True Stories Well Told

By Rick Hata

In 1979, I graduated from the University of Missouri – Columbia with a double degree in elementary and special education.  The year leading up to my graduation, I served as a resident assistant in an 8-story, high-rise party dorm known throughout campus as Hatch Hoedown Hall.  As the RA, I served as floor counselor, advisor, and fun-buster.

A few weeks before graduation, some seniors on our floor went through the interview process.  The engineering and computer science majors were hot commodities.  Corporate companies and firms wooed and seduced them with steak dinners, champagne, and signing bonuses.  They sweet-talked them with promises to provide all the benefits a fresh graduate could want, including a starting salary in the exosphere.  The educators and social science majors, who were as sought after as psoriasis, had competitions for who could garner the most rejection letters.  The principal of the school where I student-taught mentioned to me that he had 50 applicants for every teacher opening.  I needed to cast a wide net to secure an offer.

Fortunately, I landed an offer teaching 4^th and 5^th grade deficient readers and writers in the Broken Arrow Public Schools – a suburb of Tulsa.  I remember how excited I felt getting an administrator’s phone call with an offer of hire. . . and then receiving my first teacher contract one month later.  After it arrived, I marveled at the envelope with my name spelled and typed correctly on the outside . . . and the official insignia of the Broken Arrow Public Schools.   I opened the letter and contract inside.  There on the freshly typed page, with just a few white-out smudges, it proclaimed that my annual salary would be . . . $10,000.  WOW!  I had never made so much money.      

On August 15^th, with my Ford Fairmont and U-Haul van fully stuffed, I gave Mom a quick hug, noticed the tears that filled her eyes, and began my six-hour drive from Boonville, Missouri to Tulsa, Oklahoma.   I had already secured an apartment in Tulsa, but could not move in until September 1st.  Fortunately, one of my best friends was working a short-term stint as a geology intern in Tulsa and had an apartment one mile from my new apartment.  Craig felt delighted to have me as a two-week guest.

Three days before my first day of teaching, I experienced the new teacher orientation at the sparkling newly constructed high school.  As I walked through the shiny hallways and into the plush auditorium, I felt honored to be teaching in Broken Arrow.  During the orientation, we heard inspiring speeches from the three district-wide administrators, who warmly welcomed us into the fold.  Next, we received a warm welcome from the mayor of Broken Arrow.   Though I felt pride and appreciation during the presentation, my mind constantly wondered how I was going to turn my disinclined readers into bookworms.     

After my day of orientation, I returned to Craig’s apartment.  After dinner, I sat at his dining room table drawing and cutting out bulletin board letters for my averse readers.  Craig’s telephone landline rang.  “Rick, it’s for you.”  Stunned, I thought to myself, “Who could be calling me?” 

“Hello.”

“Howdy Rick . . . this is James M. Inhofe – I’m the mayor of Tulsa, OK . . . and I wanted to welcome you to our city.” 

Surprised . . . my initial reaction was disbelief . . . BUT that afternoon I felt warmly welcomed by the mayor of Broken Arrow . . . so maybe it was customary for the mayor of Tulsa to welcome new teachers to Tulsa County – because teacher vacancies were rare.  What Southern hospitality.

“Ahhh . . . Thank you for your call” was all that I could eke out.  “I’m impressed that you called me, Mr. Mayor, because you must be so busy.”

“Land sakes, child . . . I’m busier than a one-legged man . . .  in a butt-kicking contest.”    

In an unrecognizable voice he mentioned, “Now, you . . . you graduated from the University of Missouri – right – I declare – boy you must be one of the sharpest knives in the drawer.  Well . . .  I hope that you find our community to be just as comfy as Columbia.”  

Baffled and stunned . . . I felt speechless that the mayor of Tulsa had made the effort to gather this information about me.  I felt cognitive dissonance.  Why would the mayor of Tulsa gather information about me . . . and then call to welcome me to his community?  What Southern hospitality.   

Without a hint of laughter, he stated, “Now . . . now Buckaroo, when you lived in Columbia, you stocked up your pantry with vittles from Schnucks . . . well . . . I hope that you find the convenience our Piggly Wiggly markets to be just as handy-dandy.”

