I caught up with an old friend the other day. It’s been, let me think, years, lots of years. I typed the email into the header. Moved my cursor down to the subject link and typed

It’s been a long time *sounds like SPAM*

Delete

Where have you been? *sounds like phishing*

Delete

Hi from NY *sounds so prosaic*

But I’m okay with that one. I moved my cursor to the body of the email and began to type.

Hi. How are you? It’s been a very long time and I thought I would track you down and see how you and the family are doing.  We are all doing well since moving back to New York.  RJ decided to retire and we bought an Inn in Mumford, not too far from the Genesee Country Village and Museum.

I stopped and reread what I wrote. How impersonal! Doesn’t even sound like we were ever friends.  Delete.

I’ve missed them and I can’t seem to compose an email to tell them.  I looked at the phone and back at my screen. Phone. Screen. Why don’t I just call?  I picked up the phone and dial the number I found on the web. The worse that will happen is… what? Nothing. The phone rang only twice and Jim’s voice comes over the line, “This is Jim. Can I help you?”

“You sure can.” I said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Who’s this?”

“Deborah.”

“I thought I recognized your voice. How are you doing, Doll?”

It was as though the years between us melted away. We talked about family, kids, and work and when we were in school.  I decided that we have to be in a certain place, at a certain time, doing certain things, in order for us to get where ever it is we have to be to achieve what ever it is we are suppose to do. 

We promised to stay in touch.

I suppose that is one of the reasons why I write about relationships. That is what is important today, those connections with people. They reflect back to us who we are. How can that be done through email, which are snippets of unrevealing conversation.  Worse yet it is text messaging. Through an intricate series of letters and symbols, the writer successfully communicates his message. Communicates – such a cold word. Conversation, on the other hand, implies a connection between two people. Letter writing is another form of communication that allows the writer to take the time to express their feelings or the message.  I think that is why letter writing is becoming a lost art form. It means people need to expose themselves, open themselves up to others, become vulnerable.

Do you remember the expression, “We only hurt the ones we love.” It’s true because we know how. We know them; therefore, we know how to hurt them. Every time we write something, anything, we reveal a bit of our soul – the who we are – and that makes us vulnerable. That is probably why I respect writers. They are risk takers. They risk ridicule, hurt, anger, isolation, love, and understanding. It is the understanding that causes to write. To explain. To be heard. That is the joy of writing.

So the relationships we develop through our forms of communications create bonds that will transcend time.

Make that call or write that letter to someone you need to connect with. Relationships need to be tended. Tend that relationship today.

2.12.08

      My favorite part of Christmas is baking big, golden brown, chocolate chip cookies. The person I think of is my mom.  She is very caring. She takes lots of time baking these soft and chewy cookies for my family and me.

      Usually my mom bakes a few days before Christmas. When she does, she bounds into the kitchen wearing jeans, a red and white sweatshirt, and wool socks.  She has a big smile on her face and says, “Let’s bake cookies.” Right away she moves toward the pantry and opens it.  There my mom pulls out two yellow containers and on small metal box, full of chocolate chips. She puts those ingredients onto the island of the kitchen. Then she turns around, opens the refrigerator, and looks for the butter, eyes, and vanilla. Then those are put on the island, too. She finds a bowl and puts the butter in it. She picks up the beige mixer with a black cord, turns it on, and blends the butter. After the butter is blended, she adds sugar from one of the yellow containers. Then my mom cracks a few eggs into the bowl and also puts in the vanilla.  Then she blends again.  Soon she stops blending, calls me over, and gives me a big wooden spoon.  Then she says, “Can you hand me that container over there, please.” I hand her a big, yellow container and she measures out three cups of flour. That gets poured into the bowl, so I put the spoon in and start mixing. After I can’t see the flour anymore, my mom puts in a lot of chocolate chips in, and I stir again. While I am stirring, my mom gets out a big, metal pan, and starts scooping up a little bit of batter.  She makes them into little balls, while I secretly eat the batter behind her back. My mom and I put them onto the cookie sheet. When they are done baking, we let them cool, and then we eat.

      My loving and caring mom likes to make cookies before Christmas day. Sometimes she is in a hurry and forgets about the cookies. When this happens, not very often, they get burnt. They are still very good, so I eat them anyway.

Jason Stankevich

December 1990

Reaction:  I was very pleased to read about Christmas through the eyes of my son. He, obviously, had captured an aspect of the holiday season. That means a lot to him. I particularly enjoyed the adjectives he used to describe me and my sometimes “burnt” cookies. He makes me realize how important the time is that I share with my family and for that I thank him.

Deborah M. Stankevich

      My Christmas cactus always blooms when the boys come home. It did not bloom this year. This year is different. It even feels different. Not everyone is home this time. Nor will they be here all together in any one place. It makes me feel sad. I get it now. I understand why as you get older, the holidays can be difficult. I fill mine with as much family and friends as I can, but something is not quite right. We have always had traditions that we follow. For some reason, this year those traditions are almost all “out the window.” I didn’t even make it to midnight Mass this year. That was always a given. No matter what, I made it to church. I know I will go in the morning, but it will be different.

      This evening we were at my sister-in-law’s with family for dinner. We had a wonderful time. It was so good to see my niece and her fiancé who were in from Florida for the holiday. My brother-in-law’s sister and husband were there, too. We told stories, laughed, and talked about Christmas’s long ago. We passed around old photos and shared with the kids stories about what it was like when we were kids. Somehow the 60’s never felt so long ago as they did today. We heard, “I remember when…” and “Do you recall…” as we looked at faces in faded pictures of people we remember vividly in our memories.

      I miss my family that can not be with us this Christmas. Sometimes it even makes my heart hurt.

      The strings of Christmas lights lay tangled at my feet. I struggle to straighten them out. Each string has 100 bulbs set in a twisted green wire. I wonder if they will light as I plug them into the wall socket. Half the strand twinkles; half the strand lay dark and bleak. I pull the plug out of the wall and toss the strand to the side. I select another strand and repeat the process. This time, all the tiny lights twinkle back at me. Ah, a good strand. I begin at the bottom of the tree, carefully placing the flexible wire within the branches and in between the boughs. The lights look so beautiful.

      I think of my mother.

      “Debbie, the tree is not straight. Can you get under there and move it to the right?”

      I scoot under the lowest boughs. The pine needles poke through my shirt and prick my skin. I brush the needles out of my hair. The base is heavy and the screws large. I twist the screw left of the truck.

      “Is that better?” I say, my voice muffled as I talk into the carpet.

      “A little more,” she says.

      “Now? Is that enough?”

      “It’s better, but I think it’s still not straight.”

      I sigh. Every year this huge tree is never straight. Every year I crawl under the branches and fuss with the screws trying to straighten a tree that will never be perfectly straight.

      “Come out and take a look. Isn’t it still leaning? Look. Over here.”

      I push my way out from under the tree, thankful it’s still standing and not over on its side. I stick my butt up and get on my knees. She’s right the tree is still leaning.

      “I think it’s okay,” I say, hoping she will not ask me to go back under.

      “No, I don’t think so. Come here and look. See.”

      I know she is right.

      I drop to my belly and wiggle back toward the trunk. “Just tell me which way and I’ll try to straighten it.”

      She walks over to the tree and inserts her slender hand. Grabbing the trunk and moves it in the direction, she thinks will make is straight. I turn the screws until the base is level and the tree straight.

      “Perfect,” she says and smiles at me.

      I feel warm inside. She has a beautiful smile. I pick up the first strand of lights and plug it into the wall socket. Half the lights twinkle; the other half does not.

      “I swear these lights are lucky to last a season!” she quips. “Hand them to me.”

      I do and pick up another strand. These all twinkle and I begin to lace them up the tree starting at the bottom. The next strand is added and the pattern continues until I reach the top. I tuck the end of the strand in the middle of the boughs so no end shows.

      She smiles and hands me the garland. Gold boa-like garland is strategically placed on the limbs as not to cover the colored twinkling lights.

      “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas” plays in the background and mom hums along with Bing Crosby. She looks happy and so am I. My sister, Jo, comes into the room.

      “I want to help,” she announces.

      “Grab that box over there and you can help put the ornaments on the tree.”

      I sit back on the rug with my arms around my knees. The twinkling lights glow. Jo gingerly pulls a glass ornament from the box, puts a hook on it and places it in the middle of the tree. She goes back to the box and continues this ritual until a cluster of ornaments have been hung in the middle of the tree. She tires of the work and starts to rummage through other boxes of decorations.

