True Stories Well Told

By Marlene Samuels

This is the second post of a two-part series. Read Part 1 here.

My high school was infamous for mean girls from wealthy families and an archaic gender-biased curriculum. Senior boys crafted items from wood—bookshelves, coffee tables, trays and more—in woodworking shop. Senior girls convened in the second floor kitchen and sewing room for Home Economics, testing recipes and sewing clothes or accessories to make a house a home.        

On the day of the “fiasco,” I’d missed class because of my dentist appointment. I walked into the Home Economics two minutes before the final bell rang to deliver my Authorized Absence Permit to Mrs. Putznick.

After the disappearance of “Queen of Mean” Peggy’s purse and its mysterious discovery in my sewing-supplies basket, Mrs. Putznick had commanded me to stay after class. Poking her chubby finger into my chest, “You do understand stealing won’t be tolerated in our school under any circumstances, do you not? I have a responsibility to file a disciplinary complaint, so you and I are paying a visit to the principal’s office.” 

Each girl glanced my way with something resembling pity as she left, except for Peggy and MaryAnne, that is. They lingered in the doorway, smirks inhabiting their faces.

Mrs. Putznick led me to the elevator— flaunting her cherished key— for our visit to the fourth-floor administrative wing and Mr. Gould, the principal. I sat on a bench outside. Mrs. Putznick strolled in, approached his desk and the two engaged in extensive muttering and whispers. But then I heard Mr. Gould’s booming voice identify himself on the telephone with words that sank my heart.

“Mrs. Bernstein, I’m afraid Marlene has been involved in an incident and unfortunately, there’s no choice but to suspend her for three days while we investigate. She’s required to appear before the Disciplinary Board with a parent or guardian before she’ll be readmitted.”

When I arrived home, Mom’s suspicion was unmistakable. “Didn’t I teach you better than to do such dishonest craziness?” She shouted, angry and hurt.

“I didn’t do it, I swear! Those two mean girls set me up. I wasn’t even in school when it happened because I was at the dentist. You dropped me off, remember?”  She’d been so stunned by Mr. Gould’s call, she’d totally forgotten. Within seconds, she regained her composure, launching a string of Romanian expletives, a mother bear defending her cub. I imagined my hearing would prove entertaining.

The Board were a scary bunch! The Principal, Vice-Principal, Dean of Senior Girls, School Psychologist, Social Worker, Mrs. Bischoff my alcoholic homeroom teacher, ingratiating Mrs. Putznick and —more terrifying and intimidating than all of them combined, my mother—had assembled in the dining hall for my 3:00 p.m. hearing.Despite Mom’s initial embarrassment over my suspension because some of her clients had kids in my class, she arrived punctually, stoked for battle. 

Debris from two lunch periods had been cleared. Three tables had been arranged at the front of the cavernous dining hall, one short table faced two longer ones. From the double-doors, the setting had the appearance of a television courtroom drama.

 Mr. Gould first read Mrs. Putznick’s complaint aloud then announced,  “We’ve called this meeting to hear Marlene Bernstein’s appeal about her suspension and to receive an apology. Theft, as noted in our student by-laws, carries a three-day suspension. The complaint filed by Mrs. Putznick states that Marlene stole Peggy’s purse during Home Economics.”  I listened attentively, anxious to tell my side but especially eager to witness Mom decimate the committee. Queen-of-mean Peggy’s purse was found in my cubby, the result of an “all-hands-on-deck” search and was, no doubt, incriminating evidence.

Mom and I faced the committee. “Marlene, we want to be clear that you understand stealing isn’t condoned. You owe everyone involved an apology for your shameful conduct.” Mr. Gould boomed, his glare intense enough to pierce my forehead. The committee nodded agreeably. “Marlene, please stand to make your apology to everyone.”

He’d barely finished speaking when Mom sprang from her seat, burst into action and shocked everyone present. “Marlene, you will do no such thing so don’t you dare move!” And she let loose.

