April: Long Beach

By June Calender of Big 7-0 & More

Today's early-in-April sunshine
Has a determined adolescent strength --
Charles Atlas in his 98-pound weakling days.
The breeze ruffling the grass shakes its fists
like a freckle-faced sixth grade bully.
Far from my own adolescence, I welcome
This youthful day in flirty April.
I drive to Long Beach and find it nearly empty.
I claim as my own this mile-long spit of land,
marsh grass and brown tangles of thorny roses.
A flat-land farmer's daughter who didn't see
an ocean until I was twenty-three,
I feel young where I never was when young.

As I walk the damp sand, I peel off my jacket
and tie it around my waist; I push up my sleeves--
Come, Sun, pour your vitamin D into me.
I see footprints in the sand--not sneaker prints--
Bare, man-size footprints--and paw prints too.
I look the length of the gently curved shore.
Who dared the chilly sand so early?
I do not see him--"Friday"--the native, I surmise.

The tide reaches, then recedes reluctantly.
To my right sun jewels flash on the water;
to my left a wind-row of broken shells,
once stony homes to tiny glob of life.
I settle in a spot where I often pause to gaze on
the blue illusion we call horizon,
where sky and water only seem to meet
because we are small, our perspective limited
and they are vast, almost endless. Oh, yes,
I have considered that metaphor, but not today.

Breezy fingers ruffle my hair inviting me to play.
Yes, April, child of early spring,
I will join your flirty game.
I pull off my sneakers an socks.
I'll make another pair of prints.
Perhaps I'll let the lapping water
kiss my feet.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Skatin' Along in the Hog Barn

PERSONAL NOTE FROM RONNI: One of The Elder Storytelling Place's most prolific contributors, Nancy Leitz, lost her husband this week after a long and wonderful marriage. There is a story at Time Goes By today.

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By Dan Gogerty who blogs at Cast

Decades ago, the Ritland family didn’t worry about opening up their farm to the public — they encouraged it as long as folks were willing to trade their blue-suede shoes for roller skates.

In 1949, the Ritland brothers figured roller skates would produce a better profit margin than livestock on their central Iowa farm, so they talked their dad into building a barn that became a magnet of entertainment during the next 15 years.

They installed a maple hardwood floor so the skates would run true and when the barn was finished, a couple of the boys used a rope to pull a bicycle to the top. They planned to ride along the peak of the barn to celebrate the completion but Momma Ritland took the air out of that idea.

Instead, they placed a string of colored lights on top and the livestock barn became a beacon for surrounding small towns.

The 140-foot long, 60-foot wide floor would often hold 150 to 200 skaters of varying talents. Wednesday nights drew a large contingency of couples and the Ritlands might play the 12th Street Rag over the sound system so skaters could two-step, or a Glenn Miller tune so the floor would turn into a rotating waltz.

Romance came during the Moonlight Skate as the lights went low and couples floated around the mirror ball hanging from the center of the rafters.

The rink was a social hangout throughout the fifties with open skating three or four nights a week and parties scheduled on demand. Friday night crowds were younger and livelier so the Ritlands spent time fitting shoes on squirming feet and serving food to teens who wobbled on their skates like deer on ice.

As the 50s morphed into the American Graffiti Era, they started playing tunes by Buddy Holly and the Del Vikings. They showed teens how to skate with the new beat of rock and roll — including the “tangle-foot,” a type of toe-dance with a bit of Elvis-swivel thrown in.

Their limbo skating contests offered prizes and showed that Iowa had both talent and klutzes during the Eisenhower administration. Those with the best moves eventually took center stage and the usual crowd flow might stop to watch a couple waltzing backward or a show like the match-lighting act.

Irvin Ritland would skate in the middle while swinging his friend Kenny by one leg. Kenny had a wooden matchstick in his teeth and as Irvin twirled him around, he would eventually get low enough so he could light the match with his teeth by scraping it on the wooden floor.

We preteen novices were impressed by the “cool skaters.” Our night was successful if we could skate through the swinging doors of the toilet without rolling headlong into the urinal.

After a few weeks, we could maneuver up to the food counter without spilling someone’s cherry Coke and this is about the time we’d get suckered into a “crack the whip” episode.

