September 1942
Sitting in a circle beneath the towering ceiling of what had once been part of a large horse stable, fifteen of us were drinking fresh lemonade, munching on crumbling toll house cookies, laughing, joking and chattering, while Miss Cervi struggled to maintain a semblance of order.

Streaming in through the tall, east-facing windows, the warm, early morning September sun lit up the room, while the sound of a distant lawn mower competed with the cawing of a flock of nearby crows.

A door opened behind me and two females, hand in hand, strode in. The mother had all she could handle. Her daughter, Caroline, did not want to be there. Howling, jumping up and down, screaming and kicking, she fought desperately to get away. I so wished I could help her. Why should she have to be there if she didn’t want to be?

Beneath her short, brown, wavy hair, tears poured over her flush cheeks, down her nose, in and around her dimples, off her chin and on to her clean, freshly pressed black and white dress. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to hold her. But these were not proper feelings. At least not for a four-and a-half-year-old boy, and certainly not on his first day of kindergarten!

April 2, 2009
Another funeral. Almost all my parent's generation were now gone.

The aroma from blooming daffodils and cherry blossoms drifted into the church hall. Sipping my iced tea and nibbling on a freshly made, cucumber, finger sandwich, a tall, attractive woman approached me. It was Caroline. I hadn't seen her for years.

For a brief moment, I drifted back 66 years to our first day of kindergarten. I saw her jumping up and down, struggling, and bawling. I heard headmistress Cervi suggest to her mother that she just leave. I saw the shock on Caroline’s face as her last means of escape walked out the door. I saw her shut up, sit down, dry her eyes and begin to “live happily ever after.”

After fondly remembering the deceased, our conversation moved to sailing, to her poetry and to her divorce. Then we spoke of another recent death - that of a mutual friend whom she knew much better than I.

He'd had a miserable and painful ending, suffering for more than a year and a half with Lou Gehrig's disease. Gradually losing control of all his muscles and all of his bodily functions while his imprisoned mind remained fully conscious and alert.

Outwardly smiling as we talked, deep within her soft blue eyes I saw and I felt her compassion and how much she missed him. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to kiss her. But these were not proper feelings. At least not for a 71-year-old man, and certainly not as he was about to celebrate his 45th wedding anniversary!

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

My sister started piano lessons with Mrs. Heideman when she was seven. I was so envious, but my parents felt that I was too young and needed to wait four years till I was seven to begin.

When the day finally came, I was so excited as I marched onto the piano teacher’s front porch of her nice white house in our small village, and spotted “the piano” through the windows on the left.

Entering the door straight ahead, you made a left turn into the living room that was dominated by the grand piano. (It may well have been a baby grand – I doubt if I had ever seen either at that point in my life. Our piano was an old upright that had been my mother’s since she was a girl.)

There might as well have been no other furniture in the room for all I cared – only the piano mattered. Were I to make a movie of that first lesson, there would be a huge bright spotlight on the piano, with sparkly, pulsating lights and a trumpet fanfare.

I loved playing the piano. I loved the lessons. Nobody ever had to remind me to practice. I even loved Mrs. Heideman. She was a strange, prim, old-fashioned lady with her hair pulled back into a bun. Her speech was precise and stiff, but she was kind. Her stuck-up daughter, Eunice, was slightly older than my sister, and we hated her.

My love affair with the piano lasted through two more teachers, as we moved to different towns, and finally to Millikin University, where I, as my sister before me, majored in voice and minored in piano.

There had been a year in my teens when I decided I didn’t want to take lessons any more, and my parents wisely went along with my decision, probably sensing (rightly) that I would start up again when I began to miss it.

The piano was my friend and comforter in my awkward adolescent years. It filled hours that could have been lonely, when we moved to the country and my access to neighborhood playmates was more limited. It got me positive attention and friends.

One of my close friends to this very day moved to our town when we were both eighth-graders. She took away my title of best pianist in the elementary school, but my jealousy was short-lived when I began to realize the benefits of her presence: we played challenging, four-hand, piano duets and she became my accompanist while I developed as a vocal soloist. We went to the same university conservatory, so she remained my accompanist till I left to get married.

