[stylist] 2012 Summer Fall Magnets and Latters
Robert Leslie Newman
newmanrl at cox.net
Tue Sep 25 01:49:33 UTC 2012
Hey you all! Here is the latest copy of this fine mag. Check it out, around
a dozen of the pieces in this issue were written by NFB Writers 'Division
members.
MAGNETS AND LADDERS
Active Voices of Writers with Disabilities
Fall/Winter 2012/2013
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Editorial and Technical Staff
Coordinating Editor: Marilyn Brandt Smith
Fiction: Lisa Busch, Kate Chamberlin, Valerie Moreno, Marilyn Brandt Smith,
and Abbie Johnson Taylor
Nonfiction: Kate Chamberlin, Valerie Moreno, Nancy Scott, John W. Smith,
and Marilyn Brandt Smith
Poetry: Lisa Busch, Valerie Moreno, Nancy Scott, and Abbie Johnson Taylor
Technical Assistants: Jayson Smith and John Weidlich
Internet Specialist: Julie Posey
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Submission Guidelines
Disabled writers may submit up to three selections per issue. Deadlines are
February 15 for the Spring/Summer issue, and August 15 for the Fall/Winter
issue. Writers must disclose their disability in their biography or in
their work. Biographies may be up to 100 words in length, and should be
written in third-person.
Poetry maximum length is 50 lines. Memoir, fiction, and nonfiction maximum
length is 2500 words. In all instances, our preference is for shorter
lengths than the maximum allowed. Please single-space all submissions, and
use a blank line to separate paragraphs and stanzas. It is important to
spell check and proofread all entries. Previously published material and
simultaneous submissions are permitted provided you own the copyright to
the work. Please cite previous publisher and/or notify if work is accepted
elsewhere.
We do not feature advocacy, activist, "how-to," or "what's new" articles
regarding disabilities. Innovative techniques for better writing as well as
publication success stories are welcome. Announcements of writing contests
with deadlines beyond October 1 and April 1 respectively are welcome.
Content will include many genres, with limited attention to the disability
theme.
Please email all submissions to submissions at magnetsandladders.org. Paste
your submission and bio into the body of your email or attach in Microsoft
Word format. If submitting Word documents, please put your name and the
name of your piece at or near the top of the document. Submissions will be
acknowledged within two weeks. You will be notified if your piece is
selected for publication.
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About Behind Our Eyes
Behind Our Eyes, Inc. is a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization enhancing the
opportunities for writers with disabilities. Our anthology published in
2007, "Behind Our Eyes: Stories, Poems, and Essays by Writers with
Disabilities," is available at Amazon.com and from other booksellers. It is
available in recorded and Braille format from the National Library Service
for the Blind and Physically Handicapped. Several members of our group meet
by moderated teleconference twice monthly to hear speakers; share work for
critique; or receive tips on accessibility, publication, and suggested
areas of interest.
Our mailing list is a low-traffic congenial place to share work in
progress; learn about submission requests; and to ask and answer writing
questions. We are preparing for a second anthology and would like to have
you come aboard. For the conference phone number and PIN, join our mailing
list by contacting Donna Grahmann at dgrahmann at sbcglobal.net.
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Contents
Editorial and Technical Staff
Submission Guidelines
About Behind Our Eyes
EDITORS' WELCOME
I. BEHIND THE WORDS, BEYOND THE MOMENT
"BUT ARE YOU DRESSED YET?" memoir
by Nancy Scott
The Art of Dying, memoir
by Bonnie Blose
The Nicest Little Friend, fiction
by Nicole Bissett
MOTHER AND CHILD REUNION, memoir
by Terri Winaught
To a Roomful of Young Mothers, circa 1975, poetry
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
The Willows Weep, memoir
(In loving memory of my grandmother Clarisse)
by Myrna Badgerow
Into a Memory, memoir
by Robert Kingett
Trouble's in Town, memoir
by Ed Potter
Unforgettable Neighbor, memoir
by Barbara Mattson
Lost Lake, poetry
by Leonard Tuchyner
II. POETS' FOOTPRINTS: LOVE, LOSS, AND SURVIVAL
More Than Books, a Prose Poem
by Robert Kingett
Longing
by Norma Boge
AN ENDING
by Marsha Gaide
Eastward
by Laura Minning
But not today
by Shawn Jacobson
A Six-Word Poem
by Mary-Jo Lord
Journey
by Terri Winaught
III. THE WRITERS' CLIMB
A Review of a Writer's Companion from National Braille Press
by John Weidlich
Submissions from a Writing Class
Rainbow Journaling
by Kate Chamberlin
Writing an Abecedarian
by Abbie Johnson Taylor
Irreproducible, memoir
by Aly Parsons
Everyday Life--A Poem Lost, poetry
by Kathleen Winfield
On Writing: A Memory of the Craft, poetry
by Cala Estes
IV. GOOD YARNS, WELL-WOVEN
The Reality of Rejection, fiction
by Shawn Jacobson
Probabilities, fiction
by Manny Colver
Away Together, fiction
by Marilyn Brandt Smith
Cab Driver, fiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor
INVISIBLE INTRUDER, fiction
by Barbara Mattson
V. SHARING THE KINGDOM
In Our House, It's Not the Cat That Has Nine Lives, Pantoum poetry
by Mary-Jo Lord
Blind Cat's Bluff, memoir
by Valerie Moreno
Old Crow and the skunk, fiction
by Ernest Jones
My Little Neutrino, memoir
by Bruce Atchison
Sharing Your Gifts, fiction
by DeAnna (Quietwater) Noriega
Her Spirit Guide, nonfiction
by Eve Sanchez
When I Grow Up, I Want to Be a... memoir
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega
Omen from My Totem, poetry
by Leonard Tuchyner
The Wings of Man, fiction
by Myrna Badgerow
VI. THE 'EMBERS THROUGH THE 'ARYS
Grapevines through the Generations, memoir
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
The Safe Place, memoir
by Valerie Moreno
Drip, Drip, Drip, poetry
by Deon Lions
A Final Frontier, poetry
by Lynda J. Lambert
Wild Turkeys, Wild Montauk, poetry
by Ria Meade
The Box on the Porch, memoir
by Ed Potter
DECEMBER 25th, poetry
by Michael Price
Birds of Noel, memoir
by Judith E Vido
The Mighty Mountain, memoir
by Deon Lyons
WINTER CITRUS SALAD, poetry
by Nancy Scott
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EDITORS' WELCOME
We bring some surprises with this issue. Three grandmothers reach out: one
through herbs and broken English; another through 1960's technology; and
the last through a classic poem. Relations go south, and a man with murder
on his mind goes north. A skunk, a goat, and a housefly push the right
buttons to catch your laugh.
Would you like to take a writing class by phone; try a tricky poetry form?
There's a good resource book to help sort through those pesky words that
sound alike but don't have the same spellings or meanings. Personal
journaling doesn't have to be busywork. Moods, timestamps, and locations
can help you stay organized.
Music will be a section theme in the Spring/Summer issue. What instrument
broke? Who interrupted what song, and why? Did the beauty or challenge of
listening or learning give you a new perspective? Holidays, vacations, the
outdoors, romance, mystery, and memoir are only a few possibilities for
submissions, with or without a musical theme. Science fiction and music?
You never know.
You'll recognize some familiar authors if you've been a regular reader.
Welcoming new readers and writers reassures us that we're stretching in the
right directions. Please share your suggestions with us at our website, and
Email or call a friend who might like to join the fun and creativity.
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I. BEHIND THE WORDS, BEYOND THE MOMENT
"BUT ARE YOU DRESSED YET?" memoir
by Nancy Scott
"I'm up," I'd insist to the sibilant sibling 7:30 phone. It was our morning
disability ritual.
Mark knew my careful management--my Braille lists and disciplines and
myths. He likely also suspected my real desire. "Yes," he'd always sagely
say. "But are you dressed yet?" I imagined Mark's morning apparel and
accessories--boxers, bathrobe maybe, second cigarette, warm Diet Pepsi from
the bottle, TV remote and cordless. I also assumed he was back in bed.
Mark, my only brother, named his obesity and heart trouble and unwilling
knees "retirement" at forty-three, believing odd jobs counted more than his
current half-life. I, blind from birth, was "disabled."
Mark never made plans except for necessities. He preferred invention
suiting his whims. Was there nothing he still had to prove? Was there no
future success he wanted bragged about? Was it my success he chose because
I wanted it more? Without being ready for something, would I trade risk and
reward for a good book and pajamas under the covers? I rarely tempted
fashion's fate to find out.
Mark baked banana bread at 3 a.m. He only seriously cleaned when someone
visited. I was almost always asleep at 3 a.m. I polished furniture.
I bought Mark's last car so I'd have spur-of-the-moment adventures like
Jimmy's Hotdogs on the first really warm Spring day. He liked spur-of-the
moment adventures. But he hated people staring at the wheelchair he needed
for distances and at my white cane, thinking we were the sorriest of pairs.
I didn't think us sorry at all. We had time to create and play. He could
read print. And drive. I could reach high shopping shelves. And buy gas.
Together we could part a crowd.
Which one of us did Mark pity more?
--------------------
These days I whine, "Giving up is easier." Mark doesn't answer from his
perch near the ceiling, even when I point at where he must be.
Nine years beyond his voice, my callings are not calling. I have a
list--cleaning, phone calls, pieces to read and write, and even some noble
causes. I still hope for, but more rarely get, good surprises (the kind
that don't change my landscape too much). And I spend more time willing
away bad surprises.
Today I'm up at 6:30. Because I forgot a small chore I will have to settle
for warm Diet Pepsi in a glass, but I am dressed by 7. Maybe I will find
the perfect place to submit one of my essays, or someone will bring me
banana bread.
Nancy Scott, Easton PA, is an essayist and poet. Her over 550 bylines have
appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies and newspapers, and
as audio commentaries. Recent work appears in Breath and Shadow,
Contemporary Haibun Online, Thema, Whistling Fire, and Wordgathering. Her
third chapbook, co-authored with artist Maryann Riker, is entitled "The
Nature of Beyond." Her essay "One Night at Godfrey's" won First Prize in
the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest.
--------------------
The Art of Dying, memoir
by Bonnie Blose
"I think you should see Grandpa before you leave for school," my father
said somberly. "I don't think he has very long."
With those words, fear entered the kitchen and took residence in my heart
on that April day.
"I'll see him when I get home. If I don't leave right now, I'll miss the
bus."
"He may not be here then. You may not have another chance."
Climbing those stairs to my grandfather's room was the last thing I wanted
to do, but I managed to find the courage. Since he was unable to speak, I
stood quietly by his bed for just a few moments and then left. Through the
wall that connected our two rooms in the double house we shared with my
grandparents, I had spent a long night listening to my grandfather's
labored breathing. My father had no idea how difficult what he was asking
would be.
At the age of six, my childhood friend Barbara died the very night after I
stayed over at her house. Both totally blind since birth, we met in a
special education class. As I made my way to my grandfather's room, I
remembered what happened at her viewing. My dad asked if I would like to
say goodbye. When I said yes, he took my hand. We walked across the room.
He placed my hand on something hard and cold. It was Barbara. I was
touching her, and she was dead. It took everything in me not to scream.
Would I have to touch grandpa too? I shuddered at the thought.
As my father had predicted, my grandfather died four hours later,
succumbing at 69 to an end brought on by a heart attack and effects of
long-term drinking. I was 13.
Although I knew he was gone, I could still hear the sound of his heavy
breathing on the other side of the door. Would death come to steal me too?
Could its hunger ever be satisfied? Was anyone strong enough to keep it at
bay? Who would listen to my fears?
I had learned early that people leave. Like a thief in the night, death
stalks its prey. It always wins. When my grandfather died, I knew no one
could save me if death had other plans. Too afraid to sleep in my room, I
started sleeping on the living room couch.
"I know why you sleep downstairs," my brother Rick said. "You're afraid
grandpa will come take you away if you sleep in your room."
"No, I'm not. I just like sleeping down here," I denied hotly.
We didn't use the word death in my family. If it was referred to at all, it
was couched in phrases such as, "the last time I saw him, I thought it
would happen soon. He didn't look good." "I was afraid of that. She looked
so sick when I saw her a couple weeks ago."
Hospitals offered little hope. If someone went to a doctor, he would
probably send them to the hospital. I would never see that person again.
In July of 1974, my sister called with devastating news. She told me our
mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I was attending a college
preparatory program at Syracuse University for part of that summer. During
the drive home, my father told me she was dying. When I was not visiting my
mother at the hospital, I could forget the intravenous medications and
hospital smells of her room. I could remember her planting flowers and
caring for the family she loved. In daily phone conversations, she tried
hard to hide her pain. I tried hard not to notice. It was a dance of denial
designed to keep the truth away a little longer. One day, in a voice filled
with pain so deep I could have cut it with a knife, I knew she was really
dying. Although neither of us said the words, death was there on the phone
line between us.
My mother died four days after her 58th birthday. That August day changed
my life. I had just turned 21. How could loved ones just disappear?
In college, I took a course on Death And Dying, interviewed half a dozen
people about the death of someone close to them. The fear remained.
In a late night conversation, I told a friend two boys I had crushes on in
high school died two years after I graduated. Attempting to lighten the
serious mood, she called me "Typhoid Bonnie." I wondered if there was some
truth in those words. Why was death such a huge part of my life?
Many years later, I became a friend of a woman who would change my view of
dying. Alice attended a local church. The minister there introduced us. He
thought she might help me with grocery shopping.
As our friendship grew, we shared a love of books and spent hours at local
libraries. Alice Carroll would describe pictures on book covers saying,
"Oh, this sounds so good. Listen to this. I have to read this." Alice loved
steamy romances, fast-paced murder mysteries and true crime. She enjoyed
the Christian fiction of Janette Oke and Grace Livingston Hill. My friend
loved life and lived it joyfully, enthusiastically, completely. I looked
forward to many more hours talking and laughing with her experiencing
complete happiness in being a part of her world.
One day, she called with exciting news.
"Guess what?" she said.
"I can't imagine," I replied, smiling in to the phone, eager to hear her
news. "Just tell me."
"My daughter Lucy is going to have a baby. I'm so excited."
"That's wonderful news. I am so thrilled for you."
The months flew by. Lucy had a baby girl she named Casey. At a yard sale
one Saturday, she told me how much she was looking forward to rocking her.
Unfortunately, she had no rocking chair. We found one at that yard sale. I
bought it for her wishing her many hours of rocking her grandbaby as she
drifted into sleep.
"Have you heard Alice Carroll is in the hospital?" my son Kevin asked a few
months later.
"No. I just saw her last week. We went grocery shopping. Will she be in
long?"
"Mom, Alice Carroll is dying. She has pancreatic cancer. The minister of
her church told me. He wanted me to tell you."
I remembered a day just a few months before. Alice and I were going on a
picnic to a local park with my dog Sunshine. She called me at the last
minute saying she did not feel well. I told her she was probably just
getting a cold. Was that day a harbinger of what was to come?
I went to the hospital to see her several times over the next couple
months. Always positive and filled with absolute faith, she never lost
hope. Over and over, Alice told me God would work everything out. We
discussed how she felt about dying. Although money was limited, Alice
Carroll was rich in spirit. She counted her blessings, a family, friends, a
life she loved. I thought of the baby just a few months old Alice would
never rock or hold again. How could she be so ready to go?
During my last visit to her in the hospital, I started to cry. I wiped the
tears away quickly, hoping she hadn't seen. "Please don't hide your tears,
Bonnie. They show me you love me. Everyone tries so hard to hide their
feelings. Don't ever hide love. It's fine to cry in front of me. I
understand."
"I will miss you so much. You shouldn't have to see me sad. I should be
here for you."
"Bonnie, you are here for me. I care about how you feel, that you hurt. I
just want you to be honest with me. I am sad that all we have done together
is going to end too. I have had a good life. I am ready. Please believe
that. I love you and I am so glad I got to know you. We had so much fun
together."
Alice Carroll died a few days later two weeks before Thanksgiving. In her
dying, she taught me much about living. I learned dying could be done
graciously if life was lived that way. She taught me the value of reliving
the treasured moments I cherished. In our time together, I realized both
life and death require tremendous courage and could be faced without fear
or bitterness. Her dying was happening to both of us. Alice never forgot
that. May I have the courage and grace Alice Carroll had when I turn that
page.
Bio: Bonnie Blose grew up in Pennsylvania Dutch country. She studied social
work at the bachelor's level and attended business college. Reading is her
passion. Bonnie hosts a weekly radio show, "Books and Beyond," where she
interviews authors and others associated with the publishing business. She
moderates a local book club and coordinates telephone reading on the
Philmore voicemail system. She writes essays and enjoys music. Bonnie
earned a lay-speaker's award in her region. She lives with her cats in
eastern Ohio.
--------------------
The Nicest Little Friend, fiction
by Nicole Bissett
I knew early in my existence why I was created. I was different to begin
with, because I was created to be a granny doll, to smile and be happy just
to love and watch over a little girl. And happy to love her, I was. It was
never an act. I think my little girl sensed that. I also think she sensed
that I could understand things, because I did my best to talk to her.
But I knew one day I would be put aside in favor of other, more grown-up
toys as my little girl got older. In fact, I really thought it would happen
a lot sooner than it did. It would have, had my first little girl, Carry,
decided to keep me. A doll can sense when a little girl loves her, and I
knew I was just another doll to carry, one she really didn't much like. But
Nikki came over to play one day, and told Carry she liked Mrs. Beasley
dolls. That was when Carry gave me to her.
Nikki particularly liked talking dolls. Her Traci doll and her Drowsy were
two other favorites, because they talked, too. That was why they came along
with us to camp. But I always knew she especially loved me.
Nikki played with me long after she knew it wasn't really "cool" to play
with dolls. I went on many adventures with her. She even took me to school
some days. I was right by her side when she discovered she had the Chicken
pox and when she cried with homesickness at summer camp. I went on ski
trips and to her grandmother's. I lived with her in several homes as well
when the family moved from one state to the other.
I think I really knew just how much she loved me when she was eight. It was
the fall after camp, and the family was moving. One of the neighborhood
kids pulled my string out, which disabled my voice box. Her daddy tried to
get it fixed, but I ended up losing my voice box altogether. Poor Nikki
cried and cried. I think it upset her more than it upset me. But she still
played with me all the time after that. She didn't want another Mrs.
Beasley doll. Only I would do.
I was whatever she wanted me to be. When she got older, she started naming
me Olivia, after Olivia Newton John, and Mindy, after the gal on Mork and
Mindy. She cut the curl off the top of my head and sprayed me with many
different perfumes. I knew this haircut of hers didn't make me very pretty,
but as long as Nikki loved me and still wanted to play with me, nothing
else mattered.
