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Summer 2016
TALES FROM RIDERWOOD STORIES BY AND FOR RIDERWOOD RESIDENTS
In Defense of My Mink Coat Donelle FitzGerald
Oh please, I did not kill the mink!
I did not even know them.
They led most happy lives I think.
Well-fed by those that grew them.
I worked to earn my lovely coat-
In both ways very dear.
So find some worthy cause to dote
upon and shed your tear.
The Bible tells of Adam and Eve
expelled, but dressed in furs
The good Lord gave to help them grieve.
The Pascal lamb recurs.
Now do you think that minks should keep
Their coats beyond the grave?
The vegetarians may weep.
I love the things God made!
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
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Contents In Defense of My Mink Coat
by Donelle FitzGerald ............................................... 1
The Last Seranade by Lo I Yin ..................................... 3
Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS)
by Harry Letaw .......................................................... 3
Moving to Mindanao by Liz Lucas ................................. 4
When It’s Raining at Riderwood
by Old Ro Boat (Roland Reed) ............................. 6
Three O’clock in the Morning by Tamar Hendel ..... 6
Trapped on a Frozen Pond in Michigan
by Alfonso “Fonce” Geiger .................................... 7
Culture Shock by Harriet Levy ...................................... 8
Connie and Violet—A Tale of Betrayal
by Elaine K. Weiner .................................................. 9
Growing Up in New York City by Dick Mulligan .... 10
Six Neckerchiefs on the Pillows by Ion Deaton ..... 11
Radio—Those Thrilling Days of Yesteryear
by Ted Daniel ........................................................... 12
The Raw Recruit or How to Get Ahead in the
Army by John Fountain ........................................ 13
The Boy Who Liked to Ride Horses by Joel Lasko 14
Tales From Riderwood Archival Collections ................ 15
To the First Petunia in My Garden by Alan Taylor . 15
Where Would I Be if I Had Married My
First Love? by Jack Glasner .................................... 16
Tales are sought for future issues:
Short fiction
Personal experiences
Essays
Original poetry Please follow these instructions:
Limit one tale per author per issue
Humor, photos and sketches are encour-
aged
Submit Tale to Ion Deaton, BG322. A Mi-
crosoft Word file sent by email (see ad-
dress above right) is preferred. The Editorial Board reserves the right to accept, edit or reject all submissions.
Tales From Riderwood is published
periodically by the Writers Guild,
Riderwood Village, Inc., Silver Spring,
MD 20904
EDITORIAL BOARD
Ion Deaton 301 572-4503
[email protected]
Harriet Levy 301 572-4801
[email protected]
Janet Lopes 301 328-7434
[email protected]
John Fountain 301 572-2021
[email protected]
PRODUCTION
Jane Myers 301 572-6882
[email protected]
The Writers Guild meets every
fourth Monday from 3 to 4 PM in the
Montgomery Station Classroom. All
are welcome.
To view TALES FROM RIDERWOOD on
line, go to www.riderwoodlife.org.
Click on “Riderwood Activities”
Click on “Clubs”
Click on “Writers Guild”
Click on “Tales from
Riderwood”
Scroll and read; Print whole docu-
ment; Print selected pages. The
website that hosts Tales is a pro-
ject of the Riderwood Computer
Club and website Project Manager
Trudy Downs, a resident and an in-
structor of computer courses for
Prince George’s Community Col-
lege. The Writers Guild appreci-
ates this service.
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
3
The hospice-care nurse opened the
door, smiled briefly, and led me into the
living room. Mary was sitting on the couch,
dozing. Her face was lit partially by the
morning sun seeping through the half-open
Venetian blind. It was a scene of serenity and
tranquility. Upon see-
ing me, Mary greeted
me warmly, shifted a
little, and invited me
to sit beside her. The
nurse Carla sat facing
us.
Our conversation
was intimate, sub-
dued, and desultory.
Moments later, Mary
happened to inquire
about my current
violin activities.
Suddenly she interrupted and said,
"Speaking of music, I have something to
show you."
She asked Carlato go to the bedroom
closest to search for a violin case on the top
shelf. Soon, Carla returned with an old,
dusty and shabby black case. I opened it with
care, and found inside a 3/4-size violin
together with an undersized bow. Mary told
me that the violin had belonged to her
father, nearly a century ago when he was a
boy, and no one had played on it since.
I took the small violin out of its case. It
looked to be fairly intact. The bridge had
collapsed, but the four loose strings were
still attached to their pegs. I cautiously
erected the bridge and gingerly tightened the
strings. To my surprise, the little violin came
to life as I drew the bow across its strings.
The sweet sound lit up Mary's eyes and
brought a smile to Carla's face.
For the next twenty minutes or so, at
Mary's request, I played various tunes which
were familiar to her in her
youth. We finished with the
Serenade by Franz Schubert.
Before Carla showed me out,
Mary rose laboriously from
the couch and hugged me.
She died a few days later.
The Last Serenade Lo I. Yin
Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS)
Harry Letaws
Twenty-some thousand bases
Weave a genome to survive,
In warm, damp and dark places,
They infect as they arrive.
Budding within human hosts,
By mutation they resist
All drugs, no matter how dosed,
Invincible, they persist.
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
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In November, 1929, my mother, my
brother Bruno, and I left Honolulu on the
USS President Wilson to join my father in
Manila. He had left several months pre-
viously to start work on a new pineapple
cannery on Mindanao. We had to wait for a
house to be ready before we could follow
him.
I remember very little of the three-
week trip across the Pacific to Manila, but it
is truly amazing the things that stick in the
memory of a four-year-old. Bruno and I had
never had Jello, and we were intrigued with
it when it was served. The seas were rough,
and the Jello swayed with the waves. We
called it "nervous pudding".
Recently I talked to Bruno who is now
93. I asked him if he remembered “nervous
pudding”.
“No, but do you remember “needles in
your shoes?" I did not, so he explained. “We
went ashore in Yokahama. It was very cold,
and soon I complained that there were
needles in my shoes. Mother took one off
and realized that my feet were cold. We
were Hawaiians and had never been cold in
our lives and didn't know what it felt like.”
Dad met us on the dock in Manila, and
we were so glad to see him. A day or two
later, we embarked on an inter-island
freighter for the two-day journey to
Cageyene, Mindanao. The first mate had
given up his cabin for us, but we slept on
cots on the bridge deck. That was fine with
us as the cabin had never been cleaned.
From the bridge we could look down
onto the deck below. The whole space
from the
bridge to the
prow of the
ship was filled
with Filipinos
crowded to-
gether. They
lay on the
deck, sat on
the hatches,
and hung over
the rail, eating
and sleeping
and talking to
each other and gazing at the two blond
children looking at them.
Evidently someone threw some food
overboard. First, one huge fish streaked
through the water to it and was quickly
joined by dozens more.
"Sharks!" said Bruno. The sharks
thrashed after the food and began circling
the ship hoping for more.
Bruno said, "Sis, you better be careful.
You know what those sharks would do to a
four-year-old girl who doesn't behave
herself? Tear her to pieces and eat her up!"
He grabbed me and told me I'd better hang
on. I spent the rest of the trip holding on
tight to something solid.
Late on the second day we arrived in
Cagayene, but I do not remember it. I do
remember waking up later in a touring car,
jammed between my parents. It was pitch
black. The driver was sounding the horn,
pounding on the side of the car and yelling
"Move."
Moving to Mindanao Liz Lucas
Liz, 6 and Bruno, 8
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
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Cannery under construction, 1929
In the darkness in front of us were many
small round glowing green things seemingly
floating in the air. They gradually parted,
and we moved forward. "Those are the eyes
of a herd of water buffalo reflected in our
headlights,” Dad explained.
I woke up the next morning in bed in
our new house. My bed was by the window,
and through it I could see a flat, empty plain
with a dirt road running past our house and
another road coming through a distant
fence. I got up and ran through the door
into the living room. My parents and Bruno
were sitting at the dining room table eating
breakfast served by the cook, Catalina. I had
seen him in the crowd on the boat.
