[Nfb-editors] 2013 Slate & Style Holiday issue
Bridgit Pollpeter
bpollpeter at hotmail.com
Sun Dec 8 23:12:04 UTC 2013
Hello,
Enjoy our first special holiday issue. Have a very happy holiday season.
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Slate
&
Style
Publication of the National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Holiday 2013
Vol. 31, No. 4
Slate & Style
Holiday 2013
Senior Editor: Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, bpollpeter at hotmail.com
Assistant Editor: Chris Kuell, ckuell at comcast.net
Assistant Editor: Katherine Watson, watsonkm05 at gmail.com
Contributing Editor: Robert Kingett, kingettr at gmail.com
Layout Editor: Ross Pollpeter, rpollpeter at hotmail.com
President: Robert Leslie Newman, newmanrl at cox.net
Slate & Style is a quarterly publication of the National Federation of
the Blind Writers' Division. Submission guidelines are printed at the
end of this publication. The editor and division president have the
right to cut and revise submissions. The senior editor and Division
president has final authority regarding publication for any submission.
Slate & Style is a magazine showcasing literary writing as well as
articles providing information and helpful advice about various writing
formats. While a publication of the National Federation of the Blind,
submissions don't have to be specific to blindness or the NFB.
Thank you to Victor Hemphill for embossing and distributing our Braille
copies.
Slate & Style
Holiday 2013
TABLE of Contents
Editor's Note by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter 1
Fiction: TYLER by Doris Hampton 2
Poetry: The Special Season by Kate Mitchel 9
Fiction: Schmanta Claus by Chris Kuell 10
Memoir: O' Christmas Tree by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter 15
Fiction: Christmas After Z-Day By Ross M. Pollpeter 18
Poetry: Christmas Eve by Michael Butenhof 22
Slate & Style Submission Guidelines 23
2014 NFB Writers' Writing Contest 26
Editor's Note
by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Season's Greetings Dear Readers,
Winter is taking roost here in the mid-west. We are bundling up to
withstand the weather, eating warm, comforting foods and cranking the
heat up when indoors.
This is a small issue, but Slate & Style wishes to bring you a special
holiday issue. We hope to continue this tradition.
We asked for honesty and introspection, and our contributors provided it
in barrel fulls. We did not receive many submissions, but to those who
did respond, thank you. And to those of you reading this year, think
ahead and consider submitting your poetry, short fiction or
memoir/personal essay for next year's holiday issue.
I wish you all a very merry holiday season. And now enjoy our first
holiday issue of Slate & Style.
Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter, editor, Slate & Style
Fiction: TYLER
by Doris Hampton
Christmas carols bombarded my van as I drove past a bevy of street
musicians. Why do they think everyone enjoys hearing that racket? I, for
one, detest the sound.
My six-year-old son, Benjamin, had been killed by a drunk driver on
Christmas Eve two years ago.
Bitter disappointment cut through me as I swung my van into the parking
lot I shared with my business partner and best friend, Roxy. I left
earlier with high hopes. But the small Batman wallet, containing the
reward I'd offered for the return of Tyler, my little boy's cat, was
still in my backpack. The wallet, which had once belonged to Benjamin,
held five one-hundred-dollar bills.
I'd wasted the afternoon with a woman who'd contacted me in response to
the money I'd offered for Tyler's return. She'd described his
custom-made collar - Day-Glo red with star-shaped rhinestones and faux
pearls- in such detail I'd been certain she'd found my son's beloved
cat.
I jerked the key from the ignition and studied the colorful sign on the
side of our building - TYLER'S HANDMADE TOYS.
The big orange tabby had been accompanying me to the toy store every
morning since Benjamin's death. The store was a converted house in a
quiet area of vintage homes. That meant Tyler could safely roam the
neighborhood, coming and going through an open window at the back of the
store. He never went far and always returned in an hour or so. This
time, though, he'd been gone nearly six weeks.
I swallowed hard and blinked away the burning behind my eyes. I hadn't
cried since I'd buried my son. I wasn't about to start now.
Roxy met me at the door when I entered the shop. "Another false alarm?"
I dropped my backpack onto the counter. "The Tyler imposter didn't come
close. But that collar it had on was a great imitation."
"Oh no, Karen," Roxy gasped. "You mean that woman tried to con you with
a collar like the one Tyler's wearing in his poster photo?"
"I'm afraid so." I sighed and reached to turn off the radio at the end
of the counter, silencing "O Holy Night."
Roxy shot me a look.
"I know," I snapped before she could utter the warning she'd repeated at
least a thousand times." I can't go on boycotting Christmas forever."
Then, before she could add, "You've got to get on with your life," I
turned to the boxes I was scheduled to deliver to SUNSHINE HOUSE, a free
clinic for kids with emotional problems.
On my way out the door with an armload of boxes, I glanced toward the
shelf where Tyler had habitually perched, ready to greet each child who
came into the shop.
Since I'd home-schooled Benjamin, he and Tyler had accompanied me daily
to the store.
I don't think I could have entered the toy store again after my son's
death if it hadn't been for that gentle orange giant. His presence
helped ease the numbing pain.
When I'd first encountered Benjamin's desk at the back of the shop,
cluttered with unfinished schoolwork, I thought my heart would break.
Then Tyler, purring in high gear, wound around my legs and it was as
though some essence of my little boy, who'd been the cat's constant
companion, had come to comfort me.
"Tyler's been gone almost six weeks," Roxy began, "Chances of finding
him now are pretty slim."
I flinched. Although I'd thought the same thing earlier, I wasn't
prepared for the pain that came, hearing it from someone else.
"I don't care if he's been gone six months! I'll never stop trying to
find him!" I clamped my mouth shut and turned away, realizing that my
emotions weren't so tightly wrapped after all.
I snatched my backpack off the counter and lugged the final stack of
boxes to my van, trying not to think of Tyler, lost and alone somewhere
out there.
At SUNSHINE HOUSE, I entered what appeared to be a well-used, family
living room. A thin woman with flyaway, gray hair perched on the edge of
a couch. She blinked nervously when I entered. A small girl of five or
six sat, cross-legged, on the floor nearby, facing the wall; her back to
the room. Across from them, a teenage boy slumped in an overstuffed
chair - eyes closed, hands drumming to the beat that streamed through
earphones affixed to his head.
The little girl didn't budge when the receptionist opened a door off the
waiting room and announced to someone inside that the children's toys
had arrived.
