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.​​

 Unsophisticated 
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    So is common-sense passed down with genetic code?  Want to listen to why I don’t think it’s part of DNA?  Where do I start?  Irrational and stupid are different, and my list of irrational is really long.  Some of what can be classified as lacking common sense began with my youth and innocence.  A birthday decoration, for my older sister, born October 31st, began my girlhood pretending to be worldly and finding myself stupid.
    Let me give you this bit of more current data so you can shake your head and giggle later: I have taught English both in high school and in college.  During my growing years, my placement was in Honors Classes.  So, even when very young, how could I be so-lacking about a word, or not even look it up?  Okay. Enough background.  Here’s the true tale:

    "Hi, Mom," I entered my parents' bedroom.  Fall sun at its odd angle was spraying through the eastern exposed window.  "Need some money for paint for the skeleton."  I pulled at my skirt pleats. 
    My mother punched at the feather pillows plumping them into a fat shape; tiny points pierced through the casing but she poked them back through the cotton fabric.  She smoothed the bedspread.  "What kind of paint?" 
    "Well, there's this glow stuff," I started. 
    "What kind of talking is that:  well, there's this glow stuff?  Speak correctly!" 
    Putting on a fake British accent, I said, "An iridescent liquid contained in a bottle that may be purchased from the 5 & 10 Cent Store is available for application to a cardboard skeleton.  This liquid, once dry, enables the cardboard character to glow once an incandescent lamp is turned down." 
    My mother shook her head, walked to me, hugged, and we both laughed.  "That's good.  I always knew you were an actress." 
    "Dahling," I continued changing dialects. 
    "Uh.  Okay.  Don't ruin your good scene.  Is it for your sister's party?" 
    "Of course."  My older sister, Carole, was actually born on Halloween. 
    "I've some money downstairs," my mother noted, "and please stop pulling on your pleats.  You'll tear them open." 
    "I'll bring you the change." 
    A gesture of pushing a few hair strands behind my small ear showed both caring and approval.  Her fingers still felt pleasant brushing my skin.  I smiled.  "I'm going to rip ze pleats, ha, ha, ha, ha,"  I tried to talk like a movie vampire as I left the room. 
    Carole was sitting on the corner of her bed; one leg was tucked under her.  Lint from the chenille spread was dotting her navy dress.  Her nail-bitten fingers were clenched.  She heard my conversation and muttered, "pretending to care about my Halloween birthday just to get in good with Mother.  Ha." 
    "Hi vampire bat," I poked my head in. "Getting ready to suck someone's blood and scoot around on your witch broom?" 
    "Get out of here.  This is my room," Carole sharply said.  Her body didn't change positions although it was getting more tense. 
    "Wait 'till you see the great cake Dad got.  It has a witch riding a broom.  Really.  The baker baked tiny toys into the cake and everyone will spin the broom and wherever it lands has to have that cut of cake and gift." 
    "Sure," said Carole sarcastically. 
    "Why won't you ever believe me?  This time it really, really is true.  It'll be a swell cake."  My tone made it hard to know what was imagination and truth.  "Ha, ha, ha-ha, ha," I sing-songed.  "Look at the lint all over your dress.  Are they witch's pom-poms?  Come with me to the store then we'll paint the skeleton."
    I got money, went into the garage and walked my balloon-tired green and chrome bicycle out along the gravel drive, then lifted myself on the black leather seat and rode off.  Carole stayed home and twisted orange and black crepe paper for decorations.
    Pleased with autumn colors, I hummed as I pedalled.  I liked the idea of a glow-in-the dark decoration. 
    With the paint and two sparse-haired brushes, Carole and I sat on the stairs leading from inside the garage to the house.  Carole stroked the dangling legs and complained about the strong paint smell.  "You're so smart and clever to get this even if it stinks my nose." 
    "Gonna be a great wall hanging.  Maybe we should hang him by his head in the doorway?  How about putting him in the front hall closet?"  I started laughing.  I felt so worldly and grown-up.
    "Or in Mom and Dad's bed.  Or in Grandma's bathroom.  Or in the front seat of the car."  Carole was getting enthusiastic and running on. 
    "Enough.  It's done!  We're terrific."  I was pleased and capped the bottle. "What's f-l-a-m-m-a-b-l-e?" I tried to read the tiny pasted label. 
    "Flammable means able to make fire," replied Carole. 
    "This skeleton can start a fire on its own?" I got really-really worried.  "Flammable. Let's crumble him up and put him in the empty metal garbage can and cover it tightly.  If he starts firing, at least nothing bad can happen to the house." 
    Both brushes, leftover paint, and the cardboard skeleton covered with already-dried glowing finish were dropped into the end garbage cylinder and its lid was forced down by both of our hands. 
    Years later, when I was an English major in college, and noticed the word flammable in a short story, I grinned remembering how naive I was as a very young girl. Even though Carole is now deceased, each Halloween takes me back to my childhood determination to have a glow-in-the-dark skeleton, failure to hang it up, and my innocence with words.

