​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.

"What a great July 4th day."  I squeezed my father's hand hardly aware of the moisture coming from his skin.  "Soon I will be teenage!  And no more ration books because of a stupid war:  1946 is swell."
            "Glad, honey."  My dad looked uneasy.
            "Why are you nervous, Daddy?"  I questioned.
            Propellor blades rotated quickly and the airplane climbed higher.  I wasn't aware that this was the first airplane for commercial use since World War II ended, and that the cabin was not pressurized.
            My father clutched the armrest and forced a smile.
            "Look, Daddy!"  I poked him.  "We're going on top of the clouds."  I pushed my face against the tiny window and tried to see La Guardia Airport and familiar Flushing Bay below.  "This is a dream.  Cotton balls.  Clouds look like cotton balls."
            "More like whipped cream,"  My father commented as clouds peaked and seemed suspended.  Blue was above, but next to and below was only white to gray fluff. 
            "My ears still hurt."
            "Chew the chicklets, Lois."
            "They still hurt.  But I love this," I said with wonder.  "But you don't seem to like it."
            "I like it, but it's a little scary.  Clouds seem thick, dense, like bumping into any will be like hitting a hard object.  I didn't grow up with airplanes, honey, but am happy that you are."  He looked in the seat pocket to be sure the motion-sickness bag was available in case he got sick to his stomach.  The pressure in his head couldn't be relieved by chewing.  He definitely liked trains better.
            "Remember how long it took us by train, Daddy?"
            "Hm."
            "Stop joking."
            "Four hours to Washington, DC.  And we ate in the dining car and looked at beautiful fields pass before the big windows.  The coffee came in silvery pitchers, and all the tables had starched white linen cloths.  But this is the future, and you should feel comfortable with it."
            I had the feeling that my father really wished he was going from New York to Washington by Pullman and spending four hours hearing metal wheels pass over metal tracks.
            "But we'll save hours this way and..." I looked back in the tiny aisle and saw a hostess serving lunch.  I stood up and the seat cushion's scratchy fabric brushed coarsely against my legs. "It's half a sandwich and fruit.  Isn't that swell?"
            "Uh, huh."  My father glanced backwards.    I didn't know then that the clouds under the plane as far out and down as he could see made him queasy, or that it felt, to him, unnatural.  I didn't realize that he was frightened, or heavier than air machines were unheard of when he was a boy.  I didn't understand that he'd only had a car since 1938 and he thought that was amazing.  And he got Mom a machine that washed clothes automatically in 1939.  I never knew what it was before cars or washers. 
            "Look what Mom's missing!"  The stewardess handed me the small lunch.  "Why'd she take the train?"
            Popping relieved pressure for an instant, then my dad's ears clogged again.  "No, thanks," he refused the food being offered. 
            I didn't know then that he was protecting me from the concept that life is fragile, precious, filled with accident and also pain.  As a pre-teen, I thought I was immortal and guaranteed to be free from harm.  He camouflaged emotions that might have exposed that he was frightened about crashing, or upset about traveling in an upside-down situation where overhead sky was below, or in pain from almost unbearable pressure in his ears.  He and Mom had silently decided a father must present a strong and fearless image as a role-model.
            Dad answered, "She'd had a cold, remember?"
            "Uh, huh," I bit into the soft bread with a slice of turkey between it.  The action of my jaw caused an intense pop in my ears.
            "Well, the doctor told her she couldn't fly after a head cold."  My father tried to sound convincing.
            "But she had a mustard plaster so I thought it was her chest not head."  I brushed a bread crumb from my lap to the floor.
            "She didn't want you to miss this."  My dad leaned toward me.  "We'll see her later with your sisters at the hotel."
            "Oh isn't life something."  I strained and looked at the plane's wing.  "Oh.  There's a patch of ground.  Look.  Look.  I'm going to do this forever.  Trains are boring and take too long.  This is..." I grabbed my father's arm.  "See the ground?  There."
            My dad showed pleasure with my enthusiasm.
            I didn't know that having clouds under him was like his childhood image of heaven, and heaven had to do with death.  He covered his fear as much as he could;  he never said that one day I'd probably feel as he did about something and he hoped I'd give my own children freedom to believe in an eternal safe future.
            "Nothing will ever be as swell.  Wish Mom didn't have to miss this.  Daddy.  We're going down.  Back to earth.  We're like birds."  The stewardess removed the lunch tray.  She brought another packet of two teeth-shaped, white-coated pieces of chewing gum.
            I thought he was whistling very, very quietly.  I didn't hear his prayer to let us get down safely, and take care of his loved ones.  And it never crossed my mind that the family intentionally split up for travel;  in case of an accident, the whole family wouldn't be wiped out.
            Aloud he said, "Chew.  It'll help your ears.  Flying is your future.  Life is incredible.  We people can be birds."
            "And," I quipped, "some people have bird-brains."  I began to hum, then pressed my nose into the window watching earth come up.
            There was never an opportunity to thank my parents for the gift of innocence and adventure;  my father died before I was fully grown.  I live 400 miles from Flushing Bay, yet I can never fly into La Guardia without thinking about that first flight, and, with amazement, that it happened so many decades ago.
            My youngest decided he'd try skydiving.  How could I shake my uneasiness about his attempting to become a bird?  Suppose his harness fails, his arms tire, he heads into a mountain?  Suppose ...  a bird...why can't he take a plane!
            I suddenly remembered my special air trip in an unpressurized cabin sitting beside my father.  I imitated my dad, pretended not to worry, silently prayed, and aloud expressed "Life is incredible."
 