My first job after I married was as a dance school accompanist. I taught a few pupils, including my eldest daughter, on and off over a span of sixty years, and I played hymns at church, starting when I was the Sunday School pianist at age eleven, and finally packing it in as I approached my seventies.

In spite of the ravages on my hands from rheumatoid arthritis, I continued to play, in a simpler style. I even used piano playing as an effective physical therapy after several hand surgeries. Some of my last jobs included playing “Oldies but Goodies” for senior audiences, although, by the end, I was faking, with mostly just chords, and paying a heavy price with pain and swelling afterwards.

Joy, my erstwhile rival and lifelong friend, has had an illustrious career as a college piano teacher and accompanist. She encourages me to play again when I wistfully tell her how much I miss it. She hasn’t seen my hands for over ten years and I don’t have the heart to tell her I can’t even make a chord.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

It was a dinner party never to be forgotten! It was a night an important national decision was made! It was a night, I believe, that Bobby Kennedy decided to run for the presidency of the United States.

Six members of the New York Press Association attended the annual March meeting of the National Newspaper Association in Washington, D.C. As the six publishers and wives checked into the convention, an unexpected invitation was handed to us. Dinner at New York Senator Bobby and Ethel Kennedy’s home at Hickory Hill, McLean, Virginia. The date was Thursday, March 16, 1968.

I immediately called my wife Joan in Buffalo, but because of a family obligation, she was unable to join us.

Our group arrived promptly at 6:00PM at the Kennedy’s beautiful and historic home. Three round tables of ten each where set up in the spacious living room. In one corner stood the presidential flags of his brother, John F. Kennedy.

As we met other attendees, I saw a lady with a deep tan. “You must have been in the Caribbean,” I small-talked to her. “Such a beautiful tan.”

“Nope”, she replied, “I am the wife of the senator from North Dakota and a full blooded Indian.” My first gaffe of the night!

Standing around before dinner, someone knocked on the front door. Since no one else seemed to have heard the knock, I answered the door. Standing there was a very tall, good looking man and his wife. “I don’t recognize you,” I said. “But I probably should. Come on in.”

With a smile on his face, the gentleman held out his hand and said, “Glad to meet you, George. My name is Roger Mudd. Maybe you have seen me on TV!”

Wish I could have sunk into the door frame.

The round tables looked elegant with lovely bouquets of fresh flowers and gold flat wear. The lady sitting next to me had just come back from climbing Mt. Everest. Many prominent people attended the dinner party but unfortunately, I didn’t record their names.

Our New York group asked Kennedy why, as the senator from New York, he served French wines. No answer! During dinner, two of the children, one being Bobby Jr., came down the living room stairs with water pistols and asked their mother for money to go to the movies. Just like home!

All during dinner, Kennedy received phone calls urging him to run from across the country. Also, one of our publishers was invited by a server to look at the basement tables. He said there were 30-40 wicker baskets filled with telegrams urging Kennedy to run while only a few on another table in the negative.

The evening, written about in books and national magazines, was most pleasant and, we discovered, quite historical. The Kennedy’s were gracious and charming, making each one very comfortable in this historic home and at dinner.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Ten years ago I was in a kind of life crisis. I had just come back to my hometown and did not know how to go on. So I did - nothing!

After a while, several people who knew me and perhaps wanted to help me, critisized me very severely for this inactivity! They were Christians like me and in their view, I had started to live an idle and godless life.

I felt wrongly accused and reacted angrily as a result. I got frustrated and at last, sadly thought: "Why don't they understand my situation? Why don't they see that I need more time?"

At that time, I sometimes went to the university to read a little bit in the big library. So one afternoon I had just passed the entrance when I suddenly heard the laughing voice of a young woman: "To err is human!"

Obviously she hadn`t said that to me, but I felt deeply touched by these words. A little bit irritated, I walked on to my favorite place in that library.

Suddenly, a funny thought came in my mind: "Why not take first a walk through the library!" I do not know why, but I gave in that thought and started to walk aimlessly and "blindly" through the corridors. At last I suddenly stopped in front of a book shelf and took a book out of it.

