The Garden Guide

In the village of Shorewood Hills where nature's beauty spills,

There lies a garden, a haven of serenity that truly thrills.

Olbrich Botanical Home Garden Tour, a treasure to explore,

Where floral wonders and tranquil landscapes adore.

As I walk through its gates, the air whispers a gentle song,

A symphony of colors, where every bloom belongs.

The scent of blossoms dances on the breeze,

Guiding me through this botanical masterpiece.

In this village, a canvas of vibrant hues unfurls,

A tapestry of flowers that ignites the world.

Daisies and tulips, roses and lilies too,

All unite in harmony, a kaleidoscope of view.

The winding paths invite me to wander,

Through arches and arbors, my senses meander.

Butterflies flit and bees hum their sweet refrain,

Nature's tiny musicians, playing their cheerful game.

The rain garden, a tranquil retreat,

As you wander the Hydrangea walk in peace.

In every corner, a secret to behold,

A hidden treasure, waiting to unfold.

The fragrance of Japanese Maple, the rustle of ferns,

With each step I take, a new discovery yearns.

From the rose garden's splendor to the sunken garden's grace,

Olbrich's essence is a sanctuary in this enchanted space.

With each bloom that unfurls, a story is told,

Of resilience and beauty, a marvel to behold.

As the sun begins to set, casting golden light,

I bid farewell to this garden, a magical sight.

But its spirit remains, etched deep within my soul,

A reminder of nature's wonders, forever to extol.

So if you find yourself in Shorewood Hills one day,

Know that Olbrich Botanical Home Garden Tour was spectacular.

Till next year…

#Photo #STORY by enthusiastic guide #FrankGCaruso

This morning as the mist swept across the village, I accompanied #MirandaBush on a run, of course, I was on my bike. Below is a story. I hope you enjoy it.

Here in Oregon, WI There lives a spirit, wild and free,

A woman named Miranda, full of glee.

With running shoes on her feet,

She'd race through the streets.

Her legs would carry her, mile after mile,

Her determination, an unwavering style.

But running alone couldn't satisfy,

Her thirst for adventure, reaching the sky,

She dove into waters, calm and deep,

With each stroke, a promise to keep.

Swimming through waters, vast and blue,

Miranda felt a sense of something new,

The water embraced her as if to say,

"Unleash your spirit, and let it play."

From the depths of the water, she emerged with grace,

To conquer new challenges, at a faster pace,

A bicycle became her trusted steed,

Pedaling through landscapes, with fiery speed.

Coaching others, her truest delight,

She shared her knowledge, shining bright,

Guiding their journeys, as they sought to find,

The strength within, their own peace of mind.

Miranda's spirit, an inspiration true,

With boundless energy, she continues to pursue,

Running, swimming, bicycling with flair,

A testament to the joy found in the air.

So let us all learn from Miranda's quest,

To live with passion and give our best.

VISIT: https://mbcoaching-zoneracing.com/the-world-needs-you/

#sports #learning #athlete #triathlon #IronMan #running #cycling #swimming

Miranda Bush

Flower Works Painting

Alex inspired me to write this #FrankGCaruso

In the realm where artistry unfolds,

Amidst colors and stories yet untold,

A canvas blooms, a masterpiece to be,

The birth of beauty, by Alex Haunty.

In whispered strokes, with gentle care,

A world awakens, a realm laid bare,

From humble brush, with dreams imbued,

"FlowerWorks" emerges, an enchanting mood.

Behold the petals, like sun-kissed gold,

In vibrant hues, their tales unfold,

Each brushstroke dances, in harmony's embrace,

A symphony of nature, with elegance and grace.

Crimson roses, fiery and bold,

Symbolize passion, their tales unfold,

Their velvet touch, a tender plea,

To cherish love's embrace, eternally.

A symbol of innocence, bathed in soft light,

Its fragile petals, a delicate ballet,

Whispering serenity in each petal's sway.

A playful exuberance, forever at play,

Their carefree spirits, an ode to joy,

Inviting the heart to dance and enjoy.

With colors diverse, in a vibrant chase,

They speak of resilience, a spirit unbroken,

A symbol of HOPE, through trials unspoken.

Through "FlowerWorks," a tapestry divine,

Alex Haunty's soul, in each stroke, aligns,

With an artist's vision, his dreams unfurled,

A symphony of blossoms, an awe-inspiring world.

So, let us gaze upon this floral delight,

Let our spirits soar, take a moment's flight,

For in each brushstroke, a story blooms,

In "FlowerWorks," a masterpiece looms.

Visit Alex At: https://inspiringartbyalex.com/about.shtml

http://alexhauntystheaterandartsfund.org

On Facebook at #InspiringArtbyAlex

When #MaryBethHaunty discovered her son’s raw talent for art, she refused to believe that his #cognitive #disabilities would prevent him from making his mark on this world. Without question, #AlexHaunty has a gift. And because of this mother’s unwavering belief in her son’s future Alex’s dreams have become a reality. 

