Elizabeth Robechek

Elizabeth Robechek

Children in My Life

Although I wasn’t able to have

children of my own, I’ve been blessed

by the company of some wonderful children,

starting, of course, thanks to their wonderful mother,

my friend, Mary Cardell Blanchard,

with my four nieces and nephews.

I recall young Robert leading the charge up a hill

toward a roaring train;

little Cathy pretending to read an upside-down book

she’d memorized from listening to it read to her;

Patrick dashing deftly for a touchdown;

Dee carefully exploring each light surrounding a meadow.

 

And they’ve grown up in their own unique ways,

following diverse paths of public service and parenting

as lawyer, therapist, computer whiz, and law enforcement,

joining with equally skilled mates

while raising a whole new generation

of smart, fun folks.

 

Then there were the commune kids,

Peter and Annie,

lively, smart, playful,

each adept at dealing with a range

of eight commune adults

with diverse approaches to childcare.

 

Then, after I moved up to Waverly in Baltimore,

there were the Vietnamese children

Diep and Nyiep and their younger siblings

who lived next door and

who would crawl through the window

of my downstairs apartment

saying “Can we come your house?”

We did some wonderful art work together,

they told stories, real and fantastic,

about their trip to America

and I tried to explain

some of the quirks of the English language.

When I moved out a couple of years later,

I felt like an evacuee

as they followed my loaded car,

waving goodbye.

 

After I’d moved into a downstairs apartment

owned by my commune buddy Elliot

who lived upstairs with his partner Rachel,

I was soon visited by several neighborhood children

from a large bi-racial family down the street,

particularly sisters, Laura and Julia

who loved to tell me amazing stories,

elaborated upon from books they were reading

and from their own lively imaginations.

They also enjoyed playing Rachel’s piano

In the front room downstairs.

Eventually I encouraged them to write

and illustrate their own stories.

After I’d moved, once again,

I heard from their mother

of their academic achievements

which she kindly credited to my guidance.

 

From there, for a variety of reasons,

I accepted a job as a nanny

for a TV executive connected to the women’s community

who had taken in a young orphan girl adopted from Korea

by her sister, then bounced around the country

by her wealthy family once the sister decided

she could no longer care for her.

After spending a dreary winter,

baby-sitting darling Little Debbie

in a basement room in this woman’s condo

outside the Waverly neighborhood

which had become my community,

I moved back to Waverly

to persue my various adjunct teaching gigs,

but continued to pick Debbie up

from nursery school to care for her

until her aunt picked her up later in the evening.

When even this arrangement became too much

for the ambitious aunt,

Debbie was shipped off to yet another relative,

and I was left bereft.

 

Since that loss, my “children” have either been relatives

or students, with the necessary distances

to protect us all.

But I have continued to value the opportunities

I’ve had with young folks:

Liam and Simone at Children’s House in Montpelier

where I delivered and read books from the library;

Wesley, Asher and Madison, my neighbors

on Moonlight Terrace for whom

“mia casa” was “sua casa,”

the kids at UCM’s Children’s Chapel like Alden and Lucia,

and a new young neighbor, Case,

as well as some younger folks in my singing group,

since the older I get, the older the next generations become.

Margaret Blanchard

Axie Noyes

Kathryn Davis

Kathryn Davis

Jane Wohl

Migration

for Blanche

My new friend tells me that her mother
came north to Detroit, leaving the humid
and ominous south for cold winters
and different threats.

My grandmother’s German-speaking grandmother
piled nine kids in a covered wagon
and went west because her husband
told her to meet him in what was not yet Nebraska.

I think of monarchs, flying thousands of miles
their fragile wings beating in air that feels
some days as solid as ice against their wings,
dusty orange and black.

Or the sandhill cranes, flocks so dense
the sky turns dark, coming down to sleep
in the small lakes on the western prairie.

Now families land in foreign places,
where even the trees are different,
where the sky is not the same.
Where they wake to different bird song,
With clothes that belonged to someone else,
ill-fitting shoes. Where the dust of their
wings become dangerously thin.
There is no going back.

March 29, 2022
Jane E Wohl

Annie Wattles

Carrying the Weight

We can't help but carry the children. They look up at us, tired or hurt wanting a nuzzle. It’s meant to be. Lock and key. Feels so so natural.