 

published October 1995,  Sunday Western Star
reprinted Nov. 2012 Brighton-Pittsford Post 
reprinted September 2004/ August 2018 Clear Mountain Syn.

​Of Scrabble and wooden chairs

“Ouch”, said my expression, although my lips didn’t utter that word.  A needle had been inserted into grandson Kevin’s vein to accommodate the squishy plastic bag’s flow through a tubing connected to that needle.  I pulled up a hard wooden chair, and uttered “Don’t think I’m going to let you beat me at Scrabble just because you’re hooked up to this thing!”
    He grinned with his mouth; his grin didn’t extend to his eyes.  In those, I saw a bravery he concealed well.  He realized I noticed, but that was one of our silent connections.
    “Okay,” I pushed the narrow tray-table between us, “we’ve 4 hours so it’ll be 4 games of Scrabble.  And I have to play upside down because of you!”
    The tech came by and handed me a cardboard card with the next appointment.  Kevin hadn’t even reached puberty.  The oversized upholstered chair, mimicking real leather, was too large for his frame.  My mind flashed to an unusual restaurant between Philadelphia and Atlantic City, New Jersey I’d been to with my offspring during a visit to that part of the country.  There was a very tall chair and my husband placed Kevin’s dad, then only five year’s old, on top of the step-ladder high seat; the child giggled.
    The infusion center wasn’t a fun restaurant; my thoughts returned to the present time. “Is that a real word Sounds made up just to use those letters!”  The softcover Scrabble dictionary was between Kevin’s seat and armrest.  I pulled it out to challenge him.  It was a valid word.  
    “And you’re the English teacher, Grandma,” he moved his head nodding slightly up and down.  His sense of humor was part of the person and not the patient with this massive dose of anti-inflammatory liquid slipping through veins.    
    His lips were tight against one another tying not to show me discomfort as the treatment ended with the needle being pulled from his tender vein.  Tape, over a cotton ball, covered the spot that would be assaulted again in six weeks, and repeated over and over and over and over. 
    At a prior session, he winced when his vein was missed several times in a row, and the inner arm began to swell rebelling from the tech’s inability to insert the needle correctly.  Still, with only that facial expression I caught (and the pain he endured for days until the swelling subsided) he didn’t cry out or spew words of anger or pity.    
    Blood tests seemed to be needed too often.  I’d take him for those, and planned something for him afterwards; same vein withdrew blood as accepted bags of medicine.  I began to notice his body language, and the way he paced waiting for his turn at the lab; he didn’t show anger, repressed any fear, but allowed me to view how he dealt with such by simply pacing.  Only later did we talk about this. 
    Later was already into years; the flow of the infusion was faster as his body had accepted the medicine so the time was shorter; I was also getting older and uncomfortable in the chair and joked, “You should sit in the little wooden one and trade places so I could have the padded plastic cushions, but you could keep the treatment as your veins are used to being punctured”.  The back of his hand was beginning to be serviced so the vein where the elbow bends could ‘rest’.  
    The larger version of Scrabble took two hours, and that gave us an hour to just talk. Kevin began insisting I rise, stretch, walk around the room once or twice.  He was taking care of me. 
    Middle school, high school, college, profession.  We talked about values and wants that differ from dreams.  I so hoped to see this man have someone to reach out for and whose very presence will make him feel safe, and vice versa, as I have with my husband.  
    The 2020 Pandemic ceased my in-person time but the treatments are ongoing; he telephones to tell me he’s okay.  2021, the Pandemic’s vaccine is similar to the effects of the flu annual shot:  helps with some strains, possibly prevents death, but the flu continues in humans.  But a good outcome of the stay-in-place world was his online correspondence with a local woman who, as it turned out, did her first couple of years of undergraduate school at the same university Kevin had attended.  While they’d never met there, they could talk about the campus with a common knowledge.  It was a beginning.
    Before 2022, he’ll have a day’s role as bridegroom.  My husband and I are quietly joyous.  knowing there is a real hand for bride and groom to hold in good and not-so-good future times. And if the global virus ever gets quiet enough that the infusion center allows other than only patients in, I will be unable to accompany him in person.
    Socrates said ‘you know yourself by watching yourself’.  I learned a lot about myself, from our uninterrupted scheduled time, watching this child grow into manhood because ot a squishy plastic bottle of solution that has kept his chronic condition in remission. I noticed his patience and understanding of what can’t be changed and how he will always deal with that.  He appreciated my respect with his confidential information, and my presence to make the procedure seem to pass a bit faster.
    “Ouch”, I looked at the calendar as I’m almost ready to remove another year. Same word but different association. I said this aloud in my house, and then smiled.