It seems like all I've been doing is paperwork. Yuck! I know this is our season, but a few words here or there wouldn't be such a bad idea.  I've been reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I think JK Rowling has really outdone herself. She has grown as a writer as her story has unfolded.  Like anything, the more one practices, the better one gets.  So what does that say about my own writing?  I'm back to writing more non-fictional, technical stuff, which means my creative stuff will get put on the back burner and it will be harder to finish.

I've been looking at my first novel - started but never finished - Love you much. It was good when I started it, but I think I'm a much better writer now. It needs to be reworked.  I'm 11 chapters into it and it cries for attention.  My second novel - started but never finished - Kate's Promise, has so much potential. It's a really good Young Adult novel that walks the line.  I had a publisher interested in it. He said it would sell. The market would be interested. And I must say I really haven't seen anything out there that compares.  So what happened?  I never finished it and now it sits on a notebook with notes and comments.  My third piece, The China Doll, is where I am right now.  She, the China Doll, sits on my dresser and talks to me... and I talk to her.  Her half-closed dead eyes look at me and question why I have not finished her story. "Work," I tell her. "Work. I need to do this first."

I always seem to have to do something else first.  Perhaps my problem is I don't set time aside for this part of me.  I write because... why do I write? Hmmmm.... Who cares what I have to say?  Who cares if I write everyday or once a week? Does it matter if no one reads what I write? I guess I really write for myself.  I've kept a journal, one with just my thoughts, but it's not enough. Why do I feel I need to write about anything?

I like to tell stories. All kinds of stories. So starting now, I will begin just telling stories about...

            My dad was in World War II as a private in the army. I knew very little about my dad’s time in the service except he was in Europe under Patton and in the Korean War.

            I asked him about it when I was studying the Holocaust in school. He gave me a book QB7 by Leon Uris to read and a book on Auschwitz. I tried to ask him questions, but his answers were short and a bit sharp. 

            It wasn’t under years later when I was looking through some old pictures after my mom’s death that I discovered dad had opened up one of the death camps in Europe. And it wasn’t until after his death that I found his Bronze star for his service during the war. What stories he could have told!

            Sometimes I can still hear the phone’s single ring. My dad would call after his shift was over for Mom to pick him up at the tavern.  Each call was charged to the business, so to prevent a 10 cent charge, dad would call the house and hang up after one ring. We all knew to call Dad back and let him know we were on our way.

            At 16 and on a limited driver’s license, I shared the duty with Mom of picking him up at 4:00 in the morning when his shift was over.  I’d sleep ever so lightly on those nights, waiting for that one ring - the one ring that told me to call him back and let him know I was on my way.

            The phone rings. I jump out of bed, my feet barely touching the ground as I skirt across the hallway carpet and into the kitchen to answer his call. The cold kitchen linoleum brings me back from my dream world to the dead of night. Without turning on the overhead light in the kitchen, I quickly and quietly lift the receiver from its cradle and begin dialing the familiar number to the tavern.  One ring. Two rings. Half way through the second ring, dad’s booming very comes over the phone line. "Benny’s," he says. His voice is full but tired. Now you have to know my dad to appreciate the fact that he is a man of few words.

            "Dad?" I respond.

            "I’m ready," he says.

            "I’m on my way," I reply.

            "Debbie, do you want a sandwich?" he asks

            "Sure," I answer.

            And that was that. I hurry down the hallway and slip my jeans over my pajama bottoms and pull a sweatshirt over my head, grab my wallet with my license, and pick up the keys to the car, a 1966 yellow Chevy Malibu, next to the door on my way out to the garage.

            If you ever are out driving at that hour, look around. I mean really look around. The streets are so desolate, yet peaceful. The street light reflects the early dew on the streets. The dark grey sky is trying to put the moon to bed and wake the sun up. It’s a time of uninterrupted beauty.

            I drive carefully down Pine Ridge Road to Genesee Street and put on my blinker.  I look around. No cops. Since I’m on a limited driver’s license, I’m supposed to have a licensed driver with me in the car. I continue down Genesee Street toward the tavern. A block before Bailey Avenue, I turn left on Brinkman and slowly make my way pass sleepy houses in early morning hours. A quick right and another and I’ve circled the block and pull up in front the tavern. I don’t need to toot my horn. Dad opens the door and holds up his index finger to tell me to wait - he’ll be right out.

            I sit patiently, parked on Bailey Avenue, looking for traffic. There is none. As I look up, Dad locks the side door and walks to the car with a brown bag clutched in his hand, along with his newspaper.

            He opens the door and gets in. "Hi," he says.

            "Hi," I reply.