Contributed by Crystal Olson...
On Bungee Jumping and Writing
One of the most terrifying moments in my life was when I stood on a platform no larger than one square foot and looked down into a canyon two hundred feet below. Though I’d been confident up to that point, I now realized there was no way I could jump. The doubts that crashed around in my mind clashed with the voices yelling for me to jump in “three-two-one.” And before I realized I had done it, I was being swallowed by the canyon. Time slowed, actually froze for a moment, giving my brain time to catch up, and then I fell in a rush toward the rocks and shallow water below. A scream escaped my lungs and then relief jolted through my core as I felt the cord recoil. How is this relevant to writing? My bungee jumping experience is the closest I can come to explaining how I feel when I look at a blank sheet of paper. Paper is limitless, unstructured, a depthless chasm waiting for the writer to take the plunge. There is hesitation. What should I write? There is fear. What if it’s awful? There is a constellation of what ifs that pull me away from the edge again and again. But then there’s a little voice that says, “Jump.” And I do. |
Half of the Story
Memories adorn my walls protected behind glass and frame. My children's first moments of life: first baths, first smiles, first car rides. Photographs that capture their determined faces as they crawl across a battlefield of toys. A pair of swimsuit clad pirates racing toward the ocean’s surf. A red robed kindergarten graduate beaming with pride, diploma held high in triumph. These moments are safe, so many more are lost. Already I've forgotten the expression on my son's face when he ate pureed peaches for the first time. His first trip to the zoo is a blurred image in my mind's eye. Time rushes us along like an impatient tour guide highlighting only the greatest monuments. All the while my children grow older and all that remains are a few framed pictures that tell only half of the story. |
A Mother’s Love
All of my childhood memories revolve around summer. When I fish these memories from the depth of my mind, the first image I see is a radiant, yellow sun so bright that it temporarily eclipses the memory that unfolds beneath its warm rays.
One such memory occurred on a balmy day in July just before my eighth birthday. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun hung like an egg yolk suspended from invisible strings. The field behind my house was alive with movement as the long, yellow grass swayed in the breeze.
I lived in the country and, as those who grew up in the country well know, the only true mode of travel is barefoot. On this particular summer day, as I was running barefoot through the field in my “backyard,” my feet connected with something. I’d stepped on nails, rocks, and sticker bushes over the years, but this felt different. Fuzzy.
Startled, I looked down to see an explosion of pale yellow fuzz. Baby turkeys. I grinned and stooped down to touch them. They surrounded me like inquisitive yellow puppies, eager to garner my attention. I delightedly pet each of the squirming poults. Suddenly a dark shape filled my peripheral view. There, only a few feet away, a wild hen, presumably mama turkey, morphed from Thanksgiving dinner to terrifying predator. She extended her wings, beating the air with vicious cutting strokes; with each movement, she puffed up, doubling in size until she hovered above me. I stumbled backwards and rushed toward my home, feeling the hen’s angry presence close behind.
Without looking back, I ran as fast as my little legs would carry me. I didn’t stop until I met my mother at the door. She greeted me with an expression filled with worry and love. Without saying a word, she opened her arms and drew me into her protective embrace.
All of my childhood memories revolve around summer. When I fish these memories from the depth of my mind, the first image I see is a radiant, yellow sun so bright that it temporarily eclipses the memory that unfolds beneath its warm rays.
One such memory occurred on a balmy day in July just before my eighth birthday. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun hung like an egg yolk suspended from invisible strings. The field behind my house was alive with movement as the long, yellow grass swayed in the breeze.
I lived in the country and, as those who grew up in the country well know, the only true mode of travel is barefoot. On this particular summer day, as I was running barefoot through the field in my “backyard,” my feet connected with something. I’d stepped on nails, rocks, and sticker bushes over the years, but this felt different. Fuzzy.
Startled, I looked down to see an explosion of pale yellow fuzz. Baby turkeys. I grinned and stooped down to touch them. They surrounded me like inquisitive yellow puppies, eager to garner my attention. I delightedly pet each of the squirming poults. Suddenly a dark shape filled my peripheral view. There, only a few feet away, a wild hen, presumably mama turkey, morphed from Thanksgiving dinner to terrifying predator. She extended her wings, beating the air with vicious cutting strokes; with each movement, she puffed up, doubling in size until she hovered above me. I stumbled backwards and rushed toward my home, feeling the hen’s angry presence close behind.