My father carried me home at the bottom of an army issue brown wool sleeping bag slung over his back. He carried me home from post war America wild parties on our New Jersey dead end street neighborhood.
I remember laughing all the way.

I carried my son from the neighbors, after working late. We walk up the hill, then down, bouncing along heading to our old schoolbus house. He wakes and points to all the stars telling me they belong to him. He says I can have one. We name our stars and go inside. I play the nighttime song on the piano. Soon we are cozy in our beds.

These days I watch the Ukrainian women fleeing to safety carrying their children… the babies, the toddlers, the dogs, the things families need. Warm clothes, diapers, food, water, a favorite cloth bear.
They roll their suitcases, they are untethered and the babies become heavy. They go forward. I want them all to have help…..

Twink Lester 

1962

College English

Going to a local women’s college as a townie, there were positives and negatives.  The pluses were; I had my own car, went to Chapel Hill every weekend to visit Doug and I could still see my family some of the time.  The minuses; few parking spaces near campus, wearing skirts or dresses on campus and I didn’t want to be there.  Probably because I’d made A’s for the past twelve years, I was burned out on school and gap years weren’t a thing yet.

My English class included one of the two black women on campus.  She had been in my class for seven months and we sort of knew each other.  Miss Jones was her name. The Professor taught at Hunter College in New York before moving to Women’s College.  She assigned a Shakespearean movie “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” to the class.  It was playing at the small movie theater adjacent to campus.  I froze.  Miss Jones couldn’t go to that theater—it had no balcony and was segregated as all theaters in North Carolina were in 1962.  Looking around the room to see who would stand up for her and inform Professor Martin, we were all freshwomen and their eyes were searching, too.  Finally the panic I felt forced me to stand up, “I won’t be going to the movie because Miss Jones can’t go.”  For what seemed like a very long time I was standing alone.  Finally another woman stood up, then another until the whole class stood.  Miss Jones was weeping.

Professor Martin asked why we were boycotting the movie.  She didn’t understand why Miss Jones couldn’t go.  Then she addressed me, “Miss Gaskins, you appear to be the leader of this, can you tell me why.”  Now I was nervous, “Dr. Martin, the movie theater is segregated and I don’t think any of us should go if we all can’t.”  She paled and then got very red.  “I didn’t realize.  I’m sorry, Miss Jones.  And I’m sorry I put the class in such an uncomfortable position.  Scratch that assignment.  I’ll bring in another version of the play for you to see in class.”  Then she surprised us all.  She started singing in a low voice, “We Shall Overcome…” and we all joined in.  The sense of solidarity was humming—women slowly started to form a circle and with arms spread about each woman from both sides, we sang while swaying from side to side.  Miss Jones spread her arms toward me and the women on either side pushed me toward her.  Another woman with a beautiful voice sang “A Change Is Gonna Come.”  The bell rang, Miss Jones and I talked and hugged tight then I floated out of my class feeling strong and capable of standing up for what I believed.  I had overcome my follower’s role, the way I saw myself.

Twink Lester 

1971

Austin

When Austin was born, a ten and a half pounder, he was larger than the other three and his head got lodged between my pubic bone in the front and my pelvis in the back as his head was at an angle.  Having to heft my zaftig body up to get on my hands and knees, hoping to dislodge the impasse, I labored in that position for three contractions and then he flipped, I flipped and he was born in my signature style—the whole body arrived with the next push.

He didn’t cry as they were cutting the cord and I inquired about him, “Is he breathing?”  The doctor and Doug assured me he was fine.  He was waiting patiently to be put on my chest.  When that happened, I expected to see a baby boy staring back at me like the others had.  However, Austin’s eyes were open, but he was not making eye contact with me.  Since he was my fourth baby, I wondered why, but he was taken by the pediatrician to be checked out in the same room.  Doug went over to watch and celebrate.  Still no noise from Austin.  He was weighed and his head was larger than our other children.

Finally we went to our room and I had asked to bathe him myself.  They thought I was bizarre, but they accommodated me.  Doug and I put him on a towel on my bed and used a couple of washcloths, Doug ran them back and forth from the sink to the bed. I kept Austin covered up with blankets except where I was gently wiping off the vernix—rubbing it in where it was not covered in blood.  We looked at all of him, part by part.  All ten fingers, toes and very little hair.

Having gained only fifteen pounds during my pregnancy, he seemed big.  However, he had yet to connect with me.  Doug didn’t seem to notice, but he did comment on how “good” Austin was.  I thought he was unnaturally quiet.

