True Stories Well Told

By Marlene Samuels

My Aunt Esther was ecstatic about hosting Thanksgiving dinner that year because it would be the first holiday she and Uncle Ziggy would be celebrating in their brand new, first-ever house. It was a huge departure from their dreary lilliputian apartment. Aunt insisted on taking responsibility for all things related to Thanksgiving dinner: creating the seating chart she’d read about in Better Homes and Gardens during her beauty-parlor appointments, choosing the menu plus deciding cocktail and dinner hours, detailed in Good Housekeeping’s Thanksgiving Special. What excited her most: the opportunity to demonstrate her unrecognized creativity. Thanksgiving would be her time to shine.

Every adult in our family was an immigrant, Holocaust survivor, and naturalized American citizen and especially patriotic. However, none was as much a student of national holidays, traditions, even specific American foods, as was my Aunt Esther. Mom’s younger sister, she was her antithesis. Besides the food, my mother regarded decorations and holiday activities as extreme money-wasters, but her sister delighted in all the hullabaloo associated with American holidays.

In order to prepare herself to host the important Thanksgiving holiday dinner, Esther sprang into action after Memorial Day weekend. In earnest, she began to collect every relevant decoration she encountered, embracing her “more of everything is better” philosophy.

Suddenly, as though a revelation had just descended upon her head, Esther seemed overwhelmed by the vastness of the responsibilities she’d assumed. Her response? She grew increasingly withdrawn and irritable. A week later, she came to borrow a platter from Mom and without warning erupted at us both. “Obviously, you two haven’t a clue that my responsibilities embody the greatest values of American life!”

Anticipating the move to a new house and hosting our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, Esther announced at my July birthday party, “I must find a turkey decoration for our Thanksgiving table’s center-piece. It’s absolutely critical!” She dreamed of replicating the holiday scene from her favorite Norman Rockwell painting, “Freedom From Want”.

We first had a good look at “it” during Rosh Hashanah dinner at their dreary apartment, right before they moved. Everyone (except Aunt Esther) thought the turkey decoration was seriously repulsive. When out of her earshot, we whispered in the hallway, on the back porch, even to one-another during dinner. She remained irrationally proud of it, so proud that before dinner when we were enjoying chopped liver and crackers in the living room, she circulated it hoping to receive words of admiration. She gloated about how clever she’d been to have bought it in the first place.

“Can you believe I actually found such a thing in a Wisconsin Dells summer flea-market?  Even better, I paid “gournischt” (nothing)!” No one dared express less-than-favorable views. Experience taught us that Aunt Esther leaned toward the hyper-sensitive side.

What about that over-sized plastic turkey had won her heart? None of us understood. “By the way, I’ll bet no one knows that this turkey’s name is Tom-Turkey?” She asked as the oversized decoration was circulating among us. “So don’t call it ‘that thing’ like you were some sort of hunyack! (barbarian).” She demanded. Nonetheless, no one could ignore its truly repellant qualities: meandering glass eyes that bounced continuously, still tacky paint in psychedelic colors evocative of Halloween and— the worst feature of all— an over-bearing, barnyard stench that emanated from its tail-feathers.   

At last, Thanksgiving was upon us and we were in the brand new house. Aunt Esther had just greeted us in her entranceway when suddenly she shouted, “Gott in himmel! (God in heaven) I almost forgot my Tom!” And she bolted into the dining-room. We watched as she plopped Tom-Turkey onto the table’s center.

“What is with these people?” I whispered to Jake. “Is it possible that they lost their sense of smell when they were in the concentration camps?” I continued to wonder where the damned thing had been but especially what might still be clinging onto its tail-feathers. Its tail may have been real feathers but they definitely weren’t from a turkey. We kids were positive they’d been attached to a Peacock’s butt.

Our entire family (except for Aunt Esther) considered Tom-Turkey far too big to be the center-piece. It was so wide that those of us seated on one side of the table couldn’t see anyone seated on the other. Also, the creepy thing was way too tall. Its head grazed the bottom of the chandelier’s lightbulbs.