Cherishing What Is Good In Life

#Story and photo by #FrankGCaruso #heirloomtomato plant #Memory provided by Green Haven Gardens

Tonight I was out in the backyard, gently watering the heirloom tomato plants and marveling at their vibrant green leaves and soon-to-be plump juicy tomatoes. As I reached out to touch one of the fruits, an unexpected surge of energy coursed through my body. The world around me began to spin, colors blurred, and in the blink of an eye, I found myself standing in the very same backyard where I grew up standing over tomato plants, but something was different. I looked down at my feet and saw that I was no longer the 63-year-old man Instead, I was now a young child of about 6 years old.

For a moment I was confused and disoriented, I stumbled around, trying to make sense of what had just happened. As I explored, I noticed everything around me appeared older— the garage had more chipped paint, the trees were taller, and the house I grew up in seemed weathered. It was then that I realized I had somehow been transported back in time more than 50 years.

The first thing I thought was to find my beautiful childhood friend Tommy Canfiield so we could play together one last time. I ran up to our home and through the door looking for my brothers and sisters, just wanting to tell them, I love them, I never told them back then. But I couldn’t find them and I ran to search for my parents.

My heart swelled with love and appreciation for my family, both in the past and the present. I cherish every moment spent with them, knowing that his time in the past was limited and so is the future. I began to feel a pull, a gentle tugging sensation as if the universe itself was guiding me back to my own time.

Once again I stood in front of the heirloom tomato plant. I gently touched one of its green tomatoes, and the same surge of energy enveloped me. This time, though, I smiled, tears of joy in my eyes. I knew that I had to say goodbye to the past and return to the present time.

With a grateful heart and a treasure trove of memories, I bid farewell to my family in the past. As the colors blurred and the world spun once more, I found myself back in my yard standing in front of the heirloom tomato plant, just before my extraordinary journey.

A reminder of the importance of cherishing what is good in life, nurturing family bonds, and sowing seeds of love that transcend time itself.

O Oak, My Oak

O Oak, my Oak, with branches bare,

A stoic soul, you stand with flair,

No leaves adorn your arms this day,

Yet still, you seize the light's array.

Through seasons' tides, you've stood so strong,

Your roots, a bond so deep and long,

With courage vast, you face the gales,

As nature's heart within you sails.

Oh Oak, my Oak, in winter's grasp,

Through icy winds, you firmly clasp,

Your silhouette against the sky,

A testament, though leaves may die.

In vernal dreams, your buds will rise,

To greet the sun with sweet surprise,

And though the world may gasp and grieve,

Your strength, oh Oak, we shall believe.

When summer's glory paints the land,

And other trees in green expand,

Your majesty in stillness lies,

A beauty rare to poet's eyes.

Oh Oak, my Oak, in autumn's fall,

When leaves depart, we hear your call,

A silent song of life's embrace,

Through every change, you keep your grace.

The storms may rage, the tempests roar,

Yet you, unyielding, ask for more,

In every season's shifting rhyme,

You stand, unmoved, throughout all time.

So, Oak, my Oak, with no leaves near,

Your presence strong, we hold so dear,

In every heart, your roots take hold,

Forever cherished, brave and bold.

In memory of #WaltWhitman

#oaktree #oaktreelife #photo #story by #frankgcaruso

Keene Garlic

In the field with the amazing, passionate,

Keene Heirloom Garlic team as the harvest was underway.

I got to sample the garlic, which was an epicurean delight.

Words and #photo by #FrankGCaruso

In fields where sun-kissed breezes play,

A treasure blooms, both night and day.

Keene Heirloom Garlic, pride so true,

Its beauty's charm, a wondrous view.

Amidst the emerald sea of green,

Resides this bulb, a regal queen.

Her cloves, like gems, with grace they gleam,

An heirloom tale, a cherished dream.

With robust flavor, bold and strong,

She dances on our taste buds long.

Her essence weaves a savory spell,

In every dish, a tale to tell.

In kitchens, scents of joy arise,

As garlic roasts, a grand surprise.

Delightful aroma fills the air,

A fragrant promise, love to share.

Oh, scrumptious taste, a pure delight,

In every bite, a feast in flight.

Her essence weaves through every dish,

A culinary symphony, so rich.

From simple soups to grand cuisine,

Keene Garlic reigns, a reigning queen.

A treasure in the earth, concealed,

Her legacy forever sealed.

So let us raise a heartfelt cheer,

To Keene Heirloom Garlic, far and near.

In kitchens may her beauty thrive,

In every meal, her flavors strive.

MAKE YOUR BED

In the morning light, as dawn breaks through,

I embrace a simple task, something I must do,

I make my bed with care, each crease aligned,

A ritual of strength, a habit well-refined.

For in this act, I find a hidden power,

To face the day, whatever may tower,

No matter what life throws my way,

I won't surrender, I won't dismay.

When challenges loom and burdens weigh,

A made bed reminds me, come what may,

That even amidst the chaos and strife,

I can conquer, I can thrive.

The sheets pulled tight, the pillows fluffed,

A symbol of resilience, of being tough,

Each fold a promise, each tuck a vow,

To stand tall, to face the here and now.