Nursing him was harder than the other three children—he was totally disinterested.  He didn’t respond to the usual cues—nipple brushed against his cheek or lips.  I had to open his mouth, physically pushing on his cheeks with one hand until his mouth was opened and then with my other hand putting as much of my nipple and areola in his small mouth as was possible.  He simply was indifferent and didn’t suck.

A nurse came in and said many new babies were not interested in breastfeeding when they were first born.  I told her that my other three had nursed on the delivery table after a natural childbirth.  She looked at me incredulously, “That huge baby!”  Since Austin was in my room all the time, I tried to nurse him every hour or two for the rest of the day and that night.  The colostrum was there and I could express some into his mouth, but he wasn’t even trying to swallow it.  He had his eyes wide open, but never looked at anyone.  My milk came in the next day and he just sputtered as it filled his mouth until he finally started softly sucking.  It had taken nearly twenty-four hours of continued tries to get this far.

After a few weeks I broached the subject with Doug about something being wrong with Austin and he just brushed me off and made excuses for all the things he wasn’t doing.  Soon after that, Nancy, a friend of mine, came over and she agreed with me that something was different about Austin.  We “tested” him with a flash light to see if he tracked the light or blinked or anything, no response.  We clapped on either side near his ears, no response.  Maybe he was blind and deaf.  She and I said something to each other at nearly the same time, “It’s like the lights are on, but nobody’s home.” A little gallows humor.  And we had hit the nail on the head.

When Austin was one month old we went to his pediatrician’s office for his first check up.  I told the doctor that I thought something wasn’t right with him and described what I had observed.  “Twink, you’re a busy Mom of four young children and maybe you haven’t bonded with Austin yet,” he said.  “What?  Excuse me, but as a mother of four I know something about bonding with babies!  Please have the other doctors come in now.”   I was calm but sure something wasn’t okay with him.  Surely the sooner we knew what, the faster he could be fixed.  The other two doctors came to the door—now all three were standing in the doorway looking at me like I was a poor misguided freak.  “If you don’t know what’s wrong, please refer me to someone who can help us.”  That’s all I said.  There was a long pause and finally, Dr. Senior said, “We have one of the thirteen centers around the US right here in Chapel Hill that can help diagnose a problem if there is a problem.”  It was the Division for Disorders in Development and Learning (DDDL) and we got an appointment for two months from then for a four hour appointment.  Austin got his shots and we went home.

Doug, Austin and I went to the appointment; Doug still in denial, Austin still a newborn at three mons old, and I still looking for answers.  I just wanted confirmation that Austin wasn’t “normal” so I could feel confident as a mother again.  By now I was a bundle of guilt, low self-esteem, doubt and a tiny bit of hope.

At four months Austin was diagnosed as severely and profoundly mentally retarded with a developmental age of two and a half projected when he was an adult.

Sarah E Franklin

Composing

Saturday, blank screen, laptop at 100% charge,
nothing lyrical in mind. I’m below zero, down to
the ‘no of all nothing’, the anxiety of influence,

just doggerel tap dancing in my left ear—
Little Putin longs to be
just as big as big can be,
like his dumb friend Donald Trump
of the horrid low-hanging rump—

when my brother visits me, looming by my left
shoulder, and I think meatloaf– I have an onion,
celery, carrots, I can make him a meatloaf—

and I’ll ask him if he remembers Saturday school,
just a morning session, and how the firehouse siren
sounded at noon, released us—how we ran all the way

home to Morgan Street. I seem to remember Mother
reading us the news that the town had decided to end
Saturday sessions. I was nine and he ten, was that right?

But Pete’s grin is gone, he is gone. I look out my window
and far below, there he is, lying on his back, his head
under a couple boards, body bordered squarely by bricks.

Of course I think he’s clowning— that’s what he does—
but then I remember. Gone. Oh, long gone now. Well,
at least I thought to offer up meatloaf. He loved it.

—Sef, 3/19/2022

Sarah E Franklin

Fake News, 3/15/'22

Famous NBC Chief Foreign Correspondent Reporting:

This evening the only sounds we can hear in the cities of Kyiv
and Odessa are the bells ringing out over the silence
of mourning citizens gathered here to begin again
the colossal task of rebuilding their country.