I really had not expected much from it, but now I read with surprise its title, About the Error.

The next two hours I spent reading this book. It became very clear to me that being mistaken is part of our human nature. And has to happen - "naturally"!

Naturally this was not a new thought to me, but in my situation it was a "revelation" to me. Now I felt comforted and was able to forgive my critics. They had been mistaken, but they had acted – humanly.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

In 1965, I was a shy seventh-grader in a small school in Illinois. My best friend had suddenly moved to California, and the loss was devastating. I didn’t have a wide circle of other friends to turn to, and suffered agonies of social embarrassment over simple things like finding someone else to talk to during recess.

I had noticed a group of girls who seemed to always be laughing together, passing notes in class and having fun. There were six of them and I wished desperately that I could somehow become part of that group.

I don’t know if they saw me staring at them or if perhaps I had somehow cracked an acceptable joke in their presence, but one day one of them passed a note to me in class! Inside the note was an invitation to join their “club,” which didn’t have a name.

One of the rules of the club was that each girl adopted a pseudonym, the name of her favorite rock star. Apparently this clever ruse would make it impossible for any teacher who happened to intercept our notes to discipline us for note-passing, as it would be impossible for teachers to figure out the real identities of John, Paul, Ringo, Davey (Jones), Mickey (Dolenz), and Peter (Noone). (The group was heavily Beatles- and Monkees-centric, with a Herman’s Hermits fan thrown in.)

Getting that note was one of the happiest days of my life. I, too, loved the Beatles and the Monkees – but most of all, I hungered and thirsted to be part of a group of friends.

At the time I was in love with the song Ferry Cross the Mersey by Gerry and the Pacemakers, so I chose Gerry as my pseudonym. At once I was caught up in a thrilling round of passing notes to my new friends, being invited to their homes for sleepovers and nonstop talking whenever we could get together. It was heaven.

One day Paul (Dawn) sent everyone a note with an extremely exciting message – Herman’s Hermits were coming to play a concert in Chicago and her mother had agreed to take us all! (Paul’s mother was unusually generous about our enthusiasms.) None of us had ever been to a rock concert and we felt that we were taking the next big step into the exciting world of American teendom.

When we arrived at the concert venue, I was stunned to see thousands of girls lined up at the entrance, most of them wearing mini-dresses and white go-go boots. These girls had long, straight, ironed hair, pale lipstick and heavy black eye makeup. Girls my own age!!!

They looked impossibly glamorous. We were still wearing anklets and ordinary shoes, and clothes our mothers had bought us at Sears. We wore no makeup and our hairdos were a variety of ordinary, somewhat curly, 12-year-old girl hairdos.

These elegant creatures stared back at us with what seemed to us like well-deserved scorn. Our little group was flabbergasted. Somehow we had never entertained the thought that ordinary American girls could dress up like mod British birds – and get away with it!

The concert itself paled in comparison to the revelation that girls our age could look like that. Oh, we jumped up and down and screamed for about an hour during the concert (it was impossible to hear the music), and had a generally good time. (By the way, the opening act was an unknown band called The Who, but of course that meant nothing to us Herman’s Hermits fans.)

On Monday morning,Paul and Ringo came to school wearing white go-go boots, which caused a sensation. By that afternoon the school had announced that go-go boots were banned (I can’t remember how they justified this decision, but everyone seemed to accept it.) Nevertheless, with or without go-go boots, the great dress code wars of the era had clearly begun.

Within weeks, girls were wearing ever-shorter skirts to class and everyone was trying the ironed-hair look. I bought my first tube of lipstick, an ultra-pale pink that I thought made me look remarkably like Jean Shrimpton.

Many years later, when my kids were in high school, I told my son, Chris, about our seventh-grade club. He gave me a Gerry and the Pacemakers tape that year for Christmas - one of the best presents I ever received.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

When Grandson Andrew was about 10 years old, I received a telephone call from him and we talked about his school and his friend, Tim, and about his dog, Benny. Just as we were about to say goodbye, Andrew very casually asked me what my ring size was. I replied that I thought I wore a size seven and wondered why he would be interested. "Oh, no reason, Nanny, just asking."

