Tattle Tales: Essays and Stories Along the Way - Softcover

Rolnick, Ms. Abbe

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0984511954 ISBN 13: 9780984511952

Publisher: Sedro Publishing, 2016

Synopsis

Abbe Rolnick—teller of tales, celebrant of life, world traveler—offers visions from the heart in this collection of short stories and essays. Explorations of whimsy and wisdom take the reader from the basement of a young girl learning about the Holocaust via a repairman, to a literal and psychological deep dive in the Caribbean, to the humble truths of a dung beetle in Africa, and all points in between. The author’s keen perception and compassion light the way. Truth has many layers, viewpoints give a perspective, slices create a feel, and by putting them together the reader sees more of the author, more of themselves, and can enter other worlds

About this title

About the Author

Abbe Rolnick grew up in the suburbs of Baltimore, Maryland. Her first major cultural jolt occurred at age 15 when her family moved to Miami Beach, Florida. In order to find perspective, she climbed the only non-palm tree at her condo-complex, and wrote what she observed. Here history came alive with her exposure to the Cuban culture. Her first novel, RIVER OF ANGELS, stems from her experiences during her stay in Puerto Rico. COLOR OF LIES, her second novel, brings the reader to the Pacific Northwest where she presently resides. Here she blends stories from island life with characters in Skagit Valley. Her recent experiences with her husband’s cancer inspired, COCOON OF CANCER: AN INVITATION TO LOVE DEEPLY. Presently she resides with her husband on twenty acres in Skagit Valley, Washington.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Tattle Tales

Essays & Stories Along the Way

By Abbe Rolnick

Sedro Publishing

Copyright © 2016 Abbe Rolnick
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-9845119-5-2

Contents

Prologue, 
Seeking, 
Joy, 
Lace, 
Snow Darts, 
Puzzled, 
Childhood, 
The Silent War, 
The Gilded Fish, 
Swinging Doors, 
New Order, 
From Here to There, 
Sleep-Over, 
Maturing, 
Five Kids and a Dog, 
Mad Hatter, 
Knock Knock, 
Country Villa, 
A-Musings, 
You've Got a Match, 
Horsetail, 
Foundations, 
TOE, 
Travels, 
Sri Lanka, 
Carate, 
Continental Divide, 
Dung Beetle, 
Book Group Questions, 
About the Author, 

CHAPTER 1

JOY

I begin this collection with the thought I place before my closed eyes as I end my day and ponder, "What joy did I receive?" and as I rise I ask myself, "What joy will I bring to others?"

Having passed the half century mark, I'd like to believe that I'm wiser and funnier than when I was younger, that I know what the world is about. What I've found is that my years of maturing have brought me one simple gem to believe in. I've put aside politics, religion, and any structure that defines too specifically the nature of life. I simply believe in joy.

Joy is not synonymous with happiness. Happiness comes and goes, fleeting with the acquisition or failure of things based on needs, wants, or achievements. Joy is less transitory, less vulnerable. I liken the difference between joy and happiness to the Spanish words, feliz and contento. The word feliz is accompanied by the verb ser, which means a state of being. Contento uses the verb estar, to be, but it is only how you are for that one brief moment.

Joy runs deeper than happiness. It includes the shades of darkness that balance and contrast the light. Joy reveals the unknown, the unexpected parts we'd like to forget or ignore. It has more to do with listening than attaining, feeling and understanding rather than fixing. To be joyful in the darkness is to accept life in its entirety. Living with joy is to discover the freedom of letting go of perceptions and receiving what is present. Joy is a choice to accept the unexpected, to acknowledge all that passes one's way. Joy is to feel connected even at the prospect of loss.

Joy is to love despite the risk of rejection, recognizing that love is an honor not to be discarded. Joy comes from the tasting of flavors, intensity, and gentle forms of love. Acceptance with grace transforms love outside the realm of the purely physical. It encompasses the gradations, the use of all our senses. To be joyful, one embraces the essence of another person in a hug, wraps oneself around the ideas swarming in another's head. Joy communicates through a willingness to share, by opening up and revealing regardless of the outcome.