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Nylon was for Parachutes  ​

    "Mom," my daughter spoke into plastic circles that transmitted her voice through phone lines.  "Would you believe those tights you sent your grandaughter got a run?  Uh, huh.  What kind of crummy nylon is used for little girls' tights?" 
    I smiled, although no one could share either that or the memories of hosiery that flooded my mind:  

    The maple dresser drawer didn't slide easily.  I pulled one knob harder than the other to straighten out the drawer's now angled position, than yanked.  A pleasing scent of sachet rushed out.  "At least my clumsy dresser has a delicate smell," I addressed the contents and pulled out a pair of nylon stockings.  "And, at least this stupid war hasn't rationed sachet." 
    I looked up at the small silk flag affixed to a pane of glass on my bedroom window;  it signaled to onlookers that a loved one was overseas fighting in this big World War II.  Even though the war had recently ended, I left the rectangle in place.
    Hooking the cotton eyelet garter belt around my waist, I put my right toes into a stocking and began to move it up my leg.  It caught on a sliver of toenail that wasn't smoothed when I'd blunt-cut it and the stocking developed a run.
    With a long sigh, I muttered, "I should learn to roll the thing down, stick my foot it, then roll it up my leg.  I know I won't, though."  I shrugged my shoulders.  Holding the sheer item in my hand, I orated "To roll, or not to roll, that is the question."
    My mother was passing my room, heard a sort-of quote from "Hamlet", smiled, and finished the famous lines.  Then she suggested, "Wear it anyway, dear.  If someone notices, pretend you just got the run.  You're a good actress.  Next time, wear that runny one on the other leg or even reverse the stocking so the run will be in a different place."
    "I liked your rendition of Shakespeare better than this advice, mother.  Really."  I tossed my head showing irritation;  it was a movement exactly as I had done as a child.
    My mother looked at me, her girl-woman daughter:   pink satin bra with pink satin straps, the cotton eyelet wide part of the garter belt peeking through nylon underpants trimmed with lace, garters hanging helplessly against young and firm thighs.  Pale polish covered the exposed toes.
    I held the shaped stocking up deciding whether to throw it out or do what my mother suggested.
    "How could parachutes have been made out of these things!  Impossible.  I'd hate to drop out of a plane and have my life depend on such a flimsy piece of material."  I was irritated as I hadn't yet decided what to do with the hose.
    "Think before you speak," my mother whispered to herself, but I could make out her words.  "Don't tell her you wouldn't want her to drop out of a plane under any circumstances.  And don't give her a lecture on chemistry and how nylon is made."  Out loud, she spoke, "Lois, remember your heavy silk stockings before nylon came out?"
    I started to laugh and was embarrassed that I caught her 'private' musing.  She'd once told me that people in Europe sold themselves for a box of chocolate and sheer nylon hose;  I simply felt very dressed up in just anything that wasn't a cotton anklet.
    "Remember when daddy brought me a pair of nylons?  We held them up.  I even put on a glove to run my hand through so nothing would snag them.  Luxury.  Strong enough to save someone jumping from a plane.  Light enough for the possible jumper to carry on his back.  Sheer enough to see light through.  Man-made.  Silk was ordinary."
    "And made from worms," I quipped but really had caught my mother's words.
    "No more war.  Nylon is available and coming down in price.  You could get extra wear out of your hose, also, if you trimmed your nails then buffed away raw edges."  My mother moved to me, kissed the straight and thin strands of hair, then turned to leave.  She knew that whatever I decided to do couldn't be done in front of an authority figure, for to don the hose would be following advice and few teens want to show that, but she also knew that I understood about money and waste.
    "See you."  My voice called but my hand was still holding up the stocking.  The non-sheer welt was thick in diameter so garters could grab but not tear.  I made a face at the hose, angry with it for now having a blemish.  Then, run and all, put my foot into it and pulled it up my leg.