Without looking back, I ran as fast as my little legs would carry me. I didn’t stop until I met my mother at the door. She greeted me with an expression filled with worry and love. Without saying a word, she opened her arms and drew me into her protective embrace.
Contributed by Diane Prairie...
The White Kitty
A neighbor asked if we are the people that the pretty white kitty belongs to? If so, (which we are)...the neighbor starts to tell of the little white kitty’s adventure this morning! In the wee early morning hour of 4:45am (what is he doing up at this hour?), our neighbor heard a loud racket outside his balcony window, he thought it was the javelinas again, so he looked out only to see that it was a coyote dragging the white cat through the brush. They were going up the embankment almost to the gravel road. The neighbor gave a loud shout and the coyote dropped the cat! The cat headed home and the coyote calmly went off to hunt for another breakfast. It was barely light so our neighbor could not see if the cat was badly injured, but he could see that he was in the coyote’s mouth when the coyote dropped him. Our kind neighbor suggested that we observe the cat and see if he needs to see the veterinarian. The dry weather is making the coyotes pretty aggressive in their searches for food right now. This is the second time I stopped a coyote from stealing that cat. The other time it was in the early morning also but the coyote was foiled before he grabbed the cat. That time the cat never knew the coyote was poised over him when he shouted. Our neighbor wrote, "That’s a lucky cat! I hope he is not injured, but he is sure using up his nine lives!" |
Notebook of Collective poems...
When I was a young girl, I had a notebook full of collective poetry. It was a beautiful notebook, Thick and beaten up from years of use, Cut outs, pasted on, written with colors… One day, it disappeared… I lost it? It was stolen? I looked everywhere, under my bed, in my closet, Looked in every room. It was gone. After that, I disconnected myself from reading poetry. It was never the same again…it didn’t mean anything… Strange, isn’t it? how I cared so much for that notebook. _______________________________________________________________________________________________ |
~Audrey~
I know we teachers are not suppose to have a ‘favorite’ student, but how can one help it? When a student come up to talk with you, checks on her progress, does all the assignments, etc. really wants learn and practices with you, how could you not help it?
Audrey, is one incredible student, she still lingers on my mind long after the semester is over. In fact, I am inviting her and her troop for a BBQ. In class, she was the first to raise her hand to answer questions or had Questions! She was the first to come up in front of the class to do her Project, she was the last to leave, always checking if she got the information right.
What made Audrey stand out? She has 6 kids! Five boys under age 10, one daughter, age 11, who was like a ‘mother’ to the boys much to Audrey’s apprehension. Where in the heck did she find time to go? School full-time? (she wants to be an interpreter or work with special needs students).
Audrey, further impress me because she was pregnant 4 months! Each day as she came to class, I observed her and watch her belly grow. In spite of being pregnant and a mother of 6 (soon seven!) she never faltered, she never missed a class nor turning in her homework.
One day, Audrey came to class looking very pale. I asked her if she was all right? She said she picked up the flu from one of her kids. I said, what are you doing here?! She just shrugged her shoulder. Then, I was not prepared for this…I asked how is your husband? She said he died in 2009 in Iraq or Iran, I can’t remember now. Ummm…. this woman is raising her family solo? Then she, added that she has a boyfriend, but that she was not supposed to get pregnant.
Then, she explains that she had cancer of the ovaries, one of the ovaries was removed and the doctor told her it’s highly ‘un-likely’ that she would get pregnant! Well you can imagine how ‘eye-popping’ this woman’s story was to me…
I grew a great respect for her and looked forward to seeing her again.
I know we teachers are not suppose to have a ‘favorite’ student, but how can one help it? When a student come up to talk with you, checks on her progress, does all the assignments, etc. really wants learn and practices with you, how could you not help it?
Audrey, is one incredible student, she still lingers on my mind long after the semester is over. In fact, I am inviting her and her troop for a BBQ. In class, she was the first to raise her hand to answer questions or had Questions! She was the first to come up in front of the class to do her Project, she was the last to leave, always checking if she got the information right.
