"Thirteen Candles in the Dark" by Arlene Mandell - reprise from Nov. 28

—the “mother-in-law from hell”

The trouble between them was as old and deep as the love which might yet heal them.

Arlene Mandell is an artist living in Linville, North Carolina. Her colorful portraits are displayed year-round at the Carlton Gallery in Banner Elk (www.carltongallery.com/arlenemandell). A native New Yorker, she loved teaching in Manhattan’s Head Start program. Switching gears, she joined a travel magazine in Miami, Florida, where she met Captain Dan. Their permanent relocation to the Blue Ridge Mountains inspired a love of writing. Her memoirs “Eye of the Dolphin,” “Artist Borne,” “Gobsmacked in the Gulfstream,” “Renegade Daughter,” and “It Started with a Typo” appear on “6-minute Stories” podcast.

Author’s talk

Arlene Mandell

This story is about my mother-in-law, Ida Mandell. She was a tough character—hard to get along with, hard to love. She had a sour disposition, trusted no one. Ida had emigrated from a rural village in Poland to settle in New York City. She spoke no English, but found a job filling pickle barrels in a nearby factory.

What little money she could save from a scanty salary was sent back to Poland to gradually bring her three younger sisters here, one at a time. All three found jobs, got married, raised a bunch of happy kids, lived good lives. Ida became grand matriarch of a large and grateful extended family.

As she aged, Ida’s mind remained sharp as a tack—quickly figuring out everyone’s cards at family poker games. And, she had street smarts—something you don't learn from books. Despite removing the bothersome hearing aids when watching TV dramas, her grasp of plot and character was spot-on. She said the expressions on peoples’ faces told her everything.

At Ida’s funeral, I was astonished to learn she’d told the whole family—except me!—that I was the person she trusted most because I always told her the truth. This was quite an honor, as it went against her grain to give compliments. There were reasons for her hard-boiled nature.

Years later and widowed, I relocated to Miami, Florida, where I began attending a weekly social. I love a good dancer and was watching a gentleman from an older generation give the other ladies a turn. He was lively and delightful; I was happy when he asked me for a dance, too. But, as he twirled me around, I noticed the tattooed number from a concentration camp on his left forearm.

I had read about that dehumanizing period of history; it happened far away from me and was not part of my life. This was different. Close up and real. Real and surreal. In another time and place, this high-spirited human being had been reduced to only a number. A chilling moment for me, reflecting back to a like-minded moment in this story of my mother-in-law. - Arlene Mandell