A Day at the Cat Show

An very elderly man wearing a black suit and carrying a cane came to the table where all the cat toys, stuffed mice and feathers on sticks were displayed. He looked at our handmade banner in back of us proclaiming us an organization that rescues cats. “I got my cat from a shelter a few years ago,” he said. “He’s black with a little bit of white on his chin. Every time I go upstairs he follows me, follows me all day because he has to know what I’m doing. He sits on the arm of my chair when I watch television and he does a little dance when I open his can of tuna.” He took 2 quarters out of a handful of change that he pulled out of his pocket and carefully placed them on the table to purchase a catnip mouse, that he put back in the same pocket the change came from. Then he just said, “I like him,” and he abruptly walked away.

A little later a another man walked in back of our table to get a closer look at the 6 cats we brought with us, as our little good will ambassadors, two grey and white tigers, an orange tabby, a calico and a pair of older “coon” kittens. “I wish I could have another one,” he said almost to himself. Then he turned toward me and said, “My landlord said no pets, but he owed me a big favor. So when a little stray kitten showed up at the door I asked him to make an exception. Well, he didn’t really show up at the door. I found him crying loudly in the bushes in front of the building. It was very tiny-- should have been with its mother, really. My landlord said, “’you’ve been a great tenant. Just make sure you get it spayed.’” “My wife wasn’t sure at first. She never had a cat and thought they just lived outside and came to eat and then left you alone. But the kitten, it took right to her. It would cry outside the door when my wife took a shower. Then she’d put the towel around her neck and open the door and pick up the kitten. It would snuggle on her shoulder and knead the towel. Got so it knows the sound of her car from mine pulling into the driveway and runs after her everywhere she goes. She used to sleep late in the morning and just hated getting up. Now she gets up an hour early every morning to have special time with the cat. Oh, it likes me well enough, but it is just crazy for her. I really would like another one, though.”
visit the shelter where I used to volunteer--- http://www.catsontheweb.org/

My Father's Kitchen

My father’s kitchen was immaculate, but it never smelled like pine or disinfectant. It had this heavenly smell of fresh onion, hints of garlic and pungent Italian cheeses. A counter ran along one wall, broken up in the center by a white porcelain sink with a window just above it. On the window ledge were several small pots of parsley and basil seedlings. At one end of the counter there was always a basket of Spanish onions and a bowl of jumbo garlic with white papery skin. The counter surface had a dull gleam from countless washing but nowhere could a chip or scratch from a careless knife or utensil be found. Meats and vegetables were diced with precision on a wooden cutting board kept in one of the 6 yellow metal cabinets below the counter. The interior of each cabinet above the counter was lined with plastic coated paper.
There was nothing in the cabinets that you wouldn’t find in any kitchen-- pots, pans, cups, glasses, bowls, plates, jars of spice, condiments and food staples. What was remarkable was the meticulous placement of each item--neatly stacked rows all lined up on an invisible grid. Previously opened jars and containers gleamed like new. The handles on the inverted coffee cups all pointed in the same direction like a series of clocks all pointing to ten past two. The drawers in lower cabinets were filled with perfectly folded dish-towels and the silverware nested in even piles.

Every Saturday a huge pot would simmer on the largest burner of the gas stove. The tomato sauce inside would send up huge bubbles that would burst on the surface and release an aroma that could only be described as divine. As the scent would permeate the entire house, stomachs would growl and mouths would salivate. No matter--no dipping into that sauce ‘till Sunday dinner at 1”oclock. This was my father’s kitchen and things here were done his way, the way they should be done--the right way--the only way. But he was not a harsh or stern man. He was a man sure of himself and his universe and this made his kitchen a place of comfort rather than intimidating; a safe and orderly place.
I loved to watch my father prepare food. I would sit beside him on a stool and lean forward with my elbows resting on the counter. He would tell me stories about his family and his childhood. The stories were interspersed with cooking instructions that he would give over and over again each time I watched him, as if I had never heard them before. He must have told me to clean up as I go along a million times. And always add a few drops of water to the can of tomato paste to get the last little drop. The stories formed an ongoing narrative; bits and pieces loosely linked together, about his parents, the hills of Benevento, Italy, and the section of the Bronx in New York City known as “Little Italy.” As a child I hung on every word and rarely thought of the hardship and tragedy in the life of an immigrant orphaned at six years of age and stricken with polio at nine.
The immigration photograph above, probably taken at Ellis Island, showed my dad, the last figure on the right, at the age of four. His mother has his little brother George on her lap. George died shortly after this photo was taken. His brother Sam and his sister Nancy are also in the photo. Dad’s father and two older sisters, Rafaela and Mary, had already immigrated into the country to pave the way for the entire family.

Mending

Mending

It came to breaking down her things,
Into small parcels, into the hands of the ones she had loved.
And I went away clutching the small straw sewing basket,
To be stashed away, in a secret place,
And retrieved again on quiet nights,
Or in those early morning hours when she is close,
To trace my fingers over the odd assortment of
Smooth round buttons, crinkled foil packets of darning needles,
And tangles of colored threads,
All woven together in a curious tapestry
embraced now, as my own

Autumn

Autumn

The leaves were turning then
The last she’d ever see
My heart was full of pain
she was as beautiful to me
as the leaves before they fell
their colors only deepened
by the early autumn rain

My Mother The Dancer

My Mother the Dancer

My mother the dancer
cut my tights when I was
in the third grade
to make herself stockings

Sat on the floor of the
living room with me
and made paper dolls
while mold grew on
old pots of spaghetti

Cut my hair so badly
the teacher asked
if she put a bowl
over my head

Sang songs to me
about a rubber dolly
and the hokey pokey
and drew pictures
of girls with long eyelashes

Let me help
wind the yarn into balls
crocheted slippers and sweaters
that shrunk up in the washer

My mother the dancer
dressed up fine on Friday nights
and went out with Irma
and the girls
while my father paced the floor

This is Little Vic, who came to be known later as Captain Crisci. He was my big brother, and frequently he was my hero. I miss him.

