By Violet Suta Moran

This essay is an excerpt from Violet’s latest book, Sweetgrass: Growing Up in Montana.

One summer, my three sons and their families came to the mountains of Montana for a reunion with the Suta family.  After a few days in the mountains, we all felt the need to go to the prairie and visit where my siblings and I had lived, the farm we playfully named “The Suta Rock Farm.”  We children thought that name was appropriate because rocks seemed to be the most prolific crop on our wheat farm.

We went into the quonset hut, a large metal storage building,  housing our beloved Hildegard, a 1932 International truck. I was talking about Hildegard to my granddaughters Hannah and Becca, who were maybe five and three years old. I explained that this truck was used when we were picking rocks and pointed out that there were some rocks in the truck bed. I showed them the pulley Pop had installed to be able to crank up the front of the truck box so the rocks would slide off the back.  I said, “We were really happy to have this pulley so that we no longer had to unload the rocks by hand.”  Hannah looked up and said, “Okay, Grandma, I understand that. But why would anybody want to pick rocks?” 

Such a good question, but it was hilarious to the adults.  We doubled over laughing.  None of us ever “wanted” to pick rocks, but they could damage expensive farm machinery if left in the fields.  We didn’t have a choice.      

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Picking rocks

Mom often said, “No rocks, no crops,” as if the rocks added to the land’s fertility. She was trying to encourage us—and herself– to go out and work.  Our idea of “quality family time” was to all go out and pick rocks together.

Mom gave me a small bucket, like a beach toy, so that I could pick rocks with the family.  I was about one year old when we moved onto the farm, so I can honestly say that I started picking rocks as soon as I could walk!!  My little bucket filled quickly, and I kept bothering Mom to empty it onto the truck.  Mom was smart and convinced me that I should pick tiny rocks because nobody else was doing that. Then she didn’t have to empty my bucket so often.

Picking rocks is hard physical labor

You have to bend over, grasp a heavy rock with both hands, stand up, carry the rock to the truck, and lift it up as high or higher than your shoulders to stack it onto the truck bed. Then you walk back to where you picked that rock in order to pick another. The ground is uneven, and your body has to constantly re- balance as you walk back and forth.  Repeat, repeat, and repeat.

We never counted the number of rocks it took to make a truckload, but I can tell you that it is enough to make your muscles sore and your back ache.

When we had picked enough rocks to fill the truck bed of Hildegard, we dumped the load of rocks onto the dam that had been made between a couple of hills to create a reservoir. The reservoir collected water from rain and melted snow to provide a source of water for our cattle. The reservoir was necessary because there was no lake or other source of water on several thousand acres of land.

Large boulders that none of us were able to lift had to be put onto the stoneboat to be hauled away.  The stoneboat was a flat piece of heavy wood about six feet square and low to the ground, with no sides.  Pop used the grader attachment on the tractor to push the boulder onto the stoneboat. If a boulder was partly buried in the ground, we had to dig the soil all around it to wrap chains under it and lift it with the tractor.

 Favorite rocks

Even though my family didn’t like picking rocks, each of us sometimes selected a rock they thought was special and piled it against our house. The rock somehow “spoke” to that person.  None of us ever questioned why a rock was special to a person. No explanation was needed. 

My favorite rock was a huge boulder located down the steep hill from our house. The top of the rock was fairly flat and at least four feet in diameter. As a child, I thought I could hide behind that rock when I didn’t want Mom to see me.  I named that boulder my “Picnic Rock” because I often took dolls and cookies along for a party.  Sometimes I just lay down on the ground behind the rock, enjoying my privacy and watching the white clouds change shape.

Everybody needs a rock

Everybody ought to have a special rock of their own. Your rock will silently communicate with you as you speak to it, touch it, and think about something.  Some people carry a small smooth rock that they can rub with their thumb to help them relax.  

I have a special rock that fits perfectly into the palm of my hand, and I keep it nearby to help me think when I am stressed or stumped over a problem, writing, or planning something.

I think everyone would benefit from having a personal rock.

© 2025 Violet Suta Moran

Violet Suta Moran developed a notable reputation as a nurse prior to retirement and writing. Among her accomplishments was creation of the first Intensive Care Unit in Madison, Wisconsin, in May 1963, one of the first in the nation. Her activities in the nursing profession included publications, holding elective offices, and providing continuing education. She also was a leaderin the specialty of teaching staff to care for children who have profound developmental disabilities. Although her heart remains in Montana, she enjoys living in the beautiful city of Madison, Wisconsin.

By Renee Lajcak

Renee writes both for the page and for performance, adjusting her style for each. “For spoken word, I use shorter sentences, more repetition. On the page, you can be more abstract. For listeners, I keep it visual, ‘in your face’,” she says. Performing lets her shape how her audience experiences her stories through her stress and intonation; reading aloud is how she prefers to publish on this blog.

Christmas on Java

I spent one Christmas on Java, in Indonesia, where familiar traditions were balanced by strange ones and new ones to create a Christmas that I will never forget.

