No more. That's all there is. You're finished, through, kaput! End of story. Don't be greedy, now. If you'd been born before the discovery of antibiotics, you'd be dead by now. Consider yourself lucky to have made it this far.

I was involved in a discussion with folks who described themselves as spiritual seekers. Trying always to keep in mind the words, "Lead me into the path of those who seek the truth, but deliver me from those who have found it," I've always loved meeting folks who don't have answers but love to entertain possibilities. My Free Inquiry newsletter listed interesting activities and discussions on matters scientific, political and spiritual in and around Chicago. This particular group, calling themselves the Aquarians, wanted to discuss the topic, "Are you ready to leave this life?" The question briefly frightened me. I experienced a flashback to a previous year's discussion with Sufis over dinner on the near north side. One fellow laughed nervously when requesting his own food taster and was thereafter teased about his paranoia. As he was new to the group and all this occurred shortly after the Jonestown massacre, perhaps his fears were not surprising. I recalled another group I'd want no part of, "The Immortals," I believe they were called. I had the feeling they possessed a strong, positive belief in the hereafter and a clearer conception of where they'd be going and what they'd be doing than most. Once the place and time of their deaths became "here and now," however, I suspect some of them weren't so resigned. At least that was the impression left by their videotapes. Of course once I established the Aquarians were not a suicide cult, I relaxed somewhat.

Nevertheless I found the question intense. What was baffling to me was that no one else seemed much affected by it. We were a mix of young and middle aged, and I was one of the youngest. The eldest person, surely no older than sixty and a former reverend, was the most relaxed about the topic. He said he'd wrapped up most of his affairs and was ready to go any time. The only thing he'd particularly miss would be wrestling. He liked watching it live and on television.

There ensued a discussion of whether or not wrestling was choreographed. I felt surprised, possibly shocked. I hadn't expected a wrestling discussion from a spiritual group and a reverend no less. I couldn't see a connection between wrestling and dying though if there were one, I suppose I'd choose to wrestle death rather than invite him/her in. But perhaps wrestling was only a distraction. The topic was a heavy one, and most likely we didn't want to deal directly with it. A young woman echoed the reverend's feelings of being totally at peace with her mortality and of having her affairs in order. There was nothing she needed to do that she hadn't already done.

"Have you no imagination woman?" I wanted to scream. "Surely there must be something intriguing or inspiring to goad you into demanding a longer stay," I continued to address her silently. "Surely your tender years have not been sufficient for you to exhaust your potential and be hauled off without a terrific fight. And suppose you were granted a long life, what would be the point? Why waste such a gift on one ready to cash it in after a mere couple of decades, one who lacks the imagination to suspect the best is yet to come?”

Aloud I proclaimed that I, at any rate, wasn't ready to go, my affairs weren't in order, there was much still remaining to be seen and experienced, and they'd have to haul me away kicking and screaming. Group members smiled and accepted my defiance with some humor. Perhaps we weren't so very different from one another.

I recalled a particularly moving scene from the play, Steam Bath. In it the protagonist argues with God who happens to be a Puerto Rican Steam Bath attendant. God asks him a question which paraphrased goes something like, "Why should I return you to life?" But when our hero tries to argue for his existence, he fails. He makes several bad beginnings, for all of his activities; all of his relationships seem shallow and unworthy of an extension. I believe the play ends ambiguously, and we never learn if the character is granted his reprieve.

I emerged from the theater shaken. The scene seemed to be a good model for an exercise. If I had to persuade some deity to let me stay, what would I say? How would I justify my existence? And if I could be God for a day, what would I use as criteria?

Perhaps I didn't really understand the young woman who said she was ready to go at any moment. I'm sure I didn't. She wasn't saying she wanted to leave. She was only saying she could accept it. Perhaps she meant that if she had to leave, she'd be grateful for the life she'd already lived. Hopefully she'd told her friends and family she loved them. No doubt there was much unarticulated of her thoughts and feelings about the matter.

Decades after the discussion, I find my thoughts and feelings haven't changed much. I still feel I'd have to be hauled away kicking and screaming. I'm far too young to leave this planet, and I expect I'll still feel that way in my nineties. I'd miss my friends, my cousins, my new love. I'd miss my home, my magnolia bush, my kitty. I'd miss Lake Michigan and summer concerts at Ravinia. I love the songs of the cicadas and plan to be around for another sixteen years to hear the next batch. I love stories and want to stick around to hear, tell, and write them. As I'm older, I've traveled more, but there are many places I haven't seen. I long to see Iceland's glaciers and blue lagoon, the Taj Mahal, Patagonia, to ride an Icelandic horse, snorkel above a coral reef and sleep on reindeer pelts inside an ice castle.

But aren't these the dreams of a not yet mature person, one who wants to explore the world, experience its pleasures, but leave it no different than she found it? And isn't youth a time to educate oneself and age a time to put that education to good use? Won’t my maturity lead to greater compassion, a reaching out to make the world a better place?

I feel I won't be sure of the answers to those questions without a few more good years in me. But when my time comes, and I gear up for an argument with the great steam bath attendant in the sky, I do know the answer to that one.

I plan on winning it.

How did this ever happen?

Me, who's always had such an easy way with words, buried under a meaner, heavier, more massive writerss block than I ever could have imagined in even my darkest horror writing? My prose and correspondence alike are suffering, and I can't figure out why.

Where are my characters when I need them, heroes and villains alike, who in the past have demonstrated prodigious talents for reasoning, conniving, and sometimes just crudely but effectively blasting their ways into and out of the best defenses and nastiest problems I could manufacture for them? I could use some of that resourcefulness now, in the form of a strategically placed explosive charge in some overlooked crevice in this oppressive mountain of concrete, or a crew of determined tunnellers digging their way through the compacted earth toward me. "We have only one shot at this," they'd say urgently to each other. And, naturally, I'd find a way for that one shot to be enough for them (and for me).

For a while I could blame my silence on our antiquated computer, with its lovely and talented Windows 98 operating system. Over the past couple of years, I've been noticing my access to the World Wide Web growing increasingly limited as individual sites have grown increasingly complex. On a distressingly regular basis, mere animated pictures embedded on Web pages have been enough to cause our computasaurus to seize up and utterly refuse to do anything more until shut down at the power strip and subjected to a lengthy rebooting -- in the process, of course, jettisoning anything not saved at that point to the far reaches of cyberspace, never to be seen again.

This problem was compounded considerably with the onset of the current global economic weakness. Since the beginning of the year especially, financial markets around the world have tended toward touchiness, which luckily and perversely translates to increased business for my husband's industry. Options trading thrives on investor nervousness, and when there's financial panic and mayhem, with equities managers teetering on high-rise window ledges and words such as "Apocalypse" being thrown around by ashen-faced newsreaders on Bloomberg TV, the options folks make hay. At times like these, the husband and his coworkers have been known to phone each other up late at night and assign shifts among themselves so that they can monitor trading activity around the clock. Looking at the long term, these draconian work hours may determine whether we can afford to send our son to college in ten years. In the near term, however, it means that I'm all but shut out of computer time, since even when I'm able to get a turn at the keyboard, our electronic jalopy is eminently incapable of handling the husband's work programs and other operations at the same time. And, if the truth be known, those work programs are getting a little iffy as well.

Finally, at the end of last month, I put my foot down. No more would my lack of computer access be the culprit separating me from my happily geeky coexistence with my writing muses and my online companions and fellow writers. I needed my own computer, period, end of discussion. And lo and behold, my husband acquiesced. I am now the proud owner of a refurbished but nonetheless spiffy Compaq laptop, complete with Windows Vista operating system and wireless Internet connection. As far as I can determine; my hard-drive memory problems are a thing of the past; the new addition appears to be able to handle anything the 'Net throws at it.

So why, then, do I have this pathological fear of reconnecting with my previous nerdy life? Why, when I go to sign onto any of my online communities, do my fingers stop mere inches from the keyboard and go no further? Why did my insides just this afternoon tie themselves in knots when I started typing this essay, and why do I feel like I'm pulling huge blocks of ice over the surface of a frozen lake as I drag each word out of my head? Am I so overwhelmed by the prospect & catching up with my estranged writing communities? Do I fear the ridicule, opprobrium, and general punishment I feel due me because of my prolonged absence -- especially from my online companions; at a time when I should be helping them with organizing a science fiction fan convention? Have I become like Sisyphus, with my boulder having rolled so far down the side of the hill that I can no longer even see the summit, while the strength in my arms diminishes to the point where I can barely move my burden?

I have the distinct and uneasy feeling that I need to reconnect with the now-silent daredevils, swashbucklers, and troublemakers in my imagination for the sake of my very survival, artistically speaking. Pass me a crate or three of that dynamite, guys. I -- and my own personal Hoover Dam here -- could sure use it.

If it hadn't tasted so good I would have said "NO MORE" instead of "MORE". I would surely never have asked for a second helping of my favorite meal. And as it turned out ... a third scrumptious helping. I should have stopped right there when I was getting the famous raised eyebrow from my mother. The thought did occur to me that I'd better slow up a bit and let the rest of the family have a chance at risotto with pasta sauce. But oh! It was so tasty, probably the best my mother had served at our supper table, and I was beginning to feel a bit stuffed ... I wonder why.

After supper was done, there was homework to do and then my Dad reminded us that it was time for bed. It was in between the last Algebra problem and a book review due tomorrow, that I began to feel a bit queasy in my stomach. "It's nothing," I decided and dismissed the uncomfortable feeling while I packed up my notebook and got my work ready for the next day.

I really was tired and quickly fell asleep, dreaming that I got all those Algebra problems correct, (a fact that really was a dream, in my case).

Suddenly it was the middle of the night and I was awake, gasping for breath and yelling "Ma" in between the terrible stabbing pain in my right side. I had never felt such pain. Mom tried a few of her own remedies but the pain persisted and then my Dad got on the phone with Dr. Groot who decided it sounded like I should be taken to the hospital emergency room. Ma called Aunt Louise who only lived a block away to hurry over (and this was in the middle of the night, too) and stay with my sister and brother, who by this time wore wide awake and looking as scared as I was feeling. Ma bundled me up and Dad called a taxi and soon we were on our way to the Belmont Hospital. Mom kept telling me everything would be all-right but somehow her tearful sounding voice didn't quite convince me. And all that Risotto with pasta sauce was lying heavily on my mind ... and stomach at the time.

No need for me to relate all the gory details of the harrowing experience I suffered in that emergency room. Needles and tests and temperatures and stethoscopes and all that other stuff made me very edgy to say the least. Finally the decision was made that I needed an emergency appendectomy, Ma cried and I moaned ... loudly, I might add ... and with great fear. Before I even knew what was happening, I was wheeled into an operating room. And that was the last I would remember until the next morning when I awoke from the anesthetic. Mom and Dad were there, of course, looking as if I could be done and gone. I was awful sleepy and wasn't able to get words to come out of my mouth like usual. After a couple of days of lolling around doing nothing but sleeping and loving the fact that I wasn't in school for that Algebra test, I figured out that if I kept improving this way I would get to go home and then ... school and ... Oh! Well!

And that's what did happen. Before long things were back to normal.

For a long time I wondered what had caused my appendix problem. Wasn't it funny that it happened right after I had gorged myself on my suppertime favorite?

And another thing. It really spoiled my ravenous appetite for risotto. To this day I don't feel the same about rice in any form.

I'm convinced the risotto is what did me in.

What else could it have been!

"Please, no more. I'm really full. That dinner was delicious but I can't eat another bite," said Samantha as she pushed herself away from the table.

"But there's more. You are so thin, my darling little one. You need to eat more. Sit. Sit down and I'll bring out the cake then."

"Grandma, I can't eat another bite. Please no more! I'm stuffed."

"You young people. In two minutes you'll be out in the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Sit. Eat some more now ... before it goes to waste. Johnny, where are you going? Sit down young man. You ... I don't have to tell to eat more like I do your sister. When you come, you eat me out of my house. You sit there and let me see you for awhile. Don't you go running off to play. Grandma wants to see you. Your parents they never taught you any manners?"

"Come on Mom, just let them go. You made enough food for an army. They're finished eating. Bob and I can sit and talk with you. If the kids want more they'll ask."

"I suppose you want to go run off too and leave your poor mother sitting here alone like I done every day since your father, bless his departed soul, left me. I can sit here, looking at the old photos of the family, and cry by myself. Go. All of you. Leave me here alone ... and after all your father and I did for you. That's the thanks we get. Go then. Don't waste your time on an old lady."

"Mom," said Jane, "I'm not leaving you. Let's clear the table and get a cup of tea and we can sit and talk." She motioned to the children to go ahead, and with the wave of her hand the kids were out the door. Jane picked up the platter, and headed for the kitchen, shaking her head, knowing all to well where this conversation was heading.

There are so many "no mores" that I'm sure I will not be able to remember or discuss all of them in this theme, as I try to look back and think about the changes taken place in our life style throughout the past several decades.

Just this morning as my son and I were taking our daily constitutional, I looked down and saw a chalk drawing of the game Hopscotch, a game we played as kids in the 1 940's. I tried to hop in the squares, but didn't do very well. After all, it's been over 62 years since I played this game with my little girlfriends. I explained the game to my son on how we'd find a piece of broken glass or a stone, which we'd toss to each square and hop to and from the square until we got to Sky Blue at the top. It was common to see all the kids in the neighborhood outside playing games such as Hopscotch, Rolley Polley, drawing pictures on the sidewalk, roller skating, playing baseball in the street, riding bicycles, pushing doll buggies, pulling wagons, etc. We'd even be out in the evening playing Kick the Can, Hide and Seek or just gather on a friend's front porch talking and looking up at the sky full of stars. Adults would be out in the evening, too, talking over the fences, in their yards, or sitting on the porches with the kids. All the children and adults knew each other, not only on the block, but surrounding blocks, too. It was a quiet, peaceful time with no traffic on the side streets and very little traffic on the main streets. Having an automobile in our neighborhood, was a rarity. You'd be lucky to see three or four cars on our street which covered four blocks. Today I know only the first names of about 4 neighbors and this covers more than 4 blocks, and I don't know any kids because I never see any kids. And, I'm lucky to be able to back out of my driveway with all the traffic on my side street. I wouldn't begin to count the cars on our block either, because it's often difficult to find a parking space.

All the kids walked to school, even on the coldest winter days. I personally had to walk over a mile to school and my friends and I would cut through prairies along the way to make the route a little shorter and faster. In the summer we'd pick wild flowers in the prairie on our way home from school to bring to our Moms. There were lots of green garter snakes in the prairies that boys would catch and chase after the girls, scaring us half to death. I can do without the garter snakes, but oh how I'd love to see a prairie full of wild flowers or a bunch of little kids walking down the street safely to school without an adult.

There was no TV until the late 40s, so radio was very popular. My friends and I would rush home from school to listen to our favorite soap operas. My favorite soaps were "Young Wider Brown," "Just Plain Bill," "Yukon King," "Lorenzo Jones" and "Superman." During summer vacations when I could listen in the afternoon, I enjoyed "Ma Perkins," "Stella Dallas," "The Romance of Helen Trent," and "Backstage Wife." In the evenings there were shows like Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, Mr. District Attorney, Lights Out, The Life of Riley, The Nelson Family, Mayor of the Town, Beaula, Father Knows Best, The Great Gildersleeve, Fiber McGee and Molly, etc. Try and find this much entertainment today! Even early TV was better than today's.

As I said, few families had automobiles, so if you went anywhere, you took public transportation. We took buses, streetcars and the el to visit relatives, to go to the theater and to shop for things other than food. Grocery shopping was mostly done daily at the corner grocery store. As far as I knew, most of my friends' relatives lived in rather close proximity, not in another state. I had an Aunt, Uncle, and cousins who lived on the next block, a couple of Aunts and Uncles that lived walking distance from my house, and my Grandmother, Aunt, and Step-Grandfather lived only one bus ride away. If I wanted to see a relative today, I'd have to take a plane or ride for miles in a car. The car ride would almost cost as much as a plane ride with the cost of gas prices today.

Not only were relatives nearby, but the family doctor and dentist were often close by, too. Our doctor and dentist were both walking distance from our house and were both available in short notice. Our family doctor even made house calls, if necessary, and he always made the correct diagnosis of your illness without taking numerous tests, x-rays, MRIs, etc. Now that was real service. You're lucky to find a good doctor today and when you do, he won't be able to help you unless you are completely covered by insurance so that you can take all the numerous tests to eventually not find out what's wrong with you. And, I might add, you'll have to wait a month before you can get into see him - he's certainly not going to come and see you!

And speaking of service, there was a time when a store clerk could help you, a gas station attendant filled your gas tank, a telephone operator could give you information, you could also speak to someone when you called a utility company or a drug store. All of these service jobs have been replaced by machines or do it yourself

On the subject of jobs, when. I was to graduate high school in 1953, it was time for me to enter the workforce and I was concerned whether I'd be able to get a job. No worry, the personnel manager of the first company I worked for came to our high school to recruit prospective employees. Two high school friends and I went to work for the company and they patiently trained us on the job. I could barely type, but with their patience, they allowed me enough time to become proficient in my skills. I started in the steno pool and eventually became secretary to the top sales manager, under the vice president of sales. Each job I tackled thereafter was a step further up the ladder in the secretarial field. This job was needed and very respected, but as far as I know, doesn't exist any more either. Don't know what I'd do if I were entering the workforce today. I sure would have to be more confident than I was back then.

I could go on and on with things I remember from decades ago and we all know that everything I'd mentioned are all "no mores," and we all know why ... advanced technology ... which is supposed to have made our life style better. Better?

I say "no more" technology, please, as before you know it, I'm going to hang my head out the window and yell, "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore," just like the famous quote in the movie "Network." Or should I say, I'm not going to take this "no more," but that would be a double negative, wouldn't it? "No more" negatives either, please!

Elvira K. Castillo May 18, 2008

Since I have always been a lover of the English language, I have a tendency to look for programs on TV that don't leave me mystified or stultified. It grates on my nerves whenever I hear the English language being used and abused and, it seems as if there isn't anyone who really cares how people speak or, even what they say to one another anymore. It's unacceptable to me when I hear phrases like, "I don't got any money" or, "I brung him home" and, "have you tooken" instead of "have you taken." However, there are few programs of quality on TV these days and, indeed, not all I do choose to watch leaves me with a positive feeling. I sometimes wonder after I have feasted my eyes on a 'presumably' worthwhile programming, it still leads me to say, "what was I thinking," or "that was an hour wasted," or, "I knew there was something else I should have been doing."

On Mother's Day, Sunday, May 11, after visiting with my son and his wife, I sat down to watch the Masterpiece Theatre series, "Cranford." I knew I would be in for a treat and felt assured the speech patterns in the story would not grate on my nerves. Cranford is the story about village life in mid-nineteenth century England, and, in the years 1842-43, is dominated by single and middle class widowed women. The emphasis in the episodes is on the women and, their stories are delightful, tender and delicate. It is also a light-hearted story of gentility and decorum, where small entreaties lift the spirits of all the women involved.

Welcoming visits were set up when newcomers arrived in town, such as, Dr. Harrison, a young medical doctor with new revolutionary ideas and, Mr. Holbrook, an old love interest of kind-hearted Miss Matty Jenkyns. By decorum, these visits should be made between the hours of twelve and three o'clock in the afternoon and, must last for only a quarter of an hour and, while visiting, no one must talk about anything that matters, as "there isn't time for that."

Elizabeth Gaskell, the author of Cranford, was a keen observer of human behavior. The major threads throughout her stories are that of morality and reconciliation. She authored half a dozen novels and numerous short stories and, also wrote a biography of Charlotte Bronte, the author of Jane Eyre. Mrs. Gaskell, as she was most often called, lived from 1810-1865. She often used the dialect words of the locals in her novels and, when criticized for doing so, she defended this usage.

Cranford was initially submitted as a serial story to the weekly magazine, "Household Words," edited by Charles Dickens. After reading Gaskell's novel, "Mary Barton," it was Dickens who encouraged her to write short stories and articles for his magazine, which she did.

Cranford is the least controversial work of the author and, for many decades of the twentieth century, her only remembered work. The PBS adaptation, done in a five part series, combined characters from some of the author's other books and, when adapted for television, they became part of the fabric of the cast of characters in the old-fashioned village of Cranford.

The story is narrated by Mary Smith, a young woman and, frequent visitor from the industrial town, Drumble, twenty miles from Cranford. On her visits, she stays with spinster sisters, Miss Matty Jenkyns, a good-natured 51 year old and her sterner older sister, Deborah, who is a provincial and, a bit snobbish, and holds fast to a rigid code of conduct on life for herself and other people. There is little plot in this 1851 story. Instead, it is a series of low-keyed episodes in the lives of the residents of Cranford. All in the village make a great to-do at being genteel and, pretending they aren't poor, leading to great opportunities in life passing them by because of some false propriety.

Their traditional ways and ideas of life is soon to be altered, when in 1842, news that the railway will forge its way into their village, bringing modernity in its path. The citizens are alarmed and, rumors abound about the migrant workers flooding their village, bringing with them a social upheaval and, shattering their sense of security and comfortable way of life.

In this quaint, curious village, thriving with life and rich in human relations, it was music to my ears to hear the English language spoken so well. The talk of any kind of industrial change to the village brought on the statement, "we would be unshaped, if we moved at such speed." When the main character, Miss Matty Jenkyns said, as she paused to look at her reflection in a mirror, "I feel the need of lace to lift my features," and when she meets her old love, Mr. Holbrook, and is invited to dine at his home, did say, "it is very pleasant dining with a bachelor." When walking in his garden, everything Mr. Holbrook saw in the garden prompted in him some rhyming, Miss Matty said of him, "I should call him eccentric. Very clever people always are." To hear Mr. Holbrook recite to her the long Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, "Locksley Hall" it reminds me of the all important bridges between words and the images they evoke.

After watching "Cranford", it didn't take me long to go in search of Tennyson's poetry. Not only did I enjoy reading his "Locksley Hall," a poem of the imagination, representing young life, its good side, its deficiencies and its yearnings, but I also re-read his poem, "Tears, Idle Tears," with its focus on the past and, the author, when looking back at the past, sees in it a kindness.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather in the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

I am forever apologizing to myself about not being a lover of novels, literary or otherwise and, my regrets on this failure comes back to haunt me whenever the neglected-on-my-part story comes to life on film. "Cranford" was one such story I neglected to read.

---

Never Again

Esther Rappaport

When my parents were raising our family we lived in the Humboldt Park area in Chicago. The pond in the park was a place where we would pack lunch and picnic. Since it was within walking distance of our home we loved the water and that was our recreation Since Dad did not drive we never had a car. But the Grand Avenue street car was within walking distance. Mom and dad took us five kids to Navy Pier where we could cool off and see the lake.

I was 13 years old when I met Irv. Most of our recreation was at Tuley High School at that time. Although Irv was five years older than I he was the youngest of five children in his family. They all loved Lake Michigan so when they matured and married each family seemed to want to live near the Lake.

Irv's father and his brother, Sam, bought a farm in Union Pier, Michigan which was close to the lake. Another brother bought a shack in Miller, Indiana right on the sand near the public beach.

By this time Irv was the owner of a car and we would drive out there for weekends. Irv and his brother were very close. In fact Irv and I and his brother, Dave, and his girl friend, Louise, went to the court together in Chicago and got married at the same time.

When Dave and family decided to go live in California they sold us the shack for $300.00. We loved the lake and I was at the shack most of the summer and Irv came out for week-ends. Eventually we had to leave there as the land belonged to Indiana and they were extending the beach parking lot. So either we moved the shack or we gave it up. We drove over there one Sunday and the only thing left of the house was the toilet bowl. The rest of the house had been burned down. So for many years after that we always took our camping vacations near a body of water.

When Irv died 15 years ago I did not know what to do for fun. Irv had been on the library board and I had attended all meetings with him. I was asked if I would finish his term. I then tried for the position in the upcoming election and was elected. But I still needed something for socializing so I joined a couple of senior clubs.

Some of the entertainment they featured were trips on the Casino boats. At that time boats could travel down the river for an hour or two and passengers could to out on the deck and see the landscape or other passing boats. If that kind of trip was featured by the club I would go. My first trip was on the Mississippi on the Mississippi Belle. I won $85.00. That didn't happen again. But I still went on the trips. But when the boats stopped leaving the docks I lost interest and stopped going.

Last week our group was taking an early trip to the Horseshoe Casino. I decided to go as the bus was leaving from a parking lot near home and the boat was on Lake Michigan in Indiana. I though I would walk on the decks and look out on the lake. WRONG! No one was allowed on the decks. It was dangerous. One could see the lake through a window in a waiting room. However, a bench was pushed against the window so if you sat you were facing into the room. You had to stand to see the lake.

There were windows in the restaurant buffet but it was difficult to enjoy a meal you paid $8.00 for even after getting a $7.00 credit. I couldn't enjoy that kind of food at 11:00 a.m. We had to eat so early as we were to get on the bus at noon.

We arrived home safely which I appreciated. But my decision -- NO MORE!

---

No More Will I Go

Maire Crawford

Like in the words of the Irish ballad "No more will I go to the scenes of my childhood" for so many places have changed, so many of my friends are passed on, or lost in the never-never land of Alzheimer's disease. My best friend for indeed she really was my best friend as we have been close since I was 5 and she was 6 years old also suffers from the disease.

We did not attend school together for she was sent to the Irish School in Basin Lane and I to The Presenantation Nuns at the end our street. But on Saturday afternoons, we went together to our Guide troop in the local church. Her oldest sister was our leader and it was here that our friendship was born. She was second to last in her family of seven children so her parents were much older than mine. For that reason, she spent a lot of time playing at my house. She adopted my mother as her own and to this day talks about what a great mother and father I had. Indeed they were great people, passed on now, but never forgotten. We are both now in our early 70s and whenever we are together we talk of the great youth we had the dances and outings run by my mom and dad.

On this particular outing, I felt something was different, and I could not say what it was, but something seemed to trouble her, although our lunch was a pleasant affair. We settled down, her with her ginger ale and me with my good cup of Irish tea. She turned to me, took my hand, and looked me straight in the eyes, telling me that she had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. It took minutes for this statement to sink in. There in that public place, I held her in my arms with sadness in my heart for I'm no stranger to this terrible disease as my beloved sister is the final stages of this flight into never-never land.

No more will she be able to go to the scenes of our childhood that bring back to memory the happy days of yore.

---

Select next sample

This page was last updated by nes July 7, 2008
©2001-2008 Pen & Ink Writer's Group of Norridge

http://www.eisenhowerlibrary.org/writers2.html

---

Eisenhower Public Library District
essweb@eisenhowerpld.org