We all gathered in the living-room, enjoying “Pigs in a Blanket”. “That’s the stupidest name for miniature Hebrew National Kosher hot dogs wrapped in kosher butter-free dough!” sneered Jake. “What moron came up with that one?” Mom’s death-stare halted all discussion and none-too-soon because that instant, Aunt Esther began ringing her dinner bell— a miniature Liberty Bell—purchased specifically for Thanksgiving.

We ambled to the dining-table. Our assigned seats were designated with leaf-shaped name cards in autumn colors. Everyone appreciated that this was the first holiday we’d celebrate at Aunt Esther and Uncle Ziggy’s first ever house. Other than Tom-Turkey, the table really was a work of art. My aunt had outdone herself! Color coordinated napkins and plates in autumn tones of terra cotta reds and umber golds indicated each place-setting. Paper maple leaves were scattered atop the russet-colored heavyweight paper table-covering and six vanilla-scented candles surrounded Tom-Turkey. While the adults were sitting, we kids whispered that the scented candles were Esther’s attempt to camouflage Tom-Turkey’s stench.

Candles were lit, wine poured, toasts made.

“Mazel Tov!” Shouted my father, raising his filled wine glass overhead.

“Mazel Tov and Happy Thanksgiving!” we shouted. Then, like a chorus line, everyone swerved to admire Uncle Ziggy approaching the table bearing the weight of a massive golden turkey on an equally massive platter. Stoically, he struggled toward the table bearing the massive strain when, suddenly, he stumbled forward dropping the full weight of the platter atop the table with just a tad too much force. The table shuddered under the load. Its wobbling triggered every candle surrounding creepy Tom-Turkey to topple, each in a different direction.

That’s when the real excitement of our celebration took off! Tom’s tail-feathers began to smolder, then ignited releasing a brutal stench. One nano-second later, the entire table-cover was ablaze. Those of us seated were utterly immobilized—staring in fascination at the spectacle—while flames engulfed the table before our very eyes. Likely, the intensifying stench of burning feathers knocked us back into consciousness. Without hesitation, Uncle Ziggy jumped up, lunged toward the table, grabbed the turkey-bearing platter and staggered into the living-room.

Mom was in her own choreographed performance. She sprang into action, grabbing her seat-cushion and pummeling Tom-Turkey to smother his burning feathers. Meanwhile, Dad also jumped to his feet. Hoisting two full water pitchers from the sideboard, he emptied them across the burning table-cover and around Tom-Turkey. The prevailing chaos was all we kids needed to join the craziness. For our part, we grabbed every water-filled glass and, in a show of unbridled enthusiasm, followed Dad’s example. 

“Fast work putting out that fire, Meyer!” Aunt said. “But Ziggy,” she gushed, “you saved the turkey and our Thanksgiving!”

“Gott zay dank!” (Thank God) I saved the only turkey worth saving!” He countered. “I told you that thing’s a piece of dreck (shit). Enough mit (with) your disgusting Tom-Turkey business. Let’s eat!”

Aunt Esther grabbed her plate from the table, emptied its water and collected her wine glass, napkin and silverware. “We still have the turkey and all the food thanks to Ziggy, so to the living room we’ll go! Who needs a dining room, anyway?” She added. Everyone followed her lead. Ziggy had placed the platter bearing the roast turkey atop their television cabinet. He was in the midst of his knife-sharpening performance as the adults seated themselves around the living-room sofas and kids sat on the floor. Plates filled with slices of turkey and side dishes were passed. Again, glasses were raised and again, Dad shouted, “L’Chayim!” 

Happy Thanksgiving!” shouted everyone, but Dad had another important message.   

“Never mind that we Jews are always saying, ‘Next year in Jerusalem’. How about we say ‘next year in the dining room’?”

Again, all glasses were raised, “Next year in the dining room!”

© 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 Josh Feyen

This is part two of a two-part series on a topic we don’t talk about. (Click here to read part one.)

Now, I’ll be the first to admit, as a man, I can’t speak from personal experience on this topic. But I can tell you what I’ve learned from the women in my life, and why half the world’s population dealing with something every month means the other half needs to pay attention. Dudes, I’m talking to you. Women, we’re sorry this can be painful, and we’re going to get better at talking about it. And for those of you who menstruate—you shouldn’t have to hide something this normal or suffer in silence.