What made Audrey stand out? She has 6 kids! Five boys under age 10, one daughter, age 11, who was like a ‘mother’ to the boys much to Audrey’s apprehension. Where in the heck did she find time to go? School full-time? (she wants to be an interpreter or work with special needs students).
Audrey, further impress me because she was pregnant 4 months! Each day as she came to class, I observed her and watch her belly grow. In spite of being pregnant and a mother of 6 (soon seven!) she never faltered, she never missed a class nor turning in her homework.
One day, Audrey came to class looking very pale. I asked her if she was all right? She said she picked up the flu from one of her kids. I said, what are you doing here?! She just shrugged her shoulder. Then, I was not prepared for this…I asked how is your husband? She said he died in 2009 in Iraq or Iran, I can’t remember now. Ummm…. this woman is raising her family solo? Then she, added that she has a boyfriend, but that she was not supposed to get pregnant.
Then, she explains that she had cancer of the ovaries, one of the ovaries was removed and the doctor told her it’s highly ‘un-likely’ that she would get pregnant! Well you can imagine how ‘eye-popping’ this woman’s story was to me…
I grew a great respect for her and looked forward to seeing her again.
Contributed by Amanda Koonce...
Women who marry fishermen
Women who marry fishermen end up with No sink in the kitchen counting the times Welcoming visits from ghosts. It’s an Irish thing to inherit those secrets. Sometimes they are too much so she writes to keep from shaking, to keep it down, after. She attended church her dress was pondered vintage and fabulously edgy in chartreuse and rainbow sprinkles she was creating a forgery, she knew sitting at the edge of a long long epically long banquet table she didn’t belong there longing for the one she needs the one who fishes what happens to a man when he gets on the water? the boat light is nightmarish, blinding, paralyzing where unhappy souls would go through through to the black forest she sits in the kitchen a coffee and cigarette smoke lingering above the scratched enamel and lets the tea kettle tremble she shivers stuffs paper in the silverware drawer with recipes, nails, fishooks she kicks hen poop off the porch did I kill those artichoke aphids? and feels the river in grandpas garden and looks for ospreys and only bluejays barking are her answer she goes to bed too early because she is penned up inside she should fill up this page Dear Life, tiny heart, half-inked paper she licks the envelope glue she writes love letters, she needs to Fishhead eyes scanning the water for movement worm on a line something squeaks as the boat rocks wind blows a this back across his shadow trained to sit for hours unmoving moored up seasick bottlecaps in the busted, filthy plastic cupholder pulled anchor pungent diesel fuel |
Musings on the Pontoon
Here I am, making myself seasick on the boat moored up to the dock rocking in the fading wakes of show-off wakeboarders trailing behind gas guzzling speedboats infiltrating my tranquillity with the pungency of diesel boat fuel. Splish-splash of dog paws in the river as Otto trots back to me from his adventure. My river-wind blows at my back across my shadow. It’s six-thirty. He’s here just in time to ring in the night. I hear him in the cottonwoods and something is squeaking as the boat rocks. A dog barks, oh it’s mine. A car horn honks five times on the highway across the river and the neighbor osprey makes his evening rounds chirping all the way. I can’t hear the bald eagles. I can’t see them either. Ottos head is under the table now his eyes focused on the liquid below us and tiny fish are there in the dark and he is obsessing. Born to well-bred champion hunting parents, he was the pick of the litter because of the glue connecting him to his mother. He would be so loyal when he grew up and also a hunter. A hunter of fish trained to sit for hours unmoving eyes scanning the water for movement. The sound of rifle-fire puts him to sleep but the silence of a bobbing fishing pole gets his attention. Somehow his instinct tells him he is staring at a red and black Shakespeare and that a fish will soon be on. But it’s all tied up and not fishing. I think he is trying to figure out how to fish by himself. He moves his dog-lips trying to say something. I think he is trying to remember how to talk. The sun is baking my shoulders through my t-shirt. I worry that all this that I’m writing is a cliche. A Twilight novel waiting to happen. So predictable. So dull. Same metaphors all the time. But, really how many metaphors can there be in the english language? I think dogs have an untapped well of metaphors unknown to man. Love. We drove 107 miles to look at fresh baby dogs and found a bunch of tiny dog legs scrambling around their mother and tiny dog teeth biting and pulling on shoelaces. The breeder said we shouldn’t pick the one that pays us the most attention. Nor the most energetic. Nor the cutest. But definitely that one: the strangely fuzzy one with sad eyes curled up by his momma. And definitely the one the breeder picks because she has magic dog-mom senses. She’ll pick the one we need. The one who fishes. Who knows when to let out the chickens. Who gets too hot in bed just the same. The one who sprawls out between legs pinning you to the mattress with a furry head making you fall back to sleep. The one who is only there so he will know for certain when you wake up. I’m happy sitting here getting seasick on a river boat, plucking fish hooks out of dog ears, staring at bottlecaps in the broken and filthy plastic cupholders, listening to cars honk and ospreys chirp, and waiting for Otto to finally catch a fish of his own. |
Contributed by Josette Boyden...
