A Library for Cracow
20 Jan 2011 4 Comments
in Stories Tags: books, Cracow, donors, family, fathers, Google, healing, Holocaust, library, making a difference, parents, Poland, Polish, Stories, translator, Warsaw, weeping
I belong to a Holocaust Survivors email list that travels around the globe online helping Survivors find other Survivors. More than six years ago I received an email about a young man who wanted to start a library in Cracow, Poland and needed help filling the shelves with Jewish books. Seems he was raised Christian to save his life. Finding out as an adult that his biological parents were Jewish, he was determined to make this happen.
As much as I love my books, I’ve learned to share over the years and this seemed extremely important. I boxed up a huge box of books that included my college freshman Children’s Literature anthology (that was 30 years old) and my Bat Mitzvah prayer book (which was even older). Books are one of my great loves, so there were many books that had been on my shelves for many years.
It was important I told myself and left for the Post Office, almost leaving when they asked me to fill out a huge amount of paperwork for custom’s reasons. Never heard anything, assumed my good deed was in a black hole somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic.
While casually searching Google the other night for the three blogs I’ve created, to see what is being sent out to the universe (by me), I came upon this website in Poland which had my name attached. Being unbelievably curious and not knowing Polish, I used Google translator.
Copy, paste, click, read. Copy, paste, click, read. I had no idea what happened to my book box until now. On Google.com it says ”darczyncy” and my name. The Rabbi Remuh Jewish Library was established in June 2005 and it is the only Jewish Library in Cracow open to everyone. 
I am listed as a donor. OMG was all I could pray through all the tears. What makes this so special is my Dad Berek Nathan was born in Warsaw. His entire family – brothers, sisters, parents, aunts, uncles died in the Holocaust. He was the only living survivor. Saving himself by running to the forest while the Nazis were kicking his brother to death in the streets of Poland. He was 15. Berek Nathan died August 2005 at age 87. A Painter’s Daughter is listed amongst these poems as a small tribute to him. He was my Hero. At least some of his books are back in Poland at a Jewish Library where they always belonged.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
A Little Wisdom
16 Jan 2011 2 Comments
in Poetry Tags: becoming wise, character, color, healing, inspiration, intellect, rainbows, soul, storms, words
The last moments of a sunset and the passing of an early September storm create a rare double rainbow over Balanced Rock in Arches National Park, Sept. 4, 2005
My wisdom comes in short bursts
Of learning out loud
And in silent contemplation.
A sprinter I am
A marathon runner not so much.
Learned to hear with my heart
To feel with my navel
To listen with my eyes
To let my soul nourish me.
My very own soul
With its own character is enough
When others are unavailable
Are involved in their own lives.
I learned to demand less
To request more
Of myself, not of them.
Learned a little blue Agave syrup
Goes a long way to sweeten the pot
That has always been sweet
If only I had noticed along the way
Those rainbows will always have colors
That I can devour for breakfast.
All rights reserved. ©2010 by Sara Fryd
A Painter’s Daughter
14 Jan 2011 3 Comments
in Poetry Tags: childhood memories, colors, fathers, healing, heros, inspiration, joy, Poetry
Before I knew the words to describe a rainbow,
I could mix the colors of heaven,
of mountains; of Arizona in the spring.
Each morning in darkness before the molten Phoenix sun
would crest the parched desert,
Papa would sneak out the door
quiet as a whisper
to paint this house or that castle.
Peeking…
With one eye around the blinds covering the window
I heard more than I saw.
Sounds my Papa made loading his royal blue
1948 Ford pick-up [truck] with ladders and brushes,
turpentine, putty, tarps and cans.
Oh, those magical cans of paint
that could change the heart of a room
from sullen to sunlight
from dreary to delicious.
Some knights ride into a little girl’s heart
on horseback or steed
large, tall, strong with white mane flowing.
My knight drove a short, wide blue ‘48 pick-up
with a three-speed stick shift on the column
and white wall tires;
pulling a bed filled with cans of colors streaming
for all the rainbows that surprised us after a desert storm.
For all the saguaros, yuccas, Joshua trees in need of renewal.
Mostly though…
for one little girl
who wanted her room the blue of the sky
after angels washed it with an August storm.
A Rock Slice
12 Jan 2011 7 Comments
in Stories Tags: cookie jars, dolls, earthquakes, good people, joy, money, presents, recessions, rocks, shells
On my desk is a plastic baby doll dressed in pink (another story) and a large glass jar with a lid. In its former life on my desk at work, the jar held trail mix of raisins, walnuts, almonds, brazil nuts, and sunflower seeds for visitors, now it holds treasures of shells, sand, notes, and rocks. It also holds two prized possessions – an orange rind rose and a rock slice. 