Growing up on a Wisconsin farm in a conservative school district, I learned about periods approximately once, in health class. I was in 7^th grade, and we were taught by our visibly uncomfortable gym teacher who I imagined drew the short straw to teach the class. Health class was big into talking about the Reagan-era “Just Say No” to drugs curriculum, but we rarely talked about bodies and reproduction. When we did, the boys and girls were separated; the girls got a lesson in menstrual products and the boys were warned about wet dreams. I filled in the rest with encyclopedia entries on genitalia, and whispered conversations when one of the girls in our group spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom. This left me woefully unprepared for actual human biology (except now I knew about wet dreams. Sheesh).

Here’s what I wish someone had told teenage me about periods: they’re not just about bleeding. Menstrual cramps can range from mild discomfort to pain so severe that women vomit, faint, or can’t get out of bed. Some women experience mood changes due to hormonal shifts—and before you roll your eyes about “PMS,” understand that hormones affect everything from pain tolerance to emotional regulation to sleep. It’s not “being dramatic.” It’s biology.

Let me tell you about a time I actually got it right, though it took a friend’s obvious pain to teach me. I was spending the day with a close friend when I noticed her wince. Then wince again. Waves of pain kept crossing her face, and she’d go quiet for a moment, her jaw clenched, before trying to continue our conversation as if nothing was wrong. “Are you okay?” I finally asked. “Do you need some pain reliever or something?”

She gave me a look that was half gratitude, half frustration. “You have no idea,” she snapped, louder than she probably intended.

She was right—I didn’t. But I could see that her pain was real and intense. I didn’t take the outburst personally. Instead, I asked what would help. She needed a nap, some privacy, and for me to stop asking questions. So that’s what I provided. Later, when she was feeling better, she thanked me for not making it weird and for just helping.

That experience was a crash course in empathy. Menstrual cramps aren’t just “a little discomfort”—for some women, they’re debilitating. Offering help matter-of-factly—not making a big deal out of it, not acting squeamish—is exactly what’s needed. And sometimes people snap when they’re in pain. Don’t take it personally.

I learned how crucial it is to handle these situations calmly when I was camping with my nieces and nephew one weekend. I kept noticing the four girls—ranging from early to mid-teens—disappearing together just outside camp for little conferences. This happened three or four times over the course of the afternoon. Finally, I pulled my oldest niece aside.

“Hey, is everything okay? You all keep heading off together. If something’s wrong, I need to know.”

She looked relieved that I’d asked. “My sister just got her first period,” she said quietly. “We’re trying to figure out what to do because we only have tampons, and Mom doesn’t want her using those yet.”

Here was a moment where I could have made it weird, or awkward, or acted like I couldn’t possibly help with “girl stuff.” Instead, I treated it like the practical problem it was.

“Okay,” I said. “First, she should call your mom. This is something she’ll want to know about. And your mom can give her advice about what to do. Second, I can drive to the store right now and get whatever supplies she needs. Just tell me what to buy.”

The relief on her face was immediate and she returned to the group to relay my suggestion and offer. My niece called her mom, who talked her through things. By the end of the call the girls had everything handled among themselves, but knowing I’d been willing to help without making it embarrassing clearly mattered.

What struck me most was watching those four young women support each other. They’d created a little circle of care, making sure this first period didn’t feel scary or shameful. My nephew, on the other hand, spent the afternoon playing with the fire. He was either oblivious to their conferences or ignoring the girls’ disappearance. I suspect he, like me, hadn’t been adequately prepared to participate or talk about what was going on. 

This is exactly what we should all be doing—treating periods as the routine biological function they are, not as some shameful secret. I’ve watched close friends miss important events, and I suspect some of my coworkers miss work—because the pain was too severe. And I’ve learned that “just part of being a woman” is a dismissive phrase that ignores real suffering. 

So what can you do, especially if you’re a guy who feels awkward about the whole topic?