When the Tom Selleck posters started going up on her wall, old Mrs. Beasley
went up on the shelf, but I didn't mind. I still kept a good eye on her,
and I could always hear the goings on in her little room.
By the time Nikki had moved out and had a little boy of her own as so many
little girls do, her parents had given most of her dolls away, or worse,
thrown them away. But I sat on a shelf in the house for years before being
moved to the garage. I was glad not to have been thrown out like the
others, but I felt tired and old, and a part of me went away with Nikki.
Truth be known, even if someone else wanted a Mrs. Beasley doll as much as
Nikki had wanted me, I didn't want anyone else.
So I was broken-hearted when her dad suddenly put me in a box one day. I
hate boxes! Not just because there's no breathing room in there, but they
always remind me of the anticipation of being given away. I didn't like
them even when I was being sold.
Now, I was going somewhere, but I didn't know where. It saddened me, and
inside that box, I cried. I thought he was finally giving me away, or
worse, possibly throwing me away! After all, what use would a little girl
have for a doll in my condition? I had little tears everywhere, no
voicebox, and I was dirty. To top it off, I was practically bald!
I was pleasantly surprised and delighted when a lady opened my box and
actually spoke to me! No one has spoken to me since Nikki put me away, and
the mom gave away most of the other dolls. Though Nikki's parents knew how
special I was to her, I think only Nikki suspected I understood things.
This lady apparently did, too.
"Hello, Mrs. Beasley," she said. "I'm Dr. Terri. I'm very glad to see you!"
I liked Dr. Terri. She was very nice to me, even though she kept exclaiming
over the shape I was in.
"You're gonna be in surgery for quite a while, I think," she told me. "From
the looks of you, I'm afraid it's gonna be big surgery, but when you're
done, you'll be as good as new."
Then what? I was going to be sold after all? Well, at least I wasn't thrown
away like so many other dolls were.
Dr. Terri brought me down to a room with an entire row of brand new dolls,
or so it seemed. She brought me over to a drowsy doll (another doll Nikki
had loved), and sat me beside her. She looked new. "See drowsy?" she said.
"Soon, you're gonna look just as good as new, just like her."
I had to admit, all of this sounded like more adventure than I had been on
in years! I missed going places with Nikki. It was also fun to finally have
someone to talk to.
"Hi," said Drowsy. "I'm Drowsy."
"I know," I said. "My last little girl had one."
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I was fixed up for someone," she said. "All the dolls who come here get
fixed up for someone. I was a mess, too, before Dr. Terri fixed me. Though,
if you don't mind my saying, you look worse than I did!"
"Flattery will get you nowhere.'
'Sorry, but ya do.'
"Fixed up for who?'
"A man doll. Maybe you're being fixed up for Mr. Beasley."
"A man doll! Gracious me! At my age?"
Drowsy laughed. 'Just kidding. I don't know who I'm going to. Some lady. I
was sold by the little girl who used to own me."
"Who am I going to?"
"Probably some lady who likes old dolls like us. Girls don't like to play
with us anymore. I guess they like iPhones and gameboys and stuff. People
think it's weird for little girls to carry us around."
"My last little girl carried me everywhere," I told her.
"Mine didn't, but the one before her did. Then she died from Leukemia it
broke my heart."
Then I was really sad. I never thought my precious Nikki would give me
away, even though her parents had given everyone else away. Maybe her
parents were giving me away. Then a thought worse than anything occurred to
me. Nikki couldn't have died... could she?
I didn't suppose I could play with another little girl in the shape I was
in. Even if she fixed me, I was old and tired and felt it, too.
I went to sleep that night with a heavy heart, but when I awakened, I felt
different. I smelled different, too. I felt a vitality I hadn't known in
years.
"Now you look pretty again," Dr. Terri said. "See? I'm sure you can see a
lot better now." She put me up to a mirror, and I couldn't believe my eyes,
which could see much better with my glasses on! My hair was curly and
fluffy again. My cloth smelled and looked clean, and my body looked firm
again! Then, she did something that made me realize what had happened. She
pulled my string. I had a voice box again! "You took me twelve hours, girl!
But I fixed you all up, and now you're ready to go!" Go where?
I stayed with Dr. Terri another week. As much as I felt better, that talk
with drowsy and other dolls really made me sad. Maybe it would have been
best for me to rot in that garage. I didn't want another little girl, or
just some other lady to put me on a shelf again. What was the purpose in
that? It wasn't what I was created for!
The day came when it was time for me to go. I guess she wanted me to
recover there. But I still had no clue where I was going!
It was fun getting to know the other dolls, but I wanted to get this
departure over with. I did my best to look at the bright side of things as
I always had. Looking at the bright side always helped me keep that smile
and the joy in my voice when Nikki pulled my string. Surely, this new
person, lady or girl, would love me, or she wouldn't have ordered me.
A few days later, I arrived. I couldn't see through the box, but the voices
sounded very much like Nikki's parents. I waited for what felt like forever
for someone to let me out of the box, and finally, someone did.
The voice of the lady opening the box sounded a little familiar. She had a
deeper voice, but the inflection was the same. I could hardly believe it
when the grown-up version of my little girl Nikki pulled me out and hugged
me! "Wow! You look great!" she cried. "I've missed you!
I looked up into her green eyes. She looked mature now; her hair no longer
short like it was as a child. It was shoulder-length with hints of gray.
But she looked every bit as happy to see me as she did the day Carry gave
me to her. I should have known she wouldn't give me away. She held my
stomach gently and pulled my string. "I do think you're the nicest little
friend I ever had!" I said. That was one of her favorite things I said to
her, and, judging by her huge smile, it still was. Best of all, it was
true.
I loved my voice box and was glad to have it back again. That was how I
could communicate with Nikki in a way she could understand, and she always
did. "If you could have three wishes, what would you wish for?" I said when
she pulled my string again. She just laughed, hugged me, and said "I
already got what I wished for!" She was talking to me again, amusingly
enough, in that same squeaky little girl voice she used to use when talking
to me. Life was good again!
Nikki talks to me all the time now. I live at her house with her and her
husband and her grown boy. I don't go many places with her like I used to,
because Nikki knows I'm fragile now. I still feel some of my age, but it's
so nice to know I'm still loved and cared for. I am so much more blessed
than most dolls, because I don't think I'll ever be put away. Nikki really
did love me more than everyone else. That was, and is, all I ever need to
know.
Author's note:
Okay, admit it: if you are a grown girl of the sixties or seventies, wasn't
there a treasured doll friend you had like Mrs. Beasley? If so, Dr. Terri
is real. Her name is Terri crane, the founder of Mattel Collectables. If
you have an old doll like Mrs. Beasley you've always wanted to get
restored, or if you lost a doll and want one just like her, you can email
her at mattelcollectables at gmail.com. You can also hear the voices of the
other talkers she has on her Youtube channel, terribear61.
Bio: Nicole Bissett lives in La Mesa, CA, with her husband Harry. She holds
a bachelors degree in journalism with a minor in English.
Her profile articles appear regularly in Today's Vintage Magazine and the
Insurance Journal. She has written for "The Jonestown Report," and has been
a volunteer transcriber for the Jonestown Institute. Several of her pieces
appeared in "The Gratitude Book Project," which became a number one Amazon
best-seller in December, 2010. She also acts as a ghost-writer for Kevin
Cole, a life coach who founded Empowerment Quest International.
Nicole can be reached at nicolebissett1969 at gmail.com.
--------------------
MOTHER AND CHILD REUNION, memoir
by Terri Winaught
It was Saturday, September 3rd, 1994, the day dawning bright and clear. As
I walked to my friend Nan's van, the sun reminded me with its warmth that
it was still summer. Although my ride to Downtown Pittsburgh was mostly
silent, my mind was far from quiet. Like marathon runners, a world of What
If's raced through my expansive imagination.
"What will my son think of me? Will he ask why I placed him for adoption?
Does he equate adoption with being discarded like a toy that a child got
tired of too soon after Christmas?"
"We're at McDonald's," Nan startled me away from my thoughts. "If I'd known
you were going to "give" Glenn away," she continued, "I would have taken
him. "He was such a beautiful baby!" she ended wistfully.
"I didn't "give" him away," I responded defensively. "I made what I thought
was the most loving decision based on my circumstances at the time."
Not wanting to debate the pros and cons of adoption, I slid to the end of a
booth and ordered coffee and apple pies. I also returned to my tumbling
thoughts.
"My son knows that I'm white because he's been asking why he's so much
lighter than everybody else, and he said that was cool," I remembered.
"Does he know that I'm blind?" I wondered. "How will he feel about that?
Are there any children with disabilities where he goes to school?"
"We're here," Glenn's adoptive Mom and birth father, also named Glenn,
announced.
"Hi, Kathleen," I said, trying not to sound nervous as I extended a clammy
hand. Almost immediately, I was clutching the hand of a precious little boy
I hadn't seen since he was four months old. As I recalled the sound of his
cry at birth, and his contented coos after eating, I wondered what Glenn
sounded like now as a ten-year-old.
"Hello, ma'am," Glenn said shyly.
"Hi, sweetheart," I replied. "It's so wonderful to see you again."
"It's good to meet you, too," Glenn responded with the same shy tone as
before.
"What school do you go to?" I asked.
"I go to Monessen Elementary," Glenn answered. "I really like it, and I'm a
straight A student," he told me proudly.
"WOW!! That's awesome," I exclaimed.
"Glenn, do you play any sports?"
"I'm going to try out for soccer. I really like it."
We talked on for a while, exchanging interests and answering questions. A
fragile bond could develop from this meeting. We knew we shared a common
heritage.
"We'll have to leave soon so we don't miss the bus back to Monessen,"
Glenn's Dad informed Nan and me.
"Kathleen, I really want to thank you for being such a great Mom," I
ventured cautiously as we walked to the ladies' room. "You are Glenn's
"real" Mom in every way that matters," I continued. "Also, I want to
apologize for how awful I was to you years ago. Feeling sad about giving up
my son and being in the worst phase of my mental illness were no excuses to
have been such a bitch," I concluded.
"God says we're supposed to forgive others the way He forgave us," Kathleen
accepted my apology. We exchanged contact information; I said goodbye to
Glenn and thanked his Dad for arranging our reunion.
"You know, when I said that I felt Glenn should know about his mixed race
heritage because he might have lots of questions, I never thought I'd
actually get to see him," I said quietly after taking Glenn's Dad aside.
"Well, Glenn said he wanted to meet you, so why wouldn't I let him?"
"Well, I want you to know just how much this means to me. In fact, I just
have to say it: For doing something this special for me, you should be
cloned!"
"No," Glenn assured me. "One of me is enough!"
"Glennie wants to ask you something." Kathleen motioned to Nan and me as we
were about to leave.
"What is it, honey?"
"I can't call Kathleen Mom anymore, can I? I guess I have to call her
Kathleen." As I heard the confused sadness in Glenn's voice, I imagined a
big, brightly colored balloon that had just been deflated.
"No, sweetheart. You absolutely can still call Kathleen Mom because she is
your Mom in every way that matters. You just happen to have two Moms," I
explained with a reassuring hug.
"Thank you, and I hope I can see you again."
"You certainly can, and I can't wait."
As I headed back to Nan's van, I realized just how much I had to be
thankful for. My What If's had melted like chocolate drops in a child's
tiny, clenched hand. They were replaced by the healing reassurance that
only love can bring--love--and the unmatched joy of a mother and child
reunion.
Bio: Terri Winaught is a feature writer for the Matilda Ziegler Magazine.
She also writes for the quarterly newsletter where she works at a
Pittsburgh-based mental health organization.
She belongs to an auxiliary which raises money for Saint Paul of the Cross
Monastery where she also sings in the choir. As a member of the Church's
fundraising arm, Terri created a Chinese auction gift basket entirely of
her poetry which was matted and placed in frames.
Terri enjoys watching or attending Pittsburgh Pirates games to cheer the
team on, sometimes boo the umpires and enjoy ball park food.
Terri can be reached at twinaught at comcast.net.
--------------------
To a Roomful of Young Mothers, circa 1975, poetry
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
I know when, in a room full of people,
I felt most alone--
most different.
No, not when I was the only blind person:
I could and can easily deal with those common occurrences.
In a beige room, with wood-paneled walls,
you, the several young women, sitting on over-stuffed chairs and sofa,
softly and happily conversing about your children and babies,
made me feel the most alone--
the most different.
Echoes from the motherhood kept swirling around me,
but you all went on and on--
your never including me,
my never finding an entry door to your hood.
In the midst of cacophony,
I knew that I fully accepted the news
of a Saint Louis specialist's telling me,
then age21,
that I should never have children.
Compliant, I could live with never having babies;
but could I exist with never being a part
of the mother klatch?
Exercising nonconformity,
I never wanted to pledge a sorority;
nevertheless, even after college,
you formed other sororities
to which I could never belong.
I accept that I am a peripheral person:
I am childless, but I am dogful.
Dear young ladies
who could only talk on one topic,
thank you for letting me find and adopt
other circles of cherubic complacency.
Bio: Since writing her first poem about poodles in second grade,
Wisconsinite Alice Jane-Marie Massa has relished writing poetry, memoirs,
dramas, and children's books. Recently retired from 20 years of full-time
work at a technical college where she taught writing and public speaking,
Ms. Massa now plans to devote more time to submitting her creative
endeavors for publication. In earlier years, her poems and articles were
published in Dialogue, Leader Dog Update, Newsreel, local newspapers and
newsletters. Away from her desk, she most enjoys long walks with her third
Leader Dog, Zoe.
--------------------
The Willows Weep, memoir
(In loving memory of my grandmother Clarisse)
by Myrna Badgerow
As I sort through the hidden treasures in my life, there is one memory that
keeps insinuating itself upon other remembrances, like a ticking clock that
only grows louder at three a.m. I suspect that the heroine of my memory is
the culprit but that would be another story.
A heroine. My grandmother would blush and then, not so politely, dismiss
such words as a 'Cajun joke with no back end.' But to those who knew
'Taunte Clarisse,' as she was affectionately known, she was even more than
a heroine. To me, she was just my 'ma mere', a grandmother who loved me and
had a very special place in her heart for her youngest grandchild.
And as the willows bend but breaking not
With branches weeping strength's charade
She stood tall among the cypress brutes
A quiet spirit's impressions made
Uneducated in the true definition of literacy, yet possessing a wealth of
knowledge that often amazed me, she spoke a form of broken English that is
common among those of Acadian descent. I soon learned that she understood
English quite well and I, on the other hand, comprehended the singsongy
language of the Creole French. Conversations where each spoke in comfort
were many and, although confusing for others, we never seemed to notice the
oddity of it. Thinking back now, there is so much I should have asked but
didn't. Children and even young adults often do not acknowledge mortality,
especially of those we love most dearly.
'Ma mere' was a midwife and a 'treateuse', a healer of faith and herbal
medicine. Her days of midwifery were over before even my earliest
recollections, for I was her last delivery. I believe this is why we were
so very close over the years, like the last seed you plant and then watch
grow into maturity. And watch me, she did! But I watched too! I learned
about humility, honesty, and respect from this tiny lady whose hands were
blessed with the gift of healing.
Hands that held the gift of life
In humble respect of blessing given
Secrets kept of ancient lore
Upon the chosen's soul 'tis written
I know some scoff at the idea of faith healing and that is neither here nor
there. It was the herbal medicine that was the actual healer and the hands
were simply the ministers of such. She knew this and never claimed that she
could perform miracles; but she was gifted with the ancient knowledge of
herbs. As was the custom, none of the secrets were written for reference.
The recipes were inscribed upon her soul and kept safe within her heart.
Salves and teas, purges and lotions, each had their purpose and
significance; yet, together, they were a collection of treasures, hidden
promises from those who came before. Tradition deemed that the gift be
passed onto the chosen one just as the ancients had done before. Time and
fate determined this was not to be. Even after so many years have come and
gone, I wonder why she kept these treasures hidden. Perhaps the burden of
growing old became too much, or the burden of the gift itself caused her
uncertainty and concern for the chosen one.
Her last days were spent in the sleep of near-death with only wisps of
consciousness. I never doubted that she knew who came to say their goodbyes
for each left a tear upon her cheek. Oddly, I was the last of the
grandchildren to approach her bedside but in retrospect, I'm sure fate had
deemed it be so. Clasping her hand in mine, I bent to kiss her paper-thin
wrinkled cheek and felt the whisper of one word against my own. 'You' was
all she said but I knew without being told the significance of that one
word. An aunt standing nearby brushed a tear from my cheek and nodded. A
few hours later, 'Ma mere' passed away and with her last breath, her gift
of healing was lost forever and the ancients wept their tears of sadness.
As the willows weep their lingered tears
The ancients sorrow in finality
Hidden treasures now withered and dead
Lost to the secrets of eternity
One final thought...
I miss her
and the willows weep still.
Bio: Myrna Badgerow, a graduate of The Louisiana School for the Blind,
makes her home in the bayou country of southern Louisiana. She enjoys
writing, reading, helping young writers, and spending time with family. She
began writing seriously in 2000 and was nominated for the 2008 Pushcart
Award by the editors of Mississippi Crow magazine, named 2004's Poet of the
Year at The Writing Forum, and also has a credit as lyricist on a CD
released by the band Against the Wall. Myrna serves on the Board of
Directors of the National Federation of the Blind's Writing Division.
--------------------
Into a Memory, memoir
by Robert Kingett
When I was little, I did not wander as a cloud. I floated on one. I have to
admit that much later, when the assignment was given to us to write about a
poem, I did not think I would find one that would capture my interest or my
memory. For days, my ears would burn the table of contents as my fingers
struck down page numbers in a hopeless search to find something that I
could connect with, for something that I could write about and have it be
genuine. I was lost and my hopes for finding a poem that would even hold my
interest long enough to allow me to write about it seemed to be an
impossible reach. I was a bibliophile at heart, but I did not like writing
about poetry. I enjoyed reading it, but writing about it was a different
kind of circle of hell. On my fifth haphazard hunt through the table of
contents, my ears caught something that I had not noticed. I was instantly
drawn because it sounded familiar. "I wandered lonely as a cloud." By
William Wordsworth. I wanted to see why the poem sounded familiar. I had an
odd sense that it would be significant to my life, but I did not know why
it would be or even how. I wanted to explore the kind of emotional journey
that this poem would take me through, and so I did.
