MOORINGS
By Tony Mitchelson
You can spot her through the throngs of people gathered in reunion – Mrs. Stewart. Her glasses are set low across her nose so she can canvas the flurry of activities far and near. The neighborhood is jammed with generations of friends and family returning to celebrate memories and longevity.
Aromas of sumptuous foods pepper the air and pitch presence of tabled dishes waiting to be savored by the crowds. The food areas near each of the nine buildings have spreads of specialties prepared during late night and wee morning hours. Revelers eagerly join lines and wait their turn at plate to greet the servers’ portions. Friendly banter loops their village surround; each voice adds tenor to this long awaited rejoin.
Despite blazing rays of mid-day sun, Mrs. Stewart is resplendent behind her table of foods. Her silver hair is set in simple coiffure. She is smiles and charm as she feeds the scores of people. She greets each person with especial remind; queries the absence and health of missing members. She apprises everyone they are still part of her flock despite their tower of years. Proudly she points out her three daughters to guide old friends in re-acquaint.
With sated stomachs and renewed hearts, the folks continue their parade across home grounds. “Ooh’s” and “Aah’s” resound round after round as the circle of celebrants widens through the protraction of day. Invigorating handshakes, heartfelt hugs and kisses remind each of their trace and place. Pictures pop from pockets to pageant the progressions in their lives. Pens, pads and pods capture the new numbers needed to bind tomorrows connect. Occasional sighs and headshakes evoke memories of those no longer present. From seats of wheelchairs, leans on canes and precious posture on sure footing, they greet each other to badge blessings and honor stalk of their years.
Mrs. Stewart watches all with keen eyes. Her head bobs to the latest beats booming from speakers. She does a spiffy step to remind all her stride is still divine on her ledge of 82 years. Her laughter is unrestrained and genuine. Today overstocks her joy as she watches the pulsing of her people. The innocent screams of the young at play are welcome sound to her ears. She no longer winces at those trebled tones like she once did almost 50 years ago.
Her son, Baron and friend Elgin, were young little leaguers. They spent an afternoon chucking rocks and cans on the outskirts of the stadium. The old Polo Grounds stood in rusting decay; a shell of its former hey-day when Willie Mays and the New York Giants generated excitement within. It was now up to the two nine-year old friends to bring back the clamor of the crowd.
They took turns staring at the distant wall with its faded paint marks that squared a perfect strike zone for their pitches. With high kick of leg, each hurled their rocks and cans from their mound towards the square. When the speeding stock of their slings clattered against the painted strike zone it was cause for celebration. They raised hands high overhead as they listened to the ghost-roar of the Polo Grounds crowd cheering them on.
The sun slowly slipped over the hills of Washington Heights and a slight drizzle of rain began. Most of their rocks had splintered and the cans were crushed, so they decided to call it a rainout. There were no innings, winners nor losers in their game. Only the sport of friendship mattered as they wiped their hands across their dungarees and polo shirts to remove the traces of grease and gook that spilled from those hurled cans of liquid. They laughed and boasted about their pitching feats as they headed towards home.
They entered their building, #20, and went onto the staircase making way to the 3rd floor. They discovered some books of matches carelessly left on the steps. Mischievously, they decided to light a few. Soon they were laughing and tossing them towards each other in pointless prank.
Elgin stood at the top of the staircase and Baron below. In slow-motion replay you could see Elgin’s fingers rubbing the sulfide head of match against the silica of striking surface. The friction ignited the match and Elgin tossed it down the steps. A slow trailing cloud of white phosphorous vapor followed the stream of fire winging the air like an errant sky-writer plane sloping downward towards Baron.
Standing below, Baron had no time to dodge the fiery match. The flame touched his accelerant- soaked shirt. A blinding flash mushroomed from Baron’s body as the fire fed fiendishly from shirt to pants. Frantically, he swiped in vain at the raging flames. With anguished screams he bolted down the steps to the first floor. He steamed past people in the hallway and out the front door of the building.
The Harlem River was 300 yards away. He was one building, six road lanes and small wall away from the water’s edge. He watched its mighty flow his entire life from sanctuary of his bedroom window. Despite the dampness on the paving and the screams of onlookers yelling at him: “Drop to the ground! Drop to the ground!” – Baron ran on, blinded by pain and mission. He was a ball of flame hurtling those yards towards relief in chill of Harlem’s river.
Baron dashed past the corner of last building, #14, and crumbled to the ground at the front entrance to the Colonial Houses - just steps away from those final road lanes of his tortuous journey. His screams, long since ceased, were now surrogated by the overwrought vocals of Mrs. Stewart; she wailed and moaned over the charred remains of her only son long into the dampened night.
Mrs. Stewart no longer sifts the ashes of bitterness and lamentable memories. She lives strongly in the mission of her days; places her faith in God and passel of the young she eagerly watches over. Her eyes sparkle when a young friend remembers that her birthday, August 27th, is just twelve days away.
The charcoals under grills have cooled. Only a few last embers glow to match the cerise colors of sun’s set on this jubilant day. Mrs. Stewart looks around and gazes at the faces of friends and families giving last hugs and well wishes. She turns back with a smile and responds to the friend, “I’m so glad you remembered my birthday is coming. You better call me.” Looking over at the diminishing crowd once more, she turns again, gives the young friend a hug and sternly admonishes, “You call me, you hear! Call me.”
By Tony Mitchelson
You can spot her through the throngs of people gathered in reunion – Mrs. Stewart. Her glasses are set low across her nose so she can canvas the flurry of activities far and near. The neighborhood is jammed with generations of friends and family returning to celebrate memories and longevity.
Aromas of sumptuous foods pepper the air and pitch presence of tabled dishes waiting to be savored by the crowds. The food areas near each of the nine buildings have spreads of specialties prepared during late night and wee morning hours. Revelers eagerly join lines and wait their turn at plate to greet the servers’ portions. Friendly banter loops their village surround; each voice adds tenor to this long awaited rejoin.
Despite blazing rays of mid-day sun, Mrs. Stewart is resplendent behind her table of foods. Her silver hair is set in simple coiffure. She is smiles and charm as she feeds the scores of people. She greets each person with especial remind; queries the absence and health of missing members. She apprises everyone they are still part of her flock despite their tower of years. Proudly she points out her three daughters to guide old friends in re-acquaint.
With sated stomachs and renewed hearts, the folks continue their parade across home grounds. “Ooh’s” and “Aah’s” resound round after round as the circle of celebrants widens through the protraction of day. Invigorating handshakes, heartfelt hugs and kisses remind each of their trace and place. Pictures pop from pockets to pageant the progressions in their lives. Pens, pads and pods capture the new numbers needed to bind tomorrows connect. Occasional sighs and headshakes evoke memories of those no longer present. From seats of wheelchairs, leans on canes and precious posture on sure footing, they greet each other to badge blessings and honor stalk of their years.
Mrs. Stewart watches all with keen eyes. Her head bobs to the latest beats booming from speakers. She does a spiffy step to remind all her stride is still divine on her ledge of 82 years. Her laughter is unrestrained and genuine. Today overstocks her joy as she watches the pulsing of her people. The innocent screams of the young at play are welcome sound to her ears. She no longer winces at those trebled tones like she once did almost 50 years ago.
Her son, Baron and friend Elgin, were young little leaguers. They spent an afternoon chucking rocks and cans on the outskirts of the stadium. The old Polo Grounds stood in rusting decay; a shell of its former hey-day when Willie Mays and the New York Giants generated excitement within. It was now up to the two nine-year old friends to bring back the clamor of the crowd.
They took turns staring at the distant wall with its faded paint marks that squared a perfect strike zone for their pitches. With high kick of leg, each hurled their rocks and cans from their mound towards the square. When the speeding stock of their slings clattered against the painted strike zone it was cause for celebration. They raised hands high overhead as they listened to the ghost-roar of the Polo Grounds crowd cheering them on.
The sun slowly slipped over the hills of Washington Heights and a slight drizzle of rain began. Most of their rocks had splintered and the cans were crushed, so they decided to call it a rainout. There were no innings, winners nor losers in their game. Only the sport of friendship mattered as they wiped their hands across their dungarees and polo shirts to remove the traces of grease and gook that spilled from those hurled cans of liquid. They laughed and boasted about their pitching feats as they headed towards home.
They entered their building, #20, and went onto the staircase making way to the 3rd floor. They discovered some books of matches carelessly left on the steps. Mischievously, they decided to light a few. Soon they were laughing and tossing them towards each other in pointless prank.
Elgin stood at the top of the staircase and Baron below. In slow-motion replay you could see Elgin’s fingers rubbing the sulfide head of match against the silica of striking surface. The friction ignited the match and Elgin tossed it down the steps. A slow trailing cloud of white phosphorous vapor followed the stream of fire winging the air like an errant sky-writer plane sloping downward towards Baron.
Standing below, Baron had no time to dodge the fiery match. The flame touched his accelerant- soaked shirt. A blinding flash mushroomed from Baron’s body as the fire fed fiendishly from shirt to pants. Frantically, he swiped in vain at the raging flames. With anguished screams he bolted down the steps to the first floor. He steamed past people in the hallway and out the front door of the building.
The Harlem River was 300 yards away. He was one building, six road lanes and small wall away from the water’s edge. He watched its mighty flow his entire life from sanctuary of his bedroom window. Despite the dampness on the paving and the screams of onlookers yelling at him: “Drop to the ground! Drop to the ground!” – Baron ran on, blinded by pain and mission. He was a ball of flame hurtling those yards towards relief in chill of Harlem’s river.
Baron dashed past the corner of last building, #14, and crumbled to the ground at the front entrance to the Colonial Houses - just steps away from those final road lanes of his tortuous journey. His screams, long since ceased, were now surrogated by the overwrought vocals of Mrs. Stewart; she wailed and moaned over the charred remains of her only son long into the dampened night.
Mrs. Stewart no longer sifts the ashes of bitterness and lamentable memories. She lives strongly in the mission of her days; places her faith in God and passel of the young she eagerly watches over. Her eyes sparkle when a young friend remembers that her birthday, August 27th, is just twelve days away.
The charcoals under grills have cooled. Only a few last embers glow to match the cerise colors of sun’s set on this jubilant day. Mrs. Stewart looks around and gazes at the faces of friends and families giving last hugs and well wishes. She turns back with a smile and responds to the friend, “I’m so glad you remembered my birthday is coming. You better call me.” Looking over at the diminishing crowd once more, she turns again, gives the young friend a hug and sternly admonishes, “You call me, you hear! Call me.”
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