Indonesia has the world’s largest Muslim population and 87% of Indonesians identify as Muslim, but there is no state religion. However, Indonesia recognizes several major religions, so there are national holidays for nearly all: Hindu Nyepi, Muslim Eid, etc. Thus Christmas is a national holiday and a day off of work.

I was looking forward to Christmas Eve in Indonesia. I was invited to a party thrown by the very international, foreign missionaries in town. They were a rather right clique with their shared religious purpose, but invited me to events now and then. Christmas Eve would begin with an international potluck, so I decided to bake something familiar, an American apple pie. This was a challenge in a country with few apples and fewer ovens, but luckily, up in the hills outside my tropical city was a cooler region, famous for this “exotic” fruit. And my homestay family had recently bought an oven, perhaps as a status symbol. No one had ever used it, and it sat like a throne in its shiny white, virginal state. Then I needed fat for the crust. Lard would be nearly impossible to find in Muslim Java, and I didn’t want to use the common palm oil, but I knew I could buy Dutch butter in a can. The pie turned out well and off I went into the evening, darkness falling quickly near the equator. The Christmas Eve potluck with the missionaries was like a quick visit home, with familiar foods and a few Midwesterners. A short skit by the children and some carol singing created a comforting and familiar Hallmark Christmas.

I jumped from familiarity into the exotic and fantastic. The next thing on my Christmas Eve schedule was a wedding! I worked at a university, and our chancellor’s daughter was getting married. The entire staff was invited (and expected to attend) the Javanese wedding reception at the university.

The hall was set up with a large platform at one end, which was covered with flowers and backed by a wooden carved backdrop in gold. A full gamelan orchestra played their xylophones and gongs in the background. On the platform sat the bride and groom, adorned in traditional Central Javanese royalty style, golden sarongs and leis of jasmine. Two young girls with huge fans made of peacock feathers slowly fanned the couple. The guests made a long line to greet and give best wishes to the couple.

After that, we each received a waxed cardboard box of fried chicken and rice to eat. There was no alcohol, of course. It was the most un-Christmassy of Christmas events I had ever been to.

I soon left and hired a “becak”, a bicycle rickshaw or pedicab, to take me home now that it was dark. A couple of blocks from my homestay, I noticed that the big white cement church on the corner had streams of people going in. I had heard that the congregation was made up of people from the Indonesian island of Ambon, and that the Ambonese are famous for their singing. I impulsively told the becak driver to drop me off there. I entered the church and was handed a program. Inside the folded sheet, I found all familiar carols, the lyrics printed in Indonesian, which I could easily read. The familiarity was soothing and the service was nearly all a capella singing. The main section of the church below and the balcony above were packed with Ambonese singing in full, rich voices and harmonies. I felt surrounded by and immersed in reverberating, undulating voices, soothing my brain into total comfort even though I was the only non-Indonesian out of the hundreds there. To me, this captured the familiar essence of Christmas – singing in joy and welcoming a stranger on a peaceful night.

After the service, I walked the remaining two blocks home. It was very dark by then; street lights were few and far between in our city. I could see that my homestay family had gone to bed, so I quietly went to my small house in the backyard and lit my little Christmas tree. I took out my tiny, immoral bottle of rum (hidden from my Muslim homestay family) and poured myself a cup of hot spiced tea spiked with rum. Then I turned on my shortwave radio to find Christmas carols somewhere out there in the world. A drink, a song, a tree – it felt a little like Christmas back home. There weren’t any Christmas bells on Java that night, but every night, each neighborhood watchman hit something every hour on the hour – a hollow log, a bar of metal – as a kind of clock. From where I lived, I could hear at least three of these, ringing and clunking out the deep night hours. Other than those soothing pseudo-bells and a soft carol on the shortwave, there was no sound, no phone to call my family, no one around at all. The quiet of Christmas Eve was with me, both familiar and strange, ordinary and extraordinary.

© 2025 Renee Lajcak

Renee is a newly retired English language teacher who has taught in several Asian countries but now enjoys her woodsy backyard the best.  She loves the connections made through storytelling and teaching conversational English, but writing about memories allows her to go inward to contemplate the good, the bad and the ugly.  But mostly the good. 

By Faith Ellestad

Ok, I’ll host the party, I guess, it is my turn

I put it off for many years,
Well, now I’ll feel the burn.

Memories of gath’rings past come flooding back in waves
A spicy mix of relatives,
Perhaps I’m not that brave.

Conversations swirling, center, left and right,
Oh, I don’t want to stir the flames,
 I’ll just keep out of sight.

Actually, I’ll have to.  I’m making finger food
It’s all hors d’oeuvres and crudites
With booze to lift the mood.   (at least mine)

Tiny teeny weenies with spicy mustard dip
Deviled eggs and homemade guac
Enough for every chip.

The salmon’s smoked and ready in its silver serving dish
Shit! Only half the salmon’s there
I forgot. My cats love fish.

Cheese and sausage platters, olives green and black
Naked shrimp with zesty sauce
This party’s right on track.

Plates on every surface, a wine stain in that chair
Huh. Chocolate on the lampshade
Now how did that get there?