Be prepared. Keep a small supply of pads and tampons somewhere accessible—your car’s glove box, your backpack, your bathroom cabinet. Not as a weird statement, just as a practical courtesy. I learned to do this the hard way. I help organize a weekend workshop each year that brings together men and women, and one year I was in charge of buying supplies—unscented soap, hand sanitizer, and menstrual products for anyone who might need them during the weekend. Simple enough, right? I walked into the grocery store with confidence, and on finding the menstrual products aisle I was immediately unsure of my mission. 

There were so many options. Pads with and without wings (wings?), thin, thick, overnight, regular, light. Tampons in different sizes with different applicators (applicators too?). Menstrual cups. Liners. I stood there flabbergasted, realizing I was totally unqualified for the task, having no idea what anyone might actually need. So I did what seemed reasonable: I called a friend who talked me through finding variety packs of both pads and tampons, figuring that in a pinch, having options was better than having nothing.

It worked—people were grateful to have supplies available, and nobody cared that I hadn’t selected the perfect brand. That experience taught me two things. First, it’s okay not to know exactly what to buy. Variety packs exist for a reason. Second, the awkwardness I felt standing in that aisle was nothing compared to the relief of someone who needs a product and doesn’t have one. My momentary discomfort was worth it (and my friend was truly impressed that I thought to call her).

Don’t make it weird. If someone mentions they’re on their period, don’t act shocked or grossed out. Just respond like they told you they have a headache—with normal human empathy. “That sucks, do you need anything?” works infinitely better than nervous laughter or changing the subject. Offer practical help. A heating pad or hot water bottle, pain reliever, chocolate, or tea aren’t stereotypes—they’re things that genuinely help some people. So is just asking, “What would make this easier for you right now?” Sometimes the answer is “nothing,” and that’s fine too. The asking matters.

Never, ever use periods as an insult or excuse. Don’t ask someone if they’re on their period because they’re angry or upset. Don’t joke about PMS. Don’t dismiss someone’s legitimate feelings by attributing them to their cycle. This is basic respect.

The most significant lesson about periods? Respect and empathy. When your partner, friend, or sister says she’s not feeling well because she’s on her period, don’t dismiss it as “girl problems” or suggest she’s overreacting. Believe her. Offer help. And if she snaps at you because she’s in pain, remember my friend’s words: “You have no idea.”

She’s right. You might not. But you can still show up with compassion.

© 2025 Josh Feyen

Josh is writing a book titled “Out With It, The Things We Don’t Talk About” he hopes to publish in 2026. Subscribe to his Substack for a weekly dose of his writing. https://joshuafeyen.substack.com

He was raised on a farm in southwest Wisconsin, went to college in Milwaukee, lived abroad for four years on three continents, and now finds himself with stories to tell. In the middle of 2021, Josh set about writing 50 short memoir stories in his 50th year. Today, the main focus of Josh’s 50 in 50 writing journey is to share what he’s learned with his four teenage nieces and nephew. Josh lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Find his other blog posts for True Stories Well Told here.

By Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Sometimes I have an empty feeling when I wake up—feeling in no place. I’m taking up space.

Always when I walk each morning these feelings fade, seeing everything here in the Sonoran desert enveloped in green, and seeing a ring of tiny yellow flowers atop the barrel cactus, and seeing the Mesquite tree with its airy leaves, and seeing Arizona’s state Palo Verde tree with its green bark and its golden flowers appearing in late spring, and seeing the bird families crossing the road, mother in front, father in back leading their pack to safety, and seeing a rabbit scurrying to find cool shelter, all are uplifting.

*

Sometimes, well, often, I wish I were in the body that I had for all of my life before three spinal vertebrae fractures were recently repaired. It isn’t easy to stand up straight. I’m mega compressed. My breasts, diaphragm, and belly are squeezed together. Sometimes pain results. And I’m five inches shorter; I was already short.

Sometimes negative thoughts clutter my headspace. 

Sometimes I wish I had more self-confidence. Like when I could stand up straight before the vertebrae were repaired and didn’t look or feel like an old woman. Seeing myself in the mirror is discouraging and disheartening. I should stop looking. Or cover the mirrors (not too realistic) like an Orthodox custom of covering them during shiva, the seven-day mourning period after the death of a Jewish person.

Always good thoughts are harder to retrieve.  

Sometimes my husband says just the right thing. He says I look fine. I’m pretty. And he reminds me I’m still me, the same me I have always been.

*

Sometimes there are spaces of silence. 

During their visit, our daughter and son-in-law sat on the living room sofa, reading on their respective phones. Our granddaughter was on her iPad in the guest room. My husband was on the computer in his office. It was quiet. It was still. There was no place for me.

Always I’ve wished for more closeness with our daughter. Happily, we hugged and kissed before she, her husband, and our granddaughter left for home. 

I got a text, “Thanks for having us,” as they boarded the plane. 

A sweet ending. 

Always I’ve wished for more closeness with our granddaughter. Now she’s a teenager. One thing we shared was browsing through the photo book which we will pass on to her, showing the history of our families, including some who lived in the 1800s. 

She said, “It’s real cool.” 

We had a big hug before she left for home. 

She’s very tall, like her father.

*

Always food connects us, especially enjoying decadent and sinful chocolate desserts.

• Chilled crystal bowls of velvety, creamy chocolate mousse, 

• Squares of fudgy chocolate chip brownies, 

• Slices of chocolate cheesecake,  

All served with chilled chocolate mocha lattes.  

Sometimes for a special occasion I serve an applesauce noodle kugel reminiscent of this pudding made by our ancestors, Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe. Sometimes I make three kugels and freeze them ahead for later use.

*

Sometimes my husband makes a salmon salad, a favorite of our guests for brunch.   

Instructions: 

Open a can of salmon, chop and debone the contents. Add mayonnaise, relish, and cut up small pieces of celery. Mix thoroughly. Fridge. Best served on a croissant. Or on crusty caraway-seeded rye bread.

*

Always the best bagels in the shop are still warm from the kettle. Pumpernickel is my favorite. Second is cinnamon-raisin. Third is whole wheat. Lox (smoked salmon) is placed on any bagel is perfect. Plain. I’m different. No cream cheese. 

Sometimes available at the bagel shop is the bialy, shortened for the Bialystoker kuchen, a bread roll filled in the middle with onion and poppy seeds, chewier than a bagel, and originally created by Jewish bakers in Białystok, Poland.

Sometimes friends and I gather at a café bakery, schmoozing, sitting on bistro chairs at a round table outside, enjoying the warmth of fall, and eating freshly baked pastries. My choice, an apricot danish.

*

Sometimes, well, almost always, my breakfast includes a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios with almond milk and many mornings my husband and I eat breakfast together. When we go to a restaurant for breakfast, I order a waffle and spread a small amount of butter and lots of maple syrup over it. My second choice is French toast, especially when it is made with challah (egg bread).

*

Sometimes it’s a struggle to remember all the sometimes. What happened to all the sometimes?

Always, despite these feelings, I say a Hebrew prayer thanking God for restoring my soul and giving me another day of life.

Always, there’s a spark ignited within me when I write.

© 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 Marlene Samuels

It’s October once more, and last week, I was visually assaulted by Halloween decorations at my local “big-box-store”. The moment I walked in, memories of my especially unsettling and very awkward first ever American Halloween also assaulted me.

The reality: Halloween hardly qualifies as a holiday in the truest sense of the term, but I did participate in all Halloween-associated activities when my two sons were young, despite my utter dislike for Halloween-associated events. I still loathe Halloween!

---

 In Montreal, Canada, where I lived in the 1950s and ’60s, kids participated in our version of American Halloween. The difference? We didn’t focus upon collecting candy, dressing up in costumes, or resorting to questionable “tricks” when treats failed to materialize. Kids in my poor immigrant neighborhood anticipated the approach of Beggars’ Night. And like Halloween in the USA, October 31 was the date. We dressed in rags, smeared our faces with grease and coal dust, grabbed paper sacks from under kitchen sinks, and strolled the neighborhood for two hours, from 5:00 p.m. until 7:00 p.m., when all “beggars” were expected home for dinner.

Groups of four, five, sometimes as many as eight of us, descended upon our neighbors. No one was brave enough to knock on the door. Instead, we gathered in a huddle, multiple fists hammering on doors, and when a door was pulled open, we “beggars” began our performances. Hunching over improvised canes, we affected postures of imagined 18th-century London beggars. Thespians among us developed hand tremors or limps, distorted faces, and clawed hands while our chorus of young voices shouted, “Charity Please! Kind Sir, Kind Madam, have pity! Charity please!”