 “How dare all of you! You’re the ones who owe my daughter an apology for your negligence and disrespect, your favoritism and discrimination, not to mention the embarrassment you’ve caused her and me. You have it on record that Marlene wasn’t even in school when this so-called theft occurred.” But she wasn’t done yet. “And Mrs. Putznick, shame on you! I want you to tell me when Marlene stole that purse if she wasn’t even in school?”

Everyone froze. After a long moment, Mr. Gould addressed the vice principal. “Margaret, contact Peggy and MaryAnne’s parents the instant you get to your desk. I’ll expect them in my office tomorrow promptly at 9:00 a.m.! It’s clear, we’ve suspended the wrong student. And Mrs. Putznick, I’ll see you before you leave.

“Marlene, on behalf of our entire school, my apologies for the shameful, unfair treatment you’ve received. Be assured, we’ll get to the bottom of this travesty. We don’t tolerate theft, but neither will we tolerate lying and bullying.”

Epilogue: Peggy and MaryAnne were suspended for the remainder of the semester. The partners- in-mean failed to graduate in June and because they graduated in December, also missed first semester of college.

© Marlene Samuels 2025

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)

By Marlene Samuels

This is the first post of a two-part series. Read the second post here.

During my senior year of high school in 1968, Home Economics was a mandatory, one-semester sewing and cooking class all girls were supposed to complete in order to graduate. It met for one-and-a-half hours three times a week.

I was the newcomer to school, the community and the United States. Although I was from Canada — a country with more in common to the U.S.A., than not— and despite my English proficiency, the mean girls had one mission, to convey that we were worlds apart. I didn’t belong.  

In Canada, I’d been accustomed to wearing a school uniform so, consequently, I was utterly clueless about how American teenage girls, particularly those from affluent communities, dressed despite my hours spent studying teen-magazines. To admit that I didn’t exactly blend in with my classmates is, at best, an understatement. Most days I was mocked. On occasion, leader of the “mean girls” harassed me in performance for her friends.”

Freckle-faced cheerleader and “Queen of Mean” Peggy spent summers touring Europe with her parents. Consequently, she’d acquired an extensive French and Italian vocabulary of expletives she hurled around the classroom to express frustration with her projects. She also directed them at me whenever I neared her periphery.  

Side-kick MaryAnne returned to our school senior year having completed junior year at a Swiss boarding school. Daily, she found ways to demonstrate her acquired sophistication. Her mission: remind me I was lower class. Regularly, she’d announce, “Your parents have European accents but Eastern European ones, hardly as elegant as Italian or French. Any wonder your dad’s got that tailoring shop and your mom’s a dressmaker?” 

On the first day of the semester, every girl in Home Economics was given the choice of two projects they’d complete; an A-line skirt with a back zipper and a sleeveless, straight shift-dress or a household domestic project consisting of an apron and well-padded oven mitts.

I’d been around sewing in my mom’s dressmaking business all my life and the memory of sewing my fingers up in her heavy-duty Singer sewing machine when I was three still evoked my horror. The girls in my class, all from wealthy homes— staffed with maids and gardeners and even cooks—toiled on their projects well past the deadline. Most had chosen what they’d assumed was simpler, an apron and oven mitts.

I’d chosen clothes reasoning that two additions to my pathetic wardrobe would be a welcome side benefit. I completed my shift-dress during two class sessions followed by the skirt during the third. Unlike the other girls who’d selected the clothes project, I hadn’t found it necessary to consult the pattern’s diagrams continuously nor to correct crooked stitching. On grading-day of our two-week project, Mrs. Putznick awarded me an A-plus. She’d evaluated the dress and skirt for “seam neatness”, matching the fabric pattern plus evenness and invisibility of blind-stitched hems.

“Excellent job, Marlene!” Chortled our home economics teacher. “Not only was your punctuality in completing this project excellent but you did an amazing job! Without a doubt, very impressive. Class, let’s all give Marlene some well-deserved applause for her achievements? I don’t think I’ve ever had such a capable student. Such a pleasure!”