 
Published 1999 Rochester Shorts
reprinted: 2003   Heroes from Hackland

​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.

Rush week. Rush, to me, once was the caning of seats in a trolley car. Rush meant in-a-hurry. As an undergrad, it concerned sororities.
 
That time span, that was later defined as the "Happy Days" generation, was post-World War II and the then-ongoing Korean War. It was commonplace to “rush” as these organizations would allow members to be with other girls of the same religion and present an opportunity to mingle with fraternity males also of the same denomination. 
 
I attended the party of the two possible places that I could join, and found the first friendly, but full of forced-smiles and a promotional atmosphere that spoke of why it was better than its competitor. I then went to the next and the members seemed to come from a cookie-cutter which had replicated one individual as they were a blurred group of co-eds with the same hairstyle, pleated skirts that appeared to be an unofficial uniform, and facial makeup to cover post-adolescent acne. Then I was quite literally told that if I pledged, I was not to then, nor ever, date men who were not in its brother fraternity.
 
With never any more make up than a pale pink lipstick and straight natural blonde hair that required me sleeping in metal rollers (before hair dryers or curling irons) but was never sprayed or “perfect,” my preferring wind to blow it and rain to moisten it, the second place was no option. My philosophy was inclusion; sororities seemed to say exclusion.
 
I did not sign up to potentially be considered a member of either. On the day the “results” came out, there were girls in my dorm literally sobbing about rejection. What was wrong about an acceptance that didn’t come? It wasn’t about the individual, but the distraught dorm-mates could not see that. We, in the dorm, were mixed religions and races; we were fine together. Yet the word “sorority” seemed to be very important to many.
 
At a dorm meeting, I proposed that we initiate our own non-sectarian, interracial unit, and ask the school to support our idea and give us housing.  Such a concept had never been realized. The university approved. We also agreed that there would be no pledging, no excluding someone by a negative vote (then called the blackball system), and any female who agreed to live with kindness and consideration with women of any religion and race would be a member; that she must agree upon before moving into the dorm. Since we couldn’t fill the space for 66 co-eds, the university housed independent women with us and many became members and wore the sorority pin. Others who were uncomfortable with our premise, say being given a roommate of a different skin color for example, moved out as soon as was possible.
 
I hand-typed individual letters to colleges and universities across the nation; there were no computers or printers or any duplication machines except for mimeographs. I proclaimed our values with the key strokes on a Remington Rand typewriter, before electric typewriters made touching keys easier, and I naively believed this group would become a recognized national organization. I received letters from southern schools that were hateful. At my northern New England university, I had no idea that the South at that time differed regarding religious or racial tolerance. This was before integration. Other mail came back to me with "no" and statements about how the idea was quite awful, and those words surprised me from northern and mid-western places.   
 
My grandfather, a photographer who photographed U.S. Presidents from Taft through Truman, gave me an idea to telephone Eleanor Roosevelt, whom he personally knew, and she allowed my grandfather to give me her personal home phone number. I called her in New York and explained my frustration with “society,” and said maybe if she could take the train to Connecticut and meet us and speak, it might acknowledge why our concept was important. She agreed; I bought her a corsage of her favorite flower, a camellia.  There were no bodyguards when she got off the train, and she ate in our dorm’s dining room, accepted an honorary pin, and I so expected society would suddenly change.
 
Of course it didn’t. But Mrs. Roosevelt gave us reason to continue with our rebellious-for-the-time sorority house fully integrated in race and religion and we girls became adult women accepting others for their personalities and outlook—not what pews they sat in or whether their skin tones matched. Of course we all didn’t get along like some big friendship circle; we were people first, and our likes and dislikes were based on personality clashes or petty jealousies or such, but never on racial or religious differences.
 
Rush week still happens. And girls will slump in hallways looking at rejection slips and still sob and feel despair. “Sisters” can blackball a potential pledge, and dictate to an initiate. Despite that, there are now dorms of both men and women in the same building, curfews don’t exist anymore, dress codes are obsolete, and fraternal organizations are no longer specifically for one religion—at least on paper, as far as I know.
 
We have improved. Eleanor Roosevelt would be pleased with the 21st century’s advancements in technology and humanity. The South began integrating its schools in 1957. In 2008, the country elected a black President who held office for eight years. Our country has gone through numerous progressive movements since the 50s, and society has changed views and legislation for same-sex marriages, transgender bathrooms, and so forth. We are better than the "Happy Days" generation.
 