The guy who came through the doorway could have taken first place in a
Santa look-alike contest. The receptionist introduced him as Dr. Carter.
He extended a hand, then went to the boxes stacked beneath a community
bulletin board which featured ads for everything from lost and found to
rap lyrics.
"SUNSHINE HOUSE is open to kids of all ages," the doctor explained when
he saw I was studying the cluttered board. "We encourage neighborhood
teens to come in here and place an ad, or just hang out.
He reached for a box and called to the child sitting with her back to
him. "Hey, Cedar, the toys for our playroom are here."
When the little girl remained motionless, the thin woman raised a hand
to her mouth and spoke to the child through splayed fingers. After a
moment with no response, she gave the doctor a troubled look and shook
her head. It was then that I noticed the vicious scar that snaked down
the side of the woman's face.
Dr. Carter opened the box and began pulling toys from it, talking all
the while to the unresponsive child. Four boxes emptied with no sign of
interest from her.
Discarded boxes were piled all around him when the doctor exclaimed,
"Here's a mother cat and five baby kittens."
Cedar took a look over her shoulder then turned again to face the wall.
"What's this?" Dr. Carter unwrapped another toy.
Still sitting cross-legged, Cedar placed the palms of her hands on the
floor, leaned back on outstretched arms, and swiveled around to study
the kitten being held aloft.
The woman on the couch clamped both hands over her mouth and gave a low
laugh.
"Check this out, Cedar." The doctor waved the toy. "I'll bet your cat
looked like this one when he was a kitten."
Cedar eyed the toy. After a moment, her lips formed the faintest of
smiles.
"I like cats, too," I told her.
Her smile vanished as wary brown eyes met mine. My breath caught. It was
the cautious stare of a wounded deer.
I crossed the room and sat on the floor next to her, pulling a poster
from my backpack. "Here's a picture of my cat. His name is Tyler."
"My cat's name is Pumpkin." She started to reach for the poster when
the thin woman snatched it away.
The woman studied Tyler's photo, then stood abruptly, pulled Cedar to
her feet, and bolted for the door.
I rose, taken aback by the woman's behavior, which was every bit as
strange as that of the child.
Just as they reached the door, Cedar stopped and turned to me. "I asked
God to send me an angel. He gave me Pumpkin instead," she said somberly.
"God knew I'd like him better than an angel."
Once again, the corners of her mouth rose and, this time, her smile
broadened. "Pumpkin's the best Christmas present I ever got!"
At that moment, a teenage boy sauntered in and crossed to the community
bulletin board on the wall above the scattering of toys and discarded
boxes.
"We'll see you tomorrow," the woman told Dr. Carter. She raised a hand,
too late to hide the gap where her front teeth should have been.
When Cedar and the woman had gone, the only sound in the room was a
whistled tune from the kid as he stuck a card on the bulletin board.
"Gonna sell my bike," he said to no one in particular.
I turned to Dr. Carter. I didn't need to be a psychologist to realize
that something terrible had caused the little girl to withdraw from the
world around her. "I hope you'll be able to help Cedar come out of her
shell."
"Oh, yeah," the teen interrupted. "She's a lot better than she was when
Doc first started treating her."
He jabbed another thumbtack into the bulletin board. "Cedar and her
grandma, Miss Flora, were big news two years ago. They even made the
cover of CITY HERALD, when the magazine did a spread on domestic
violence."
He frowned and shook his head, "Cedar's dad held her and her family
hostage for days. He killed her mom and beat up Miss Flora real bad,
then he blew his brains out - right there in front of Miss Flora and the
kid."
I felt a stab of shame. Two years ago, I'd been too wrapped up in my own
sorrow to empathize with other people's pain. But I recalled hearing
about the traumatized child and the grandmother who'd protected her.
Cedar's father had beaten her mother to death and had severely injured
her grandmother when she stood between him and the little girl. Cedar
had witnessed it all, then watched as her father rammed the barrel of a
gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The teen pushed the entry door partially open and looked back over his
shoulder.
"After Miss Flora was beat up, she should've gotten her face fixed -
plastic surgery and dentures and stuff like that. But she cleans houses
for a living, so she don't have much money." He shrugged. "And she won't
take charity."
He shoved on through the door. "See ya later, Doc."
I fished a poster from my backpack and handed it to Dr. Carter. "May I
place this on your bulletin board?"
He studied the poster. "That's a big reward. This cat must be very
important to you."
"Yes, he's."
The curious expression on the doctor's face stopped me cold. For a time,
neither of us spoke. Then, he said, "Would you consider giving him up if
you knew he was well cared for and with someone who loves him very
much?"
"No." As the word exploded from my lips I saw, in my mind's eye, Cedar
being whisked away, my poster clutched in her grandmother's hand.
"No," I repeated, barely above a whisper. I think, deep down, I'd known
the truth about the cat called Pumpkin when Cedar's grandmother had left
so abruptly after seeing Tyler's picture.
"There must be a million orange tabbies like yours," Dr. Carter said.
"But that collar is strictly one of a kind."
I wanted to explain why Tyler was the most important thing in my life,
but the words stuck in my throat.
"After her parents' death, Cedar refused to speak." the doctor said.
"She didn't utter a word until about six weeks ago, when Miss Flora
found Pumpkin. He was wandering around, lost, outside one of the homes
she cleans in the Belany District, not far from your store."
"He wasn't lost," I cried.
"I plastered that neighborhood with posters. Surely she must have seen
at least one of them. My voice, urgent and shrill, was that of a
stranger.
Dr. Carter held out the poster. "Would you have responded to this if you
were her?"
Yes, I wanted to shout. But, again, the word just wouldn't come. I
blinked, horrified by the sudden moisture that blurred my vision. It had
never occurred to me that I might be forced to consider leaving Tyler
behind once I'd found him.
"I can see that this cat is more than just a pet to you," Dr. Carter
said quietly.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath.
Maybe it was the compassion in the doctor's voice. Maybe it was just
time for bottled up feelings to break free. Whatever the reason, the old
trick of stifling my emotions failed as the tears began to flow.
I lost all sense of time as I stood there sobbing; until, finally,
drained and trembling, I got myself somewhat under control.
The doctor handed over a box of Kleenex. Thankfully, he hadn't tried to
console me. My overwhelmed psyche couldn't have withstood the touch of
another human being, nor words of sympathy.