The nasty girls— almost every one of whom tormented me— glared at one another, then at me. I could hear loud, rapid and hostile sounding whispers that struck me as contrary to Mrs. Putznick’s positive remarks. At the moment I should have been basking in glory of recognition, anxiety overwhelmed me. Was I having a premonition of impending doom?

My Holocaust survivor parents had drilled into the core of my being never to speak up, never to behave in any way that might call attention to myself lest it endanger my survival. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Putznick.” I mumbled, barely above a whisper. All eyes were riveted upon me.

“Marlene, would you like to choose another project for extra credit or maybe you want to be my assistant? You could help the other girls with their projects and be something like my teacher’s aide.”

“I’d much rather be your assistant!” I replied too quickly and with far too enthusiasm. “I want to be a teacher if I get to go to college so this would be a good opportunity and good practice.” I felt invisible lightning bolts directed at my four-foot ten, eight-six pound anatomy as my armpits grew damp. I felt my face flush. I was over-heating. For the first time in the three years since I’d moved to the U.S.A., I was enjoying small bits of high school, albeit without friends. But as far as the mean girls were concerned, everything had proceeded way too much in my favor.

The following week, the proverbial “merde” hit the fan. Ninth-period bell had just rung and class busied itself putting works-in-progress into their assigned cubbies. The second the clanging bell stopped, Peggy’s shrieking began. My lead nemesis of all the mean-girls shouted again and again, “My purse, my purse! It’s gone! Oh god, has anyone seen my purse?”

“Where and when did you last have it, Peggy dear?” asked the ingratiating Mrs. Putznick.

“It was right under my chair when we started to clean up, but now it’s gone! Oh god, Mom’s going to kill! It’s hers but I borrowed it without asking her!” Peggy’s shrieks escalated to all-out howls as mascara-tears streaked down her acne spotted cheeks. The rest of the girls enveloped her in a show of support. I stared at the unfamiliar spectacle.

“Surely, it must be somewhere in this room?” Offered Mrs. Putznick. “It didn’t just grow legs and run away! Girls, let’s all help Peggy search but we must be systematic. First, we’ll start with the cubby-hole baskets, one by one.”

Each girl took one from its cubby-hole, emptied the contents onto the table, sorted through everything then returned it to its place. I’d literally just walked into class yet joined in the search. Abruptly, new shrieks pierced our ear-drums, now from MaryAnne, partners with  Queen-of-Mean”.

“I found it! I found it!” She shouted, waving the purse over-head like a golf trophy. Before Mrs. Putznick took a breath, MaryAnne announced, “Want to guess where I found it?” The room grew silent while she maximized the drama. “Inside Marlene’s basket under her A-plus projects, that’s where!”

All eyes turned toward  me. “Nice cooperating, girls and MaryAnne, you really saved the day! Marlene, you’ll need to stay after everyone leaves.” 

This is the first post of a two-part series. Read the second post here.

©2025 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)

Today I share Renee Lajcak’s essay, read by the author. Renee writes both for the page and for performance, adjusting her style for each. “For spoken word, I use shorter sentences, more repetition. On the page, you can be more abstract. For listeners, I keep it visual, ‘in your face’,” she says. Performing lets her shape how her audience experiences her stories through her stress and intonation.

In the early afternoon, I check on my two pawpaw fruit trees in the backyard. I have two varieties, so that I can use them to pollinate each other someday. But this year, only one is big enough to have flowers, so I collected soft specks of gray pollen from the pawpaw trees at Olbrich Gardens and the Arboretum using a small artist’s brush. Then I carefully “painted” the swelling light green centers of my female flowers, soon to turn male and produce their own fuzzy gray pollen. I was a bee, a large bumbling bumblebee perhaps, twerking with nature in hopes of producing mango-banana tasting pawpaw fruit. This afternoon I spot two tiny “hands” of fruit already forming! They are only the size of fennel seeds now, but undeniably fruit. I am a successful, delighted bee, so delighted that I could buzz.

