LOIS GREENE STONE - NON-FICTION

​Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies.  Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.  The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.​

grandma's dress smells of mothballs

Few remember the printed Sears Mail-order Catalogue. It vanished like coal for home-heating, oil lamps, match-lit ovens, ice boxes. When grandma came for dinner and her dress smelled of mothballs, I knew it was time to seasonally shop. My mother's twin brothers had December 25 birthdays. Buying presents in person was work; having a heavy Sears book handed to me, along with request forms, was fantasy.
 
I first always searched for the newest ice figure-skates, pictured in white-leather, and pretended they were mine. In my daydream, I could actually smell the leather and also hear silver bells jingling on laces. I already had tiny bells strung on my current skates’ fasteners.  I imagined myself twirling wearing a velvet skirt lined in crimson silk, and could almost hear my mother’s voice telling me my legs are going to get cold. I wondered why there were no such things as warm stockings that pulled on like leggings. Oh, well, I wasn’t shopping for me.
 
Fantasy needed setting. I turned on the almost-hidden radio; it was built into the side of our wooden French-Provincial style living room false-flame fireplace; then I squat and switched on an electric knob near the non-burning clump of logs. A tiny fan, with red cellophane covering a small light bulb, gave weakly illuminated logs the illusion of flickering fire. That was the place to review the yearly catalogue.
 
Scented bath salts? Maybe for my mother instead of the purple-bottle perfume from Woolworth’s. Oh, gauzy gowns, on pages, looked as if they'd float while waltzing with my uncle, the best dancer ever, who'll ballroom dance with me when I grow up. Must find his birthday present...the men's section. Yes, I have enough allowance-money left to send for a silky new shaving brush for daddy; the sable hairs are so soft, just like my oil paint brushes.  Can I print my order with South Seas blue ink, my trademark?  How my teachers hate my lack of conformity.
 
With radio's Battle of the Baritones, and faint whirring of tiny fan blades forcing the red cellophane to ripple under the false fireplace logs, I imagined a future of romance, energy, giggling, achievement. Grandma's mothball smell on her winter wool clothing always signaled year-end contemplation and mail-order.
 
Gone are my parents, the uncle twins, other relatives. Their deaths are truly forever while there are a few "things" that have a way of resurfacing. Remember 'never again' convertible phrase when air-conditioned cars became widely available? How about 'never again' ceiling fans with wide blades to circulate steamy air; bulky bed comforters; returning glass bottles or other items for deposit? Wasn't radio considered finished when television became accessible to all? Who'd buy natural cotton with maximum maintenance when polyester sheds wrinkles? Fountain pens with leaky ink were made obsolete by ball point clean, but they’re status symbols and comfortable writing pieces once more.
 
My adult children sometimes like hearing stories of a time before television, computers, air-conditioned cars, smartphones, and other technology that is familiar in their lives. These must seem as dated as log cabins, outhouses, single-room schoolhouses, I suspect. But they have asked if shopping was complicated when gifts were inked on paper-forms submitted by regular mail. I’d rather have a computer than my Remington portable typewriter that weighed about 26 pounds, I prefer self-cleaning ovens, speakerphones, climate-controlled houses/cars, airline cabins that are pressurized, high-definition television sets, CD’s rather than cumbersome 78 rpm record, and so forth. But I remember, years ago, saying that much comes full circle so it’s possible, though not probable, for glossy catalogues to come back for other generations to ink in requests on printed forms.
 
December 2020.  Global virus has affected all humans.  Sears doesn’t exist even as a physical store anymore. There’s a different way of shopping without entering a premise.  Online.  So we search the ‘net’, press a digit on a desired-visible item, fill out a form via speaking or typing it on the tech device, let the next ‘page’ have a credit card number, and the process is complete.  Santa’s elves don’t pull our requests from shelves and ship them out, but many robots do the work releasing humans to pick up other tasks.  Didn’t I do a bit of that with the cumbersome catalogue and mail-in forms?
 
Gas-lit fireplaces are more popular than woodburning, and, with just a switch, offer a glow to a room.  Some heat is provided as a bonus.  My childhood false one completely covered a real brick behind it, and that was usual for the time-period; no heat, but cellophane crackle and gentle illumination happened.
 
