True Stories Well Told

By Marlene Samuels

Almost everyone in my family had some kind of crazy weird foreign accent, as did almost everyone in our immigrant Montreal neighborhood. Jake, my brother, and I had a saying between us: “If you’ve got an accent and we can’t understand what you’re saying, then you’ve got some big troubles!”

My Polish-Russian father spoke English quite well — at least most of the time except when he got all riled up. At those times, he began to sound exactly like Boris Badanoff from the old Rocky and Bullwinkle hour. My Romanian mother was a dead-ringer either for Zsa Zsa or Eva Gabor. For anyone old enough to remember the Green Acres television show, my mom easily could have been an audio substitute in the event that Zsa Zsa ever developed a serious case of laryngitis.

Then there was our Aunt Esther’s husband, Uncle Sigmund —Ziggy for short. He was a German-Jewish Holocaust survivor utterly incapable of pronouncing the letter “W”. Consequently, “V” and “W” were indistinguishable from one another and to uninitiated listeners, they also sounded like “B”.  The most challenging times were when Uncle Ziggy asked for more “vater” at one of our family dinners. He stood a very good chance of being served more butter or vice-versa. Once Jake and I moved out of Ziggy’s earshot, we’d amuse ourselves by impersonating our views of Nazi guards, muttering to each another, “Achh, vee half vayz of making you Chews talk!” Our performance always was followed by our outbursts of hysterical laughter.

Aunt Esther, our mother’s sister, had her own unique linguistic problems. Other than the fact that she, too, sounded like one of the Gabor sisters, Esther was totally incapable of comprehending any difference between “kitchen” and “chicken.” To my aunt, those two words were both interchangeable and indistinguishable from one another. We were accustomed to her asking whether we’d like another piece of kitchen or if we could bring her another towel from the chicken.

Jake and I were particularly amused when our father, with the greatest seriousness, attempted to correct our mother’s pronunciation of English words. During our summer holidays in the Laurentian Mountains, our father cautioned us daily, “Better you should be careful! You need always to look inside from the flowers if you’re going to pick them. Remember, sometimes beans are hiding inside them.” Jake and I couldn’t fathom why our dad thought beans were inside the flowers.

“Do you think someone puts beans in them or maybe where Dad grew up in Poland, beans grew inside flowers?” I asked my know-it-all older brother.

The greatest mystery of all however, continued to be the meaning of that single expression our father invoked during a wide range of events. It was his catchall single phrase — applicable to a multitude of emotions and circumstances: anger, frustration, disappointment, and on a few very rare occasions, surprise or delight. My father modulated his voice when using the phrase so that it suited whatever situation was at hand. We’d been listening to the expression during the entirety of our young lives yet remained baffled about what it actually meant especially because Dad applied it to so many situations.

“Salama witch!” Shouted our father if he dropped his sewing-needle on the speckled linoleum floor of his tailoring shop. “Salama witch, that’s wonderful!” He’d announce when hearing good news. “Salaaama witch!” Screamed my father after he’d spilled hot coffee on his crotch and another time after he’d knocked a glass of water off the table.

At long last, our remarkable day arrived, the day on which Jake and I unwittingly learned the true meaning of Salama Witch.

One beautiful, warm Sunday morning our entire family gathered at our house to have brunch together. Uncle Ziggy and our father had just come out of the house to make a quick run to the grocery store. Jake and I sat on the front steps playing “Fish” with our cousins. The two men approached our father’s massive green Ford and it was at that moment we heard Dad suddenly scream at ear-piercing volume, over and over again, “Salama witch, salama witch! You bastard, you goniff (thief)! Salama witch! What in the hell is going on here?”

He and Uncle Ziggy had come upon our neighbor who was busy syphoning gas out of our father’s car. Where upon Ziggy immediately chimed in, also screaming at full volume, “Son of a bitch is right!  Verfluchtener Gauner! (God damned thief),” he screamed in German. “Son-of-a- bitch for sure, you bastard!”

©  2021 Marlene B. Samuels

Marlene Samuels earned her Ph.D., from University of Chicago where she serves on the Advisory Council to the Graduate School, Social Sciences Division. A research sociologist and instructor, Marlene is conducting research, with partner Pat LaPointe, for their anthology about female-to-female relational aggression. Marlene edited and coauthored The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival, is author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers, and is completing her book, Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story. Marlene’s essays and stories have been published widely including in Lilith Magazine, Our Echo, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Iowa Summer Writers’ Anthology and others. Marlene divides her time between Chicago and Sun Valley, Idaho with her amazing, emotionally supportive Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Ted and George. Visit her website, marlenesamuels.com.