I see society the way I see the change in postage stamps. We no longer have to endure the bitter taste of a postage stamp to affix to an envelope but merely press it and it adheres with ease, and the stamps are forever so a rate raise doesn’t mean extra postage to use. We all make a difference and don’t need a bitter taste of life left in our mouths to try and make something stick; with a direct, simple yet solid effort, the newly affixed stamp of belief or support can stay in place, delivering us into new territory. While none of us can live forever, I want my time to still be helping shape values that will endure.
©2017 The Write Place at the Write Time
 

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.

“How can you still love your father?”  At first, I wanted to respond with something clever after hearing the totally stupid sentence coming from another woman.  Why is time a factor in how long love continues?  But I chose to not answer.
            My mother took my childhood bruises and treated them so infection might not set in; my father kissed away the pain.  My mother washed my thin blonde hair and combed out the snarls; my father told me how it glistened golden in the sun.  My mother hand-sewed pretty dresses she also designed; my father captured moments with a camera that was always ready to take a fleeting instant and make it permanent.  When I was ill, they took turns staying all night at my bedside; I was too young to wonder how my dad managed to go to work the next day or my mother got my sisters ready for school.
            Early adolescence, I hand knit a pair of bold-color plaid socks for my dad.  His work suits were beautifully tailored, his socks held in place with garters, and trousers held up with suspenders, as was the fashion then.  His felt hat with wide grosgrain ribbon complimented his outfit.  Weekend clothes had him in a plaid felt hat, and slacks with a belt.  I assumed he’d wear my shocking socks then.  Instead, he put them on, smiled and his dimples winked, looked at me with his powder blue eyes, and nodded his head.  He went to work in them, and probably allowed others on the Long Island Railroad to notice what his daughter had knit with her own hands.
            In taxis, returning home from Broadway musical shows, there were two ‘jump-seats’ that pulled down and passengers using those rode backwards.  He didn’t like riding backwards but he and my mom took those seats so their three daughters could ride on the cushioned regular bench-seat.  I never said ‘thank you’ as my comfort was always considered, and, as a child, didn’t the world revolve around me?
            We explored the farmland of Long Island, the quiet streams in the Pocono Mountains, sat outdoors on a summer night listening to opera at Randall’s Island, planted Victory Gardens in our backyard, stood around the piano each night singing as my mother played, danced in the living room to the individual recordings where the turntable was concealed inside a pretty cabinet, and marveled at the tiny new wonder of television in the late 1940's.  He put a ballet barre in the basement when I took that dance class, erected a real theatre curtain down there when I began to write and perform skits for the family, presented me with a wooden case of oil paints and sable brushes when I wanted to paint, gave me a funny note and money to spend on my dream figure ice skates, and gave me a different independence with my balloon tired/ no speed bicycle.
            My mother listened, lectured, advised me when age twelve was becoming thirteen; she was never too tired or busy for me.  My father read philosophy to me, brought my mother flowers, constantly told her how much he loved and valued her, showed us that our family was a gift given to him.  He had character and personality that I eventually wanted in a mate and the kind of father I wanted one-day for my own children.
            He felt one’s speaking voice should be free from any specific inflections and bought a fat-reeled tape recorder.  When I was preparing a speech in early high school, I spoke into the machine and could clearly hear that I needed to drop my pitch as a microphone seemed to make it higher.  He also used that recorder when he was taking 16mm home movies so we’d have some sound of what he was filming; he told us one day there’d be a device to capture both sound and movement for home use.
            He took me to summer camp in the Berkshire Mountains when, one season, I started after the session had begun.  I never even thought about his long ride back, with his left arm getting sunburned from having it against the open window.  He drove me to another state and even unloaded all my possessions when I left for college; I never thought that he might not have been fit enough to climb the 5 flights of stairs constantly in the no-elevator building; I lived on the 4th floor but all the trunks had to be brought to the basement and unloaded by hand there.  He went up and down, and I simply put items away at the same time.  I was 17 and life was an adventure with loving parents just continuing to do what they’d always done making me feel important and safe and happy.
            How can I still love my father who has been dead all of my adult life?  Why would that loving expire just because life ceased for him?  As a grown-up, I realize that he missed living, seeing his children grow, aging with my mother who never even looked at another man for the rest of her life, sharing in the wonders of technology, holding grandchildren in his arms, exposing his family to the wonders he felt constantly surrounded us.  I’ve learned, with age, that I am not the center of the universe but so appreciated that, for a period of time, I was. 
            I miss him still.  When a magnolia tree blooms, I remember the one he and my mother planted in 1941 when it was a twig, and the pleasure he had watching it get larger.  When I see works of philosophers, I remember his appreciation for words.  If a scent of lavender passes my nose, I recall his after-shave aroma, just as I can still see the mug of foam and sable brush used to lather the shaving cream on his face.  I like myself, value my family, appreciate my intelligence, enjoy my abilities at sports or art or writing or music, for examples, and these came about because of my parents.  Why would time stop feelings?
 
©2006 The Jewish Press