There was a porch across the front
of the house where Mother soon began
school. Bruno was in the second grade.
Mother had already gotten the second
grade materials from the Calvert System,
and she set up school on the front
porch. I joined them when I started first
grade.
And so we started a new and very
different life. Dad supervised construc-
tion of the new cannery and also had to
train the new workforce. He had to start
at the beginning, teaching them to use
the restroom, wash their hands and not
spit in the cannery, and they had to learn
about very foreign machinery.
Bruno and I had to adjust to home
schooling, but otherwise things were sort of
the same. But none of us appreciated the
change Mother had to deal with. She had a
maid, cook, laundress, and gardener. She
therefore had very little to do. There were
no stores for shopping. There were no
phones to gab with her friends, and very
few women to befriend. The mail was
irregular, and it took about three months to
send and receive an order from Mont-
gomery Ward.
But, worst of all, there was no medical
care. The person most like a doctor was
the veterinarian on the nearby cattle
ranch. I'm sure everyone lived in fear of a
medical emergency because it was a two-day
trip to Manila when a ship was
sailing. Mother, as a former nurse, was in
great demand for advice about minor
illnesses, and she even delivered a baby. We
lived on Mindanao for almost two years and
had many new experiences. It really is a
shame that travel is wasted on young
children who just don't remember it.
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
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When it’s raining at Riderwood
One must make special effort
To get wet. Likewise, to get cold
When Winter frosts grass and
Naked trees. O, it’s hard to sweat
In July unless one’s lucky ‘nouf
To have a dog who just will
Make poopa to scoopa, and one
Prefers it in the great dry, outside.
Have to carefully avoid umbrella
In the rain, shoes in snow,
And cool shirt in the rather hot heat.
Hard to be part of nature
@Riderwood unless one’s inclined
To be careful, smart and
Ridiculously motivated as are
Eight-to-ten percent of us ancients
Among Riderwood randy residents.
“’Randy’, don’t we wish,”
said the spoon to the dish.
Regret pummels me
at three o’clock in the morning
when all I want
is to be asleep
Recriminations gather around me
at three o’clock in the morning
as I toss and turn
wanting nothing else but sleep
Why did I
I should have
take turns pulling at me
at three o’clock in the morning
as I take a drink of water
I turn on the light
I look at the clock
I tell myself it’s ok
I did ok
That was then
this is now
I tell regret
to go to sleep
it’s three o’clock in the morning
When it’s Raining at Riderwood
Old Ro Boat (Roland Reed)
Three O’clock in the Morning
Tamar Hendel
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
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I grew up on a farm in west-central
Michigan and attended a one-room school
that was two miles from my home.
Michigan, like all of the Midwest, is
divided into one square mile “sections.” I
could go clockwise or counterclockwise
around the “block” and it would be two
miles either way. But by going “cross-lots”
over fences and fields it was about a mile
and a quarter. The farmers frowned on my
walking across their fields in the spring but I
often took that route in the fall and winter
when the snow wasn’t too deep.
Michigan was under a continental glacier
during the Pleistocene epoch that ended
about 12,000 years ago. During deglaciation,
huge blocks of ice would sometimes be
buried under the glacial debris. When these
blocks eventually melted they left closed
basins in the surfaces that became the lakes
and ponds of the Midwest. Michigan and
Minnesota each claim to be the “Land of Ten
Thousand Lakes”. One of these depressions,
geologists call them “kettles”, lay along my
cross-lots route.
We had a January thaw that filled the
kettle to a depth of three or four feet,
forming a pond about fifty or sixty feet
across. This was followed by very cold
weather that froze the pond to a depth of
three or four inches. The soil under the
pond was very permeable and soon all of the
water drained out from under the ice and
the ice collapsed like a sliced pie, sloping
downward to the middle.
I was in the third grade and the first
three grades were let out at 2:30 while the
upper grades stayed until four. So it was
about three o’clock when I saw the pond.
The sun was shining brightly and the ice was
wet. The temperature was just above
freezing.
When I stepped on the ice my feet
slipped out from under me and I slid down
to the bottom of the kettle in the center of
the “pie.” The ice was sloping and slippery
in every direction. I tried my best to crawl
or roll out but to no avail. One time I got a
little way up then my hand slipped and my
mouth hit the ice, and, as I slid down, I got a
mouth full of ice and blood as my tooth cut
a groove in the ice.
I was beginning to get scared. I tried
yelling for help but I was several hundred
yards from any dwelling and the pond wasn’t
visible from the road. There I sat, in the
middle of the frozen pond and I could see
nothing but crisp blue sky above. But the sun
was setting and it was getting colder. As it
got colder the water on the ice began to
freeze and dry out. It was still slippery but I
kept trying to get out. Finally I managed to
scramble and roll and get up to the edge
where I could stand on solid ground.
It was getting dark and I was more than
a half mile from home. My sisters, who had
gotten out at four o’clock, were already
home. “Where’s Fonce,?” Mom asked. “We
don’t know. He left at 2:30 and we didn’t
see him on the road,” they responded.” Just
then, I walked in the door, nearly frozen and
with a cut lip. I related my story and they
seemed to believe me. Anyway, that’s how I
remember it.
My lunch bucket was still in the hole and
I never went back for it.
Trapped On a Frozen Pond in Michigan Alfonso “Fonce” Geiger
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
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To set the stage, reflect upon the year
1949, eight years before Orval Faubus
instructed the Arkansas National Guard to
prevent black students from integrating the
Arkansas high schools. This was fourteen
years before George Wallace delivered his
inauguration address in Alabama, espousing
segration. Lyndon Johnson’s Civil Rights
legislation, fifteen years later, was not even a
remote possibility in the minds of most
Americans.
That same year, I was one year out of
college, a bride to be, born and bred in New
York City’s borough of the Bronx. We lived
in a teeming area predominantly populated
by Jewish immigrants, and I was naïve and
completely ignorant of the waiting world
surrounding the big city. I anticipated that I
would spend the remainder of my life in
New York, my comfort area.
But, unexpectedly, my husband to be
was offered a plum position at the University
of Arkansas School of Law in Fayetteville.
My parents, typical New Yorkers, were
aghast at the prospect of our planned move
to the “backwoods” of Arkansas and tried
mightily to convince me to rethink my life
plans. But love prevailed and off we went
with not the slightest hint of the changes
that awaited us.
To call it culture shock is a huge
misnomer. Life took a 180-degree turn from
my former existence. Communication was
the first problem we faced. Accustomed as I
was to the much maligned New York
accent, it was some time before I was able
to make sense of the gobbledygook (or so it
seemed) that was directed at me. Phrasing
differed also: for example, what I had always
known as a dirt road was a gravel road in
Arkansas and I kept looking for gravel to no
avail. Added to that were foods which I had
never before encountered, or even known
about, prepared in a bizarre manner which
sometimes led me to suspect that we had
emigrated to a foreign land.
New Yorkers are known to be profligate
in their use of water and now I was dealing
with an old well which frequently ran dry. So
much for daily showers.
Eight-party phone lines were common,
and attempting to get a call through was a
daily frustration. On the other side of the
coin, when listening for one’s dedicated ring
(i.e., two shorts, one long), the operators
often merged two shorts together so that it
Culture Shock Harriet Levy
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
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Connie and Violet —A Tale of Betrayal
Elaine K. Weiner
sounded like one long, and wrong numbers
were a frequent occurrence. Further, in my
innocence, I was stunned to discover that
most people eavesdropped on conversations
and made no attempt to conceal their
actions.
The Broadway theatre scene, so familiar
to me, was strange and unfamiliar to my new
compatriots, as well as the subway that had
transported me everywhere. The mouth-
watering restaurants and the elegant Fifth
Avenue
stores (none
of which
could we
afford) were
another
mystery to
my new
neighbors and I con-cluded that I was on a
yet undiscovered planet. I missed the hustle
and bustle of the city and the independence I
had known in the great metropolis and felt
totally out of place in my new home.
The mind-blowing bombshell came when
I trotted off to voter registration and was
told I must pay a poll tax. It was almost
enough for me to consider running home to
mother, but I reluctantly paid up and ranted
about it for months.
We spent two years in Arkansas before
the outbreak of the Korean War decimated
the Law School, and most of the student
body disappeared, seemingly overnight. And
so, with a new baby to care for and the plum
position just a memory, we sought
alternative earnings. I grew up rapidly during
those two years and widened my horizons
immensely. My memories of Arkansas are
happy ones, despite the travails visited upon
us.
We were best friends forever, or so I
thought. Connie and I went to middle
school together and then on to senior high
school at William Cullen Bryant High School
in Astoria, Queens, New York. We did
everything together, dressed alike and
considered ourselves as sisters. Her mother
even taught me some prize Hungarian curse
words. Then along came Violet, also of
Hungarian descent. The three of us then
hung out together.
One day at lunch in the cafeteria, Connie
and Violet let me in on a little “secret.”
Connie had secretly married one of the
refugees so that he could remain in the
United States. It turned out to be a little
“joke” concocted by Violet. That was the
end of my friendship with Connie.
Many years later, after I had been
graduated from nursing school and was on
my way to the subway station to go to
work, I met Connie on the street. She was
pushing a baby carriage. We exchanged
pleasantries, and I never saw her again.
If I had had the presence of mind I would
have liked to have asked her the following
question:
“Was it worth it, Connie?”
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
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Growing up in NYC can be a bit
overwhelming. You look at that size, those
crowds, all the “busy-ness” and you wonder
how you will ever fit in when you grow up
and become part of the scene. Our NYC
Club meets monthly and our members enjoy
sharing those memories, talking about the
“olde days” and remembering when (the late
20’s and 30’s). Helen Helm does a great job
coordinating our activities, even providing an
old NYC documentary film from time to
time. Here are a few of those times, places
and people that live in our memories and
hearts:
Our walking tours downtown to
Chinatown, Greenwich Village, the Bowery
and Delancy Street to get a feel for how our
many little New York neighborhoods work
together and marvel at our cultural mix.
Our first trip to Yankee Stadium and the
Polo Grounds to see the Yanks and Giants
play; and that time at the Dodgers Ebbet’s
Field when I got the homerun ball bouncing
around the bleachers.
Our school trips to the Borden’s milk
plant and the Herald Tribune newspaper to
see how a production line works and how
the printing press meets a deadline (before
TV and Smart Phones, of course).
The aura around the many ships from
the Orient and Europe unloading on the
docks along the East and Hudson rivers.
Seeing the French liner Normandie over on
its side at the dock after the fire; how they
pumped out the water and floated the ship
away to the Brooklyn Navy Yard to be used
for scrap metal.
That wonderful trip to the top of the
Empire State building and listening to our
guide point out the many sites around the
five boroughs of New York City.
That time we went to Time Square on
New Year’s Eve—the crowd, the noise, the
dancing and watching the ball drop at the
stroke of midnight. Wow!
Those long lines outside the Paramount
Theater on Times Square while we waited
for admission to see Frank Sinatra, Perry
Como, Glen Miller or Harry James for 75
cents!
That boat trip around lower Manhattan
and the guide’s story of our evolving skyline.
The ferry trip out to see the Statue of
Liberty and how she greets the many
immigrants arriving in New York, as well as
ice skating and fishing in Central Park—my
tenth birthday party in The Tavern on the
Green.
Our first trip to Rockefeller Plaza for an
afternoon of ice skating and entertainment;
listening to Fiorello Laguardia, our Mayor,
read the comics to us on Sunday morning;
our first time to the Radio City Music Hall
to watch the high-kicking Rockettes.
That unforgettable first visit to the
World’s Fair in 1939, seeing the Trylon and
Perisphere and watching Billy Rose’s
Aquacade. Quite a special day!
Our afternoon at Wall Street and the
NY Stock Exchange, seeing The Bull and
listening to our guide extol the virtues of
capitalism. Hmm!