After listening to the first line, I was instantly transported to a memory
that I did not even know I had. It is late at night, and I am six. I
remember feeling the Braille calendar poised in my lap, my finger tracing
the soft indentations of the moons among the days. A sound erupts from the
living room and I look up, my ears picking up every shift of the air just a
few rooms from me. Shouting soon breaks out as if I am in a pep rally. The
shouting grows louder and more obscene with each passing word. My mother
has made her appearance on stage yet again, and I start to sob. I am
guessing that Grandma and Grandpa are out in the fray as well, but I do not
want to be in here all alone. The shouting reaches a volume that I do not
even know exists, and my fright and anger mesh into one emotion as the
stupidity of the situation finally reaches me. As my mother and her husband
continue to scream at each other while mixing in some sounds of hitting and
smacking, and managing to produce sounds of someone hitting the table,
Grandma comes into the room. I know it is she because I can smell the peach
scented perfume that I always smell when she is within a few feet of me. It
is as if the smell alone is a blanket, about to wrap me up. My bedroom door
softly clicks shut, and tender shoes thud over to me. She takes my small
hand in hers.
"Are you ready for bed?" she asks me. I smile and nod, while all the while
trying to hide my anger at my stupid mother.
"Well, I'm sorry. I do not have a story for you tonight. All I have is this
book of poems your grandfather gave to me." I groan at the mention of
poetry. Even at that young age, I much prefer it when she reads me
something GOOD such as Nancy Drew or The Hardy Boys. Outside of my bubble
of safety, my mother starts to cry as grandpa yells at her about how stupid
she is acting. I hear pages slowly open. Grandma leans to read and
instantly I am taken to the place of golden daffodils, leaving the
screaming behind me.
"I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o'er vales and hills,
when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils." (lines 1-5)
I am soon floating on that cloud, looking at dancing yellow flowers. As
Grandma continues to read the poem to me, I feel a sense of peace. I am
flying, and the newly developed sounds of clashing in the kitchen are just
a faint whisper. We both are wandering as a cloud, but not lonely. I listen
with eagerness as she finishes the poem, allowing me to ignore the stupid
smashing sounds in the next room. Once she is all done, she tucks me in and
kisses me goodnight. She tells me she loves me and then leaves the room. I
soon drift on my own cloud of safety, finally able to feel calm and happy
enough to go to sleep. I am comfortable and soon floating on my own cloud
that is floating across vales and hills far from the treachery of the
world. I am safe.
That was when I was six. That memory of Grandma sprang to mind when I first
listened to the poem. I reread the poem after that, repeatedly, making it
my comfort poem. While I was reading the poem at that young age, I had a
literal visual interpretation of the poem. It seemed pretty logical and
obvious to me that that was what the poem meant, that the speaker was
looking down at golden flowers swaying in the wind. Back then, I pictured
vibrantly the golden tendrils swaying gently in the breeze, and some shadow
sitting up high on a pink cloud looking down at this dancing show. I do not
know when my interpretation changed, but it did.
I presume that it changed just after my grandmother died and I had no way
of escaping the domestic violence I had to endure. I would always wish that
Grandma would come softly into my room, click my door shut and take me with
her on a cloud high above the bad things in my life. With the passing of
years, I never saw or heard the poem again. Now, when I rediscovered the
poem, I was instantly six again, feeling a sense of love. I replayed the
poem, wearing out the skip back button on my CD player in order to keep
hold of the memory that this poem helped to bring back from the dead. I
loved this rare opportunity to smell Grandma's peach scented perfume again.
I loved the chance to hear her powerful delicately articulate voice read me
a poem to take away all the bad things in my life. Listening to the poem
now, I soon realized that I had a different interpretation.
Perhaps this interpretation came from her death when I was seven. The
speaker talks about how he is happy to watch "golden daffodils" dance. My
grandmother was always like that, happy to see, create, and experience pure
happiness. This poem, I believe, is what my grandmother sees and saw.
Because of this realization about my grandmother, I no longer have the same
image when I listen to the poem. I picture someone looking down on people,
but not just any people. I picture someone looking down at me, and other
people, some wealthy, some poor, some old, some young, some black, some
white, some Asian, and some of everything. All of us are dancing with an
airy display for our spectator. We all twirl and giggle as we all
choreograph a perfect rhythm. I no longer picture the shadow on top of the
cloud as having no face or figure. It now has a form and a shape to it. It
is someone I know. I picture the wrinkly old woman looking down at us
softly smiling. She is comfortable on the pink cloud, basking in her glory
and her peace. I am sure, if we were closer, we would smell the peach
scented perfume. I picture the old woman slowly bringing her wrinkled hands
together, clapping and shedding silent tears as she watches the spectacle.
I would like to think that she would be smiling at this point; glad to
finally have the opportunity to watch the best show in the world, the show
of a host of golden daffodils tossing our heads up in a sprightly dance.
Bio: Robert Kingett is a blind writer with cerebral palsy who attends
Bethune Cookman University, getting his degree in English literature. His
publications range from the Fred's Head blog to guest posts on popular
blogs. He attended the Florida school for the deaf and the blind where he
was the editor in chief, and initiator of the blind high school newspaper,
the cobras claw. Robert Kingett is also an advocate for the disabled.
--------------------
Trouble's in Town, memoir
by Ed Potter
>From the "Coffee with Ed" series
I worked in small-market radio broadcasting and production for thirteen
years. The possible drop-in of an FCC inspector was always expected with
holy terror. The grapevine was heavy with stations gossiping about the
truth and validity about the inspector being in the area.
Most inspectors I ran into were reasonable and nice, but very quiet guys.
You could tell they knew their power. Typically when an inspector came in,
after he identified himself, he headed for the bathroom--yeah, that's
right--probably giving people a chance to hide what they could and get in
order what they knew he was going to want to see.
The rules, I understand, state that a bathroom must be equipped with toilet
paper and paper towels. A $10,000 fine could be imposed for infractions. I
heard once that a South Carolina station had this fine levied, but...well,
you know how the rumor mill is.
FCC inspectors exhibited a combination of curiosity and suspicion about a
blind man in radio. Once an inspector asked me to show him the file proving
that we had a daily log about contact with our community, showing how we
found out what their needs were. We were supposed to keep a diary. It used
to be a law, but I don't believe it is any more.
We didn't have such a file; most small stations our size didn't either. I
suspected the inspector knew that. What to do?
Well, I reached into my left hand desk drawer and pulled out fifty or
seventy-five pages of Braille commercial copy and laid it on the table.
"I can't read that," he said.
"Well, I can," I said, "and I keep it close at hand to be sure I know what
people want."
He picked up one piece of paper, looked at it, and said, "So that's
Braille, huh?" Then he handed it back to me. He made some comment about the
fact that I needed to keep a print copy.
I said, very nicely, "Well, I don't believe the law says I have to."
He grunted and went on his way. The general manager whose face, I'm told,
turned several shades of white, said, "Don't ever ask me to play poker with
you, Potter. Do you know we could have been fined $25,000 for fraud?" But
he couldn't hide what I seemed to hear in his voice, a grudging admiration
for my staying cool under pressure. At least the inspector was gone...until
next time.
Bio: Ed Potter is a native North Carolinian. He attended the school for the
blind, and prepared for a career in radio in college. For side income he
played keyboard, frequently in combos.
He produced Playback Magazine for twenty-eight years, allowing blind people
to share information and entertainment related to audio technology. His
marketing business is alive and well on the Philmore voicemail system
offering personal gifts, collectables, batteries, and CD's.
After fifteen years in radio, Ed earned a Master's degree and taught speech
at Goldsboro Community College for twenty-five years. He produced the
"Coffee with Ed" series through voicemail messages with responses from
listeners for six years. Contact him at 773-572-3121.
--------------------
Unforgettable Neighbor, memoir
by Barbara Mattson
"I need a gun," John said as we sat on my steps one sunny afternoon, "I've
got a security job," he said.
I thought, "He wants me to buy him a gun?" Then I realized with a sneaking
suspicion, an unbidden fear, "If I get him a gun, he might kill me if he
gets mad." Memories of the past few years we'd known each other flooded my
mind.
While I was mailing things from Charleston to my new Spartanburg apartment,
Mom was readying my apartment. In the process, she'd met John who was
bringing my mail to the apartment door to keep my box from overflowing.
(Unlike post office boxes, none of the apartment building's mail boxes were
locked.)
When I met John, his hair was long and he was a bit overweight. Had he not
been helpful, I'd have likely kept my distance, being a bit turned off by
his looks.
After I moved in, John often visited me, and I also made friends with his
roommate, Richard. When we had to move because the apartment building was
being renovated, we found a house with two adjacent upstairs places.
Here our friendship morphed into codependence. John would clean my
apartment, serve as my sighted guide, and when I took college classes, read
to me. In turn, due to coincidental phone wiring, I shared my phone via
extension with them, and I'd buy them non-prescription medications and
food.
When John had a toothache I knew he didn't have money for a dentist. So I
took him to mine and paid for the tooth to be pulled, and other dental
work.
Soon I noticed that after Richard's sister would bring their once-weekly
groceries, John would stuff himself as if he were afraid that the food
would disappear before he got his share. (By then he'd lost weight and was
keeping his hair cut.) In an effort to help John budget his food supply, I
began to only buy food that he and I shared.
It wasn't long before I started resenting any monetary help I was giving
because I felt like I was indirectly supporting John and Richard's
cigarette habit. So one day when John asked for money for medicine, Mom
drove him to the drug store. Inside John was forced to confess that he
didn't need medicine. It was then that I thought, "If he were a true
friend, he'd not be dishonest with me." I not only blamed John, I blamed
myself for believing him.
After all, John had told some pretty unbelievable tales; one being that
he'd helped the police with catching drug traffickers. Likewise, it was
hard to believe John When he said, "I've been diagnosed as a psychopath."
Even if I'd known that John had been diagnosed as having no conscience, and
was strictly out for what he could gain in a relationship, I wouldn't have
believed him. It wasn't the John I knew.
There was another warning bell I should have heard. Unlike practically
every other man I'd been with, John conveyed no romantic interest. I now
know my oversight was because I wasn't looking for romance. Eventually I
learned from a lady John tried to make love to, that he seemed to be
impotent.
During this time John began to talk about a lady named Rachel who worked
security at a used car dealership. While most of us were sleeping, John
spent a majority of his night at that dealership with her.
So it was with all that in mind, that I sat that afternoon and asked
myself, "How can I tell this man 'no' without losing our friendship?" still
codependent. "But how can I say 'yes' without risking my life?" I wondered.
So I finally said, "I'd think the people who hired you would buy you a
gun." This was my indirect way of letting him know I didn't believe he had
a job.
A while after that, John met a trucker named Susan on the CB and they
married. By then we were talking much less and I was doing nothing for him
or Richard.
After John moved out, Richard revealed another oddity about John. "John's
room is a mess," he said. "He's left jars of urine." To me, that seemed to
point to mental illness.
It has been years since I've talked with Richard or John. My brother Paul
said he saw John at a car dealership. Paul was smarter than I when he said,
"Don't believe anything he says."
Sometimes I wonder what has become of John and Richard, but I haven't tried
to find out. After all, I prefer to keep my distance--something, on
hindsight, I should have probably done from the beginning.
Bio: Barbara Mattson graduated from the SC School for the Blind in 1967. At
Spartanburg Methodist College and Columbia College, her poetry was
published in the schools' literary magazines. She also contributed to the
book Women, Their Names, & The Stories They Tell by Elizabeth P. Waugaman,
Ph.D. Most of her writing has been published in periodicals such as
Dialogue Magazine for the Blind.
Barbara has served as editor of a tape club's periodical and currently
edits the Diabetics in Action newsletter.
--------------------
Lost Lake, poetry
by Leonard Tuchyner
Long time ago, we were family-close.
Can you see the old lakeside beach
hidden in an Orange Mountain vale?
It was big enough for a tennis court
and a concrete handball slab.
You played so hard it blistered your feet.
The blood stained the sun baked pad.
I saw you hurl a ball that ascended so high
It seemed it would never fall back to earth
and would be lost in the open sky,
as were our youthful spirits and hopes--
thought we'd last forever.
I watch the picture in my mind
And see it fade to white--
a fading image of blinding light.
Where did we go?
I call every few years.
Your long-dead father's voice answers.
It is a lovely voice, but I can't hear you.
You brag how well your new knees work.
Now you can reach the pantry shelf,
with your patched-up baseball arm.
And I hear your ghost vanishing in time,
with our deserting lost lake memory--
Where we were children.
And I can't tell you how sad I feel.
So I smile behind my telephone
and pretend that we are still there.
Bio: Leonard Tuchyner has had Stargardt's disease which was first noticed
in his teenaged years. He is now seventy-one. He reads through the media of
Braille, recordings, and electronic voices produced by Open Books and Zoom
Text. He lives with his wife of thirty-two years and their two dogs. He is
active in the local writing community, which includes attending a poetry
critique group, a broad-genre critique group, and he facilitates a Writing
for Healing and Growth group at the Charlottesville Senior Center. His
hobbies include Tai chi, and gardening. Leonard is semi-retired and still
has a small counseling practice.
--------------------
II. POETS' FOOTPRINTS: LOVE, LOSS, AND SURVIVAL
More Than Books, a Prose Poem
by Robert Kingett
I love you more than I love my books. Your cover is the one thing I look
forward to each day. Your leather binding captivates my eye. Your words
always keep me turning the pages, wanting more. I love the plot points you
reveal to me when we are communicating.
I can't find the words to describe my feelings when I pick you up and begin
a new chapter. I love how there are so many verbs in your steps, so many
adjectives in each syllable you utter, such deep metaphors in every
unspoken thought. I love it when you show me striking flashbacks.
Each night, I set a bookmark so the next morning I can pick up where I left
off. Each time a chapter ends, I love turning back the pages to gaze one
final time on what a splendid story we made together.
When you make me feel the best I can feel, you are my romance novel. When
you make me laugh out loud, you are my satire. When you tell me you love me
and I know it's true, you are my short story. I look forward to dwelling in
your pages, reading chapter after chapter each day.
I never want to give you up. I never want to place your beautiful story
back on the shelf to be replaced by some tragedy. You are, and forever will
be, a best-seller in my eyes.
--------------------
Longing
by Norma Boge
When days are dark and the world's so cold
And memories are all I have to look forward to
I think about you, so sweet and so playful
And how I loved to see the boy inside the man
I know you loved me for your own reasons
And my heart holds a special place for you
Time and space conspired to keep us apart
And I'm sorry fate dealt the hand it did
I will carry on, as will you, down separate paths
And I'll meet you where the stars collide
Bio: Norma A. Boge resides in Des Moines, Iowa, and has been blind since
1989. Her hobbies include music, reading, college sports and enjoying her
pets.
--------------------
AN ENDING
by Marsha Gaide
My mind is breaking the chains of a love story.
To shed these gold chains into tears.
Golden tear drops on a woven web.
Bio: Marsha Gaide has suffered with schizo-affective disorder for the last
thirty five years. She loves to write to express herself. It's like putting
a puzzle together for her. With her matching words together in finding
herself.
--------------------
Eastward
by Laura Minning
I turn eastward
to allow the radiance of the sun
to light my way.
And I allow the moon
to descend without grace
from Heaven's warmth
and peaceful embrace.
My hopes have been liberated
from the chains that were made
to bind them.
And I bask in the knowledge
that I have been victorious
over all of the pain and suffering
that I have chosen to leave
far behind.
Bio: Laura Minning has traveled extensively throughout North America,
Europe and Asia. She's additionally had the opportunity to visit the
Caribbean. Laura's also a published poet and author. She's had 102
individual poems, six articles, two books and one short one-act play
published both in hardcopy and online. She strongly endorses the National
Federation of the Blind. To learn more about Laura and her work, please
feel free to log onto her web-site at
http://www.warfieldweb.com/verbalcollage.
--------------------
But not today
by Shawn Jacobson
Awaking with pre-dawn alarm,
I move the gate releasing dogs, they howl joyously.
I race them down the stairs to the door
avoiding child left obstacles.
I may one day crash bringing down pictures
with percussive dissonance; but not today.
Entering work, the guard barks at me
do you have electronics?
It's my reader; blind guys want to read to.
I follow orders I disassemble my bag.
I reveal the offending equipment.
I feel like howling freedom! but not today.
The meeting goes rough.
These numbers must be massaged, made presentable;
we must spin your work.
You're writing is complex, I am told. They fear numbers.
They fear missing their goal.
Tomorrow I may storm out in disgust; but not today.
The Driver woos his brakes with rough romance.
I catch tenuous monkey bar balance.
As I dismount the bus, my knees creak from
misspent life with chocolate and too many pounds.
One day, I may crumple to the sidewalk; but not today.
At home I face marital inquisition.
Why do you not clean your office,
and why is the basement a mess?
Must I do everything?
Dirty dishes go here, clean ones there.
I fear I may explode, exasperated; but not today.
Some days when survived
are a blessed victory
holding back despair.
Bio: Shawn Jacobson Attended the Iowa School for the blind then went to
Iowa State University where he received a BA in Political Science and an MS
in Statistics. Since 1984, he has worked for the Federal Government as a
mathematical statistician for the Bureau of Labor Statistics and the
Department of Housing and Urban Development.
Shawn is currently treasurer of the Maryland affiliate of NFB and of the
NFB Sligo Creek chapter. He is also a deacon at Church of the Atonement.
--------------------
A Six-Word Poem
by Mary-Jo Lord
Nauseous:
Swallowed too many
unspoken words.
Bio: Mary-Jo Lord has a masters' degree in counseling from Oakland
University, and has worked at Oakland Community College for Twenty years.
She writes poetry, fiction, and memoirs. A section of her work is published
in a Plain View Press anthology called Almost Touching. Her work can also
be found in Behind Our Eyes and in past Issues of Magnets and Ladders. She
lives with her husband and son in Rochester, Michigan. She has been blind
since birth. You can reach her at mjfingerprints at comcast.net.
--------------------
Journey
by Terri Winaught
I swam in the sea, its salt water stinging my eyes, and I could no longer
see.
I swam in the sea, its wall of water roaring in my ears, and I could no
longer hear.
I swam in the sea, its turbulent tides tossing me about like a bucking
bull, and I could no longer feel.
I swam in the ocean, its crystal waters clearing my eyes, and once more I
could see!
I swam in the ocean, its water a soft voice singing in my ears, and once
more I could hear!
I swam in the ocean, its turning tides touching me gently, and once more I
could feel!
When the angry sea became a cathartic ocean, I was cleansed with a baptism
of forgiveness, and I was at peace!
--------------------
III. THE WRITERS' CLIMB
A Review of a Writer's Companion from National Braille Press
by John Weidlich
A few questions before we get started:
Does our Constitution give you the right to bare arms?
If you can keep a secret, would you best be described as discreet or
discrete?
If you and your guide dog ran into an immovable object in a parking lot and
you decided to write about the experience, would you refer to the object as
stationery or stationary?