WHAT .  . . he knows where I grocery shopped . . . impossible . . . “WHO IS THIS?” 

My old college roommate from Columbia, who knew about my move, burst out laughing.  We laughed together for five full seconds, as I had fallen for his deception.  

We have the power to not only add joy to our friends’ lives . . . but to give them unforgettable moments – moments that we can enjoy and savor for many years.  My roommate’s 1979 long-distance phone call cost him around $15 (in today’s dollars), but his thoughtfulness and humor were life forces that enrich me each and every time I think of his prank.

What can you do to give those you cherish an unforgettable moment?

© 2026 Rick Hata

Rick who is an ESL instructor at Madison College who lives and writes in Madison, Wisconsin.

By Janet Falk

I’m 63 years old and have some gray hair. I’m wearing pants and a jacket. It’s 7:45 pm on June 28, 2016 as I wait for the bus on Ninth Avenue in Manhattan.

Suddenly, a taxi pulls over to the curb and a man in a green blazer gets out.

He walks over towards me.

He says “I dig you.”

He says it repeatedly, “I dig you,” in a British accent. He looks to be at least 60.

Why does he think I will swoon at the opportunity to spend time in his company?

I ignore him.

New York City has all kinds of crazies. You learn to leave them alone.

He sidles up to me and stands as close as he dares. “I dig you.”

I am nervous, and concerned. Who knows what he might do next?

So, I pretend I do not understand what he said.

I speak to him in Spanish.

“Véte, fulano.” (Get away, you So-and-So.)

He doesn’t understand me, but he figures out that I do not speak English.

Still, he hovers nearby. “I dig you, darling. It’s too bad you don’t understand that.”

He steps off the curb, stands in the bus lane and flags down a cab. Like in the movies, a taxi immediately pulls up in the second lane.

He opens the passenger door and stands next to the cab. He motions, with a flourish, that I should get in the taxi.

I’m standing at the bus stop.

Does he really think that a woman he has barely met, and who has told him to get lost, is about to jump in a taxi with him?

After a few flourishes, the man realizes that I ignore him. He slams the cab’s door shut and tells the driver to go on without a fare.

Now he walks in the street, going past me. He stops at the corner on the south side of the intersection. I watch out of the corner of my eye.

I’m still at the bus stop.

I already saw one bus go by. I was unable to flag it down, because I was distracted and flummoxed by this man who proclaims his sudden infatuation to a woman who dismisses him.

The bus driver apparently did not see me. He drove in the middle lane, because the taxi in the second lane and the man himself in the bus lane blocked his view, even though I am practically hugging the bus stop post.

Now, with him pacing on the next corner, I spot two men, age late 20’s, approaching. They both have guitars slung across their backs and one is walking his bicycle.

I think, “These guys are cool.”

I pride myself on being a strong, independent woman, but I know when to play the damsel in distress card.

I call out to them: “Hey, guys. Come over here.”

They approach me, no doubt wondering what a woman my age could have to say to them.

“Do me a favor. Stay here until that guy in the green jacket goes away. He is harassing me.”

“Sure,” they nod. “No problem.”

A few awkward seconds pass.

To break the ice, I say, “Thanks. I thought I was too old for this.” They smile, sympathetically.

“I see him crossing the street,” says the guy with the bike.

“Yeah, he’s heading up the block,” says the other fellow.

“Thanks, I appreciate it. You can tell your friends about your good deed,” I say, trying to make light of the situation.

He is gone.

The two fellows walk on.

I’m standing at the bus stop.

The bus doesn’t come.

I was on my way to meet my husband downtown for live music and dancing outdoors. I am no longer in the mood. I call him and abandon my plan. I walk to the subway, heading home.

It took me a while to figure out what happened that night.

It was my knowledge of Spanish that was the key.

Fulano, the word I used to dismiss the man, is the Spanish term for So-and-So or an ordinary man whose name has no importance to the story being told.

It has an equivalent for women, of course: Fulana.

Fulana means a woman with no name. A female So-and-So.

It also means, a lady of the evening.

A street walker.

A hooker.

A prostitute.

The man who approached me thought I was a prostitute.

A case of mistaken identity.

Really?

© 2026 Janet Falk, Ph.D.

Janet Falk is a Public Relations and Marketing Communications professional in New York City. She has operated her consulting practice since 2009.

by Carol Blatter

I’ve never been a real swimmer. Not even an imitator. But I’m not a total non-swimmer, either. I admire those who swim laps across the pool with ease and grace. My contact with water is usually reserved for the shower. No, no baths, only showers. It’s hard to get clean in a bathtub, although it is more fun splashing around; it’s not possible in the shower.

*

It was the summer of 1951. I was nine, and it was my first year at sleep-away camp. I had to swim here. All campers had to participate. I recall a swim counselor teaching me to float on my back; I succeeded at that. I remember something called “dead man’s float.” I doubt I did it because it meant keeping my face in the water. Something I was fearful of. Then there was the crawl stroke. I never succeeded with the breathing, so after a few primitive strokes I was breathless.

In camp, we had to jump off the diving board into deep water and swim to the side of the pool to earn a beginner’s Red Cross card. No way would I jump off the board. I refused. I was scared. I saw the others taking their turns, diving off the board, splashing as they hit the water, coming up, then swimming to the side of the pool. They collected their cards. They were brave. I wasn’t. I was never a risk-taker in anything physical. Timidity best described me.

Then something unexpected happened. A surprise. Maybe a minor miracle. During another summer at camp, I was given a beginner’s Red Cross card. How did this happen? I never knew. Perhaps it was an error, but I was so proud, even if it was undeserved. After being a camper for several seasons, maybe the swim counselors thought I needed encouragement and bent the rules.

*

Just thinking about putting on a bathing suit on my eighty-three old body with all its wrinkles, sagging breasts, and crinkling, crepey skin, and showing my oversized protruding thighs and chunky calves makes me want to hide. But I wonder, who will see me anyway? Most of my neighbors are like me, women in our older years. Many of us have adult children, and many are grandmothers. Their bodies probably look like mine. Except for my height. I’ve lost inches due to fractured spinal vertebrae. Sadly, some self-consciousness has revisited me at my advanced age. I’m very short. And with a slight spinal curvature, it’s painful to stand up straight.

Luckily, I’m not that Jr HS teen they made fun of who called me “fat legs.” Shameful and humiliating memories are hard to let go of. I’m not a young single woman eager for dates and a mate, and many years have passed since I experienced obsessive worry about my attractiveness. But— I still want to look my best. Even at age eighty-three, personal attractiveness still has a place in my life. And why not?

*

Maybe the last time I was in the pool was twenty-six years ago, when we moved from Indianapolis to Tucson, in the Sonoran Desert. I was a young fifty-eight then, and we, my husband and I, tried out our subdivision’s pool, sending several splashes as we started to swim. Well, he was a seriously skilled swimmer, not me; effortlessly, he swam laps. I just floated on my back. That’s when I saw the bluest sky, felt the sunniest sun’s rays that I can ever remember from other places where we had lived, mainly on the northeast coast and in the Midwest, and was amazed at the sight of the spectacular Catalina Mountains in the background. Nature overtook me. I never improved my swimming, but I was hooked on all the beauty here in the Sonoran Desert. Cacti of every variety. Especially the tall, stately, and erect Saguaro cactus with numerous arms greeting observers. Trees, like the state tree, the Palo Verde with its green trunk, and the Mesquite tree. Orange Mexican poppy flowers. And birds, road runners, doves, and quails, as well as rabbits, coyotes, and bobcats, abound. The memories linger. I still remember floating on my back and seeing all the beauty we are gifted with here in this unique place.

*

Walking through the Sonoran Desert is my exercise of choice. Swimming is not. I won’t make a splash! Not even a ripple!

© 2026 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to The Gift of Long Life Personal Stories on the Aging Experience 2024 Birren Center Collection, Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101words.org, and poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and a very proud grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice.

By Jennifer Feldmann

I hopped onto the shuttle bus that would take me to the “start house” at the top of the mountain. Three others were already on the bus, all donned in bright yellow jackets with AUSTRALIA emblazoned on the back. 

“Hey Australia,” I gestured toward the three women, “what event are you in?”  

“We’re on the bobsled team,” they offered.
“Do you have a race today?” I asked
“No, just training runs.”

We parted ways at the end of the line, and I went in search of the volunteer chief. The majestic mountains surrounded me, and the formidable sliding track curved its way down the mountain. I wondered to myself: how did I get here?

It had all started with the 1980 Moscow Winter Olympics, which was to be my Olympics volunteer debut. At the time, naively perhaps, I had simply planned to show up in the Soviet Union and find a volunteer position at the Games. Simple, right? I’ll never know. The US boycotted the Games, and my dreams of volunteering were dashed…until now.

Here I was 46 years later in Cortina, Italy. I was one of 18,000 volunteers chosen out of 130,000 applicants. How did I make the cut? And did I really want to spend my own money for airfare and accommodations for the privilege of volunteering at the Olympic Games? Yes! Yes, I did!

I learned pretty quickly, however, that a volunteer must have a high tolerance for ambiguity. Before the games even started, the Olympic volunteer Facebook page was riddled with daily inquiries:
“I’ve been accepted as a volunteer; when will I get my schedule?” 

“It’s coming, just be patient.”

“Will there be shuttle buses for volunteers?” 

“They are planned; just wait for more information.”
“How long are the shifts?” 

“Six hours, maybe more. Just wait, you will be notified.”

Day One: My job was to simply get my uniform in the neighboring town of San Vito de Cadora. I was to look for the address #9 on the main street. I found #7 and next to that, #13. I walked around the buildings, went into a few of them, but no luck. I WILL not, I CANnot leave without my uniform, I thought to myself. An hour later, having asked at least six people where #9 was, I stumbled into the uniform site and was quickly fitted with boots, snow pants, wind pants, two shirts, two middle-weight top layers, a heavy jacket, a neck warmer, gloves, a backpack, a hat, and a watch–all in shades of blue. All the gear was stuffed into a gigantic bag. 

I endeavored to tote my tote bag back to my rental apartment. It should be noted that I am not very adept at bus riding. Turns out just staying on a bus to the end of the line is not the best strategy. That I managed to get back at all is thanks in part to a couple of Slovakian journalists with a good sense of direction.

My first day of volunteering: I had nervous diarrhea all morning, but was able to make my way to the volunteer bus (yes, it had become a reality). I got off when I saw a sea of blue-clad people walking down the hill toward the sliding center where the bobsled, luge and skeleton events took place. Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it’s off to work we go, I sang to myself.

I gave the man at the check-in center my name, and after consulting the computer, he stated that I would either be at the “start house” or the “finish house.” 

“Okkkkkkay. Do you know which one?”

“No, I’m not sure.”

“And who is the volunteer chief for today?” I inquired. 

“I don’t see anyone listed. Just look around when you get there,” he replied. 

Wherever ‘there’ is, I thought. 

Ambiguity? Check!

My job title was ‘access control.’ I assumed that meant I would monitor the comings and goings of the fans; help them to their seats and answer questions. Much to my delight, I was actually tasked with assisting the athletes. One day I was assigned to an area in which the bobsledders were prepping for their races, and I kept out the riff-raff, aka the media. Another day, I checked credentials and made sure that errant fans did not accidentally come into the ‘athletes only’ area (they did). Sometimes, I guided athletes fresh off their race to the awaiting media. I witnessed both tears of frustration and tears of joy. So much pressure for these young people, I thought, for whom I felt a maternal tug.

About a week into the gig, the volunteer chief asked me to cover the north side of the sliding area and offhandedly offered, “Princess Anne will be here shortly.” 

Wait, WHAT?!

Sure enough, within five minutes there were four bodyguards escorting Princess Anne into the area for visiting dignitaries, which actually looked more like a corral for small farm animals. It was only later that I found out the volunteer chief had specifically wanted me at the north side because he thought I was British and would appreciate seeing Princess Anne up close and personal. I wonder how disappointed he was when I told him I was American. 