No “trick or treat” craziness for us. Some mothers sewed satchels with rope draw-strings from whatever shmatta (rag) was available, more preferable than paper bags that, when filled with booty of money and not candy, could tear.

Pennies and nickels clinked into bags that grew heavier as we wound through our four-square-block territory. Occasionally, deep-toned clinks suggested quarters or half-dollars, always reserved for older kids. The assumption among adults: little kids can’t tell the difference between coins, so give them pennies, nickels, and dimes.

When begging-time ended, we rushed home, eager for dinner but more eager to dump our sacks out onto the floor. Carefully, we counted our collections. “Kinder (children), you’ll make two equal piles, yes?” Mom said.“One you must save for your bank account, the other spend on candy or for narishkeiten (silly things), whatever you want, yes?”.

In May of the year, I could have enjoyed a Beggars’ Night of quarters, my parents moved us to the Chicago suburbs, and I began my new high school in September. Throughout October, incessant buzzing among my classmates swirled around my ears. “What are you going as?” They shouted in hallways and during lunch. October 31 grew closer. Now, endless chatter was about costumes, possible pranks that could be played without legal repercussions, and talk of parties. “Anyone know who’s having a Halloween party?” I hadn’t a clue what so much excitement was about, but I also knew that any party that was taking place surely wouldn’t include me. Finally, the year’s second most important event arrived, the first I’d learned was school’s last day.

Our first Halloween in our new country initially felt as though it was a targeted bad joke. Halloween, the day children all across our land anticipated with great excitement, had even infiltrated schools. Most children showed ready for masquerade while adults felt liberated to behave like lunatics.

Night was settling upon our neighborhood. Clumping sounds of young children’s feet and parents’ voices could be heard on the street in front of our apartment above the United States Post Office. Meantime, waves of high-schoolers’ loud voices wafted up from the park across the street. My mother, brother, and I ran to the window for a look. Hordes of various-shaped and sized children, parents in tow, plodded across the village green while others stumbled along sidewalks carrying orange buckets or shopping bags. Mom’s face contorted into worry. Dad set aside reading his Chicago Jewish Star to look for himself.

Seconds later, what sounded like hooves thundered up the hallway stairs leading to our apartment. Dad, who’d been relaxing with rolled-up sleeves, walked to the door, nudging us aside to open it. “Trick or treat!” Bellowed a teenage Mussolini, Stalin, Churchill, Marlena Dietrich, and Hitler in unison.

In Yiddish, Mom said to Dad, “Meyer, you need to give them coins like in Montreal.” He reached into his pocket to extract a handful of change. I cowered behind the door, perspiring with embarrassment, but my brother had gone into hiding in his room the second he heard voices that sounded like older children ascending our stairs. We prayed we wouldn’t see any of our classmates.

“Mom,” I muttered in Yiddish, “don’t give money! You’re supposed to give candy. This is America and they don’t need your money!”

One of the older boys, the tallest among them with a deep man-voice — Stalin, I think he was, noticed my father’s outstretched arm, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and the tattooed numbers and Star of David. In an instant, Stalin began apologizing profusely, “Sir, I’m so terribly sorry!” He said to Dad, his voice catching in his throat. “Please forgive us!” Dad looked unsure what that was about, and then Churchill and Hitler, Mussolini, and Marlena Dietrich followed suit. Stalin leaned toward his comrades, whispering, The next moment, they backed out the door and turned to descend the stairs on tiptoes out into the street.

When he heard the door close, my brother came out of hiding and again, went to look onto the street. There, we saw a huddle of costumed kids, chattering for a very long time. Moments later, a group of parents and their costumed children joined the huddle.

For the remainder of our first Halloween in our new country, our staircase remained spookily silent.

© 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 Donald A. Ranard

Clifford, the guard, couldn’t stay awake.

Our house in Colombo, Sri Lanka—an old sprawling colonial bungalow surrounded by flowering bushes and frangipani trees—came with round-the-clock guards. Clifford was the night guard.