My late afternoon backyard is a palette of greens, announcing that life and living are the priorities of the season. The yellow surprised faces of the daffodils are gone, as are the stoplight reds of the tulips. Only the sprinkles of pink bleeding hearts and lavender periwinkles contrast with the theme of green. The greens range from the intense dark green of the grape leaves to the softish-bluish green of some other climbing vine on the back fence. There’s the crayon green of the grass too, still long after the foot-long grass was finally cut, only 10 days into No Mow May. The grass had grown so long that it had fallen over into luscious heaps. Ah… a wonder and a delight to lie on my back, bare feet pressed towards the earth and wriggle down, a sensuous feeling that always reminds me that I too am a part of Life.

Spring fever is in the air. The birds are insistent, calling for mates and protecting their nests. During the golden hour, the lowering sun lights up itty-bitty insects and fluffy bits falling from the trees. The insects fly wildly, 90-degree turns and U-turns back and forth, up and down, screaming, “SEX! SEX! SEX!” The fluffy bits float slowly down, and occasionally up on gentle drafts. Both of them are seeking reproduction, I assume, but have totally different approaches. The insects are all motivational speakers, while the fluffy bits are meditation instructors. Or maybe only lackadaisical meditation students. Either way, I muse that I am now more like the fluffy bits than the goal-oriented insects.

The day is done. There is a shadow of cheek blush still in the sky, but the colors in my yard are fading to gray. Everything attempts a certain stillness. The evening birds are starting to call in that lonely, hollow way. The lilacs send out waves of their deeper evening scent. The heady fragrance reminds me of an impish but innocent lover who woke me in the morning with lilacs on my pillow. A long-ago delight that still teases me into a faint but lingering smile.

© 2025 Renee Lajcak

Renee is a newly retired English language teacher who has taught in several Asian countries but now enjoys her woodsy backyard the best.  She loves the connections made through storytelling and teaching conversational English, but writing about memories allows her to go inward to contemplate the good, the bad and the ugly.  But mostly the good. 

By Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Pain, before your arrival, I was spoiled. Not spoiled like a spoiled child, but like a naive adult who had almost always enjoyed good health. Suddenly and without permission, you came into my life accompanied with your companion, “High Anxiety.” (Name used here from the movie and song of the same name).

*

Pain, I never knew you until last February when I had three spinal fractures. Two were repaired with a procedure called kyphoplasty, and one with an epidural. Since then, without mercy, you have brazenly locked down my gut.  

*

Pain, your presence has forced me to face my age. At age eighty-two, I am old. Youth and middle age have left me, forever. Death will follow. I’m not ready to die.

*

Pain, my life has been upended with your power to hurt me and frighten me every day. I am petite. I imagine you are huge. You are six feet five inches tall and at least sixty inches wide. I imagine that you have long arms, you are covered in black, and you are masked. I can’t see you, but I can feel you every day.

*

Pain, you’ve settled yourself below my navel and around my waist, which you have stiffened with imaginary super glue, making it harder to breathe. You feel like a machine with two huge grabbers, one pinches me on my left side and another grabber pinches me on my right side. And I get squeezed between them without any relief.

*

Pain, you prey on my helplessness. You are controlling my emotions. Fearing you, my anxiety rises to the top of a tower, and I am trapped inside.

*

Pain, despite your efforts to dispense misery, there are times when I am upbeat. I remember how lucky I am to be alive, and I know I will get better. And I am so fortunate to have a granddaughter. When I talk to her, I forget about you.

*

Pain, you anger me. I care about our plants.  You are selfish. You don’t care if our plants are watered and fertilized. Their lives mean nothing to you. Because of you I can’t bend to water and fertilize them. So my husband takes care of them until you leave my body.

