Reflections and Recollections

By Reva Spiro Luxenberg

Reflections and Recollections is a delightful collection of imaginative stories. It contains memoirs and poemssome of which are hilarious. Once you start reading the book, you wont want to put it down. The section on memoirs is unusual, to say the least, as the author relates her brief relationship with boxer Tommy Hurricane Jackson and her close call in almost burning down the Empire State Building. This is a book you might like to read at many separate sittings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524556204

Reva Spiro Luxenberg

REVA SPIRO LUXENBERG embarked on a writing career after she retired as a school social worker. She has written nineteen books—mysteries, dramas, non-fiction books, anthologies, and humorous versions of two of the books of the Bible. She is married to Dr. Edward R. Levenson, who has edited eight of her books. She is a member of Florida Authors & Publishers Association. Her hobbies are reading, painting rocks, and taking care of her puppy Sekhel and her tortoise Mordy. She is a proud grandmother of seven and great-grandmother of six and one on the way.

Book preview

STORIES

The Clash Of The Titans

Martha Freud heard a sudden gust of wind and a smattering of rain outside the window of their hotel in Paris. We may have a difficult time finding a carriage to take us to the art gallery if the rain persists and worsens, she thought. Sigmund wasn’t as interested in modern art as she, but he had relented because it was her thirty-ninth birthday and this was her present. He was a good man, a little strange––no, a lot strange with his original ideas leading down undiscovered paths.

Martha pushed aside the red velvet drape at the window and raised the wick of the lamp, increasing the light so her husband, crouched over the desk peering at a notebook, could read without straining his eyes. She crossed the room to him. He had his fingers curled around a lit cigar.

Sigmund you have just one more hour to work. Then we’re off to the gallery.

"Ah, my dear, I’m just checking my study. Analysis of a Phobia in a Five-year-old Boy."

My goodness, how can a little boy have a phobia?

Little Hans at the age of four was in a park with his maid when he witnessed a cart horse collapsing after the animal had pulled a heavy load. After that he was afraid to go out into the street. I probed into the background of the child and told the father to explain the truth about sex to him.

Martha threw up her hands. Sex. Sex. It’s always sex, even with a young child.

My dear, don’t concern yourself with the unconscious.

Placing one hand on her stomach, Martha announced, I’m famished. You finish your work and I’ll get a bite in the restaurant downstairs, and then we’ll go to the gallery.

An hour later Martha leaned back against the tufted leather seat of the carriage, and pressed the tips of her hands over her abdomen. I just ate and I’m hungry again. Pregnancy is a bore. I have six children already. Enough is enough. She tried to divert her mind from unpleasantness by listening to the creak of the carriage wheels and the clop of the horse’s hooves.

What are you thinking about, Martha?

Sigmund, where in the brain is the unconscious?

The doctor chuckled. So far we haven’t found the place, but I assure you, my dear, that there is an unconscious that rules our actions. Hypnosis is a method to reach the unconscious. I have cured patients by hypnotizing them. He reached in to his vest pocket and removed his pocket watch. We’re only fifteen minutes late. We’ll be there soon.

Martha stifled a yawn. Picasso won’t be upset. He’s a young gifted artist and, I’m certain, a patient fellow. This is an important showing for him.

You’re sleepy.

Ya, I am. Pregnancy wreaks havoc with one’s constitution.

I didn’t ask you this morning, dear. What did you dream about last night? The doctor rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers.

It was a nightmare about being starved and eating sauerbraten. I woke up sweating, guilty about eating unkosher meat.

Ah, ha! You only think you dream about unkosher food. Nein, it is sex you are obsessed with.

It isn’t sex. It’s guilt. My poor grandfather, the Chief Rabbi of Hamburg, would stiffen in his grave if he knew.

Martha, religion is for the unenlightened, the masses who need its comfort.

Let’s not discuss religion. Let’s talk about dreams. You are always interpreting dreams.

In dreams we reach the unconscious.

He’s back to that again, the place in the brain that no one can locate.

The clopping of the horses stopped when they reached their destination. Inside a man with a flushed face approached them. Dr. Freud, we are delighted you and your lovely wife have honored us with your presence. I’m Mr. Sinclair, the owner of this gallery. May I introduce you to Mr. Pablo Picasso?

My wife and I would be delighted.

Martha gazed at Picasso, a handsome young man with piercing dark eyes, and she recalled how handsome Sigmund was at that age.

The painting they examined was of an ugly man done in monochromatic blues.

Sigmund wrinkled his brow. Then he said authoritatively, This painting reveals the deep hatred you have for your father.

The artist’s face contorted. You are wrong. I love my father. He’s an artist and taught me well.

Your unconscious hatred comes through. The blue shows your depression.

I like blue. I’m not depressed. I’m a happy fellow.

Are you?

Picasso reflected on what the doctor revealed. He felt anger so deep it sunk to the marrow of his bones. There are times I’m angry at my father, especially when he criticizes my work.

Ya, you hate him.

Martha knew that Sigmund was going too far. She poked him in the ribs with her fan. I think it’s a beautiful painting.

Picasso snorted. Dr. Freud, you may be an outstanding psychoanalyst, but you know nothing about art.

My dear fellow, I don’t need to know art to interpret that issues in the deep unconscious of your brain reflect your hatred for your father.

Suddenly Picasso’s eyes filled with tears. He whispered, Si, I do hate my father. He has attempted to quell my strivings."

The doctor placed his hand on the artist’s shoulder. Anger is dangerous for your health. You need to deal with your unconscious. If you come to my office for fifty minutes, five days a week, I will attempt to change you into an emotionally healthy man. You will stop painting blue colors.

Picasso swiped a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his eyes. How much do you charge?

Don’t worry about the cost. If you can’t afford my fee, then you may present me with a few of the pictures you will paint after I have cured you and you have stopped using blue. Come, Martha, I have seen enough.

A Chimp And A Chump

I sat in my wheelchair twirling a strand of my straight, chocolate-colored hair, waiting impatiently for our musical doorbell to ring out the notes of Pomp & Circumstance. Since my husband teaches medicine in the College of Medicine affiliated with The University of Vermont, he thought the graduation song was most appropriate, and I agreed.

That spring morning Fred had rushed to work and left me helpless, unable to walk, with only Georgie to keep me company.

Don’t worry, sweetheart, he had said. I’ll stop off at the agency and get you a caretaker.

I want someone who is dependable, capable, and loves animals, I shouted as he opened the door and left me alone with my thoughts about how I had tripped on the basement stairs, tumbled down like a basketball, and broken my left leg and right ankle. I was discharged yesterday, relieved that I could go home from the hospital after a two-week stay.

Georgie was asleep on his mat in his tent in the basement. He sleeps about ten hours, but when he heard a pounding at the front door, he bounded up the stairs and waited for me to greet whoever was there.

I’m coming, I said as the pounding increased in volume. Why hadn’t the annoying person made use of my musical doorbell? Manipulating my wheelchair, I managed to get to the door and open it to see a teenage Alice in Wonderland with curly blond hair and a face with an ivory complexion. She wore jeans with holes in the knees and a light blue T-shirt that looked like it hadn’t yet been introduced to soap. Alice in Wonderland carried a shopping bag and chomped down heavily on a wad of gum. I didn’t know what to make of her.

I’m Susan. Your husband hired me,