So-called friends would skate by, reach out a hand and say “grab on.” After pulling us long enough to build up speed, the prankster would whip us around and catapult us toward another struggling skater or toward the wall in the shadows at the north end of the rink.

With special fifties-style uniforms on, the Ritlands kept the music flowing and the skating fun. On certain nights they organized activities for church groups or 4-H clubs. Sunday was “white shirt night” and on occasion, they would host high school class parties or Halloween costume contests.

They worked hard to entertain their customers with events such as the Grand March. While Souza music came over the speakers, four-somes or six-somes would move in formation, build archways and carry flags or banners.

The “bell skate” was also popular, especially with those hoping for a touch of romance. At the ring of a bell, couples would change partners and the object was to end up with the person “you were sweet on.”

By 1964, the colored lights went out for the last time, and eventually, the classic floor was sold. The building is now home to hogs, hay and tractors while cattle feed in the lot next to it.

Some of us can squint and see the Studebakers and Chevys parked in the glow of the yard light as the barn vibrates to the sound of Fats Domino and skates-on-wood, but “Skating Elvis” has left the building for good.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

The Yearbook

By Vicki E. Jones

She is old now. Her hair is snow white and she can no longer see. Her hearing is almost gone and she is frail but she remains in her home with the help of a caregiver.

Her short-term memory is very, very poor, but she retains some long-term memories, however inaccurate. She is 95 now and has outlived both the members of her family and of my father’s family of her generation, and she has outlived her husband - my father - by nearly 30 years. She has outlived my sister – her older daughter – by more than four years.

Yet it is only this year that I have become interested enough in family history to start doing some research and only because my husband is so interested in his own family’s history and encouraged me to do so.

That led me to realize that I have no photos of my mother before her early 20s and no real knowledge of her childhood. I knew that her high school yearbook would have a photo of her at age 16, her age at graduation (she skipped a grade) and information on her activities and interests in high school.

My mother has no recall of what became of her high school yearbook or of any junior high school yearbook just as she has no recall of who her teachers or classmates were in elementary school, junior high and high school except for two people that she remained friends with long after high school.

She does recall the names of the schools, though, and recalls when she graduated high school.

Since no copy of her yearbook was turning up on eBay, I finally thought to call her high school asking the teacher in charge of alumni affairs whether they had a copy of her yearbook available for purchase. My mother’s maiden name was Deborah Atchick, nickname Deb or Debby, so it was easy for him to look her up by name.

To my surprise, he emailed me a couple of days later and offered to send a used copy of her yearbook along with a bill for the small charge for the yearbook. (Had none been available, I would have asked for a scan of the page her photo appeared on, sent to me by email.)

Had it not been for the fact that she grew up in Philadelphia where many high schools have been there more than 100 years and they are steeped in tradition and maintain a copy of each old yearbook for those who are interested, it never would have happened. As it was, a copy that could be sold to me was an extra copy, one donated by some kind person who no longer wanted or needed it.

The yearbook came a week later. There, on the first page of January 1934 graduates (the first page because her last name started with the letter A), was my mother at age 16, but looking like a young girl of 13 or 14.

She looked like a cute kid. She had complained all these years that in high school she was called The Kid because she was so young. I figured that wasn’t the only reason: she looked like a kid, too.

I looked at her picture and then looked again. Then I grabbed a picture of myself at 13 or 14 and held it next to her picture. I knew there would be a resemblance because I was called Little Debby many times while I was growing up but the resemblance was remarkable. Her picture could have passed for a picture of me.

I have looked at her picture many times since and read and re-read the list of clubs and activities she was involved in. Somehow, acquiring a simple high-school yearbook has acquainted me with what my mother was like as a young girl, many years before she met my father.

There before me is the cute kid she once was, a kid that looks remarkably like I would look during my teenage years. When I look at her photo, I see her but I also see myself.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Stream of Consciousness

By Sharon Ostrow who blogs at It's All About the Journey

Lately I have been absorbed in my family history and the more I delve into it the more I want to know.

