The Crystal Elephant

                                     The Crystal Elephant
                                                  by
                                        Norma Sadler
    
    Jim and Annie lived in a small rental cottage on Cypress Street in Laguna Beach. On the day before Christmas, he wanted to buy a present for her, something different, something she would really love.  Each year he bought her a Radco ornament for their tree.  This year there would be no tree as they were going to have Christmas with their now grownup children and their grandchildren in Dana Point.  
    Jim drove down to Forest Avenue, at a time early enough for the streets still to be not crowded with traffic and before the lunch crowd showed up. He parked and walked to a store on the corner  In the window, crystal shapes caught his eye, but large sculptures on pedestals would never fit in their living room. Maybe there would be small figurines inside.  
    A young woman in a bright red sweater and black slacks stood behind the counter.  She smiled. "Can I help you?'   
    "I'm looking for something in crystal, like a figurine maybe," he said.
    The sales clerk turned and pointed at the shelf.
    "Here we have a Baccarat tiger. It's 200 dollars."  
            "Maybe a smaller figurine," Jim said.
             "Sure," she said, and walked over to mirrored shelves that held crystal animals, perfume bottles, abstract pieces, even geodes.  By itself in a corner, smaller than the other pieces, stood a lone crystal elephant.  
    "May I see that elephant?" Jim asked.
     The clerk picked it up carefully from the shelf and handed it to Jim.
      The elephant, solid crystal and elegant, would fit in Annie's connection of elephants from around the world.  It was different though from the wood, silver, and pewter ones that she already had.  She loved them and could remember how and where she acquired each one.
    Jim remembered that the first and most important elephants came from Walter, her brother, who served in Africa under General Patton and followed him in the long march up the boot of Italy. Walter carried three wood elephants with small white tusks in a knapsack for Annie, his only sister.  He mailed them from post-war Paris to her. A father, mother, and baby elephant reached Annie and Jim when they were expecting their first child.  That was the beginning of Annie's collection
    Now in their living room Annie's elephants traversed the mantle, making their way through pine boughs and lights.     .  
    "I'll let you decide," the clerk said. "Let me know if you need anything."
    Jim turned the elephant over.  A smooth flat bottom with an etched number signified its history in a Swedish company.  He noticed that unlike Annie's other elephants with their heads down, either standing still or walking through imaginary jungles, this crystal elephant raised a trunk in triumph or happiness. The elephants on the mantle could use another companion.
    Jim turned to the clerk.
    "I'll take this elephant. How much is it?" he asked.
    "It's fifty dollars," the clerk said.  
     He took out his wallet, paid with cash.
    The clerk wrapped the elephant, cozy in a box, then in silver paper with a red ribbon. She handed the package to him.
     "I don't know who this is for, but this crystal elephant is a perfect gift," she said.
     Jim nodded. An elephant for Annie to remember.

Norma Sadler is a member of Third Street Writers, Laguna Beach.

 

THE NETANYAHUS: Heroes and their stories from March 25, 2023

 

March 25, 2023

The Netanyahus: Heroes and their stories

By Norma Sadler

Once upon a time, I used "Let's Bring Back Heroes," an essay from Newsweek by William J. Bennett, for a class in literacy at Boise State University.  My idea was for students to talk about using magazine essays for their future classroom students and let those students riff on it.  One hero mentioned in the Newsweek essay was Yoni Netanyahu, who died in the hostage rescue mission at Entebbe.  Could my students get past heroes like Superman and other fantasy figures and find real-life heroes to write about who meant something to them?  They could.  Family, friends, those who made a difference in their lives took center stage.  For one, a grandfather who served in Vietnam became the hero in an essay.

Fast-forward.  I am hooked on Bibi: My Story by Benjamin Netanyahu.  Did I know 35 years ago what I know now — that Yoni was Benjamin's brother?  Of course not.  So another military hero who becomes prime minister of Israel crosses my path in an autobiography.  For me, Bibi: My Story is the clearest, most comprehensive work on the history of Israel through the life of an extraordinary man who lived through much of it.

Netanyahu takes us with him through the beginning of the state of Israel, the Six-Day War and others, the ordeals of freeing hostages, to the difficulty of dealing with propaganda on all fronts that diminishes Jews and attempts to destroy the country of Israel.  It was hard for me to handle sometimes the anguish of the terrorist attacks, the loss of lives, and the struggle of Israel to survive surrounded by countries ten times its size, but I wanted to know more.  I kept reading.

In 1979, Netanyahu arranged an international conference on terrorism in Jerusalem under the auspices of the Jonathan Institute, named for his brother.  Much of what came from that and later conferences helped the United States understand and take action against terrorists in countries that supported terrorist activity.

I am halfway through Netanyahu's book, heading to the Abraham Accords, which have become a testament to the humanity of those around Israel who seek peace and recognize its legitimacy.  Much to read ahead.  I shall know more about Israel and a hero and a story than most citizens in this country.  Others might consider this journey with Netanyahu and discover a hero and a story that is illuminating and worth reading.

Elvis: A great story in a movie

 Elvis is one of the best dramatic movies ever, and I have no idea why it didn’t win any major Academy awards.  Taking the story of Elvis and creating, not just his life story, but also the pathos and tragedy of an international singer, who starts from nothing, becomes the most popular singer in the world and then falls from grace (Graceland), loses his marriage, takes illegal drugs, and then faces a coming financial ruin all by the age of 42.  How much more Shakespearean could someone’s life get?  

Like Mose Allison and Charley Pride, who also sounded black when they sang, Elvis too became popular with blacks. This film is a tribute to how a white kid, growing up in a black neighborhood obviously loved the blacks he knew and loved their gospel/church music.  His earlier music paid tribute to those songs, but later, which I did not know, he wrote many of his own. He became friends with B.B. King,  He made sure that blacks were part of his prominent lineup of singers in Las Vegas, because black groups like the Imperials were the best. . Earlier going against segregation laws in the South, he got on the wrong side of the Southern Democrats who wanted him jailed.  His activism was born of values that transcended the old-fashioned rhetoric of that time.

Austin Butler IS Elvis,and I was transported back to the 1950's easily with his character’s looks and voice.  Tom Hanks as Colonel Parker, Elvis’ conniving manager gets kudos for his excellence in body makeup a Dutch accent, tinged by the South and the part he plays..  Amazing characters, scenes, and story.  Best of course is the story.  You wouldn’t be taking a chance on this film now on Netflix. Press the button on Elvis.

LETTERS TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER

                          Letters to My Mother and Father

                         After Typewriters, Jeff Rovner Artist

    I am snipping the Sunday crossword from The Idaho Statesman to go along with a letter sent home.  It’s just to my mother now, but back in 1973, puzzles went along with the letters to both of them.
       At first, I wrote longhand and not very often.  At UCLA, even though I borrowed a typewriter to write the never-ending repertoire of papers for different courses--The Domestication of the Cat,  Irony in Porter’s Ship of Fools, Poison Imagery in Hamlet, I still wrote very short letters home.
    Then in graduate school, married, with a newly purchased Hermes portable typewriter, I completed papers on Renaissance literature, and I typed longer letters.  Still in graduate school on a Ph.D. program, I typed my way through papers on Oscar Wilde and John Hawkes.  Shifting keys and locking them in time and  place, I created papers on values and creativity on my way to finishing my degree.  I wrote letters telling my parents about my research, about our prolific gardens attached to married student housing at the UW-Madison, about the car battery freezing when it hit -30.
    The “a” key started to stick about l983, and I was propelled into word processing on an IBM computer.   My sporadic letters became weekly, single spaced sheets that I’d send with the  puzzle.  I could hear my mother’s voice as she sat, working a puzzle at her kitchen table with the white tablecloth, as if I were right next to her.
    “You were the English major, so who is the main character in For Whom the Bell Tolls, or what is the French word for “lake?”  Sometimes I filled in spaces with a few words in ink before I sent them.
    Although my teaching schedule was never the same, I wrote at six in the morning or on the weekend.  Somehow that personal writing cleared my head  for creative writing.  The letters became a way of enticing myself into writing manuscripts that later could become poems, stories, or novels.
    My father died in l99l.  I continued letters to my mother about family, my job, and events in my life.  In a short story that I was working on, I wrote that nothing was happening to my characters.  They were just standing there, oblivious to my ideas.  I was so angry at those characters that I wrote to my mother to tell her that I had placed them all on a raft out in the middle of a lake, and the raft was sinking.
    “What a terrible thing to do,” my mother said in a phone conversation back to me.  She called this time, did not write, and became part of the next generation without knowing it.
     I think now that my letters were limited monologues, with time for me to sort out my life  as my letters flew to California.  When my computer had user friendly graphics, I placed small images on the pages -- a rose (my father’s  favorite flower) and a woman golfer (for my mother who played into her eighties).
    On the computer, I learned to copy and paste images in sequence.  Now across a page, a row of horses galloped, cheetahs ran with the same exact stride, or wolves howled in the same sitting position.  Then once, a frantic cyclist, obviously me, a mountain biker here in the west, racing toward some imaginary finish line, writing more, publishing more.
    And so, along with the letters and the crossword puzzles, I finally sent my mother a short story.  Presto, ready to go.  Like magic, really.  I pressed the print button.  The one-page letter, the crossword puzzle, and the added short story.  Sent off.  No longer sinking on a raft, my characters were flying home.    

Published on THE AMERICAN THINKER BLOG: March 25, 2022

The Netanyahus: Heroes and their stories

By Norma Sadler

Once upon a time, I used “Let’s Bring Back Heroes,” an essay from Newsweek by William J. Bennett for a class in Literacy at Boise State University.  My idea was for students to talk about using magazine essays for their future classroom students and let those students riff on it.  One hero mentioned in the Newsweek essay was Yoni Netanyahu, who died in the hostage rescue mission at Entebbe. Could my students get past heroes like Superman and other fantasy figures and find real life heroes to write about that meant something to them?  They could.  Family, friends, those who made a difference in their lives took center stage.  For one, a grandfather who served in Vietnam became the hero in an essay.

Fast forward.  I am hooked on Bibi, My Story, by Benjamin Netanyahu.  Did I know 35 years go what I know now -- that Yoni was Benjamin’s brother?  Of course not. So another military hero who becomes prime minister of Israel crosses my path in an autobiography.  For me, Bibi, My Story is the clearest most comprehensive work on the history of Israel through the life of an extraordinary man who lived through much of it.  

Netanyahu takes us with him through the beginning of the state of Israel, the Six Day War and others,  the ordeals of freeing hostages, to the difficulty of dealing with propaganda on all fronts that diminishes Jews and attempts to destroy the country of Israel. It was hard for me to handle sometimes the anguish of the terrorist attacks, the loss of lives, and the struggle of Israel to survive surrounded by countries ten times its size, but I wanted to know more. I kept reading.

In 1979, Netanyahu arranged an international conference on terrorism in Jerusalem under the auspices of the Jonathan Institute, named for his brother.  Much of what came from that and later conferences helped the United States understand and take action against terrorists in countries that supported terrorist activity.   

I am halfway through Netanyahu’s book heading to the Abraham Accords, which have become a testament to the humanity of those around Israel who seek peace and recognize its legitimacy.  Much to read ahead.  I shall know more about Israel and a hero and a story than most citizens in this country. Others might consider this journey with Netanyahu and discover a hero and a story that is illuminating and worth reading.

So much to be learned from a play: Guest Opinion Capital Times Madison, Wisconsin June 12, 2022

https://captimes.com/opinion/guest-columns/opinion-so-much-to-be-learned-from-a-play/article_f9ebd478-b71b-54a9-b8e9-02e4def0bc25.html

The Scene: 1969, Sauk Trail Elementary School, Middleton, Wisconsin. With my fourth- and fifth-grade students, I am producing "A Midsummer Night’s Dream." It is right on schedule, as much as anything can be on schedule in an elementary school.

The rural landscape is the perfect setting, with huge rocks for Puck to leap from, woods for sprites to hide in, and lovely green grass for the court of Theseus. These students, the Sauk Trail Players, are the young local talent, becoming characters for one more play before their summer begins. Complicated names of characters, such as Hermia and Lysander, Oberon and Titania are no problem for them. An abridged play with the poetic meter of iambic pentameter, no problem.

The plot, a clever story, is filled with magical events that change lives. Children become their characters, suspend their own disbelief, as they hide among the rocks and behind trees. They create action, interpreting lines as they go. The play is the important thing, after all.

Going through scenes, children see what life is, feel what their characters feel, even if from old times and old places. They experience the vulnerability of being in a play, showing who they are by what they know about their characters. They figure out how to use gestures and pauses to make their characters "real.” They learn how to work together in order to create a play, and, at the same time, they learn how to keep their own characters’ identities intact.

The play is a huge success. The audience claps. The characters come out for bows. Standing off stage, in the grass, I am absolutely certain that drama is a way to show what it means to be alive in our time, in any past time. As characters, the students have gone through adventures, solved problems, and changed along the way. 

Scene: 1973. Evening. I am finishing up my Ph.D. at UW Madison. The phone rings. One of the former Sauk Trail Players, a junior high school student, is on the line. “I learned to read from being in the plays,” he says. “Do you remember me?” he asks. Of course, I did. But somehow I wasn’t aware that plays performed years earlier had helped him learn to read.

Scene: 2003, Boise, Idaho. The memory of the play is tucked away, far away in the past of 30 years. I see Mike Hoffman’s film version of "A Midsummer Night’s Dream." The film captures my interest, but I don’t expect it to capture my heart and carry it back to the 60s. Once again, I see my students as characters in the play, then lined up center stage front, bowing and ending their parts in a dream.

Such a dream of my own — that drama would make such a difference in their lives. Yes, I thought in l969 that drama would enrich their lives. Yes, I thought that they could learn to appreciate the form of theater and understand what actors went through to become characters. But students also became literate by reading to learn lines as they began to understand more about their characters and themselves.

The world of the play and their own worlds combined to change them in ways that I, as a beginning teacher, could not have predicted. And they did it all themselves, really. And so to the Sauk Trail Players, where ever you are, for what you learned about drama, about reading, about yourselves, more applause, like fragile notes on a butterfly’s wing. 

Norma Sadler is professor emeritus at Boise State University.

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At the Victory Girls Blog: my poem No Exit: Afghanistan Then and Now

I am the Guest  Poet at https://victorygirlsblog.com/ 

 

I have written a poetic piece about Afghanistan. The poem is an important one I think, entitled, No Exit Afghanistan Then and Now.   The first part of the poem I wrote in 2000 and the second part in the last two weeks 2021.   

 

Here is poem as it appeared on victorygirls.blog August 31, 2021

President Biden,

You have destroyed the truth of this earlier poem.

 

2000 Women In Afghanistan

If you wander far enough
You come back to the beginning.
On T.V.  a woman was
Executed in the open space
Of a soccer stadium
in Afghanistan.
A public spectacle of a woman,
In a burka.  You couldn’t see much
Or understand why she was there.
Before drawn weapons,
People came to see the sport of killing.
That was then, this is now.
Other women are coming out of hiding.
They bring schools into the open.
Into the cold, crisp air of the fall
In Afghanistan.
Schools that had turned into barracks,
Where books were knocked about, bruised,
Where wooden beams were torn down,
Falling apart even before
The Taliban fell together.
But so,
Women shrug their shoulders,
Take off their burkas,
Take back the space
Around them with children.
The stadium is empty of corpses.
The beginning will be the first soccer game,
The first child at a desk,
The book open, its spine trembling
At its history.

 

2021 And now a different truth

The Taliban are back.
A woman in a burka is shot,
Dies in the road.
A sports coach tells her girls sports team,
Burn your uniforms, hide.  She knows.
Women and girls sold into slavery.
A child thrown over a fence at the airport
To a British soldier:  Save that child.
Sharia law.
Watch out.
Door to door,
Taliban harassment and death.
Christians, hide your Bibles and your beliefs.
The killing fields of Afghanistan
Are operational.

President Biden,
You have erased my truth
About Afghanistan
And left us
With despair and
We aren’t even there.

______

Our Guest Poet is Norma Sadler, Ph.D., a published poet in literary journals online and in print.