What is the difference between the words all ready and already or is there
one? What about altogether and all together?
Is Washington, DC our nation's capital or its Capitol?
How can you tell a person who is a boor from one who is a bore?
How is a Council different from a Counsel?
Do you have a flair for writing or is it a flare?
Which is the animal, a gorilla or a guerilla?
Which is correct: It's a Wonderful Life or It's a Wonderful Life?
If you answered all of those questions without hesitation, then you
probably don't need this grate(great?) new book for writers from National
Braille Press that I am about to review. You can move along to the next
article. But if not, read on, because there is a wealth of information
waiting for you in this very small volume.
The book is "A Writer's Companion," a Pocket book of Homophones compiled by
the folks at the National Braille Press in Boston, MA. Homophones: those
pesky words that sound alike but are spelled differently and have different
meanings, words that can and do trip up even very good writers who aren't
careful. NBP decided to put together this book because of homophone
mistakes that they keep seeing in emails, such as references to sited
people, sell phones and the right to bare arms. This small volume lists
hundreds of them, from fairly obvious ones like there, their and they're to
such less familiar ones as discreet/discrete, bazaar/bizarre,
elicit/illicit and one that always seems to confuse me affect/effect. The
entries are very brief. Here are a few, just to give you an idea of what
you will find:
Altar: (pedestal,) alter: (to change)
Affect: (to change or influence,) effect: (a result)
Discreet: (modest; can keep a secret,) discrete: (distinct; unrelated)
Pedal: (bicycle pedal,) peddle: (to sell,) petal: (flower petal)
Its: (possession: its paws,) it's: (contraction, it is)
Raise: (raise your hand,)rays: (rays of the sun,) raze: (to destroy
completely).
You can see from these examples that the explanations are not complex;
there is just enough information to help you distinguish the words and to
help you know which one to use. Some of the entries are not strictly
homophones in that the pronunciations are not exactly the same but they are
words that can cause mistakes like medal, metal, mettle, and meddle.
But as helpful as this is, the homophone entries comprise only the first
half of the book. There is much more of value to aspiring writers.
The next section is called Transition Words, a list of about seventy words
and phrases that you can use to begin a new sentence or thought, beginning
with a few minutes later, and ending with which is to say.
Then we come to lists of descriptive word choices. To quote from the book:
"good writers select just the right word to convey a thought or to describe
a situation or person. For example, bulky and monstrous both describe
something big, but they imply different qualities."
What follows is several lists of words to describe various qualities. You
don't have to say something is big. Instead you can describe it as
astronomical, broad, colossal, considerable, enormous, gigantic, grand,
great, huge, immense, inflated, jumbo, large, mammoth, massive, mighty,
monstrous, roomy, spacious, substantial, tremendous, along with several
more that I didn't give you. These are just lists of descriptive words. The
words are not defined or differentiated but you can consult a good
dictionary or thesaurus to help you decide which of the many choices you
might want to use. There are lists of words for big, small, very, a lot, a
little, fast, slow, good, bad, loud, soft, hot, cold, light, dark, hard,
soft, wet and dry. Some of the lists are quite long, with over sixty words
for good and an equally large number for bad.
But we're not done yet. The next section is called What Color is That.
Designers like to play with the names of colors, which can make it hard to
know what color they mean. So there are words for black, blue, brown, gray,
green, orange and all of the other common colors. For example, blue can be
described as aqua, azure, cerulean, cobalt, cyan, electric blue, indigo,
midnight, navy, sapphire, teal, turquoise and ultramarine, among others.
These, I think can be extremely valuable to those of us who have never seen
colors or who just don't know how the new colors relate to the colors with
which we are familiar.
Finally, there are more word lists, ways to describe how people look act
and feel. Want to introduce a pretty girl into a short story? Make her
adorable, alluring, appealing, attractive, beautiful, becoming,
breathtaking, captivating, charming, chic, classy, elegant, gorgeous,
irresistible, lovely, ravishing or stunning. The old person in your story
might be adult, aged, ancient, frail, grizzled, venerable, wise, withered
or wrinkled. If you want to convey the idea that someone is nice you have
choices like affectionate, agreeable, amiable, approachable, compatible,
delightful, genial, likable, neighborly, polite, warm and welcoming, as
well as many others. There are lists to describe people who are mean,
outgoing, shy, funny, serious as well as strong or weak in body or mind.
The section on how people feel contains words for happy, sad, angry, bored,
excited, scared and surprised.
This book is available in one Braille volume of 53 pages. But if you don't
read Braille, you can download it as a Word file to use on your computer.
The book costs $10.00. This is a book that you will refer to often in your
writing. To order it, Contact National Braille Press, 88 St. Stephen
Street, Boston, MA 02115. Phone: 800 548-7323, email orders at nbp.org or go
to the web site http://www.nbp.org.
Bio: John Weidlich lives in St. Louis, MO with his wife Donna and has been
totally blind from birth. He is retired and loving it. He worked for over
thirty years for the local Radio Reading service. He plays piano and is
active in his church, teaching and playing in a worship ensemble. For many
years, he edited a magazine published by the Missouri Council of the Blind.
Although he hasn't done much creative writing, he is an avid reader and
appreciates good writing.
--------------------
Submissions from a Writing Class
Editors' note: Esther Cohen, who teaches for the Dorot University without
Walls telephone program, sent some comments and poems written by her class
members.
I am a writer, and a writing teacher. For many years, I've been teaching
unusual--in one way or another--writing classes. Dorot's University Without
Walls is one of my favorite classes. It's a writing class on the telephone,
and many of the participants are at home, disabled in one form or another,
and eager to write. The words that emerge are often wonderful and
unexpected. The classes are on three Mondays, and last from 11-12. We are
connected together by someone from Dorot. Because I am a writing teacher,
we introduce ourselves, not in the usual way by accomplishment or age, by
geography or profession, but by words we like to use. This spring's class
was about REVERENCE. Together we explored what we revered, and we wrote
several poems collectively. Each student provided one word, or two, or
three, and then we combined the words together. Here are two of the poems
the class really liked:
In this poem, each student provided 3 words. Each word was one line. We
ordered them together.
Meadows, Streams, and waterfalls
Acceptance, with grief.
Face, mirror, soul.
Laughter becomes you.
Rumors among stars.
Mellow sun. Yellow.
Here's another, done the same way.
Blue pain. Sleep.
Colors of nature.
Jewels. Precious Emeralds.
Maybe I'm dreaming.
Always forgive love.
The last poem they asked me to submit is called
October Dreams
Surrender, feline.
Song bird
rain forest
chocolate joy
morning awakening.
Students who wrote these poems are Ricky Saady, Nancy Scott, Valerie
Moreno, Eileen Lurie, Maureen Mante and Elizabeth Epler.
About me, I am the author of six books, and I teach Good Stories at
Manhattanville College.
Yours, Esther Cohen
Editors' note: Fall and Winter classes, some already in progress, include
information about "Finding your Inner Poet," "Jewish Short Fiction," and
"Learning to be an Audiobook Narrator." There is a creative writing
workshop, and a poetry co-op class. For more information, please visit
http://www.dorotusa.org/site/PageServer?pagename=seniorsprogramsonphoneD
--------------------
Rainbow Journaling
by Kate Chamberlin
There are as many styles and types of writing a journal as there are
people--from keeping track of the weather, to daily public events, to
chronicling personal events, to journaling your way through divorce or
other trauma and, well, the list could go on.
My grandfather had a small volume for each 5-year period. You could review
what happened on a particular day for five years at a glance.
There wasn't much room in the allotted space for each day, so he wrote
cryptic notes such as: Mrs. Pinch-bottom was here all day. It rained all
day. Played cards with Hal and Gertrude. Men beat the girls.
The daily journal May Sarton* kept for the year following her 70th birthday
was very detailed. and lengthy. In Pappy's diaries we get a glimpse of the
culture of the times. In Sarton's journal, we really get to know her as a
person.
She shares how she savors the experience of being alive, although her life
is so packed with such a variety of things that they summon her out of
herself.
Writing is a way of helping her understand what is happening to her; each
book seemed to answer a struggle she had within herself. Writing filled her
need to remake order out of chaos.
I have been keeping journals of each of my children. Each birthday, I write
what has happened during that child's year of life. Around New Year's eve,
I write in my own journal. My style of journal writing is not as cryptic as
Pappy's, but no where near the detail and prose of Sarton's.
One of the suggestions in the 'Personal Journaling Magazine' to make your
journal more useful as a resource for research or therapy, is to color code
your entries. For example, if your topic is spirituality and what is
happening in the church, use purple. If the topic is your childhood, use
pink. You can write in that color or put a color mark (or Braille label) on
the top of the pages. Then, if you want to reread certain topics, you can
quickly turn to those pages.
If color doesn't work for you, you could mark each section or page with
tactile stickers, perhaps some with aromas. If your journals are audio
files, you might creatively tag section openings with music or sounds to
suit the mood or season.
Do you remember the autograph books many of us had years ago for our
classmates to write in? Very often, the pages were different pastel colors.
When you reread them, you're apt to find that the happy messages are on the
yellow pages, the good fortune messages are on the green pages. Then of
course, there were those who "wrote on the cover to make room for your
lover"!
If you use a computer and have a "sad" wallpaper background, you might find
your mood slipping. Change the wallpaper to a bright happy color or pattern
and soon your mood will be up and cheery, too. I usually use music to put
me in the mood to reflect the story I'm writing.
What is your favorite color? Color has an emphatic impact on us. It can
nurture or express human nature. Here are some of the more common
attributes your favorite color might indicate you have:
*Black: power, sexuality, sophistication.
*blue: conservatism, security, masculinity, trust, truth, pacified.
*brown: nature, durability, comfort, warmth, reliability.
*Gray: intelligent, futurism, security, technology, modesty.
*green: nature, growth, renewal, freshness, tranquility, youth.
*orange: energy, excitement, warmth, activity, cost effectiveness.
*pink: comfort, gentleness, sweetness, femininity, happiness.
*yellow: hope, cheer, optimism, vitality, communication, cowardice.
*purple: creativity, dignity, mystery, inspiration, passion.
*red: Power, aggression, sexuality, strength, energy.
*white: cleanliness, truth, innocence, sterility, purity, sophistication.
Does your favorite color reflect your personality, how you see yourself, or
influence your style of writing?
You can share your journal with like-minded internet journalers. They'll
make comments and suggestions on both your writing, your ideas, your
techniques and add bits of their own wisdom.
Whether or not you want other people to read your journal or diary, just
the writing of it can help you to see things in their process of change.
Sources:
*May Sarton is the pen name of Eleanor Marie Sarton; poet, novelist, and
memoirist.
`"At 70: A Journal" by May Sarton, Copyright 1984 by May Sarton, published
by W. W. Norton & Co., Inc., 500 5th Avenue, NY., NY 100110. 334 pages.
narrated by Mitzi Friedlander for the NLS.
`' Personal Journaling Magazine', August, 2003. 'Write the Rainbow' by
Janet Ruth Fallen. copyright by F and W Publications, NLS Magazine of the
Month, 200. read by Michelle Schaffer.
Bio: Kate Chamberlin, M.A., became blind when her children were young. Her
teaching career continues through her Study Buddy Tutoring Service, Feely
Cans and Sniffy Jars Program, and popular lectures. She is a published
children's author, Anglican educator, newspaper columnist, and proud
grandmother. Visit her website at http://www.katechamberlin.com.
--------------------
Writing an Abecedarian
by Abbie Johnson Taylor
Editors' note: At the end of this article you'll find websites directing
you to examples, historical information, and the song which inspired
Abbie's Abecedarian poem.
An abecedarian is a type of poem that has twenty-six lines. Each line
starts with a letter of the alphabet in order from A to Z.
According to an article abecedarian poems were used by ancient cultures for
such sacred compositions as prayers, hymns, and psalms. Examples of these
are written by King James and Chaucer. They are now used as mnemonic
devices and word games for children such as those written by Dr. Seuss and
Edward Gorey. However, there are other contemporary examples by Harryette
Mullin and Carolyn Forch. Some have twenty-six stanzas with lines that
start with consecutive letters of the alphabet.
Below is an abecedarian I wrote. The song "Straighten Up and Fly Right"
inspired it. Follow the YouTube link at the end of this article if you're
not familiar with the song.
On Straightening Up and Flying Right
A buzzard and a monkey wouldn't fly together
because a monkey wouldn't be stupid enough to
climb on a buzzard's back since a buzzard is a
dirty old bird with no morals.
Everybody knows that monkeys don't
fly--buzzards do. My
guess is that monkeys prefer to associate with their own kind.
Heaven knows why the song was written. What an
imagination someone must have to
justify writing it--but
knowledge of values would lead one to believe that there's a
logical message here. The
monkey makes a point when he tells the buzzard
not to blow his top and to do right.
Of course not blowing your top and doing right are important.
People who are angry blow their tops, but the
question is do these people not do
right? I've blown my top a few times.
Still, I try to do the right thing. I
think that even the best of us,
under certain circumstances, blow our tops. It's not
very unusual. But back to the monkey and the buzzard.
Why would a monkey allow a buzzard to take him for a ride? It doesn't
require
x-ray vision to determine that a buzzard is smaller than the average
monkey.
You should realize that a monkey would be safer riding a
zebra. He wouldn't have as far to fall.
If you haven't written an abecedarian, you might want to try it. Pick a
topic, and see if you can come up with a word that begins with each letter
of the alphabet in order from A to Z to start each line. This can be tricky
because there aren't a lot of words that start with X, Y, Z, U, and other
letters. Good luck, and have fun. You can submit your poem for
consideration in the next issue of Magnets and Ladders.
References:
You can find an example of an Abecedarian at
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/07/07/garden-path/
History of the form: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5767
Listen to "Straighten Up and Fly Right" on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yY4jbYNTmKs
Bio: Abbie Johnson Taylor's novel, We Shall Overcome, was published in July
of 2007 by iUniverse. Her poetry collection, How to Build a Better
Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver, also
published by iUniverse, was released in December of 2011. Her fiction has
appeared in Emerging Voices and Disability Studies Quarterly, her poetry in
Sensations Magazine and Serendipity Poets Journal, and her essays in
Christmas in the Country and SageScript. She is visually impaired and lives
in Sheridan, Wyoming, with her totally blind husband Bill, partially
paralyzed as a result of two strokes. Please visit her Website at
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com.
--------------------
Irreproducible, memoir
by Aly Parsons
I retained the necessary elements for years after the cold morning I
discovered a new writing technique. As I could never reproduce the
situation, I am unable to scientifically prove the method. However, most
writers have the ingredients at hand. I can only hope that giving the
particulars will allow other writers to benefit.
Layered in silk, wool, and hooded fleece, I'd been sitting in my home
office for an hour, facing my computer and the bare wall behind it, trying
to bring a scene for my novel into mental focus. The scent of cardamom
lingered from the spiced tea I'd drained to flavor my thoughts with the
exotic.
Writer's block had plagued me for weeks. Blank screen syndrome. I'd tried
various techniques to break the block. Stream of consciousness led me
nowhere. Inspiration eluded me even when I switched to my laptop in the
sunroom, surrounded by snowy woods. The most I'd achieved during any stint
was a few lines.
Scenes come to me in random order. Even for a short story, I can't write
straight through from beginning to end. For this novel, after writing
substantial portions, I'd outlined the book, copying the pertinent segment
of the outline to the top of each chapter. Outlining hadn't caused the
block--the writing had flowed awhile before it stalled. So I had a novel to
work on, scenes in which I knew what needed to happen, yet no words arrived
at my fingertips.
At 6:30 that morning, I was "writing" in my office, my best work
environment. Shut curtains prevented distractions from the outside world.
Except for the warm air sighing from the vent near my feet, the house was
silent. I got a glimmer, a phrase, a bit of dialogue. Recently, with the
block, that would have been it. A flash of the scene, like the wonder of
seeing a dolphin leap, only to have it dive and vanish forever. So I
speed-typed those few words, and a flipper teased me just below the
surface.
Behind me came a drawn out creak.
Alarm coursed through me. The open office door was to my right, in the same
wall I was facing. I'd have caught the movement if anyone had walked in.
The sound wasn't a floor board. Ignore it! With a mental lunge, I latched
onto that metaphorical flipper pulling me into my scene. I clamped down,
typing a sentence.
That creak kept on, impossibly extended, like a structural beam in slow
collapse, about to bring down the ceiling. Ridiculous. Don't waste
imagination on it. A paragraph was forming in my head and--
No creak. A swift, repetitive shushing sound behind me.
Shwish-shwish-shwish...About a dozen times. Then, silence.
I had paused, but I resumed writing. Couldn't divert my attention. Had to
get the writing down. And I did. For several minutes.
Cree-eee-eeeee-eeeeeee-eak. I wrote on.
Shwish-shwish-shwish-shwish-shwish...
Okay. It had to be Miss Lump, my cat. But whatever she was up to, she'd
never done before. I might never find out. My swivel chair would squeak
when I turned, which could chase her away. Don't think about that.
Fiercely concentrating, I wrote to a background of
cree-eee-eeeee-eeeeeee-eak, shwish-shwish-shwish-shwish-shwish, silence.
Cree...
My fingers sped over the keys. When curiosity pricked at me, I thrust it
away, staying fixed on the movie in my head that created itself as my
characters interacted. I completed the chapter's first and last scenes and,
knowing better than to stop there, wrote the beginning of the second scene.
It was time for my morning medical regimen and breakfast, so I typed a
snatch of crucial dialogue in my second open file of bits of other scenes,
then pulled my hands back from the keys. The cycle of sounds and stillness
behind me had reached its silent phase.
I swiveled my chair, turning with such care it gave only a whisper of its
customary squeak. Several feet away, a cardboard carton sat on the floor.
The two-foot square box, its top closed but not sealed, had the left end of
each of its four perpendicular flaps tucked under the next flap. I recalled
that the box was filled with magazines up to an inch from the top.
My long-haired calico slept curled up on the box. I smiled. The pleasure of
having accomplished over an hour of accelerated writing increased, knowing
Miss Lump had been my companion and, perhaps, my Muse.
Gradually, the five-pound cat weighed down the flap on which she lay. The
flaps' corrugated edges, catching and releasing, made the long creak. As
her curled body slid toward the center, the lowering flap left a widening
hole. Her curved back hit the horizontal edge of the opposite flap. Missy
came to life. With a mad scrabble of clawless paws, she attained the
adjoining flap. Tucking into a ball, eyes closed, she looked instantly
asleep. For several moments all was tranquil. Then that flap started its
creaking descent.
After breakfast, Miss Lump slept in my lap as I wrote on my computer. She
never again napped on that box. Occasionally, I start my writing session
with a laugh, recalling that day. And, with a mental musical background of
cree-eee-eeeee-eeeeeee-eak, shwish-shwish-shwish-shwish-shwish, I bury
myself in the proper state of concentration.
