163. Thanksgiving Day 2025

The internet was new. The World Wide Web was new. Ezines were new. I was transitioning from printing my short stories and putting them in manilla envelopes for submission to literary journals, to transmitting digital files to online ezines. I never went back to the old ways, although I continue to often write first drafts with a pen and paper.

Where did I meet George Simmers? Where did I learn about Snakeskin? I hung out with other ezine enthusiasts at a virtual café, Café Blue. It was established by Doug Lawson, the creator of the Blue Penny Quarterly and the Blue Moon Review, himself an author. The Café was a vibrant place with appreciations, arguments, fights, and a few romances; Dwain married Jordanne, Nick married Leslie. George Simmers, the founder of Snakeskin, was one of the regular Azurites. So was I.

Discovering Snakeskin, I began submitting poetry to George with a moderate amount of success. Meanwhile, I posted short vignettes about my suburban life in Café Blue, literary exercises to hone my prose and entertain the others. George thought them better than my poetry. Although he had originally intended his “webzine” to be exclusively poetry, he offered me a corner and invited me to include an essay in every issue. Well, maybe not every issue. As I learned this month after asking George, what do you remember of the day you invited me to submit prose pieces? He replied, “I invited you to write a couple of essays … I never imagined you'd stick around this long.” I had no clue how auspicious George’s invitation would be. This December 2025, George celebrates the thirtieth anniversary of Snakeskin. Next month, January 2026, I celebrate twenty-eight years of stuffing my little corner with essays. In 1996, I had no premonition of the career to come.

I am currently self-publishing a third volume of my Snakeskin essays. The galley proof arrived and I found problems. Making the revisions, I am now waiting for the next galley proof.

Two friends, Andrei and Cristina, contacted me wanting to know if I would allow them to visit late on Thursday, which was tonight. They are a young Romanian couple who now live in Cardiff. They came up to City Centre to see a production of Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile at the New Theatre, which happens to be the oldest theater in Cardiff. I told them to stop over on their way back home; we would meet at my flat. I would be returning from the Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama where there was a performance of the Fibonacci Quartet. By incredible luck, I was able to procure the one remaining seat in the front row of the Dora Stoutzker Hall and it was smack center. It was a wonderful performance of music by Joseph Haydn, Fergus Hall, Béla Bartók, and an encore of George Gershwin. I love this city.

Andrei and Cristina are both engaged in demanding careers and I rarely get to see them, so this was a special treat. I served them Glyndwr Vineyard Brut Sparkling Rosé with tiramisu. There was the usual splendid talk, because I did most of the talking. Cristina had a lot of personal questions that I took pleasure in answering. Then I showed her the book.

The galley proof of my essays was sitting on the dining table. Cristina has a higher opinion of my writing than I do. I took up the book and handed it to her. She immediately asked to borrow it. It was just the first galley proof and I didn’t need it since a revised galley proof was on its way. I told her she could keep it. She made me inscribe it. I allowed her to pick her choice of fountain pen from the twenty-five or so inked pens on my desk. (She picked the Cracked Ice Edison Collier.) I was deeply touched. She was carrying home my legacy.

The night was warm and it wasn’t raining. I walked the couple to their flat, not quite a mile south. We said our good-nights and I asked them to visit more often.

They had brought with them a Christmas decorated bag with gifts for me. It was only after seeing them home and returning to my apartment that I inspected the bag. It made me laugh. A bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey, which, I’m sure, was a celebration of me being an American expat on Thanksgiving Day. The other gift was a heavily embossed mug with a colorful relief of Vlad the Impaler from Sighișoara, Romania.



I have much to give thanks for, good friends such as those who came visiting tonight, a city rich in culture and stimulation, and my long association with Snakeskin. Snakeskin is part of George Simmers’s legacy. I am grateful he has allowed me to tag along sharing in his accomplishment, taking a corner of it to make my own.

Mr Bentzman will continue to report here regularly about the events and concerns of his life. If you've any comments or suggestions, he would be pleased to hear from you. 

You can find his several books at www.Bentzman.com.  From the Night Factory,  his third collection of essays, is now available to purchase.