I wish I could say that I felt cleansed and free. But, the truth is, I
was just as reluctant as ever to turn away from my little boy's
companion.
I started to ask for Miss Flora's address, thinking I'd pick up Tyler on
my way home, when Cedar's words came back to me.
"I asked God to send me an angel. He gave me Pumpkin instead."
I hesitated, then reached into my backpack. "Will you see that this gets
to Cedar and her grandmother?" I thrust the Batman wallet toward Dr.
Carter and swallowed hard.
I indicated the poster in his hand. "The wallet contains the reward I'm
offering for Ty." Unable to say his name, I spun around, crossed to the
door and stepped out into the gray December afternoon.
Down the street, a group of carolers were gathering on the corner. By
the time I reached my van, they'd begun to sing.
I slid behind the steering wheel and sat there for a long time,
listening.
Doris Hampton's book for young readers, Just for Manuel, was published
by Steck-Vaughn. Her poems, stories and finger plays have appeared in
numerous children's magazines, including Highlights and Humpty Dumpty.
She has been published in many confession magazines, having written them
on a daily basis for years. Her fiction won first-place in NFB Writers'
2011 & 2013 adult fiction contests and her Christmas story, Tyler, won
honorable mention in 2012. her poem, Pete Bixby Died This Morning, was a
winner in one of Writer's Digest poetry contests.
Poetry: The Special Season
by Kate Mitchel
Christmas time is a special season.
For one and all to enjoy for many reasons!
Christmas is not just about the spirit of giving
It is more than that Christmas is about
Believing in the magic of Santa Claus, Mrs. Claus, Elves and Reindeer
for
All kinds of children around the world and is just for this special
season.
Almost everyone around the world should give to those in need at
Christmas Time.
The Christmas season has the magical snow, Christmas trees, lights,
angels, stars,
Stockings and many other decorations.
Christmas is about the time of being together with
Those you love and care about.
Almost everyone can celebrate this season by eating delicious
Food and drinking great beverages together around the table and this is
very important during Christmas Time.
Christmas is also about smiles on everyones faces on Christmas morning
with gifts for each other.
To end this off Christmas gives
Joy, happiness and love around the world and these feelings are
expressed in almost everyone in this world.
Katelyn Lee Mitchel dwells in Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada. Her interests
include reading, writing, cooking, drawing, scrapbooking, visiting with
family and friends, watching TV, listening to music, travelling and
athletics.
Her dream is to become an Author one day. She loves writing stories that
are inspirational, drawing upon her own experiences. Suspense, action,
romance, Mitchel loves all genres.
Her poetry is descriptive and imaginative and full of fun. And she's had
the opportunity to enter her fiction and poetry into several Braille
contests.
She plans to go to university after graduation, planning to succeed in
any endeavor she embarks upon.
Fiction: Schmanta Claus
by Chris Kuell
Irving Nusinowitz shoveled another spoonful of lukewarm oatmeal down his
throat. The taste was bland, a dull beige, perfectly mimicking his mood.
His wife, Helen, was jabbering about the fur coat Sylvia Goldbass wore
to Temple Saturday night. Something about her nephew, Maury, and knowing
a guy in the city who got her a great deal. She turned and scowled at
him.
""Irving, why the sour puss?"
Without responding, he looked at her. Thirty-four years of marriage
allowed Helen to read his thoughts through that look.
"Listen, Irv, it's only for a short time. You've been outta work for
nine-months now, and we really need the money. Winter's here and we need
to heat this place. And I don't want the kids and grandkids worrying
about us when they visit for Hanukah."
Irving dipped his head and forced another spoonful of mush into his
mouth.
She took the kitchen chair next to him and spoke softly. "I prayed for
God to help us find money to make it through the holidays. He works in
mysterious ways, Irving. Swallow your pride and do a good job. It's only
for a month. "
He pushed his chair away from the table and stood to go. Sylvia used a
napkin to remove a glob of oatmeal from his thick, white beard before
hugging him good-bye and handing him a sack lunch. She offered him a few
more words of encouragement as he buttoned up his overcoat and left the
house for whatever the day wood bring.
Parked a half-hour later at the Mall, he took a long swig out of the
pint he kept in the glove box. Unemployment had not been easy for the
58-year-old ex-accountant. He grabbed his Dunkin Donuts coffee and his
canvas bag and locked up.
Inside the security office at the Mall was a nice changing room and a
locker where he could store his clothes. Irving was afraid Mr. Connor,
the man who had hired him, might smell the gin on his breath, but he
quickly reassured himself that the coffee would cover it up.
He surveyed his uniform, grimaced, and changed. The silly pants were
elastic at the waist at least, so they could close around his 62-inch
girth. The red jacket was also tight, and the cheap nylon fabric was
probably going to give him hives. He buckled the wide, black belt, which
was vinyl instead of leather, and muttered.
"And you Goyem are always calling us frugal," He muttered.
The final accessory was the red felt stocking cap, which fit perfectly
on Irving's snowy head.
Mr. Connors introduced him to Dwayne Thomas, a short black guy dressed
up in a green elf costume, matching his own in ridiculousness. Elf
Dwayne smelled like he hadn't had a shower lately, and Mr. Connors was
not the least bit happy when the elf lit up a Marlboro.
While they walked, Mr. Connors went through his schpeal about proper
behavior with the kiddies: never tell the kids much of anything, keep it
all open-ended and push them into pressuring their parents for a
photograph.
As Irving took his seat in the large wooden chair in the center of the
Mall, surrounded by Christmas songs, artificial trees and snow and
enough blinking lights to illuminate a major US city, he thought back to
his bar mitzvah. The day he fully embraced his Jewishness and became a
man. How far he had come, and how low he had sunk, to be sitting here
representing a capitalistic fantasy to all the bratty little gentile
children.
Irving played Santa to 43 children before lunch break. You can take the
man out of the accounting office, but.
29 were boys; 14 girls. Three kids couldn't work up the courage to get
on his lap, and one cried so much his mother had to come and take him
away after a grotesque pleading session that made Irving want to throw
both the kid and his mother into one of the fake snow banks.
For lunch, Irving went back out to his car and polished off the gin
with his tuna fish sandwich. He ran into Dwayne the Elf as he was
walking in, and they both had a cigarette before heading back for Act
II.
The line of nervous children with their parents depressed Irving as he
took his throne. The lies about being good, the greed of the brainwashed
little consumers and the idle promises about bringing lots of toys
carried on through the afternoon.