Acrostics of Writing
Jaundiced is the paper of my old journals like the time imprint on words waiting to be resurrected. Orthographic origin of my silences written under obligation like a veil obstructing my chant. Sinuous curve of my hand seeking the trajectory of my dreams unbridled calculus kept under the pen awaiting the motion of words.. Ephemeral encounters of thoughts seized at the corner of a letter, misspelled feeling of approximation or tender revelation of emotions. Tears blurring the draft carelessly lifted where rivulets of diluted black ink seep through white fibers holding the memory of loss. Tentacles of remorse attracting other trials and errors, trapped in the whispers of distraction. Elegance of the moment caught between dissolving antiquities and lured by eternity believing that my name could hold itself among promises, deceptions and attainments. |
I wish I had a picture of…
I wish I had a picture of my maternal grandmother, sitting at her desk near the tiny dining room window. Every afternoon, for the few minutes she could steal from the clock, she would become oblivious to her chores and pause, pen in hand. I imagine the filtered light seeping through the curtain veil moving to the gentle breeze of a bright summer afternoon. Her humble cotton dress, revived for the occasion by rearranging its skirt, eased her to settle into writing. Her hair let down for the momentum of an idea. Was she smiling at the promises of a dream? Was she revealing the sudden flicker of regrets? Those wrinkles in the corner of her blue eyes were getting deeper. What was she writing about? Recipes, remedies, poems, letters, daily entries, snapshots of her days, budget ledgers, invented stories…? Was she at times continuing to write with a stick in the dirt as she took the gravel road to the cow field? Was she carving deep letters in the fresh garden soil among carrots and peas? Was she plowing secret messages though the flour on the kitchen counter while the bread was raising? Secrets dissolved in white dust absorbed into the soft dough until the next kneading. When she gave birth to her nine children, did she gently trace, on their back the letters of their name as she bathed them? Did she invent new letters in the palm of her hands waiting for the sickness of the little ones to pass: magic letters to ward off the deadly flu? It is said in the family stories that she was destined to be a teacher, but fell in love with a farmer. She took a fork in the road leading to the country side rather than the city. The people from the village said that she was too good for him, “to educated”, but she smiled in his direction. The same renowned smile I met as a young child. I have seen her writing desk covered with pages and pages of flowing cursive letters. I could only glance furtively among standing grown-up bodies, trying to make my way through for a closer inspection. But it was an early vision I was too young to decipher like hieroglyphs transcending the preoccupation of her daily life. As I am holding this memory in the “never-be-forgotten” folder, she unknowingly became my first writing teacher. Even if her writing is invisible to me, I wish I had a picture of her… writing. |
Tarzan Island
It was the dream of all the boys in my neighborhood to conquer Tarzan Island, located three quarter mile from the coast at the edge of a protected bay. It was a mass of rocks that had been scrubbed smooth and polished by glaciers in a bygone era, now crowned by a thick patch of forest. In its center was hidden an old log cabin for stranded adventurers caught by high tides. A sizeable island for a one day adventure carefully planned between tides. Tarzan Island, as it was labeled for lack of names having sprung from local heroes, remained an attractive place on a warm summer day. At the lowest tide, a long walk on foot on the sand bars and a short swim to challenge a weaker rip tide could get you a few hours of idyllic exploration. There was a 16 years-old boy named Daniel Sasseville who had set for himself a more challenging goal.