Someone’s double dipping. I hope he’s in good health
Another’s sneaking cookies
Clearly practiced in her stealth

Thank God! the party’s winding down. There’s nothing left to eat
The locusts, they descended
And now are most replete.

I hope I’ve greeted all the guests. Too busy to remember
I must at least have said hello
They’ve been here since September.

Have some coffee, time to go, I’ll text that recipe
Drive carefully, and peace and love
You mean the world to me!

© 2025 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents.  Now retired, she has taken the opportunity to sort through family memorabilia, discovering a wellspring of tales begging to be told, which she hopes to expand upon in written form (where appropriate, of course!).   She and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law, and recently expanded their family to include Thistle and Bramble, two irrepressible young felines.

By Loriann Knapton

Today I made potato salad. I started with my grandmother’s recipe, passed down from one mother in the family to another. As the small red potatoes cook, I start to chop hard-boiled eggs, celery, and onion, and start thinking about my Grandma Ring, her potato salad, and the Pumpkin Hollow Homemakers cookbook of 1955.

Created as a fundraiser, the book is grease-spattered front and back, held together by a plastic spiral strip and filled with recipes, the best each woman in the area had to offer. The typed ingredient lists were very specific, with phrases such as “Use a piece of butter the size of an egg” or “add enough flour to make a soft dough,” and included distinct instructions like “bake until the crust is like butterscotch.”  Or “mix so they will roll out without sticking to the board.”  I cherish the book passed to me when my grandma died. It’s filled with her handwritten notes, added ingredients, and additional recipes jotted in the margins. I still occasionally use the book, mostly when I am feeling nostalgic. But every time I open it, I ponder over how its contributors were credited. Written below each recipe, I see their names. Mrs. Alva Ring, Mrs. Carl Cummings, Mrs. Glen Lawrence, and so it goes with every recipe in the book. In 1955, the credit was given to each woman only as an appendage of the men they married.

I chop a couple of extra eggs, and I think about Mrs. Alva Ring, my paternal grandmother, who always added additional eggs to her potato salad for “substance.” Alma Spielvogel Ring, the daughter of German immigrants, lived through two world wars, the passage of the  19^th Amendment, Prohibition, and the Great Depression. She kept a 22-caliber rifle by the back door of her little house and could drop a rabbit from the doorway at 30 yards, skin it, butcher it, and make a delicious stew in time for company supper which, if anybody asked, was chicken. And neither would she hesitate if she had the good fortune to have one available, to head out to the coop with her kitchen axe to chop off the head of a chicken, tossing it into the garden for fertilizer before gathering its still flopping body from the yard to singe, pluck, and prepare it for Sunday dinner.  The depression taught her to make do with what she had. She was resilient in the face of tragedy, burying her husband and two of her three adult children in the span of seven years. She was also opinionated, honest, direct, and loyal to her friends, and I am so proud to have inherited many of her qualities. She taught me to stand up for myself, take care of myself, and depend on myself.

As I skin and dice warm potatoes, I think about my mother-in-law, Mrs. Roy Knapton Sr. “If the potatoes are warm, the dressing will soak in for more flavor,” Nancy Jean Krueger Knapton always said. She was married at seventeen, bore four children, and buried one before she was twenty-three, then had three more. She worked full-time in a retail store, then came home and canned 52 quarts of peas, carrots, green beans, corn, mixed vegetables, and homemade ketchup from her garden each canning season.  She washed clothes for eight in an old Hoover washer, crocheted and knitted blankets, sweaters, hats, coats, and mittens to keep her family warm, butchered chickens, hunted deer, and taught each of her children how to swim.  She loved roller coasters, card games, and brandy old-fashioneds. She taught me time management, how to take things in stride, never to take myself too seriously.

As I mix the dressing, mustard, vinegar, salt, pepper, and mayonnaise, I think about my mother, Mrs. Lauris Ring. Betty Ann Charlotte Kvidt Ring taught me that mayonnaise, not Miracle Whip, and just a touch of mustard, is the secret to good potato salad. She completed first and second grade in one year, trained as a practical nurse at 17, married my dad, promising in sickness and in health in 1954, then kept her promise, nursing him at home for eight years when he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis four years later.  She worked full-time nights at our local hospital, managed the household, paid the bills, fixed the leaks, hung the pictures, mowed the lawn, took care of the car, volunteered at her church, was a 4-H leader, and delivered Meals on Wheels, all while caring for me and Dad.  Mom never meant to be a feminist. Really, she was a reluctant one. She was a feminist by the necessity of having to juggle it all. She taught me that life is not always perfect, but with resilience, patience, and flexibility, it is possible to find beautiful roses among the thorns.