By Patricia LaPointe

My Grandpa Pasquale was my best friend when I was four-years-old. He had to be. I was given the American female version of his name. He understood more English than he could speak so I needed to learn some basic Italian.

He lived with my Aunt Jo, upstairs from us and it was my job to go get him for meals. I would race down the stairs ahead of him and he’d call out “Patty, aspat- wait. I’d sit and talk to him for hours, never considering he might not understand everything I was saying. When he was overloaded by my words, he’d say Patty, you cyuck ya don- a chatterbox. He’d always be smiling or giggling when he said this, often pulling me on to his lap.

One day, shortly before my fifth birthday, I was going up to get him for breakfast, when Aunt Jo stopped me at the door. “ Grandpa isn’t feeling good. He’s going to stay up here.”

“Can’t I go see him?”

“Not today, Patty.”

As I turned to leave, there was an ambulance parking in front of the house. The EMTs were coming up the stairs with a stretcher. I tried to follow them up the stairs, but they wouldn’t let me.

I was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they came down with Grandpa; Aunt Jo following close behind.

Grandpa called me over. “Pasquala, I’m sick and they are taking me to get better.”

“Will you be back for my party?”

“Of course. I’ll be there”

Several days went by. A week before my birthday, Mom told me Grandpa wouldn’t be coming home.

“Yes he will. He said so.”

Every day I’d say “Grandpa is coming home today.” I would run to the front of the house, knowing he’d be home at any time.

Finally, I was told that Grandpa went to heaven.

“But I know he’ll be back for my party.” I’d respond.

Taking me to the funeral home didn’t convince me. I was not allowed to into the room where he laid. But, I could get up on my toes and see Grandpa’s head.

“He’s in there sleeping. Can I wake him up?” I asked Mom.

She simply replied, “No.”

“OK, I’ll see him at my party.”

I spent most of my party staring at the door. Of course, he didn’t come.

Near the end of the party, Aunt Jo gave me one more present. She said Grandpa had bought it before he “left.” It was a tiny doll that looked like the Gerber baby. I broke down in tears, I finally believed he wasn’t coming back. That doll, now 65-years-old, remains in my dresser drawer ’til today.

©  2021 Patricia LaPointe

Pat LaPointe, editor of Changes in Life, a monthly online women’s newsletter, is contributing editor of the anthology, The Woman I’ve Become: 37 Women Share Their Journeys from Toxic Relationships to Self-Empowerment. In addition, she conducts writing workshops for women — both online and onsite. Pat’s essays and short stories have been published widely. Currently, Pat is completing her first novel, forthcoming late 2021.

By Patricia LaPointe

Nick

Nick hears her in the kitchen. He worries she’ll not come to him by seven o’clock. He’ll ask her about the time. He never stays in bed after seven. As he waits, he wonders who is that woman in the picture, next to his bed, the first thing he sees every morning, wearing a wedding dress, standing with him. She is pretty.

He worries that his “private” parts will show when she helps him don his pants. He worries about falling as he grabs his walker and stands for the first time that day. He worries about having to leave his walker outside the bathroom and take the few steps to the toilet unprotected. He worries what people would think of a man who must sit like a woman rather than stand like a man. He worries about losing his balance as he attempts to sit.

He wonders why she’s standing there, a needle in her hand. He wonders why she pushes that needle into his arm.

He wonders what happened to that woman who used to give him coffee and breakfast. Was she the woman from downstairs who fell and went to the hospital? The woman who loved to shop? Who brought groceries in? Could she be the woman standing next to him now?

He wonders if she knows he eats oatmeal every morning-just a tiny bit of milk. And that he takes a lot of milk, not cream in his coffee, and always has a slice of buttered toast.

He worries that she is only having coffee and toast. Does she want some of his oatmeal?

He worries she won’t pull his chair out enough or put his walker close enough for him to walk to his favorite chair. He wonders if she’ll remember to push the lever down so his feet are up. Or that he needs his special blanket to keep him warm.

He worries when she says she has to leave. He wonders if she’s going shopping. He worries that she won’t be back to make lunch. He wonders why she is going to the hospital. Is she going to see that woman who fell? He wonders if he should go with her.

He wonders why she kisses him goodbye. He worries about being left alone.