Eventually few will remember the Pandemic, and life will resume with social gatherings, live theatre, shopping malls busy, crowded streets.  Some online purchasing probably will continue for convenience.  Yet, for me, just a distinct aroma from a box of mothballs will still signal seasonal changes.
 
 
a version of this was published 1994 Gannett News
reprinted 2008 The Jewish Press
​

Bambi
​

When springtime buds slowly become flowers, and birds return to the northeastern part of the country, a fresh season starts.  For me, it's also a new year:  the celebration of my birthday.  How do I feel pulling away not just a calendar page but another twelve months of recorded living?  I dislike such a question since a real answer requires introspection not just a glib response.  
            This past-April birthday, as my eyes watched a plump robin struggling to pull an earthworm from the front lawn’s moist grass, my mind traveled to a budding time in my life...becoming thirteen:
            "Not too many years left before I'll be wearing sugar cubes dangling from sixteen skinny satin ribbons,"  I whispered to my bedroom's wallpaper patterned with large yellow roses.  I smiled as I thought about a milestone event three years away and its traditional corsage made not of flowers but real sugar.  I liked birthdays, being the center of attention, the private way my mom and dad treated the date, even though I often had a separate party with friends.
            "So?  How was the show?"  Joy, my four years younger sister, entered my room.  She was pleased yet envious that my surprise-gift was I'd gone to Manhattan with just with my father to see Alice in Wonderland.
            "Oh, Bambi Linn is so pretty.  She's the perfect Alice." I danced as I spoke.  "And the theatre was in a crazy place.  Columbus Circle.  Not near the others.  I liked it."
            "What else?  What else?"  Joy sat crosslegged on the chenille bedspread.  Lint was gathering on her skirt but she didn't yet notice.
            I continued to pretend I was Bambi Linn.  "What a swell name.  Bambi Linn.  The Mad Hatter was cute.  Oh, we went to Rumplemeyers for ice cream.  Then we clopped-clopped around Central Park in a carriage pulled by a huge horse...bigger than horses I ride.  I wore my pink dress with the backwards bolero that buttons down my spine.  Guess what else?"
            "What?  There's more?
            "I wore stockings!  They were the ugly silk not the sheer Mojud nylons.  But real stockings.  I hate a garter belt, though.  I don't know whether to put it under or over panties." I stopped swinging in circles and plopped on the bed.
            "I hate cod liver oil," Joy interrupted.
            "And creamed spinach," I continued making a game out of 'hates'.
            "And liver.  Phew!"
            "And tunnels."
            "Tunnels?"  Joy uncrossed her legs then sat on her knees.  "Why?"
            "I just don't like long dark places and having mountains of water above me that can come crashing through."
            "Never knew you were afraid of anything," Joy commented, then giggled.  "What about presents?  Bet you don't hate those."
            I moved to my dresser and lifted a small bottle.  "Heavensent.  This tiny bottle cost $1.00.  Remember you gave it to me last birthday?  You wanted to buy me La Cross nail polish but knew Mom'd never let me put it on.  I like this smell."  I opened the tiny top and pushed it under Joy's nose.
            "Can I put some on?"
            "Sure.  Behind your ears.  That's right.  Let me smell.  Pull your hair back."  I bent over to inhale the cologne's smell.  "I like it on you, too."
            "Do you feel older?"  Joy pushed her hair back in place.  Parted in the center made it fall into two clumps.
            "I'd like a pinafore and puffed sleeved dress just like Alice and I could pretend I was falling down the rabbit hole."  I returned the cologne to the dresser.  "I feel just like I did yesterday, day before, day before.  I just feel like ME.  Everyday.  When my Sweet Sixteen comes, and I then have grown-up parties forever and ever, I'll just be an extra-special me that day."
            "Three years from now is forever," Joy dropped flat on her stomach leaning on her elbows with her face resting between her hands.  "I wish I was older," she continued, "'cause my nine is not even a two-number age!"
            "Next year you'll have two numbers.  That's forever and ever."  I loved birthdays no matter that time was moving me through its passage, "unless you get to be a hundred!"
            "Or a zillion?"  Joy giggled again, then moved herself into a sitting position.
            "Maybe when I'm old and wrinkled and in ugly brown dresses and old lady's stockings, I'll feel different.  I like most everything now."
            Outdoors, April robins began singing, perhaps from delight of accomplishment.  The daffodils I'd planted last autumn were open and one bird lifted quickly as if it didn't want to disturb this fresh burst of yellow.
            New springtime.  Do I feel older since pinafores, cod-liver oil liquid, perfume for a dollar, sugar cube corsages, and Bambi Linn are considered 'history'?  I'm calendar aged, slender, have some face wrinkles, prefer fitted feminine pastel dresses, and transparent nylon stockings.
            The telephone disturbed my meditation.  "Joy?  Oh thanks," I responded to her best wishes.
            "So, senior, am I glad you're the one four years ahead of me," Joy giggled the same pleasant way as when single-digit years.
            "I love life, love today, its specialness.  Balloons from my family," I spoke with childlike magic of this celebration.  "Many years ago, I had a theatre weekend in Toronto as pre-celebration.  Joy," I asked, "did you see 'Miss Saigon' and cry for the innocent and their hurts, or 'Beauty and the Beast' and the quiet way it says don't judge by appearances?"
            From the other side of the country Joy's voice rapidly transmitted, "You're still worried about the rabbit holes and 'Alice in Wonderland'".
            "Listen.  I still feel like ME.  The cherished gift, as Mom used to philosophize, is being alive and having a birthday."  I paused, "Oops. doesn't that sound like an older sister?"
            "Go ahead."  Joy urged me with a hint of humor in her tone.  "It's been a long time since sugar cubes and pink satin ribbons.  You've finally got enough years to talk like an old, I mean older," Joy deliberately hesitated, "sister."
            I wanted her to remember Bambi Linn and my thirteenth, but it was only mine to really retain.  "So my physical decades have multiplied and I'm categorized with the yuk-term senior citizen, but..."  Then, without any inhibition, I admitted, "Joy, inside my mind is still a giggling girl who likes most everything now."
           
