THROUGH THE WINDOWS OF A PONTIAC ~ Things Were Different Then by Sarvananda Bluestone

The old Pontiac got us around all over, Ma and me. It was Bessie, a third member of the family when Ma and I were on the road. Bessie had a ribbed metal stripe down her hood that ended with a small silver bust of Chief Pontiac. He protected us, too. We were on the road a lot during the War. Ma’s right arm was my safety belt and I never had to worry when she was driving. Never.

Seemed like there were no men around then. Daddy and Ma’s brother Siddy were all off to fight the War. But that doctor who set my broken ankle when I ran into the curb—he was still around. I tried to talk to him while it was hurting so. He was busy talking to the pretty nurse. Ma really lit into him and told him that Daddy was a doctor fighting a war and that he could at least pay attention to a hurting little boy. I felt much better then even with a broken ankle.

Was it only four years? It seemed like forever. I was two when Daddy went away. I was six when he came back.

Bessie had a broken horn. Every time she would go over a bump she would beep. Ma had taken a course on fixing cars. She knew everything about cars. But she couldn’t get a part to fix Bessie’s horn since it was the War. So Ma tried to keep away from bumps and would smile her “I’m sorry” smile at the angry faced men who turned around in their seats when we did go over a bump. When they saw Ma they didn’t look angry any more. People said she was very pretty like a movie star. But she was my mom.

When the war stopped everybody was beeping their horns. We didn’t have to worry about bumps any more.

We traveled all over before Daddy came home. We traveled to Mary Land to visit a friend of Ma, named Jamie, who worked for a super court judge named Stone. I liked that since my name was a stone, too.

Ma called Mary Land the “South”. She told me that while were there in “The South” I couldn’t sing “John Brown’s Body.” She was real serious about that. “John Brown’s Body” was my favorite song then. I didn’t understand. Why couldn’t I sing a song.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to sing around court things. Maybe it was like that time when Ma had to pay for a ticket in a traffic court. There were millions of people there. Then a man came out and everybody stood up. So I started to sing the “Star Spangled Banner.” Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do when everybody stood up?

Everybody started laughing. All the people started laughing. Even Ma. But the man who had made everybody stand up got real angry and red in the face and started yelling at people. And everybody got quiet. I don’t know why they were laughing or why he got mad. I was singing and people were laughing. Why did he get mad? I thought he was mad at me and Ma put her arm around me. Nobody else was mad at me. I guess you weren’t supposed to sing or laugh in court things.

Ma didn’t sing much in the car. We talked a lot. About everything. I think that during the War I saw the side of Ma’s face more than I saw the front of it. Seems like that.

It all changed when Daddy came back. He did most of the driving. And when it was just me and him we would sing a lot. I loved singing with Daddy. “I’ve Got Sixpence.” “Someone’s in the Kitchen With Dinah.” Fee Fie fiddly oh it was so much fun. I didn’t have to think of what to say. We just sang. It was harder to talk to Daddy than to sing with him. When we talked I worried that I would say the wrong thing. I never worried about that with Ma.

The cars changed. Ma got a beat up old Ford and Daddy got a brand new green Desoto with hydromatic drive. It really looked fancy but in winter it would get stuck at the bottom of our hill and Ma would have to go down with her old Ford and push Daddy’s car up.

Wherever we drove—Ma and I or Daddy and I or Ma and Daddy. and I—it would take forever. When we went from Yorktown Heights to Grandma and Grandpa in the Bronx it took forever. And then we were there. When we drove from Yorktown to Brewster to visit Daddy’s best friend, Bob Elliot and his family, it took forever. And then we were there. And Daddy would talk doctor talk with Bob and I would play with Janie and Jonny Elliot..

The roads seemed longer then and the endless trips seemed to go both slow and fast. In all those years the whole world seemed to go racing in front of me as it zipped past the windows of our cars.

I WANT TO STAY: I WANT TO GO by F. Marcya Edison

I want to stay….I feel sexy (my daddy liked sexy)….

We merge, we melt, we fuse, we sex…. not inhibited by familiarity, not complicated or diffused by a knowing of personalities…I love when you talk dirty…you take me higher….we role play, we have fairy tale sex, not roommate sex, as Bill and I would have all those years later…

I want to stay… you’re so beautiful to look at, with your thick Scottish brows and dark wavy hair that caresses the strong musculature at the nape of your neck...
I get lost in your voice – the deep timbre, the North England accent and cadence… I never liked my name, except when you say it….those few times that you say it…

I want to stay…for the excitement, the charge, the anticipation, the eerie psychic bonding, the ecstatic realization—sometimes after many months-- of my obsessive longings…

I want to stay….to wade in the bitter-sweet aching hunger for something I can never truly have or really know. You are a spiritual exercise for me…..