The equation for success: 1 5-pound cat + 1 2-foot square cardboard carton,
filled to 1 inch from top, with cover flaps tucked = cat slide rate of 9
inches in 20 seconds + cat scrabble rate of 3 seconds to next resting
position + 3.5 minutes of sleeping cat equilibrium before weight of cat
initiates creaky restart of process.
This leads to two conclusions: An active cat can take over 15 catnaps per
hour; and, to fully activate a writer's creativity, you just need one
unflappable cat.
Bio: Aly Parsons spent about the first third of her life sighted, the
second third partially sighted from diabetic retinopathy, and is now blind.
Her story, "Cold Hall," was published in the DAW anthology, Sword of Chaos,
edited by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Aly wrote the Afterward for Catherine
Asaro's collection, Aurora in Four Voices, which appeared in 2011 from
ISFiC Press. She leads a writers' group she founded in 1980 that is
comprised of professional and unpublished writers. Aly is a graduate of the
Odyssey workshop for writers of fantasy, sf, and horror. Currently catless,
she lives in Maryland.
--------------------
Everyday Life--A Poem Lost, poetry
by Kathleen Winfield
I was thinking of my poem--or trying to--
Thoughts of beautiful golden art, ancient statues,
The intricacies of soul to soul,
In other words, Beauty.
A letter arrived a minor crisis ensued--
State farm complaining about our roof
It will have to be re-done! It doesn't measure up!
Too bad that we reassured you two months ago
When the other homeowners company dropped you!
But Ha-ha, they snigger, We can send out our own roofer to inspect it,
And we have for your convenience our own State Farm Bank.
We can loan you money, lots of it,
At a rate that will certainly thrill you!
Well, there went my poem, calm meditative
Thoughts of clever images.
Gone.
But not forgotten.
I'll go out to water my marigolds.
Bio: Kathleen Winfield has been blind with some partial residual vision for
many years. In the last few years, her teensy but useful tunnel vision has
diminished further. She has a master's degree in English Literature. She is
a singer, a sometime actor, and an artist in clay and other media. She
lives with her husband, who is blind, in northern Colorado.
--------------------
On Writing: A Memory of the Craft, poetry
by Cala Estes
I remember the quest for space, the blank
White lane left at the end of the line.
I remember the cloudy gray of too many words erased,
the tail tale stain of them on the tips of my fingers.
I feel the rumble of them beneath my hands
and hear, as if through a plywood wall in a fifth grade classroom
the stories they might have been.
I remember the delicate slant of the A in my first name
and the graceful curve of the C in my second.
Thousands of narrow gray fragments coalescing to form something
almost magical in its precision.
Towering volumes of them,
flimsy pages lost in dark spaces of desk drawers and stacked boxes.
The lithe dance of swirls and angular momentum which propelled
my bare wrist forward.
Ever smaller, I watched the words shrink in size
and I stared in wonder as the Y's and K's took on pageant proportions in
their beauty.
The soldier T's and L's like guardian sentinels,
they were my masterpieces.
On the big screen, where my eyes could watch the child's hand,
the ruler lines were tiny marks,
and every breathless moment as the paper filled was an exercise in
loveliness.
The looping scrawl, the neat art of pushing the yellow pencil
was elegant in its design.
Bio: Cala Estes is a 21-year-old English major in her senior year of
university. After losing what partial sight she had at age 11, she soon
discovered, through a 7th grade English class, her love for poetry. Cala
plans to continue her education to a Master of Fine Arts program in order
to teach English at the college level.
--------------------
IV. GOOD YARNS, WELL-WOVEN
The Reality of Rejection, fiction
by Shawn Jacobson
"You'd be surprised how many stories we reject for very basic reasons:
obvious lapses in science, inconsistent characters, poor grammar and things
like that," the editor said. "The form rejection letter actually covers
most reasons for rejecting a story, yours included."
I looked at the form letter for my latest story, but any of the myriad such
letters I'd received would have done. "I'm not sure what basic thing I
missed though. Is it that the story has been done many times before?"
"Well," said the editor, "we do see a lot of stories about aliens in human
form that eat people, but you had some interesting twists; the one about
the aliens breathing fire like dragons to cook their food was a nice touch.
Even man-eating reptile-looking aliens don't want to mess with food
poisoning. In fact, the scene where the alien lures the hero out on the
hotel balcony to be eaten was rather well done. If I remember, he had to
jump to escape, but I think we're too high for that here."
>From the balcony where our conversation was taking place, I looked down,
way down, at the drained and deserted pool now stone cold in the late
October evening. No, jumping from here would be a vampire idea for sure.
"Oh, I see you're shivering," he added, changing the subject, "are you OK?"
"Yes," I replied, "just a little chilly, I'll be OK." In fact, I would
rather have been inside at the science fiction costume party where it was
warm, grazing off the snack table and doing damage to my diet, but the
chance to talk to the famous editor about my work was just too good an
opportunity to pass up.
I had literally bumped into him while backing away from a chunky gal with
glue-on antennae and green face paint. She had been teasing me about not
being in costume (threatening to arrest me for impersonating a human being
without a license) when the editor stopped my retreat, saving me from her
clutches. We decided that the balcony was the best place for those of us
not in costume. He seemed quite willing to discuss my latest story when I
broached the subject.
"Really, it's not a bad story, just not what we want," the editor
continued, bringing me back to the moment and my rejection letter. The form
letter seemed to glow in the ghostly lunar light as I went through the
bulleted paragraphs. "I know you like happy endings in the stories you
publish and the story ends happily for the hero even if a lot of the other
characters get lunched."
"Nothing wrong with the ending either," the editor said, "in fact a lot of
the aliens had a happy ending too. It was nice that you pointed that out.
Most authors I run into wouldn't have bothered with what happened to the
aliens; you kind of stand out that way. In fact, it's one reason I'm
talking to you and not all the other folks whose stories I reject. You'd be
surprised how many stories I reject, how voracious a reader you have to be
in my job. You also need intestinal fortitude to stomach some of the stuff
I get."
"And I read that you want strong characters and extraordinary challenges; I
thought my characters were strong and quite interesting."
"Yes, yes," the editor continued, and the challenges were difficult to
surmount.' Meanwhile, someone in the room said, "gee, it's getting chilly
in here, can someone shut the balcony door?" A man in Klingon garb slid the
door shut, muting the raucous conversation from within.
"As I said," the editor went on "your characters were great, delectable as
a matter of fact; it's just that there's one basic thing that makes your
story wrong for us."
"What could that be?" I asked as the last couple returned to the
hospitality suite, leaving us alone in the night. A cloud scudded across
the moon, darkening the scene. Suddenly, the stars seemed closer than they
had before.
"I believe there's one bullet on the letter we haven't discussed; in fact,
if I'm not mistaken, it's the first, most important bullet."
I looked down trying to read the letter in the lamp light from within the
room, a light repeatedly eclipsed by would-be galactic citizens as they
moved about doing their thing.
"We are quite proud of our guidelines, you know," continued the editor
through my attempt to read, "we feel that following them is the best way to
serve our readers. It gives them the sort of meaty stories you can sink
your teeth into, the one's we're proud to provide."
My bafflement grew as I strove to read through the occulted light. How
could my story, the precious fruit of my imagination, have run afoul of the
first bulleted item? It was obvious to me that mine was the type of story
that the magazine would publish. As I was about to give up in frustration,
I heard a ripping sound and looked up.
"You see," said the editor, peeling the skin from his face, "we only
publish science fiction."
--------------------
Probabilities, fiction
by Manny Colver
Cecil Beauregard was dumbfounded. He couldn't imagine how the damned thing
had found its way in. After all, this wasn't the cabana at his pool or the
screened porch at his cottage up on the island. It wasn't the deck on his
motor yacht either. This was the chief executive's suite--his suite--on the
uppermost floor of One Monger Place, which by no accident was the tallest
building in Sunderville. From his bank of floor to ceiling windows Cecil
Beauregard could look down on the whole damned city if he were so inclined,
though at that moment his attention wasn't drawn to the spectacular view
from his windows but to a patch of wall above his Brazilian mahogany
credenza where to his utter amazement he found himself staring at a fly.
"Virgil?" he said, speaking softly into the handset of his Bleat Systems
phone. "I'm going to put the phone down for just a moment here if
you...yes, thank you. Just a second and I'll be right back."
Slowly, noiselessly, and with great stealth, Cecil put the phone down,
rolled up a section of the Wall Street Journal, took a deep breath and
lunged from his chair toward the wall.
Thwwwwack!
"Son-of-a..."
Escaping with its life, the tiny creature rose in ragged circles, spiraling
up to light upon the pastel blue ceiling where it hung upside down, batting
its wings in a joyous twitch.
Cecil Beauregard glared at the ceiling for a moment, then returned to the
phone and his chair.
"Sorry, Virgil. No, it's a damned fly here. How in God's name it ever got
in is...well, that's just it. The building is sealed up like a tomb. Aren't
they all these days? Take a damned missile to bust open one of these
windows. Hell, if I were to...say what now? No, it's up here on the
ceiling. I missed."
Cecil shifted in his chair, listening to Virgil briefly before breaking in
with, "Well, and that's just it, isn't it? For starters, the damned thing
would've had to make it through one of three sets of revolving doors out
front or come in where the wheelchair ramp comes up to the...probably, yes,
I suppose so. But even so, the damned thing would've had to select the bank
of elevators that went higher than eighteen. There's only a one in four
chance of that if you're thinking probabilities. Then waiting to get off
the elevator on thirty-two with the damned doors opening up on every floor
along the way. What are the chances of that? Then down a hallway with open
doors on both sides and through a set of double glass doors and into
the...yes, egg-zactly. Damned near impossible."
While Cecil and Virgil conferred on probabilities, the fly, for whom
gravity seemed but a minor affair, dropped from the ceiling to circle high
above the lumbering earth-bound giant. Then, catching the scent of
sweetened coffee, he swooped down to land on Cecil's coffee cup where he
trotted along the rim like a kid on a fence rail, making it halfway around
before a sudden gust of air from a hand waved frantically nearby sent him
off again in ever widening circles to a spot high on the wall where he
stopped to feast on microscopic sweetness.
"Son-of-a..." Cecil grumbled. "Virgil, can you hold just a minute? Yes,
this damned thing just ruined my coffee...be just a minute. Yes. Thank
you."
Cecil pounded several keys on his Bleat Systems phone console in rapid
succession, sending Virgil out into the land of hold where Red Bloom sang
the last few stanzas of "You Act as if I'm Me on Purpose."
"Susan. Get maintenance up here, will you? No, no, everything's fine in
there. Almost a full roll as of yesterday. No, it's a...there's a fly
gotten in somehow. Yes, here in my office. Tell them to bring a stepladder
too because the thing is high up on the wall near the..."
He looked up. Squinted. Blinked.
"Well, actually I don't see it now. It must have moved on. Yes, a fly. A
common housefly, though maybe not so common. The damned thing managed to
find its way in here, didn't it? I have directors that can't find this
office and yet here's this...yes, I know it is."
Buzzed from the blindside, Cecil batted the air before him in wild
desperation, sending the poor beleaguered fly off to land on the back of
the great man's chair.
"Yes, well, anyway, is Edgar still over maintenance for this building?"
Cecil listened while he plucked the tightly coiled cord on his phone like a
giant banjo string.
"Well," he broke in, "I thought under terms of the sale and leaseback that
Edgar was supposed to...oh, okay, well, whoever. That's fine."
Cecil's index finger plunged toward his phone console, stabbing at one key,
then another.
"Virgil? Yes, thanks for holding. No, he's still here. Just buzzed by a
second ago. Don't know where he's off to, but uh...say what now?"
Cecil probed his left ear with an index finger as he listened to Virgil's
attempt at some humor. "Yes, maybe," he broke in at last. "Well, of course,
yes. The proverbial fly on the wall!"
Cecil's mirthless laughter crested and broke like a wave, shaking his chair
back so violently the fly took off for the wall above Cecil's credenza.
"No, you've got to keep your sense of humor, Virgil. It's the only way
to...I'm sorry, what?"
Cecil examined his fingertip and the small deposit of earwax it held.
"Well, no, no. Nothing urgent really. Just wanted to ask your advice on
something."
He began to pivot back and forth in his swivel chair, listening.
"Oh, no, nothing like that, Virgil. No, it's Ivan Waterlow. Uh-huh. He's
retiring from our board of directors when his term expires and I thought
maybe you...oh, is that right? From your board too? Well I knew he sits on
quite a few boards, but...is that so? Fourteen? My God. Well, he's a good
man. Bob Baron University, class of '39, Plate and Parsley Society on top
of that."
Cecil nodded agreeably.
"Oh, yes. He certainly was. Got them to change their secret handshake to
something less likely to bring on arthritis in later years."
More nods.
"Well of course he is. Going to be missed in any number of..."
Cecil froze in mid swivel, his face gone suddenly angry and dark.
"Hold on, Virgil," came forth in a low growl. "He's back."
Cecil put the phone down as before, retrieved his business-savvy weapon and
got to his feet. Noiselessly, he inched his credenza back from the wall.
The fly was a good eight feet up the wall by now and Cecil wasted no time
in climbing atop, first his chair, then his credenza. Crouching there
before rising slowly, he prepared himself to strike.
Then, as so often happened in Cecil's part of the world, the earth began to
tremble, then shake, and the great lumbering earth-bound giant teetered and
fell with a terrible, bone-crushing crash. Susan rushed in from the outer
office and just as quickly got to the phone, so that help soon arrived.
While Cecil was rushed to the hospital, the fly took off in search of
sweeter, less hostile pastures, eventually finding the break room on the
thirty-second floor where food was aplenty and he lived to the ripe old age
of 34 days, expiring ironically on the very same day that Cecil did.
"Now," you might ask, "what are the chances of that?"
Bio: Manny Colver was born with a rare eye condition that left him with 10%
of normal vision, an extreme sensitivity to light and a view of the world
devoid of color. He holds an undergraduate degree in communications and a
masters degree in business finance. He is author of an unproduced
screenplay, an unpublished novel and a darkly comic novella, also
unpublished. He lives with his wife in Florida where he reads and bowls as
much as possible.
--------------------
Away Together, fiction
by Marilyn Brandt Smith
Clay knew there was no cellular service in this remote Alaskan property,
twenty-five miles from a tribal village. He was sure Mona didn't know, and
wouldn't think to care if she did know. The pilot would be back in a week.
They'd walked the half-mile from the landing strip, loaded with backpacks
and rolling luggage, ready to rough it in this yuppie get-away supplied
with everything except a connection to the outside.
"I love the quiet," Mona sighed, coming out of the kitchen of the twenty by
thirty foot log structure, drink in hand. "You should have brought me up
here a long time ago. Do we go fishing tonight?"
"Not 'til tomorrow morning," he laughed, pouring his own bourbon and water
at the bar. Through the window he could see the slope down to the creek.
Mona would have several bloody Marys, more vodka than mix, soon enough and
wouldn't want to go down there tonight.
Clay had it worked out. She would be dead by morning. He would burn her
body. There was no one to see or smell smoke since the nearest neighbor was
miles up the gravel road beyond the air strip. If the ashes looked
suspicious, he'd float them down the creek a few at a time. He had a week
to get it done.
The job transfer from LA to Dallas was timed carefully. This was their
celebration trip. The condo was sold, and a new one under contract. Their
friends had dropped all pretense of a social life when she added
pharmaceutical addiction to her alcohol habit. He was about to drop her
too, right off the face of the Earth, and out of his future.
Clay had her bloody Mary mix laced liberally with a narcotic bought
discreetly through an underground website whose experts guaranteed it would
silence her quickly. "Did you check to see what the travel agency left us
for food?" he asked, "Did they follow our shopping list?"
"There are so many choices, we'll have trouble deciding," she smiled. "Are
you going to miss the Dodgers this week?"
"Not a bit," he said, "and I hope I never see another Email."
"Me too," she agreed, "but I'm surprised there are mosquitoes up here. I
hope I brought repellant." She unzipped her backpack, "I'll just take this
up to the loft so I can put everything away."
"You won't need repellant," he whispered to himself as she zigzagged around
furniture, glass almost empty, but still in hand.
While Mona puttered in the kitchen preparing dinner, he ventured outside to
locate an area safe for a campfire. He'd cook out all right, and after the
deed was done, maybe he'd actually use some of those burger patties he'd
seen in the freezer. A typical couple spending a week in the wild would be
expected to have a campfire, wouldn't they?
Clay sat on a smooth rock beside the creek, a spot where visitors before
him had probably fished for hours. The only troublesome detail in his plan
was the return trip. They'd rented the cabin with a second week option.
Could he convince the pilot that his wife was staying on alone? Maybe it
would be a different guy flying him out. Of course he would say he was
driving back to pick her up, giving her a week alone with her art or
writing. He'd hinted about both hobbies on the way up. That was believable;
Anchorage was only a half day away.
Mona surprised him, making her way down the path, drinks and cocktail
sandwiches in hand. "Dinner is served, my Lord," she teased with a flirty
twist of her tush. He could see she'd spilled some drink mix on her tank
top. He was so tired of those damned pink flamingos on everything she wore.
As they made their way up the slope to the cabin, he carried the tray and
steadied her steps.
"Penne pasta and veal," he commented as they enjoyed the main course. "The
sauce is especially good. I believe those are fresh mushrooms, not the
canned or dried ones we usually get."
Clay tossed some dishes in the sink, and disposables in the trash. "I
brought some new bestsellers, Grisham, King, and Koontz. I think I'll sit
outside for a while."
"I'll just do up the cleanup," she slurred, "then I may go up for a little
rest, but wake me whenever."
Almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, she heard his boots on the steps
to the loft. ""Welcome to the wilderness," she cooed as he slipped in
beside her. "I didn't expect you so soon."
"I'm not feeling so good," Clay admitted, "a little queasy, kind of washed
out. I guess I'm just tired. It's been a long day."
"Me too," she whispered. "I'm sure the food was just fine. They'd be
careful about that. That sauce made it so good. We did bring another bottle
of that Mary mix, didn't we? I used most of that first one tonight for the
sauce."
Bio: Marilyn Brandt Smith has taught social studies, Spanish, English, and
special education. She is a licensed psychologist, and worked in
rehabilitation.
She has edited magazines and newsletters since 1976, and was the first
blind Peace Corps volunteer. She lives with her family and many animals in
a hundred-year-old home in Kentucky. Her first book, "Chasing the Green
Sun," will be published in 2012, with a recipe book to follow soon. She
loves writing flash fiction stories, and is the primary editor for the
"Behind Our Eyes" anthology and this magazine. Another interest is
music--barbershop harmony, folk and Americana, and current hits.