*

Pain, you have successfully interrupted things I enjoy doing, like having friends in for brunch and meeting them for plays and concerts. I miss baking brownies, pumpkin bread, and carrot cake.

*

Pain, I am beginning to take control of you. I will continue to do relaxing exercises to manage you on a daily basis. I will continue to receive acupuncture treatments. I will dispose of the remaining pills meant to minimize your effects. I will enjoy the foods I couldn’t eat with you. I will regain my appetite, and I will eat normal-sized portions. I will begin gaining weight. My diet will no longer be limited to a daily chocolate energy drink, bran flakes with almond milk with slices of bananas, chicken soup broth, chicken soup with noodles and white rice. I look forward to enjoying veggie pizza on Sunday nights with my husband.

*

What else will I do?

I will volunteer to help our local LD 18 Democratic Party. I will return to the book club monthly. I will go out to brunch with my husband and other friends. I will see live plays with him, and I will write stories pain-free. And if all goes well, perhaps we will go on a cruise.

*

Pain, once you no longer reside in my body, I will go to synagogue on the Sabbath, and my Rabbi will recite these Hebrew blessings for me returning to good health:

Birkat HaGomel, a blessing traditionally recited upon recovering from illness or surviving a dangerous situation.:

“Blessed are You, Lord our God, ruler of the world, who rewards the undeserving with goodness, and who has rewarded me with goodness.”

And he will recite Psalm 30:3 for gratitude:

“O Lord my God, I cried out to You, and You healed me.”

© 2025 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101.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 Faith Ellestad

It was 1970. We had been married for just a few months and had recently moved into our first real apartment.  It was on the second floor of a vintage two-flat on South Broom Street. The smell of old wood, and previous mellowed out residents permeated the place.  A locked door in our living room wall divided the upper flat into two small apartments, which shared a bathroom. That door was like a megaphone, piping in every wheeze and snort from the chronically hacking, long-time resident next door.  Creaky planked floors and no insulation allowed us to share every sound from the apartment below, including, but not limited to, the first floor tenant’s son playing his eight-track tape of Arthur Conley shouting “Do you like good music” without fail every morning at 7:00.  (Yes, we did, but that was not it.) Of course, it never occurred to us that the buildings’ other occupants likely experienced exactly the same annoyances from us.

In any case, we loved our place, the plate rail around the perimeter of the living room, our “Kiss a toad tonight” poster on the wall, and the grotto we had fashioned from some cement blocks, a couple of ceramic toads we had gotten as wedding gifts, and several colorful vigil lights from who knows where.  We reveled in our place and our freedom.

I was student teaching at the time while my husband, who was finishing up his degree, worked nights stocking shelves at. supermarket. Obviously, our schedules did not sync very well.  He was generally just rolling out of bed when I got back from school, and I was usually asleep when he got home from his job. I vividly remember one late evening, when, shortly after I had retired for the night, he called from work, an unusual and potentially alarming occurrence.

 “Hey, we‘re done early and the guys are really hungry.  Could you make us something to eat?” 

“Oh sure, bring them over”, I said confidently, and leapt out of bed, clueless as to what I could possibly feed them. One problem was I could barely cook at all, and another was that we had no money and not much food at that particular moment. 

As I threw on some clothes, my brain clicked into overdrive. Suddenly, I remembered Aunt GeeGee’s vintage waffle iron tucked away in our closet. GeeGee and her husband, Fuzzy, were my husband’s great-aunt and uncle who lived in town and had invited us over for lunch a few weeks after our wedding. Their beautiful old Victorian house had a basement filled with decades’ worth of their retired belongings. Uncle Fuzzy had showed us around, and generously encouraged us to take anything we thought might be useful.  Wandering through the clutter, we had spied the dusty old chrome waffle iron peeking out of a rickety wicker planter. For waffle enthusiasts like ourselves, it was just the thing.  We had received three electric frying pans in various seventies colors as wedding presents, but nothing as useful as a waffle maker, so we carted it home, along with the planter, in our little yellow Volkswagen.