I want to go…from the masochism, the emotional sadism, the chronic yearning, the degradation, the piercing sadness, the ultimate loneliness in the prolonged down time/dead time without you…the emptiness of nothing in the absence of something.

I want to go…from the pain, the ache in the heart, the suffering, the sly elusiveness, the arguably cruel manipulation ….the promise of so much and the delivery of so little.

I want to go….from the consuming frustration…and then… again…
a crumb, tossed by you – I gorge on it for a fleeting eternity…..And, so, the cycle repeats…(I am unable to move on; to seek love , affection, nurture, to be cared for…to feel normal.)

I want to go…let me go, let me loose, unclutch me – no, Don’t, I want to stay – it’s enough – no, it’s not, it’s not enough – I want more – I deserve more - I want to go; I want to stay…

THE RIDGES by Billy Herman

Ridges stand above the highway on either side heading down to the lake basin, and for the first time ever I take them in stride. They don’t dwarf me. That’s not what I am – a humorous little dwarf. I am bright. As bright as her at least.

The people who live in the houses up in the ridges don’t lead lives any more mystical than mine. And for the first time I realize they don’t.

Alyssa has her arm wrapped around my waist and I am showing her a children’s book I wrote just for her. But as much as she is getting it, she’s still not getting it. And how long does it take to see that love is one thing and sex is another? And you can’t have one without the other. And the ridges high as they are, and come on they’re not the Rockies where I’ve been, nor the Himalayas. They’re not the fucking Himalayas. Justified rage. The story is about you and me but you’ll never get it. I can’t admit I’ll never get to the Himalayas, or Uganda where she told me she took rolls and rolls of photographs. The story is about you and me. I simply love you like the donut loves the blueberry.

I stop the car on the right side of the white line and ceremoniously eat a blueberry donut and wash it down with a cup of coffee, and declare victory over the ridges. You’re not that high that I couldn’t just walk up there in a short time. And the people who live in the special houses – most of them are pretty boring because most people are pretty boring no matter where they dwell. But I always found you to be very exciting, even as you tell me I am some kind of humorous dwarf.

I’m destroying a house on the ridge. I am smashing it up like a vandal. I am so angry that you don’t love me and you never will.

Here we are where you came from. Mystic Connecticut with its wealth and ocean breezes. I’m in a manicured bookstore, and am thrilled at the new paperback editions of the James Bond series by Ian Fleming. The covers are fantastic with a beautiful sexy half clad woman on each one. A dozen or so fairy tales he wrote while he was drunk to impress who? There’s a lot of money being thrown around. I just gave up that lifestyle of getting a little drunk and flirting with the cover girl. All kinds of adventures. The pristine blue tide. The heights.

Your arm is not around my waist anymore. I am a man alone on the side of the highway. I wish I didn’t care where you were but I do.

The great adviser has said that there is no you and me. Is it past the time in history where a slightly stoned man can write a few solid fairy tales and get on the map?

After the ridges comes the descent into the lake basin. Where the hell are you inside? The old super-successful martini guzzler got all that fame and success and then he just died.

Alyssa came out of the pristine blue waves and ocean breezes. The cruelest and meanest person I will ever meet. I’ve taken a shower and put on my best clothes. I have decided to do something else with my life that’s not controlled by terror.

A PLACE TO DISAPPEAR by Mel Rosenthal

For many years, I’ve had daydreams of a place where I could simply enjoy life and the world around me completely free of all commitments, tasks, or obligations, even, or perhaps most of all, those tasks or commitments I’ve assumed freely and voluntarily, out of active interest and desire, such as the very writing workshop in which this present piece was first conceived. Obviously, I wouldn’t have been in the eminent and distinguished company of the fellow writers with whom I shared it if I hadn’t wanted to be. And yet, at the same time, such freely chosen activities tend inevitably and against my will to take on the character of duties externally imposed, and thus become bothersome and resented.

So it was, for example, that early that afternoon, as I walked through lovely green surroundings to the post office of semi-rural Willow where I live, I was equally conscious of my pleasure in those surroundings and of finding that pleasure diluted by thoughts about having to complete this piece, not to mention other worries and concerns. And so, by no means for the first time, I experienced a futile yearning for a pure and unmixed — a magical — joy.