My two weeks of volunteering ended all too soon. After taking countless bus rides, enjoying shift meals with hundreds in a large mess hall, struggling to communicate in both Italian and German, yet also trying to appreciate every moment of my volunteer stint, I stopped to look at the Olympic rings one last time, and I couldn’t help but smile. It had taken me 46 years, but I had finally gotten my Olympic volunteer debut. 

© 2026 Jennifer Feldmann

Jennifer Feldmann taught ESL for a number of years and very much enjoyed her students, who often provided fodder for her writing. She has also traveled widely and finds that writing about her experiences helps to keep them alive. But mostly she dabbles when it comes to the written word and does so for her own enjoyment. 

By “Stan” Stanaway

Buried in the northern forest of Wisconsin is a place difficult to find on any map. Just as the hidden village of Three Pines, Quebec, is only found in the books of Louise Penny, a place called Ontonagon may be found primarily in the annals of FBI files.*

The musty cardboard files, too buried to be digitized, tell of the secret base for studies of the alien infestation commonly known as The Sasquatch. After the debacle of Area 51 in the Southwes, (which has become a tourist-haven for gawkers and souvenir-grabbers) no such publicity is wanted by the Ontonagon Deputy Director of the Wisconsin FBI Office. In fact, extreme measures are taken to ensure its anonymity.

Coffee shops fail. Motels fold. Dollar Generals never get their merchandise. The only business that thrives is the Gas-n-Go which has imported (from Minnesota) Mexican burritos and over-priced ethanol for lost travelers. Of course, behind the beer cooler, there are two restrooms and a “Staff Only” door which leads to a P.X. the size of a Walmart.  Only a valid badge and “Ontonagonic” Credit Card will allow entrance.

The entrance to the main facility is a driveway in a mock neighborhood off River Street. Run-down clapboard houses, dusty trailer homes, sheds, barns, and smoke houses are actually ultra-modern offices and training facilities. Guarding the driveway façade is a specially trained dog that pretends to be sleeping…unless the suspect’s vehicle turns into the driveway. Then, the dog nudges the hidden alarm which sets the full force on alert.  Once back in the early 1980s, a tourist family pulled in to turn around. They barely began backing out before they were surrounded by armored half-tracks. They are still under “protection” in South Carolina.

Perhaps the most brilliant plan to keep the entire facility hush-hush was to hire a writer to publish a blog post entitled “Don’t Visit Ontonagon.”  A respected journalist and professor was assigned to use what the FBI calls “The Triple Psych” to discourage any interest in this Wisconsin Dark Base.  Sarah White wrote a short memoiresque piece about how quiet and small and nice this town was.  (Psyche one.)  However, there are no unique shops or attractions that would encourage people to stop there. (Psych two.) And finally, she speaks of all the surface inhabitants as people who really like the calm lifestyle that the area offers. That is true; however, the reason they love it is because they are all retired spies from the U.S. and its allies.

The taxidermist may be the famous French plastic surgeon that the Mission Impossible show was based on. You may meet the Gas-n-Go clerk who was the MI6 Chief.  You may meet a ranger who was the personal body guard in President G.W. Bush’s Secret Service. (Psych three.)

We all wonder where elderly spies are sent when they retire, and irony is that even in Ontonagon, each retiree believes he or she is in a town of civilians.

With all of the wacky conspiracy theories, isn’t it good to know that the best ones remain secret?

(Note: I am being relocated to a Hawaiian mansion paid for by your tax dollars.)   

© 2026 James “Stan” Stanaway

After a career of teaching English and Media Studies in California, Stan moved to Madison where he explores a variety of written genres. Stan is an investigative reporter for Creative Meanderings, an “I-Thunk-It” brain trust. With offices in Fullerton, California and Madison, Wisconsin, its Mission Statement reads: “Who Knew?!”  Currently at work on the multi-decade research on Unprovable History, Stan hopes to complete the project in your lifetime.

---

*For the first and perhaps the only time, I break the cardinal rule of True Stories Well Told, to publish this foray into fiction. Thanks for the laugh, Stan!

By Carol Blatter

“Osteoarthritis happens when cartilage — the hard, slippery tissue that cushions the ends of bones at a joint — breaks down.” (Mayo Clinic).

The cartilage in my right thumb joint broke down, so the pain from bone on bone became unbearable, and for an unexplained reason, it recently started its reign of terror around three a.m. some time just before dawn, and disrupted my otherwise pleasant sleep. And disrupted my husband’s sleep. I love company when I’m up, but in this case, it was to help me. How could he sleep when I was crying due to the pain? I chose some topical agents like Voltaren and Lidocaine cream, and patches like Salonpas, which reduced the pain but irritated my skin, and finally the TENS unit (Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation), which used mild electrical pulses to quiet the nerves and ease pain. It worked, enough to get both of us rest, until I chose the surgical option to stop the pain permanently

*

On June 10th, I had surgery (CMC) Carpometacarpal Arthroplasty on my right thumb. Now it’s one week later. The doctor’s medical assistant removed my stitches and made me a cast using vortex material. It’s not covered by Medicare, so I happily paid $25.00 for the privilege of having a waterproof cast. But here’s the catch: it’s waterproof, but after showering, it takes forty-five minutes to dry. Oops! And if I don’t wait, there’s the risk of dye leaking on my towels and clothes. I doubt this is a good investment.

Now, for those fashionistas among my readers, you will be pleased to know that I had a choice of colors for my cast.

“Is there a color that matches my skin color?” “No.”

“What about white?” I thought it was perfect; it’s so ordinary-looking. So unobtrusive.

My doctor said it would get dirty easily. Good advice. “Ok,” I agreed. No white cast.

By default, I picked black, the last choice after rejecting purple and red, much too flashy. Why call attention to my cast when we are out doing errands or eating in a restaurant? I want to be low profile. I want to avoid people asking me concerned–but often dumb–questions, like,

“How’d you get that?”

Or for the more intellectually gifted questioner,

“I’ve never seen one like that. Is that a cast, or is it something else?” “Yes, it’s a cast.”

Or perhaps an older person, closer to my age, may come up to me and say,

“I remember when I broke my arm falling off the monkey bars when I was a kid. I remember the white plaster cast that immobilized my entire arm. I guess they don’t make those anymore. I hated the cast at first. I couldn’t do anything with that arm. Then I became special. My school friends wrote their names and drew funny pictures on it. Too bad I can’t write on yours.” “Guess not,” I said, with a half smile and a wish to get away from this chatty person as soon as possible. So much for avoiding attention.

Now I’m using my left hand for almost everything, the hand I had to wake up after being dormant for most of my life. It has to do the work for both hands. And I don’t think it was in any way prepared for its new duties. Like trying to eat a salad when we went out with friends last Sunday evening. I used my left hand and a spoon to eat the small pieces of butternut squash, tiny dried cranberries, and pecans in the salad. But it was impossible to scoop up the nameless, pathetic-looking greens, pieces that were uninviting and wilted, I was eager to leave behind.

I ordered the hand-tossed 12″ size, which came with generous amounts of portobello mushroom slices and pieces of artichokes. My husband took two slices and cut them up into small portions for me. But— some of the cheese oozed off the plate. It almost missed my lap, a near mishap. He wiped up the mess. The pizza was perfect.

And for a treat, we ordered lemonades. No, they didn’t bring drinks to the table. I had to go to a drink machine, set the glass on the grid under our choice, and push the dispenser button. With a clumsy hand and a slightly unsteady gait, I managed to bring our drinks back to the table. After a few sips, I managed to knock over my glass, and its contents landed all over our table and dripped down our friend’s shirt. Numerous napkins were used to dry it. A store employee came with large white cloths to wipe up the lemonade on the table and the floor. After moments of embarrassment, I laughed at my own clumsiness.

*

Then there’s brushing my teeth. I use a mechanical toothbrush. With this cast on my right hand, my dominant hand, it is difficult to my right thumb to push the on mechanism. So I take my left hand, put toothpaste on the brush, and after a few weak attempts, I manage to turn it on. So some toothpaste goes flying, landing on the mirror and on the counter, and some small amount is available for brushing.