As I gently fold dressing into the vegetables, I think about my maternal grandmother, Mrs. Elmer Kvidt.  Ruby Corella Opdahl Kvidt was a gentle soul. In her world, the more gently you stirred, the softer the touch, the better the outcome. She knew how to make a point without using a loud voice or overt drama. The daughter of a Lutheran missionary pastor, she lived through two world wars, the great depression, and the grief of losing an infant. She collected water in galvanized pails from an open pipe jutting out of a freshwater spring, 250 yards from the house and the master bathroom; the only bathroom was an outhouse located 35 yards from her back door. Clothes were washed using a squeaky wringer washing machine kept in an unheated back porch, and the galvanized wash tub that collected the clothes as they dropped from the wringer was the same tub she bathed in on Saturday nights.  She never had indoor plumbing until 1978, but I never heard her complain. She was kind to her friends, good to her neighbors, and loved within her small northern Minnesota community.  She taught me that kindness matters, and more importantly, it is really 10 percent what happens to you and 90 percent what you decide to do about it.  

As I wash bowls, spatulas, and the potato pot, I think about my aunt, Mrs. Florian Ring. Helen Marie Wuerch Ring was married to my dad’s brother, and I can hear her in my hea,d “Lori, if we make a mess, we have to clean up a mess.” She taught school in a one-room schoolhouse, married a dairy farmer, raised her own three children, and took in my three cousins and me in the summer of 1963 when our parents were struggling with health issues. She milked cows, drove tractor, fed chickens, tended garden, made the best pies in four counties (it’s in the lard), volunteered as a 4-H leader, served as president of her Homemakers club, managed the many accounts and purchases for the family business and served as the Wyocena town clerk for over 30 years. Helen is 100 years old this year, still lives in her own apartment, and with the aid of a walker exercises daily.  She was and is remarkable. She taught me that cleaning up the messes I make in the kitchen and in my life are the keys to successful living.

Alma Spievogel Ring, Nancy Krueger Knapton, Betty Kvidt Ring, Ruby Opdahl Kvidt, Helen Wuerch Ring. All married, but certainly not defined only by their husband’s name. They have always shined brightly in their own right, lighting the way for their daughters and granddaughters to never have to present themselves, unless by choice, as Mrs. inserts a husband’s name.  They are the women who paved the way for me. Today I made potato salad. Then I opened the pages of the Pumpkin Hollow Homemakers cookbook and defiantly and proudly inked Alma Spielvogel Ring next to Mrs. Alva Ring on each of her recipes.

© 2025 Loriann Knapton

Loriann Knapton has been writing since childhood.  Having crafted countless rhymes, short stories, and personal essays over her sixty-odd years she has a keen interest in ensuring her family memories are recorded for the next generations. Her writing reflects the humorous and poignant experiences of growing up in 1960s small-town America with her mom and disabled dad.

By Janet Manders

My owner handed me over to her eight-year-old granddaughter. Actually, that’s not how it really happened. The kid grabbed me. Right out of the tight, protective grasp of the person who typically holds me. During that abrupt abduction, I yearned for a way to shield my delicate ears from the loud gasps of, “Hey. Be careful. That’s not a toy, you know.”

 It’s rare to be held in different hands. After all, I’m precious; replacing me isn’t cheap. But this unexpected experience feels kind of good if I’m going to be honest. Instead of the usual clench that covers most of my body, this is a looser touch and most of my back is free. I could get used to this.

Fingers begin to poke at my buttons. “Grandma. What’s your password?”

Oh boy. What’s next? I don’t think it’s going to be the gentle scroll through photos that I enjoy taking with my owner. Those scrolls can take all morning long and are often accompanied by soft sighs or laughs. Sometimes, like an early spring drizzle, a single teardrop plops softly onto my face. My ability to store and provide those priceless memories fills me with so much pride.

Uh oh. More pokes. Is this kid going to turn on music and dance with me? If so, I’m a little nervous that what she chooses will feel like a crazy carnival ride. I’m too old for this. Please, please, please, not “Baby Shark!”

I’ve heard that eight-year-olds can be a little impulsive. Rumor has it that my predecessor was dropped by a youngster, resulting in some pretty serious damage to her face and internal organs.

This is getting scary. Where’s my protector? Why is she letting this happen?

I feel a poke on the green call button and immediately relax. I can do this. This is what I was built for. My earliest service for humans.

“Hi. Can I talk to Jo?”

After a moment, I hear a second child’s voice. It’s sweet, maybe a year younger than the eight-year-old. “Hi Cora.”

“Hi, Jo. Did the bunny get caught in the trap we set last night?”

“Well, my dad and I went outside to look this morning. The carrot is gone, but I’m not sure if it was a bunny. Maybe it was a coyote.”

I hear my owner laughing in the background. Much louder than I’ve heard her laugh in a long time. I get it. We live in the concrete jungle of urban Madison, not exactly fertile breeding grounds for coyotes. I wish she’d quiet down, though, so I can hear the rest of the conversation.

“It had to be the bunny, Jo. Coyotes don’t eat carrots.”

“That’s actually not true. I saw it on the internet.”

“The internet lies.”

Oh geez. Those innocents are starting to attack one of my valuable functions. My ancestors’ skills have been developed and refined over the years. Not too long ago, my grandma couldn’t do much more than help her owners talk to others. I’ve evolved, however, and I can now google anything, take those photos, provide a calendar, keep notes, send short written messages, and so much more. If you ask me, I should be listed as one of the seven wonders of the world.