©1999 Inkwell Press
reprinted 2006 The Jewish Press
reprinted 2013 go60.us

​Unobserved?

​Privacy.  Hiding a diary in a nightstand drawer after turning the metal key in its tiny latch meant no family member would ever see my pre-teen rambling.  Today’s young share special thoughts on social media.
 
The Internet: someone photographed then posted a picture of my house, and even listed my offspring. Looking at that data, I noticed many-many errors.  Online, once I touched the Enter-key in a ‘search’, were public records, even information that need not be ‘public’.  There were a lot of mistakes on some of those sites, but if I tried to fix anything then the places might learn web addresses.  There’s no guarantee data would be made accurate, nor companies stopped from buying lists of names/addresses/credit ratings, and so forth.  I may as well be Don Quixote fighting windmills.
 
I miss being able to choose when I want or don’t want to be noticed.  In tiny spaces, at the bottom of my Google e-mail’s Inbox, are possible replies.  Besides the recipient, who is reading my correspondence?  I’ve put my telephone number on the do-not-call registry but some Robo-Calls are cleverly using local area codes. My home Artificial Intelligence is probably listening, and recording, since it’s certainly keeping track of music preferences and posting those on its screen.
 
Identity Theft happened to a family member.  Be aware, I was warned.  Okay, I personally read my gas and electric meter.  Monthly I phone, give account number, name/address, and then am asked for the last 4 digits on my social security card.  The company’s records have my decades of reading, so compare, I decided to tell the agent while trying to sound assertive.
 
I saw the century change, and reach ‘cool’ with a cellular telephone, Hi-definition television, VCR, DVR,  e-reader, convection oven, home four-in-one ‘printer’ copying machine, digital cameras.  Eventually wireless printers, artificial intelligence, smart lights, and voice-activated ‘whatevers’ began to make those advances passe. Now there’s a ‘smartphone’, ‘smart-wristwatch’ computer tablet, recorded music coming from an electronic item almost as small as a holder of dental floss. I can voice-command a device to set bedroom alarm clock, play “oldies” songs, and such.  With remote control, television commercials are muted, DVR records series when I don’t even have the set on.   But what’s private as the watch ‘tells’ me I’m working out when taking a long walk?  
 
Okay.  Instead of feeling the victim, let’s see what I might control.  I can’t be anonymous, so, given the 21st century, need to learn new ways.  
 