One night, a week after we had moved into our house, I came home to find Clifford slumped in his chair, mouth wide open, snoring. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Clifford,” I said.

He snorted, then resumed snoring.

I lightly shook his shoulder. “Clifford, wake up.”

He woke with a start, jumped to his feet, and drew himself up to his full five foot four. “Sir!” 

I stepped back, startled. It was the first time I had seen Clifford do anything remotely guard-like.

“Clifford,” I said. “You’re the guard. You need to be awake.”

He saluted. “Quite right, sir. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

But it did happen again. We would have let him go, but by then we’d been in Sri Lanka long enough to realize we didn’t really need a guard. The terrorists rarely attacked private residences—and never those of foreigners: The last thing they wanted was foreign involvement in the civil war. And while petty theft was not uncommon, home break-ins were rare. Clifford may have been an unlikely-looking guard—short and pudgy, he resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy—but he was a sweet, kind man, and we were told that if we fired him, he would never find another job as a guard. So, we let him stay. We were not unmindful of the irony: We were taking care of the man who had been hired to take care of us.

#

One evening I came home to find Clifford sitting in his chair with tears streaming down his face.

“Clifford” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“My brother died.”

“Oh, no! What happened?”

“He had a heart attack.”

“I’m so sorry! When?”

“Ten years ago.”

I found this funny at the time, and it became a story I would tell. But now, years later, acquainted with grief’s vagaries and demands—you may think you are through with it only to discover one day, suddenly and without warning, that it is not through with you—I no longer find it funny or odd at all.

© 2025 Donald A. Ranard

Donald A. Ranard’s writing has appeared in The Atlantic, New World Writing Quarterly, The Los Angeles Review, Vestal Review, The Washington Post, The Best Travel Writing, and elsewhere. In 2022, his play ELBOW APPLE CARPET SADDLE BUBBLE placed second in Savage Wonder’s annual playwriting contest. Before settling in Arlington, VA, he lived and worked in Asia, Europe, and Latin America.

By Brenda Miller

Note, this post is an example of a hermit crab essay, a format Brenda teaches in which a writer adopts an existing form to contain their writing. These forms can be a number of things including emails, recipes, to do lists, and field guides. Of this essay, Brenda says,”letters are a useful form to contain our difficult stories.”

Sunday, July 17, 2016
To: Wound Care Center
Re: Tuesday, July 19 appointment

To whom it may concern:

I am writing in regard to an appointment that was made for my father to assess and treat his pressure ulcer (aka “bedsore”) which has now, in the two weeks we’ve been waiting for an appointment, progressed to Stage 4. They tell us Stage 4 means “down to the bone.” I wouldn’t know, as I haven’t seen the wound firsthand, nor do I want to. It’s at the very end of his tailbone, the coccyx, the part of our bodies where so many nerves converge. All I see is the grimace on my father’s face as he waits for his Vicodin at the nurse’s station. Sometimes he has to wait a few hours. But that’s okay. We understand everyone is busy.

We have filled out the multiple pages of paperwork required for the appointment, paperwork that seemed amusingly archaic in this age of digitized information. The poorly mimeographed sheets, with its checkerboard of boxes and redundancies, provided us a few minutes of activity in his otherwise monotonous morning. I called out the questions and he answered them, and sometimes I surreptitiously corrected the inaccuracies. He has a hard time remembering things now, so while he may think the bedsore began in the hospital months ago, it did, in fact, begin at the first rehab center approximately three weeks ago. I tell you this so that you know the paperwork is more accurate than anything my father might tell you. (He likes to be right, so allow him to be right, if you can.) The five weeks he spent at Mt. Baker Care Center has now evaporated from his mind, leaving a blank that can’t be filled.

I know that this paperwork is a formality, that it will most likely be filed away and the doctor will ask all these questions again anyway. Still, we took it seriously and tried to remember if his own father had high blood pressure and/or a drinking problem. We tried to remember if my father had ever seen a vascular surgeon. We tried to assess his health as “good,” “fair,” or “poor” (It depends on the time of day you’re asking, he said, but there was no spot to append this information). And though you asked several times if depression was one of his symptoms (I wonder sometimes if these redundancies are meant to catch us out), and he answered “no” each time, I would like to point out his progressive withdrawal into himself, the way he sits slumped in his chair, beginning to mirror the other residents who often sit in the hallways, around the nurse’s station, staring at nothing.