--------------------
Cab Driver, fiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor
"Why are you torturing yourself?" I say to my passenger. "I've driven you
by Marie's house three times. You're lucky I haven't been running the
meter."
"I know," he says, placing his head in his hands. "It's hard to let go. I
don't know what happened. I was good to her, took her out to dinner,
brought her roses on her birthday. We both like the same movies, music,
food. I don't get it."
"Maybe she doesn't know what she wants. Some women are like that. You're
better off finding someone else."
"You're right. I guess you'd better take me back to the motel." As I turn
off of Marie's street and head in that direction, he says, "I met her about
six months ago. She was a waitress at Marlin's. Do you know the place?"
"I sure do," I say.
"I was there one night with some friends after a show. I took one look at
her black, skimpy dress, black hair, blue eyes and thought she was the one
for me. I asked her for her phone number. She gave it to me. She told me
she was off the next evening so I called her and made a date with her for
the following week. We went to Vinny's for dinner, and we hit it off. We
kept dating, going out to dinner or a movie or both or to a Colorado
Rockies game. A couple of months later, I moved in with her. I'm an
architect, and her uncle is an architect. That's another thing we have in
common."
"Really," I say.
"When I came home from work a couple of weeks ago, there were a bunch of
boxes stacked outside the front door. Marie had already left for her
evening shift at the restaurant. I thought she'd put them out for the
Salvation Army. But then my key wouldn't fit in the lock. I also had a key
to her back door so I went around and tried it. It didn't work, either. I
came back around to the front of the house and then noticed a note pinned
to the top box. It read, 'Dear Ted, I've found someone else. His name is
Jake, and he's a bus boy at Marlin's. I've been seeing him for a couple of
months, and I've invited him to move in with me. All your stuff is in these
boxes, and I had the locks changed today. If you try to contact me, I'll
tell the police you're stocking me.'" "Ouch," I say.
"I should have known when she said she had to work later because the
restaurant was staying open longer. Then there were some nights when she
was supposed to be off, and she said she had to cover someone else's shift.
I'll bet she was also seeing him during the day while I was working." "I
suppose so." "I didn't know what else to do. My car was in the shop. It
still is. I'd taken a taxi home. I used my cell phone to call for another
cab, loaded all my stuff into it, and had the driver take me to the Comfort
Inn. I still haven't found a place to live." At the motel, he insists on
paying me for the extra trips by Marie's house. "That's not necessary," I
say. "You've got enough on your plate as it is." "But I wasted your time,
asking you to drive around the block all those times." "That's all right.
I've got nothing better to do but see my gal." "At least you have a gal,"
he says, climbing out of the cab. As he slams the door and walks in the
direction of the entrance, I breathe a sigh of relief and drive away. A few
minutes later, I park in front of Marie's house. She flings the door open.
"Jake, I saw your taxi drive by the house three times. Why didn't you
stop?"
--------------------
INVISIBLE INTRUDER, fiction
by Barbara Mattson
My eyes sprung open and my heart felt like it was going to pop out. "Who
just came in?" I wondered. The footsteps seemed to thunder across the
living room floor toward my closed bedroom door.
Even if I could have gotten to my bedroom door in time, I knew I would be
no match for any attacker who was determined to barge in. So I flung myself
off my bed and froze as my bedroom door opened. An eternity passed as I lay
there before the footsteps faded away, and I prayed I'd hear my front door
close again.
But then my study door creaked open. Apparently not finding anything of
interest, the steps diminished toward the kitchen. I began to wonder what
the heck this invader of my personal space was going to do. Next the
refrigerator door closed. "I don't believe this!" I shouted to myself. But
then I thought, "Take anything you want; just don't come back in here."
Instead, the footsteps got louder. I hardly dared to breathe. Then I heard
the TV click on. Dr. Phil was saying something about not letting people
take advantage of you. Well, right then I sure thought someone was taking
advantage of me, but I thought, "It'd be like taking my life into my own
hands if I tried to do anything about it with my bedroom door wide open."
Suddenly I heard Sherry Rupert say, "We interrupt this program to bring you
a special bulletin. The man whose picture you see on your screen is Harry
Louser, (a convicted murderer,) who escaped from our state prison early
this morning." I thought, "Oh my god!" That's who's here!" Then I heard the
lock on my outside door flip and hoped the killer was leaving. Sherry went
on, "If you see this man, please call 9-1-1 immediately. A reward will be
given to the person who gives information leading to his arrest."
As much as I wanted to call that very second, I had to stay put until I
heard my outside door close. After all, I didn't want to be the louse's
next victim. But there was only silence as the TV noise covered any real
sounds I might have picked up from the killer.
Not knowing any more than I did about the murderer's motive for killing
before, I had to hope the convict hadn't killed Mom on the way from her
place to the doctor.
Meanwhile, I was discovering just how much of a skeleton I was as I lay on
the dusty scratchy rug. Even more uncomfortable was the near pain of lying
on a full bladder. So I decided the next time I heard the killer head for
the kitchen, I'd make a mad dash for the bathroom on the other side of my
other bedroom door. I could lock both it and the bathroom door that goes to
the study if I had to.
After Dr. Phil went off, I heard the TV click and I prayed the louse would
leave. Instead, the intruder went back toward the kitchen.
I thought, "OK, here's my chance!" But just as I was on my knees and
getting ready to stand up, an even more urgent need hit me. I had to call
911!
So I reached toward the phone at the head of my bed. But before I could
grab it, I sneezed. If I hadn't already wet my pants from the sneeze, I
surely would have as I dove back to the floor in pure terror.
As the intruder thundered closer I prayed like I never had before that the
man wouldn't approach my side of the bed. I hardly dared to breathe as
footsteps boomed in my bedroom. When the bathroom door opened, though, I
said to myself, "Thank you Jesus." Then the bathroom door to my study
opened and the intruder went out the other study door and back toward the
kitchen.
I heard running water and my dishes rattling. I thought, "Don't tell me
this guy's actually going to wash my dishes." Then I concluded that he was
just trying to stay off the streets and out of sight.
Just about the time I was getting up the courage again to call 911, I heard
footsteps coming back my direction. But instead of coming toward the
bedroom, the intruder walked to my outside door and flipped the lock again.
I prayed that this time the killer would leave. Instead, the intruder went
back toward the kitchen and turned on the air conditioner.
I asked myself, "Should I try to call 9-1-1 again while the air's on? I
might get caught, but if I don't try, I could be trapped here all day. As
long as the air conditioner's on," I thought, "the killer can't hear me
when he's in the kitchen. But I can't hear him either which means he could
be almost at my bedroom door before I'd know it."
As I lay there I couldn't hear anything except the roar of the air
conditioner. I began to wonder if the intruder had gone out my outside
kitchen door.
Whether he had or not, I had to grab the chance to report the invader,
otherwise I'd be stuck on my bedroom floor indefinitely. So as fast as a
pop-up toy, I got to my knees again and reached for the phone. I pulled it
down and flattened myself on the floor again. But when I tried to dial,
there wasn't a dial tone. I thought, "Damn! He's cut the wires!"
I got up from the floor and shot toward the bathroom where my cell was. As
much as I hated to risk my life, I knew calling 911 was my only hope of
saving it. While there, I kicked off my wet panties, and then dashed back
to the other side of my bed.
Back on the floor, I lay there and opened my cell. I dialed 911, but only a
beep sounded. I thought, "Damn! Dead battery!" I started to cry, and shoved
both phones under the bed. But that's when I saw the cord that was supposed
to be in the wall jack dangling. So I slid further under the bed and pulled
the cord down, and plugged it in. I thought, "I must have unplugged it when
I grabbed the phone."
The 911 operator answered and I was about to speak when the air conditioner
quit. I almost hung up, but then I thought, "It's now or never!" Then I
heard the intruder in the kitchen running more water into a pan. Was he
going to cook something? "He's still here," I concluded. So I whispered,
"The killer's here." Instead of hearing the operator say, "Someone will be
there in just a few minutes," the lady hung up.
It took all the courage I could muster not to start crying again. After
all, I didn't want the intruder to hear me sniffling. As I lay there I
thought, "Surely my address must have come up on the 911 display. Someone's
got to come soon."
As the seconds stretched to minutes, the accumulation of tension was
getting to my stomach. I could stand to lie on a wet floor, but I was
determined not to have to lie on a dirty one. So I bolted from the floor
and raced to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet, scared shitless!
Suddenly I heard the intruder coming from the kitchen. I thought, "OH God!
He heard me! If he looks for me, There's no way he's not going to know I've
been here." So I sprang off the toilet, and darted into the bedroom and
slammed the bathroom door behind me. I dashed from the bedroom into the
living room, and jerked open my outside door. Thank goodness it was already
unlocked. That's one good thing the killer did. I streaked downstairs and
landed on the sidewalk.
I nearly sunk to my knees with relief when I saw a police car pull up. But
my relief was short lived. The cop darted out of the car, slammed the door,
came around to the other side, and opened the back seat door. He shoved me
in and threw a blanket over my head to cover my naked body. He barked, "I'm
taking you in for indecent exposure."
I wrestled the blanket from over my head, and pleaded, "But you don't
understand! The killer's in my condo!" The cop just slammed the door.
When he opened his door, I tried again. I explained, "The convict was
chasing me and I had to get out before he killed me."
The officer just said, "Yeah," and slid in the driver's seat. Slamming the
door, he added, "Tell that to the intake crew down at the station." I
thought, "I will, maybe they'll believe me." Then the cop said, "They keep
getting false emergency calls from different places. These characters keep
whispering that the killer's there." He went on, "The last call that came
in was from this address."
I said, "I had to whisper so he wouldn't hear me." Then I almost shouted,
"I'm telling you the convict's in my condo! And if he runs free and kills
again, it'll be on your head."
The cop asked, "Name?"
I said, "Bee Mat, and I swear I didn't do anything wrong!" The cop just
grunted, started the car, and headed to the station.
I sat back, telling myself, "Well, at least I'm safe now."
--------------------
V. SHARING THE KINGDOM
In Our House, It's Not the Cat That Has Nine Lives, Pantoum poetry
by Mary-Jo Lord
It's the dog.
His cuteness saves him every time.
Socks, underwear, slippers,
He steals them.
His cuteness saves him every time.
My wedding rings and diamond earrings.
He steals them.
Anything is fair game.
My wedding rings and diamond earrings.
Into his belly they go.
Anything is fair game.
When things are missing, he's our suspect.
Into his belly things go.
Socks, underwear, slippers,
When things are missing, who's our suspect?
It's the dog.
--------------------
Blind Cat's Bluff, memoir
by Valerie Moreno
Several months ago, I was blessed with the adoption of a blind Russian blue
cat, who has become my best friend. Not quite a year old when he came to
live with me, JJ was at home in our small apartment within a few days.
Being blind myself, I'd decided not to limit his activity around the house,
so we could both share our independence together. He certainly is the
smartest cat I've ever had, and I soon began to understand the meaning
behind his Mona-Lisa smile, a trait of his breed.
After falling off bookcase shelves, JJ decided this wasn't his cup of cat
tea. The bathroom became off limits after he woke me from a sound sleep at
two in the morning, banging on the shower curtain. He enjoyed toys that
made noise, especially ones I used to play with him.
Then came the game of "Let's Fool Mommy" when I didn't oblige his tactics
for mischief. Most notable was the case of the missing spoon. I'd dropped
one while drying dishes and heard him grab it, scurrying into the bedroom.
"I know you took it, boo," I declared, using one of his many nicknames.
After taking the house apart three times, I gave up. "You've got a stash
somewhere!" I shouted. JJ put his nose in my palm. Kiss, Kiss.
One week later, passing my chair at the kitchen table, my foot hit
something beside the back chair leg. The spoon! JJ circled my legs, tail
wagging merrily, as if to say, "Gotcha!"
His unconditional love gets me through lonely holidays, grief, and tears.
He knows when I need to cry, often wiping tears with kisses or a gentle,
soft paw.
Just like me, he gets confused if someone visits and moves furniture. He
goes to his dish of dry food and puts his paw in first to see how much is
there. JJ scampers around as if he can see, only occasionally colliding
with something. But he won't go outside my apartment door.
Loud voices and noises from windy or stormy weather frighten him. He may
jump into his favorite hiding place, which is a playpen where I store my
dolls. His favorite "hide and seek" game with me finds him quietly waiting
until I come close to his chosen spot. Then he stretches out his paws and
grabs me. We still clash over his jumping on the kitchen table, and it's
taken six combs and a thousand scratches to find a way to groom him we can
both enjoy.
He reminds me daily that love and friendship are the most incredible gifts.
He's consolation, comfort, and assurance when life seems to make little
sense.
As for his mischievous behavior? As I write this, my left slipper is
missing. Where is his stash?
Bio: Valerie Moreno, age 56, has been writing since she was twelve years
old. Always inspired by music and fascinated by people around her, she's
written fiction, memoir, poetry and articles.
Publishing credits include many articles, stories and poems in "The
Troubadour," newsletter/magazine of the Secular Franciscan Order, "The
Answer," newsletter of DIAL, "Dialogue," "Matilda Ziegler," and the
"Dot-to-Dot" Magazine of The Michael Jackson Tribute Portrait. Several
stories and poems appeared in "Behind Our Eyes," an Anthology of
twenty-seven writers with Disabilities, and a poem appeared in the e-book
"Fans in the Mirror," published by the Michael Jackson Tribute Portrait.
--------------------
Old Crow and the skunk, fiction
by Ernest Jones
Old Crow sat on his favorite perch as he surveyed his home. His chest
swelled with pride as he thought of how important he was. It was his job to
protect the chickens from the hawks, skunks and other predators. He also
had to keep watch over the garden for those pesky gophers. Yes, some days
it kept him busy, but usually his work was easy; much of the time he just
played lazy.
Now in the dwindling evening light he rested a moment to take in the
beautiful sunset far over on the western horizon. "Just look at the color,"
he murmured to himself.
Then a slight movement to his left caught his attention and he saw a
creature he knew was trouble sneaking onto the back patio. "Here comes that
critter again; what is he doing in my yard?" the Old Crow questioned. "How
many times have I told him to stay out of my yard? Won't he ever learn?
Guess I will just have to tell him again, but this time I will use a little
more force; he will be sorry when I get through with him. I will make him
wish he had never come here."
With that thought, the Old Crow flew into the clear, crisp air until he was
right over Mr. Skunk. Then he zoomed down, Screaming his loudest cry,
followed by a hard peck to the skunk's head.
The startled skunk jumped and tried to run, but he felt the crow's claws
dig into his back. "Skunk," the Old Crow screamed at his enemy, "Why are
you here? Stealing the cats' food again are you? I will fix you this time.
Phew, but you stink; don't you ever take a bath?"
Mr. Skunk liked to sneak into the yard and eat the cats' or dogs' food. He
would even drink out of their water dish. If the cats or dogs tried to stop
him, the skunk would spray them with his thick, stinky perfume, which would
fill the air so everyone within a mile would smell it. The awful stink
would hang in the air for days. Then the man would have to give the dog or
cat a bath in tomato juice to remove some of the smell. Old Crow knew the
skunk would also try to catch and kill one of the chickens for his dinner
and would succeed if the people were not faithful in closing the trap door
every night.
This evening as the skunk struggled to shake the Old Crow off his back he
also tried to lift his tail to spray.
"Oh no you don't!" the crow screamed, as he jumped to land right on the
skunk's bushy tail. He wrapped his claws around the stinky tail, and didn't
give the skunk a chance to spray. At the same time, he gave another vicious
peck to his back.
The screaming bird bounced up and down on the skunk's tail. Finally, the
sting from the crow's attack was so strong, Mr. Skunk left the yard. Down
the driveway he flew. His feet were stirring up dust, he ran so fast. The
crow held on, jet black wings flapping, atop the black and white skunk. He
jumped up and down, wings beating in time with the skunk's busy feet. The
screaming Old Crow sounded more like a run away locomotive whose whistle
was stuck than a crow cawing from the tree top.
At last Mr. Skunk turned off the road and scrambled through thick brush,
knocking the Old Crow off his back. Still the skunk ran, his tail dragging
the ground behind him in his flight.
The Old Crow flew into the air and screamed a last warning to the skunk,
"now you stay out of our yard or I will give you even more trouble; do you
hear me Mr. Skunk? "
Old Crow flew to his garden. There were some old tomatoes left over from
the harvest, and he knew their value. "Phew, my feet sure stink after that
ride on the skunk's back. Hope these old tomatoes do the trick'," he said
as he landed right on an old soft tomato and felt its juice flow over his
feet. He walked back and forth over several over-ripe tomatoes and let the
red juice cover his feet. "I sure hope this works. I don't know how his
wife even puts up with that smelly old fellow." Then the Old Crow flew to
his perch to rest.
"Well, I have to admit, my feet don't smell very good, but even over-ripe
tomato juice is better than the skunk's odor." He smiled as he looked at
his feet, knowing the red color was a sign of the great work he had just
done for his family. "After all," he told himself, "the place would fall
apart without me to keep watch."
Then he heard another sound, and to his great joy, saw the man bringing him
a bowl of his favorite berries. "Oh, strawberries!" he said as the bowl
full of large, sweet-smelling strawberries was set on the porch by his nest
box.
"I guess my family appreciates me, and they know just how valuable I really
am." With that, Old crow reached his beak down and began eating the sweet
berries.
Bio: Ernest Jones, Sr. worked as a registered nurse until failing eyesight
forced his early retirement. He has one published book, and his monthly
newspaper column, Different Views, offers encouragement to other blind
people. Ernie's monthly church newsletter column delights the young.
Hobbies include gardening, walking with his guide dog, and writing. E-mail
him at: theolcrow at charter.net.
--------------------
My Little Neutrino, memoir
by Bruce Atchison
After Sunday service one August afternoon, my friend Willy strolled up to
me. "I've got this little rabbit," he began. "He's in a pen with the
others, but they keep biting him. The poor guy just sits in one corner of
the cage while the rest of the rabbits sit in the other. He's too small to
be a meat rabbit, so I was wondering if you wanted him."
He knew I adopted rabbits and made them my house partners. I felt sorry for
that poor picked-on bunny and I accepted Willy's offer. Sunday after
Sunday, I waited for him to bring me the rabbit, but something always stood
in his way. It wasn't until the last day of September that my church friend
brought the rabbit in a dilapidated carrier.
"I want the carrier back sometime soon," Willy said.
That didn't bother me at all. I had other carriers which were in much
better condition.
When I got home, I took out the bunny and placed him in the white cage,
which I then moved into the living room. As I watched him exploring his new
surroundings, I pondered the interesting things Willy had told me.