For us, the three best friends, our minds were set on the theatrics of improvisation. At nine years-old the excitement and giddiness of playing dressing up was intensified by all the new accessories, shoes, hats and clothes Suzanne’s mother left for us in the basement. It was a tradition that after we were buried under layers of fabric to the point of being unrecognizable, we would walk the trail alongside the beach in order to reach a “far away” rock formation that had become the stage for our off Broadway musicals. Nobody could see us and all the craziness of impersonation was carried on in the tradition of improvisation theater. Standing in circle, we would improvise scenarios acting wildly, feeding off from each other, by sustaining dialogues until exhaustion, or severe laugher cramps sent us crashing in the sand.
On the way to such event, Suzanne saw it first. Close to dense bushes, the reflection of a belt buckle lit by the sun filtering through tightly knit branches. She rushed for her newly found treasure and with bewilderment, she uncovered the bundle of boy’s clothes. Everything, from cowboy boots, fancy jeans, shirt, socks were laid out in front of us. These evidences were enough to suspect foul play or naked bodies in the next turn of the trail were the moss was particularly thick and inviting. This was more serious than we had experienced so far during our spying expeditions on teenage couples. We were not sure if it would be safe to push ahead.
If we were discovered, would they start running after us, hitting us with spruce branches, tying us to a tree and letting us ponder when our parents would find us under clouds of gnats. Would “torture” be involved (in the fashion of a child’s understanding of a scary prank)? We decided to splits and make it into the woods in order to detour and plan for rescue in case one of us was to be caught. After gerrymandering around the moss clearing we reconvened on an empty space. Now all the territory became the place for “sensitive” information retrieval. We decided to aim toward the beach where at least we could run in a straight line in case of a sudden need to extract ourselves from furious teenagers having been caught making out.
This is where we found him, a dot in the horizon maneuvering a makeshift raft complete with a pirate flags and a half empty water jug hung from a 4 feet mast. He had been working the current with the incoming tide and for a while we were concerned which way the raft would end-up: the open ocean or the warm sands of this hidden bay. Could we be his saviors? As minutes passed, we were reassured that pirate Sasseville was safely heading in our direction aiming for his pile of clothes as soon he set foot on the beach. White chicken legs and grey underwear had to be shielded.
On the way to such event, Suzanne saw it first. Close to dense bushes, the reflection of a belt buckle lit by the sun filtering through tightly knit branches. She rushed for her newly found treasure and with bewilderment, she uncovered the bundle of boy’s clothes. Everything, from cowboy boots, fancy jeans, shirt, socks were laid out in front of us. These evidences were enough to suspect foul play or naked bodies in the next turn of the trail were the moss was particularly thick and inviting. This was more serious than we had experienced so far during our spying expeditions on teenage couples. We were not sure if it would be safe to push ahead.
If we were discovered, would they start running after us, hitting us with spruce branches, tying us to a tree and letting us ponder when our parents would find us under clouds of gnats. Would “torture” be involved (in the fashion of a child’s understanding of a scary prank)? We decided to splits and make it into the woods in order to detour and plan for rescue in case one of us was to be caught. After gerrymandering around the moss clearing we reconvened on an empty space. Now all the territory became the place for “sensitive” information retrieval. We decided to aim toward the beach where at least we could run in a straight line in case of a sudden need to extract ourselves from furious teenagers having been caught making out.
This is where we found him, a dot in the horizon maneuvering a makeshift raft complete with a pirate flags and a half empty water jug hung from a 4 feet mast. He had been working the current with the incoming tide and for a while we were concerned which way the raft would end-up: the open ocean or the warm sands of this hidden bay. Could we be his saviors? As minutes passed, we were reassured that pirate Sasseville was safely heading in our direction aiming for his pile of clothes as soon he set foot on the beach. White chicken legs and grey underwear had to be shielded.
