Weaving, Writing and Creating on the Shoreline

NFS

Spring greetings to you, my dear friends. Life has been interesting here in southeastern Connecticut, and I’ve been busy weaving and writing. My writing group challenged me to put a book of my poetry together, so I took a hiatus from Synchronicity’s sequel to do just that. While I was gathering together years of poetry, of course, new ones made themselves known. And when the muse calls, we are obligated to respond, or it will just move on to someone more agreeable. I think it was in Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic that she writes about that. A treasure of a book if you haven’t read it. 

And while I’m trying to be more agreeable when the muse comes calling, I admit I was a bit reticent to put a collection of my poetry out into the world. I’ve published some poems and shared a few over the years, but largely, I’ve kept them to myself. Poetry, to me, is a very vulnerable sort of writing, often inspired by emotions, experiences, nature, and what moves us.  I took a deep breath or two or twenty, and just sent the last of my material to my, ever so patient, formatting professional, and he is in the process of making my manuscript look like a book. I expect Reflections on a Rainbow Moon  (from a magic cottage by the sea) to be released this June. Stay tuned.

In the meantime, I’ve discovered a love of weaving tapestries on a smallish wooden loom. And as it is with my writing, it tells me what it wants to be as I go. Three were selected to be in a recent show at the Spectrum Gallery in Centerbrook. It is a fabulous place to find local art and hand-crafted items of all kinds. My writing group finally found a name, Poetry & Prose and we are often out and about doing book signings at various locations and events.

My first novel, a Cape Cod romance called  Synchronicity - Two Hearts, One Spirit, a Forbidden Love, has found placement at Kaleidoscope in Chester, CT. As well as at the historic Brewster General Store on Cape Cod. In my story, my hero stops at the store in Brewster and discovers something that changes everything.

At a time when we all ache to see more kindness in our world, here is a real-life story called Meeting Jeffrey, by Paul Hensler. He is a wonderful writer on all things baseball and a very kind human being. We need more of those.

In search of a good meal near O’Hare Airport in the spring of 2024, I discovered a quirky, upscale eatery called Hugo’s Frog Bar & Chop House within walking distance from my hotel.

Satisfied with the fare, I returned the following year and was served again by Joseph, the

bartender who had waited on me before and hadn’t forgotten how to make a good cocktail. My latest visit, like the first, was on a slow, mid-Sunday afternoon as other patrons shuffled in and out for drinks or a bite to eat either at the bar or in the open-area dining room.

While enjoying a salad and continuing to sip my Manhattan, a man, likely in his mid-thirties,

took a place two seats to my right. He was dressed in plain dark trousers and an unassuming

light blue, short-sleeve shirt. His pate was a buzz-cut. Joseph approached him and, in standard fashion, inquired as to any beverage he would like to order. But staring down at his phone – or maybe it was the bar before him, the customer failed to reply. Unoffended since he had assuredly dealt with many people for a long time in this line of business, Joseph stepped away to tend to other chores behind the bar. He knew the man would soon stir and that an order of some sort would be given.

Shortly, as Joseph was coming back for a return engagement, I caught his eye, pursed my lips a bit, and nodded in the direction of the silent customer, as if to say, What’s up with him? But having encountered all kinds while on the job, Joseph quickly solved the seeming mystery on his second attempt at getting the customer’s attention: a few hand gestures indicated the condition of the man’s inability to hear. With the ice now broken and the bartender able to use a tad of ASL, orders for a beverage and a house specialty were placed. Customer service came to the fore, and all seemed right with the world.

With the customer’s meal soon served and in the process of being consumed, the maître d’

happened by the far end of the bar and cheerfully asked, “How is your steak, sir?” Receiving no reply, but like Joseph, having also met all manner of the general public, he too simply moved on to his next hosting responsibility with no hint of taking umbrage. A few minutes later, however, I got his attention and motioned him over. Leaning in a bit, I explained, concisely and sotto voce, “The gentleman is deaf,” and the maître d’ tipped his head back slightly to acknowledge the reason for the unintended cold shoulder.

As I finished my own entrée and the customer did likewise, I had to gluttonously go the extra

mile and ask for some Key lime pie for dessert. “It’s a big piece,” Joseph alerted me, “but you

can eat half and take the rest home for later.” Although I appreciated this helpful suggestion, he could not have known that I was staying at the nearby Hilton and getting on a plane the next morning. Any part of the pie not eaten would only go to waste, but I called his bluff about the size of the portion – how large could it actually be? – and agreed to indulge. Upon arrival, this decoratively-topped-with-meringue, one-quarter of the entire pie was staring me in the face and begging to be shared.

Wishing to divest myself of some of this sweet surplus, I turned to my left and asked my

neighbor if he was interested in some of my bounty. “Sure, but just a sliver,” he said, so with

extra plate and clean utensils, I trimmed off an edge and passed it over. There was still an ample amount of pie to be enjoyed, so I next turned to my right. After a polite wave to draw the notice of my other neighbor, I made a sawing motion at the side of the pie to indicate my offer, and he nodded with gratitude if not cheerfulness. Not given any size restriction as prevailed with the sliver, I lopped off a healthier portion, and we exchanged thanks, and you’re welcome through some hand signals and head-nods.

I glanced around the bar area and at whatever distraction was on the nearby television as I

worked my way through the still-too-big Key lime portion. As my caloric reverie continued, my

right-side friend was tapping on his phone – no surprise; who doesn’t? – but then he leaned over and handed it to me. The large-sized gold letters of his message stood out against the screen’s black background. “Thanks, you made my day,” related the cheerful opening. But the ensuing text was heart-rending.

“My wife just passed away after three months in intensive care,” it continued. The message

ended with his expression of appreciation for performing the random act of kindness we hear so much about. As I read this, and already being seated and turned in his direction, my head dropped in shock and I reached to clasp his forearm. What else to do? How else to react to such news? I believe I patted my chest over my heart to show love and sympathy over his ordeal, but I don’t recall now exactly what I did. In the event, this was my own spate of being grief- stricken.

Needless to say, this was one of the most humbling moments I’ve ever experienced. Here we

were, two bar patron-diners, paired up in a chance meeting that became immersed in emotion. Soon, he introduced himself via his phone with letters that spelled Jeffrey. In the blank space below his entry, I replied, Paul. Reading this, he verbalized my name as some deaf-mutes are able to do, and although it sounded a bit like paw, he was sincere about and grateful for this serendipitous encounter.

Jeffrey paid his bill, and as he prepared to leave, I showed him the short message that I added to an existing Note (and that still remains) on my phone: “I will always remember this!” We shook hands and, as has become fashionable even among strangers, we did a brief guy-hug. He walked away, and, stunned at what I had just learned and how I had been deeply touched, I re-assumed my place on the barstool. Slumped at my seat – at least psychologically I was, if not physically – I let what had just happened sink in and further noticed that the unfinished pie had not gone anywhere. The pace of business was still slow in the late afternoon, and I told Joseph about Jeffrey’s plight. Somberly, the barkeep said he sees that a lot around the year-end holidays, when “lonely hearts” come into the restaurant looking to avoid the joy in which others are reveling or otherwise needing to share the story of their own sorrow.

We can’t tell when we might make a difference – even the slightest – in someone’s life. A quote attributed to the late Robin Williams is instructive: “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind, always.” This tactful admonishment counsels a bit of detachment yet emphasizes compassion. Indeed, be kind, always.

Poetry & Prose will be there with our books and hand-woven tapestries.

Featured Tapestry (available for purchase)

Hand-woven and inspired, each are created with texture in mind, using a variety of the softest materials, making each tapestry feel like a hug.

Fluffernutter/ $45

Approx. 11x17 " plus hanger

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