    "Too bad tights aren't able to be worn inside out," I answered my daughter, knowing that five year old girls don't care if hose-runs change sides so it appears they've ruined two separate pairs.  Then continued, "I'll find another brand and send out another Grandma-package."
    "Wish you could find washable silk, Mom.  Think stockings will ever be made of that?"


©1996 Robin's Nest Pometaphysics Publishing
reprinted: April 2015    Clear Mt. Syndicate

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Of tiny nails and large memories ​

“Thumb tack,” I noted, “not thumb drive.”  Any word-association game that gave the word ‘thumb’ first would be followed by ‘drive’ for the portable flash inserted into a computer’s slot as a back-up for data or photos.

“Know what a push-pin is?”  I questioned, then seeing a nod.  “Before push-pins on bulletin boards, thumb tacks were used.  They were flat, came in colors, much shorter metal insertion point.”

Memory brought to the surface uses and people-connections associated with the tiny object.
Pre-teen, my parents gave me a wood dressing-table putting a triple mirror on top.  The sturdy legs didn’t fit with the yellow roses on the wallpaper, so my mother took sheer material, lined it with white sheet cotton, and sewed a skirt for the table.  Sliding several thumb tacks under the lining, so none would show, she pushed the points and they held the fabric perfectly in place.  The pretty gathers at the top gave the skirt a graceful look as it billowed slightly before reaching the floor.

I’d embroidered tablecloths, napkins, pillow covers, and such with cross-stitch strokes and wanted to learn needlepoint.  I’d been sitting on the piano-bench seat covered with my mother’s needlepoint wool and wanted to learn the technique.  She got me yarn, and canvas and taught me the method.  The rectangle was finished and misshapen from my handwork, and I learned, from her, how to block it.  We took the Long Island Railroad from our house in the North Shore of Long Island into the city, went to Macy’s on 34th Street, and she found an oak footstool with decorative curved legs.  We carried it home; she removed the top of the stool where screws had affixed the manufacturer’s material, and put my handwork in place.  With thumb tacks, she secured the undersides of my needlepoint to the wood piece, then put the top back into the footstool’s frame, and re-screwed it securely.

People collect items from travel as possible reminders of time and place; my older son did such with felt banners especially from sporting events.  Almost one wall of his bedroom had closets with sliding all-wood doors, and, with thumb tacks, each pennant was displayed. Guests would criticize: didn’t I realize I was ruining the closet doors, scarring the wood, affecting the surface forever.  Forever seemed like a strange word when growing years are so short. Pieces of his life were there in color and texture, and each helped make his room ‘his’.  After he married, I removed each, touched the tiny holes where every indent had been important to him, then had the doors sanded and stained.  Why did people have to voice negative opinions as there were years of pleasure, and so easily erased with sandpaper when the tangible was no longer important! Thumb tacks were flat and the sliding doors were free to move. The fancy push-pins today would not have allowed that as the pin itself projects too much.

My mother showed me how to take wire to frame a picture, and secure, with thumb tacks, the flexible metal to the back of the wood, then hang the picture.  Amazing.  So much easier than my struggle to screw the wire-holders in place as they were so very tiny and hard to even hold with my fingers.  When I stretched my own art canvas before doing an oil painting, and ran out of staples generally used to affix the canvas to the wooden stretchers, she pulled out her box of thumb tacks and fixed the problem.

My parents’ philosophy and practice that people-not-things-were-important caused me to disregard the judgmental guests who thought I was defacing my property by allowing the sports’ banners on a closet, and my mother’s knack of solving problems with at-hand items I passed to my daughter. 

The small portable external drive for my computer is my ‘flash’; the word ‘thumb’ is still connected to ‘tack’.


©2018 The Jewish Press
reprinted Dec. 2019 Clear Mountain Syndicate

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