Three church families had that poor rabbit in as many years and all lost
interest in their pet. The children must have manhandled the little
creature, causing him to be wary of them. No wonder he cringed and was
jumpy whenever I reached out to stroke his fur. Of course, he was
traumatized by the big bunnies that bit him and that could have accounted
for his nervousness too.
The last family called him Peewee. I despised that name because it reminded
me of that children's TV show Peewee's Playhouse.
Since the rabbit was tiny and his black fur made him hard to see in dim
light, I called him Neutrino. In scientific terms, a neutrino is a
sub-atomic particle that is nearly impossible to detect and can pass
through most matter without disturbing it. I also loved the rock group
Klaatu's song The Little Neutrino. According to an American Rabbit Breeders
Association poster, my new lagomorph lad was a Netherland Dwarf. He was
small with classic markings, a beige belly and chin, shortened ears with
beige fur inside, beige rings around his eyes and brownish fur on the back
of his neck. I was amazed at how large his brown eyes were compared to the
rest of his head. They made him appear naive and innocent.
Neutrino loved to push toys out of a cardboard tube used by builders to
make concrete pillars. I suppose it seemed like a burrow to him. The odds
and ends I shoved back into it were like dirt that caved in. We spent many
happy moments playing this game. He was soon jumping on top of the tube and
running around the house with the other bunnies.
During the summer, I invented a cool bunny toy. My PC had ruined a fair
number of CD-R disks and I was idly examining one when an idea struck me. I
found a toilet paper tube, flattened it and turned it into a spindle. Then
I shoved it through the center of the disk. The toy rolled back and forth
and made a satisfactory noise, from a rabbit's viewpoint.
All three of my lads loved the new plaything and my house was filled with
the distinctive sound of their game. The only problem with my new invention
was that the aluminum coating on the disk started to peel. I scraped it off
so the rabbits wouldn't ingest it, and that solved the problem. When I told
the folks on the PetBunny e-mail list about my new invention, members liked
the idea so much, they started making them for their bunnies.
Neutrino had found the security he deserved and the freedom to explore and
have fun. I feel particularly grieved whenever I hear instances of animal
abuse. God put us humans in charge of this planet but he never meant us to
neglect or mistreat his creations. Neutrino's is only one of many stories I
tell in my book, "When a Man Loves a Rabbit: Learning and Living with
Bunnies."
Bio: Bruce Atchison is a legally-blind Canadian freelance writer with
articles published in a variety of magazines. He has also authored "When a
Man Loves a Rabbit: Learning and Living with Bunnies," a memoir.
"Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School)" is his
recollection of being sent five hundred miles from home. Contact him at
batchison at mcsnet.ca or on Facebook or Twitter.
He posts portions of his published memoirs, along with his upcoming How I
Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity memoir, on
http://www.bruceatchison.blogspot.com. Atchison lives in a tiny Alberta
hamlet with his two house rabbit companions, Mark and Deborah.
--------------------
Sharing Your Gifts, fiction
by DeAnna (Quietwater) Noriega
Small rabbit crouched in the tall grass near the crest of a knoll. He could
see a long way across the prairie. He watched some antelope race off in the
distance. He said to himself, "Oh how swift and beautiful they are! I wish
I were an antelope!"
He saw a bear tearing apart a cottonwood log looking for grubs. "Oh, to be
a bear would be fine! He is so strong and so big. He doesn't have to hide
from eagle in the grass. He isn't afraid of coyote! I would love to be a
bear!"
Grandmother spider paused in her work and said softly, "Little rabbit,
little rabbit, you are as the great mystery has made you. Listen and I will
tell you a story." This is the tale she told little rabbit.
A doe moved softly along the trail down the side of a mountain. The dust
was thick beneath her hooves. The sun beat down making her thirsty. When
she came to the stream, she found it dry. She gave a mournful little sigh.
Bear looked up from where he was trying to find berries among the dry
thirsty vines, and grunted his agreement with doe's disappointment. Thunder
bird was perched high on a Craig above them. He spread his great wings,
enjoying the feel of the heat on his powerful body. He heard their mournful
sounds and took pity. It was selfish of him to bask in the sunlight while
his brother and sister below suffered thirst. He decided that he must leave
the place where he rested to bring the storm with rain to fill the creek so
that all might drink. When the flash of the lightning lit up the sky, bear
saw Butterfly trembling in fear on the edge of a withered leaf.
"I can't fly when it rains and the drops will damage my delicate wings,"
she cried.
"Don't be afraid little one, the rain is a good thing and will make the
leaves fresh for your young to eat. It will make the berries sweet and full
of juice for me. More flowers will bloom so you can drink their nectar. I
am very strong and cast a large shadow. Shelter beneath me until this
passes and wait for the sun to return," he instructed. Doe offered, "Once
the rain has passed, I will carry you to a high meadow where the new
flowers will spring up after the rain. You can dance on the soft summer
breezes and bring delight to my fawn who will be amazed by your bright
colors. He will think that a flower has learned to fly and he will laugh
with joy at the thought of such a wonder."
So it is when we look beyond our own troubles and offer help to one
another. That which is good for one can be good for all if each is willing
to share his gifts and look beyond what is good for himself alone.
"So my foolish child, you must think what gifts you have and use them
wisely because there is a place for you in the dance we call life. A place
that can only be filled by you and that calls for the very gifts you have
been given."
Bio: DeAnna (Quietwater) Noriega is half Apache and a quarter Chippewa. She
lost her vision at age eight. She has been a writer/poet, advocate on
disability issues and story teller since childhood. She currently is teamed
with her eighth guide dog, Reno, a chocolate Labrador retriever.
Her writing has appeared in magazines such as: "Dialogue," "Angels on
Earth," "the Braille Forum," "Generations--Native Literature," and in the
anthologies "Behind Our Eyes," "2+4=1," "My Blindness Isn't Black," and
"Where We Read the Wind."
She lives in mid-Missouri with her husband, youngest daughter, three
grandchildren and a host of critters.
--------------------
Her Spirit Guide, nonfiction
by Eve Sanchez
Although Connie Standing Clear was a seasoned graduate of Pilot Dogs, Inc.
she was amazed by a guide of a different type who chose to be with her one
day. Connie was vacationing with her brother Rick in North Carolina. They
planned to spend one day hiking up Clingmans Dome. She considered the heat,
and decided to leave her guide dog, Sugar, her third from Pilot Dogs, in
the hotel to enjoy the comfort of air conditioning.
Rick was experienced in guiding his sister safely, but she tired halfway up
the mountain and chose to settle on a rock and rest while he continued on.
There were other hikers in the area, but she enjoyed just being by herself
with the quiet sounds of nature and the freshness in the air.
Shortly after Rick ascended with another group of hikers, a small dog came
and sat down next to Connie. She was very surprised to find a loose dog on
the mountain, but welcomed the company. The little dog lay down beside her
as she started petting him. They sat that way for quite some time, and she
talked to him as if to a beloved friend.
Finally she could hear the group, including Rick, returning from above,
their footsteps reverberating through the weight of the air. As they turned
the last bend hiding her and her new friend from them Connie heard them all
come to a sudden stop. "Hold still Connie." came Rick's voice. Unconcerned
Connie did not understand the sound of distress he expressed.
"Who does this little dog belong to?" she asked. She was quickly and
quietly informed that her little dog friend was actually a fox. Rick told
her to stop petting it as he was now nervous for his sister. She responded
with calmness in her voice because she felt no fear and did not want this
moment to pass. She finally, reluctantly, took her hand from the fox and
said, "Thank you."
At this, the fox stood up and licked her hand. He then turned away and
started towards the trees. Rick and everyone else there swore to Connie
that as the fox reached the trees he turned to face her again, and bowed
his head before continuing out of sight. Like many blind people, Connie
Standing Clear has had several guide dogs and remembers them all fondly,
but she had one special guide, a spirit guide as her Cherokee heritage has
taught her, that she will never forget.
Bio: EvaMarie "Eve" Sanchez has had many chapters in her life. Originally
from Northern California she has lived too long in the cold winters of
Eastern Idaho. Recently she moved to the Red Rocks of Northern Arizona
where she hopes to start a new chapter with her new guide dog. Some of the
chapters in Eve's life could have titles such as 'Surfing Hawaii', 'Riding
the Tetons', and 'Fighting Fires'. As a licensed social worker and a blind
artist who loves animals of all kinds, it is anyone's guess what Eve's next
chapter will be called.
--------------------
When I Grow Up, I Want to Be a... memoir
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega
We had two houses on our farm. I was unloading groceries at the lower house
when my guide dog asked to be unharnessed to take a run. Five acres around
the houses were fenced, so I removed his harness and leash and stood
talking to my teen-aged daughters. Angelyn's pygmy goat cross, Basher came
up and thrust his head through the yoke of the harness. I was amused and
bent to fasten the straps and attach the leash to his collar to see what he
would do. He promptly jumped in to the back of our van and settled down. If
he had a subtitle, it would have read: "Guide dogs get to ride in the car!"
I gave a gentle tug on the leash and he bounded down to stand at my side. I
picked up the harness handle and said "Forward." He moved on up the
driveway and walked sedately until we reached the steps to the wide deck in
front of the second house. When I found the step with my foot, he moved up
the stairs and across to the door. He placed his nose confidently on the
knob of the screen door. After all, guide dogs get to go in to the house! I
opened the door and he marched in to the kitchen, steering us around the
center table and in to the living room where my husband sat reading the
paper. Curt said Basher with his full set of horns would be a great asset
in handling the crowds of Christmas shoppers. Of course, the real trick
would have been in housebreaking my guide goat.
--------------------
Omen from My Totem, poetry
by Leonard Tuchyner
Beyond my sliding window door,
birds come to feast on seeds I store--
an outdoor fare I set out there.
They pay with color, song and flair.
Long have I known my connection
with the tiny, wistful, lonely bird
who comes to me in reverie,
gazing through my windowed mind;
Seeking to be with me. Is he
calling me to come outside?
On a clear early winter brisk,
he came to me in feathered flesh;
waiting on a feeder perch;
did not choose to flinch away.
His eyes were clouded, like my own.
"Little brown bird, why do you wait?"
He stepped upon proffered finger;
we gently touched nose to beak.
Then, his mission done, took to flight.
Was it his wings, the day before,
that flapped against my startled face?
If so, why did he return?
What message did he bring my way?
The ways of omens are cloudy-eyed,
As are dreams and visions held inside.
What does he see with blinded eyes?
How does he flit through tree-etched skies?
--------------------
The Wings of Man, fiction
by Myrna Badgerow
The man and boy stand on the edge of Earth, watching sun fade to crimson.
Serenity of Spirit sits beside them and Truth stands tall behind. Silence
waits at a distance as Silence often does, never intruding or expecting
notice. Across twilight horizon an eagle dips and soars, catching the boy's
imagination. He lingers in thought until Truth nudges him to speak. "Sir,
why is it that man cannot fly as does the eagle?" asks the boy as he
continues to watch the beauty of flight.
The man sets his gaze upon the magnificent creature and after some time
passes he says, "The simple answer would be that man does not have wings,
would it not?"
The boy remains silent for he knows that the man expects no reply. He
simply nods, his eyes seeking the eagle once more.
The man continues, "The wings of man are not feathered with nature's
secrets. They are not hampered by wind and rain, but only by man himself."
The boy reflects for a while, then he asks, "Will I find these wings one
day?"
Speaking quietly the man responds, "You will fly, my son, and soar across
your own skies if you remember these things: Breathe deeply of each day.
Hold each moment lived in your hands, feel its warmth and its soul. Every
second, every minute, and every hour is a gift. Use them. Harness the
power, the strength found in each. Trust in yourself. Do not let the wind
and rain of your uncertainty keep you grounded and always remember, my son,
there is not one moment of your life that is more or less important than
the next. All of your moments are untried wings poised for flight and upon
them your dreams will soar."
The boy listens, remaining silent for a time. He sighs and says, "I think I
understand, Sir."
The man smiles, takes the boy's hand in his. "No, not quite yet, but one
day you will, my son. You will then be as our winged friend here, flying on
the edge of a dream. Now come. Day needs its rest."
They turn, walk away, and the eagle disappears into the falling sun. Truth
and Spirit follow, leaving Silence alone to mark the end of day.
--------------------
VI. THE 'EMBERS THROUGH THE 'ARYS
Grapevines through the Generations, memoir
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
As a child, I loved the fragrance and flavor of grape--the grape jelly
homemade by my mother, grape gum sold at my uncle's grocery store, grape
snow cones purchased at carnivals, and most especially grape juice
advertised heavily in the 50s by Welch's. Similarly, I have very fond
memories of the grapes that grew behind the huge store building which my
maternal grandparents and uncle owned in Blanford, Indiana. Although the
backyard was small for a rural area of west-central Indiana, the beautiful
clusters of grapes growing on the trellis that framed the sidewalk to the
alley were like a rich green and purple crown under which my cousin Carole
and I could play and imagine.
A few miles away, in that tiny rural area called Klondyke, was my paternal
grandparents' farm. In addition to a farmhouse with a red swing on the
front porch, a bountiful garden, four peach trees, cows and chickens, a
barn, a three-seater outhouse, fields, a woods, and a front yard along a
gravel road--a large and beautiful grape arbor graced the farm which
everyone loved to visit. Of course, my grandmother used the grapes to make
jelly, and my grandfather was known for the Italian wine he made from those
grapes.
In the first decade of the 1900s, all four of my grandparents left the
Levone valley of Northern Italy to come to this quiet area of rural
Indiana, but one way in which they could keep in touch with their homeland
was through these grapevines. Since the majority of the people in the area
where I spent my young life were of Italian descent, Columbus Day was
celebrated with a spectacular parade in the nearby town of Clinton. Then,
during my high school years, the largest town in Vermillion County planned
a new celebration: in 1966, Clinton began its Little Italy Festival which
continues each Labor Day Weekend for four days.
Besides the selection of a Re and Regina (King and Queen) of the festival,
a young Queen of Grapes and her court reign over the festivities. I
remember that high school friends who were chosen for this honor stomped
grapes for the tourists and television cameras, and temporarily had purple
feet. At the main stage area, during the grape stomping contests, men,
dressed in festival costumes, threw clusters of grapes to the audience.
My grandparents' friend Joe Airola grew and cared for the grapes that
naturally decorated the earthly terraces of the banks of the Wabash River
(where Clinton, Indiana, is located.) At the annual festival, one of my
favorite treats was grape ice--almost like a grape sherbet.
>From the grapes of the town of my high school, I ponder the grapes and
gardens of my hometown, Blanford. In our town of about 400 residents, my
father enjoyed working in his garden, and he also tilled the soil for my
grandfather who kept an ample garden until he was about 88 years of age.
Following in my grandpa's footsteps, my father eventually also grew grapes
and made a fine wine with these Hoosier grapes. My dad was the only one of
his generation to carry on the family tradition.
Although I think all of my family must have grapevines in our veins, I am
sad to report that no one from my generation is continuing our ancestors'
tradition of growing grapes. Nevertheless, recently, my nephew called
me--thanks to the miracle of modern communications--from Afghanistan and
told me that, amazingly, from the extremely dry and hard ground of
Afghanistan, grapes do grow. Tired of MREs (Meals-ready-to-eat,) he tasted
some of the green grapes and shared with me that the grapes, although
small, tasted good. I believe when my nephew settles down again in the
United States with his lovely bride, he will continue the tradition of
tending to grapevines and making Italian wine. I hope the tradition of
grapevines will weave through a new generation of our Italian-American
family.
--------------------
The Safe Place, memoir
by Valerie Moreno
It was pouring rain that night when the last threads of my security broke
apart.
My year at college had started terribly. I was homesick. One of two
partially sighted students, my vision was less than that of Mara, a Junior
who could read print without magnification and needed no white cane to
travel about campus. Half-way through the first semester, my recorded books
were still in progress from the agency, and requests for a mobility teacher
made in June hadn't materialized.
I'd spent the beginning of my Freshman year getting lost on campus, being
late for classes, making numerous calls for help, and endlessly explaining
to teachers why my textbooks were not ready yet.
I'd learned every inch of the grounds after getting lost every day. One
place I'd found was the music studio where every girl in the Freshman class
had tried out for Glee Club.
Music had been my refuge from an early age. It spoke to my soul and spirit
where words could not travel. The sound of my own voice singing would fill
me with strength and resolve. I wanted to sing with others now that I had
the chance.
Tonight we'd learn who would be chosen. Many of us crowded the dorm hall as
Barbara rushed through the heavy double doors, drenched, but exhilarated.
"I've got the cards!" She yelled, waving them in the air.
"Straight from Mr. G. Wait for me to call your name, then come get your
card."
My heart was pounding as each name was called. Please, let the next card be
mine. Every freshman girl on all three floors was named, then thickening
silence followed as all eyes turned to me.
"Barb?" my roommate asked slowly. "Where's Val's card?"
Deafening silence hovered as Barbara franticly searched her jacket pockets.
"Maybe I dropped it," she said, her voice shaking.
Girls around me began muttering, looking around the floor.
"What the hell..." Tina, my roommate shouted, following with a string of
curses. "You didn't lose it, Barbara; I saw the hard time he was giving her
at the tryouts. All he's worried about is how she'll turn the pages in the
book and how she can learn the music if she can't see the print."
"I told him I'd memorize it, tape the classes..." I thought back to the
dozens of problems he'd foreseen and remained stony at my common sense
solutions.
Now, standing in the midst of these girls, humiliation, anger and defeat
formed as tears. Pushing through them, I grabbed my cane from our closet
and raced for the doors at the other end of the hall. Behind me, Tina was
raging and I rushed out into the teeming rain. I was vaguely aware of not
wearing a jacket and stamped through puddles as my feet kept time with my
beating pulse.
Turning down a path in the drenching dark, I collided with a tree stump and
belly flopped on it, my cane spinning out of my hand.
"Damn it," I screamed at the stump, the darkness, rain and God. "Shit!"
Movement in the brush startled me and a soft, soothing voice asked "Val?"
I recognized her. She was the girl who'd sat beside me at tryouts.
"Colleen," I answered, as she helped me to stand. "My cane flew somewhere.
What are you doing out in this deluge?"
"Here," she said, putting the cane in my hand. It was dirty and cold.
"I like the rain," she said, "It helps me think, so I figured I'd take a
walk over to your dorm to see you. What are you doing out here?"
"I was on my way to tell Mr. G. to go to hell," I said. "I'm the only
Freshman in my dorm to get bumped out of the Glee Club."
"Well, he's a goony loon," Colleen said as we began walking. "I was hoping
his mental capacity would jumpstart, but he's a goony loon. He'd boot me
out if he could. He dislikes anyone who's original. Remember last week when
I'd nudge you to turn the page? He stopped every time and said, "Are you
with us, Miss C?"