Let those youngsters think what they want. I know the truth. Connection, relaxation, memories, and so much more happens — thanks to me. I love my life. Even in new hands.

This story is based on a conversation between my two granddaughters, probably the first time I heard them talking to each other on the phone. They are very excited to have this story published as they think it makes them famous!

©2025 Janet Manders

Janet Manders writes stories about her life, with the hopes her children and grandchildren will appreciate them years from now. Recent works of hers have been published on True Stories Well Told, on 101words.org and as part of the 2025 Birren Center’s Anthology Collection entitled Second Chances. Janet lives in Madison with her husband, near her daughters, grandchildren, and writing friends.

By Marlene Samuels

My Aunt Esther was ecstatic about hosting Thanksgiving dinner that year because it would be the first holiday she and Uncle Ziggy would be celebrating in their brand new, first-ever house. It was a huge departure from their dreary lilliputian apartment. Aunt insisted on taking responsibility for all things related to Thanksgiving dinner: creating the seating chart she’d read about in Better Homes and Gardens during her beauty-parlor appointments, choosing the menu plus deciding cocktail and dinner hours, detailed in Good Housekeeping’s Thanksgiving Special. What excited her most: the opportunity to demonstrate her unrecognized creativity. Thanksgiving would be her time to shine.

Every adult in our family was an immigrant, Holocaust survivor, and naturalized American citizen and especially patriotic. However, none was as much a student of national holidays, traditions, even specific American foods, as was my Aunt Esther. Mom’s younger sister, she was her antithesis. Besides the food, my mother regarded decorations and holiday activities as extreme money-wasters, but her sister delighted in all the hullabaloo associated with American holidays.

In order to prepare herself to host the important Thanksgiving holiday dinner, Esther sprang into action after Memorial Day weekend. In earnest, she began to collect every relevant decoration she encountered, embracing her “more of everything is better” philosophy.

Suddenly, as though a revelation had just descended upon her head, Esther seemed overwhelmed by the vastness of the responsibilities she’d assumed. Her response? She grew increasingly withdrawn and irritable. A week later, she came to borrow a platter from Mom and without warning erupted at us both. “Obviously, you two haven’t a clue that my responsibilities embody the greatest values of American life!”

Anticipating the move to a new house and hosting our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, Esther announced at my July birthday party, “I must find a turkey decoration for our Thanksgiving table’s center-piece. It’s absolutely critical!” She dreamed of replicating the holiday scene from her favorite Norman Rockwell painting, “Freedom From Want”.

We first had a good look at “it” during Rosh Hashanah dinner at their dreary apartment, right before they moved. Everyone (except Aunt Esther) thought the turkey decoration was seriously repulsive. When out of her earshot, we whispered in the hallway, on the back porch, even to one-another during dinner. She remained irrationally proud of it, so proud that before dinner when we were enjoying chopped liver and crackers in the living room, she circulated it hoping to receive words of admiration. She gloated about how clever she’d been to have bought it in the first place.

“Can you believe I actually found such a thing in a Wisconsin Dells summer flea-market?  Even better, I paid “gournischt” (nothing)!” No one dared express less-than-favorable views. Experience taught us that Aunt Esther leaned toward the hyper-sensitive side.

What about that over-sized plastic turkey had won her heart? None of us understood. “By the way, I’ll bet no one knows that this turkey’s name is Tom-Turkey?” She asked as the oversized decoration was circulating among us. “So don’t call it ‘that thing’ like you were some sort of hunyack! (barbarian).” She demanded. Nonetheless, no one could ignore its truly repellant qualities: meandering glass eyes that bounced continuously, still tacky paint in psychedelic colors evocative of Halloween and— the worst feature of all— an over-bearing, barnyard stench that emanated from its tail-feathers.   

At last, Thanksgiving was upon us and we were in the brand new house. Aunt Esther had just greeted us in her entranceway when suddenly she shouted, “Gott in himmel! (God in heaven) I almost forgot my Tom!” And she bolted into the dining-room. We watched as she plopped Tom-Turkey onto the table’s center.

“What is with these people?” I whispered to Jake. “Is it possible that they lost their sense of smell when they were in the concentration camps?” I continued to wonder where the damned thing had been but especially what might still be clinging onto its tail-feathers. Its tail may have been real feathers but they definitely weren’t from a turkey. We kids were positive they’d been attached to a Peacock’s butt.

Our entire family (except for Aunt Esther) considered Tom-Turkey far too big to be the center-piece. It was so wide that those of us seated on one side of the table couldn’t see anyone seated on the other. Also, the creepy thing was way too tall. Its head grazed the bottom of the chandelier’s lightbulbs.

We all gathered in the living-room, enjoying “Pigs in a Blanket”. “That’s the stupidest name for miniature Hebrew National Kosher hot dogs wrapped in kosher butter-free dough!” sneered Jake. “What moron came up with that one?” Mom’s death-stare halted all discussion and none-too-soon because that instant, Aunt Esther began ringing her dinner bell— a miniature Liberty Bell—purchased specifically for Thanksgiving.