This last month we have all witnessed the destruction
possible when cruelty links arms with power.
These bells can still ring here tonight
because in Ukraine,

courage caught up the cry of freedom,
held on hard to the hand of justice,
stood up strong for solidarity,
taught the world just what
determination can do.

This evening, the remnants of what came to be known as
The Killer Convoy have pulled back from the cities and
begun the long Retreat of Defeat. What awaits them
on their return to Russia is as yet unclear.

What fate awaits Democracy in the current global order
is equally unclear. What does seem discernible
is that 21st century war is as hellacious as
its predecessors. We must end it while
we still have a planet to save.

Over to you, Rachel.

—Sef, 3/15/22

Barbara Johnson

Barbara Johnson

Susan Ritz


History of the Hedgehog

This contraption is called a Czech hedgehog. It is an effective anti-tank device you might have seen while watching the news about Ukraine. All over the country, regular citizens are producing these three-beamed steel or iron barriers in welding shops, while others are assembling them from railroad ties. Placed across major roads and in town squares to stop the Russian invaders, they are especially effective in urban combat. They are about five to six feet tall and weigh about five hundred pounds. Even when rammed and tipped over, they don’t collapse due to the genius of the design. The damage they cause can stop a tank in its tracks.
Hedgehogs were first invented in Czechoslovakia and placed along the German-Czech border before the Nazis took over the Sudentenland kicking off World War II in 1938. The Germans then appropriated the design and used hedgehogs on the beaches of Normandy. The Soviets used them to fight the Germans on the other front.
You can learn to build one of these for tabletop war games or for a real war using this YouTube video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=asp1xIIkasM, which has an interesting soundtrack. An orchestral rendition of “Penny Lane.”
Many years ago, on my first visit to West Berlin, I stayed in an apartment that looked over the portion of the Wall that snaked through Kruezberg. The buildings on the East Berlin side of the Wall looked very much like the one where I stood in West Berlin. A bit more run down perhaps, but Kreuzberg—home to students, squatters and Turkish guest workers—was pretty decrepit too. From my window, I could have waved at the East German housewives at their kitchen tables eating breakfast. Eiderdowns hung on iron-railed balconies to air, just as they did from the balconies below me. So little separated us from the enemy.
Between the Wall and the apartment buildings, stood East German soldiers among rows and rows of shiny metal objects that looked like big X’s or crosses. What were they, I wondered. Guns? Mines? Some kind if electrical fence? They looked treacherous, whatever they were, stretching along the Wall as far as I could see, guarding that blank territory known as “no man’s land” or the “death strip.”
When I saw the hedgehogs again on the TV news last week, I finally found out what they were for. Maybe you were wondering too. Right now, knowing that they are being built by Ukrainians who only three weeks ago were regular old auto mechanics, welders, plumbers, or perhaps railroad workers, I see them as another symbol of brave, creative resistance.

Susan Ritz


At the polio clinic

More about Kenya

I walked as fast as I could through the morning quiet of our small town to the barebones bungalow that served as the hospital for a county the size of England. By the time I arrived, the long row of benches around the courtyard was already crowded with mothers, fathers, and grizzled grandparents cradling crying babies and squirming toddlers in their arms. Older children played together in the courtyard, hauling their bent and useless legs behind them as they raced for a ball on over-muscled arms and calloused fists, scabbed knuckles encrusted with same red dirt as my feet. I searched the chattering crowd of women in their brightly patterned kangas and men in their faded safari suits, hoping my mamas had arrived in time to claim a place in the shade of the tin roof. Why hadn’t I gotten up earlier? I should have been there at sunrise to save a place for them at the front of the line. The Swedish doctors held these polio clinics only twice a month and not everyone who showed up got in.
Someone called my name. “Sister Susannah, we are here.” At the end of the line that snaked around the corner of the building, I found them. Two young mothers in their best cotton dresses, backs bent under the weight of the damaged sons tied to their mothers’ backs with brightly patterned kanga cloths. I knew from my biweekly visits to the clinic that we were too far down the line to make the cut-off that hot, dusty morning. These women had probably set out in the dark to get here in time, hoping to find help. Their expectant smiles turned to resigned frowns as I explained they might as well go home.
Then, I heard my name again. “Sister Susannah!” The ragged guard at the clinic door beckoned me, “You come next, please.” My mamas clapped and cheered as I scanned the long line ahead of me, wondering what to do. Should I skip to the front of the line? I was embarrassed and uneasy, knowing that nothing but the color of my skin gave me this advantage. I didn’t want to be singled out and given special treatment. But how could I turn the opportunity down? The two mamas were holding hands, nodding and smiling relieved and excited that they were to be seen, not sent away. I scanned the long line of people ahead of us. Every expectant face turned toward me as a chorus of “Yes, Sister, you, Sister” rose above the hum. They all seemed happy to let us to take one of the coveted consultations. I smiled at them and nodded, “Asante, asante sana,” as I beckoned the women to follow me, my white face reddening with shame, relief, and the heat of the day.

