Like Fallen Snow
by Ruth Rosenthal
147 pages, price $16.00
Available at Amazon.com
Once again Ruth Rosenthal has given us her bright, jewel- like poems, this time
matched to moving, often funny memories. Memoire speaks to poem, poem to memoire,
sometimes as contrast, sometimes as echo. As readers we gain access to meaning and
rich intriguing characters. Then the forms like sonatas and etudes in music connect
our thoughts and feelings to enrich our reading pleasure.
— Jeanette Bryon, Professor Emerita, California State University, Fresno
Ruth put aside a scholarship to Newark State College, in New Jersey, before making
California her home. Twenty years later, after taking all the available non-credited
writing classes she could find, Ruth went back to college, selecting literature,
poetry, short story writing, psychology, sociology, art history, and art. Ruth was
staff writer for Kaleidoscope, the publication of the Peninsula Poets Guild in Northern
California, and poetry judge for The Write Place. She taught creative writing, and
established a poetry group for psychiatric patients at Marin General Hospital, merging
with the art director's class. Amazing changes came about as patients, some who
had never written before, expressed their deepest feelings and discovered their
own hidden joy.
From Like Fallen Snow:
The Temple Where Little Girls Worshipped
As far back as I can remember, I was enchanted by the precocious, talented, smiling
personality of Shirley Temple. I had a blue cup made of glass which had her picture
on it. I wouldn't drink my milk unless it was in my Shirley Temple cup. Her picture
was barely visible after the many times my mother had washed my special cup for
me. But that didn't matter to me. It had to be that cup. A generation and a half
later, it was with a mixture of feelings that I heard Shirley Temple Black would
be visiting the auditorium of a company I worked for. After her talk I went to meet
her. Her right hand was bandaged. As I began to briefly mention my childhood devotion
to her, I became more concerned about her in the present and asked what happened
to her hand. She laughed and told me how a huge Texan had told her what a fan of
hers he was, as he crunched her small hand in his massive one. In his zeal it must
have taken very little to give her a sprain. As she offered her left hand to me
it seemed very small and vulnerable to me in my not so large hand.
I left the auditorium thinking about what someone had done to her. It was innocent.
It was out of enthusiasm for her as a personality. I doubt she would remember our
brief meeting. But I'm sure she remembers him.
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