Joy lies beneath the stone that blocks your path. It is found behind the door of fear that stops you from feeling or attempting something new. Joy is curious, precocious, and forgiving. Joy is your playmate, up for the adventure, affectionately bestowing kindness and prodding you along, exposing and protecting you all at the same time. Joy is a process that encompasses all of life. It is being alive.

I believe that living with joy in my heart creates the wisdom and laughter that will sustain me for another half century.

CHAPTER 2

LACE

Written during a time of transition, this story melds elements of my fascination with ocean creatures, other cultures, youthful naivety, and the lessons of becoming new.

The cramped four-seater biplane circled for a landing. Rose searched the aqua-blue waters below, trying to pinpoint their ultimate destination. Coral atolls, orange starfish, and silver-white flashes sparkled through the crystal clear water. She wondered if they were going to use the pontoons for a landing as they hovered close to a lagoon. But the pilot turned the nose of the plane upward again. On the third pass, Rose realized that at the top of the small mountain peak a flat brown section completely stripped of vegetation served as the runway.

The guidebook had stated, "Come to our island peak for your Caribbean holiday. Secluded, remote adventures you won't forget." The description was accurate. She had assumed that the island would be larger, more like her own that stretched out its presence across the equatorial Atlantic waters for ninety miles. Compared to the crowded Latino shores of Puerto Rico, this island was merely a postage stamp coming to a point. But size hadn't been a prerequisite for adventure and solitude.

Rose mumbled praise and thanks to any of the gods who would listen, "Beautiful skies, nice weather, tiny plane, let me down gently." She peered through the pilot's window, lost faith, sealed her eyes closed, and held her breath. At the last minute she took courage and peeled her lids open in time to see houses rising along mountainsides — almost touching the wings. Sunrays bounced back from tin roofs, and a rainbow of colors reflected off the chrome of the plane. She saw the world through colored bubbles, a series of looped holes. The plane twisted and veered sideways as the runway met its tires. Rose felt the thump and screech of rubber and then the silence of being down.

As the only passenger, she stepped off immediately. A small beat-up Jeep pulled alongside the plane. A richly tanned man leaned his head out the window. "I say, do you need a ride?" His British accent seemed too sweet, almost a solicitation.

She waved him on. "No, my feet need stretching." More importantly, her heart needed time. Rose raised her head toward the sun, determined to make her own way, be independent. Seven years of faithfulness in a failed marriage had left her with a hole where caring used to be.

"Are you sure, Miss? The hotel is pretty far from here."

"Yes, I'm quite sure."

Rose lifted her backpack onto her shoulders and began the trek up and down and around the meandering mountain. Occasionally she'd stop to rest, only to see the beater of a car following behind. She'd walk, the car would follow, she'd stop, and the car would halt. Each time Rose smiled and waved. She had the road to herself, except for a few mules loaded with wares and their owners who acknowledged her presence with a nod or a half wave. Small houses lay scattered along the hillside. Up higher, white stucco mansions overlooked the road. More than an hour passed before she finally arrived at a group of colonial, whitewashed cottages that bore the name Island Resort. Just after the divorce had become final she'd reserved one of these cottages for the week, one day for each year of marriage, as a promise to herself of a future.

Dressed in tropical holiday fare — sandals, short shorts, sundresses — and the more formal khakis with plaid short-sleeved shirts — guests milled around the open-air lobby. Compared with the Spanish flair of bright pastel colors, gaudy paintings, and wood carvings, the decoration of the main lodge felt stuffy, plain, and judgmental. Red over-stuffed chairs sat in formation on the shiny white-tiled floor, and somber paintings adorned the walls. The guide book Rose had used warned the tourist to look beyond the snobbish attitude of the British. The porter at the desk looked amused, not snobbish. He laughed when he saw her. "Hello, Miss Rose. Did you enjoy your walk?"

She was about to ask how he knew her name, but by then more locals from the town had appeared. They chuckled and smiled, peering expectantly at her.

Rose's embarrassment crept along her neck to her cheeks and covered her face. She'd been so caught up in wanting to be strong and fearless that she didn't see the obvious. Red-faced, Rose recognized the Jeep driver. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged. "You didn't ask."