When you are veterans of a Holocaust, have been homeless for most of your teenage years and twenties stuff and money matter most. They matter more than shelter or food, because stuff can be traded for food and money buys food. My childhood home was one where money, material items (stuff), and food mattered. Often we believed they mattered more than we did. They argued about everything; even the plastic covered couch and who had the right to sit on it.
I spent most of my childhood learning how to become a “success.” I have a very different idea of what that means to me now than what it did then. From my teens on, I spent most of my time trying to succeed at becoming financially and materially successful according to the values of my parents, which meant education, nice car, good job, great house, money in the bank. The American Dream personified.
In 1992, there was a recession that hit Southern California harder than any earthquake I have lived through. I lost everything of material value – my job, my house, and all my stuff. Everything I had worked for my entire life, with very few options (or so I thought then), and very little money left. California became a bad dream as I moved near my family in Phoenix, Arizona. Probably should mention here that I married in 1967 to escape Phoenix and the family, so having to come back divorced and broke was a fate worse than prison or death (one and the same in my book).
One day, contemplating my financial failures with daily reminders from the family, I wandered into Van’s Rock Shop on 7th Street in Phoenix for lack of a job or anything better to do with my time than write or listen to them. I must have looked like death walking, wandering up and down the aisles of this block long store.
A young female clerk came over and tapped me on the shoulder. I thought she was going to ask me if I needed help. When I turned she handed me a polished rock slice – pale tan with colored concentric rings of dark rust and orange (like a slice of an old cut tree). I told her I didn’t have the money to pay for it (it was $1.98).
This beautiful young woman with a sandy blond pony tail whispered, “It’s a present. Remember it took millions of years of stress and pain to create something this beautiful. It’s yours.” I clamped my jaw shut, my eyes filled with tears ready to drop, and nodded “thank you” to keep from sobbing.
I have a clear glass cookie jar on my desk filled with treasures. My rock slice and orange rind rose are inside. Remember it takes millions of years of stress and pain to create something this beautiful. It’s free, it’s yours. May I share them with you?
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
A Virgin and A Pauper
10 Jan 2011 Comments Off
in Poetry, Stories Tags: college kids, fun, learning, performing, poetry slams, Portfolio's Long Beach, storytelling
In 1991, my newly discovered writing talent scared the hell out of me. I kept it a secret from everyone I knew. I was a contract administrator. I handled important government documents. I had a DOD secret clearance for God’s sake. I sold F-16 seats for a living! I worked for the military-industrial complex. I did NOT (are you listening God) write poetry. As much as I loved Emily Dickinson, E.E. Cummings, James Kavanaugh, who did I think I was? A poet? A writer? Me? Surely you jest and I have magically appeared in an alternate universe.
What if they found out that late at night at home on my Mac, I was writing love poems of loss and longing, hunger and sex. In free verse that didn’t rhyme, no less. Oh my God, the humiliation, the embarrassment, the giggles. High school all over again. I might even get fired. Contract administrators, 46 year old mothers do not suddenly awake one day espousing free verse about feelings, wanting to do nothing else except write. Whom was I kidding? If I didn’t stop this falderal immediately, the poetry police would show up and lock down my Mac. I definitely needed therapy or at least to leave Los Angeles. And quickly. Where was a Bekins truck when you need one?
Uncle Aron said Los Angeles was a terrible place to live. There had to be a PA (Poets Anonymous) meeting somewhere in Los Angeles? There were meetings for every addiction known to mankind with acronyms to match. Where were the yellow pages when you needed them?
Josh was in his junior year of college with every belief he would write the next great screenplay. He wouldn’t leave home. Why should he? I paid for his lifestyle and let him borrow the RX-7 when he had a date or totaled the car he was driving that month. All his friends had a place to hang out during earthquakes. And should a tsunami follow, the fridge was always full of food so all his buddies could camp at our house. We lived five miles east of the Pacific Ocean, food was free, I did all the cooking, paid all the bills, and knocked on the door before entering his room. If God hadn’t intervened I’d still be working eighteen hour days, living with him and whatever girlfriend wanted to come over and play during daylight hours when Mom was at work. As usual I digress, sorry. So many stories, so little time.
I would sit down after work, pull out my tiny spiral chamois notebook (that Mead went everywhere with me), along with my Uniball blue 10 pt fine pens I purchased by the box. I’d be typing oblivious to time or hour, when I would feel him behind me reading over my right shoulder. He would want me to read the poem aloud. The came his first question, “How long did that take you?” For him it was always pragmatic, about mathematics not feelings. His mathematical brain working the next angle. One day instead of the math comment out comes, “Mom, you do realize that Emily Dickinson died a virgin and a pauper?”
To which I retorted, “Well I have her beat on one count. I’ve had sex once in my life.” He left the room. His dream of inheriting a trust fund wasn’t coming to fruition quickly enough. 
After writing from March to August 1991, I needed a large three-ring binder with alphabetic tabs. One Sunday in August, Josh knowing my fear of speaking in front of crowds, drags me to Portofino’s – a college hang out near California State University, Long Beach. Sunday nights they had the latest rock group perform with poetry readings during intermission. Terrified does not properly convey my state of fear. My son, the soon to be Academy Award winning playwright, who was majoring in “writing screenplays” at Steven Spielberg’s stomping ground, wanted me (his mother) to come read my poems to his friends. Now I get his sneaky brain at work, I will be dead by Monday morning. And he will inherit the house, the jazz CDs, and the RX7. Not to worry. Now he can have women over any time he wants, not just while I’m at work.
Off we go, me hugging the three-ring binder so tight there are nail marks in the vinyl, sitting in back listening to the band though only hearing my heartbeat. There are roughly 99 people in attendance, 77 college females, a few males, band members, and staff. I’m shaking. Intermission arrives I’m the last poet to read and the only one over 20. I read poem one, not bad a little clapping, didn’t throw up. I read poem two, a little more noise from the girls (guess angst is appreciated amongst female intellectuals), I SNAP. Guess the applause went to my head. I turn the alphabet dividers to “O.” I read Orgasms and Other Feelings.* The room explodes and 77 college girls are on there feet cheering at the top of their lungs. Noise that could be heard at the Marriott on Ocean Boulevard a couple of miles away.
*Note to college boys/men – never ever give your Mother a hard time about anything. Not if she can write or speak. A time will come when she remembers.
Orgasms & Other Feelings
We learned early on
Not to talk about “them…”
Orgasms…
…and other feelings.
So women grew up wondering
What one was
Feeling cheated
If they didn’t have multiple ones
As read about in Cosmo
We didn’t know much
Though we were sure
Men must be the culprits
And held them responsible.
We traded in our mates
Our husbands
Exchanging partners
Looking for the “them”
Divorce became the right of passage
To adulthood.
Whose to blame? Who knows?
If the truth be told
No one can teach you to be unafraid
You need to learn it…
…for yourself
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
After Shave
08 Jan 2011 1 Comment
in Poetry Tags: dreams, inspiration, joy, Love, memories, relationships, smells
The car engulfed
with waves of mulled citrus mist
warmed by your face watching mine
in the mirror from the hallway
as I lacquer on deep burgundy
candy apple lipstick
before the sun awakes early
April morning.
Memories of orange blossoms
permeating the night sky
on Route 66…
the beige top down on
the old black convertible with red leather seats
When I was eighteen and Steven French kissed me
behind Paradise Mountain
where the sheriff watched
with the gigantic flashlight
and I was told “good girls” never go
alone.
Underneath the auburn henna
graying hair peeks.
Longer jackets of fine silk smooth the hips
and lengthen the torso.
Longer skirts cover the knees.
And still…
I am overwhelmed by emotions
that smother my driving
North on the 605
with one whiff of warm mulled citrus
transferred from your face
to my sheerest pink silk blouse
during our dark, early morning embraces
that still make my knees week an hour later
my heart pound.
Remembering again how it felt
to be wide-eyed, eighteen
and waiting for my prince.
All of Them Were You
06 Jan 2011 4 Comments
in Poetry Tags: attention, blackberries, boredom, etc, kissing, men, noses, questions, women
I’ve loved a lot of men
you know…
Some of them were true.
I’ve loved a lot of men
you know…
Though none like I loved you.
Some loved me back
some didn’t care.
One kissed my nose
then touched my hair.
Questions asked…
then left unanswered
Who came before?
Were they romantic?
Why is it men have such needs to know?
Who came before?
Then how many?
What of your thoughts?
Now here’s a penny…
I’m not a contest or a prize.
Only female…
often unwise…
Why who I’ve been with should it matter?
I’ve been alone more than together.
Please, stop questioning
what I can not answer.
I’ll love you now until September.
For when the leaves begin to fall
I may not love you
then
at all…
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