Linzy Lyne

TRUE STORIES FROM THE TOP OF THE HILL – DAY THIRTY

My Mum loved horses and I shared this love which we inherited from Grandad, who had served in the Artillery in the First World War. He used to take me to Shipley Horse Fair each Easter to watch the horses being trotted up for sale.

When I first went for riding lessons I had already had a few short rides. One was in a circus ring, where the children were allowed to ride round the ring bareback on a circus pony in the interval, once at my cousin's riding school in Balham, on a piebald brought down sedately from his upstairs stable and led across the yard, and the third on another very slow pony at the Seven Sisters Yard.

For my first lesson I was helped aboard a 15 hands chestnut mare called Chianti and the teacher smartly smacked her bottom. Chianti lurched into a trot and I promptly fell off, head first into the dirt paddock. “You said you could RIDE!” was the immediate complaint from the instructor.

I continued my lessons, I was determined to stay on after that and eventually became the only rider willing to ride a black pony called Bandit, who bucked everyone off. He had a very wide back and they couldn't find a saddle to fit him. I later realised he probably had a sore back from all the ill-fitting tack he'd endured and would have been better served by a visit from a chiropractor. In the event, Bandit was sold. In fact, all my favourite ponies were sold either because they weren't suitable for the school, or because one of the local girls had bought them.

I nagged my parents constantly. Why could the other girls get ponies? They all lived on the council estate near the stables and went to a secondary modern, whereas we lived in a nice area and I was at the grammar school. My protests fell on deaf ears. “Ponies are for people with money”, I was told. Every pony book ended with the heroine getting her pony, so I kept dreaming.

We went on holiday to the New Forest with my cousin and her Mum and we rode every day. It was heaven! I rode Crispin and Ros rode Tara. I have lots of photos which show my Mum happily standing in between the ponies, brushing their manes. I knew she liked horses, so why couldn't I have one of my own? Over time, all my favourites were under private ownership, so I changed yards. I found a new pony I loved, a little brown mare called Polly. Buying Polly became my goal.

My parents relented a little. If I could save the money to buy her, if I could make the money for her keep, if I could look after her myself, if if if, yes, I could have her. I negotiated a price with the yard manager, she would cost £60. A fortune.

But I took it on. I had a paper round, which I did every morning before school. It wasn't enough, I took on a second round, struggling up and down steps with my heavy bag, doing extra rounds when others were away. Over the months I managed to save £50. Polly was still there and available. To be honest, she wasn't the most suitable pony for a novice, she was very quick and unpredictable, but I loved her bushy brown mane, soft velvet muzzle and huge dark eyes.

I found a field about a mile away, where some other riders kept their ponies, it was only ten shillings a week. I could do this. Frustrated by how long it was taking, I recruited a friend who was willing to put her savings of £10 towards a share. We were almost there.

Then, a devastating blow. I was called in to the Headmistress's study. I was no longer allowed to do my paper rounds. O-Levels were looming and the paper rounds would get in the way. My protests were loud and tearful, but her word was law. Without her permission the paper shop couldn't hire me and my parents went along with it. I stopped my fund raising and Polly was sold.

I was in my thirties when I finally redressed this injustice. I saw a notice which said “Stable and grazing to let, £5 per week”. It was just up the road. We could afford it! I found a pony someone was willing to lend us and my daughter and I took possession of a stocky bay pony, another Crispin.

Over the following years we acquired Solo, a grey Arab, and Susie, a little grey Welsh pony. I enjoyed twenty-five years of owning horses and although it had many ups and downs and heartaches, it was the most wonderful experience and led to a career in saddle fitting, which I enjoyed for some years. I thought back to Bandit and wished I had known more back then. I can honestly say that every horse I've owned had a home for life, whatever that took.