What a lucky choice it turned out to be, that 40-year-old waffle iron with the frayed, detachable cord and unbelievably heavy metal plates that reversed so you could make grilled cheese, if you knew how, which I didn’t. Plus, we were devoid of cheese But we did have Bisquick Baking Mix and miraculously, a jug of real maple syrup, a wedding gift from a friend of my parents, who tapped his own maple trees. I read the recipe on the Bisquick box and convinced myself we could have waffles.  At least I hoped we could.  This would be my first test of good wife-ness, since I didn’t know my spouse’s friends, and desperately didn’t want to embarrass him.  Taking a deep cleansing breath, I inserted the plug, and fortunately, did not blow a fuse.

I felt vibrations of many heavy footsteps clambering up the creaky wooden stairs just about the time the waffle iron finished preheating.  Smells of hot old metal and grease filled the apartment, the result of an overly generous amount of oil I had dumped onto the red-hot waffle grids. Entering unknown culinary territory, I poured whopping ladlesful of batter into the iron, closed the lid, and waited for crisp, golden waffles to form. They did not.  Instead, the batter, after absorbing all the extra grease, began to smoke and burn as it bubbled out of the grids and flowed down the sides of the iron, forming gloppy tan puddles on the counter below. So gross. And inedible.  Dismayed, but fiercely determined to succeed, I quickly scraped out the scorched yet glutinous blobs, blotted up the excess oil, and began again with greatly reduced portions of batter. Success!  The second batch was fabulous and consumed in about a minute. Waffles for five, I discovered, is not a quick meal.  I cooked constantly for over an hour, basking proudly in the sight of four sweaty, starving guys enthusiastically devouring my restaurant-worthy (I felt), waffles drowned in gourmet maple syrup, served elegantly on the new wedding dishes with the new wedding silverware.

The waffle-fest ended just as dawn broke and my new fan club left, declaring their intentions to return for another waffle party very soon. My husband looked so pleased with our impromptu gathering that I felt I had probably achieved the pinnacle of my married life. I cooked. I coped; I entertained!

Fast forward 54 years.  The only dishes left from our wedding set are one serving platter and a Gorilla-glued butter dish.  Most of the wedding stainless has had at least a couple of spins through the garbage disposal, and we have a new waffle iron that we can’t use because its electronic doneness beep upsets the cats.  We get our syrup at Woodman’s now.  But that’s ok. I don’t think I could ever recreate the waffles we had that night on Broom Street. And I wouldn’t want to. Probably. Maybe I would, though.  I’m not sure.

© 2025 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 taken the opportunity to sort through family memorabilia, discovering a wellspring of tales begging to be told, which she hopes to expand upon in written form (where appropriate, of course!).   She and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law, and recently expanded their family to include Thistle and Bramble, two irrepressible young felines.

By Sue Oakes

There was an old TV show called Mystery Science Theater.  The opening scene was a view from the back of a movie theater.  The movie theater is dark against the bright movie screen, revealing silhouettes of a human and two robots sitting and looking at the screen.  We are watching them watching something else. 

Sometimes life does imitate art. 

I went to a concert with my husband.  It doesn’t happen all that often.  I tried to pretend I loved going to concerts when we first started dating to impress my concert-loving boyfriend, but I couldn’t keep up.   There were too many concerts.  I finally came clean, and he married me anyway.  But, from time to time, there is a band I enjoy or we simply want to go out together.  He will sweeten the pot with an actual seat and a promise of no opening band.  The seat is key.  And I have learned there is always an opening band, no matter what he says.

