March 21, 2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
EXCLUSIVE!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Read this amazing story, Blue as the Aster Flower, <\/em>by Cora Ruth Kutcher.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Blue as the Aster Flower<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n 1918<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n In her room, Anne Brigham flipped through her book. Painted pink, her turret room contained a canopied bed, a white coverlet draping it with a quaint design of roses clustered together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Putting her book back on the shelf, Anne picked up a framed photograph of a young man in a soldier\u2019s uniform. Although the picture had no color, Anne knew the shade of those twinkling eyes, blue as the aster flower, just like hers. She knew also the dark hair color, her own, a rippling river of hazelnut, a perfect resemblance to her father\u2019s, only longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne fought back tears as she clasped the only picture of her father to her breast. She remembered the last hug he had given her, wrapping his strong arms about her, whispering, \u201cI\u2019ll be home soon, dearest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That had been a year ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suddenly, she heard a bird. The sweet, lilting song lifted Anne\u2019s spirits, and she returned the picture to its memorial place and swept over to the window. Though the night was settling over the forest, this little robin was still awake, giving the woods a last revelry before dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne smiled to herself. \u201cYes, little robin. Through all this turmoil, you have been joyful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Minutes later, hurried steps sounded on the stairs and George burst into the quiet room, causing the robin to take flight. Anne turned and was about to reprimand her brother, but the pale face of George stopped her. \u201cQuick, we\u2019re leaving. That explosion we heard an hour ago was a bomb a few miles from here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, Georgie! No, I can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGet your things, only the nec-essities,\u201d and then George left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne opened the closet and ran her hand over the silken dresses. She picked the humblest one and exchanged her dainty evening slippers for a pair of old boots. Taking the bed sheet off her bed, she wrapped her belongings: one old dress, a pair of stockings, a brush, a straw hat, and a few shillings from her secret account under her mattress. Giving a last glance around the room, Anne\u2019s eyes fell on the picture. Tears clouded her vision. No, she couldn\u2019t take this. If they were caught, her family could be killed if they saw her father in his English uniform.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnne!\u201d Pricie cried, \u201cCome down here!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne memorized every detail of her father, then ran, locking the door to her room and putting the key in her pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the kitchen, Mrs. Brigham ladened her children\u2019s sacks with provisions. Then, they all crept out the back door and their mother locked it. She slipped the key under the back stairs underneath the cinderblock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe will return soon, won\u2019t we Mother?\u201d asked George.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe can only pray, dear,\u201d and then Mrs. Brigham locked the gate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then, they left. Only the nighthawk saw them depart, four shadowy figures slipping down the drive, and it whistled a sad farewell to the heavens that only Anne understood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 1948<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne lifted a finger to her lips to silence them, though none had been speaking, as if they had entered a holy place. \u201cLook, there it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There it was indeed, the Villa Brigham, weather-torn and dilapidated, but the house. Anne darted ahead and fell to her knees, a most un-ladylike posture. Putting her hand underneath the cinderblock, she felt the key there and brought it out, catching many cobwebs as she did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Old Mrs. Brigham gasped. \u201cOh children! I never thought it would be here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was Anne who opened the back door. The kitchen was dusty, plaster from the ceiling covering the floor. Anne stepped into the hall and stood with a reverent air, looking at the place the stairs had used to be. The top floor had collapsed, causing a wave of dust to mingle in the air. Bringing out her handkerchief, a habit she had acquired, Anne wiped her eyes. Her home, more destroyed than she had imagined it, was not the stately Villa Brigham she had loved as a little girl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne remembered leaving here so many years ago. Her father\u2019s picture had sat so proudly on her shelf and now was lost\u2014just like him. Anne\u2019s heart ached to see her father\u2019s picture once more. That photo had been taken just before he had left to fight. Every day after his death, Anne had gathered asters in his honor, woven them together for a flower garland and draped them around the silver frame of his picture. Asters had been his favorite flowers and Anne had been named after them. Mr. Brigham had said that when he first looked into Anne\u2019s blue eyes, the name had come to him in a flash: Anne Aster Brigham. Her mother called her Anne, but to her father, she had remained Aster. If she closed her eyes and thought back thirty years before, Anne could still see him, plain as if he were in that moment. Anne covered her face with her handkerchief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At last, taking her handkerchief from her eyes, Anne watched as sun peeked through an upper window. The rays fell on the heap of rubble that had been the upstairs, illuminating a rectangle of silver. . . stuffing the handkerchief in her pocket, Anne clawed her way through the rubble, recognizing the canopy bed to be her own, despite the splintered legs and frame. Clambering up and over a shelf with rotting boards and drawing her hand quickly from a moth-eaten silk dress with a pretty blue sash that she remembered wearing to her cousin\u2019s wedding, Anne, at last, closed her hand around her prize. Dusty and grimy, the piece of glass was cracked, but inside was the same man, blue eyes twinkling, lips smiling. It was her father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMother! Look what I\u2019ve found!\u201d shrieked Anne, wading out of the sea of debris, cutting herself on a broken windowpane, and flying through the door. The warning creaks of the floor were unheard in her hasty flight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her mother met her in the kitchen. \u201cWhat, Anne? What is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne thrust the frame into Mrs. Brigham\u2019s hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She remembered looking at her father one last time. It really had been the last time, for a month later, they had received news that John Brigham had been killed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI remember that night,\u201d whispered Anne, \u201cOh Mother! I wanted this very thing, just to see his face.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne could never explain it for as long as she lived, but every year, when other things began to die and wilt, she would find the last remaining aster flower, always as bright and lively as if it had just bloomed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ASA QUOTE OF THE WEEK<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA volcano? John, we do not do Christmas.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2014Asa, to John, as John was making a volcano out of Play-Doh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n BIBLE VERSE OF THE WEEK<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n You shall not wear a garment of different sorts, such as wool and linen mixed together.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Deuteronomy 22:11<\/p>\n\n\n\n Editor’s Note: <\/em>Merrilee is quite infuriated that people did not wear socks back then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n DAD JOKE OF THE WEEK <\/strong>\ud83d\ude16<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n provided by Dad (John-David) Warren<\/p>\n\n\n\n Q: <\/strong>What is the difference between swine flu and bird flu?<\/p>\n\n\n\n A: <\/strong>One requires oinkment and the other requires tweetment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n AD<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Join our fun writing contest! All ages are welcome. There will a prize for the first-place winner! If you would like to enter the writing contest, see page A5 <\/em>for more information about the contest (such as the rules and more about the prize). Send in a dad joke to shabbatgrouptimes@gmail.com<\/a> (officially licensed dads only). Dad joke requirements: must be as terrible, groan-y, yet still hilarious as possible. (This may seem impossible, but dads do it every day)<\/p>\n\n\n\n BREAKING NEWS<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n WATER APPARENTLY ‘NOT WET’<\/p>\n\n\n\n According to Elliott Garrett, <\/strong>age 9, water is actually not wet. Apparently it just makes <\/em>stuff wet somehow. Elliott insisted that rain is not wet. Of course if Elliott said it, it must be right (ask Miss Gena about the giraffe incident), so we looked it up and apparently ‘wet’ is when a liquid sticks to a solid surface, which would technically mean that water, in fact, is not actually wet. We are incredibly confused. What does this mean? Is fire not hot? Is ice not cold? Is Jelly Bean not chompy? Are goats not ESCAPE ARTISTS?!?! It seems that all the logic in the world is upside down. To learn more, contact shabbatgrouptimes@gmail.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n EXCLUSIVE!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n WRITING CONTEST<\/p>\n\n\n\n Because of a wonderful idea from Cora Ruth Kutcher, <\/strong>age 13, we have decided to hold a writing contest for the Shabbat group. Participants of all ages are welcome. The story can be as short as you like, but it cannot exceed 1,000 words. All genres are fine. Your story must be submitted to shabbatgrouptimes@gmail.com<\/a> by Saturday, April 11. The contest stories will be published in the ninth issue on April 18. Do not include your name on your story to keep the contest impartial. You are also not to tell anyone<\/em> which story you wrote. Everyone will vote on the story they think is the best. You can send in your vote to shabbatgrouptimes@gmail.com<\/a>. The author whose story receives the most votes will have their name mentioned and story re-printed in the tenth issue, as well as receiving a twenty-dollar gift card of their choice. If you have any questions, please contact the editor at shabbatgrouptimes@gmail.com<\/a> for more information. Thank you so much for participating!<\/p>\n\n\n\n Tip for your story: <\/em>Think about the audience you are writing for. Everyone gets to vote, so try to write something that everyone will enjoy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n SHABBAT GROUP BIRTHDAY SECTION<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Evelyn Morris:<\/strong> Turned 8 on March 16, 2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n EXCLUSIVE!<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n KOALAS OR CHICKENS? SURVEY<\/p>\n\n\n\n Merrilee Warren, <\/strong>age 12, is very annoyed that apparently most people like koalas better than chickens. Koalas aren’t even useful! And chickens are way more cute! AND they lay your breakfast! Chickens are way better than koalas. Which one do YOU think is better: koalas <\/strong>or chickens<\/strong>? Send in your vote to shabbatgrouptimes@gmail.com<\/a> now! We will announce the winning animal in the special edition Passover issue on Thursday, April 4. Thank you for voting! (Do not forget to vote for chickens or Merrilee will be very grumpy.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n BREAKING NEWS<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n UHHHH CALL TO ACTION<\/p>\n\n\n\n Merrilee Warren, editor of the Shabbat Group Times newsletter, has recently been researching things that newsletters have, because hardly anyone <\/em>has been sending in stories and articles. (Sad!) Apparently news-letters have \u201ccalls to action\u201d, so Merrilee is going to call everyone to the action of sending stuff to shabbatgrouptimes@gmail.com<\/a> so that we can publish it in the newsletter! Yay! So far our only contributors have been Gabby Carriere, <\/strong>age 18 (see issues 4 and 6); Elliott Garrett, <\/strong>age 9 (see issue 5); Elijah Sansing, <\/strong>age 14 (see issue 6); John Warren, <\/strong>age 10 (see issue 6); and Cora Ruth Kutcher<\/strong>, age 13 (see pages A1\u2014A4<\/em>). That is only SEVEN PEOPLE if you count the editor and co-editor (Jelly Bean)! Now compare that to the 1,700 contributors of NEW YORK Times! We only have 0.4% of that! Please contribute! We would really like it! This is a community newsletter\u2014<\/em>we want everyone to be in it!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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