A few weeks later on Mother's Day, a package arrived at our house and along with a very nice gift from Carol and Ray and Ian. There was a small box from Andrew for me.

When I opened it, there was a beautiful ring with a lovely emerald in the center surrounded with brilliant diamonds. And, just so I would be sure to know that this was no cheap, junky ring, Andrew had left the price tag on the box. It was from Sears and cost $9.95, more than two weeks allowance for taking out the trash and emptying the dishwasher.

I tried it on and It fit perfectly, and I couldn't wait to send Andrew a lovely thank you note and tell him how much I loved the gift and what good taste he had.

About three months later, we received an invitation to Ray's niece, Julie Cohen's, wedding. Because I did not know Ray's brother and his wife very well, I called Carol and told her about the invitation and expressed surprise that we had been invited to the wedding. I told her that I was not certain that we would attend because we weren't very well acquainted and might feel strange being there.

Carol assured me that they had already told her that they would like us to be there and asked me to think about changing my mind about going. I told her I would give it some thought and let her know.

We had barely hung up when the phone rang again and this time it was Andrew. "Nanny, are you and Pop coming to Julie's wedding?"

"I don't know, Andrew. I just got the invitation today and I am considering whether or not to go."

"Oh, please, Nanny, you have to go. Everybody will be there. Please go."

"I know, but I don't know if we should be there."

By this time I was beginning to wonder why this young boy was so interested in whether or not we would be going to a wedding. I was soon to find out.

"Please, you really have to go."

"All right, Andrew, since you feel so strongly about it, we will go."

I heard a sigh of relief and then...

"That's good, Nanny, and wear your RING."

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

“It’s an ovarian cyst, about the size of a melon.”

My doctor’s words were graphic, immediate and quite awesome.

I put my hands together next to my abdomen and tried to envision a melon inside. Not a watermelon, surely. But a casaba or a honey dew? A cantaloupe? No, no, not a cantaloupe, rough and wrinkled and scratchy. Not in my belly, folks. Take it out and good riddance!

From initial discovery to surgery took only two weeks. The doctor sent me to gynecology. There, the nurse practitioner was scheduling surgery before I left the room. Only a week to go before the melon would be gone.

My husband and daughter were pragmatic. No need to fear the worst, they said, until we were sure it was cancerous. Another daughter, this one with some medical background, was more determined. An ovarian cyst is big time, she cautioned. That’s what got Gilda. When it comes to women’s plumbing, she said, suspected ovarian cancer is much bigger trouble than uterine.

For two weeks I contemplated that melon. As an image to live with, it was absolutely unacceptable – a thick, heavy weight with coarse edges, a foreign object, uninvited and unwelcome. At the same time, I knew it was feeding on my body, the host, and I thought I ought to treat it with a certain amount of respect lest it rebel and devour me totally.

It seemed a delicate balance. I needed to respect its power. At the same time, I needed to assert my own. So I changed the image. Imagination kicked in and eventually gave me a picture I could live with - frivolous, perhaps, but in a time of uncertainty, enormously comforting.

Instead of the craggy edges of a cantaloupe, I began to see a Russian egg. Not a fragile Faberge with rough, ornate edges that could break and spill out the fantasies inside, but a smooth, seamlessly crafted, extremely lightweight wooden egg, polished and sanded to the softness of a baby’s bottom, elegantly shellacked with brilliant colors and intricate Ukrainian design.

This potentially cancerous growth inside me was still a mystery, but now it was one I could live with. The closer I got to surgery, the more vividly I saw that egg.

Our relationship was guarded, but respectful. I willed that cyst to have no sharp edges. I willed it not to hurt me. I willed it gone.

And when it was removed – pre-cancerous and harmless after all – I hurled it into the depths of the Caspian Sea!

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Allergies and an aging carpet that required removal before winter gave me the perfect opportunity to explore northern Michigan.

There was a closed Air Force Base that was being converted into community living that my husband and I had talked about as a possible location for a summer home, giving me a good destination, and a mission. Hubby was retired and eager to tackle the carpet, planning to remove it a section at a time, so I planned to be gone for about a week.

