Writers of the Round Table

Writers of the Round Table

The Harriet May Savitz Writers of the Round Table
Our History

In February of 2001, author Harriet May Savitz, at a Senior Citizens meeting, extended an invitation to any interested persons to come together and form a creative writing group. That was all that was necessary. The rest is history.

On February 14, 2001 a group of eight Senior Citizens, namely Rose Cirelli, Milton Edelman, Mildred Koweek, Ann Marzano, George H. Moffett, Elia Reyes, Harriet May Savitz, and Edna Wilkins met for the first time under the enthusiastic leadership of Mrs. Savitz. They decided to name the group, The Writers of the Round Table of Bradley Beach.

Present Information

As the writer’s group continued to meet weekly, a bond formed amongst the members and we knew we were here to stay. So many exciting articles and essays are being written by our group, that we decided to go out on the internet and share them with you.

We are not professionals and we do not pretend to be. We are a group of creative Senior Citizens who are promoting the motto of our organization: “Let’s not look back!  Let’s give back!”

We welcome new members at our weekly meetings on Wednesday at 10:00 A.M. at the Carmen A. Biase Community Center in the Municipal Complex, 719 Main Street, Bradley Beach, N.J. 07720.

Our Writings:

TALLYING UP THE CHEWING GUM Irene Maran

Recently, my son dropped off an old school desk that had been stored in his garage for years.  It was an antique desk I left behind when I sold him my house.  The desk is wood with a round inkwell hole on the right side and a groove on top to hold pens and pencils.  It has a folding seat attached to the front.  At one time this desk was one of many lined up in a row standing on a classroom floor.  I don’t remember where I purchased the desk, probably at a garage sale, but I do recall memories of sitting at a desk like this one while attending elementary school.

I was happy to be reacquainted with the old desk again.  My decision to try and restore it was an easy one.  I would scrape and polish the metal legs and hinges on the seat.  I would sand the wooden desk carefully so as not to disturb or eliminate all the initials, hearts and names of the children that were carved in it by little hands using this desk at one time or another.  The date of l961 had been etched in the top of the desk by one of the students.  I wondered how long it took before someone decided to put this date on the desk.  I was thankful they did.

As I turned the desk over to get a better view of its condition, I was shocked by my discovery.  The entire underside of the desk was covered in a rainbow of colored chewing gum.  Each piece of gum was stuck under the desk and left there to harden and become preserved for posterity.  I was indecisive about scraping all the gum off immediately before starting my renovation of the desk or just leaving it there for a taste of nostalgia.  I’m sure all the germs, saliva and traces of secretion had run its course a long time ago.  Then again, there is probably a ton of DNA under the desk to identify the children who sat there.  I thought about scraping and saving the chewing gum in a glass jar to be kept on top of the desk.  This would make a great story to tell my friends.

Yes, I will attempt to clean, sand, paint and restore the antique desk back to its original condition.   My first step, however, will be to take as many pictures as I can to document my laborious task, step by step.  The before pictures, the actual work in progress pictures and what I am most excited about, the after pictures and end result.

I began to laugh as I stood on my front porch, counting and scraping the chewing gum off the bottom of the desk.  Was all this gum the product of one child’s bad chewing habit in a school year, or many students over the years?  I actually could have stuck a piece of gum under this desk myself as the timeline coincided with my own dates attending school.  And, what color gum would I have chosen to chew at that very young and impressionable time of my life?  Would it have been pink, green or the most popular color of beige.

The gum sits in a glass jar.  It is not nearly as attractive as it was under the desk.  The desk is clean and lightly sanded, awaiting the next step of my renovation.  I wish it were as easy to restore my body as it is going to be to restore my antique desk.  There were exactly 52 pieces of bubble gum hiding, in full sight, under my desk.  Tallying up the bubble gum was step number one.  I am ready to move on to step number two.

HANG IN THERE MARTY! Irene Maran

My hammock is a very personal item in my life, like my tooth brush or a favorite pair of comfortable shoes.  When I think of the word “hammock” I am immediately transformed into a world of restful motion.  My backyard hammock lies between two large oak trees that I’m convinced were planted specifically for the purpose of holding up my hammock.  At any given time I can venture out into the yard and sit leisurely in my hammock overlooking a quiet lake, or stretch out, rock a little, and peacefully enjoy the slight movement stirring beneath me.  If I’m lucky, one of my cats will join me.  At night I’ll wrap a blanket around myself, toss a soft pillow beneath my head, and take a well deserved nap.  My hammock is my pacifier after an exhausting day of writing, illustrating, or gardening.