My grandmothers especially. Grandmother Anna B and Great Grandmother Lucy Sivils Payne on my mother’s side. Grandmother Olga and Geat Grandmother Olive on my father’s side of the family.

I feel the thread that connects us and the stories of the trials, loss and joy that weaves the pattern of life. Watching Downton Abbey has been a catalyst for those of us living here in the house.

Tonight I was reminded of how much I was wounded by the separation from my daughter Tirzah but I realize that we all have been deepened by loss in this life, trials that test us beyond what we think we can bear.

And the point is that we are not victims; we are merely playing our parts just as Shakespeare said and we are all but players on the stage.

I am thankful for these moments of objectivity. I feel my mother very much since Dad died. Her strength and the deep loss that she feels. I feel it too but not in the way that she does. The power of music, the power of art, the power of words - it is how we cope with life on this planet.

Family and unconditional love is what we are here for, no matter whether or not we even understand the part we are playing or why things happen the way they do. A flash in eternity: the moon is nearly full, this is powerful medicine and this is why I have kept the curtains open tonight.

Sometimes I feel limited in my expression of my beliefs but now I realize that I have been empowered and it is time to take my place in the circle, the web. The seed has been planted, the stone has been dropped in the pond.

I have given birth six times. Surely that gives me some wisdom in spite of what I have perceived as failed relationships.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

The Will to Live

By Joyce Benedict

One spring, my son Garth had seen her and fallen in love. She had brownish-gray, long, silken hair and big yellow eyes. Black fur formed a perfect letter M on her forehead.

He named her Mouse. Mouse was a cat. We had had cats for years in our family, but she was our first long-haired one.

As she matured, we fell in love with her delicate, sweet temperament. She retained a kittenish mew, very sweet and faint like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.

One October day, sadness gripped our hearts. Mouse was now seven years old and had been gone for eight days. We had lost other cats before. We were not immune to the dangers of letting cats outdoors, the ravages of Mother Nature. A major highway was not far from where we lived. Last, but not least, there was the cruelty of humans.

On the eighth night of her disappearance, I went downstairs from our second floor apartment to turn out the light by the front door. I heard a pitiful, plaintive meow. Limping down the walk to the front door was Mouse. My joy knew no bounds. “Garth!” I called excitedly. “Mouse is back!”

We noticed immediately that she was in dire straits. She could barely move from one step to the other. She was thin, bedraggled, listless and smelled horrible!

The smell was so overpowering that I decided not to pick her up. She followed me slowly to the kitchen. She obviously was starved. I placed soft food and water on the floor.

I noticed that in trying to get the food down, she reared her head up to wolf food down. She was not chewing. I attributed this to her being ravenously hungry. She lapped up a great deal of water, also.

With the warmth of the apartment, the smell intensified. We placed her on the screened in porch in a box with old towels in it. In the morning, we knew we had to get her to the vet.

At daybreak, a freak winter storm hit the area. The trees, brilliant in their fall colors, could not hold the weight of the heavy, wet snow. It sounded like we were in a war zone! Loud cracks sounded everywhere, one branch after another cracking and falling to the ground.

The storm had ravaged three-quarters of the trees in our county. By noon, every inch of the property was covered with fallen branches and eight inches of snow. The electricity was out.

It was three agonizing days before we were able to get Mouse to the vet. She had gotten weaker and the smell beyond enduring when close to her.

The vet called two days later. The description of the wounds was chilling. He could not imagine how Mouse could have received such wounds. Her jaw was fractured, a lung was pierced and the inside of both hind legs were severed to her intestines leaving gaping wounds.

There was partial liver damage. A terrific maggot infestation was the worst the vet had ever seen. Surgery was performed immediately.

We then understood the gut-wrenching smell, the wolfing of her food. A terrible accident or ruthless event had occurred. She had lain in a ditch or hole for over a week fighting infection and decaying flesh. She was but a whisper away from dying.

Those extraordinary instincts that animals have for survival had stirred within her. She must have had a premonition of the great storm coming. She had sensed that to remain in her ditch was sure death.

With Herculean effort we cannot possibly imagine, she willed herself to rise, stagger and stumble home.

