Words By Whittall

  Oh oh oh, Pine needles in my socks Oh oh oh, It’s like walking, walking on rocks Oh oh oh, Pine needles sting my toes   Oh oh oh, Pine needles getting up my nose!   Chorus: Ooh! Pine needles everywhere, do doot do doo Pine needles in my hair, do doot do doo Pine needles here and there, do doot do doo Pine needles in my underwear!   Oh oh oh, Pine needles sting me like a bee Oh oh oh, Yet they make me hap-hap-happy   Oh oh oh, Pine needles from the Christmas tree Oh oh oh, Remind me of family!  

“It’s not the fall that kills you,” Tom Rafuse always used to say. “It’s the landing!” He’d lift his florid face toward the sun or the ceiling, depending on his location, and laugh and laugh at his own joke. Tom had an easygoing manner, a penchant for pocket protectors, and the meaty paunch and polyester wardrobe of a much-beloved high school shop teacher, which he was. Millicent Robar lived next door with her cats, Mister Mittens, Princess Poo and Sir Scratchalot. She had seen and heard Tom tell his fall gag many, many times, and those around Tom when he told it never failed to chuckle along. Even those who, like Millie, had heard it many, many times. Tom was that kind of guy. Jovial and a bit obtuse. You couldn’t help laughing at his stupid, repetitive jokes. Millie didn’t ponder long on her own feelings for Tom, but she often wished that she had a man like him in her life. His wife, Rose, was downright dim, Millie thought. She was always at his side, looking up adoringly at him

Moira fingered the fabric in her closet: a winter wool designer suit purchased at an outlet store. Her mother had been with her, the first spur-of-the-moment trip outside the house in years. The suit was fine, her mother said, but a little snug. Perhaps one size up. Moira complied. Two days later her mother said, “The eulogy was lovely, dear. But all I could think about was what a great job you’d done in hemming those pants.” Moira laughed bleakly at the memory of her father’s funeral. Her family wasn’t one for feeling their feelings. She’d been pleased to give her mother something else to think about that sad day. Now, more than a decade later, the hem still held.   Moira knew she’d been lucky. At 49 her dad was the first funeral for which she’d chosen her own outfit, her grandparents and other family friends having died when she was a child.   At 59, there were too many funerals. She’d worn these the original pants to mourn her business partner in January, then bought a new, li