It was late October and fall was in her most serious mood. The trees were wearing their glorious colors, tossing their amber and golden leaves into the wind like a flower girl at a medieval wedding. Kids were back in school, the roads less traveled and attractive off-season rates beckoned at every curve in the road.

As I neared the closest town to the old military base, I kept my eye out for condo rentals. Sure, I could have researched before leaving home, but where's the adventure in that? Besides, I figured a military base would naturally attract lots of lodging establishments from which to choose.

Hmmm, there were the usual inns, some lakefront cottages, a couple of motels - perhaps on the other side of town?

I drove beyond the town - not much there except what looked like a really good sized supermarket. About to turn around and head back to town and voila - just off the road stood two condo complexes with a "for rent" sign glowing in the window of the managers office. Perfect!

The two units had eight condos per unit and they were all vacant. Lake Huron was just a short walk from the patio outside my door. Off I went to the supermarket for supplies and a quick call on my cell phone to inform hubby of my whereabouts.

I had brought along my scrapbook and all the necessary materials to work on, so I was about as happy as any camper could be.

On the following day, I explored the town and base, collecting pamphlets, and took lots of pictures.

The next day, having seen on the TV in my unit, activities for the weekend in the area, I saw that a nearby town was having a craft sale. Inquiring directions of the manager, I wrote: “three-and-a-half miles north, left at the blinking yellow light, keep going until you see a white church at the top of a hill, turn right and that road will lead you into town.”

The bright blue sky accented the colors of the falling leaves and the cooler weather was refreshing after the hot summer.

The next day I had a conversation with the wind and waves on the shore of Lake Huron as I paraded myself along the empty beach attempting to find a spot in which my cell phone would work. Alas, the only place I could make my daily telephone connection with hubby was the supermarket about two miles for the condo.

There was a phone in my unit, but it had been turned off. There was a hard wired phone in the manager's office if need be, but she left for the day about five o'clock in the evening, as did the maid service.

The steady, falling rain of the following day made the colors pop. The carpet of glowing leaves danced on the blacktop of the parking lot. Thunder boomed and the wind whipped the trees into a frenzy, ripping the leaves and hurtling them at the windowpanes. I knew I had to make my usual four o'clock call to hubby or he would begin to pace, so I got in my car and headed for the supermarket, the wind daring me to outrace the storm.

In the parking lot of the supermarket, my call went through, but the hail now assailing every inch of my car made it almost impossible to hear. I assured hubby that I was fine, would call the next day and headed back to the condo. On the way back I spotted a Pizza Palace and decided that was just the ticket on a night - for it was now black as pitch - such as this.

The wind was moaning as I took the hot pizza into my lonely unit, the darkened eyes of the windows all around reminding me of my isolation. Turning on all the lights, I picked up a paperback novel left by the owner or previous tenant and began to read. At hand were matches and candles should the storm grab the electricity and add it to the flashes of lightening. Perhaps the sound of TV would be more soothing than the crashing waves screaming to be admitted and pounding on the patio doors.

As I read, I became accutely aware that it was hunting season, and on the road a few feet from my door were truck loads of drunken hunters, shotguns loaded and looking for prey.

Suddenly I heard the sound of doors being slammed and I crept to the windows, peered through the blinds and saw with a great deal of relief, a family unloading suitcases and going into a unit a couple of doors down from me.

Perhaps I should have chosen a novel other than one written by Stephen King.

All's well that ends well, but that storm certainly heightened my autumn adventure.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Whenever I go any place new, I always need clear, concise instructions right down to where the door is – even in which direction it faces. I’m sure this little bit of quirkiness is just part of my basic make-up. It never went away during all the years I was traveling to singing gigs all over the country. I would tape large-print sets of directions to the dashboard for the road part of it, then ask my liaison where the nearest door was and how close I could park.

Sure, it had to do with my painful feet and my difficulties with lugging instruments and heavy sound equipment, but there was more.

When I was about 12, I managed to traumatize myself - for life, evidently - with the results of a bad decision. I asked to ride along with my father in a borrowed truck to go pick up stuff in a distant town. My father was an industrial arts teacher who was pioneering a class in building an entire house from the ground up, with the students from each senior class, so I’m assuming the other school had some excess building materials to give him.