It was a good eight months before she fully recovered. We surmised that a huge truck had somehow been involved with the accident. Maybe she had been brutally kicked by someone on a truck. She had dragged herself to a ditch or been thrown into one.

I could tell Mouse’s little mind hadn’t fully recovered. She had undergone a terrific shock. Her wounds healed, but not her mind. In the lives of humans such events do the same. Some wounds unseen never heal.

Mouse rose to her greatness that night. We all have that capacity. I hope this story about Mouse may inspire you to call upon your own greatness when needed. Never, never give up.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Fun Baba, Funny Baba or the Green Smoothie

By By I. S. Kipp

I grew up serious and quiet, afraid of my own shadow. I seldom smiled and was so shy that I dreaded talking to anyone. If there was a whimsical side to me, it was well buried.

As years passed, many things in my life changed. And gradually, magically, my turtle shell faded away. Just in time, too!

These days, I enjoy playing toddler versions of soccer and basketball with my grandnephew who calls me Auntie. And, when I travel out to see them, I play catch, kickball and tennis with my 7- and ten-year-old granddaughters.

They call me Baba (Ukrainian for grandmother). All three children are witty and great with jokes. Sometimes, however, our entertainment is unplanned.

On one of my visits to them, I joined my daughter, Sarah, and the girls for a typical supper. But this evening held a special treat. With the meal, Sarah served her trademark delicious, and much sought after, green smoothie. Its sweetness comes from banana and apple; the green comes from kale and other veggies.

I accepted a juice glass size, saving larger portions for the girls. Still, there was enough to share, and I was given a refill. And, as fast as my glass was filled, I managed to tip it over.

What followed was a reflex, pure and simple: I saw a gleaming wooden table. On it, I saw a four-ounce puddle of green liquid gold. The next thing we all saw was this Baba passing a straw back and forth over the puddle. With a soft slurp-y sound, I was sipping the spilled smoothie.

I got most of it before my daughter bounded from the kitchen with a cloth. Looking up, I saw my granddaughters' wide eyes – their expressions relayed a silent, "Ohhhh, Baba!"

Sarah sat back down with a composed face but I could see that she was suppressing a grin and had a smile in her eyes. I offered an apology and we all briefly discussed table manners. I assured them that I was as surprised as they were!

We've shared many green smoothies since then. At their mother's direction, the girls don't mention this incident. But when we’re each holding a glass of this wonderful drink, they cannot resist giving me knowing glances or an occasional wink and we exchange smiles, remembering this bit of whimsy.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

The Good Old Days

By Marc Leavitt of Marc Leavitt's Blog

The sun was just going down over the river in the east as Seth poured some beer for himself.

Now that he was retired from his job in public works, he could afford to relax and enjoy himself.

He certainly deserved it.

He remembered when he first started out in his late teens, a green young man who thought he had all the answers. His foreman sure straightened him out in a hurry!

But he’d worked hard, learned the ropes and he and his wife had done very well. They’d raised a fine family, paid their taxes and helped their neighbors when needed.

All in all, it had been a good life and he deserved a chance to relax and let younger men and women take over and keep things humming.

But still, he worried about today’s young people; even his own son and daughter! They had a million new-fangled notions and they never wanted to take advice from the old man.

And they dressed in outlandish clothes and used language he didn’t even understand. Who would ever say, “You guys or dude” to adults? Didn’t they have any respect?

If he’d spoken like that to his parents, or other older people, they certainly would have put him in his place!

As bad as that was, they refused to wear the sort of clothes that he wore at their age. And the music they listened to? Absolutely awful! Couldn’t make heads or tails of the lyrics and the tunes! He’d rather listen to chickens cackling in the yard!

Seth sighed and took a sip of his beer.

It was hard for him to imagine what the world was coming to. What would it be like after he was gone? Was all his hard work in vain?

Seth loved his kids and he knew they were decent and wanted to do the right thing but it wasn’t easy watching them make so many mistakes.

He only gave them advice to save them from making the same mistakes he made but he knew they brushed him off with an indulgent smile and he hated to be humored as though he were a five-year-old.

What had happened to the old values, the tried-and-true guidelines that his father taught him and his grandfather taught his father? Those values had helped him to succeed in life.