Playing all those NY street games—stick
ball, roller hockey, “stoop” ball while the
Growing Up in New York City Dick Mulligan
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
11
girls played potsy (hop scotch), and “double
dutch” jump rope.
And of course our most recent trip to
N.Y.’s 9/11 memorial recalling the city’s
courageous reaction to that tragic event.
Those are a few of the great old
memories we all share, but time marches on
and many of us have moved on too. Several
left NYC years ago and are busy putting
together new memories and growing old in
the Washington area. New times, places and
faces—the spice of life!!
Many of my shipmates at the Memphis
Naval Air Station were like service
personnel at any military base in the country
when it came to going home. If home was
less than a twelve hour drive away, they
wanted to get home to see their family and
sweethearts on weekends when they
weren’t on duty. Those nearing the end of
their training who would soon be shipping
out to the Korean War theatre were
especially anxious to travel all night Friday
and Sunday just to get home for a short visit.
Recognizing the hazards of long drives, the
navy had rules limiting the length of
weekend trips, but they were not rigidly
enforced. If you wanted a ride home for the
weekend, all you had to do was to check the
bulletin boards to locate someone driving to
a location near your home who was looking
for riders to share the expenses.
I well remember the week when one of
my aviation electronics school instructor
shipmates was excitedly planning to go to
Chicago for the weekend to see his family
and girlfriend. Bud checked the bulletin
boards and located a driver who was going
to his home area and charging a reasonable
price. The driver also signed up four other
sailors for the trip and had his six-passenger
sedan all gassed up and ready to go at
quitting time on Friday. The six sailors
showed their liberty cards to the marine
guard at the gate and happily sped north as
they anticipated the weekend joys ahead.
I was shocked next morning as I passed
Bud’s empty bunk to see a knotted
neckerchief on his pillow. I immediately
realized that something terrible had
happened and that my friend was dead! The
neckerchief-on-the-pillow routine was a
navy custom for honoring a lost shipmate. I
learned that he had been killed in a car
wreck on the five hundred mile drive to
Chicago. The car in which he was riding had
pulled out into heavy traffic to pass another
vehicle and collided head-on with a large
truck. The six sailors died instantly. Five
bunks in nearby barracks also displayed
black neckerchiefs that morning as other
sailors mourned for dead shipmates who
would never go home again.
Six Neckerchiefs on the Pillows Ion Deaton
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
12
“Return with us now to those thrilling
days of yesteryear, when from out of the
past come the thundering hoof beats of the
great horse Silver, a fiery horse with the
speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty
Hi Yo Silver.
“The Lone Ranger rides again. In just a
moment, our story begins, but first . . . .”
Those days were thrilling. My radio
career began on a live kid show in a movie
theater when I was nine years old. The quiz
master asked: “If peanut butter is made from
peanuts, what is chocolate candy made
from? “
I couldn’t have been asked an easier
question because third grade geography
made me memorize tropical exports.
Quickly I answered: “Chocolate candy is
made from cacao beans.”
Both question and answer are
unforgettable to me, although I don’t
remember the prize. It wasn’t much. $64
was then the top prize offered on an NBC
quiz show— the Sixty-four Dollar Question.
The same kid show had a talent section.
Since I could not sing, dance or play any
musical instrument, I auditioned to recite a
song. I settled upon the lyrics of Blues In the
Night-
You probably remember Johnny
Mercer’s words:
“My momma done tol me
When I was in knee-pants . . .
A woman’s a two-faced
A worrisome thing
Who’ll leave you to sing the blues...The
blues...
In the night . . . .”
At age 16 in 1948 I became a radio
announcer. A new FM station with no paid
commercials needed an announcer to work
cheap . . . $.50 an hour.
If pressed today for my profession, my
instinctive answer is radio announcer,
although later I did other things on Capitol
Hill and in public relations.
This young
man thought
radio was won-
derful just like it
was before TV,
stimulating the
imagination,
transporting
minds to distant
shores, and instantly providing news of the
day.