Irving's lower back was killing him, his bladder was about to burst and
he nearly launched a fat little girl onto the white picket fence when
she pulled hard on his beard, asking, "Is this fake?"
He stood, massaging his sore chin and watched as Dwayne escorted a lone
boy over to meet Santa. Usually the kids had a cheery, encouraging
parent observing from outside the picket fence, but this kid was all by
himself. Irving thought he saw a slight trail of smoke escaping from
Dwayne's cupped hand as the kid stood before him.
"Hello, Son. Is your Mommy or Daddy with you today?"
"My Mom's shopping at Filene's. I've got a cell phone to call her if you
try to feel me up or anything like that, so don't even think about it."
Taken aback, Irving sat down and stared at the kid. He was maybe
eight-years-old, had sandy brown hair and reminded him a little of his
own grandson Samuel.
"Would you like to sit on Santa's lap, or is that a little too close for
you?"
"I'll just stand here, if that's OK." He said. "I know you're not Santa
anyways."
"What kind of attitude is that? Don't you want Santa to bring you lots
of gifts under your tree come Christmas?"
The kid looked at Irv with sad brown eyes." There won't be any tree this
Christmas."
"What? No tree? Why not?" Irving asked.
"My Mom and Dad got divorced. My Dad is Jewish, and so is his new
girlfriend. I'm spending Christmas break with him in stupid Denver."
"Well, then, you will be celebrating Hanukah, the Jewish celebration of
Lights,"" Irving said to the boy.
"Hanukah is stupid. All my friends are home having Christmas. I know
Santa isn't real, but I'm going to miss out on all the fun stuff." The
kid looked down and nudged the toe of one boot in the fake snow.
"Santa, Schmanta, that's what I say," Irving told the boy. "Listen, kid.
I'm going to let you in on a little secret. " Irving lowered his voice
and motioned for the boy to come closer.
The kid took a step closer and pulled the cell phone out of his pocket,
letting Santa know he was serious if any funny business happened.
"All of your friends, with their presents and reindeer, are missing the
big picture. Santa isn't about Christmas at all. The Christians stole
him and a lot of other stuff from pagan rituals."
"What's a pagan ritual?" the kid asked.
"That's not important. What is important is to know that Christmas isn't
about gifts and trees. It's about God, and God's gifts to the world. We
should think about love and compassion during the holidays. The
Christians have Jesus to teach them this."
The kid contemplated this while Irving continued.
We Jews, we have Moses and Isaac and Abraham and many others. God gave
us these things because he loves us, all of us. Doesn't matter if you
are Jewish, Christian or one of those Hari Krishna's that parade around
in their bathrobes at the airport."
The kid stood wide-eyed, considering a new idea.
"Kid, you've got the best of both worlds. You get to experience the rich
traditions of your Jewish heritage, and visit Denver where I hear the
skiing is fabulous this year."
This got a smile out of the youngster.
"Before you go, I'll bet your Mom will load you down with lots of crap
you don't need. Just like an early Christmas. In fact, I bet she's out
buying you all kinds of fun junk that will turn your brain into mush
right now."
A deeper smile rose on the kid's face, and Santa seemed to catch it.
"Santa," Dwayne the Elf called, a wisp of blue smoke escaping from his
mouth. "We need to move along."
The boy took two steps forward and hugged Irving. He stepped back and
said, "Bye, Santa."
Irving smiled wide and answered, "Shalom, my friend."
Chris Kuell is a writer, editor and advocate . A former research
chemist, he lost his sight at thirty-five as a result of diabetic
retinopathy. A few years later he learned how to use a computer with
speech output and turned his efforts to writing. He's had more than two
dozen articles about blindness published, and His fiction has appeared
in Spillway Review, Bewildering Stories, Breath and Shadow, Apollo's
Lyre, Wordgathering, Gambit, Mountain Echoes, Decomposition, the Sun,
and Dialogue. His stories also appear in the anthologies, Coping With
Vision Loss, Northern Haunts, and Mountain Voices: Illuminating the
Character of West Virginia.
After short-lived careers in arc welding, kick boxing, animal husbandry,
ophthalmology, septic evacuation, and clinical trial subject, Chris
Kuell turned his efforts to creative writing. His work has appeared in
several literary and a few not-so-literary magazines. He is currently
seeking representation for 'Rub It In', his second novel. He lives in
Connecticut with his wife, Christine, and the best kids in the world,
Grace and Nick.
Memoir: O' Christmas Tree
by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
The Christmas tree is magical in the unlit room. Its lights twinkle
among its evergreen branches as she lays underneath it.
She loves to pretend to be Clara from the Nutcracker. Crouching her
skinny body underneath the tree, she tries to imagine it growing like in
the story.
The sound upstairs is muffled. Screeching, scratching, thumping collide
into a muffled drone. She ignores it.
The prince will soon wisk her away, battling the Rat King.
Days earlier, she trudged home from school. Her breath puffed into the
air, creating a fleeting wisp of warm air. Snow crunched underneath her
snow boots. She stood in front of the mauve-colored Victorian house that
was home. It stood still, lifeless.
The original oak door creaked open, and she stepped into the long room
that was both living room and dining room. It was dark. Silence hummed
in the darken space, curtains drawn, not a light cutting the gloom at
all.
"Mom? Are you home?" She asked.
"Yes," a muffled response came from the couch.
She sighed. "Can I turn a light on?"
"No, honey. My head hurts."
"Do you want to play?"
"No, Bridgie. Just let me lie here."
"Okay." She tip-toed upstairs to her room. Sitting on her day-bed, she
glanced around.
Her fingers and cheeks prickled from the winter cold. Grabbing a book of
fairytales, she huddled under the covers to warm up.
She woke to the sounds of hushed argueing. The sounds grew into shouts,
razor sharp. She focused on her book, drowning it out.
Except nothing drowns out misery. You sink into it like muck. Your chest
stings as you hold your breath, holding back tears. Your face grows hot
with the effort. The sounds punch you, push you. A terrifying sound when
you're eight.
The Christmas tree holds hope and promise in its sturdy limbs. The
Victorian-inspired decorations are beautiful and delicate. She envelops
herself in its hope as its lights and decorations swirl into a blur.
She reaches out, gently grasping a pink-colored bulb. Light reflects off
its shiny surface. A small squeeze will shatter it into a hundred
pieces.