Well, he’d done his best, Seth thought, as he sipped his beer and gazed at the fields of wheat running down to the river. This should be a bumper year for grain. The river had brought down a wealth of rich soil when it overflowed its banks this spring.

All in all, life was good. There was plenty of food and good beer and the country was doing just fine. They’d been at peace for a long time, ever since they beat their enemies to the north. Imagine the nerve of those people, thinking they could beat the greatest country in the world!

He was especially proud of his part in maintaining and improving the construction projects the government had undertaken in these last years.

The victory in the north had brought thousands of slaves to move the heavy stone blocks needed for the projects.

The slaves didn’t like being here and the overseers had worn out a lot of lashes but those were the fortunes of war.

The Pharaoh’s new pyramid was almost finished and the Sphinx, one of the wonders of the world, would be complete in a few more years.

It was a good time to be alive in Egypt. If only those young people would stop rebelling against their elders and learn that the old ways were best!

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Thanks a Lot!

By Mickey Rogers of This, That and the Other

The other day I was scanning an article written by a relations “expert” who confidently instructed her readers on how to dramatically improve their lives.

Her advice was simply to discover two faults or shortcomings and then to get to work to correct them. Then, and only then, should one find two more problems to fix.

The author/expert suggested that the best way for a guy to get objective information about his deficiencies is simply to ask for feedback from the wife or girlfriend. Since my girlfriend was out of town, I asked my wife to list two of my major faults. (That’s a joke!).

“So dear,” I asked, “what are two of my major faults that come to mind?”

Smiling, she replied, ”You’re a wonderful man; there’s nothing major that I can think of.”

“But sweetheart,” I continued, “how can I improve unless you give me some pointers?”

“I’m very happily married to a marvelous guy. What more can I say?”

“In that case, I’ll just continue to be what I’ve always been. There’s no use trying to improve upon perfection.”

“Well, my dearest one, there are a couple little, tiny areas that maybe you could work on.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere, my love.”

“Sweetie pie, sometimes you don’t agree with me when you know I’m right.”

“That‘s not true, lamb chop!”

“Yes it is, dear heart! And sometimes you’re about the most stubborn person I’ve ever known.“

“But dear, that can be a positive trait. Because of my stubborness, there have been times when I’ve outperformed folks who were smarter and more creative than I.”

“Yes, dear, and then there was the time when you spent all night trying to put together a bicycle for Todd.”

“Well, dumpling, I had no choice. The instructions said that it was so easy to assemble that any eight-year-old could do it. Unfortunately, there were no eight-year-olds available.”

“Dear, you’re often guilty of practicing ‘selective hearing.’ You can be in the attic and hear baseball scores broadcasted from the TV in the basement but you swear that I didn’t tell you at least eight times to take the roast out of the oven at five o’clock. Don’t you agree that you have a problem in this area?”

“What? Sorry, my dearest. What did you say?” (After a pause): “Well, my little dove, you’ve given me several things to work on.”

“And sometimes, darling, you’re not very considerate. I know that old men have that prostate thing going for them but after you use the bathroom in the middle of the night, how much effort does it take to put the toilet seat back down? Have you ever sat on the toilet, expecting to rest on the seat, only to sink down into the murky waters?”

“I’ll make a note of that, sugar lips. Of course, it would be nice for me if you could put the seat back up after you’re finished.”

“That’s reminds me of another problem you have, doll baby. You don’t check first to see if the seat is up. You expect me to do everything for you!”

“OK, love of my life, I’ll get to work on improving those ’couple, tiny areas’ that we’ve discussed.”

“And dreamboat, you always must have the last word.”

“I do not, sugar.”

“Yes you do, precious.”

(Under my breath): “Do not, sweetie.”

“And, my big handsome hunk of husband, sometimes you tell me the same old jokes.”

“I call them ‘classics,’ my love.”

“And honey, you don’t tell me enough that you love me.”

“That’s not true, my one and only! Remember last summer when we were strolling down the street? A beautiful, 20-something gal smiled as she walked

past us. Naturally, to be neighborly, I returned her smile. You accused me of preferring some young thing over you. That’s when I romantically replied, ‘Honey, I don’t want some young, shapely, sexy lady. I want you!’”