Old time radio’s business headquarters
was New York, where news and soap
operas came from. Los Angeles provided
drama and comedy. The Lone Ranger and
Radio —Those Thrilling Days of Yesteryear Ted Daniel
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TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
13
The Green Hornet came from Detroit.
We listened to
productions that
began with catchy
phrases like:
“Good evening,
Mr. and Mrs.
North America,
and all the ships at sea…Ah, ah, ah, don’t
touch that dial, listen to Blondie…Let’s
Pretend…Good evening, there’s goooood
news tonight…The G-r-a-n-d Ol’
Opry…This is your Esso Reporter…Monday
morning headlines, brought to you by Adams
Hats…America’s Town Meeting of the
Air…Stop the Music…Coca Cola presents
Spotlight Bands…This is the Camel
Caravan…Your Hit Parade…From a theater
just a little off Times Square, Mr. and Mrs.
First Nighter…Your train comes rushing
down the silver rails of the Hudson River
Valley, swoops into a dark tunnel
underneath the towering skyscrapers of
New York City, and emerges in the
brilliance of Grand Central Station.”
Our radios bore names like: Philco,
Silvertone, Westinghouse, Capehart,
RCAVictor, Magnavox, Hallicrafters,
Realistic, Crosley, and Zenith.
The Raw Recruit or How to Get Ahead in the Army
John Fountain
Wear suit and tie to your assigned barracks
Put books on your bookshelf
Read your Testament in your bunk before lights out
No drinking
No smoking
No card playing
No gambling
No swearing
No trips “down town”
Spend weekends in church, movies, PX, or library
Obey orders
Don’t complain
PAYOFF: Got a head
Cleaned it every morning
Page 14
TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
14
When I looked out of my bedroom
window I saw the bridle path and horses on
Pelham Parkway, Bronx, New York and
wondered if I ever would go horseback
riding. Then one Saturday afternoon a friend
asked if I would like to go riding with him
and his parents. That was the beginning of
my love for riding horses at age twelve.
The first day I rode Captain, the horse
they gave to beginners because he never did
anything more than a walk and slow trot. I
got him to gallop for the first time in his life.
Thereafter, I saved my allowance and rode
every Saturday morning beginning with the
tamest horses to the most challenging
horses at the stable. I often rode with the
best riders including the riders who brought
their horses from Central Park to ride in the
country.
My favorite horse was a large wild horse
named Peanuts who bucked straight in the
air when you got on him but settled into a
gentle cantor after a few bucks. All the
people waiting to ride must have been
astonished by this scary horse and the kid
rider in cowboy boots riding this bucking
horse with an English saddle. None of the
best riders wanted to ride him so they kept
him just for me.
One Saturday a polo-pony rider whom
we all considered the best rider at the stable
was given priority over me riding Peanuts. I
was annoyed because I considered him to be
my special horse and I would have to wait
for him to return. As soon as the rider got
on Peanuts, he headed straight for the barn
in full gallop. I panicked thinking the horse
would fall on the cobblestones or the rider
would lose his head if he hit the barn.
Luckily he ducked and they found him in
Peanuts’ stall. They brought him out and put
him on the lawn to recover. Thirty minutes
later they brought Peanuts out and we rode
off after a few bucks in the air. I laughed to
myself as this man always behaved as though
he was superior to all the other riders and
he was shown up by a 16-year-old kid.
My next adventure with Peanuts was
riding next to
the road when
a couple of
guys who had
too much to
drink were
leaving the golf
course in a
Buick convert-
ible and de-
cided to blow
their horn.
Peanuts
went wild. He started rearing up and I
couldn’t stop him. And they continued
blowing their horn. First I lost one stirrup,
The Boy Who Liked To Ride Horses Joel Lasko
Page 15
TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
15
then I lost both stirrups and I couldn’t stay
on him any longer.
I found myself on my knees with the
reins in my hands and him rearing up over
me. Two solutions came to mind. If I pulled
on the reins he would come down on me. If
I screamed as loud as I could, he might pull
back and pull me up. I went for screaming
and he pulled me up. The guys in the Buick
drove away and I walked Peanuts for l5
minutes to calm him and we rode back to
the stable.