When my grandchildren come to visit me they see my hammock through their much younger eyes…eyes of a child, full of excitement, fun and danger.  They jump on the twisted rope hammock like squirming fish in a fishermen’s net.  They push each other roughly and always much higher than I’d care to witness.  Sometimes they spin around and fall onto the ground.  “Be careful!  Simmer down!” I shout from the porch.  “My hammock is not use to such harsh treatment.  After all, I expect it to last a long time.”  They stop for a while and when I go inside, continue on their playful ways.  “Boys will be boys,” I think, and hope my hammock is strong enough to bear the pain.

My older children are thankful to see the hammock nesting between the backyard trees.  It is a shady spot for my son and his wife in which to relax.  They lie back, have a cold drink, and cuddle together.  They treat the hammock with respect, not abuse.  The rhythm of the slowly moving hammock is in keeping with the romance between this young couple.  They seem to savor every movement as if listening to a beautiful melody.  What a lovely picture they make in this divine setting.

Marty, an old neighbor came to visit.  He was immediately drawn to the hammock, having owned one as a young boy.  At this stage of his life he had a difficult time getting into the hammock.  The netting fought his every move until he maneuvered his fragile body and settled in the middle.  The hammock curled around him like a cocoon and he looked comfortable, as though he was there to stay awhile.  He asked to be pushed and sighed deeply with contentment as the hammock slowly swung back and forth.  After ten minutes of movement, Marty tried to get up.  His legs were stiff and his arms kept on getting caught in the ropes.  “I don’t remember having such a hard time getting in and out of my hammock when I was a boy,” he remarked.  “When you were a boy, your age and bones were much younger,” I said out loud.  At that moment I had a very vivid picture of Marty and my two grandsons laughing, pushing and shoving each other on the hammock.  Marty was still a frisky kid at heart, but age had definitely caught up with him.

Many family members and friends, in addition to me, have enjoyed my backyard hammock over the years.  I hope many more people can enjoy the quiet peacefulness, gentle sleep, and for some, excitement the hammock brings.  A hammock this enjoyable should be shared by as many people as can fit into it at one time…without falling through.

ROCCO’S FENCE                                                                                        Elia Reyes

Growing up we lived on Littleton Avenue in Newark.  It was a quiet, middle class neighborhood.  Our apartment was on the third floor; the landlord lived on the second and my aunt and uncle on the first. My four-year-old younger bother, Rocco, was playing in the backyard with the landlord’s grandson.  The other child was a few years older and Rocco was crying and calling for his mama. When she came to the window to see what was wrong, my bother said, “Tommy said I couldn’t touch the fence because it was his fence and his house.”

Mommy shouted back, “Yes Rocco you can touch the fence because we pay rent.”  That night when Papa came home he was told what happened and how upset Rocco was.  That same night, Papa contacted a realtor to purchase a house, so his son could touch the fence without abuse. He bought a three family house just a few blocks away.

As a teenager I wasn’t happy about the move.  I stayed with my aunt for two weeks. When the rooms were painted and the new furniture arrived, I went to my new home. It is more than sixty years since that day and we continue to tell Rocco, if he hadn’t touched the fence, we might still be living on Littleton Ave.

Retribution                                                                                     Amanda Porter

Realizing that the lyrics of “This Land Is Your (My) Land” contain the words: “from the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters, this land was made for you and me.” made me wonder how a British oil  company has been allowed to avoid safety measures to ensure larger profits, thus despoiling “your and my land”–not to mention killing eleven employees.  Are we so addicted to gasoline engines that so-called accidental deaths (or even the maiming and deaths from war to acquire oil) can be brushed off as “collateral damage?”  The irony of this situation is that automobile deaths here outnumber (so far) all our war-time dead.  What a price we pay to be able to hop in the car to the gym, rather than walk!