The horses have passed on now, and I miss them every day. I have no recriminations for my parents, they were just doing what they thought was best for me and they were right about the money, it definitely cost more than ten shillings a week or even £5, but I remember that my Mum would always ask me, fondly, “how are the gee gees?”

Linzy Lyne

TRUE STORIES FROM THE TOP OF THE HILL – DAY THIRTY-ONE

From time to time you read a story about someone who has carried out an amazing feat of strength, something which reminds you of Superman lifting up a car. It's usually attributed to an adrenalin rush fuelled by extreme circumstances, or great need, or just superhuman strength, like the guys who pull buses along to break records.

Well, there was a man at the riding school I went to, an Irishman called Phil, and he had a little fat blue roan mare called Greisha. He used to amaze everyone by picking her up and people would gasp, how could it be possible? She must have weighed, let me think, maybe 400kgs? 880Lbs. He would just stick his head and shoulders under her belly somehow, grab her legs and up she went. He didn't appear to need extreme circumstances, he could do it any time he wanted. And the best bit was that Greisha didn't seem to mind. No-one but Phil ever tried it though, ponies can react badly to this sort of thing and Phil was quite a large man.

I was reminded of this years later. I had a little grey Welsh pony. Her posh stud name was Mowbray Serenade, but we always called her Susie. She was a lively little thing, always charging about and quick as lightning. One day I found her standing stiffly in the middle of the field, unable to move. I called the vet but the one who came was new and inexperienced and didn't know what the problem was. I said could she have put her hip out running around and the vet said yes, that could be it, you should call the chiropractor. He came to see Susie and immediately guessed that she had laminitis and we should change our vet.

The diagnosis was confirmed by the new vet. Unfortunately laminitis is a dreadful disease, which can cause terrible pain and deformity in a horse's feet. Ponies are particularly prone to it as it's generally caused by too much sugar in the diet, often from the new spring grass. Susie would have to go on a diet and take medicine in tablet form. She would also have to stay off the grass for quite some time, so I kept her in the stable. My horse next door would continue to go out each day and they would whinny to each other for hours, until Solo gave up and wandered off up the field.

Susie was not a great patient. It took three people to get blood from her for her blood tests as she would throw herself about the stable. X-rays of her feet were a challenge and it took quite a long time to find a way to get her to take her medicine. Eventually I perfected a method of digging out the centre of a piece of carrot, hiding the pill inside and filling the hole with a plug of carrot and she took it that way for the rest of her life, never guessing the trick.

While she was in the stable, she was still almost unable to move. One day I went in and she was lying on the floor, trying to get up, but every time she tried she slid towards the door. I became alarmed, the door opened inwards and had a gap under it, just wide enough for her little hooves to fit under and get jammed. She kept getting half up, fell back and slipped some more. Everything flashed in front of me, her feet stuck under the door, imagining her struggling and breaking her legs. I was starting to panic. I HAD to get her up and away from the door. I got my arms under her backside and heaved. I let go and she slid forwards again. Absolutely desperate, I got hold of her and heaved again and eventually by a miracle I lifted her and propped her against the wall with her weight off her sore feet.

She kept standing and I got the medicine into her. She got better and enjoyed lots of time out in the field with her friend over the years, living with the disease until it eventually took her at the age of twenty-five.

I wouldn't have believed it was possible if I hadn't seen Phil lift Greisha all those years before.

Lucy Morris

Usually, Jaguar will jump up when Sophia (the smaller cat) is hanging out on the top level of the cat castle.  And Jaguar will usually push her off and sometimes not all that nicely.   I think they would prefer to both snuggle up together, it's just that they have outgrown the little cat castle.  

Maybe we should all take a few minutes during the day and meditate like a cat, looking out the window.    They are so truly such beautiful beings.  After I took the pictures, they did end up falling asleep :)  

Brother and sister guarding the house  



Meditating together. A lot we can learn from our 4 legged furry family members.  

Ruth Coppersmith

DAY TWENTY TWO

Ruth Coppersmith

HEARING AID MONOPOLY BOARD GAME

This took me longer to make than I thought. My manual dexterity and hand eye coordination ain’t what they used to be. My O.T. if I had one would be proud!

If you can’t read the little tags, the first one says “my 1st pair of hearing aids $700, my 2nd pair of hearing aids $1200, my 3rd pair of hearing aids $5000, and how much for batteries over the years??? Who wins? I guess we know.

Susan Reid

Mud Season Polka