It's hollow, barely a substance. There's nothing special about it.
Waiting, she palms the bulb. It's so light, easy to break. One less
ornament adorning the tree; who would notice?
She places it back, nestling it between a toy soldier and a ballerina.
Tonight she dreams under the tree. Wishing with every part of her being
to wake in a different world. Breaking with reality, she wonders if
another world truly exist. She hums Christmas songs as a door slams.
They don't notice her curled up beneath the tree. Her father storms out,
and her mother stands, wistful, forlorn.
She watches her mother. Thin, a dancers body. Her blonde hair hanging
past her shoulders. A beautiful mother.
Her expression is puzzling. Sad? Thoughtful? She can't figure out the
emotions on her mother's face.
Finally, her mother turns and sees her. "Bridgit, what are you doing up?
Get to bed now," she snaps.
Clutching her Carebear, she sits up. "I can't sleep."
"Well, you have too."
"Where's Dad going?"
Her mother pauses. Opens her mouth, closes it, then speaks. "Out."
"Why?"
Anger maps her mother's face. "Get to bed now, or do you want a
spanking."
"I was just asking a question," she wines.
"I swear, Bridgit, if you don't move it now, you'll get it."
She runs, taking the stairs two at a time then leaps into bed. Plopping
her thumb into her mouth and rubbing the silk tag on her Carebear, she
prays to wake up somewhere else.
Life is full of fun and wonder at eight. Except not when your life is
full of holes. Not when life is punctuated by screams, shrill crescendos
echoing through a house. Parental contact dotting your body in marks.
You cling to another reality. Your boeny chest heaves; your mind latches
onto any happy memory, real or not.
In daylight, the tree loses its luster. As though the magic can only
find it at night.
Her mother enters wearing dance clothes. Her first work-out of the day
out of the way. Her father is never there in the mornings. He leaves for
work long before she and her siblings wake.
"Bridgie, come eat." Her mother smiles, stroking her long, dark-blonde
hair.
"Don't," she snaps.
"Come on sweetie, you need to eat before school."
"Okay."
Her mother seems to consider then hugs her. "Everything's fine, okay?"
She looks into her eyes as though her daughter contains answers.
She pulls away leaving her mother standing by the tree covered in
shadow, its brilliance dimmed.
Fiction: Christmas After Z-Day
By Ross M. Pollpeter
I walk down the street avoiding the trash littering the ground. Paper
crackles by, and the wind whistles around empty buildings.
My mission: To find Walltown-get in and out. It's almost Christmas, and
some traditions just remain. I guess it gives us hope.
Ten years ago, before Z-Day, my life was going great. I had landed my
dream job building websites. And there was Lace. God, she was just
everything you want in a chick. She looked like she walked out of a
Victoria Secret magazine, but she was uber smart. And she was my
girlfriend.
At night, I still smell the jasmine scent she wore, and I feel her body,
warm and loving. I had to do it, but I don't like to think about that.
So yeah, the Zombie Apocalypse happened. And no, no one was prepared. No
guides helped us through it, twenty-eight-days later, we were still
hunkered away, trying to stay alive.
The military tried to contain infected people. Yeah, infected, that's
what they said. Then they attempted a mass genocide, but they kept
multiplying. Virus, reanimated dead-who cares. Humans are eating other
humans; it's messed up.
Orders were finally given to kill sight-unseen anyone showing signs of
the illness. We were expected to rid our lives of people, no matter what
they meant to us, no questions asked.
You may wonder why it would be difficult to kill, murder, your loved
ones when they are trying to eat you. It is though. You see them
lumbering towards you, no recognition in their eyes-a look of wild,
animal hunger. And yet, you pause. This is a person who means everything
to you.
Then you do it, surprising yourself with your own ruthlessness, your own
instinct to survive. Later you will relive each gruesome moment
scene-by-scene. Later you will feel the full weight of your loss, what
you've done. You will stop living, near enough to a zombie yourself.
A group of us have united. We are trying to retain order, trying to
bring hope. I don't know, maybe we are accomplishing something, but
maybe not. At this point, I think we are holding on, clinging onto
humanity.
So I've been sent to find Christmas crap. Okay, sounds really lame, I
know. And where the hell do you find Christmas ornaments ten years after
a zombie apocalypse? Walltown, where else?
The air is chilled. I close my eyes trying to remember another
Christmas. The current mid-west frigid winter helps me remember if I
don't look at my surroundings.
We had a tree, our first Christmas together. Lace blew in the door, nose
red and cold, grinning with glee. She had such an infectious smile. She
wore an old stocking hat of mine, fraying around the edges, a brown
winter coat padding her slim body, snow boots covering the bottoms of
her jeans. I never wanted her as bad as I did then in that moment.
She'd found ornaments for the tree on sale. They looked like something
off those calendars with the old-fashioned, nostalgic, all-American
paintings. She was so proud of her find.
Sipping mugs of cocoa, we decorated the fake tree.
Lace turned the lights off, only the colored lights of the tree
twinkling through the room. It created some magical atmosphere. I stood
behind her, kissing her neck.
I open my eyes to this desolate view. A tear lies frozen on my cheek.
Walltown stands in the distance, a beacon of light and activity in an
otherwise gloomy setting. From my position a quarter-of-a-mile away,
it's almost cheery.
Checking the motion of people, I creep forward, watching for the
tell-tale signs of zombies. They lumber about but speed up before an
attack. Fortunately, the cold affects them too, keeping them away from
bustling activity like this.
People mill about inside and out the giant store. Once selling pretty
much anything you can imagine, Walltown now stocks what can be found,
what's donated by those of us trying to survive. It's mostly canned
food, blankets, water and of course, weapons, which mostly consist of
guns, clubs, and large knifes. Sometimes, you find random items like
hair brushes or school supplies or candy. Tonight, evergreens line the
front of the store.
Still can't buy this story? I know, I know-but we need something, some
hope the world will return to normal. Christmas has always been a season
of hope and magic. Maybe we're hoping something will happen if we
celebrate it. Maybe we want a normal existence again. Maybe, some of us
want to make new memories that aren't sad or terrifying.
Spotting a tree near the entrance, I move towards it. An ache starts in
my chest and I gulp. I reach out and feel the soft pine needles of the
Douglas Fir. Memories come swift and fast.
Memories of strolling hand-in-hand with Lace through the park. Snow
crunching underfoot, not feeling the crispness in the air.
Memories of a red, glittering dress swishing against my suit as we
dance.
Memories of limbs embracing, exploring, finding and giving pleasure.
Memories of a man and woman in love, seeing a long, twining future full
of everything.
Memories of a smile bright enough to warm a room. A smile that even now
encourages, promises, hope.
I breathe deeply. It's too cold to cry, but I feel the pain trying to
escape. These recollections are bittersweet. The sweetness is just
enough to make me trudge back to the colony.
Night has completely fallen now. Stars glitter the inky sky. Walltown
hovers like a candle in the darkness. Leaving my collection of goods, I
wrap the six-foot Christmas tree up in a tarp.
When I return, and I will, we will celebrate. There are eight of us,
though we are part of a growing colony of survivors. We will make
decorations just like we make cheer on this winter's night. We must
reclaim something, carry on some human legacy.
As I turn towards home, god, it really is home now. As I turn towards
home, I remember a smile. Dragging the tree behind me, I feel no
despair, no fear-not tonight. A smile lights my way as I drag a little
hope and cheer behind me through the dark gloom.
Ross M. Pollpeter is a long-time fan of the zombie genre, both in
literature and films. works for a non-profit organization providing
services to people with disabilities while studying Software Development
at Bellevue Univrsity. He lives in Omaha, Nebraska with his wife and
son.
Poetry: Christmas Eve
by Michael Butenhof
'Twas the night before Christmas when all through my home
A speeding little puppy knocked down a comb
She ran around the house while making much noise
The dog ran into a stocking and came out with toys
Eric and I were both snug in our beds
Waiting for Christmas when we would lose our heads
We would tear open the presents that were for us
Then eat all the candy and get a sugar rush
My parents were sleeping ready for morn
With plenty of presents that would be torn
The moon was going down and the sun would soon rise
To reveal the carefully wrapped prize
The sun had finally entered the sky
And the moon had at last said "goodbye"
We leaped out of the bed and raced to the lowest stair
And we saw a stocking whose toys were just lying there
After the toys were put where they belong
We went through the stockings and listened to a song
We got a lot of candy and then opened the presents
Once they were opened we ate pheasants
Christmas Eve is the second-place winner in the middle school category
for the 2013 NFB Writers' writing contest.
Michael Butenhof is a freshman at the Brockport High School in
Brockport, New York. He has 2 dogs named Briar and Lily. He's been
learning braille for a few years from Mrs. Mathew. He is still learning
more braille contractions though. He enjoys reading and swimming. He is
a boy scout, and also enjoys camping.
I wrote the poem for a assignment. I tried to choose words that rhymed.
I wish I had changed the last two lines to:
"We got a lot of candy and then each opened a present.
Slate & Style Submission Guidelines
Slate & Style is a quarterly publication of the Writers' division of the
National Federation of the Blind (NFB Writers). It is dedicated to
writing including literary pieces along with resources and information
about various writing styles. A majority of Slate & Style's contributors
are visually impaired, but we welcome submissions from any contributor,
professional or amateur. We also accept submissions touching on any
subject matter.
Slate & Style accepts short fiction, short creative nonfiction, poetry,
articles discussing and providing tips for various writing styles
including literary, technical, editing, public relations and academic,
literary criticism and resource information.
Subject matter is not limited though it will be up to the editor's
discretion to publish.
Slate & Style accepts material from adults and children. We prefer email
submissions. Please no hand-written or Braille submissions.
An annual subscription costs $15. The costs for an individual issue is
$5. Members of the Writer's Division receive issues free of charge. An
annual membership costs $10. Visit our website to pay via PayPal at:
http://www.nfb-writers-division.net, or contact us at newmanrl at cox.net
for other payment options.
We accept submissions from January first through September first. Please
give Slate & Style six weeks to hear back from us. All submissions are
considered for publication but not all pieces will be published. We may
keep submissions to be used for later publication. The editor may
respond with comments and suggestions, giving contributors an
opportunity to resubmit. Please be patient and wait the full six weeks
before contacting us about a submission.
Submissions are welcome at all times, however, Please read through the
guidelines carefully. Submissions that don't follow these guidelines
will not be considered for Slate & Style.
Submission guidelines are as follows:
. Length requirements are: articles, 1500 words or less, fiction
and memoir/personal essay, 4000 words or less, poetry, 39 lines or less.
. Please send nonfiction, both articles and essays, and short
fiction submissions one selection at a time. You can submit up to three
poems at a time. Include bio and contact information for each submission
sent.
. Include a title page along with your submission with author
name, title of piece and contact info-phone, email and address. Please
include this as an attachment and not in the body of an email.
. Please include a brief bio of yourself-no more than 150 words.
Do not send an entire history, just include key items you feel are
important for readers to know.
. Book reviews should have a more academic approach. Don't just
state you liked it or not, and don't simply summarize a book. We are
seeking literary criticism. Address tone, format, style, character and
plot development and the over-all writing. The length for book reviews
is 700 words. Bios do not need to accompany book reviews.
. All email submissions must be attachments and sent to
bpollpeter at hotmail.com. Do not paste entries into the body of an email.
Entries simply pasted into an email will not be considered.
. In the subject line of your email, write: Slate & Style
submission, name, title and genre. EX: Slate & Style, Bridgit
Kuenning-Pollpeter, title of submission, genre.
. Use Microsoft Word or create an RTF document for all
submissions. No other formats are accepted, and therefore will not be
considered. Please do not send hand-written or Braille submissions.
. Proofread and check your grammar and formatting before
submitting. Submissions with too many errors will either be returned
with corrections to be made if you wish to resubmit, or it will not be
considered at all.
. Slate & Style will consider all submissions for publication.
However, please be careful with graphic sexual and violent content as
well as language and anti-religious, anti-gender, anti-racial and
anti-homosexual orientation content. Characterization and plot often
require this type of material, but it must serve a purpose. Gratuitous
material with no purpose or meant only for derogatory reasons, will not
be considered, however, material will be published according to the
discretion of the editor.
Please direct questions and comments to Bridgit KuenningPollpeter at
bpollpeter at hotmail.com,.
2014 NFB Writers' Writing Contest
The annual youth and adult writing contests sponsored by NFB Writers'
opens January first, and closes April first.
Adult categories, poetry, fiction, non-fiction and Children's Literature
written by adults, are open to all entrants eighteen years and over.
The Youth Writing Contest, poetry and fiction, promotes Braille literacy
and excellence in creative writing. Entries will be judged on creativity
and quality of Braille. The contest is divided into three groups,
determined by grade level - elementary, middle, and high school.
Prizes for contest winners range up to $100 for adult categories and up
to $30 for youth.
All contest winners will be announced the first week in July, during NFB
Writers' business meeting during the NFB national convention, held in
Orlando, Florida. In addition, shortly after convention, a list of
winners will appear on the Writers' Division's Website,
http://writers.nfb.org
First, second, and third place winners in each category will be
considered for publication in the Writers' Division magazine, Slate &
Style.
For additional contest details and submission guidelines, go to our
website, http://writers.nfb.org
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Today's Topics:
1. North Carolina "News and Views" (Robert Leslie Newman)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Message: 1
Date: Tue, 3 Dec 2013 19:59:58 -0600
From: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net>
To: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net>
Subject: [Nfb-editors] North Carolina "News and Views"
Message-ID: <017e01cef094$89aff800$9d0fe800$@cox.net>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
Here is the latest newsletter from NC (check out the joke at the end ---
should it be sent to Doctor Maurer to be included in one of his upcoming
monthly Presidential Releases?
NEWS AND VIEWS
Gary Ray, President Katherine W.
Barr, Editor
18 Sandon Dr.
3326 Sharon Road
Asheville, NC 28804
Charlotte, NC 28211
(828) 505-0299
(704) 364-4808
Newsletter of the
National Federation of the Blind
of North Carolina
nfblogo
NOVEMBER, 2013
Federation Board Members 2013-2014
NFB of NC
(Revised 9/15/13)
President
Gary Ray
18 Sandon Drive
Asheville NC 28804
phone 828-505-0338
cell phone 919-417-2885
NFB of NC line 828-505-0299
e-mail: ghray at charter.net
First Vice-President
Tim Jones
76 Silver Lake Pt.
Sanford, NC 27332
cell: 704-491-1486
e-mail: tmjnc2 at gmail.com
Second Vice-President
Lusi Radford
3604 Octavia Street
Raleigh, NC 27606
phone: 919-851-4817
cell: 919-341-6526
e-mail: Lusi98 at nc.rr.com
Secretary
Sharon Weddington
137 Kristens Court Drive
Mooresville, NC 28115
phone: 704-660-3481
cell: 704-302-7308
e-mail: locagirl at windstream.net
Treasurer
Boyce Locklear
P O Box 2633
Lumberton, NC 28359
cell: 910-734-4431
e-mail: blocklear44 at gmail.com
Board Members
Joy Scott
1111 Ivey Church Road
Maiden, NC 28650
phone: 828-428-3239
cell: 864-483-3455
e-mail: joynjesus at live.com
Charles Parker
105 Old Barn Lane
Rocky Mount NC 27804
phone: 252-977-1960
e-mail: angusparker at suddenlink.net
Julius Locklear
2228 Leadenhall Way
Raleigh NC 27603
cell: 910-740-1129
e-mail: julius.locklear1 at gmail.com
Ronald Broadnax
405 Southshore Parkway
Durham, NC 27703
phone: 919-596-0837
cell: 919-740-9131
e-mail: rbroadnax at frontier.com
Laurancene Murphy
2930 Zion Renaissance
Charlotte, NC 28269
phone: 704-971-0303
e-mail: lsm4 at ctc.net
Dr. Gary Davis
28 Eden View
Black Mountain, NC 28711
phone: 828-686-9180
cell: 828-776-9180
e-mail: gl28davis at aol.com
Editor
Katherine Barr
3326 Sharon Rd
Charlotte, NC 28211
phone: 704-364-4808
e-mail: harrysbarr at gmail.com
NCABS President
Alan Chase
1217 Mannassis Court
Raleigh, NC 27609
phone: 910-612-2220
e-mail: achase11 at nc.rr.com
EDITOR'S NOTE
A peaceful holiday to each of you. Many thanks to Harnett and Cumberland
Counties for a great State Convention! It was so good to hug old friends
and meet new ones. We are now undergoing a long-needed update of the
News & Views mailing list, and we need your help! Please pay your ten
dollar membership dues to your chapter secretary no later than January,
2014. If you are a Member at Large, return the enclosed registration
form with your ten dollar membership fee by January, 2014 (See details
under "News Flash!"). To allow time for updating the mailing list, the
next Newsletter will be March, 2014. We hope to hear news from many
chapters. Deadline is February 28, 2014.
Katherine W. Barr
PRESIDENT'S MESSAGE
By Gary Ray, Pres.
What a wonderful time we had in Fayetteville at our State Convention in
September! Almost 115 NFB of NC members from all across the state
gathered for a rousing good time. The Harnett Chapter did a fantastic
job of organizing the convention. Special thanks go to Tim Jones of
Harnett for all his good work. I cannot remember a time we ate better in
our Hospitality Room. Now, I admit it was hard to get around in the
Holiday Inn Bordeaux, but we all brushed up on our mobility skills
during the weekend, eh? It is always such a blessing to renew our
spirits as we talk about the work of the Federation in North Carolina.
Our National Rep, Ron Brown from Indiana, did a great job, too. We
worked him like a dog, but much was learned from his long years of NFB
experience. Ron is the Third Vice President of the NFB, but he is so
knowledgeable and approachable! Ron even said a few wise words over the
stuffed animal mascots from Buncombe County...smile.
During our business meeting on Sunday, Julius Locklear, Ron Broadnax,
and Charles Parker were reelected to the State Board. The Convention
passed two amendments to our State Constitution. We raised our State
dues to $10 per year. These dues will begin in 2014. Another amendment
added a Board position to the State Board that will be filled from among
our Members at Large. Copies of the revised Constitution will be
available from Gary Ray or Sharon Weddington. If you wish to receive an
electronic copy of the revised Constitution, contact one of these folks.
Their contact info is at the beginning of this newsletter.
We had a very nice memorial service Sunday morning for Hazel Staley who
died this summer. Losing Hazel is a blow to the NFB of NC. She will be
missed.
Sharon Weddington, our State Secretary, will be leading our delegation
to the 2014 Washington Seminar. The dates for the Seminar will be
Monday, January 27 through Thursday, January 30, 2014. Sharon Newton of
Mecklenburg, with the assistance of Daniel Davis of Buncombe will be
making the appointments for the Seminar. If you are interested in seeing
how the NFB works at the National level, then attendance at the
Washington Seminar is a must. The State Board should be able to offer
some limited financial assistance, but local chapters are encouraged to
help folks out who wish to go. A recent rule of thumb is that
individuals will probably have to provide some of the funding out of
their own pockets. Folks wishing to go to DC should immediately let
their Chapter Presidents know and should also let Gary Ray and Sharon
Weddington know. Folks will need to make up their mind by the end of
2013 because the State has to make all hotel reservations.
Many of us remember the big cleanup of the Braille Monitor mailing list
of some years ago. The NFB of NC is preparing to do the same. Beginning
in 2014, the old NFB of NC News and Views mailing list will be scrapped.
A new list will be put in place. The folks who will be on the mailing
list are folks who the Chapters will report as being Chapter members and
current Members at Large. We believe this cleanup will cut our mailing
list by almost one half. Read further in this newsletter for details.
CHAPTER NEWS
Buncombe County
by Doug Smith, Sec.
The Buncombe County chapter has been busy these last few months,
enjoying the activities of the summer season.
Three of our members, Joanne Baker, Doug Smith and Kim Owen went to Camp
Dogwood this year. Our campers visited the resort on two separate
sessions and had fun doing the wonderful summer camp activities. We
enjoyed fishing, boating, swimming, shopping, bowling, picnics, games
and more. A wonderful time was had by all.
Please visit Camp Dogwood if you have never done so. We do not know of
anyone who has ever been there who did not simply love it and who was
not determined to come back the next year.
Four of our members attended the national convention from July 1-6.
Attending the convention were: Gary Ray, Linda Ray, Gary Davis, Darlene
Davis, and Daniel Davis. They participated in several technology-related
meetings such as the talking teleprompter meeting, the K-1000 user's
group, and worked in the vendor hall. Gary and Darlene Davis displayed
products to prospective buyers and Daniel Davis sold the actual products
from the inventory.
The Davis family toured the Kennedy Space Center, where they saw one of
the real space shuttles, which, according to Gary Davis, would have not
been blind friendly to fly. They saw movies, did simulations and visited
museums. They even went to various areas of interest in Orlando.
The hotel staff were very friendly and helpful. The necessary
arrangements for blind-friendliness were made including a really good
area for guide dogs. Meetings were held on a wide variety of topics and
the members of our state delegation even had their own-caucus meeting.
The Asheville Smokeys bowling league started on September 6. Two of our
members, Doug Smith and Kim Owen bowled the first games of the new
bowling season. If there is anyone out there in a community with a blind
bowling league, you might just like to join for fun and a good social
experience.
Another state convention is behind us. Five of the BFB's members: Billy
Gary Ray, Morrissey, Joanne Baker, Kim Owen and Doug Smith attended this
year's convention which was held at the Holiday Inn Bordeaux in
Fayetteville. There were presentations on leadership, how the Federation
works, a technology track and more. A good time was had by all. Our
treasurer Gary Ray received the pie in the face for the most money in
the student division fund raiser.
Mecklenburg County
by Belveia Benzenhafer, Sec.
The Mecklenburg chapter continues to grow. As of now, we have 39
members. Fifteen of our members went to the national convention. We also
had sixteen members go to the state convention.
Our focus has been on a bingo fundraiser. That was held Oct. 11 and was
very successful. There was lots of public education with family, friends
and volunteers.
We hope everyone has a wonderful holiday in every way, and we will be
talking to you next year.
NEWS FLASH!
News and Views Mailing List Cleanup Coming in 2014
You are reading the last issue of the News and Views that is going out
based on our old mailing list. The State Board decided to send the
newsletter to paid NFB of NC members only starting in 2014. Folks who
will receive the newsletter are those who are paid-up members of one of
our local chapters or current paid-up Members at Large.
So, how do you get on the list? Make sure you are a current dues-paying
member of a local chapter or a current dues-paying Member at Large. The
first method is pretty simple... pay your 2014 dues to your local
chapter. Each chapter is responsible for letting us know who is paid up
and should be getting the newsletter and in what format. Members at
Large, on the other hand, are responsible for their own membership
status. At the recent State Convention, a number of Members at Large
were approved. These will be the only Members at Large who will be added
to the mailing list. And these Members at Large will need to pay dues in
2014 to stay on the list. We hope to contact current Members at Large to
let them know they need to pay dues, but it is the responsibility of the
Member at Large to ensure that their dues are paid in a timely manner.
If you need to know if you are paid up as a Member at Large, contact
Sharon Weddington.
According to the State Constitution, all Members at Large must be voted
in as Members at Large by either the State Board or by the State
Convention. We are putting a copy of the Member at Large application in
this newsletter. We are not going to contact everyone on the old list,
so if you are not a member of a local chapter, you will need to take
action to keep getting the newsletter.
Convention Blitz
by Tim Jones
We want to thank everyone for your participation in the ticket drawing
fundraising project. Because of you & your efforts, it was another
success! Now for the exciting news...our winners are as follows: $300
Walmart Card: Eva Carter, Winston Salem; $100 gas card: Rodney Turner,
Gastonia; $50 Cracker Barrel Card: Edna Dawson, Fayetteville. So, as you
can tell, it pays to participate as you are also funding the movement.
The chapter that sold the most tickets at 399 tickets was awarded a $50
cash prize; that went to South Iredale. Congratulations, everyone and
thanks for a job well done!
As host chapter of the 2013 state convention, The Harnett County Chapter
would like to send out a big shout out of THANKS to our sister chapter,
Cumberland County. Walter House & Gloria Thomas were a tremendous
support with the hospitality room. And, of course, a big thank you to
Julius Locklear for his contributions of the delicious snacks. Thanks to
Trish, David, and the Wilson County chapter who did an outstanding job
with our door prizes.
Enjoy the upcoming holiday season. Best wishes to you and your families.
Tim
LET'S LAUGH!
By Mary Le O'Daniel
Did you hear what happened last week? No, what happened? Well, a naked
man ran out of the woods and all the way through town with a bear
following right behind him. Good night, then what? Of course the sheriff
came and arrested him, took him off to jail. What for? Well, everybody
knows you can't run through town with a bare behind.
Robert Leslie Newman
Personal Website-
Adjustment To Blindness And Visual impairment
http//www.thoughtprovoker.info
NFB Writers' Division, president
http://writers.nfb.org
Chair of the NFB Communications Committee
Nebraska Senior Division, Vice President
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