In addition, the lyrics of “America the Beautiful” have a reference to “purple mountain majesties” so I want to know why my government has allowed coal companies to remove the tops of these scenic wonders to acquire fuel while sending the dross into streams, polluting them for survival use by valley towns.  The recent coal miners’ deaths were also the result of ignoring safety rules.  This technology is older so it should be safer, but when that aim costs the company money, lives are sacrificed–as though the “bottom line” outweighs the bottom of the mine disaster.  Where are “pro-lifers” protesting these man-made disasters?

And, please, let us forsake the potentially worse devastation that nuclear use can cause by human error and greed. Even Katrina, a natural phenomenon, had an element of this human frailty since scientists/engineers had predicted an event of this magnitude happening to New Orleans, but the federal government, which prefers to spend billions on war, could not spare the funds to make the levees strong enough to preserve life.

I protest against the current wars and occupations with a sign that says, “Endless War=More Deaths, Destruction, Deep Debt and Retribution.”  Preventable human events that cause loss or injury to living beings; that destroy and/or pollute infrastructures and resources; that cost the Treasury (already depleted by military actions longer than Vietnam’s plus bailing out banks whose reckless greed caused the Depression) so much that valuable social services are curtailed rather than raise taxes on profiteers.  Furthermore, as corporations use their new Supreme Court ordered right as “citizens” to fund candidates (as well as their lobbyists influence on our elected officials), matters can only get worse.  No one, including these new powerfully endowed “citizens” should be permitted to get “too big to fail” when they so obviously deserve retribution for their harm to society.  Tax their bulging wallets and end these fruitless expensive occupations so that the troops can be brought home alive–retribution now!

CARING HEARTS AND HEALING HANDS                         Ruth J. Abramowitz

I hear so many patients complain when they go for a doctor’s visit. The wait is long, the doctor does not take time to listen and I don’t feel any better. The elderly often feel it is their age, and physicians do little to make changes in medication or testing.  I feel this is not always true, I believe most doctors and staff care about the health of patients and do what they can to keep them well.

It was Friday before Memorial Day weekend, and after arriving at the office was told my appointment had been cancelled. I showed my appointment card and mentioned I had to take a taxi to get here.  She asked if I had received a phone call and I said no. The receptionist was very nice and told me to sit down while she finds out if the equipment could be connected for the test.  It was a bone density test, which I had three years earlier, but should have had again last year. The staff said they would do the test; it would take a few minutes to set up. It took about fifteen minutes and the technician took me into a small room, sat me on a table and had me lay on my left side. She had a small round object in her hand that would roam over my thighs and legs as data was entered into the computer. The test ended after 3 p.m. and I am sure she and the medical staff were anxious to leave at four for the holiday weekend. However, not once did I hear a complaint that this procedure had put them off schedule. I did not feel pressured or uncomfortable at any time.

The test took thirty minutes and I waited to see the doctor for the results.

She came in about ten minutes later and said the density in my bones had changed little in the past three years.  She suggested I stop the bone pill; saying after five years there was no noticeable change and I did not need to take anything except a calcium tablet once a day.

We spoke for several minutes and she commented on how well I was doing at my age.  When I told her I would be ninety in July, she said, (as others have) you look younger, and asked,  “What’s your secret?”  I told her it was attitude, mental concentration and determination to live each day doing what I can.  On bad days I would tell myself to remember my mother’s words. “ When you have no control and can’t change something, you make the best by doing what you can.  Don’t waste time feeling sorry for yourself. Help someone else and you’ll forget your problems.”  The doctor thanked me for the advice and said she would try to use it. I left the office feeling very good knowing I did not have to worry about bone structure.  The medical staff had been wonderful and was even concerned about how I would get home. I told them I was calling a taxi.

Once outside, the weather was so nice I decided to walk to Wegman’s Market, which was about three blocks down the road across the highway. I started walking down the side road and suddenly heard someone running and calling my name.  I turned and saw a member of the office staff running toward me, flushed and out of breathe as she looked at me and asked, “Where are you going?”  It seems they had noticed I was not waiting for a cab and decided to see where I had gone.  When I explained I was taking a walk to the store, she said,  “Are you sure you’re all right?” I said I’m fine, so she left. I continued to walk for another block when a car pulled up beside me and the woman said gets in I’ll take you to Wegman’s.  I was so thankful to see her as I was beginning to realize in order to cross at the light, I would be walking along the side of the highway. How fortunate I was to have these medical people care so much about a patient.  Maybe it was my age that concerned them, but I think it’s because they truly have caring hearts and healing hands.