Captain Crisci, formerly known as Little Vic

The obituary of Captain Crisci
Captain Victor P. Crisci formerly of Leominster Massachusetts, died in a Key West, Florida, hospital after a long illness, on July 8, 2000. He was born in New York City but moved to Leominster with his family as a child and remained in Leominster until entering the Coast Guard in 1960. After 23 years, he retired from the Coast Guard as a Chief Petty Officer in 1983. He was a Viet Nam Vet and also served as the Chief Bosun’s mate for 8 years on the Coast Guard Sailing Ship, The Eagle, one of the Tall Ships. Captain Crisci was a colorful and well known resident of Key West since his retirement and lived on his sailboat, the Fantasii. He is survived by 4 children, Candice and Veronica Crisci of Brownsville, Texas, Chris Crisci of Clearwater FL., Karen Crisci of Weston FL, and a granddaughter, Megan Crisci, of St Petersburg, FL. He also leaves 10 brothers and sisters, George Crisci of Hopkinton MA, Susan Phillips of Fitchburg, MA, Nancy Samrow of New Orleans, LA, Danny and David Crisci of Leominster, MA, Virginia Elliott, who lives in Germany, Wayne and William Aho of Leominster, MA, Sharon Gionet of Orange, MA and Melanie Davis of Athol, MA. His father, Victor E Crisci passed away in May of 1998 and His mother, Agnes Aho, passed away in October of 1993.

Tomatoes

I was sure that my father, who passed away a few years ago, never understood my desire to write poetry any more than my need to plant roses. Once, while visiting me, my father looked out over my extensive flower garden and said, “ you should plant tomatoes–you can’t eat roses.” Before winning the Matti Antilla poetry award from Fitchburg State College, I showed him the poem I intended to enter and joked that if I won the prize, I would earn money and I would be able to eat.

I was elated when I won that award. He was the first person I called to tell. I realized, shortly before his death, that he really did understand and indeed, took pride in my striving for and reaching a goal that was important to me.

Tomatoes

Little green shoots that sprout
between stalk and branch are suckers
he says for the hundredth time
as if he knows, for the hundredth time, I will forget
Pluck them off, make the main stems stronger, tomatoes larger

I murmur, yes dad
watch him reach around to his back pocket
pull loose one of the dangling strips of cloth
ripped from old tee shirts and faded pajamas
Gingerly, he ties a large branch to a stake

At his instruction, I squat beside each plant
spoon white powdered fertilizer into each little trench
he has scratched into the brown dirt
Not to close to the stalk now, he warns,
you’ll burn the roots”

When we finish the last plant
we carry our tools to the shed
Walking back to the house
he doesn’t look back to admire our handiwork
For the hundredth time I fail to tell him
when it is my turn, I will plant roses

Comfort Food

Hamburger Rice Soup


Fill a big pot with water.
Add 1 package/envelope of Lipton onion soup mix,
a pound of ground beef
2 cups of rice


boil about 1/2 hour. That's it.


When I was raising 3 kids as a stay at home mom I could afford a pound of ground beef and rice was really cheap too. I got the recipe from a woman who ran a huge daycare and had to feed a big bunch of kids. So I made it very often and my kids loved it. I used to think it was pretty good too. It's been years since then and the other day I remembered that recipe. I made it for my oldest daughter who was visiting with her daughter. She loved it and when on and on about how much she had missed it.
I found it to be too bland. I'll have to doctor it up if I ever make it again.

Faith's first essay

Faith's first essay of which I am very proud. it's several years old and I still crack up every time I read it.

Unjust Desserts

UnJust Desserts
I find it malicious that all things delicious
must add a few pounds to my hips
It just isn't fair that I'm filled with despair
each time chocolate passes my lips
If justice prevailed then my sister'd get nailed
for her cheesecake and pie ala mode
but the bitch stays so lean that it's making me green
and I pray for the day she'll explode

"just kidding Nancy"

Dating Advice

From all the ladies in my singles group:
Forget about men, what you need is girlfriends

From the lady who sits at my table where I go swing dancing:
Show some skin, wear a low cut blouse and show them off. Flaunt em and you’ll get asked to dance more often.

From my oldest daughter, Christine:
Don’t give up. There’s a whole bunch of lonely men out there. A lot of them work at Walmart.

From my sister Sharon:
1. Don’t talk about your cat.
2. Men want to talk about themselves so ask a lot of questions.
3. Don’t act intelligent, men hate it when you are smarter than they are.

From my daughter Sandy:
Don’t date. You will be happier alone.

From my X:
Don’t pick up men at the flea market. They only want your tools.

From my youngest daughter:
Don’t marry the first man you date.

From my sister Sharon:
Don’t sleep with a man on the first date. That never worked for me.

From my co-worker Carole:
Make sure he has a good relationship with his mother

Note to self:
Make sure he doesn’t live with his mother.

From co-worker Dianne:
Stay off of the internet!!!

From co-worker Jonathan:
All men are pigs. The nice ones just wait longer.