I’ve sometimes toyed with the idea of disappearing for an extended period, six months, say, or perhaps even a year. Not physically — I’d still be based geographically in the same white clapboard, shingle-roofed cottage I now occupy, in its setting of tall trees, rather ragtag front lawn, and the shallow brook along the eastern side of the property that heavy downpours occasionally transform into a small, swiftly flowing river. The disappearance would be, rather, from the sphere of social involvement and obligation, a social vanishing that would leave me free to wholeheartedly enjoy the natural world, striding through the magic of a sun-blazed afternoon or a moonlit night.

THE HAIR CUT by M. Maines

I have been feeling overwhelmingly happy lately. At eight a.m. on Saturday, after a run, I felt a rush of zestfulness which had been absent in previous weeks. When excitedly debating if I should plant the marigolds first, or perhaps plot the herb garden, but either way, I’ll wear that pretty new dress, I treasured the sensation as a testimony that things are going well.

Within the impulsive sequence of fulfilling my desires, I chose to cut my hair. I biked up to Washington St to get the style I had been lusting of for weeks. A man that hated the cold sculpted my black mane quickly, and with confidence. It was an asymmetrical shape, short on one side, long on the other. There is a small gradient of bangs off to the left. I left feeling beautiful. A man was standing on the corner. He says, “Couldn’t ask for better weather.” I thought he was flattering me.

My friend Torin, who is the most talented within my circle of friends, had the same cut several months before. On her, it looked good, coy, established her as a force to be reckoned with. I like the look on me because it is whimsical and playful. I like it because I am doing something that I want. I also know, immediately, that a line has been drawn in the sand, for my boss will not like it.

That night, in front of the mirror on my dresser, I consider chopping off the long and pretty pieces. I practice posturing my hair just so, hoping that if I kept my head still, she wouldn’t even notice. The easiest thing would be to find the scissors now, but the action seems too sorrowful.

When I entered the building on Monday morning, I see my employer’s eyes registering me; her lips are still. Her position is clear. The mothers took a few days to respond. Julie, who is always wearing tennis shoes and glasses, said it looked like someone forgot to finish the cut, but the one side looked cute. Carry, the most emotional of the moms, said it looked youthful. Teresa, who is moody and formal, said it looked interesting after requesting that I move my head from side to side.

I’ve become insecure. I ask Maddie, a four year old, if it looks funny or if she likes it. Maddie, who is horrified by mistakes, says I should grow it out long because it looks very funny. I’ve been ducking over the children’s waist high mirrors, checking out my own black stripe. When I look at myself, though, I only see something that seems sweet, sensual, perfect to me. I’ll just indulge for this week, I argue to myself.

These young children are saddled with norms in a way that frightens me. I work at a pre-school. There, they all know that long hair is more socially desirable. Iris, who is sly and playful, draws herself with long rapunzel hair, and tells other people she will have long hair again soon.

I can’t imagine myself with long hair, for my hair becomes a wild stallion, a beast, and inside its cage of tangled locks, I am constantly frustrated. It is odd to me how hair becomes this site of female status positioning. I think of the younger populations I know, my social groups at the potlucks, who can acknowledge that this hair cut is relevant, rite of permission and acceptance, but of how limited that acceptance, how finite. My fickleness irritates me. I dislike this weakness of whispering questions to these small humans, of trying to comfort myself.

When I am at home, eating a Popsicle on a hot day at our new kitchen table, I start to think that they are probably correct, my hair cut is unprofessional, or worse, unattractive. But, at this point, the mildly aggressive boundary setting feels like a challenge. I have always considered myself a radical because I like the exhilaration of going against the grain. When my sister had cancer, my mother cut her long silken black locks into a something crude, something short. When my mother died, I wanted to shave my head as a sign of unity, but my father wouldn’t allow it. I could have used my own hand to buzz the strands, but perhaps I’ve always been the sort who paid too much attention to the rules.

THE CZECHS by Alice Jaffee

When I think of the essence of Czech culture, this song comes to mind: “Aproc Bychom Se Netesili.” It’s from Smetana’s “The Bartered Bride.” Full of optimism, joy, playfulness and always a hint of sex in this quite humorous opera.

So I wanted to tell you how I first came, yes, to hate it. I mean the whole opera. It was a weekday. Oh, yes, back when I was ten or so. I heard that we are going to the movies, to the big “Imperato Cinema,” to see a film of “The Bartered Bride.” The enterprising proprietor greeted us royally, counted the eight heads of the Bondy family, then the friends of ours who were always welcome to come -- Max Brettschneider, always, Hilda Eckstein, Erika Grohman and others. Cheaper by the dozen, so to speak. He usually came up with a reasonable price and put us into one of the front rows.