My Right as an American Citizen                                                                     George H. Moffett

As an American citizen I have inherited so many freedoms which are the result of the wisdom and perseverance of the founders of our great nation. As equally important, these precious freedoms have continued from generation to generation thanks to the “ultimate sacrifice” made by hundreds of thousands of men and woman who fought on the battlefields of the world to preserve our democratic way of life.
I can continue to help preserve these freedoms without ever having to set my foot on a battlefield. I can do this by exercising one of the most important rights given to me, and all citizens of this great nation, by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. The right to vote! I am so very proud to be an American and I do not take this freedom lightly. I vote! It is a right that will let me assist in perpetuating our unique democratic system of self-government. Not a perfect democracy, but one in which I can bring about change by the simple, but so powerful, right to vote.
The vote means to me that I can vote for whomever I wish. The vote means to me that I can vote for someone who is not even on the ballot by writing in a candidate’s name. The vote means to me that I can even write in my own name and vote for myself. The vote means to me that the majority rules so that a dictator will never rule in the United States of America. What more could we ask for?
The right to vote is now my responsibility. It is my voice. I will continue to use it. I will continue to speak out. I will continue to vote. I encourage you to use your voice. We live in the land of the free and the home of the brave! Thank the founders of our great nation and the veterans who preserved our freedoms, by exercising your right to vote. You can make a difference, if you vote.

The First Time Alone Kalinka Shumanov

In 1945 I started medical school in Sofia, The capital of Communist Bulgaria, away from my family.  I expected it to be fun, away from my very strict father who did not accept my “independence”.  I was lucky to find a room in the outskirts of Sofia at a reasonable price.  Today’s college students cannot imagine how hard life was in the Communist countries.  They did not have student dorms, school buses, cars and phones.  It took at least an hour to get to the university on a street car (like a cable car).  It wasn’t bad if I was able to get a seat and do my studies, but most of the time I had to stand and hold on to a handle so I wouldn’t wind upon the floor.  Soon my “freedom” became a hard reality and did not enjoy it.  I soon realized what a good life I had at home where my loving mother, an excellent housewife and parent made my life comfortable and happy even in the worst times.  All my clothes had to be washed by hand and dried outside.  I had to walk a distance for food and everything else I need for everyday life. One good thing, I learned to be a creative cook and very frugal shopper.  In one of my Biology classes I met a girl who was desperately looking for a room because she was temporally staying in a terrible hotel.  I was happy to offer to share my room.  In the beginning it was fun, because I was very lonely and tired to do everything, shop, cook and clean and have no-one to talk to and share the experiences of my new life.  I was soon disappointed.  I have heard from friends and many young and not so young, that sharing close space often ends up like a bad marriage.  My roommate had a boyfriend who was always spending his free time (almost daily) in our room with the two of us.  I had to dress and undress in the bathroom.  I could not study and sleep normally because he would stay daily till 2am.  Life became very unpleasant and disappointing.  I did not complain to my parents, but when they visited me, they saw the situation and took me home.  I continued my education in Belgrade, Yugoslavia under the watchful eyes of my parents, and learned a life lesson.  We stayed in Yugoslavia until 1953 when we escaped from Communism. Living alone taught me the importance of a loving family.

If   Wishes Were Kisses Then Pigs Would Fly                                  Veronica Cullinan Lake

On a plane banking over Bradley Beach

I flood the air with flowers: irises, bush roses, and tiger lilies to land in my garden.

Watching beer-swilling fishermen reel in a gorgeous blue tuna,

I turn their lungs inside out so they too can flap around the bottom of the boat.

Landing at the airport bypassing the baggage carousel

I wink at a cab whose trunk snaps opens to catch my luggage as it saunters out the door.

Arriving on the city streets spying infants plugged into silence

I pop out those plastic pacifiers to leave a village of smiling, crying, cooing babies.

Finally asleep a screaming stereo from the next apartment sends my walls into spasms.    I slip through the wall, lop off the louts ears and return to stuff them in my kitchen blender.

The next day aboard New Jersey Transit my fingers zap an electrical current welding all cell phones to ear lobes of yakking passengers. Their arms forever free to embrace all of life.

I arrived at Bradley Beach, my home, and trudge three blocks, drag a canvas chair from the garage, then collapse in my lovely garden where current problems disappear.