A tall, lean woman with closely-cropped grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses, dressed in a pale lemon linen suit, escorted Rose to her cottage. She painstakingly showed her the bathroom, tapping on the walls as she turned on the water. The pipes creaked and sputtered. The hot water ran cold, then rusty red, then boiling hot. She warned her that they lost the water altogether later in the day. As an early riser, Rose had the best chance of getting hot water. A note stated that breakfast would be left at the door between 7:00 and 8:00 am, and she was to choose her meal. Rose marked fruit and a muffin and a 7:00 am delivery, unpacked her bag, and made her way down to the harbor.

For an island this small, the harbor impressed her with a wharf made of stone extending along the shoreline and allowing for two piers. One of the piers, designated for the local fishermen, secured a dozen small wooden rowboats filled with freshly caught flat, silvery flounder. Although Rose felt a sense of connection with the fishermen, she headed to the second pier that housed the luxury yachts.

In planning her healing adventure months before, she had researched the scuba situation and booked a dive for the late afternoon. Through a series of third-party phone calls and letters and picture swapping, Rose was given the name and description of her guide. She had sent her modest diving statistics along, anticipating the rigors of remote dives in open, dangerous waters. It wasn't difficult to spot where she was to go. Standing on a large sailboat marked Island Divers stood a tall, muscular, tanned figure dressed in what looked like five inches of a stretched brown rubber band. Every glossy ripple of skin marked him the diver.

As Rose stepped on board, Randy nodded her way and told her to stow her gear. She offered her hand as an introduction. Four brown fingers and a half thumb clasped Rose's ringless hand. Heat encircled her palm, brushing her with an electric wave of burning need. She couldn't tell from which direction the charge came. "You must be Randy. I'm Rose."

He released her hand and nodded. "I know. The town watched your grand arrival hours ago."

Dismissed, Rose covered her embarrassment by following his gaze as he watched a large yacht docking two slips down from his sailboat. He turned, looked her up and down, and said, "How long does your tank last?"

She thought back to all her previous dives, the ones in storms or caves, and the easy free-floating ones. "They last forever. I usually come back with at least a half a tank."

He took that information in. "Are you good with strangers?"

Randy was a stranger. She didn't think he meant that. "I run a bookstore and deal with the public, if that is your question."

Randy looked her in the eyes for the first time. He smiled, and she noticed that his shoulders began to relax. "Good, then you can help me on this dive. My assistant didn't show. The letter you sent with your statistics, if they're true, means you can dive in difficult situations. Just by looking at your physique, I know you can help. I have fifteen scuba divers from New England arriving on that cruise ship. They think they know how to dive, and will bring all sorts of fancy gear. It will be your job to read their regulators and tell me when they are running out of air."

She didn't have time to agree or disagree. The change in the terms of their agreement wasn't a question, more of an expectation. At least someone expected something of her.

Fifteen tourists approached the sailboat. They all had large duffle bags and looked serious. Randy introduced her as his assistant. She checked everyone's gear, appreciating the new title and role. Two engineers showed her their deluxe watches and depth gauges. They all had wetsuits.

They set out sailing toward a secluded reef about a half hour from the island. The boat glided through aqua-green, crystal clear, smooth water. Rose listened to heroic exploits as the sun reflected the blue sky and waters back and forth. Although she had never been to this spot before, the smells of salt and fish, the striking sense of purity, of colors focused, and the sunbaked heat were reminiscent of her previous life. But all of that life had been chaffed away. Rose stood exposed, trying to absorb the beauty and simplicity through her skin, to rekindle her heart and see beyond the holes. Healing takes time. She stood on the deck of the boat, anonymous to herself.

Randy focused on the logistics of the dive, leaving Rose to make small talk and put the divers at ease. They were to be down at an easy depth of thirty-two feet for about an hour. Randy sent her over first. Dressed in only her swimsuit, fins, mask, tank and regulator, with the simplest of watches and gauges, she did a backward roll over the side of the boat and headed downward. Rose waited, counting until all fifteen divers were down. Randy came last.

They used the buddy system, with Randy at the lead. The numbers were odd, so she floated back and forth with various partners, all the while checking everyone's regulators. Rose didn't register many of the fish or sites, as she was too busy watching the engineers. Their air depleted too quickly. She finally motioned a thumb-up sign to Randy, signaling that they needed to return. After only half an hour, their tanks showed only ten minutes left of air. She led them back to the surface and helped them back into the boat. The rest of the group came with Randy, feeling elated and superior.