He wonders who this other woman is who comes to stay with him. Wasn’t she the woman that fell? Did she ever make him coffee?

He worries about how long the woman who made his breakfast will be gone. He needs her to wake him, feed him and get him to bed.

He worries about her taking him to the car. He worries they won’t be home for dinner. He always eats at six.

He wonders what this place is. It’s not a house. He wonders why the lights are dim; why are there rows of chairs. Why is there a strong scent of flowers? He wonders why so many people are coming to him–sometimes holding his hand, sometimes kissing his cheek. Why are they all saying they are sorry? What is that at the front of the room? Why is she taking him there? Is that the lady from downstairs who fell, lying in that metal bed? Why does he want to touch her hand? Is she the lady who made his coffee and breakfast?

“She’s pretty. She always loved blue,” he whispers.

©  2020 Patricia LaPointe

Pat LaPointe, editor of Changes in Life, a monthly online women’s newsletter, is contributing editor of the anthology, The Woman I’ve Become: 37 Women Share Their Journeys from Toxic Relationships to Self-Empowerment. In addition, she conducts writing workshops for women — both online and onsite. Pat’s essays and short stories have been published widely. Currently, Pat is completing her first novel, forthcoming late 2021.

By Suzy Beal

Grandma and Grandpa’s house

We headed for Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Forest Grove. As a kid stuffed in the family station wagon with six other siblings and my parents, it was a long, boring ride. It took three hours to get there from Newport. As we approached Grand Round, at the half-way point, we designated one of us to holler out “I need to go pee.” The Ground Round restaurant had the best pies in the world, but not better than Mom’s. They put three inches of meringue on the lemon and banana cream and a huge scoop of ice cream on the cherry and berry pies. We kids knew if we convinced Dad to stop for a pee, we might get to have a piece of pie.

It worked! And in we went. Mom loved to stop here too. I think she liked to eat a piece of pie she hadn’t baked. The lemon pie with meringue floated on my tongue. It slid around waiting to be swallowed. I put off the swallowing as long as possible. The soft, sweet cloud of meringue filled my mouth to the roof nearly, blocking off my throat. It was like having my mouth full of warm marshmallows. Great, Mom ordered coffee with her pie; this meant we didn’t have to rush. Before going back to the car, we paraded to the bathroom.

Full of pie and with our sweet tooth satisfied, we headed for Grandma’s house. Somewhere between Grand Round and Forest Grove boredom set in, but someone shouted, “Burma Shave on the right.”

“A Monkey took

One look at Jim

And threw the peanuts

Back at him

He needed

Burma Shave”

Our interest piqued, we waited for the next slogan to pass. We remembered there were several along this stretch of the highway. Mom said, “I wish they displayed what crops were growing along the highway by putting up signs like these.” We weren’t interested in the crops; we were ready for the next Burma Shave posting.

“Slow down, Pa

Sakes alive

Ma missed signs

Four

And Five

Burma Shave”

“To change that

Shaving job

To joy

You gotta use

The real McCoy

Burma Shave”

The best part of arriving at Grandma’s house was the cookie drawer. She baked cookies for us and put them in the bottom drawer of a kitchen cabinet where we could reach them. We charged into the kitchen and raided her drawer while Mom shouted, “Only two apiece until after dinner and be sure to thank Grandma.” 

“Thank you, Grandma,” we mumbled with our mouths full.

Next, we headed for the huge box of blocks Grandpa always had hidden in the hall closet. It took three of us to haul it out and dump it on the living room floor. We built castles, villages, and skyscrapers until someone’s building fell on someone else’s project. Then pandemonium broke out. Grandpa put a stop to the noise and sent us outside to play.

Grandma and Grandpa

As we approached Grand Round on the way home, my siblings volunteered me.

“Dad, I have to go pee.”

2© 020 Suzy Beal

Writer and budding poet Suzy Beal spent twenty-five years helping seniors put their stories to paper and this year just finished her own memoir. Suzy’s work has appeared on truestorieswelltold.com, including a serialized portion of her travel memoir. She writes personal essays and is currently studying poetry.  Her work has appeared on Story Circle Network, 101words, Central Oregon Writer’s Guild, and recently an essay in  Placed: An Encyclopedia of Central Oregon. She lives and writes from Bend, Oregon.

By Faith Ellestad

Every year, I look forward to the Thanksgiving holiday, because it heralds the emergence of Old Tom Turkey. And I don’t refer here to meat.

