Ladybug
Dear Diary:
It’s spring and the ladybugs have once again washed up on the Brighton coast. Where they come from, I don’t know. But every year you can see me harvesting them so I can release them into a more suitable environment.
One day a few years ago, I saw them surfing on a reed raft that the beach cleaner, the Barber Surf Rake, would roll into its crawl space as it walked along. Suddenly, I have a new quest.
As the car approached, I stood firm and waved for it to stop. The operator stared at me from the driver’s seat.
“Sir,” I said. “I know you don’t realize this, but you’re killing ladybugs.”
I held out my buggy bag, waiting for his angry reaction.
He looked down at me, dubious.
“Ladybug?” he say. “I love ladybugs.”
And he drove away, leaving the reeds and the ladybugs behind.
– Suzanne Friedman
Mrs. Lat?
Dear Diary:
My girlfriend and I have developed a pastime of trying new pizza places and learning all about pizza.
She was from Brooklyn, and one summer weekend she took me to a pizzeria deep in the county where she went as a child. It sells pizza and ice cream from the window to customers sitting on picnic tables in the courtyard area.
We went to the window to order. Looking over the counter, we can see large, thin, round cakes, and smaller, thicker, rectangular ones.
“Are those slices grandma?” my girlfriend asked.
The man at the counter was not too interested in answering questions.
“We have round and square,” he said.
We have one.
– Dylan Nelson
Cherry-Red Vespa
Dear Diary:
A glossy cherry-red Vespa has been parked in the same corner of my Bensonhurst neighborhood for at least a year, through rain, snow and sun.
It was there every time I passed by on my way home from a morning jog. I always wondered who owned it and if it was good enough to drive.
Then one morning I heard the humming of an oncoming scooter as I was heading home. It’s a cherry red Vespa.
The driver wears a glossy, cherry-red half-helmet, a leopard print jumpsuit, a red backpack, and aviator glasses. Curly auburn hair in the back.
She turned right and disappeared.
– Diana Yee
Christmas Mission
Dear Diary:
It was Christmas in the 1970s. My sister and I, teenagers living in upstate New Jersey, were on a mission to find a special gift for our mother.
We took the Public Service bus to the Port Authority and departed from there. Hours of shopping yielded nothing, possibly because our budget was extremely limited.
Our last stop is Bergdorf’s. It was dusk. The store is sparkling and filled with elegant shoppers. Obviously we don’t fit. My sister wears overalls; I’m wearing an antique duffel coat.
However, we were determined. And there, in the shoe department, we found it: an elegant clutch in thick black fabric with a simple silver clasp. It was perfect. It’s even on sale!
We have calculated carefully. We only had enough to buy and pay for the ticket home. Then a terrible realization: We forgot about sales tax. We cannot buy.
Across the bustling office, a salesman with silver hair and a trimmed mustache seemed to be watching our tense discussion unfold. He walked over to us.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, speaking to us as if we were rich wives.
We have explained the problem. After taking care of us thoughtfully, he suggested something we had never heard of.
“Perhaps you could have shipped the bag to your home in New Jersey?” he say. “Then you won’t have to pay taxes.”
Amazed, then delighted! He smiled as we tried to express our thanks.
The clutch arrived on time, and our mom loved it. It has become part of many special occasions in her life. After she passed away at the age of 95, we found it among her belongings in perfect shape. My sister uses it now for special occasions.
– Pat Steenland
Opened the button
Dear Diary:
Train #1, which I was hoping to catch to make it on time for my dinner, was only three minutes away from my arrival at the station. Plenty of time, except for one thing: I can’t open my back pocket to get my MetroCard out of my wallet.
The more I worried about missing the train, the more I couldn’t unbutton my bag.
Finally, with time running out, I explained my predicament to a young man about to enter the station.
After hesitating at first, he bent down and unbuttoned my pocket. I thank him very much.
“It was a first for me,” he said.
“And for me too,” I replied as the train entered the station.
– Vincent Giangreco
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Illustration by Agnes Lee