And then there’s using the hair dryer. I hold it in my left hand, and with my brush, I try to fluff up my hair using my right hand, but I don’t succeed in getting much volume. Well, it’s not totally flat.

*

My right thumb will be immobilized for two more weeks. Then I will use a brace to protect it. And then no brace. My thumb will be pain-free.

© 2026 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to The Gift of Long Life Personal Stories on the Aging Experience 2024 Birren Center Collection, Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101words.org, and poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and a very proud grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice.

By Sandra Hurtes

The essay below arose from a prompt in a class I took with “Narratively,” an online magazine on Substack. Here is a brief excerpt:

“Today’s not-sad topic is: animals! For this generative day, I want you to write about happy animal things.”

I could have reached into childhood and written about my beloved bird Pokey. But that felt forced. I gave the prompt a twist and wrote about an animal currently on my mind.

---

To begin, I am not a dog person. Please don’t hate me. I am nice as can be to dogs. I don’t actually pet them, but I do nod and smile, especially when they wear red booties and yellow slickers on rainy days.

Growing up in Crown Heights in the 1950s and ’60s, dogs were strays that wandered the streets, sniffed around garbage cans, barked, violently it seemed to me, a sensitive kid with a mother terrified of dogs. She had good reason to be; dogs were used to frighten concentration camp prisoners at Auschwitz, where my mother was interred. Now, you may still choose to hate me, but certainly not my mother.

 If she were still alive, I doubt she would ever visit me. My apartment building seems to have as many dogs as tenants. Each dog is beloved by their owners, building staff, and most who come and go through the entryway. The doormen feed them snacks and pet them so intently, when I stand at the desk to collect my packages, I am reluctant to disturb the love-fest.  

Some of the dogs are little scrunchy things (who but a non-dog person could describe a dog in such a way?) Many are mid-sized snobs with their rhinestone collars or leather leashes; there is one bulldog (no comment) and a few that could vie for first prize in a pony contest. (I never get in the elevator with them, mouthing to the owners, “I have Covid.”).

I have been ignored by friends cooing to a dog when, after a night out, I said  “Goodnight, guys, there’s my bus,” only to wait, in vain, for someone to notice. Ditto for an Upper West Side therapist (you know how they are) who kissed her dog while caressing it like a baby during my session.

I was in a crowded coffee shop recently when a fluffy dog stood on its hind legs and put its paws on the counter. The barista pet and cooed, while the only thing that steamed from the artisan brews was me.

“You will wash your hands before making my coffee?” I bravely asked.

The crowd of patrons went quiet. Really? I wanted to dash out. But I stayed while the customer reined in her dog, and the barista (reluctantly) washed her hands. I took my to-go cup before she could place it on the wet counter.  I wandered to the popular “Healthy” Food supermarket at the corner. A couple strolled through the doorway, past the “NO PETS” sign, their collie in tow. I pointed to the sign and looked at the security guard. He shrugged. I shrugged and went in, too.

©2026 Sandra Hurtes

Sandra Hurtes is a writer and teacher living in New York. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Poets & Writers, Women in Judaism, and numerous other publications.

By Marlene Samuels

When my brother Jake and I were kids—twelve and eight, respectively—we lived in one of the poor immigrant sectors of Montreal. We’d been ice-skating at Beaver Lake at the top of Mount Royal when we found a wallet that contained $500. It was a veritable fortune to us, but especially so in the 1950s.

We gave Dad the wallet as soon as we got home. In it, he found the I.D. of a man named Herman Schultz. “So much money this is, better we call him right away! Probably he is worrying sick.” Dad said. “He is living in that newcomer’s’ boarding house by St. Urbane.” he announced to us when he hung up the phone. “This Mr. Shultz tells me also he immigrated from Germany a few years after the war, just like us!”

I remember it was late afternoon the following day when Mr. Schultz came to collect his wallet because Dad had just gotten home from his factory tailoring job. It was Purim and the  whole house smelled fantastic because Mom had been baking hamantaschen. The man brought a massive candy-filled basket for us, cellophane-wrapped and tied with an equally massive ribbon. “Fur die Kinder,” he said, handing it to Dad.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Schultz, but this was not necessary,” my father said. He set the basket on the telephone-stand near the door and handed the man the wallet.

“You must be an excellent father to have such honest children, not so common in these times,” said Mr. Shultz.

Dressed in a striped gray suit, he looked much older than Dad. On his head, he wore a gray felt hat with a tiny red feather in the hat-band. “Please, please, come in and warm up! Maybe some coffee and a little something?” My father said. When Mr. Shultz took off his hat, his head was completely bald and very shiny. He limped badly and leaned on a silver-handled cane as he walked. Dad led him into our living room. The two men sat down on the sofa while Mom went to make coffee.

After she’d left, they began speaking in what, only years later, I came to realize was German. I paid very close attention but while I was fluent in Yiddish, I understood only little bits of what they said. Jake and I both thought they were speaking Yiddish but somewhat off. We went back to sitting on the floor and playing Monopoly.

I remember Mom brought a tray from the kitchen with coffee, cream, sugar, plus china cups and saucers. She set it on the coffee table, then went back for the plate of hamantaschen she’d baked. My brother and I each grabbed a few before returning to our play while the grownups drank coffee and talked. Abruptly, they switched to speaking English. Mr. Shultz said his daughter had married an American soldier in Germany after the war and they’d moved to California. Once his American immigration visa arrived, he would also move there.

I remember Dad had just rolled up his sleeves before reaching for a cup and saucer. Filling it, he handed it to Mr. Schultz, then pushed cream and sugar toward him. “Thank you but no cream for me. During da vor, we all got used to drinking it black.” Mr. Shultz stared at Dad’s arm serving the coffee. Dad always rolled up his sleeves before eating, but only at home. And when they were rolled up, the tattooed triangle and numbers were impossible to miss. Mr. Shultz, continuing to stare at Dad’s arm, said, “Ach,, such terrible times dis vor vas, no? Hart on everybody, you know, not only fur die Juden vhat vere in die lagers!” (the camps). “For us vhat vere in die Wehrmacht, things also were very bad.”

Without warning, Dad jumped from the sofa, wheezing, and spat his coffee all over the floor. Grabbing Mr. Shultz’s coat and hat, Mom dropped them on his lap. Growling, Dad said words I didn’t understand. Then Mr. Shultz also jumped up, and the two walked to the door very fast. My father opened it for him, but when Mr. Shultz was on the steps, Dad grabbed the candy-basket off the telephone-stand and threw it down the steps at him. 

We watched Dad close the door. Slowly, he walked to the living room, sat on the sofa, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then added so much cream it turned almost white. Next, he added two spoonfuls of sugar. The spoon clanged against the cup as he stirred for what seemed like a very long time. He stared into the cup for what also seemed like a very long time.

I remember Dad drank his coffee slowly, then poured a second cup, but with it, he ate all the rest of the hamantaschen. When he finished, he carried the tray into the kitchen where Mom was cleaning up and kissed her on the cheek. In Yiddish, he said, “Those are the best  hamantaschen you’ve ever made!”

That Saturday, after Dad came home from Shul (synagogue) and we’d all eaten lunch, he took Jake and me downtown to Eaton’s Department Store. “Miss, excuse me, but can you tell me, please, where it is here I could find the candy department?” he said to the pretty women behind the perfume counter, in his heavily accented English,

After some wandering around, we found it. Dad bought us a large basket of cellophane- wrapped candy. As the salesclerk handed Dad the change, she said, “Sir, shall I tie this pretty ribbon around it? It’s included in the price.”

“No, but tank you very much, dis is very not necessary.” He took the basket then leaned over to kiss each of us on the tops of our heads.

Dad never said another word about Mr. Shultz or what had happened. None of us ever did either.

©2026 Marlene Samuels

Marlene holds a Ph.D., from University of Chicago. A research sociologist by training, she writes creative non-fiction by preference. Currently, she is completing her book entitled Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story.  She is coauthor of The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival, and author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact-Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers. Her essays and stories have been published widely in anthologies, journals, and online.  (www.marlenesamuels.com)