‘I Came Right Out of the Rubber Boots I Was Wearing’

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Stuck

Dear Diary:

I had been laid off and was searching for free things to entertain myself with while looking for a job when I found out about the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge.

On an exquisite day, I took the bus there. I was just in time for a ranger-guided tour of the mud flats.

I joined a group of about 10 other people. We proceeded on a trail through the preserve, past the water and past the birds feeding their babies. It was wonderful.

“Now we’re heading toward the mud flats,” the ranger said over her shoulder. “Be careful where you step.”

To my untrained eye, the terrain looked almost identical to what we had just been walking on. I tried to be careful, but suddenly I began to sink. I called out for help. Soon, I was stuck in the mud.

The ranger stopped and came to where I was. As I tried to wriggle free, each movement actually caused me to sink in further.

A man who appeared to be smaller than me emerged from the group and stood above me.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Just put your arms around my neck. Don’t try to help.”

I did as he said and tried to stay calm. Without a word, he put his arms under my arms and sort of threw himself backward. I came right out of the rubber boots I was wearing.

As the man fell onto his back on firmer ground, I fell on top of him. I was embarrassed but also deeply grateful.

I thanked him, and he said he was a retired fireman out for a walk, just hoping to be helpful.

— Mary O’Connell

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Reality TV

Dear Diary:

New York City, 3 a.m.
The eye sees.

Verrazzano-Narrows Br.
Brooklyn

The eye blinks.
The river, black and spangled with light.

And blinks again.
Cop shot. Call …

And again. Three cars waiting, like schoolchildren,
for the light to turn green.

And again.
An intersection somewhere
with a lone someone walking.

And blinks again.
Lights, flares and slow-crawling water drops.
And cars and more cars, even now.

And again. Young men doing the dance
only young men do,
pulling and pushing each other,
laughing.

And again.
A rain-shiny street.
A bike in the bus lane!

The eye sees.
The G.W.
Times Square.
All still there.

And oh, there’s the moon.

— Ann M. Schwartz

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Take a Stand

Dear Diary:

When I was pregnant, I rode the subway to work. The closer I got to the birth of my daughter, the bigger I got, but nobody ever offered me a seat.

Then one day, an older woman who must have been about 90 offered me hers.

I insisted that I could not take her seat, but she was adamant. Finally, she stood up, and I sat down.

She then turned to the young man sitting next to me.

“You get up,” she said. “I’m an old lady.”

— Nancy Suppa

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13 Records

Dear Diary:

It was the mid-1990s, and we were living in Washington Heights with our 4-year-old daughter.

An older woman, a widow, who lived on our floor adored our daughter and showered her with compliments every time we bumped into her.

After a time, we learned that she and her husband had survived the Holocaust. They had never had children.

One day when our door was ajar, our neighbor peeked in and noticed some vinyl records that we liked to listen to with our daughter.

Later, the woman invited me over to show me a box filled with classical records. They were in horrible condition: broken, scratched and caked with who-knows-what.

I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I thanked her and said we couldn’t wait to listen to them. I figured I’d get rid of them some time when she wouldn’t notice.

As I was leaving, she said that her husband had loved classical music. They had always had Friday night dinner together when they were dating. And each time, instead of bringing her flowers, he had brought her a record.

They had 13 dinners before getting married. There were 13 records in the box, and she said she wanted my daughter to enjoy them all.

I still have those records.

— Aryeh Friedman

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Steady Customer

Dear Diary:

When I moved to Manhattan after college, I acquired much of my wardrobe thrift-shopping at Housing Works.

Saturday mornings meant armfuls of castoff cashmere, designer dresses with frayed hems and trousers made for women with legs twice as long as mine. At 5 feet 2 inches tall, I knew most of it would end up at the tailor anyway, so fit wasn’t my focus.

The seamstress at the dry cleaner across from my Murray Hill walk-up became my most reliable relationship. Each week I dropped off another bundle, assuming she appreciated the steady business.

She pinned hems, took in waists, and, when I went too far, offered her single note of disapproval: “Looks very young.”

Otherwise, she kept her counsel. Until one morning, she paused and looked up mid-pin.

“Why don’t you just buy clothes that fit?” she asked.

— Jaquelyn M. Scharnick

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee