Pluto and Proserpina: A Season in Hell

When I was just a little girl, I went out to play;
My mother told me, "Don't go far, for it will rain today."
My goddess Mother Ceres, grower of world grain
Was planting all her seeds before the coming rain.

My mother kept her eyes on me every day and night,
Any time I went to play, I stayed within her sight.
I saw a field of pretty flowers beneath a chestnut tree,
I went to pick a few of them for my mom and me.

When I tried to reach the field, it seemed so far away
I just kept getting closer...I didn't mean to stray.
Then I saw a flower...so lovely, big and bright
It looked as if it had an inner glowing light.

As soon as I reached for it, it seemed to pull away,
I needed it as centerpiece for my big bright bouquet.
I plucked the flower by its roots and pulled it from the ground,
And at that very moment, I heard a rumbling sound.

>From where I pulled the flower's roots, the earth then opened wide
And from this great big gaping hole eight horses were inside.
I stood there in growing fear at this stunning sight
I dropped the flowers where I stood, trembling now in fright.

The team of horses, snorting steam, were shiny, black and bold,
Behind them was a splendid carriage, constructed of pure gold,
And guiding this great team, there sat a scowling stranger.
I knew that I should run away...I knew I was in danger.

"Come here, my child," the stranger said, in deep and scary voice,
I turned to run, but my feet froze, escape was not a choice.
The stranger stepped onto the ground and said, "Don't be afraid,
"I will take good care of you, my pretty little maid."

He whipped his team, they snorted and drove back underground,
And after what seemed years to me, I learned where we were bound:
This stranger's name was Pluto, the Keeper of the Dead,
He lived in his dark palace, which filled my heart with dread.

My mother Ceres, grain goddess, was heartbroken and weeping,
She said, "I'll never grow the grains, and I will not be sleeping
"I'll comb the earth and Heaven too, to find my dearest child,
"My dearest Proserpina, ...for Pluto she's beguiled.

Pluto gave me pearls and gold, and all his precious ore,
For this King of Hades rules the Underworld...and more,
He rules dead souls eternally, those who were sent to Hell
And though I was not happy, he treated me quite well.

He gave me a gold footstool to sit beneath his feet
And he worried all the time because I would not eat,
I told him that the only food that I'd ever eat again
Was food my mother planted, that day before the rain

He sent his faithful messenger to find some earth-grown seeds,
But cold winter had killed the grain, and only left the weeds.
He came back with a pomegranate, but six seeds were only
The food that touched my lips, because I was so lonely.

Then to my great sorrow, because six seeds I ate
I'd have to spend six months in Hell, alas! it was too late.
Soon Pluto let me go, back to my home on earth,
Back to my Mother Ceres, who'd given me my birth.

Now I spend six months a year, with Pluto...gloomy King,
And when I'm gone all planting stops, until return of Spring,
Then when I come home again, my mother plants the grain
And all the world rejoices, because I'm home again.

So when cold Winter comes and covers earth with snow,
Mother Ceres mourns for me, although she now does know
That dear King Pluto loves me and takes good care of me
And though he's sad when I leave, he always sets me free.

Yes, I'm the Queen of Hades, six months of the year
And Pluto is the King, who's now become quite dear;
Although he's dark and gloomy, I've filled his days with light--
In Winter it's not cold in Hell, for Love has made it bright.

Sylvia Honig

Twas the Day after Christmas

Twas the day after Christmas, a cold blustery day
When tired old Santa climbed out of his sleigh
Unhooked his eight reindeer , and off they did run
To flee from the cold and follow the sun.

Come back here you rogues, screamed the old gent
But they snorted and farted and off then they went.
Curses, screamed Santa, Get back to the stable
I'll chase you and catch you ... if only I'm able.

Even dear Rudoph was fleeing his master
Who tried to chase him, but Rudoph was faster.
So Santa decided to return to his hut
But he slid on the ice, and injured his butt.

He called for the elves, but they didn't answer,
He then called for Donder, Blitzen and Prancer,
He called for Dasher, Vixen and Cupid
But not Comet or Dancer who he thought were too stupid

He decided to get up and go park his sleigh
But just then he saw it whizzing away.
Santa mumbled and cursed and got to his feet
And fumbled for cookies or something to eat.

The cookies that children had left for St. Nick
Tasted stale and rancid, but he ate them up quick.
Then he dragged himself slowly into his hut
And fell fast asleep with his eyes tightly shut.

He slept for a week to rest his old bones
And he snored and he mumbled and the room filled with groans.
Then he soaked in his tub and swallowed his pills
And tried to forget his troubles and ills.

His clothes were all covered with ashes and soot
That he got in a chimney, plus a burn on his foot.
Then he put on his shorts and a fancy tee-shirt
And stepped into flip-flops ‘cause his burned foot still hurt.

He chartered a plane and flew to L.A.
Bought a new condo, where he lives to this day.

* * * *

When Christmas arrives this coming new year,
Don't even worry...you've nothing to fear.
Santa still sends gifts to your girls and boys,
All little children will still get their toys.

All they must do is stay in the house,
Turn on the computer and pick up the mouse,
Click on the links and then on their choices
And Santa will hear all their childish voices.

Their folks will save money when getting a tree
Thanks to virtual reality.
And thanks once again, to dear old St. Nick
Who is clever and crafty and knows every trick
To make every Christmas happy and bright
And to accomplish his miracles in one single night.

So, kids, don't send letters to the North Pole
"Cause Global Warming, we've been told
Will soon make the Pole disappear
And besides, Old St. Nick, now is living here..

Send all your letters to Sunny L.A.
On its close sunny beaches, there Santa does play
He snorkles and swims and checks out bikinis
And when no one is looking, he swills down martinis.

Whatever you do, Santa, it's quite all right.
Merry Christmas to you, and to you, a good night!!

Writ by me on December 24, 2007 Chrismas Eve

Sylvia Honig
Nassau, New York

I Never Had a Christmas Tree

The other day a friend asked me what little Jewish kids did at Christmas time if they didn't have a tree or didn't get any presents. He asked, hopefully, if we "did something else," probably referring to Chanukkah, a holiday my family never celebrated; we only celebrated the Jewish New Year and the Day of Atonement, the one "happy holiday," and the one dreary holiday when Jews are expected to atone for their sins and pray for the dead. As we lived in a largely Christian community, a small town with very few Jews, we didn't feel the need to observe the minor Jewish holidays. We did forgo bread for the eight days of Passover, but that was not a powerful religious observance for us. My parents seemed to trust that my sister, brother, and I were true believers in our religion, despite our scanty celebrations. Life among the gentiles was relatively easy for us, as we weren't burdened by their religious holidays and no large Jewish community was anywhere around to shame us into more orthodox observances.

In answering my friend's questions about what little Jewish kids did when they got no presents and no tree for Christmas, I told him that the only problem for me was when some well-meaning but insensitive second-grade teacher, a lovely motherly women, asked all the kids in the class after Christmas to tell her what presents they got. Before my turn came up, I made a mental list of all the things my parents and aunts had brought me during the year, and possibly even a few things that I had anyway, like clothes, books, and candy. In effect, I was lying, but I had to save face. I never mentioned it to my parents. They probably would have laughed anyway. Looking back, I feel bad for kids from poor families, but they probably lied also, because I don't recall anyone reducing the class to tears by admitting they got nothing or next to nothing.

The other little problem I had in the second grade was when the same teacher had us all singing Christmas carols. This was easier. I loved the songs, even to this day, I sing them to myself along with the radio, and sometimes even without the radio. I particularly recall singing, "Away in the Manger." When it came to the words, "...the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head," I sang it, but just omitted the name Jesus. I did mention this to my mother. She laughed, but admitted that her orthodox father would probably pass out if he heard me singing it, or even knew I sang Christmas carols. I still love Away in the Manger, and now I can even mention Jesus's name, even though I'm an atheist, but a Jewish atheist, which means I'm a Jew by tribal race, but a non-believer in the religious rituals.

I could tell that my friend felt sorry for me and other little Jewish kids who have no tree and no presents at Christmas. He's a Catholic and he, his wife and children always celebrate Christmas. In fact, he was on his way to Wal-mart to pick up last minute gifts and was calling me on his cell phone when his question came up, after I told him I was pleased that I never had to run around buying Christmas gifts. I was tempted to tease him and give him some frightening answers. I could have said, "That's probably why I have these severe emotional problems, especially around Christmas. I go into dark moods and plot foul crimes against people I don't like; I sometimes have bloody revenge fantasies in which I wear black and a hood that covers my face, and I kill chickens and small animals" . "Or I could've told him I ply myself with gin, smoke cigarettes, and binge on junk food until the holidays pass." But the truth is, at least in my case, I never missed having a tree or presents, because like most little Jewish children, we were informed early on that there is no Santa Claus (sob!),no elves (sob!) and the North Pole is just a frozen wasteland

The other upside about having no tree and no Christmas is that we never had to be disillusioned to learn that it was all a fairy tale, that there is no Santa Claus, and that the real meaning of Christmas is a celebration of the life of Jesus Christ, who was not part of our religious upbringing. Our parents did not have the burden of having to break the sad news to their innocent children that not only is there no Santa, but their parents lied to them.

Oh, well, I do believe a kind lie is worth more than a thousand cruel truths, and if the lies were part of the great Christmas spirit, of giving and forgiving, sharing and loving, it's O.K.
by me. I wish everyone a Merry Christmas when I meet them during the season, and I hope
they and their children have all the joys that Christmas brings.

Now I have to go out and kill off some chickens that have been keeping me awake nights. They belong to my neighbors, but they've been warned and now it's too late.

Sylvia

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!!

December 22, 2007

Juvenile Prisons for Girls - New York State's Hidden Dirty Little Secrets

During the 13 years I was a social worker for three New York State's juvenile prisons, then called "Training Schools," and later called "Residential Treatment Centers," and now referred to as "Detention Centers", I documented thousands of pages of day-to-day records of abuse. I started at the now defunct Hudson School for Girls in July, 1965, then at the now-defunct Wynantskill Center for Girls, and last, at the Brookwood Center for Boys in Claverack, New York, now transformed into the largest maximum security center for boys who are considered the most dangerous teens in the state.

All three of these intended-treatment centers were inept at best, but mostly neglectful and corrupt, and did much more harm than good. Even today, these juvenile "prisons" as I call them, are closed off to the public, hiding their extreme failures to help the youngsters they are so highly-paid to rehabilitate, and hiding serious abuses that would appall and infuriate most decent citizens, particularly the parents and families of these teenage victims of New York's failed juvenile justice system.

Here is a report from my first day back at the Hudson School for Girls shortly after the state closed the Wynantskill School for Girls after the abuse and neglect was uncovered, with help from me and one other staff member.

I had begun my social work career at the Hudson School in 1965, transferred to the Wynantskill School in 1968 after learning that the Hudson School had deteriorated so badly it was close to experiencing a riot. Unfortunately, I learned too late that the Wynantskill School was also in shambles and even closer to a riot, which occurred a few days after I got there. After three years at Wynantskill, I returned to the Hudson School with grave misgivings, but no choice in the matter, unless I left the state system, which I had no intention of doing.

On August 12, 1971, shortly after my return to Hudson School, I recorded this report:

(Note: Only first names and last names initials are used to protect confidentiality of the residents) Names of the staffers are the full names, and in Caps.)

* * * * * *

Thursday, August 12, 1971

I attended a group meeting in Cottage # 1 today at `12:30. I had asked GEORGE DOLECAL the cottage supervisor ( who maintained he had a degree in psychology, which was never proven) if I could observe his cottage meeting, to fulfill my commitment to observe one meeting before Friday, Aug. 13. GEORGE was amenable.

MRS. MARY HERRING, the Cottage #1 housemother attended, and another staff, a white woman wearing glasses, stayed until 2:00P.M. I didn't catch her name.

Two girls I knew from Wynantskill (they had been transferred after the closing) were part of the group. Evelyn G. And Arnita N., both from Mary Kozoriz's Cottage 6 at Wynantskill. There were seven other girls€”Gladys, Debbie, Terry, Carmen, Debbie N., JoAnn and Linda, none of whom I had ever seen before.

JoAnn and Terry were angry when they came in. Terry held her stomach and said she didn't feel well. JoAnn sat with eyes closed, and for most of the meeting, appeared to be trying to sleep, eyes closed tightly, a jacket serving as a blanket, and in a sleeping position. She was obviously quite angry and answered only when spoken to, and then in short, angry, clipped relies€“usually heavy with sarcasm.

A Negro girl named Debbie began the meeting. She was in an angry mood, every other word out of her mouth was obscene: fucking, you assholes, shit, fuck, etc. Arnita joined in occasionally. then Evelyn G. At first the subjects were trivial. Debbie complained that girls in the cottage would say to each other, "You're full of bullshit," and such other unfriendly statements, but would not explain why they said it. She brought up that Carmen wasn't functioning properly in the kitchen. Both girls were dressed in cook's uniforms, gold with white headbands. It was brought out that some of the cooks took the largest helping of food for themselves, particularly meat and fruit. The group agreed that one day some girls had meat heaped high on their plates while JoAnn had no meat at all. GEORGE DOLECAL asked JoAnn, who was looking very angry, why she hadn't said anything about it. She snapped without looking at him€“something to the effect that “well, you're hearing about it now. His retort, including the word "fuck" was something like "well, what the fuck good is it now “only made her look angrier and the subject was dropped.

Finally, Debbie and Arnita & Evelyn began to attack Debbie N. For not talking in the meeting. At one point, one of the girls asked her "Where's your mind at?" (To indicate that Debbie seemed disinterested in the meeting.) Debbie's answer was:

"In my head, where did you think it was?"

GEORGE DOLECAL yelled, "Up your ass. Why don't you stand up and then maybe you can think."

Debbie N. gave him a dirty look and turned away.

Evelyn G. Began to attack JoAnn for sleeping and Debbie N. For not talking. GEORGE DOLECAL seemed to become increasingly more annoyed at Debbie N. and at one point he told her if she didn't talk, she was going to bed at seven (7:00) that night. She told him she wasn't talking and she wasn't going to bed at seven either. They argued back and forth briefly.

Finally GEORGE told the group they were a bunch of bastards, referring to the "fucking meeting." Evelyn G. Became very upset at GEORGE DOLECAL, insisting that she was not a bastard. Finally she began crying. GEORGE DOLECAL told her that she shouldn't be mad at him, but at Debbie N. He said he would put the whole fucking bunch to bed at seven if the meeting didn't improve. Evelyn G. renewed her attack on Debbie N., using profanity, demanding that Debbie talk. Debbie refused. GEORGE DOLECAL said that he would drag her ass up the fucking stairs and throw her into bed if she didn't start talking. She still didn't talk. Before that, GEORGE DOLECAL told the group that he felt that Debbie N., JoAnn, and Linda should be transferred out of the cottage because they weren't doing anything in the meetings. The group members discussed their feelings, but there was a lot of tension and no real agreement within the group as to which girls deserved another chance and which should be transferred. Most felt that Linda deserved more of a chance, as she was relatively new, but that the other two needed to be transferred. All three girls, JoAnn, Debbie N. And Linda looked disgusted by the whole conversation and indicated that they didn't particularly care one way or the other.

Finally, the Debbie who was a cook, began sobbing, apparently with frustration and disgust as the whole tone of the meeting. Arnita & Evelyn began crying, too. Debbie (the cook) finally sobbed, "I want to go home to my mother." Later, Arnita said she had a terrible headache. Another girl said she had a headache, too.

MRS. HERRING said nothing throughout the entire meeting except once, when Debbie N. Looked at her and smiled sarcastically, MRS. HERRING then said, "You're stupid."

The other staff member said nothing at all and finally left at 2:00 PM. A few minutes after she left, GEORGE DOLECAL told the group they could sit there all night; he was going to have some coffee. He and MRS. HERRING left the meeting, inviting me to go with them, but I remained with the girls for about ten more minutes. The tension seemed to break a bit after GEORGE DOLECAL and MRS. HERRING left. The girls stopped picking on the scapegoats and two or three laughed.

During the meeting, at the height of their anger toward Debbie N., Debbie the cook had said she wanted to punch Debbie N. In the mouth. She asked GEORGE DOLECAL if she could do it. He said she could do whatever she wanted, but he didn't think it would solve anything. Later, Evelyn asked the same kind of question and his answer was generally the same, except to add that she would have to face the consequences.

Before George Dolecal left the meeting, girls were called JoAnn "The Sleeping Beauty," and Debbie N. "Queen Shit."

I thanked the girls for allowing me to observe and told them I hoped they could be more helpful to each other. They were very polite and friendly to me.

After I left, GEORGE DOLECAL returned to the meeting, but it broke up a few minutes later. There appeared to be a lot of tension and unrest in the cottage.

GEORGE JENSEN ( my then - supervisor) attended my community meeting in Cottage C. He entered as girls were saying that he had confused them by his remarks and that they preferred the way I operated the meeting. I asked the girls to tell GEORGE, which they did, and he explained to them his intended purpose€“getting them to look at their reactions & responses. Meeting proceeded fairly well. Girls talked about Elizabeth S. and it appeared to help her handle angry feelings a little better. She was able to verbalize her tendency to displace anger (in this case toward Debbie C) onto others.
_____________________________________________________________________

Note: George Dolecal continued to harass the girls and later became assistant superintendent at the Hudson School. The place deteriorated rapidly during the next three years; there were hundreds of runways and serious incidents, including a serious riot. Eventually my testimony before the Senate Select Crime Committee on February 13, 1975, led to the closing of the Hudson School. A few months later, in January, 1976, I transferred to the Brookwood School for Boys. A few months after that, George Dolecal was transferred to Brookwood also. His behavior there was completely opposite of his corrupt behavior at Hudson School. He was clearly frightened of the boys, stayed out of their way, and just hung around the secretaries, and often left the building to visit a friend. After a couple of years, he was promoted to superintendent of a Division for Youth camp; eventually, five or six female staff members at the camp sued George Dolecal for sexual molestation and harassment. I believe he was finally fired. The defendants won their case against him; it costs New York State taxpayers over $100,000 to settle the lawsuit against George Dolecal.

Cop Killer and Thrill Killer

Ralph "Bucky" Phillips and Willie James Bosket, Jr.

This is the true story of how I became the advocate for the two most dangerous killers in recent New York State History. Years before these two now-convicted murderers ever entered my life, I was a small town country girl, daughter of a farmer, and for four years a junior high school English teacher in a rural central school district near my home in Upstate New York.

At the age of 32, after deciding that a teaching career was not my life's ambition, hoping instead to become a journalist or fiction writer...which never happened...I took a job as a counselor with convicted delinquents locked up in New York State- run treatment centers...or, more accurately...junior prisons. As part of the job contract, New York State paid my tuition and all expenses to a graduate school of social work, and upon completing the two years masters degree, I was obligated to work in the juvenile prisons for at least two more years. Eventually, I worked with these kids for 13 years.

My last three years with the state New York State Division for Youth took place at the Brookwood Center for Boys, a maximum security facility for some of the state's most incorrigible and even dangerous kids, many from the crime-ridden streets of Harlem, Buffalo, Albany and Rochester. In the mix were other "bad" kids from very rural areas in upstate and the western counties of the state. Many of the "rural" kids were auto thieves or burglars.. The city kids, in contrast, were far more assaultive and difficult to deal with.

On September 24, 1976, shortly after Brookwood became one of the state's maximum security boys' center, a 14 year old from a small town called Stockton near Jamestown, was transferred to Brookwood under my direct supervision; his names was Ralph James Phillips.

Six months later, on February 18, 1977, another 14 year old boy from Harlem was transferred to Brookwood in a unit (called a wing) across from the unit I supervised; his name was Willie James Bosket, Jr.

For eleven months after the arrival of Ralph Phillips, and six months after Willie Bosket arrived, both were released on parole to their homes. End of the story? Actually, it was just the beginning.

Except for their delinquent histories and their birth year 1962,, Bosket and Phillips were direct opposites in many ways. Bosket was a city kid from Harlem, Phillips a country boy who was practically raised in the woods. Bosket was black, Phillips a white kid who was half Seneca Indian, although at Brookwood, he was classified as white, his Indian blood not particularly apparent in his appearance, nor did he ever mention it.

Willie Bosket was the most aggressive, disobedient kid in Brookwood at the time. Ralph Phillips was probably the most obedient, the least aggressive, the easiest to work with. Quiet, polite and somewhat shy, Ralph never caused any problems except one: he repeatedly absconded from Brookwood, usually with other passive white kids like himself, each time after they were beaten by the assaultive black kids. Each time they ran away, they stole cars. Ralph often got as far as Buffalo, once to an Indian reservation.

Willie never ran away from Brookwood. He was "top-dog" so to speak, calling all the shots, intimidating all his peers and most of the staffers. He had a long, terrifying history of violent behavior from the age of ten, assaulting secretaries, teachers, even psychiatrists.

By the time he was placed at Brookwood, he had already worn out his welcome at three other detention facilities, two of them state-run, one a private voluntary agency. At the age of ten he had even stolen a state van and driven it back to Harlem. His "reign of terror" at Brookwood was much to his liking. He never even attempted to run away. He was having too much fun, doing as he pleased, threatening kids and staffers, and rarely being punished.

Ralph was punished harshly each time he was captured after absconding. Usually the punishment was room or wing confinement and loss of privileges for weeks at a time, sometimes as long as a month. Willie rarely lost his privileges for longer than a day or two, even after beating up kids, destroying state property, and threatening to kill people.

Willie was released in six months. Ralph had to spend eleven months at Brookwood before he was sent home. Both of them were back in trouble within months of their release. In March, 1978, Willie was arrested for shooting three men, killing two of them, "just for the fun of it." He soon made headlines and was sentenced to the max at the time, five years, first in a juvenile prison, Goshen, and then to the state prisons after he turned 16 in December, 1978. After serving the five years, Willie went home to Harlem, and soon was re-arrested for a crime of menacing. Eventually, he committed more crimes in state prison, and in April, 1988, after stabbing a prison guard, nearly killing the man, he was sentenced to life without parole.

Ralph was arrested several times and eventually served three separate sentences in state prisons for non-violent crimes, mostly theft, burglary, and larceny. He never committed any violent crimes against people...until he was 44 years old, and then he escaped from a minimum security prison just four days before he was to be released
stole cars and then gunned down three state troopers, killing one of them.

Both Willie and Ralph are now spending the rest of their lives in New York State Prisons, both in maximum security Special Housing Units, monitored day and night, with hardly any privileges. Both live what I consider death-in-life scenarios. Neither one has any hope or chance of ever being free.. Both expect to die in state prison.
I have hundreds of letters from Willie James Bosket, Jr. and dozens of letters from Ralph "Bucky" Phillips. I was Willie Bosket's advocate and close friend for 15 years after he killed the two men in the Harlem subways.

I am currently the advocate for Ralph "Bucky" Phillips, who has been corresponding with me ever since he surrendered to the Pennsylvania state police eight days after shooting the two state troopers, killing one of them.

Their stories, and my connection to them describes the failed New York State juvenile justice system as well as the waste of two young lives. Presently, I'm too close to these tragedies to write about them. I keep all their letters. Both Ralph and Willie are brilliant young men; both write beautifully; both have unusually charismatic, appealing personalities; both of them have stunned their families and their friends by the violent, tragic crimes they committed, destroying the lives of their victims, their own families, and most of all, their own wasted lives.

The tragedy goes on. The endings are inevitable; the endings will be sad. These stories suggest that there is justice, but for those of us who are close to the victims, the criminals, or their families, there are no victories.

Introduction

I'm probably one of the few Americans who has lived in the same place for my entire life, which is now over 72 years. While it's true that I don't live in the same house where I was conceived and occupied for the first three years of my life, I live in the third house I've ever lived in, but all three houses were on the same dirt road in the town of Nassau in upstate New York, and all three within two or three miles of each other. The first two houses have been torn down years ago. My present home was built 43 years ago, and I moved in the day it was ready for occupancy.

Now you may assume I'm very provincial, in the negative sense of the word, because I'm unlike most Americans and even others from highly developed countries, who are well traveled in comparison. But that doesn't give me an inferiority complex. Just the opposite, in fact, because I believe that people who travel and /or move frequently, never develop their personalities as fully as the old salty characters like me, who have spent an entire lifetime in one small rural town, interacting with the same people until they die or move away, sharing a collective history with all the other "natives" like me... even though there are very few of us left in my age category... and developing a strong personal identity, much of which derives from the lay of the land, the climate, the ecology, and the geographical and demographic uniqueness of my home town.

Because I have developed such a strong, individual personality, I tend to be long-winded, talking about or writing about my anecdotal life experiences, my stubborn opinions and deep-seated convictions about life, in general, and my own life in particular. So I'm going to cut this introduction short, and proceed with the anecdotal tales, though individually unique, that make up the sum total of a quiet, but thoughtful and compassionate lifestyle, heavy on stories of stray dogs, pet dogs, animal stories, small town gossip, humor, some untoward events of interest, health and nutritional advice, poetry, art, literature, current events, crime and criminals, the stock market....for starters...an entire slumgullion, so to speak. If you care to take the journey with me, read on!! You won't be bored.

Ah! Summertime

Throughout the years the poets sing
Of Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring
And every poet has a reason
To prefer a certain season.
Why even Winter has been lauded,
Its icicles and snows applauded,
And autumn leaves so bold and bright
Inspired poets by this sight.
And all of us who do love Spring
Know why it makes the poets sing.

But Summer, Ah! the best of all
Inspires us more than Spring or Fall.
So many poets adore the sun,
So many write of Summer's fun--
The long, hot days, the summer breeze
That helps erase long Winter's freeze;
Picnics, swimming, outdoor cooking,
The tan that makes us all good-looking.

Vacation for the kids and teachers,
Wild fruits and nuts for all God's creatures.
The light-weight clothes and bathing suits,
Good-bye to heavy wools and boots"

The fireflies lighting up the night,
The lovely butterflies in flight
And Summer on the eastern shore
Is honored by the ocean's roar.
And all of us spend countless hours
Loving all the summer flowers;
And best of all the Summer's pleasures:
The clear blue skies -- its greatest treasures.
Of all the season's, Summer' s best,
It clearly outshines all the rest.

But wait! What is this I hear?
Dissenting voices in my ear.
Think about the sleepless nights,
Suffering from the insect bites;
Remember those who rave and rant
Plagued by the lowly little ant;
And the many rainy days
That turned blue skies into greys;
And thunder storms that woke the dead,
And lightning filled us all with dread--
Made trees crash down with a big thud
And turned your lovely lawn to mud.
The poison ivy gave you blisters
And poison oak that plagued your sisters;
The boring re-runs on TV
And nothing really good to see.
Summer trips to places sunny
That cost your family too much money;
The crawling deer ticks that appeared
And bit your children, as you feared;
The rabid fox that was seen
Ambling on your lovely green;
The baby birds killed by your cat,
Your children's tears because of that.
Your air-conditioner was a thrill --
Until you got that great big bill.

Enough! I've heard enough of Summer!
Of all the seasons --it's a bummer!

Oh, Wild West Wind, start to blow!
I'm getting ready for the snow.


Sylvia Honig
May 1995