We ambled to the dining-table. Our assigned seats were designated with leaf-shaped name cards in autumn colors. Everyone appreciated that this was the first holiday we’d celebrate at Aunt Esther and Uncle Ziggy’s first ever house. Other than Tom-Turkey, the table really was a work of art. My aunt had outdone herself! Color coordinated napkins and plates in autumn tones of terra cotta reds and umber golds indicated each place-setting. Paper maple leaves were scattered atop the russet-colored heavyweight paper table-covering and six vanilla-scented candles surrounded Tom-Turkey. While the adults were sitting, we kids whispered that the scented candles were Esther’s attempt to camouflage Tom-Turkey’s stench.

Candles were lit, wine poured, toasts made.

“Mazel Tov!” Shouted my father, raising his filled wine glass overhead.

“Mazel Tov and Happy Thanksgiving!” we shouted. Then, like a chorus line, everyone swerved to admire Uncle Ziggy approaching the table bearing the weight of a massive golden turkey on an equally massive platter. Stoically, he struggled toward the table bearing the massive strain when, suddenly, he stumbled forward dropping the full weight of the platter atop the table with just a tad too much force. The table shuddered under the load. Its wobbling triggered every candle surrounding creepy Tom-Turkey to topple, each in a different direction.

That’s when the real excitement of our celebration took off! Tom’s tail-feathers began to smolder, then ignited releasing a brutal stench. One nano-second later, the entire table-cover was ablaze. Those of us seated were utterly immobilized—staring in fascination at the spectacle—while flames engulfed the table before our very eyes. Likely, the intensifying stench of burning feathers knocked us back into consciousness. Without hesitation, Uncle Ziggy jumped up, lunged toward the table, grabbed the turkey-bearing platter and staggered into the living-room.

Mom was in her own choreographed performance. She sprang into action, grabbing her seat-cushion and pummeling Tom-Turkey to smother his burning feathers. Meanwhile, Dad also jumped to his feet. Hoisting two full water pitchers from the sideboard, he emptied them across the burning table-cover and around Tom-Turkey. The prevailing chaos was all we kids needed to join the craziness. For our part, we grabbed every water-filled glass and, in a show of unbridled enthusiasm, followed Dad’s example. 

“Fast work putting out that fire, Meyer!” Aunt said. “But Ziggy,” she gushed, “you saved the turkey and our Thanksgiving!”

“Gott zay dank!” (Thank God) I saved the only turkey worth saving!” He countered. “I told you that thing’s a piece of dreck (shit). Enough mit (with) your disgusting Tom-Turkey business. Let’s eat!”

Aunt Esther grabbed her plate from the table, emptied its water and collected her wine glass, napkin and silverware. “We still have the turkey and all the food thanks to Ziggy, so to the living room we’ll go! Who needs a dining room, anyway?” She added. Everyone followed her lead. Ziggy had placed the platter bearing the roast turkey atop their television cabinet. He was in the midst of his knife-sharpening performance as the adults seated themselves around the living-room sofas and kids sat on the floor. Plates filled with slices of turkey and side dishes were passed. Again, glasses were raised and again, Dad shouted, “L’Chayim!” 

Happy Thanksgiving!” shouted everyone, but Dad had another important message.   

“Never mind that we Jews are always saying, ‘Next year in Jerusalem’. How about we say ‘next year in the dining room’?”

Again, all glasses were raised, “Next year in the dining room!”

© Marlene Samuels 2025

Marlene holds a Ph.D., from University of Chicago. A research sociologist by training, she writes creative non-fiction by preference. Currently, she is completing her book entitled Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story.  She is coauthor of The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival, and author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact-Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers. Her essays and stories have been published widely in anthologies, journals, and online.  (www.marlenesamuels.com)

By Josh Feyen

This is part two of a two-part series on a topic we don’t talk about. (Click here to read part one.)

Now, I’ll be the first to admit, as a man, I can’t speak from personal experience on this topic. But I can tell you what I’ve learned from the women in my life, and why half the world’s population dealing with something every month means the other half needs to pay attention. Dudes, I’m talking to you. Women, we’re sorry this can be painful, and we’re going to get better at talking about it. And for those of you who menstruate—you shouldn’t have to hide something this normal or suffer in silence.

Growing up on a Wisconsin farm in a conservative school district, I learned about periods approximately once, in health class. I was in 7^th grade, and we were taught by our visibly uncomfortable gym teacher who I imagined drew the short straw to teach the class. Health class was big into talking about the Reagan-era “Just Say No” to drugs curriculum, but we rarely talked about bodies and reproduction. When we did, the boys and girls were separated; the girls got a lesson in menstrual products and the boys were warned about wet dreams. I filled in the rest with encyclopedia entries on genitalia, and whispered conversations when one of the girls in our group spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom. This left me woefully unprepared for actual human biology (except now I knew about wet dreams. Sheesh).

Here’s what I wish someone had told teenage me about periods: they’re not just about bleeding. Menstrual cramps can range from mild discomfort to pain so severe that women vomit, faint, or can’t get out of bed. Some women experience mood changes due to hormonal shifts—and before you roll your eyes about “PMS,” understand that hormones affect everything from pain tolerance to emotional regulation to sleep. It’s not “being dramatic.” It’s biology.

Let me tell you about a time I actually got it right, though it took a friend’s obvious pain to teach me. I was spending the day with a close friend when I noticed her wince. Then wince again. Waves of pain kept crossing her face, and she’d go quiet for a moment, her jaw clenched, before trying to continue our conversation as if nothing was wrong. “Are you okay?” I finally asked. “Do you need some pain reliever or something?”

She gave me a look that was half gratitude, half frustration. “You have no idea,” she snapped, louder than she probably intended.

She was right—I didn’t. But I could see that her pain was real and intense. I didn’t take the outburst personally. Instead, I asked what would help. She needed a nap, some privacy, and for me to stop asking questions. So that’s what I provided. Later, when she was feeling better, she thanked me for not making it weird and for just helping.

That experience was a crash course in empathy. Menstrual cramps aren’t just “a little discomfort”—for some women, they’re debilitating. Offering help matter-of-factly—not making a big deal out of it, not acting squeamish—is exactly what’s needed. And sometimes people snap when they’re in pain. Don’t take it personally.

I learned how crucial it is to handle these situations calmly when I was camping with my nieces and nephew one weekend. I kept noticing the four girls—ranging from early to mid-teens—disappearing together just outside camp for little conferences. This happened three or four times over the course of the afternoon. Finally, I pulled my oldest niece aside.

“Hey, is everything okay? You all keep heading off together. If something’s wrong, I need to know.”

She looked relieved that I’d asked. “My sister just got her first period,” she said quietly. “We’re trying to figure out what to do because we only have tampons, and Mom doesn’t want her using those yet.”

Here was a moment where I could have made it weird, or awkward, or acted like I couldn’t possibly help with “girl stuff.” Instead, I treated it like the practical problem it was.

“Okay,” I said. “First, she should call your mom. This is something she’ll want to know about. And your mom can give her advice about what to do. Second, I can drive to the store right now and get whatever supplies she needs. Just tell me what to buy.”

The relief on her face was immediate and she returned to the group to relay my suggestion and offer. My niece called her mom, who talked her through things. By the end of the call the girls had everything handled among themselves, but knowing I’d been willing to help without making it embarrassing clearly mattered.

What struck me most was watching those four young women support each other. They’d created a little circle of care, making sure this first period didn’t feel scary or shameful. My nephew, on the other hand, spent the afternoon playing with the fire. He was either oblivious to their conferences or ignoring the girls’ disappearance. I suspect he, like me, hadn’t been adequately prepared to participate or talk about what was going on. 

This is exactly what we should all be doing—treating periods as the routine biological function they are, not as some shameful secret. I’ve watched close friends miss important events, and I suspect some of my coworkers miss work—because the pain was too severe. And I’ve learned that “just part of being a woman” is a dismissive phrase that ignores real suffering. 

So what can you do, especially if you’re a guy who feels awkward about the whole topic?

Be prepared. Keep a small supply of pads and tampons somewhere accessible—your car’s glove box, your backpack, your bathroom cabinet. Not as a weird statement, just as a practical courtesy. I learned to do this the hard way. I help organize a weekend workshop each year that brings together men and women, and one year I was in charge of buying supplies—unscented soap, hand sanitizer, and menstrual products for anyone who might need them during the weekend. Simple enough, right? I walked into the grocery store with confidence, and on finding the menstrual products aisle I was immediately unsure of my mission. 

There were so many options. Pads with and without wings (wings?), thin, thick, overnight, regular, light. Tampons in different sizes with different applicators (applicators too?). Menstrual cups. Liners. I stood there flabbergasted, realizing I was totally unqualified for the task, having no idea what anyone might actually need. So I did what seemed reasonable: I called a friend who talked me through finding variety packs of both pads and tampons, figuring that in a pinch, having options was better than having nothing.

It worked—people were grateful to have supplies available, and nobody cared that I hadn’t selected the perfect brand. That experience taught me two things. First, it’s okay not to know exactly what to buy. Variety packs exist for a reason. Second, the awkwardness I felt standing in that aisle was nothing compared to the relief of someone who needs a product and doesn’t have one. My momentary discomfort was worth it (and my friend was truly impressed that I thought to call her).

Don’t make it weird. If someone mentions they’re on their period, don’t act shocked or grossed out. Just respond like they told you they have a headache—with normal human empathy. “That sucks, do you need anything?” works infinitely better than nervous laughter or changing the subject. Offer practical help. A heating pad or hot water bottle, pain reliever, chocolate, or tea aren’t stereotypes—they’re things that genuinely help some people. So is just asking, “What would make this easier for you right now?” Sometimes the answer is “nothing,” and that’s fine too. The asking matters.

Never, ever use periods as an insult or excuse. Don’t ask someone if they’re on their period because they’re angry or upset. Don’t joke about PMS. Don’t dismiss someone’s legitimate feelings by attributing them to their cycle. This is basic respect.

The most significant lesson about periods? Respect and empathy. When your partner, friend, or sister says she’s not feeling well because she’s on her period, don’t dismiss it as “girl problems” or suggest she’s overreacting. Believe her. Offer help. And if she snaps at you because she’s in pain, remember my friend’s words: “You have no idea.”

She’s right. You might not. But you can still show up with compassion.

© 2025 Josh Feyen

Josh is writing a book titled “Out With It, The Things We Don’t Talk About” he hopes to publish in 2026. Subscribe to his Substack for a weekly dose of his writing. https://joshuafeyen.substack.com

He was raised on a farm in southwest Wisconsin, went to college in Milwaukee, lived abroad for four years on three continents, and now finds himself with stories to tell. In the middle of 2021, Josh set about writing 50 short memoir stories in his 50th year. Today, the main focus of Josh’s 50 in 50 writing journey is to share what he’s learned with his four teenage nieces and nephew. Josh lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Find his other blog posts for True Stories Well Told here.

By Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Sometimes I have an empty feeling when I wake up—feeling in no place. I’m taking up space.

Always when I walk each morning these feelings fade, seeing everything here in the Sonoran desert enveloped in green, and seeing a ring of tiny yellow flowers atop the barrel cactus, and seeing the Mesquite tree with its airy leaves, and seeing Arizona’s state Palo Verde tree with its green bark and its golden flowers appearing in late spring, and seeing the bird families crossing the road, mother in front, father in back leading their pack to safety, and seeing a rabbit scurrying to find cool shelter, all are uplifting.

*

Sometimes, well, often, I wish I were in the body that I had for all of my life before three spinal vertebrae fractures were recently repaired. It isn’t easy to stand up straight. I’m mega compressed. My breasts, diaphragm, and belly are squeezed together. Sometimes pain results. And I’m five inches shorter; I was already short.

Sometimes negative thoughts clutter my headspace. 

Sometimes I wish I had more self-confidence. Like when I could stand up straight before the vertebrae were repaired and didn’t look or feel like an old woman. Seeing myself in the mirror is discouraging and disheartening. I should stop looking. Or cover the mirrors (not too realistic) like an Orthodox custom of covering them during shiva, the seven-day mourning period after the death of a Jewish person.

Always good thoughts are harder to retrieve.  

Sometimes my husband says just the right thing. He says I look fine. I’m pretty. And he reminds me I’m still me, the same me I have always been.

*

Sometimes there are spaces of silence. 

During their visit, our daughter and son-in-law sat on the living room sofa, reading on their respective phones. Our granddaughter was on her iPad in the guest room. My husband was on the computer in his office. It was quiet. It was still. There was no place for me.

Always I’ve wished for more closeness with our daughter. Happily, we hugged and kissed before she, her husband, and our granddaughter left for home. 

I got a text, “Thanks for having us,” as they boarded the plane. 

A sweet ending. 

Always I’ve wished for more closeness with our granddaughter. Now she’s a teenager. One thing we shared was browsing through the photo book which we will pass on to her, showing the history of our families, including some who lived in the 1800s. 

She said, “It’s real cool.” 

We had a big hug before she left for home. 

She’s very tall, like her father.

*

Always food connects us, especially enjoying decadent and sinful chocolate desserts.

• Chilled crystal bowls of velvety, creamy chocolate mousse, 

• Squares of fudgy chocolate chip brownies, 

• Slices of chocolate cheesecake,  

All served with chilled chocolate mocha lattes.  

Sometimes for a special occasion I serve an applesauce noodle kugel reminiscent of this pudding made by our ancestors, Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe. Sometimes I make three kugels and freeze them ahead for later use.

*

Sometimes my husband makes a salmon salad, a favorite of our guests for brunch.   

Instructions: 

Open a can of salmon, chop and debone the contents. Add mayonnaise, relish, and cut up small pieces of celery. Mix thoroughly. Fridge. Best served on a croissant. Or on crusty caraway-seeded rye bread.

*

Always the best bagels in the shop are still warm from the kettle. Pumpernickel is my favorite. Second is cinnamon-raisin. Third is whole wheat. Lox (smoked salmon) is placed on any bagel is perfect. Plain. I’m different. No cream cheese. 

Sometimes available at the bagel shop is the bialy, shortened for the Bialystoker kuchen, a bread roll filled in the middle with onion and poppy seeds, chewier than a bagel, and originally created by Jewish bakers in Białystok, Poland.

Sometimes friends and I gather at a café bakery, schmoozing, sitting on bistro chairs at a round table outside, enjoying the warmth of fall, and eating freshly baked pastries. My choice, an apricot danish.

*

Sometimes, well, almost always, my breakfast includes a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios with almond milk and many mornings my husband and I eat breakfast together. When we go to a restaurant for breakfast, I order a waffle and spread a small amount of butter and lots of maple syrup over it. My second choice is French toast, especially when it is made with challah (egg bread).

*

Sometimes it’s a struggle to remember all the sometimes. What happened to all the sometimes?

Always, despite these feelings, I say a Hebrew prayer thanking God for restoring my soul and giving me another day of life.

Always, there’s a spark ignited within me when I write.

© 2025 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101.org, and poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and a very proud grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice.