I used to haunt the Fraser-Hickson Library on Kensington Avenue in Montreal when I was growing up. Every Saturday afternoon, Judy and I would meet and - as long as the weather cooperated - walk to the library. It was an imposing structure, at least in the eyes of a couple of tweens; a two story building with a stone facade and large plate-glass windows that illuminated the interior. One part of the library was devoted to children’s books. Judy and I, of course, were beyond that. We went to the grown-up wing - a cornucopia of non-fiction, reference, and fiction collections.
Judy and I loved to wander between the rows upon rows of shelves that overflowed with tempting titles: Tropic of Cancer, Sons and Lovers, The Carpetbaggers. These were beyond our reach, both literally and figuratively. They were on the high shelves and, in any case, we couldn’t borrow them on our children’s membership cards. You had to be at least sixteen to borrow books that were marked with red dots on their spines!
It didn’t matter, though. There was still so much that we could sample. After an hour of drinking in all our choices, we’d each find a couple of prospects. Newly borrowed books in hand, we would cross Somerled Avenue and proceed to the next phase of our Saturday ritual - chocolate ice cream sundaes at the Somerled Soda Shoppe. Our appetites for sweets assuaged, Judy and I would head back to her house, curl up and gorge on our brain candy.
Brain candy! When I was young, I scarfed down stories about Nancy Drew, Cherry Ames, and Judy Bolton Girl Detective. Later I graduated to Agatha Christie and Charles Dickens. Today, I inhale mysteries by Sue Grafton, and immerse myself in epic novels sculpted by Herman Wouk, James Clavell and James Michener. My choice of brain candy has evolved over the years, but my love of reading - and of chocolate ice cream sundaes - remains unchanged.
©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Granny's Knitting Circle
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| Granny |
I waited, awestruck by the speed of Auntie Ethel’s knitting, her yarn and needles flying effortlessly through the air. Granny’s hands and needles were a blur; the booties she was knitting took shape magically, right before my eyes. Mom was the slowest knitter in the circle of three. Her motions were not as fluid as those of Granny or Auntie Ethel. But her methodical technique was still effective.
After what felt like a long while - although it was probably not more than a few minutes - Mom glanced up and caught my eye. I held up my knitting kit - one of my birthday presents - and pleaded wordlessly for permission to enter the room. My patience was rewarded with a silent nod that directed me towards the empty footstool.
Mom put down her own knitting and knelt beside me. She placed a loop of yarn on the needle in my left hand, and placed her own hands over mine as she showed me how to cast on stitches. Painstakingly, I added stitch after stitch, until the loops of yarn threatened to overflow the needle. Now what? I looked up inquiringly at Mom, who then showed me how to form the basic knit and purl stitches.
The afternoon wore on. Finally, Granny, Mom and Auntie Ethel put down their needles and assembled the results of their labors - three complete sets of booties, bonnets and baby jackets, one each in yellow, green and white. I held up my needles for their inspection, revealing a knitted yellow ribbon that was one foot long and half an inch wide. Mom took the knitted ribbon, attached it to the yellow bonnet, and held it up to approving nods.
I danced up and down with excitement, and ran to hug Mom, Auntie Ethel, and last of all, my grandmother. I was now a knitter - a member of Granny’s knitting circle.
©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.
A Note of Explanation: We were challenged to write a scene that contained absolutely no dialogue whatsoever. No 'he said, she said.' I always was amazed by the speed and dexterity with which Granny and Auntie Ethel knitted, and by the beautiful items they produced. The knitting circle was unofficial. The story - especially the silence - is fictional. My love and admiration for all three of these women was, and remains, real.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Bob - Take Two
You did it again. This is New York. People don’t make eye contact here - especially not on 42nd Street.
All you were doing was walking Butch. So he’s a Great Dane, weighs 200 lbs, stands as tall as your waist and walks ahead of you, weaving back and forth across your path. So you carry on a monologue with him as the two of you walk along, dodging passers-by, trash cans, an occasional pile of unclaimed poop and other detritus of street life in the Big Apple. So what?
You were walking towards Time Square when you spotted Bob - at least, you thought it was Bob - your old high school sweetheart. The one who asked you to the prom. The one who broke your heart by leaving you high and dry on prom night to dance every dance with Betty. The one you never wanted to see again. Ever!
It might have been Bob. He was the right height - about six feet tall. His hair was a little thinner than you remembered, and his waistline a bit thicker. But he carried himself with that same jaunty air - an aura of confidence in his own charm. And he was still a hunk.
You couldn’t be certain, though. You had to look into his eyes - to penetrate his facade. The eyes never lie. You wanted it to be Bob. You wanted to stroll up to him nonchalantly and show him that his rejection of you had been a mistake. A big mistake. The biggest mistake of his life. You heard that he had married Betty. You wanted to hear that she had turned into a fat, frumpy hausfrau. You wanted to make Bob suffer.
So you stared at him, making eye contact as he approached. And he stared back. It was Bob, and he was coming directly towards you, right hand extended.
"Janie!" He smiled - a familiar broad smile that spread across his face, causing little fan-shaped crinkles to form at the corners of his eyes - and took your free hand in his. "How nice to run into you." Bob turned to address a svelte, sophisticated blond woman who was standing with impeccable composure at his side. "Betty," he said, drawing her forward, "you remember little Janie from our high school class, don't you?"
"Of course I remember Janie." Betty held out her hand to shake yours, but Butch got there first, taking her hand gently in his mouth and covering it with his slobber. "Ewwwwww! Get that beast away from me!" Betty retreated behind Bob, her sophistication dissolved in a mass of dog slobber. "That dog is a menace."
"C'mon, Betty." Bob put out his hand to pat Butch on the head. "This dog is just a gentle giant. You said you liked dogs."
"Well, I lied! And if you're more interested in that beast than in me, you can just forget about picking up where we left off after high school." Betty turned and strode briskly away.
You were afraid to look at Bob - fearful that he would be angry with you. You mumbled an apology and turned to go. "Wait, Janie," you heard him say. "There's a café around the corner with some patio tables. Would you and Butch care to join me?"
©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.
A Note of Explanation: By popular demand, here is an alternative ending to Bob
Please Have Your Say
Please post a comment indicating whether you prefer the original ending or this one.
All you were doing was walking Butch. So he’s a Great Dane, weighs 200 lbs, stands as tall as your waist and walks ahead of you, weaving back and forth across your path. So you carry on a monologue with him as the two of you walk along, dodging passers-by, trash cans, an occasional pile of unclaimed poop and other detritus of street life in the Big Apple. So what?
You were walking towards Time Square when you spotted Bob - at least, you thought it was Bob - your old high school sweetheart. The one who asked you to the prom. The one who broke your heart by leaving you high and dry on prom night to dance every dance with Betty. The one you never wanted to see again. Ever!
It might have been Bob. He was the right height - about six feet tall. His hair was a little thinner than you remembered, and his waistline a bit thicker. But he carried himself with that same jaunty air - an aura of confidence in his own charm. And he was still a hunk.
You couldn’t be certain, though. You had to look into his eyes - to penetrate his facade. The eyes never lie. You wanted it to be Bob. You wanted to stroll up to him nonchalantly and show him that his rejection of you had been a mistake. A big mistake. The biggest mistake of his life. You heard that he had married Betty. You wanted to hear that she had turned into a fat, frumpy hausfrau. You wanted to make Bob suffer.
So you stared at him, making eye contact as he approached. And he stared back. It was Bob, and he was coming directly towards you, right hand extended.
"Janie!" He smiled - a familiar broad smile that spread across his face, causing little fan-shaped crinkles to form at the corners of his eyes - and took your free hand in his. "How nice to run into you." Bob turned to address a svelte, sophisticated blond woman who was standing with impeccable composure at his side. "Betty," he said, drawing her forward, "you remember little Janie from our high school class, don't you?"