"Yeah, well that's crap! There's nothing wrong with you."
"Ask most people here about me," she laughed a little, then sighed. "How
many girls wear bows in their hair, don't wear make-up and have a dorm room
filled with dolls?"
I remembered how she'd introduced herself the week before. "Hi, I'm
Colleen. I have curly hair too like you. I'd touched the flow of
honey-brown curls; they were silky, unsprayed.
"I think Mr. G. needs a heart repair as well as a safe place within his
mind. Why can't he give us new songs? He's completely out of tune with
himself. This Glee Club sings the same songs every year--Stabat Matar, My
Funny Valentine, Mac The Knife..."
"Oh, God!" I cried.
"He's stuck in his fear of difference, of change. I'm eccentric, I know
that, but it's not a prison for me. I like curls and bows and dolls."
""I love dolls," I said. "I still miss mine."
"Come over to my room and I'll give you one to keep." After a pause, she
said: "We're secret sharers, you see--not just the dolls and curls, but
inside. You write and sing, don't you?"
"Yes," I cried. "You too?"
"well, you know I sing, of course, and I write fiction and poetry. I'm on
the outside looking in. I don't fit either."
"What a pair!" I said. We were laughing now as we opened the big doors to
the music room.
"You look like two drowned rats!" Mr. G. was staring at the puddles forming
on the floor. Our hair hung in wooly ropes. "I didn't get a card for the
Glee Club, Mr. G." I said. "Is my voice that awful?"
"Of course not," he was shuffling papers now. "I can learn the music by
recording classes and Miss C. is my official page turner."
"Oh, and not to worry, Mr. G. I'll always be right with you."
He let out a resigned sigh. "Your card will be made," he said.
I turned with Colleen. Walking arm-in-arm, we sang "Funny Valentine" as we
stepped out in to the rain.
--------------------
Drip, Drip, Drip, poetry
by Deon Lions
Drip, drip, drip, the rain gently slides off the shingled roof;
Darkened skies cry out, loosening their heavy haul;
Dry ground graciously welcomes the comforting showers;
Parched plants stand tall again, shouting out their approval;
Droplets, turning to a trickle, slowly form a steady flow;
Puddles appear, while ditches fill with building current;
Trees, heavy with wet, lower their humbled heads.
A young boy, sighing with head in hand, stares out a large picture window;
Watching the rain fall, he daydreams his way out into the morning;
Tracing the drops of rain, his fingers slowly follow them down the pane.
Exploding in smile, he leaps up and bounds away from the window
With boots of rubber and raincoat adorned, he bursts outside with cheer.
Spinning in time, he lifts his head to taste the sweet, steady drops;
Unsuspecting puddles empty quickly from the beat of his stomping parade;
A hearty giggle and a full helping of laughter, echo out through the
falling rain.
With stick in hand, he proudly conducts the symphony of running water:
Stray, bows of tree bark become flowing schooners and vessels upon his
mighty sea;
Imaginations skip across the deck, as distant ports grow smaller on the
horizon;
Tales of scalawags, and treasures abound, flow along the puddled shores.
Another spinning taste from droplets above refreshes his spirit within;
Rising tides of make believe capture the wandering hearts, packed with
ageless innocence;
With cargo holds full of magical tales, the sails turn and clutch the trade
winds for home;
Praise and song welcome in the tired sailor to port, with celebrated warmth
and cheer.
Tracing along the lines of distant shores, he gazes out through the
weathered pane again;
Drip, drip, drip, the rain gently slides off the shingled roof.
Bio: Deon Lyons lives in the central Maine town of Clinton along with his
wife of thirty years. Deon worked for the past twenty five years as a
Regional Sales Rep, until June of 2010 when he suddenly lost his vision due
to lingering complications from cancer as an infant. Deon is currently
involved in a vocational rehabilitation program, and is also learning many
forms of assistive technology in hopes of re-entering the workforce. Along
with a lifelong passion for writing, Deon has many hobbies, but they all
play second fiddle to family.
--------------------
A Final Frontier, poetry
by Lynda J. Lambert
My brother sifts through old photographs
Beyond the shadows of a cold October night
His fingertips glow like red neon
As he holds each one up to the light
>From a leather chair
I watch him laugh
We wait patiently between glass walls
This night seems more quiet than sleeping turkeys
Settling onto thin black branches
High above the forest floor
My brother begins to close his eyes
Doesn't want to see the winding trails
Of transparent tubes plunged deep into his throat
He examines another buried memory
The little boy standing beside the weathered fence
On winter grasses folded into flattened paths
Beneath softly pounding feet
He feels the chill of the final frontier
When his wife reaches out to touch him.
Bio: Lynda Lambert is a writer and studio artist who lives in the small
village of Wurtemburg in western Pennsylvania. Her studio is surrounded by
the woods along the Connoquenessing Creek.
Lynda has advanced degrees in English Literature, and Fine Arts. She is a
former professor of Fine Arts and Humanities at Geneva College, in
Pennsylvania.
Lynda Lambert is blind. She is the author of Concerti...Psalms for the
Pilgrimage published by Kota' Press.
--------------------
Wild Turkeys, Wild Montauk, poetry
by Ria Meade
Editors' note: Montauk is on the south beach of Long Island, and is the
farthest east populated area in New York state.
December's nakedness,
isolation, icy winds,
wildlife dominant, thriving.
Never saw wild turkeys then.
Use to sketch, paint, breathe
this bleak, hypnotic,
beautiful landscape,
when summer breezes,
turned hostile,
chasing vehicles west.
This was my Montauk.
Deer re-emerged,
liberated from dense brush.
Harbor seals arrived,
lounged on jetties,
surrounding the lighthouse.
Lakeside shallows welcomed
stately herons.
Red tailed hawks, rabbits, foxes
reclaimed golf courses.
Never saw wild turkeys.
I love Montauk.
Best, clearest memories,
were when colder months
came due.
Went there, invited no one.
Created Christmas cards:
Cliffs dwarfing strips of sand,
against sleepy ocean waves.
Attached wreathes to masts,
so solitary, stoic, sad,
in their empty, winter harbor.
Would gilt these penned scenes gold,
where sun's light lay.
That was thirty years ago.
I use a guide dog now,
and Montauk's winters are just cold.
My friend George, a year-round resident
of this unique place, calls.
His words paint scenes,
detail changes of the area's character,
when outside breath is frosty.
He reports that twenty wild turkeys, more,
gathered in his neighbor's yard.
Their numbers surpass
the problem deer.
Montauk's winter images,
freshly redrawn,
empty spaces refilled.
I can see them,
a herd of turkeys
in a run,
along that wide strip,
of white sand,
headed for Montauk's Point.
Wild turkeys,
wild Montauk.
Bio: Ria Meade, 56, a Long Island poet, has been blind more than half her
lifetime. She chronicles her experiences, especially those with six guide
dogs.
--------------------
The Box on the Porch, memoir
by Ed Potter
>From the "Coffee with Ed" series
"They didn't even care enough about it to come outside and get it. Let's
take it home!" Those were the approximate words from six-year-old Margaret,
on the brink of tears. You'll understand when I tell you what happened.
My wife, Sue, and I thought the children could use a little focus on
someone other than themselves at Christmas time. We asked the social
services folks to give us the names of a needy family, preferably with
children about the ages of ours. Margaret and Edward really seemed to get
into the project. They chose presents for the children; they wrapped them,
then couldn't wait to give them out. Sue and I chose a couple of presents
for the adults. We also packed the box with some luscious Christmas food
that they probably wouldn't be buying on their limited income.
Well, the big night finally came. We lugged the box up onto their porch. We
knocked.
"Who's there?"
"Uh, we're the Potters, and we have some Christmas treats," we said very
uncertainly.
"Yeah, I heard you were coming," the male voice said. "Just set it down on
the porch. We're just too busy now to come out."
Then came Margaret's remark. She and Edward were really disappointed not to
meet the kids.
We left the box anyway, as we knew we should. It was then my job to explain
just what happened.
It could have been that the guy was just a creep. That was the easy
explanation. Or it could have been that he hated to have to face people who
were, in his view, a bit more successful and wealthy than he, and this was
the only way he knew how to deal with it. We'll never know.
I tried to explain to our children that what they did was good, and that
the giving in itself was enough. No one can control how others respond to
deeds done for them. That was, of course, all very well and good, but I
couldn't help knowing that the disappointment was still there.
I hope the recipients enjoyed the little presents, and that their children
thought about the fact that their Christmas was nicer than it might have
been otherwise. I wanted our project to provide an awakening for our
children, and it certainly did--just not the awakening we expected. Even
though the deed itself is what's important, and not how others respond to
it, somehow we just never did it again, and I really think we should have.
--------------------
DECEMBER 25th, poetry
by Michael Price
And in those days there went out a decree
Which started it all, this thing, most importantly.
A kid in some straw with some cows looking on
In a Motel 6 parking lot 'cuz the rooms were all gone.
Three wise guys got together, all in one place
To bring a savior some cash and smelly stuff for his face.
Shepherds, on the job in a field nearby,
Watched angels and other stuff fall out of the sky.
Very inspirational.
The old guy with the beard wasn't there; he's here now--
He of red suits, obesity, and prominent brow.
Eight over-sized rodents hauling a sled
(Or nine, counting the one whose nose was red,)
Beating gravity, with Santa having a pipe-full in back.
And elves and toys and, for later, a little snack,
With a chimney fetish--it could be worse;
A fat, aerial Robin Hood, but financially in reverse.
Cute. Fun.
With mom in her kerchief and dad in the den
Watching football or hockey, depending on when.
Sis back from school; nice ta see ya, see ya, see ya later;
The frat-man's in town, from Wisconsin, an all-stater.
And Grandma in the kitchen, or resting, or all ears
Relating studied wisdom gathered through her years.
Going broke being nice; it's that time again.
Buy now, worry later. Can I borrow a pen?
No problem.
A pen today will get you a lot the next day;
For the month prior we're talkin' serious layaway.
Sports stuff for nephew, doll stuff for niece,
Or that game on the tube, in the silly commercial piece.
Light-em-up Santas and look-alike trees,
Tinsel, wild parties, and chocolate covered cherries.
And the joyous sentiments after the service that eve:
"Happy holidays to all and...I'm sorry, but do I even know you?
Christmas.
Bio: Michael Price had been writing creative fiction for more than fifteen
years prior to his initial bipolar diagnosis in 1996, although--in
retrospect, according to his doctors--he most likely had been in the
formative stages of the disease for considerably longer than that. After
receiving his BA in Theater from the University of Minnesota in 1980, he
struggled off and on with various degrees of unpredictable behavior and
substance abuse. His writing takes on a myriad of styles, structures, and
themes, and his work reflects an important coping mechanism in dealing with
his affliction.
--------------------
Birds of Noel, memoir
by Judith E Vido
Scriptures of Christian teaching tell us that a multitude of angels, joined
by the heavenly host, filled the skies with song on the night Jesus was
born. This one event is the fuel of religious zealots, spiritual salvation
for the downtrodden, and the inspiration for the most beautiful music dear
to Christian hearts.
When I was in grade school, one of my most prized possessions was a small
booklet my third, or possibly my fourth grade teacher handed out to our
class. The booklet contained the lyrics to all of our favorite Christmas
carols. Together we would gather and sing every song until we knew at least
one verse by heart.
During the holiday season, our song booklets were always with us, small
enough to easily fit into a coat pocket. We would sing whenever given an
opportunity. A group would break into song on the bus going home. Girls on
the playground would gather to sing when it was too cold for the jungle
gym. One day a week a class would entertain after lunch in the school
cafeteria.
All of the melodies were lovely. Singing them became the treat of our
eight-year-old lives. It meant Christmas was near. It meant holiday fun,
decorations, presents--and no school for the longest time.
I still look back on those days and times and find myself humming one of my
favorites. "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem" or "It Came Upon The Midnight
Clear" and my all time favorite "The First Noel."
"The First Noel" sprang to my lips as I walked my mother's country acre in
1990. I loved walking the property, checking out all the trees, shrubbery,
and pansy beds my mother once kept with pride. Exiting the house that
morning, the first thing of notice was the absolute quiet. On this
Christmas morn all was still; nothing disturbed the silence. After five or
ten minutes, a single car turned into Long Bridge Road just up from the
house. Then, again, perfect calm, and the silence was enthralling. Crisp,
cold Christmas air mixed with bright golden sunshine. Everything was clean,
clear, and wonderful.
Working my way along the edge of mother's land, I came to the end of the
drive by the road. I stopped and stood, still amazed at the utter quiet of
the day. "Only on Christmas day..." I thought to myself as I started up the
drive. My steps crunched on gravel, sparking a beat.
"The first Noel, the angels did say," my strong contralto voice broke the
silence that had become almost too eerie to stand. I moved upward on the
hill of the drive and realized as I sang, I was not alone.
I stopped. I stood quietly listening. Nothing broke the silence. With a
shake of my head, I began singing again and proceeded along the drive. At
the top of the hill, I softened my song to discover the sounds I could only
hear as I sang.
A group of birds accompanied me. As long as I sang, they sang. When I
paused, they paused. Still vocalizing softly, I listened carefully. Four,
no five individual bird voices were distinct and identifiable. I couldn't
remember the musical term for their soft sweet tones that backed up my
lead, but I recognized their joy. I sang out. They joined me, matched me in
a full, rich rejoicing of Christmas day. I stood spellbound in the moment,
knowing the day's silence was to a purpose.
"The First Noel" with bird's choral trills, filled the quiet stage as the
Creators had patiently awaited the performance.
Bio: Judith E. Vido lives in Richmond, Virginia and has published four
novels available from LuLu.com. She holds a BS in Psychology and masters in
Clinical Social Work from the Virginia Commonwealth University. At age
eight Ms. Vido was diagnosed with Juvenile diabetes and lost her sight
months before her twentieth birthday from its side effects.
Currently she advocates for persons with disabilities in Richmond and is
one of the performing soloists with the Senior connections Choral Group.
She lives with her retired Seeing Eye dog, Maddie, also blind now, and
continues to work on her autobiography and other suspense novels.
--------------------
The Mighty Mountain, memoir
by Deon Lyons
I always loved winter as a child in Southern Maine. There was no better
feeling than grabbing my Speedway sled and dragging it out to the top of
the huge hill in front of our house, dressed in my snow suit, winter boots,
knitted stocking hat, knitted mittens and scarf. Those were some of the
happiest times of my life, and I truly cherish the memories.
There was one winter memory though, that I would just as soon not remember,
but I vividly do. It was the winter of 1969. That winter had been chugging
along like a typical Maine winter usually did. The sledding was wonderful,
the conditions were perfect, and through the holidays, into January, I
found myself speeding down the mighty winter mountain at every chance I
got. I was a happy, smiling kid with a winter full of never ending fun.
There were a dozen kids in the neighborhood, and you could usually find us
out on the hill, all weekend, from dawn to dusk. A rapid retreat back home
for a hot bowl of lunch time soup, and we would quickly find ourselves
right back out on the frozen slope until the four thirty whistle from the
down town mill warned us to start heading home for supper. Even on the
weekdays, we hurried off the school bus and changed into our winter wear so
we could get out and take in all of the winter magic.
During that glorious winter of 1969, I remember a stretch of weather during
the end of January that brought tropical conditions from the southwest. The
weather for three or four days was warm and rainy. It was the weather
pattern sent from the devil himself, with no good intentions whatsoever, at
least in the opinions of an eight year old avid winter sledder.
I remember looking out the living room picture window for two days as the
rain and warm temperatures slowly melted away my winter playground. It was
horrible, and I couldn't stop watching it happen.
On the third day of the warm spell, I would periodically look out the
window, towards the hill out front, and across the open fields below.
Slowly but surely, small patches of bare ground started to appear across
the fields. My winter playground was disappearing right before my eight
year old eyes, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. My mother came
up behind me at the window, put her hands on my shoulders, bent down,
kissed me on the cheek and whispered, "Don't worry sweetie, winter isn't
over yet."
Her words didn't really register, as all I could do was look out at my
winter being stolen right from under me.
As the snow continued to disappear, I could almost hear my grief stricken
sled in the garage, hollering at me to get it back out onto the hill.
As the week rolled on by, the temps slowly started dipping back to their
normal sub-freezing levels, and within a few days, the winter weather
patterns, along with the much welcomed snow returned. My livelihood and all
of the joy that came with it, also returned, one inch of snow at a time.
Within a week, the whispered words of my mother came true as I found myself
laughing and screaming, careening down the mighty mountain in front of my
house. The world was right once again.
Years later as an adult, I revisited my old homestead from my childhood.
All of the memories and feelings grabbed hold of me as I turned the corner,
and that same mighty mountain came into view. It was the same hill that I
had slid down a thousand times as a child, but one thing seemed different.
The mighty mountain had somehow shrunk into a small sloping piece of land
that didn't really stand out as I remembered. It didn't seem possible.
Where was the death defying vertical drop? Where was the mountain top that
seemed to touch the heavens? Where did the never ending slope that brought
so many wonderful moments into my childhood disappear to?
As I rode up past the hill, I took a deep breath and smiled, remembering
all of the crusty, tasty, snow sandwiches, the frozen fearless fury of the
crisp winter wind, the worn out legs that just kept climbing, again and
again, back to the top of the hill, for one more trip down to the bottom.
All of the wonder and magic of those childhood memories, all of the
incredible wintry days of adolescent bliss, every minute of The countless
hours spent out in the frozen snows of the mighty mountain had been
comfortably, and neatly tucked away, inside my mind.
What a perfectly fitting place for them.
--------------------
WINTER CITRUS SALAD, poetry
by Nancy Scott
With the second grunt and twist,
the square jar's round lid loosens
almost spurting juice toward the red sweater
worn against the Weather Channel's
five-degree windchill.
Ignore outside chopping and shovel-grinding
graveled on top of the foot of snow
now loved only by dramatic newscasters.
The groundhog says "Early Spring--"
a thing he almost never says.
Don't believe the Pennsylvania woodchuck yet.
Reach with a tablespoon.
Excavate one piece of grapefruit,
refrigerator-cold like savored summer's best.
Then capture two small orange slices.
Inhale foreign warm states.
Wonder where and by whom
fruit was picked and peeled.
Clamp down. Chew.
Sugar. Swallow the rumor of July.
Stand at the kitchen sink.
Drink juice from the jar--
a bad habit of too much alone.
Dig and reach for what comes up.
Don't wish for a bowl or a seat at the table.
Feel healthier by the fourth spoonful.
Feel too cold by the sixth.
Seal the jar with a savage wrist.
Save some cold comfort for later.
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