Randy and Rose barely talked. The tourists left, and they cleaned up. She'd been on many dives before and knew the protocol on removing sand and salt from all the gear. She didn't mind the work, but needed some sign from Randy to validate her worth.

As Rose left, he looked at her tank and noticed that the tank was almost full of air. "You don't use much air, do you? You'd be good on my deep dives where I hunt for black jewels."

Rose was tired, and wondered what he was planning. She couldn't tell if he was offering her a job or a compliment. When she didn't respond, he placed his brown hands on her shoulders and tilted her head up to look at his eyes. "Hey, I apologize for today. Your dive will be with just me tomorrow. No charge."

"I wasn't worried about the money. I just need to be underwater."

"Well, then I'll see you tomorrow about eleven."

* * *

The vibrant orange of the Flamboyant flower and perfume of fresh white orchids greeted her. The vase took center stage on the lone table, filling the room with smells of comfort and welcome. She showered and sang, "Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be." She put on a backless sundress handmade for her by her dearest lady friend for occasions of celebration. Rose had nothing to celebrate yet, only the anticipation of a few afternoons and evenings filled with possibilities. Leaving the door closed but unlocked, she headed into the market.

A cobblestone road led her to an area packed with booths and tables. Tourists in their Bermuda shorts with cameras dangling peered at the merchandise. Absent were fruit vendors, books, hardware, and shaved ice, the essentials that she would have found at the heart of her own island. She walked slowly, examining pottery, wood carvings, and lace. All the crafts appealed to the senses, made with natural woods or dyed the color of fruits, but one bent, white-haired lady's lace kept drawing her back. The fine, intricate stitches looped one on top of the other, leaving few visible holes, giving a sense of completeness, a wholeness she craved. The complicated pattern told a story. Rose studied the tablecloth and saw the surrounding village populated by mountains, trees, and the ocean. There were fisherman with nets, women hanging clothes, and children playing in the streets. Rose had to have the tablecloth. It reminded her of one made by her grandmother, whose lacework held the traditions of her life growing up in Russia. This one resembled that of the island she lived on, the warmth she used to feel, that she would soon be leaving.

The old lady smiled a toothless smile at her when she asked to purchase the lace. The price was outrageous at $75 in US currency. They dickered for a while, and Rose finally gave in at $60.

"I will wrap it nicely for you and mail it to your home."

"I'd prefer to take it with me now."

"I must finish the stitching around the edges. I will mail it to you."

The smiles from the old lady didn't falter, but Rose did. Reluctantly she gave her the address and money. She had no card, but assured Rose how happy she'd be when the cloth arrived. She would even send her four lace napkins for free.

Rose walked off, wanting desperately to believe in her, but not so sure of any of the guarantees.

* * *

Dinner at the hotel was formal. The insistence of tea and the multi-layered place settings gave it a British feel. She arrived late, still wearing her backless sundress. She felt exposed, too vulnerable, wanting to cover her shoulders, cover her heart. She tried to make small talk, but all her skills at making strangers feel comfortable had been drained by the tourists from New England.

Unsettled by the dinner, Rose was not ready to turn in and be alone in her bed. Nights were harder to face after the divorce. The arguments, hurts, and fears would lie alongside her, keeping her from sleep, keeping her from healing. She had traveled thousands of miles from her home hoping to escape the pain, but it had come along. She drank a tropical blitz and then another. She felt giddy, and as she walked outside she heard drum beats, rhythmic music played to the pounding ocean. She sat staring out at the stars. Almost all the tourists had retired, but still she sat alone with her thoughts. In the corner where the local band played, Rose spied Randy. Local women in long, flowing bright skirts swayed with the music, surrounded him in swirls of color. He said nothing, but drank with his shoulders hunched, occasionally looking in her direction.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Tattle Tales by Abbe Rolnick. Copyright © 2016 Abbe Rolnick. Excerpted by permission of Sedro Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Sedro Publishing
• Publication date: 2016
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0984511954
• ISBN 13: 9780984511952
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 178