As I sat there, a bit perturbed because of the recent knowledge that there was actually an opening band, an older-than-us couple shimmied down the row in front of us.  They were excited to be there because they missed the last concert when the band was in town.  They admitted they enjoy having a seat these days, because the knees just can’t take standing on cement for hours at a time.  I was instantly connected to them.  He had a drink and she had a bottle of water.  I gathered she probably never had to pretend to want to be there.  They sat in their separate seats, but leaned into each other the whole show, patted each other’s knees, and held hands from time to time as their heads bobbed along to the rhythm.  A love of music and a love for each other brought them out that night.  I leaned over to John and said, “That is what we are going to look like one day.”   

A younger-than-us couple arrived and sat in the two empty seats next to them.  Young love and new love were complemented by their matching earplugs.  The two couples struck up a conversation about the band and I couldn’t make out much else.  But I could tell they were all looking forward to a lovely night.  Everyone except the young girlfriend. 

As the opening band played, the young couple adored each other.  Head on each other’s shoulders, touches on the leg, kissing, and talking. 

Then the headliner started.  The young boyfriend struggled to continue his affection for her as he scootched forward in his chair to take it in and snap pictures.  Since they were on the end, he was able to stand up and really devote his full attention to the show.  He remembered the girlfriend from time to time with awkward pats on the shoulder and the weird way you have to hold someone else’s head if one person is standing and one person is sitting.  Especially if the person standing isn’t really paying attention to what he is doing.  In between those moments, she kept her coat on, ready to go, and the body language said it all.  I leaned over to John and said, “I bet that is what I looked like at some of those shows back in the day.”

Between the older-than-us couple and the younger-than-us couple, there was just us watching the show.  I smiled every time I looked at the older-than-us couple enjoying their night together.  And I had to laugh every time I looked at the younger-than-us couple in their awkward evening.   

And there we were. Watching them as they were watching the concert.  I am sure there was someone behind us who was watching us, watching them, watching the concert, and wondering what I thought was so funny.  The concert was fine, the beer was good, and I was grateful to be out with someone who loves me enough to buy me a seat.  As I looked on, the thoughts in my head kept me more entertained than the concert. 

© 2025 Sue Oakes

Sue Oakes likes to write about her adventures and every little sentimental thing that pops into her head.  She loves hearing a good tale almost as much as she enjoys telling one.  

By Gina Chirichella

 My favorite winter activity has always been ice skating. Actually, at this stage of my life, it’s one of the few outdoor winter activities that I still partake in. Now that the kids are grown, I no longer make snow creatures or stand around freezing at the sledding hills. 

For many years, I enjoyed the rush of downhill skiing, but once I hit my late 20s, I realized that since I never mastered the snowplow or any reasonable method of slowing down, it was foolhardy to boldly race down the hill and hope for the best. It certainly was nothing short of exhilarating, though!  Looking back, I probably should have taken some much-needed lessons with an instructor. 

Luckily, I did not make the same mistake when it came to skating ( more on that later)

Growing up in downtown Madison, my brother and I and our neighborhood friends would shovel the snow off an area of Lake Monona at the end of our backyard and have our own private skating rink. We’d spend hours playing tag and red rover and crack the whip.  On weekends, our dad would sometimes take us to Tenney Park rink, which had the added benefits of gliding along underneath the bridges over the lagoons and sipping cocoa near the fire in the warming hut.

We moved to a house across the street from Brittingham Beach on Monona Bay by the time I entered junior high at Madison West. Cool teenagers that we were, our makeshift rinks were utilized mostly at night, adding an air of excitement and danger.

Alas, there is no disputing that the heart of our social scene was the Vilas Park rink, where I’d have to say, my friends and I spent inordinate amounts of time gossiping, goofing around, and trying to impress the boys, but didn’t exactly concern ourselves with perfecting our skating technique. What were we thinking? Obviously, not very clearly, because employing some fancy footwork would surely have drawn attention.

This brings me to my wise decision to finally, whilst attending the UW, enroll in Figure Skating 1. The instructor, Jim, was funny and inspiring. He had the class executing forward and backward crossovers, waltz jumps, turns and stops and ice dancing in no time. He would often state, “Bend your knees, please, if I got a nickel for each time I have to remind you, I could retire early a rich man.” Or “Protect your knees with knee pads–you won’t get a new pair when you turn 40”.  His stand-up comic style delivery always made us laugh, but this was sound advice that I take seriously, ( now).