God knows why I thought it would be fun: time alone with my beloved father, perhaps? Getting out of doing my Saturday chores? Or just a rare chance to ride in a truck?

When we arrived there, my father was to meet with a man inside the school building. He asked if I wanted to go in with him; I said I’d wait in the truck, thinking it would be only a few minutes. No sooner had he gone in a door, not visible from the parking space, than I realized I needed to pee. BAD!

For all these intervening years, I’ve measured every agonizing full-bladder event against that one. None has even come close. My father loved to talk to people and had rare opportunities with the over-full working life he maintained holding down the equivalent of nearly three jobs to support his family.

He was in that building for at least an hour, maybe even two. It sure felt like more. I was in misery, but was too timid to go in search of an unlocked door, then the girls’ bathroom inside.

That may be hard for you to fathom, but not for me since I’ve never totally gotten over that particular area of shyness. I am at ease in front of large audiences; I’m only slightly intimidated by the numerous famous people I’ve met through my music; I’ve always said I’d be comfortable entertaining the queen of England as long as it’s in my house. BUT, don’t ask me to go looking in a strange, empty building for the ladies’ room.

Thank goodness for good old McDonald’s and Wendy’s with their uniform placement of rooms. There is a second verse to this song. Many of you regulars here have already heard it, or read it in my second book of memoir.

Locking myself in twice in public restrooms’ handicapped-accessible stalls that didn’t have handicapped-accessible doorknobs (!) has created a whole new fear. Not only do I now worry about finding the place, but about never being able to leave it once I do!

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

To some people, what I am writing might sound like blasphemy or heresy, but it isn’t! I dreamt that I was given an interview with God, and this is the way it went as far as I can remember the dream:

ME: Why did You choose me for this interview; I’m certainly not the brightest bulb in the package?

G: Exactly. You couldn’t make up most of the answers that We give if you tried.

ME: Lord, where are You?

G: We exist outside the universe, and flow in and out at will. We are here. That’s all you need to know!

ME: How can You do that?

G: We are an amorphous energy; a thinking, feeling, energy - a life force, if you will. Energy has no shape. Like water or air that takes the shape of the receptacle that it’s in, so do We. We may take the shape of anything or anyone as We see fit!

ME: Since You have no shape do you have a color or a gender?

G: No.

ME: Lord, what is Your “true” name?

G: We have many man-made names. Whatever name you respectfully choose to call Us, that’s what you will know Us as. Our “true” name must remain a mystery to all beings but Ourself.

ME: What is the one “true” religion?

G: There is NO one “true” religion. Every man, who practices a religion, claims to be a part of the one ‘true” religion, but, since We have no religion, there is no one “true” religion. Every religion is like a road leading to the same town or city, and We are that town or city. What you call the one “true” religion only exists in the minds of men. Any religion that teaches love not hate, tolerance not intolerance, peace not war, and comforts the minds of mankind is the “true” religion for mankind.

ME: Every religion has one or more evil spirits just waiting for mankind in general or in particular to commit an evil act or trying to lure mankind into committing an evil act. Are those evil spirits real?

The ancient Hebrews put it best when they developed the idea of Yetzer HaRah, the desire to do evil and Yetzer HaTov, the desire to do good. When a man/woman sinks to his/her animal instincts towards others of his/her species, the Yetzer HaRah is at its most powerful zenith. When a man/woman rises above his/her animal instincts to help others of his/her species, the Yetzer HaTov rises to its most powerful zenith.

It’s far easier to follow Yetzer HaRah than Yetzer HaTov because Yetzer HaRah requires nothing but to follow thoughtless, careless animalism, while Yetzer HaTov requires overcoming thoughtless, careless, unfeeling animalism. Therefore, Yetzer HaTov is on a higher plane of existence.

ME: Man has developed theories of the creation of this world. Man has come up with “Creationism” as in the Bible, “Evolutionism,” the “Big Bang” theory, the “String” theory and so many others. Which one is correct?