# # #

Postscript: The author said that we should thank our mates for their candor. If you see my wife, or as I call her, ”lovie dovie,” please thank her for me. I’d do it, but at the moment we‘re not speaking.”

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Broken Sleep

By Arlene Corwin

It’s noon, that’s right, twelve noon,
Tired to the marrowbone,
Still in a nightgown,
Definitely lying down
In bed - a gossip mag -
My sister in-law throws my way.

Here, because at seventy -
(poetic license) sleep is dear;
Here, a tray
        of red,
Milk, honey, bread
Precariously balanced
Between multi-pillowed head
And glossy magazinéd thigh,
The daily start retarded.

Fallen angels fall, most likely,
From a lack of energy.
(Any way you cut it,
It is luxury.)

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Favorite Movie Reviewed

By Joyce Benedict

There are numerous great films of the 1940s. After searching the back shelves of my memory bank, an all time favorite of mine is It’s A Wonderful Life with Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey and Donna Reed as Mary Hatcher.

It was a curious phenomena that I hadn’t seen the movie until the early 1990s. One of those great flicks that had fallen through the cracks of daily experience along with a myriad of other movies viewed.

I was in my mid-forties when one bitter cold winter’s evening I turned on the television and there was, It’s A Wonderful Life, right at the beginning.

I settled into a stuffed chair, made hot tea and merged with the movie. I was hopelessly hooked. And I saw it again and again and again whenever possible. Here is why.

Can't we all identify with George who at every opportunity he is about to leave Bedford Falls, something comes up and he is thwarted, frustrated in following his dream?

He represents all of us, a dash of innocence and naiveté, a good guy who does his damnedest to do the right thing yet at every turn he seems to sink deeper into an abyss.

The mean spirited Mr. Potter, portrayed by Lionel Barrymore, you just want to wring his neck as his compassionless and greedy heart turns George's life upside down and threatens to bring ruin to the whole town. Haven't we all had times when despite our best efforts, it seems life conspires to hold us back and nothing goes right?

George courts Mary awkwardly but never seems to realize how much he loves her. My all time favorite love scene is in this movie. Mary is in her home and George sits in her living room.

Mary gets a call from another would-be suitor. While Mary speaks to Jimmy, he decides he wants to say hello to George.

Holding the phone close to both their ears the closeness of their bodies and eye contact causes undercurrents of chemistry to be released. You feel it intensify as their bodies remain close. They no longer listen to the babbling guy on the other end of the line, their awareness of the power of love and attraction builds.

George's muscles in his face tighten from the mounting sexual tension. Donna tries to look away as if to know that her own rising sensuality mustn't be discovered for fear of appearing not so nice anymore.

Their faces move closer and closer to one another, yet they never touch. No mad grabbing, no tongues in mouth, no blouse pulled off shoulder - just pure, intense attraction and nary a touch. It is a breathless, vibrant, powerful scene. Simply, great acting.

Following more ill-fated events, George runs in despair and anguish to the bridge that overlooks a river. About to jump in himself, his guardian angel flounders in the water and George's good heart wins out over death and he saves the angel. He then is shown all the events in his life and all the loved ones Fate that would have gone in another direction had he not been there.

He returns home a changed man.

This movie is great for it shows how deeply connected we all are to each other in ways totally not discernible and that our place in the great scheme of things does make a difference and is worthwhile despite the many vicissitudes we all struggle with.

We learn we can make a difference, that the measure of our worth has nothing to do with fame and fortune. I suspect this movie has touched literally thousands of lives to see a perspective of their own lives they had never considered before.

Years later, Jimmy Stewart was being interviewed and mentioned that director Frank Capra was prepared to rehearse the love attraction, telephone scene over and over but when finished, Capra informed him you could have heard a pin drop in the studio during that first filming. No one moved or breathed a full minute or two.

Capra awakens from his own mesmerized state at what had just transpired claiming, "Print it!" It is one of the finest pieces of acting in the whole movie and my all time favorite love scene. Fantastic!

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]