Peanuts was in the barn all week and
needed exercise so they decided to let him
run in the big corral. Unfortunately, he
didn’t like confinement so he kept jumping
the 6-foot fence and they had to run him
down. When I discovered this, it gave me
the opportunity to jump him. I set up a jump
in the woods almost six feet high and we
jumped every week without telling anyone.
My riding career ended at l6 when I didn’t
lean forward on our last jump and
whiplashed my back. They sold Peanuts and
the last time I saw him from my bedroom
window he was trotting with a Western
saddle on Pelham Parkway.
Tales From Riderwood Archival Collections
As announced in the May 2016
Riderwood Reporter, many earlier issues
of the Tales are now available in the
campus libraries. These are located in
large white 3-ring Archival Collection
binders located in the front desk area of
each library. The libraries can keep the
binders up to date by adding new issues
as they are produced.
We are indebted to Writers Guild
member Soma Kumar who volunteered
to head up this difficult back-issue
collection project. His determination and
persistence brought the many-month
project to a successful conclusion when
the Archival Collection binders were
presented to the libraries.
To The First Petunia In My Garden Alan Taylor
You are pink as a long lace gown
at an old-fashioned, elegant ball,
And your petal-skirt swirls softly out
like the music of a remembered waltz.
Earliest of my flowers,
will you dance for me these golden hours?
Will you dance for me a waltz
from an old-fashioned, remembered
summer?
Page 16
TALES FROM RIDERWOOD
16
As straight as the crow flies across the
bay, the peak of the Kum San Mountain in
the Jiangsu Province is not visible any more.
Eons ago, the wrath of heaven stripped this
gigantic rock mountain into one narrow
sliver of land. The fury of torrential rains
engulfed the sparse forest into nowhere.
Time ceased to exist and Silence reigned for
an eternity.
And yet, a few chestnut seedlings
gripping earth, held on. Over centuries
nature started a new cycle of life. Villages
consisting of small clusters of shacks
imperceptibly changed into majestic homes
with courtyards and elaborate water
fountains.
I was in Katmandu at the time, and got a
request from the feudal warlord Hu flan
Wang supreme ruler of Kum San to head
their English class. Though I was aware of his
eccentric and ruthless behavior, I accepted
the position.
Miss Noo, the war lord’s daughter,
excelled in English, but most of my students
had only a fragmentary knowledge of the
language. The majority of these young ladies
dressed in traditional attires, while Noo had
a flair for adding a western touch to her
dress. Though I was more than intrigued by
her, and would have loved to know more
about her, I tried hard not to single her out.
Her father was not a man to be trifled with.
Yet, I couldn’t help myself from glancing
whenever, furtively, across to the last row,
our eyes sometimes touching each other ,
and I knew that she knew.
I just didn’t have the courage to
approach her.
But I did. With a neutral question.
“Where did you learn English?”
She shook her head from side to side pig
tails flying, her eyes in constant motion
smiling, exploring my face.
Silence
Long silence. Standing close, and
knowing it.
“I read,” she whispered, her hand
lingering in mid air, touching, my arm in a
movement that was or was not.
“Read?” I echoed, at loss what to say.
She tossed her shoulders, smiled and
turned. We met again, again and again,
avoiding the main path, knowing well her
father’s attitude towards foreigners, we kept
our distance, and only the flutter of her
dress against me said the unsaid.
There, where the small path gave way
to tall hedges, and the canopies of trees
keep secrets, we held on to each other, we
whispered, blue skies and wide horizons of
being together forever and ever.
At the small clearing in the forest, we
lingered; she picked up a chestnut from the
moist grass, touching it ever so gently,
slowly very slowly, she closed her hand over
it, and dropped it in my palm. Taking
different routes we made our way back.
Late that fading afternoon, I was
informed by a high official, that my services
as of right now, were no longer required
I am back In Los Angeles. I teach. Every
day before going to my class, I linger and
gently touch the chestnut on my bookcase.
Where would I have been if I had married
my first love?
Where Would I Have Been if I Had Married My First Love? Jack Glasner
