I suppose my very first memory of grandma was the octopus, When I was around four, we went to grandmas new farm house she purchased in upstate New York. It was real huge with three floors, and many rooms. Well being a little girl, I was quite curious and wandered all around the big house. I found a bathroom, and while I was using it, I heard a funny noise coming from the closed bathtub. I got up, and slowly walked to the tub,moving the curtain alittle I was horrified to see an octopus in the tub!! Very much alive, with the slimy tentacles hanging all over the place and those big ugly eyes looking at me. I screamed my head off!! Every one came running up to see what was wrong, of course they all thought it was so funny, you see the octopus was for dinner! Its safe to say that I never ate that dinner, nor can I stomach the look, smell,thought of fish to this day. I still have to laugh, who else would bring a live octopus from Brooklyn fish market and stick it in the tub, but my grandma.

I guess when I think of my grandmother, I think of love, the importance of family, strength,and the joy of life,and of course tomato sauce.. Everytime I visited my grandmother, there was a pot of sauce on the stove with the meat-a-balls...and no matter what time of day it was, you had better sit down and eat...She put the big plate of homemade cavatelli and sauce, and at least five giant meatballs....and it was good.... My great grandmother would be sitting in the corner with the gonoli cream, one teaspoon in the pastry shell, one teaspoon in her mouth! She lived in America for over 50 years and still pretended that she didnt know English. My grandmother loved chocolates, and I would bring her some once in awhile, she put them on the table.....and when she wasnt looking my great grandmother stole them and hid them in her room! It was pretty funny,but no one said anything to her, because she was famous for her "sicilian curse" which she used many times...and yes things happened to the unfortunate soul that got the "curse"! My grandmother taught me how to cook,her famous sauce still is served every Sunday, she taught me what the family means and how nobody is more important then your family.....most of all, I loved her, loved being in her arms, even the pinch cheek! Loved how she always called me beautiful baby, and how proud she was of me. There is a lilac tree in front of her property in the country, my aunt has now built a new house there, but that old lilac tree is still there, and every spring I go there and pick a lilac to bring home, so grandma is close to me.....

I know that through time I have taken after my grandmother in so many ways,I love roses as she did, I love a clean beautiful house as she did and I love to feed my family or anybody that walks into the door! She even fed the service men that came to check the lights or water,,,, "muncha" Italian for eat. Even her dishwasher had to be loaded beautiful. To this day, my dishwasher, or anybodys elses that I am involved with has to be loaded "beautiful".When my grandma first bought her property upstate she had so many dreams for it. She told us all that it was going to be a big fancy hotel and Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra were going come up...it was so funny, I mean this house was in the middle of nowhere,no train(except for the one train station in Calicoon),no bus could get you there...I suppose the Rat Pack were going fly in. Anyway my dad who is a very good cartoonist, drew all these cartoons of grandma with her fur and diamonds on waiting by the Calicoon railroad(which was very far away) for Frankie and Dean,,,and in the cartoon they were on that train! My grandma laughed so hard, she was crying when she saw the cartoon. Frank and Dean never made it up to grandmas, but it was eventually a hunting lodge. The day that grandma died the cartoons stopped, the Christmas Eve dinners stopped...everything. It was like the whole family was lost without her. Then around seven years ago, my dad starting drawing the cartoons, and my family got together every year at Christmas...for grandma. For Rose Pravata, how I love you.....

Submitted by Jen

I have never been blessed with the ability to be very graceful. However, I was blessed with a grandma that could help heal the results of my inability. There were many times she had to wipe my tears and bandage my wounds. She was always there when I needed her, with a wise word, a shoulder to cry on, or most of all, a box of Band-Aids. It was now my turn to repay my debt to her. Grandma needed me now, and I couldn't let her down. I walked slowly down the long, dim hallway of Valley View Nursing Home, not sure what to expect after each dreaded step. I walked past door after door, and listened to people scream out from many of the rooms. An agonizing scream for help came from a couple of rooms, and moans of pain from others. I wondered where the nurses were, and why they weren't paying attention to the troubled residents. Who was in charge of taking care of these people? Why wasn't anyone helping them? This was no place for my Grandma; this was Hell. As I neared Grandma's room, the knot that had formed in my stomach tightened, and the vial odor that filled the building became more intense. I felt as if a dark rain cloud had followed me down the hall, and covered only me. I entered the room, the cloud became more condensed, my heart raced faster and faster, and I felt as if someone was squeezing my lungs. What if I passed out? No, I had to be strong. I couldn't let her down now. I was there for her now. As I walked into her side of the room, there she lay, weighing barely eighty-five pounds. I could not believe that in just a few months how she had changed so drastically. Her gray-white, coarse hair was matted to her head like a wet cat's fur. Her narrow chin had prickly white whiskers, like Grandpa's when he had not shaved in the morning. If Grandma could look at herself through my eyes, she would be horrified. She wasn't the same flamboyant woman she use to be. I had to help her. I began combing her hair. I kept combing and combing, but she still looked like a wet cat. I found her electric razor and began shaving her coarse, whiskered chin. As I brought the razor toward her lower lip, she stirred a little, but never acknowledged my presence. Then all of a sudden, she awoke. Her eyes flew open as if I had scared her, and in the same few seconds, she fell back into her coma-like sleep. My eyes began to burn. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn't allow myself. I had to be strong for her. She was the one that needed support, not me. I just sat there holding her hand and staring at her. After a while the nurse brought in her lunch, and I awoke her. Her eyes opened slowly, and when she realized I was standing there, she smiled a big, toothless smile. She had lost so much weight that her false teeth no longer fit, and she had no strength. I asked her if she was hungry, and she wrinkled up her nose and shook her head. She was never hungry anymore. She attempted to pull herself into a sitting position, but failed. Her face turned red and her lips dark purple from the strain. The way she was sweating and breathing, she looked as if she had run a marathon. She began to mumble, "Teresa, you are so beautiful. When will Bill be here?" The more she mumbled it, the more distorted it became, and I began to cry. I could not believe she didn't recognize me. I wanted to tell her I was Jenni, but it didn't matter now. I knew she loved me; she was just confused. The burning tears accelerated down my cheeks, and she began to mutter, "Hush little baby, don't say a word." Some of the words were distinguishable, but most were soft sounds that barely left her lips. She sang herself into a deep coma-like sleep--forever. Forever knowing that I was there for her.

Submitted by Skip to the future "rose" of his life Destiny,a poem

Submitted by Carol

The Nightingale and the Rose

`SHE said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,' cried the young Student; `but in all my garden there is no red rose.' From her nest in the old oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered. `No red rose in all my garden!' he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. `Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.' `Here at last is a true lover,' said the Nightingale. `Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.' `The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,' murmured the young Student, `and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.' `Here indeed is the true lover,' said the Nightingale. `What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, `or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.' `The musicians will sit in their gallery,' said the young Student, `and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;' and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept. `Why is he weeping?' asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air. `Why, indeed?' said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. `Why, indeed?' whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice. `He is weeping for a red rose,' said the Nightingale. `For a red rose!' they cried; `how very ridiculous!' and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love. Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray. `Give me a red rose,' she cried, `and I will sing you my sweetest song.' But the Tree shook its head. `My roses are white,' it answered; `as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.' So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial. `Give me a red rose,' she cried, `and I will sing you my sweetest song.' But the Tree shook its head. `My roses are yellow,' it answered; `as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.' So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window. `Give me a red rose,' she cried, `and I will sing you my sweetest song.' But the Tree shook its head. `My roses are red,' it answered, `as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.' `One red rose is all I want,' cried the Nightingale, `only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?' `There is a way,' answered the Tree; `but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.' `Tell it to me,' said the Nightingale, `I am not afraid.' `If you want a red rose,' said the Tree, `you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.' `Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,' cried the Nightingale, `and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?' So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove. The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. `Be happy,' cried the Nightingale, `be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.' The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books. But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches. `Sing me one last song,' he whispered; `I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.' So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar. When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket. `She has form,' he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - `that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.' And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep. And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree. But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. `Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, `or the Day will come before the rose is finished.' So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose. And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. `Press closer, little Nightingale,' cried the Tree, `or the Day will come before the rose is finished.' So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart. But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. `Look, look!' cried the Tree, `the rose is finished now;' but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart. And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. `Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; `here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;' and he leaned down and plucked it. Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand. The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet. `You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,' cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.' But the girl frowned. `I am afraid it will not go with my dress,' she answered; `and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.' `Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,' said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it. `Ungrateful!' said the girl. `I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;' and she got up from her chair and went into the house. `What a silly thing Love is,' said the Student as he walked away. `It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.' So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

Oscar Wilde author

Dinner AT MOM-MOM'S walking up to the house labeled 1075 we were filled with anticipatiion for a wonderful women waited inside the aroma of marinara greeted us hello when we arrived she would always bluntly state "where the hell have you been" "you are 30 minutes late" a feast prepared with love everyone must clean their plate "hav-ah nice-ah piece-ah cake".... oh gawd...how we ate ...and ate..and ate it's getting kinda late wish we'd come a little sooner "we sure love you mom-mom" "see you in the funny papers..don't take any wooden nickels"..she'd say.. and so ,for the very last time,we were happy and laughing with mom-mom ,at the little house marked 1075

for Christina E. Berardino dec 8,1908- jan 4,1985