I had made up my mind I was going to sleep this one out. I was tired from extra gym activity. Just so tired. Alas, this one was much too noisy for my plan. Every time I could catch a little snooze – boing! Another loud, loud aria. Mingled with this malaise was the piano teacher’s verdict that I was tone deaf and could not be considered to become a student. To hell with all that classical music. I did like the “Schlaggers,” the popular hits like “Schon ist die Liebe in Haffen” and other schmaltz.

Many, many years later, in Woodstock, in fact, I woke up one morning and decided to listen to Smetana’s opera with unbiased ears. (It would be interesting to know what brought it on.) No one owned a copy of it – so, I went out to order one. It took weeks before it arrived. I loved it, loved it, loved it! – And this aforementioned song (aria) is now almost a mantra of mine. It translates “Why shouldn’t we be happy, since God granted us health!” The right to be happy, joyful, despite adversities, ours or others’. The Czechs really were that way.

One of my father’s tenants in the four-story building we lived in – a family – was a totally Czech family. The man never spoke German. His name was Suchy – which translates simply as “dry.” Dry he was, almost sour in temperament. He was a tax collector to boot!

Mrs. Suchova, on the other hand, made up mightily for all his shortcomings in social graces. In her presence one felt joyful. Her beautiful lips always about to break into a smile, her shiny black hair -- I remember it so well – was pinned back softly over the ears and the bright rhinestone barrettes met in the middle of the back of her head. Her bella donna eyes twinkled at you amid the milk-white skin of her face. She just seemed to enjoy the sexual innuendos that came her way. They surely had a contrasting balancing act. A playful and lusty pat on her backside was enough of a signal to exit.

Before I let them recede into my memory bank, I want to recall the great cleanliness and warmth of their home and the love she had for their son, Prender, who also never learned German. Paradoxically, my kid brother, Ruben, and Prender went to Czech school together. At this time it was deemed better to avoid German schools. Ruben spoke Czech to him.

Some of my favorite people were the peddlers. They would come after the workers left around 6pm. They would come by appointment. Some three or four of them. Buying men’s and women’s socks, women’s silk and wool stockings, men’s elegant white-on-white shawls made of rayon (“baum wolle”). The men just spoke Czech during the great exchange of energy – gusto and goods. My father, Sam Bondy, as all Czech Jews, spoke a condescending Czech – a noblesse oblige gesture. I don’t know if Pappa was aware of it.

When I saw them coming I quickly ensconced myself in a corner of the second floor at the big oak table where the show was about to begin. My mother appeared with the best Meinl coffee, her delectable pastries generously heaped. The precious gold-rimmed china already in place, the ones reserved for fine company. Nobody told me to leave. I endured all the off-color jokes and boasting about sexual conquests in the countryside while selling their wares. I liked the sparkle in their eyes and their joy of being royalty for the day. They praised Pappa to each other: “Faynovy clovek,” “What a refined man.”

Deep down Sam Bondy actually identified with them. Pappa was born into great poverty in the poorest of the poor neighborhoods on the southside of Chicago’s stockyards. His mother of noble Kohn birth in desperation sent her undernourished older son to Catholic parochial school solely because of the hot lunches – mama mia! He liked mingling with working people. He rose above them. His was an Horatio Alger story.

I liked when the peddler clients had made their purchases. They would finally turn to me and say something like, “Little girl, when you grow up and get married, don’t skimp on food. Skimp on other things, but eat healthy. Promise.” They said it to me in broken German. I must say I kept that promise.

Both my mother and father were skilled salespeople. Pappa had this ability I sometimes see on the Home Shopping Network where you can be seduced into feeling privileged to part with your money so gratefully for the honor of being the potential owner of this remarkable “gem” they are so lovingly stroking.

When the colorful men left they had tears in their eyes out of gratitude. Magic, n’est ce pas?

Another Czech personality I fondly remember – alas, her name I no longer remember – was our Czech teacher at school. She was so typically Czech. Darkish blond hair, blue eyes, robust health. She had this ambition to instill in us Germans a love for this Slavic language. There was this play (I think she had authored it) about the circus. She wore eccentric, theatrical skirts and blouses, definitely a thespian, a real Bohemian. I loved her. I remember all those talking circus animals and then there was Ferdinande and Jacobe – hopelessly in love with the same girl. She just could not reach those German schildren. They, alas, felt strangely aloof, subconsciously superior. Well, “You’ve got to be carefully taught.”

The play never came to be performed, but I had learned my part of the talking horse diligently. I very much suspect she never got much support from the school principal who regarded the Czechs an inferior minority. What an incredible chutzpah that was! Here was this newly established country – democratic to a fault. This Sudeten region was unfortunately a stronghold of a close Hitler ally named Conrad Henlein who delivered the Sudeten Germans to Hitler. Chamberlain’s shortsightedness made the rape possible. German culture was so entrenched. From the Austro-Hungarian empire – Yisgadal veyisgadash.