G: The answer is far too complicated for mankind to understand. All the explanation that We can give to mankind is that by an extremely complex combination of the “Big Bang” theory and the “string” theory, We began the universe. That was followed by the evolution of man. The rest must be interpolated by mankind. As for the “Creation” story in the book you call the “Bible,” that is an explanation for those who choose to believe it.

ME: Are You truly omniscient, and what part does fate play?

G: We are, but not in the way that you would expect. You have freedom of choice, which is what We wanted you to have. We allow you to make your own choices, but We know the results of all choices that can be made.

Each choice leads to another set of choices for which We know the results. It’s as if you are at a cross-roads ending in another cross-roads. You are not puppets to be controlled, but We know where each choice that you CAN make will lead. We are omniscient in that way.

Fate is something that mankind has developed to explain why he is rich or poor, healthy or ill, in one place or another. It isn’t fate, it’s choices that he makes for himself or that are made for him.

ME: Is the Torah, or any Bible, completely the truth as written?

G: First, mankind must understand what “truth” really is. Let Us explain in extremely simple terms.

“Truth” is what the majority of people in any society or culture are willing to accept. Therefore, “truth” is what is believed. Since mankind wrote the Torah and Bibles, the “truth” is suspect. Of course, they were inspired by Us on several levels; but, the Torah and Bibles were not meant to be taken as historical fact. They were meant, instead, to set down the laws of how mankind should live; a spiritual guide, so to speak, and not a historical guide. It’s a bit like playing the game telephone: you start out with one short story, and by the time it gets around it has changed a great deal.

ME: There are fundamentalists who accept whatever Bible they have as truth and are willing to kill for it.

G: Mankind is allowed to believe whatever it wants, but killing to assert one’s beliefs over others is certainly forbidden.

ME: Which would You have mankind believe?

G: Whichever satisfies mankind.

ME: Is there life after death?

G: We will not answer that question fully because We see it as a deterrent for doing that which is evil. We will only say that if there is an afterlife, it will be nothing like what mankind has imagined. There will be no seventy virgins because We do not reward murder. There will be no spirits with wings looking like their former selves. Those are mankind’s view of an afterlife that they themselves have concocted to allay the fear of death. All that We will say to mankind is: Do NOT be afraid for We are always with you!

ME: What are good and evil?

G: They are value judgments based on what is accepted as such in each society and culture. We have given a set of laws to help to clarify those value judgments. Mankind, unlike animals, has the choice of doing good or evil. He has both inclinations within him.

ME: Is it easier to do good or evil?

G: Mankind has to learn what is good or evil, NOT in his/her society, but according to the laws that We set before him/or her. Once mankind learns, then mankind must face the fact that both inclinations are within him/her. When mankind learns what is good and what is evil and faces his/her inner self, he/she can make choices.

Now, to answer your question: it’s easier to do evil than good because to do good, one must overcome the evil inclination. Overcoming takes more effort than just falling into a habit or pit.

ME: In the Bible, the Jews were called “the chosen people“. What were they chosen for?

G: They were chosen to teach mankind how to live by the laws that We have given. They were not to be rich or famous or saved from natural or man-made disasters as illustrated by floods, famines, plagues; or pogroms and holocausts, or other forms of anti-Semitism. They were to set the examples by following Our laws despite those obstacles. Those who became rich or famous did so on their own.

G: We hear every prayer, individually and all at once, and We answer every prayer, but We do not do it as mankind thinks. A great deal of the time the answer is “no” so that there is no visible sign that the prayer has been heard. At other times, the answer is “yes”, but it is done in such a way that mankind will not recognize the answer and will thank me anyway.

ME: Do You still speak to mankind?

G: Yes, through dreams and hopes. Sometimes, they are the same things, and sometimes they are warnings.

ME: On what day is the true Sabbath?

G: On whatever day man chooses to rest and to remember Us.

ME: What do You me by “rest and remember”?

G:When people attend church, mosque, synagogue, on whatever day they have chosen, and when those people leave their problems and daily lives outside the doors of their “holy” places to think of Us, their minds reach a different plane of existence. True “rest” is a “rest” for the mind and spirit so that people are able to face the next week’s problems with a fresh vision and attitude.

ME: Do You have any political views on such things as abortion, civil rights and democracy versus plutocracy, autocracy, oligarchy or Communism?

G: No. We have given mankind freedom of choice. We have also given mankind laws by which to live. Mankind must choose the path that is correct. We will not tell mankind which path is correct. We will only tell mankind to choose the most peaceful and loving path according to its own heart.

ME: Why is there war?

G: War is a man-made tool to acquire the power to tell others how to live, pray, vote and/or think. We do not condone war nor is there a “true” or acceptable rationale that We will accept. There is no “correct” way to pray, vote, think or live save what We have given to mankind in the 613 Commandments.

ME: Why does nature develop new diseases once we have cured others?

G: Nature is a by-product of whatever We created first. Nature tends to keep the species in check while the species grows and learns how to live with one another. As each new disease is created, mankind learns to deal with it while mankind learns how to care for one another. Think of natural disasters as diseases as well. Mankind has a great distance to go in learning how to care for one another.

ME: Why do bad things happen to good people?

G: We are not the cause. We do not kill, maim, injure or cause sorrow. Mankind kills and nature kills. We have told you about nature, and We have given you a partial answer when we spoke about war. As far as mankind has come from the days of the lawless cave dwellers, mankind still is a cave dweller at heart. Anger, revenge, jealousy, thoughtlessness are still in mankind’s animalistic personality. No, that is an insult to most animals that do no kill out of those “human” foibles.

Mankind is supposed to be above that, but in some ways, animals are superior. They kill for food or to protect their homes or “territories” as mankind has labeled them. Humans set a series of events in motion, without thinking, that cause others harm and death, often to those whom humans have labeled “innocent bystanders”. Yet We take the blame - “God giveth and God taketh away.”

Those words may make those who suffer feel better, yet when one thinks rationally about the sorrow, one realizes that it was mankind or nature that has caused the pain. Yes, it is true that We created both in essence, so We will take the blame. As one of the American presidents said, “The buck stops here!”

ME: There has been a problem about abortion. Do You approve of abortion? When does life begin?

G: Let us answer you second question first. Mankind has been trying to answer that question for two millennia.

Some ancient idolatrous religions, in order to answer that question have said that the gods created mankind in order to be worshiped. The ancient Hebrews have said in their Bible that We created mankind in Our own image out of the dust of the four corners of the earth, and that We blew the breath of life into mankind. If that is so, then life begins when mankind is able to take it’s first breath.

Some of mankind believes that the beginning of life is like an acorn. The acorn takes root and sends up a shoot. The shoot is alive, but the acorn that does not send up a shoot is not alive. We will leave mankind to choose whichever belief satisfies mankind.

Now as to your first question: Do We approve of abortion? Here again, the answer is complex. We neither approve nor disapprove of abortion. If the creation of a child is considered to be viable when it takes its first breath, then We approve of abortion prior to that time. But if the creation of a child is similar to acorn sending out a shoot, then, We do not approve. Mankind must set aside its emotional outbursts about abortion and look for an answer that is both logical and scientific.

ME: You keep referring to yourself as “we, us, and our.” Is there more of one of You?

G: No. We use the kingly plural to refer to Ourself because mankind has determined that We are the King of the Universe.

ME: Do You have any final words for mankind?

G: We have this final thing to say: mankind is in its childhood. It treats life like a game of tag or cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers. Life will only be a fun game when mankind grows up and realizes that it is here, on this Earth, to help to perfect it and not to ruin it. Mankind is here, on this Earth, to learn to respect and care for one another and not to try to force each other into submission. Mankind should NOT be trying to play God because We are the only God that there ever was or ever will be!

At that point, a silent bolt of lightning flashed across the vast darkness that enveloped me. There was no giant clap of thunder following the lightning as one might suspect. I felt as if I were falling through the blackness. My stomach was churning and my heart was racing.

I landed in my bed. My pajama top was drenched in sweat. I woke up and went down to my computer to write what I remembered of the dream. Was it a dream? I don’t know. I do know that like all others in mankind, my memory is faulty. I hope that I got most of the dream right.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]