between the engine room and the control deck, even on the robotic cat hissing at passing humanoids.

Captain Kirkland slid down his control chair, his drenched shirt and pants no match for the rich Corinthian leather. “Boy, it’s soooo hot….”

The crew sighed. “How hot is it, Captain?”

“It’s soooo hot, the shaved ice in my Margarita melted and took the salt with it.”

Weak smiles from the crew as they continued their work.

Lieutenant Shock stepped forward and grasped the railing to avoid skating on the sweat which covered the floor. “Captain, it was already risky enough taking on the first mission to Mercury, but if I can be frank, your idea of checking out the Sun was ill-advised.”

“Noted, Lieutenant. Hey, did you know that your ears are down now? You look like one of those lop-eared rabbits.”

Shock returned to his station, muttering something in Vulcan.

Kirkland called out “Sick Bay.” Lights flashed.

“Sick Bay, here,” said a tired voice.

“Skeleton, can you do something about this heat affecting us all?”

“Dammit, Captain. I’m a doctor, not an HVAC repairman. We need to turn around. We’re running out of SPF 3 million.”

The captain shook his head.

“Ok…Boy... You try to do people a favor. I was gonna buy each of you a Kohrs custard and then we were going to have a Skee-ball tournament.”

Kirkland waved to his navigator. “Solo, reverse engines and get us back toward Mercury.”

The crew cheered. 
​
The captain nodded. “Ok, Just don’t expect Manco and Manco on Mercury. We’ll be lucky if they even have clean restrooms there."