Well, with the gas and electric company, I forcefully stated it had all the necessary information and I will absolutely not give out any social security data.  It worked!  Okay, that was successful, but the Internet personal data is beyond control.  I can turn off my Artificial Intelligence when I don’t actually need to have it on; rely on the phone’s answering machine; speak up with a ‘no’ for releasing digits on my government ID; not sign Guest Books when visiting public institutions; not give out e-mail address to craft stores and such for their mailing list.  Small steps, but, at least, steps. 
 
There are choices with Social Media.  Does the Facebook reader thousands of miles away really need to see vacation photos, what university was offering an opening, or a family’s newborn?  Twitter, Snapchat: might these show a narcissistic side of people who prefer to be seen but not touched, physically?  I avoid that.
 
I remember a scent of real-leather that covered my girlhood diaries.  And, in my mind, I can see the exact placement in the slender solid-maple nightstand drawer.  A liquid ink fountain pen lay next to the daily journal.
 
No, I would not want to go backwards and give up messaging, email, and so forth, but I’d like to better learn how to cope with selective privacy.
 
 
 
 

​potion

​‘Come back in two weeks’ will soon be pleasing words as the first injection gets pulled from your arm.  So what if lines are long. The entire planet is preparing to produce and administer the magic potion. Covid will cease to be fearful.  
 
I played with my radium jewelry blouse pin, during World War II.  I’d expose it to light, then loved the glow when I intentionally entered a dark closet.  When a mercury thermometer accidentally broke in the bathroom sink, I fingered the silvery ball watching it escaping my fingers.  It wasn’t childhood innocence but, rather, society did not yet know these were potential dangers.
 
Scientific minds, circa 1940's, figured out a way to eliminate my chronic sinusitis: radiation.  In a lead-lined room, all alone, with sandbags holding my head still, radiation destroyed my sinuses.  Magic.
 
Polio scared adults; the young couldn’t comprehend such a disease.  I knew I could go to summer camp for 8 weeks, but visitors were not allowed.  Parents’ weekend was cancelled.  Didn’t bother me as I was having a wonderful summer in the Berkshire Mountains with sports and social life among people my age group. I’d be with the family once the season’s last singing around the flagpole ended.
 
My husband was finishing medical school when we married. Working in physicians’ offices during my teaching-holiday-breaks, gave me a slight scientific-educational edge.  A couple of years later, pregnant with my firstborn, and having problems that meant I could miscarry, I was given a promising drug, DES, that might allow the baby to continue to term; he did. 
 
Eventually I learned that my sinus radiation might be a problem later in life.  Then I heard that DES could cause a male offspring to be sterile, but a female one had a greater cancer risk.  I waited until my first son entered medical school then told him about the drug; happily he was fertile.  Other pregnant women, from my generation, had taken thalidomide accepting safety, and several delivered infants minus full limbs.
 
Everything has risks, I began to realize, and I’d try and balance what’s offered with my own health concerns.  When my husband was in medical training, I’d seen people my age in iron lungs unable to breathe on their own, and read that airborne droplets could spread the disease I’d once never taken seriously.  I held my breath as I walked through the hospital’s polio ward. This virus had no distinction for social status, race, regions; I thought about my parents who kept their fears to themselves allowing their three daughters to enjoy childhood. A site on the Internet noted: “Researchers began working on a polio vaccine in the 1930s, but early attempts were unsuccessful. An effective vaccine didn't come around until 1953, when Jonas Salk introduced his inactivated polio vaccine.”  Oral polio vaccine came out about 1961 and my older two were given it. When my third was born, it was routine and part of immunizations.   
 
Many diseases, from my childhood, have faded with preventive injections.  The measles, mumps, and chicken pox my offspring had are seldom showing up in vaccinated populations. Pneumonia vaccine gets injected into my arm whenever it’s scheduled, and I have had serious flu even with the ‘shot’ but it might have been fatal without it.  So, I think about the rush to get out the Covid 19. Might there be the possibility of nerve damage, guillain-barre syndrome, that happened in some after the Swine flu shot?  Might the world be just really a part of the testing of its efficaciousness?  Is the risk not taking the two injections greater than or lesser than..... This, for me, is new territory and no matter how much I consider my past, my medical knowledge, I cannot give myself a solid answer.