Deep down I must have identified with the injustice vis a vis the Czechs who were not treated as equals, as I was not by my family.

The saving grace is that the precious city of Prague with all its splendor was saved from destruction. American youths go there now to luxuriate in the coffee houses and find themselves in this sunny land of splendid democracy – Pravda Vitezi – the truth wins.

A CHANGE IN PERSPECTIVE by Bennett Neiman

I’ve always been a very friendly, exuberant, positive person. Usually, when I am thrown into a group situation, I am the cheerleader or the MC or some other not-so-invisible role. At various times in my life, I have attempted to tone myself down and be less visible, but usually this quiet state only lasts for a short while. Whatever I am doing—I try to get into it with gusto.

And so, when my wife asked me to attend the Unity Church in Austin, TX with her, I did so quite willingly—even though it was a bit out of my comfort zone—being a very ethnic, unmistakable Jew.

Fortunately, this particular church was very into singing—which was perfect for me, since I love to sing. I took up my hymnal like a regular and very soon was exuberantly singing along with my Christian brethren, in a strong loud voice, as if I had been coming there for years.

Everyone was incredibly friendly at the Unity Church in Austin, Texas. Maybe it was because it was Texas or maybe it was because it was a “New Age” church. But, whatever it was, the people were very friendly and very gracious. They were friendly and gracious in the morning when we arrived. They were friendly and gracious at the place where the minister stopped and told everyone to greet the people around them, and they were friendly and gracious at the hospitality table after the service. That is—everyone but this one tall, very WASPs looking man who was there all the time. Whenever he saw me, he turned and went the other way. I tried to reach out to him, but to no avail. He was always snubbing me and sat as far away from my as possible. Obviously, he knew I was Jewish and he was an anti-semitic, Nazi bastard. So, I stopped trying to win him over and just snubbed him back. After all, this guy was, perhaps, the biggest asshole on the face of the earth, so why should I keep trying?

This went on for weeks and weeks. I told everyone I knew about the sour, anti-semite at the Unity Church. He became the laughing stock at my dinner table on several occasions.

Then on Sunday, the minister must have seen me glaring at him. She came up to me and said, “Bennett, do you have a problem with Ed Johnson?”

“No,” I said, “he has a problem with me. I think he’s anti-semitic.”

She looked amused. “No, I’m sure that is not right. Ed is a very liberal, egalitarian man. He is the head of our interfaith committee that works closely with the area synagogues. I know you are mistaken.”

I was taken back. I was sure he was anti-semitic, Nazi—but maybe I was wrong. But, he still is a very unpleasant fellow—and I told the minister as much. She wouldn’t let it go. She said, “Bennett, please do me and you a favor. Go over to Ed and ask him what’s the problem.”

So, I swallowed my pride and saddled over to the ex-Nazi. I asked if we could have a few private words. He obliged. We stepped aside to where no one else could hear. I told him that I had felt snubbed and disrespected by him and that everyone in the church had been so friendly to me except him and asked him if he had a problem with me.

He paused a minute to collect himself and spoke slowly. “Bennett," he said (I was surprised he even knew my name), when I come to church, it is to put myself in a quiet, meditative state. I love to sink into the quite grace of the beautiful building and the beautiful hymns. It is very disconcerting for me to be anywhere near you in church. You belt out the hymns like they are Broadway musical numbers. You don’t try at all to blend in, but instead, sing as loudly and exuberantly as you can. I hate it. It throws me off. You have a right to sing as you please, so I never said anything—but, I try to get as far away from you as I can—so I can have my own spiritual experience—and not yours. I am sorry I never said anything, but I am a quiet man and I don’t like conflict. I hope you understand.

I was dumbfounded. There was nothing I could say. I thanked him for his honesty. Later, I told my wife I was too ashamed to ever go back to the church again, but she wouldn’t let me off the hook.

For weeks after that, friends would ask me about the anti-semitic Nazi at the Unity Church—hoping to get more funny diatribes—so, the shame continued.

I did go back to the church and got to know Ed better. I stopped singing like I had something to prove and, instead, sang with everyone else. Ed and I eventually became friends. He is a wonderful man.

And I am, perhaps, the biggest asshole on the face of the earth. Actually, it was an important life lesson. Since then, every time I meet someone who pisses me off and seems vile to me—I think about Ed. It usually turns out that the person who pissed me off, really isn’t very nice—but now, I first look for the good—instead of quickly writing someone off. It works a lot better that way. And, oh yes, I sing a lot quieter, too.