You know that thing you wanted so much as a child but never got, usually because it was too frivolous or too expensive, or maybe you just never expressed your desperate desire properly to your family? You were left yearning but less hopeful with each emphatic “no.” The longing for your unfulfilled desire waxed huge for a time, then maybe waned, until some event brought it back into full focus. For me, that event was a chance encounter with a particularly enchanting Thanksgiving decoration. 

I’m not exactly sure where I realized my childhood dream, maybe at a Ben Franklin, or a book store on the Capitol Square, but I do remember when. It was shortly before Thanksgiving, 1976, and we had just moved into our first home with our one-and-a-half-year-old son. I was out doing errands when I laid eyes on Tom, and it was love at first sight. All the yearning from my childhood rushed back. Something I wanted desperately then, was now available to me, and for less than 5 dollars! 

Maybe I couldn’t have had this as a child, I realized, but my kids would not be denied such pleasure. Whether or not they would even care didn’t enter my mind at the time.  I hurried home with my prize, a foot-tall cardboard turkey stored flat in a large colorful Thanksgiving-themed envelope.

Why, you might wonder, would such a mundane decoration cause me palpitations?  Because. When he emerges and you unfurl and fan out his crinkly crepe paper tail feathers, he become a full-fledged three-dimensional multicolored centerpiece. The Turkey of my dreams. The fold-out decorations I wanted more than anything when I was little.  

Old Tom Turkey in all his glory

Old Tom truly is the essence of fulfillment to me.  Something I was able to give my family, a tradition that was all ours, even if it was mostly mine to begin with. But every year I can’t wait until Halloween is over, Thanksgiving is upon us, and I can retrieve and set up Tom Turkey to preside over out festivities.  That’s my favorite part of my favorite holiday.

During a move several years ago, Tom Turkey went missing.  He was AWOL for three years, and I searched for him repeatedly.  Eventually, in despair, I made an attempt to replace him with two little 4-inch turkeys sporting similar fanned-out crepe paper tails.  They are cute, but they couldn’t replace Tom. 

Miraculously, on the fourth anniversary of his disappearance, he reappeared.  Someone had carefully packed him between two large art books to prevent bending, and when we finally got around to unpacking those boxes, there he was, regal as ever, just in time to join us for dinner.

 Of course, we always celebrate with the quintessential feast: a golden savory bird, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, jellied, because the consensus among my family members is no texture in the red stuff. And pumpkin pie. With squirt whip.  I consider this meal an homage to my mother, at whose knee I learned that fiber was for other families, but we could enjoy roughage-free meals, secure in the knowledge we did not have to worry about encountering any texture in our feasts.  Now, occasionally as a rebellious adult, I may insert fresh beans or, perhaps a relish plate just to prove my independence, but overall, the Thanksgiving feast remains traditional and smooth. And family approved, year after year.

This year, there were just three family members and Tom in our COVID-bubble festivity, but the food was exactly as anticipated. I was so glad the meal was acceptable, because it re-appeared the next day in exactly the same form, except the beans were frozen this time.

The third reprise, the following evening, was met with somewhat less enthusiasm.  I had prepared a hash (a la James Beard) with turkey, stuffing, and some veggies, and although it was wholesome, the flavor was basically unchanged from the previous two meals, which had become a mite tiresome.  My husband politely served himself slightly more than a “no thank-you” helping and polished it off gamely, but I, being an astute observer of meal enthusiasm, discerned that turkey had lost its luster and needed to retire to the freezer for another time. Once our turkey dinner overload is just a memory, there will be turkey soup and eventually turkey pot pie.

Still, because I waited too long to get groceries, and by the time I shopped, the smallest turkey I could find was 15 pounds, there remains after three iterations, at least half a turkey and its attendant carcass, relegated to several one-gallon plastic Ziploc bags, in the freezer.

Unfortunately, the packaging of the turkey leftovers heralds the packing up of Old Tom.  He can’t keep us company for as long as we’d like these days, because he is becoming increasingly fragile. He’s been around 44 years now and I would like him to last as long as I do.  I should probably bequeath him to one of my sons.  I can just hear their responses when I bring this up to them.

“When I’m gone, would you be willing to take care of Tom Turkey?”

“Who?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Oh well, as long as Old Tom Turkey’s around, Thanksgiving will be my happy place.

© 2020 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents. Now retired, she has the opportunity (and with Covid restrictions, the time) to share some personal stories, and in the process, discover more about herself. Faith and her husband live with two elderly cats in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law.