 I continue to practice many of the moves that I was lucky to learn from Jim, and I still skate at Vilas and other rinks around town. 

Though what I always hope for, as it isn’t possible every season, is to find that window when the lakes freeze yet there is no snow and one can literally sail on skates across the whole lake on beautiful smooth ice. This must be done with a buddy, of course. Each year, I have fewer friends who are still physically able to even stand on skates. I miss the camaraderie and games and silliness, but I love feeling the sun on my face and marveling at the distant clouds and reminding myself that a bit of winter is not so bad.

© 2025 Gina Chirichella

Gina attended the UW, majoring in Theatre, and performs in local theatre and film. She enjoys writing thanks to Sarah’s classes and encouragement. She has had her haikus published in the Isthmus and bus lines poetry. She loves swimming, skating, singing and dancing, music ( especially punk and indie), playing ukulele, reading, and liberal politics.

By Iryna Mroz

When I was about nine years old, I made a shocking discovery: pigs can swim. Not that anyone had bothered to tell me this crucial piece of information before I risked my life for them.

We lived in a small village in eastern Ukraine. Life in the Soviet Union had improved a little, but if you wanted meat, you had two choices: buy it on the black market (and risk your life) or raise it yourself (and risk your sanity). My parents chose the second option and brought home two adorable piglets. My father even built them a fancy underground pigsty, a zemlyanka—which is basically a pig mansion, Soviet-style.

Everything was fine until one fateful spring day. My parents had gone to the city to shop, leaving me home alone, which was their first mistake. Suddenly, the sky turned dark, thunder rumbled, and rain came pouring down like the heavens had a personal vendetta against our village.

I ran outside to check on the pigs, and what I saw nearly stopped my heart. Their underground house was flooding! Water was gushing in like a mini-Titanic disaster. The pigs looked up at me, completely unfazed, probably thinking, Well, this is new.

Panic set in. I had to save them! I sprinted back to the house, grabbed two buckets, and began bailing water as fast as my little arms could go. I worked like a hero in a disaster movie—except instead of saving people, I was trying to rescue two ungrateful pigs who didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

An hour later, I was soaked, covered in mud, and exhausted. Just when I thought I had won the battle, my parents returned. Finally, I thought, reinforcements!

Did they rush to help? Nope. My father casually grabbed a shovel and started digging a trench, redirecting the water away like it was just another Tuesday. My mother stood there watching me, hands on her hips, shaking her head like I was the biggest fool in the village.

Then she dropped the bombshell:

“Pigs can swim.”

I froze. My eyes twitched. My exhausted brain replayed the last hour—me, battling the flood, working like a crazed lunatic, while the pigs just sat there, waiting for their next meal.

Not a single “Good job, Ira!” Not even a “Wow, you really gave it your all!” Just, “Pigs can swim.”

I stood there, drenched, betrayed, and questioning my life choices. The pigs? They snorted, splashed in the water, and went right back to doing pig things.

That was the day I learned three important lessons:

1. Pigs can swim.
   
2. Parents don’t always appreciate your heroic efforts.
   
3. Next time, let the pigs fend for themselves.
   

© 2025 Iryna Mroz

Iryna Mroz was born in Ukraine to Darya and Terentiy Shaleyko and raised with strong values of resilience, education, and family. She built a career as an engineer and later a manager at the Zaporizhzhya Nuclear Power Station. Together with her first husband, Leonid Marchenko, she raised twin daughters while navigating the challenges of Soviet life, including the Chernobyl disaster. After immigrating to the United States in 2007 she embraced a new chapter. She is now a U.S. citizen, happily remarried to Jeff Mroz. Her journey has been shaped by hardship and healing, love and loss, but above all, by the strength of family and the hope for future generations.