In all mischievousness, we devised the plan to scatter his clothes far apart in all the nooks and crannies the forest could offer. We had time, rafting is a slow process. We needed more pizazz. We decided to wait for him to come closer to shore and get a good look at our disguised characters, waving clothes and accessories in the air, watching him jumping up and down throwing at us all the foul language he could think of. We maintained these antics as long as we could for the pleasure of seeing him coming apart frustrated and delusional. Forty feet from the shore we ran into the woods and dispersed his belongings. Our run was slowed down by high heels poking into moist soil and branches getting caught in our long skirts. We lost a few hats and gloves; the make-up became a caky mess of sweat and dust. We made it just in time to hide in Suzanne’s house, adrenalin driven. Her second floor bedroom window had a view of the trail coming out of the bay. The three of us standing behind the lacy curtains were able to have a view without being seen.
We saw him, emerging with the expression of a soldier under duress about to explode in retaliation. He was wearing one boot, his shirt, the same greyish underwear as his meager pirate attire. He was so furious, that he never taught about tying his shirt around his waist for the sake of taunting the look of a true pirate. Yes, we laugh rolling on the floor until fainting from lack of oxygen from visualizing the three mile path through town he had to take to get to his home.
We swore to secrecy, digging a small hole in Suzanne’s backyard in which we spat. After filling it up with dirt, we marked it with an X and took the oath with the seriousness of the beach mafia. We realized the extent of our demise when we saw the boy one day, at our Broadway theater site, hunting for the culprits, scrutinizing our faces, as we passed by him simply dressed in short and T-shirts. We knew by then that our actress career had ended. No more disguised parties and free-for-all laugher. This silly venture cost us our summer vacations. We were prisoners of boredom and confinement, having to dress up in Suzanne’s basement fearful of being recognized. It was a price too high to pay. Mortified by a sense of guilt and depressed by the loss of our expressive freedom, we re-baptized the island: Sasseville Island. He was never invited to the dedication ceremony as we all shared a bottle of orange soda staring at the horizon, speechless.
It was the dream of all the boys in my neighborhood to conquer Tarzan Island, located three quarter mile from the coast at the edge of a protected bay. It was a mass of rocks that had been scrubbed smooth and polished by glaciers in a bygone era, now crowned by a thick patch of forest. In its center was hidden an old log cabin for stranded adventurers caught by high tides. A sizeable island for a one day adventure carefully planned between tides. Tarzan Island, as it was labeled for lack of names having sprung from local heroes, remained an attractive place on a warm summer day. At the lowest tide, a long walk on foot on the sand bars and a short swim to challenge a weaker rip tide could get you a few hours of idyllic exploration. There was a 16 years-old boy named Daniel Sasseville who had set for himself a more challenging goal.
For us, the three best friends, our minds were set on the theatrics of improvisation. At nine years-old the excitement and giddiness of playing dressing up was intensified by all the new accessories, shoes, hats and clothes Suzanne’s mother left for us in the basement. It was a tradition that after we were buried under layers of fabric to the point of being unrecognizable, we would walk the trail alongside the beach in order to reach a “far away” rock formation that had become the stage for our off Broadway musicals. Nobody could see us and all the craziness of impersonation was carried on in the tradition of improvisation theater. Standing in circle, we would improvise scenarios acting wildly, feeding off from each other, by sustaining dialogues until exhaustion, or severe laugher cramps sent us crashing in the sand.
On the way to such event, Suzanne saw it first. Close to dense bushes, the reflection of a belt buckle lit by the sun filtering through tightly knit branches. She rushed for her newly found treasure and with bewilderment, she uncovered the bundle of boy’s clothes. Everything, from cowboy boots, fancy jeans, shirt, socks were laid out in front of us. These evidences were enough to suspect foul play or naked bodies in the next turn of the trail were the moss was particularly thick and inviting. This was more serious than we had experienced so far during our spying expeditions on teenage couples. We were not sure if it would be safe to push ahead.
If we were discovered, would they start running after us, hitting us with spruce branches, tying us to a tree and letting us ponder when our parents would find us under clouds of gnats. Would “torture” be involved (in the fashion of a child’s understanding of a scary prank)? We decided to splits and make it into the woods in order to detour and plan for rescue in case one of us was to be caught. After gerrymandering around the moss clearing we reconvened on an empty space. Now all the territory became the place for “sensitive” information retrieval. We decided to aim toward the beach where at least we could run in a straight line in case of a sudden need to extract ourselves from furious teenagers having been caught making out.