For in this space of tidy grace,

I lay the foundation, find my place,

A sanctuary of strength and peace,

Where doubts and fears find their release.

No matter the troubles that I may dread,

I won't crawl back in, hide under my spread,

Instead, I'll rise above, face the unknown,

With a made bed, I'll stand, I'll own.

So when the day ends, and night draws near,

I'll return to a bed, no longer to fear,

For the act of making, it instills within,

A spirit of courage, so I can always win.

Even if it is just for a moment…

When I make my bed, I know, tomorrow will be better…

#Story and photo by #FrankGCaruso #mentalhealth #courage #fears #facingtomorrow #peace

LOVE

LOVE

In shadows deep, where sorrows lie,

And pain and suffering amplify,

One word, a beacon, shining bright,

Could pierce the dark, bring forth the light.

A whispered truth, a gentle sound,

A word of LOVE, where hope is found,

It parts the clouds, lets sunshine in,

Unveiling paths where hearts can mend.

In silence, where despair resides,

One word can heal, no need to hide,

A symphony of grace untold,

The power of compassion's hold.

With empathy, we bridge the divide,

With kindness, wounds begin to slide,

A simple word, a gesture's touch,

Can mend the broken, heal so much.

Though sorrow's storm may rage within,

The warmth of care can quell and win,

And as the tender word is heard,

The pain, the suffering, it's blurred.

Let's be that word for those we meet,

To change their world, make life replete,

For in the power of LOVE we find,

A solace for the wounded mind.

So, let us share that word today,

And chase the shadows far away,

Embrace the hurting, be the cure,

With one word, make their hearts endure.

#Art and #words by #FrankGCaruso

#Love #mendthebroken #healthewounded

The Dwarf Elephants Live

As soon as I saw this #mushroom when I was crawling around #AndersonPark I thought of my childhood friend Tommy Canfield and how we explored the world. Wow, I sure hope kids are doing that today. I know I am for Tommy and I

#Story inspired by my #childhood #friendship #Photo taken from the ground looking up at #heaven by #FrankGCaruso

In the heart of an ancient forest, hidden beneath a canopy of towering trees, a remarkable and rare fungus had taken root. Unbeknownst to the world around it, this humble fungus possessed an extraordinary secret. It belonged to a long-forgotten lineage of magical fungi with the ability to give birth to miniature creatures of the past.

This particular fungus, named Fungorelius, was special in every way. Its spores were the stuff of legend, rumored to hold the power to resurrect long-extinct beings. Among the chosen species were the mighty Dwarf Elephants, belonging to the Mammuthus, Elephas, and Stegodon genera. Once majestic giants that once roamed the world, they were now lost to the annals of history.

As the centuries passed, Fungorelius grew, nurtured by the rich soil and the subtle energies that pulsed through the forest. It was aware of its unique gift, understanding that the time to bestow life upon the tiny pachyderms was drawing near. Patiently, it awaited the perfect moment, when the celestial alignment was just right.

Then, one enchanted evening, with the moon shining brightly in the night sky, Fungorelius felt the cosmic energies converge. It knew that the time had come. The fungus gathered all its strength and released a cloud of golden-hued spores into the air.

The spores floated gently on the breeze, carried by unseen hands to every corner of the forest. Each spore held the potential to give life to a single Dwarf Elephant. As they settled onto leaves, branches, and even the forest floor, the magical transformation began.

Tiny specks of life sprouted from the spores, and miniature trunks, ears, and tusks formed, reminiscent of their ancient ancestors. Each baby Dwarf Elephant was no larger than a particle of dust, yet they were perfect in every detail. The forest seemed to shimmer with the essence of long-lost times.

Over the following weeks, the miniature pachyderms began to grow, sustained by the energy of the enchanted forest and the nurturing love of Fungorelius. As the days passed, they ventured out into their world—a world much grander to them than their size would suggest.

Their tiny trumpets echoed through the undergrowth, and they played games amongst the ferns and mosses. The forest became alive with their laughter and joy, as they explored their new home and formed bonds with each other.

Though small, the Dwarf Elephants were mighty in spirit. Fierce protectors of their magical home, they would band together if any danger dared to approach the forest. Their trumpets, though minuscule, could still emit a surprisingly loud sound that would scare away even the boldest of predators.

Word of the enchanted forest and its wondrous inhabitants spread throughout the animal kingdom. Creatures of all sizes would journey from far and wide to catch a glimpse of the miniature wonders. The forest, once forgotten, now became a sanctuary of mystery and awe.

And so, the generations of tiny Dwarf Elephants thrived under the watchful eye of Fungorelius, a guardian of an ancient secret. The forest became a haven for those seeking to reconnect with the past and marvel at the beauty of life, no matter how small.

And so, the legend of the Dwarf Elephants and the magical fungus Fungorelius continued to enchant generations. The forest remained a testament to the wonders of nature, where the smallest of beings could hold the mightiest of hearts. And though the world might overlook them, within the forest's embrace, they lived as giants of their own, a testament to the enduring power of life and the mysteries it holds.

THE GREEN PEN

Once upon a time; what a great opening line for a story.

In a small but congested California town nestled up against Silicon Valley sat De Anza College. At De Anza College worked a remarkable English teacher named George Barlow. He was known for his unconventional ways amongst the student population and his unwavering belief in his students' potential. Mr. Barlow had a distinct quirk that set him apart from other teachers, he would never correct papers with red ink. Instead, he adorned his students' assignments with vibrant strokes of green ink, a color that symbolized growth and encouragement.

Mr. Barlow understood that learning was not about pointing out mistakes but rather nurturing the seeds of knowledge and imagination within his students. He believed in the power of positive reinforcement and sought to inspire his students to strive for greatness. His classroom became a sanctuary of creativity and self-expression, where each student's unique voice could flourish.

Among his students was Frank G. Caruso, a young and aspiring writer. Frank had always loved the written word, but he lacked the confidence to fully embrace his talent. Doubt often clouded Frank’s mind, and he found himself hesitant to share his stories, even embarrassed. However, Mr. Barlow saw something special in Frank; he recognized the sparkle in his eyes and a deep longing to tell stories. When Frank spoke about his stories, he would immerse himself in the story as if he was living in the story for the first time.

One day, Frank nervously handed in his latest composition, his heart pounding with anticipation. Frank had poured his soul into the words, and he hoped that Mr. Barlow would see the potential within his writing. As he anxiously awaited his paper's return, he noticed Mr. Barlow’s distinct green ink adorning his pages.

Curiosity mingled with excitement as Frank eagerly scanned the feedback. Instead of focusing on his mistakes, Mr. Barlow’s comments highlighted his strengths, celebrating his creativity and unique storytelling. Each sentence was filled with encouragement, urging Frank to explore new horizons and trust in his abilities.

With every passing day, Mr. Barlow’s unwavering belief in Frank inspired him to grow bolder with his words. He nurtured his talents and gently guided him through the intricacies of literature and language.

Under Mr. Barlow’s guidance, Frank’s confidence soared. He fearlessly poured his thoughts onto the pages, discovering his voice within the realm of stories. The green ink served as a constant reminder that his ideas were valuable, his words had power, and Frank was capable of achieving greatness.

Frank has never forgotten Mr. Barlow’s profound impact on his life. His belief in his abilities had been a guiding light during years of self-doubt.

George Barlow, the English teacher with the green ink, had taught Frank far more than grammar and literature. He had taught him the importance of belief in oneself, the significance of encouragement, and the transformative power of a teacher who dares to see beyond the surface and ignite the flame of potential within their students.

And so, their story stands as a testament to the profound influence a caring teacher can have, as George Barlow's legacy continues to inspire and uplift generations of students who dare to dream and embrace the power of their own words.

In Frank’s final essay, Mr. Barlow would write.

“What a beautiful final essay! You not only write clearly, Frank, but with vision and feeling”.

Frank would receive his first A for that paper, a paper he keeps near and reads Mr. Barlow‘s words of inspiration every now and then. Even though Frank does not consider himself a writer, he does consider himself a storyteller.

I know this story to be true because I was there, Frank G.Caruso.

English 100 A December 12, 1983.

The Miracle of Rosalie

Hazel had always loved the sound of trains, the rhythmic chugging of engines, and the clacking of steel wheels on tracks. So, on a warm summer afternoon in Brooklyn, Wisconsin, she wandered off from the LaHazel had always loved the sound of trains, the rhythmic chugging of engines, and the clacking of steel wheels on tracks. So, on a warm summer afternoon in Brooklyn, Wisconsin, she wandered off from the Lawrence School for Wayward Girls where she was abandoned as a baby. Hazel found herself walking along the railroad tracks that ran through the small town.

As she walked, Hazel couldn't help but daydream about her future. She pretended for a moment to imagine a life filled with adventure, traveling the world on a train, and living a life that was anything but ordinary.

As she walked, she let her imagination run wild. She envisioned herself standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking a breathtaking vista, or walking hand in hand with her true love through the bustling streets of Paris.

Lost in her dream-like thoughts, Hazel heard a train approaching; she closed her eyes and braced herself for the impact.

But then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the train was gone. Hazel opened her eyes to find herself standing in the middle of an empty field. The train tracks had vanished, and she was surrounded by wildflowers and tall grass.

Confused and disoriented, Hazel looked around for some sign of where she was. It wasn't until she heard a soft whispering voice calling her name that she realized she was no longer alone.

Turning towards the sound, Hazel saw a young girl standing a few yards away. She was unusually tall with cowlick-ridden fire-red hair that dangled on her broad shoulders. The girl had sparkling green eyes that seemed to twinkle in the sunlight.

"Who are you?" Hazel asked, her heart rapidly pounding in her chest.

The young girl smiled and took a step closer. "I'm just someone who wants to help you," she said. "My name is Rosalie, there is no need for you to end your life here.”

“What do you mean…I mean how do you know…What is happening to me?”

“It is not what is happening to you, Hazel. It is my dream to see you.”

“What do you mean by your dream?”

“I have been wanting to see you all my life.”

Hazel laughed. “Oh really, you’re younger than I am.”

“You’ve made a wonderful life for yourself. Please take my hand.”

Hazel took Rosalie’s hand with hesitation. As soon as they touched, Hazel felt an instant connection to Rosalie as if they had known each other for years, even a lifetime. Hazel found herself telling her everything, about her dreams of adventure and love, and how she had almost been hit by the train and how it just disappeared.

Rosalie listened intently, her eyes never leaving Hazel’s. When she was finished, she took her hand and led her to a nearby tree, where they sat down together in the shade.

For the rest of the afternoon, Hazel and Rosalie talked and laughed, sharing their hopes and fears, and dreams. As the sun began to set, Hazel realized that she had found something she had been searching for all along. She had found love for herself.

As they walked back to town together, hand in hand, Hazel knew that her future was going to be everything she had ever dreamed of, and more. With Rosalie by her side, she was ready to face anything that came her way. 

As Hazel and Rosalie walked along the railroad tracks, watching the stars twinkle in the night sky, Hazel heard a voice calling her from a distance, “Mom, mom!” Hazel opened her eyes to see her daughter leaning over her bed in hospice care. Hazel’s daughter held her mother's hand and I asked, “Mom, who is Rosalie?”

Hazel whispered, “Rosalie is my mother.”

“Mom, you were abandoned. You never knew your mother.”

The Hospice nurse in the room asked, “Did your mom say Rosalie”?

“Yes.”

The hospice nurse left the room. When she returned, she carried a newspaper article. “I thought the name was familiar. This article is in our library. When I was a child, parents would tell this story so we would stay off the railroad tracks. On April 11, 1936, authorities believe a 13-year-old girl deliberately wandered onto the path of a train just a block from the Lawrence School for Wayward Girls and was killed. A suitcase was found near the body with a handwritten name—Rosalie. Under further investigation, authorities believe that this is the girl that dropped off a newborn at the school for girls.”

“Did you say April 11, 1936?”

“Yes.”

“That is what the school thought my mother's birthday was. The daughter looks down at her mother. Mom, Mom”.

“She’s gone, missy.”

“She came from such a brutal life and yet she was loving, such a selfish place, and yet she was giving, such an unloved world, yet she was filled with love. Our mother was not possible and yet she was.”

wrence School for Wayward Girls where she was abandoned as a baby. Hazel found herself walking along the railroad tracks that ran through the small town.

As she walked, Hazel couldn't help but daydream about her future. She pretended for a moment to imagine a life filled with adventure, traveling the world on a train, and living a life that was anything but ordinary.

As she walked, she let her imagination run wild. She envisioned herself standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking a breathtaking vista, or walking hand in hand with her true love through the bustling streets of Paris.

Lost in her dream-like thoughts, Hazel heard a  train approaching; she closed her eyes and braced herself for the impact.

But then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the train was gone. Hazel opened her eyes to find herself standing in the middle of an empty field. The train tracks had vanished, and she was surrounded by wildflowers and tall grass.

Confused and disoriented, Hazel looked around for some sign of where she was. It wasn't until she heard a soft whispering voice calling her name that she realized she was no longer alone.

Turning towards the sound, Hazel saw a young girl standing a few yards away. She was unusually tall with cowlick-ridden fire-red hair that dangled on her broad shoulders. The girl had sparkling green eyes that seemed to twinkle in the sunlight.

"Who are you?" Hazel asked, her heart rapidly pounding in her chest.

The young girl smiled and took a step closer. "I'm just someone who wants to help you," she said. "My name is Rosalie, there is no need for you to end your life here.”

“What do you mean…I mean how do you know…What is happening to me?”

“It is not what is happening to you, Hazel. It is my dream to see you.”

“What do you mean by your dream?”

“I have been wanting to see you all my life.”

Hazel laughed. “Oh really, you’re younger than I am.”

“You’ve made a wonderful life for yourself. Please take my hand.”

Hazel took Rosalie’s hand with hesitation. As soon as they touched, Hazel felt an instant connection to Rosalie as if they had known each other for years, even a lifetime. Hazel found herself telling her everything, about her dreams of adventure and love, and how she had almost been hit by the train and how it just disappeared.

Rosalie listened intently, her eyes never leaving Hazel’s. When she was finished, she took her hand and led her to a nearby tree, where they sat down together in the shade.

For the rest of the afternoon, Hazel and Rosalie talked and laughed, sharing their hopes and fears, and dreams. As the sun began to set, Hazel realized that she had found something she had been searching for all along. She had found love for herself.

As they walked back to town together, hand in hand, Hazel knew that her future was going to be everything she had ever dreamed of, and more. With Rosalie by her side, she was ready to face anything that came her way. 

As Hazel and Rosalie walked along the railroad tracks, watching the stars twinkle in the night sky, Hazel heard a voice calling her from a distance, “Mom, mom!” Hazel opened her eyes to see her daughter leaning over her bed in hospice care. Hazel’s daughter held her mother's hand and I asked, “Mom, who is Rosalie?”

Hazel whispered, “Rosalie is my mother.”

“Mom, you were abandoned. You never knew your mother.”

The Hospice nurse in the room asked, “Did your mom say Rosalie”?

“Yes.”

The hospice nurse left the room. When she returned, she carried a newspaper article. “I thought the name was familiar. This article is in our library. When I was a child, parents would tell this story so we would stay off the railroad tracks. On April 11, 1936, authorities believe a 13-year-old girl deliberately wandered onto the path of a train just a block from the Lawrence School for Wayward Girls and was killed. A suitcase was found near the body with a handwritten name—Rosalie. Under further investigation, authorities believe that this is the girl that dropped off a newborn at the school for girls.”

“Did you say April 11, 1936?”

“Yes.”

“That is what the school thought my mother's birthday was. The daughter looks down at her mother. Mom, Mom”.

“She’s gone, missy.”

“She came from such a brutal life and yet she was loving, such a selfish place, and yet she was giving, such an unloved world, yet she was filled with love. Our mother was not possible and yet she was.”

The Last Supper Club, Smoky's

It was January 7th 2022, just a month from now, the old supper club would close forever. The atmosphere this evening was electric with excitement and nostalgia. Patrons were almost like fixtures from long ago welded to the old bar stools for the last time. I could see that some of them were even thinking maybe, just maybe, they won’t close as if they were trying to hold onto memories from the past. This place had been legendary for its hash browns and steaks, and not in that order. Smoky’s was a community all its own for 69 years and this next month would be its final farewell.

As the guests filtered in, they were greeted by the familiar faces of the staff. The waitstaff bustled about, setting the tables, while the cooks worked their magic in the kitchen.

As the night went on, the guests, young and old, laughed and reminisced about all the good times they had at Smoky’s over the years. 

But this story is not about Smoky’s closing not at all. It’s about a moment in time, a special memory that will never be forgotten. It was 34 years ago, my first job in Madison, Wisconsin, driving a truck for a meat purveyor. It was a few days before Christmas, leaving Madison at 5 AM and heading to Milwaukee to start my delivery route. In those days, the bill of lading was handwritten egregiously with a barely legible address and restaurant name. The company did issue a well-used map that had a few pages missing. By this time, however, I knew the destinations of all my restaurant deliveries so it wasn’t too difficult. Thirty-four years ago there were no cell phones, no Google maps, no Facebook likes or 140 characters on Twitter. On this day, a storm was heading to Madison. I would zigzag across Milwaukee, West Allis, New Berlin, Waukesha, Sussex, Oconomowoc, Lake Mills, and back to Madison before it got impossible to travel, and if I didn’t deliver people wouldn’t be having dinner. I had reached Madison by 4 o’clock in record time and University Avenue was covered fairly deeply with snow. My last stop was Smoky’s. Tom (Schmock) would usually be there going through the boxes and inspecting each steak. Janet (Schmock) was baking some pies and doing other tasks in the kitchen. As Tom was going through the boxes, Janet insisted that I sit down and have a glass of milk and a piece of pie. I was so hungry that day that I had put off eating to get back to Madison before the storm. I politely said no thank you to Janet and told her I have to try and get back to the warehouse before the roads get too snowy. Janet said “well if you get stuck, I don’t want you to be hungry. Now sit down. I’m getting you a piece of pie and some milk. I obeyed politely. When Janet saw me devour the first piece of her apple pie, she promptly served me a second piece. So, when I think back on that day and all the other days I delivered to Smoky’s, it was always Janet’s eternal kindness, not for what she did but for who she was…

On the road somewhere in #America by #FrankGCaruso #supperclub #restaurant #MadisonWI #hashbrowns #steaks #familybusiness #kindness #applepie #smokysclub #steakhouse #driftlesssocial #EST1953

The Last Letter

The Last Letter

Do you remember me? Have you seen me? I’m in doorways, along city streets, peppered on country roads often bent, broken and rusted from the top down. I’m now the past, with a very long history of receiving and sending mostly letters. Long before I was discovered and for those that have never seen me, I was the conduit between the mail carrier and you. Yes, you got mail from me. If you have seen me, you know I have held some of the most wondrous and even heart breaking communications in history. Your DNA has traveled across cities, states and continents on the corners of those envelopes and behind the neatly placed stamp.

Are you lucky enough to remember when you ran to me with an excitement that filled your universe, like no time before, or as it turned out, after, from the anticipation of that first letter you knew was coming? You came to me that afternoon and reached your hand into my metal shelter where I always protected and kept the sealed secrets safe without a lock, some encryption sequence or face ID. At my best time, I was shiny and new, my red flag stood out like a beacon. I was beloved and respected but as the years passed I was forgotten, unattended, faded and abandoned, and it wasn’t anything I did. Things like that just happen. So keep shining, keep believing, in days of momentous anticipation where your excitement filled your universe.

Frank G. Caruso

What Robin Told Me

The last leg of our school year was approaching. We had endured many sweltering days, even with the chain link windows opened to the cathedral ceilings with lights that dangled down like vines in a forest. The entire valley was submerged in this warm pool of moisture. Our classroom was kiln-like forcing the sweat to drip off our ardent flesh like a river overflowing from winter’s melt. The occasional teaspoon of warm breeze snuck in through those giant, oak framed windows, gently grazing across our youthful faces.  

Days before, our teacher, Mr. Falbo, announced we would be getting a new student in class. Today would be that day. It was just after lunch when our principal, Mr. Sabino, stopped by our class. He made a gesture to Mr. Falbo to come out into the hall. A few minutes passed. What was going on out there, I wondered? The principal doesn't come by often, only to deliver Mr. Falbo’s paycheck. With that thought, the door hurled open and in walked Mr. Falbo followed bya girl. The room filled with silence, a brief introduction was made. All we knew now was our new classmate's name, Robin, which I cared less about at this unbelievable moment.We also learned that she would be with us the remainder of the year. Nothing else was said, leaving many questions unanswered. She had an unforgettable appearance, one that I have never unseen. I wanted to understand why she looked the way she did, and I was sure that everyone else wanted to know. More importantly, it would have taken the fear and ignorance away, if we all knew the answer.
She was smaller in stature than everyone here like she did not belong, but neither did I. Her arms were twig-like, akin to the ones the wind takes from a dead tree. Obviously, she had been quite ill. The coloring above her cheekbone was a dim purple shade, framed by her very dry, thinly spotted pale yellow skin. The most noticeable of all her features were the few patches of hair that dangled out from her head, hanging lifeless and eerie to look upon.. For a moment I thought of my mother and how when dad got home, mom would run into the bathroom and tease her hair and apply lipstick. Mom taught me that a woman’s hair was everything. When the introduction was over, we all went back to work. I couldn't believe what had just happened, as if we all had to hide what we saw. When I looked at her, I could not hide, forget or put away the thoughts I had. It looked much too painful not to share and, if that were so, I wanted to know.
Day to day, this quiet girl unsuccessfully tried to qualify in non-school activities on the playground at recess, unworthy to fit amongst the prejudice standards which were set long before her appearance here.  

With a curious nature, I watched her at a safe distance, not to arouse any suspicion with my wonder. I thought, in a loving odd way, we would have a bond unlike anyone else here. Bracing up against the school's brick, cool shaded side at recess, I watched her selectively pick dandelions. I had not been witness tosuch warmth and love from any of my peers. Others would just trample over nature’s yellow bouquets. Her touch was calm and gentle, placing selective ones in a notebook kept close by her side. She treated those weeds as if they were especially grown for her, extending remarkable regard and more, as though this playground was her very own sanctuary. She didn't seem to mind being a shadow in the presence of our classmates. She looked so content; even as she walked alone on her way home each and every day. No one ever came for her. 

The end of her first week had come, that's when it happened. The pack of kids that usually spend their time tormenting the weaker kids, hate was all they had to offer, twirling their malignant venom on this gentle girl. The second-hand tattered rags that draped her body became the center of their torturing. Each blow made them merry with delight, scintillating their already repugnant manner. Filing out of school, they surrounded her, like ravenous wolves, taunting her into a submission of tears. Walking briskly, she kept her head high above the verbal blows as if she were accustomed tothem. These kids, the children of God, were now saying things that only God could forgive. That's when the darkest side of these flesh-like monsters came forth. One of them shamelessly yelled, "Get a wig on that head." Laughter spawned from their cruel mouths. This quiet girl broke through the chain of hands that caged her, running as fast and as far as her fragile legs would carry her.

There I stood beyond the crowd, watching. Watching her run to safety. My mother warned me of this day, hoping I would never know what it was like to be the other children."When the hurting stops, then you have stopped feeling," she would say. The heartless truth is, while I stood watching them attack her from a safe distance, I was ashamed of myself, small and ill-equipped to do anything. All their burning words and killing laughter echoed in my head. Closing my eyes would not hide the hate those monsters put on her. I would tell you I’m so unremarkable as a person and I would give anything to have that day back to rewrite it’s ending for the girl I almost knew. 

As Robin vanished in the distance, so did her attackers, marching away like heroes, as if they had done something grand. I stood and watched it all, and for nothing but tasteless whisper. There in belly of the beast, it was me who was far more contemptible than any of my classmates because of my very own, still voice, a killer of notable power.
That night in bed, I lie awake ashamed of what I had done and not done, replaying what had happened in my mind. I prayed into night for her emancipation from the world’s hatred. I wanted to save her, repeatedly rescuing her from all the harm that had ever wounded her.

When dawn unfolded into my room, I had made a thousand rescues, and I would keep dreaming until it became true. The truth was I had been a coward then and if I was merely doing this to cope with the cowardliness then I had learned nothing. 

After that day, Robin was never to be seen again, though I was able to fantasize saving her, easing the ill feelings I felt in my mind, feelings my heart could not vanquish nor foster any hope for an end.    

She still interrupts my dreams now and then, with tears that cloud my open eyes where my sorrows live.

Robin, I’m so sorry… 

Frank G. Caruso

The Kiss

It was my first kiss, Thanksgiving weekend 1970, barely a teenager. Oh sure, I had a kiss from mom on the cheek and forehead but this was immensely different. This was carved out of a sweetness of an unexpected moment that would never have its time again. We were talking about nothing, nothing I can even vaguely recall. Most days back then, I was just air to the world around me, never an attentions gathering place. She looked at me like no one before, I didn’t recognize myself. I felt this other life inside me emerging breaking away from my chrysalis; I felt beautiful for the first time. The fear and loneliness that shrouded my days dripped away like dew on a window. Then, there were suddenly no words, a silence that slipped through the back door. It was like the earth stopped rotating and we were swept away into the atmosphere like falling leaves in autumn’s wind.     

Her lips were like a plum with its skin peeled back; I was just lost in her breath. There I was, sitting in a place I wanted to run from nearly everyday. Now, it was if I had a rebirth, every bruise, every scar faded away. This is not what I asked for because I didn’t know I could.     

It was only for a moment and we never talked about it again. Though when it happened, I thought my heart was going to explode. The joy I felt was ineffable, I was connected to someone in a way grapevines spin themselves around and around each other. 

I think about that day every Thanksgiving. I often wonder if she does. Though we lived in these cardboard, cut-out homes back on 12 Minot Place with a Chevy in the driveway and Wonder Bread on the table next to warm butter, inside those identical homes there were families with different stories held together by love and the pain that goes with growing up. And, there were moments, like The Kiss, of wonder and joy and the girl that saved me, if just for a moment. 

Baked into my memory on Thanksgiving weekend 1970.

Frank G. Caruso

Cecelia

1981

San Francisco

A young girl calls out into night reaching for help.

It was approximately 11:20 p.m. I was lying in my comfortable bed, ready to fall fast asleep, when I noticed my phone had not rung all evening. It was one of those phone-radio all-in-one combination phones. I reached over to the nightstand and picked up the receiver. There were voices emanating from the phone receiver. Thinking it was odd playing through my phone, I wondered if it was an option that came with the phone or was I dreaming. I put the receiver to my ear and listened for a moment, and realized that a call-in radio talk show was coming through my radio phone receiver. I now was more personally connected than if it was just playing on the radio.

I propped up my pillows and prepared myself for what would be my first time listening to one of these self-help radio shows. Dr. Browne, a psychiatrist, introduced herself and gave a toll-free number to call in. The name of the game was “entertainment through the exploitation of human misery.” Dr. Browne then took a caller and said, “Hello, “You’re on KGO!” There was silence,... and then the caller said in a young, trembling whisper, “I would like to talk…”

“Go ahead,” the doctor said encouragingly.

“Could you wait just a minute?” asked the voice over the phone.

“Yes,” the doctor let out a deep sigh.

The caller sounded like a very young girl who was frightened. I could hear her set the phone down, and then footsteps scurry across a hard floor and a door open. The girl lowered her voice until it was barely audible.

“Is anyone coming?”

A different female voice told her to go ahead, but to keep her voice down. I heard the door close. She made her way back to the phone and said, “Hello.”

“Go ahead.” Dr. Browne urged. The girl hesitated and then in a quivering voice said, “I would like to talk about incest.”

When I heard this, my throat tightened up. I had no idea what she was going to say.

“What would you like to say about incest?” The doctor asked.

As the girl started to tell her story, her voice cracked. “When I was four, my grandfather molested me, when I was eight, my brother molested me and, at twelve, my father molested me.”

At this point, I was horrified and feeling more personally involved. Here I was eavesdropping on a private conversation thinking I should call the police, but where is she?

Dr. Brown then asked, “How old are you?”

“I...am...15.”

“Is your mother around to talk to?” The doctor seemed concerned.

“No!”

“Where are you living?” probed Dr. Browne.

“Oh...around.” She sounded so lost.

“How do you support yourself?” The doctor inquired inquisitively.

“I...sell myself.” There was such anguish in the girl’s voice.

“Where are you calling from?” the doctor said abruptly.

“Uh...uh...L.A.”

“What’s your name?” the doctor asked slowly.

“Cecelia” she said with assurance.

Dr. Brown said, “Cecelia, I’m going to give you some phone numbers to call in your area for help.”

There was a noise in the background, and a female voice frantically said, “He just drove up! Get off the phone!”

Cecelia, shaken, said, “I have to go now.”

The doctor quickly said, “Take these numbers down.”

Cecelia despairingly said, “I must go. Good bye.”

At this point, I’m screaming into the phone, “Don’t let her go! Don’t let her go!”

There was silence over the phone, then Doctor Browne said. “You’re on KGO.”

Today Cecelia would be 52. Many nights after that call I would pick up my phone and listen to the silence. I’m not sure what I would have done even if I had the chance. It took months for Cecelia’s voice to fade from my memory, though I think back upon that day often, especially when I use a landline.  I like to  think of Cecelia as a sweet delicate bird that would take flight one day. I hope her wings found a new home. I hope her life is now filled with peace. I hope she has found true love. I hope her past has not taken her life from her.

Frank G. Caruso