"Of course I remember Janie." Betty held out her hand to shake yours, but Butch got there first, taking her hand gently in his mouth and covering it with his slobber. "Ewwwwww! Get that beast away from me!" Betty retreated behind Bob, her sophistication dissolved in a mass of dog slobber. "That dog is a menace."
"C'mon, Betty." Bob put out his hand to pat Butch on the head. "This dog is just a gentle giant. You said you liked dogs."
"Well, I lied! And if you're more interested in that beast than in me, you can just forget about picking up where we left off after high school." Betty turned and strode briskly away.
You were afraid to look at Bob - fearful that he would be angry with you. You mumbled an apology and turned to go. "Wait, Janie," you heard him say. "There's a café around the corner with some patio tables. Would you and Butch care to join me?"
©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.
A Note of Explanation: By popular demand, here is an alternative ending to Bob
Please Have Your Say
Please post a comment indicating whether you prefer the original ending or this one.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Bob
You did it again. This is New York. People don’t make eye contact here - especially not on 42nd Street.
All you were doing was walking Butch. So he’s a Great Dane, weighs 200 lbs, stands as tall as your waist and walks ahead of you, weaving back and forth across your path. So you carry on a monologue with him as the two of you walk along, dodging passers-by, trash cans, an occasional pile of unclaimed poop and other detritus of street life in the Big Apple. So what?
You were walking towards Time Square when you spotted Bob - at least, you thought it was Bob - your old high school sweetheart. The one who asked you to the prom. The one who broke your heart by leaving you high and dry on prom night to dance every dance with Betty. The one you never wanted to see again. Ever!
It might have been Bob. He was the right height - about six feet tall. His hair was a little thinner than you remembered, and his waistline a bit thicker. But he carried himself with that same jaunty air - an aura of confidence in his own charm. And he was still a hunk.
You couldn’t be certain, though. You had to look into his eyes - to penetrate his facade. The eyes never lie. You wanted it to be Bob. You wanted to stroll up to him nonchalantly and show him that his rejection of you had been a mistake. A big mistake. The biggest mistake of his life. You heard that he had married Betty. You wanted to hear that she had turned into a fat, frumpy hausfrau. You wanted to make Bob suffer.
So you stared at him, making eye contact as he approached. Butch decided to stare, too. And bark. A lot. And the hunk - not Bob after all - ran the other way.
©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.
A Note of Explanation: For this prompt, we were to imagine the following scenario: You are approaching someone on a city street. From several yards away, you make eye contact. The other person turns and runs away. Why?
All you were doing was walking Butch. So he’s a Great Dane, weighs 200 lbs, stands as tall as your waist and walks ahead of you, weaving back and forth across your path. So you carry on a monologue with him as the two of you walk along, dodging passers-by, trash cans, an occasional pile of unclaimed poop and other detritus of street life in the Big Apple. So what?
You were walking towards Time Square when you spotted Bob - at least, you thought it was Bob - your old high school sweetheart. The one who asked you to the prom. The one who broke your heart by leaving you high and dry on prom night to dance every dance with Betty. The one you never wanted to see again. Ever!
It might have been Bob. He was the right height - about six feet tall. His hair was a little thinner than you remembered, and his waistline a bit thicker. But he carried himself with that same jaunty air - an aura of confidence in his own charm. And he was still a hunk.
You couldn’t be certain, though. You had to look into his eyes - to penetrate his facade. The eyes never lie. You wanted it to be Bob. You wanted to stroll up to him nonchalantly and show him that his rejection of you had been a mistake. A big mistake. The biggest mistake of his life. You heard that he had married Betty. You wanted to hear that she had turned into a fat, frumpy hausfrau. You wanted to make Bob suffer.
So you stared at him, making eye contact as he approached. Butch decided to stare, too. And bark. A lot. And the hunk - not Bob after all - ran the other way.
©2013 Phyllis Entis. All rights reserved.
A Note of Explanation: For this prompt, we were to imagine the following scenario: You are approaching someone on a city street. From several yards away, you make eye contact. The other person turns and runs away. Why?
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