He is very anxious about this appointment, eager and scared. So much so that he called me this morning Sunday, at 5 a.m. I think my body knew it before my brain, because I somehow was already reaching for my phone when it rang. His voice sounded clear, stronger than it is by 11. He asked if he had woken me, and he had, but it was all right. I said, What’s up?

I can’t find the paperwork I need for the appointment, he said. I told him my mother had brought it home with her, and why did he need it now?

Because I have to be ready to go by 6. I’ve been up since 4 a.m.

I hesitated a moment before answering. I knew that something had gone wrong in the space-time continuum that is now my father’s brain. I knew that correcting him would be upsetting, but he needed to know. He needed to know that today was Sunday and the appointment was still two days off. He needed to know that he wouldn’t need to get up at 4 in the morning on Tuesday for this appointment, that it would not take him three hours to get ready for the transport van, which would be there at 7:30, since there is really very little to do: have the aide get you up, get dressed, wash your face. An hour at the most. He is not at home, where it used to take my parents several hours to get out of the house, because breakfast, conversation, and fussing can take a long time.

I sighed and told him all this as gently as I could. I told him it would be all right. He said, with a hoarse chuckle, I must be getting old.

I tell you all this just so you know how important this appointment is to my father. While he may be just one more elderly patient in the stream of your day, we are all eager for an hour where he is getting some personalized attention, where it can feel like someone cares, that something can be done. We want to know what happens when an injury has gone to the bone, if it can ever be fully healed.

With all due respect,

His Daughter

© 2025 Brenda Miller

Brenda Miller is the author of six essay collections, and her work has received seven Pushcart prizes. She co-authored the textbook Tell it Slant: Creating, Refining, and Publishing Creative Nonfiction, and The Pen and the Bell: Mindful Writing in a Busy World. She is Professor Emerita of Creative Writing at Western Washington University. Her newest book, Love You, Bye, a hybrid collection of poetry and prose, is forthcoming in 2026 from Skinner House Books.

To read about Brenda’s writing retreat with Sheila Bender in Italy in September 2026, read this post on True Stories Well Told. I’ll be there.

By Sheila Bender

“Did you see the Harrycoos out to our left as we passed?”

“No,” we told the taxi driver taking us from our ferry landing on the Isle of Skye to Kyle Lochalsh on the mainland in the Scottish Highlands.

“Want me to turn around to show you? We have time before your train to Inverness.”

“We’d rather just keep going,” my husband said. I wondered what outcropping of rocks we missed.

Then the driver swung one arm in circles as he drove, saying they were all around the Isle of Skye, so we thought they might be birds. He said they were usually ruddy or black but also dun, and sometimes white. So, we kept our eyes focused out the taxi window on the lookout for the Harrycoos, until the driver said there were more of them to see through the left side. And there they were, long locks down past their eyes and over their necks and chests, even down to their tails, the original Highland species before interbreeding with cows from Europe, the hairy cows.

My husband and I had argued that morning as we did more than several times a week, because of conflicting travel strategies. My husband said the long hair must have protected the cows from rain and cold. I looked at the unshaved whiskers crawling up his cheeks, thinking how much his autism requires for protection from precipitation in the valley of our differences. Might we learn to call time-outs with a word and laugh at the circling birds of our misunderstandings? Harrycoos, I could say. Harrycoos, he might answer.   

© 2025 Sheila Bender

Sheila Bender founded WritingItReal in 2002 to facilitate those who write from personal experience. Her current books include Writing Personal Essays: Sharing and Shaping Your Life Experience and Since Then: Poems and Short Prose. She enjoys her role as an instructor for Women on Writing and Il Chiostro as well as with Writing It Real. You can learn about her at WritingItReal.com and sheilabender.substack.com.

To read about Sheila’s writing retreat with Brenda Miller in Italy in September 2026, read this post on True Stories Well Told. I’ll be there.