This is where we found him, a dot in the horizon maneuvering a makeshift raft complete with a pirate flags and a half empty water jug hung from a 4 feet mast. He had been working the current with the incoming tide and for a while we were concerned which way the raft would end-up: the open ocean or the warm sands of this hidden bay. Could we be his saviors? As minutes passed, we were reassured that pirate Sasseville was safely heading in our direction aiming for his pile of clothes as soon he set foot on the beach. White chicken legs and grey underwear had to be shielded.
On the way to such event, Suzanne saw it first. Close to dense bushes, the reflection of a belt buckle lit by the sun filtering through tightly knit branches. She rushed for her newly found treasure and with bewilderment, she uncovered the bundle of boy’s clothes. Everything, from cowboy boots, fancy jeans, shirt, socks were laid out in front of us. These evidences were enough to suspect foul play or naked bodies in the next turn of the trail were the moss was particularly thick and inviting. This was more serious than we had experienced so far during our spying expeditions on teenage couples. We were not sure if it would be safe to push ahead.
If we were discovered, would they start running after us, hitting us with spruce branches, tying us to a tree and letting us ponder when our parents would find us under clouds of gnats. Would “torture” be involved (in the fashion of a child’s understanding of a scary prank)? We decided to splits and make it into the woods in order to detour and plan for rescue in case one of us was to be caught. After gerrymandering around the moss clearing we reconvened on an empty space. Now all the territory became the place for “sensitive” information retrieval. We decided to aim toward the beach where at least we could run in a straight line in case of a sudden need to extract ourselves from furious teenagers having been caught making out.
This is where we found him, a dot in the horizon maneuvering a makeshift raft complete with a pirate flags and a half empty water jug hung from a 4 feet mast. He had been working the current with the incoming tide and for a while we were concerned which way the raft would end-up: the open ocean or the warm sands of this hidden bay. Could we be his saviors? As minutes passed, we were reassured that pirate Sasseville was safely heading in our direction aiming for his pile of clothes as soon he set foot on the beach. White chicken legs and grey underwear had to be shielded.
In all mischievousness, we devised the plan to scatter his clothes far apart in all the nooks and crannies the forest could offer. We had time, rafting is a slow process. We needed more pizazz. We decided to wait for him to come closer to shore and get a good look at our disguised characters, waving clothes and accessories in the air, watching him jumping up and down throwing at us all the foul language he could think of. We maintained these antics as long as we could for the pleasure of seeing him coming apart frustrated and delusional. Forty feet from the shore we ran into the woods and dispersed his belongings. Our run was slowed down by high heels poking into moist soil and branches getting caught in our long skirts. We lost a few hats and gloves; the make-up became a caky mess of sweat and dust. We made it just in time to hide in Suzanne’s house, adrenalin driven. Her second floor bedroom window had a view of the trail coming out of the bay. The three of us standing behind the lacy curtains were able to have a view without being seen.
We saw him, emerging with the expression of a soldier under duress about to explode in retaliation. He was wearing one boot, his shirt, the same greyish underwear as his meager pirate attire. He was so furious, that he never taught about tying his shirt around his waist for the sake of taunting the look of a true pirate. Yes, we laugh rolling on the floor until fainting from lack of oxygen from visualizing the three mile path through town he had to take to get to his home.
We swore to secrecy, digging a small hole in Suzanne’s backyard in which we spat. After filling it up with dirt, we marked it with an X and took the oath with the seriousness of the beach mafia. We realized the extent of our demise when we saw the boy one day, at our Broadway theater site, hunting for the culprits, scrutinizing our faces, as we passed by him simply dressed in short and T-shirts. We knew by then that our actress career had ended. No more disguised parties and free-for-all laugher. This silly venture cost us our summer vacations. We were prisoners of boredom and confinement, having to dress up in Suzanne’s basement fearful of being recognized. It was a price too high to pay. Mortified by a sense of guilt and depressed by the loss of our expressive freedom, we re-baptized the island: Sasseville Island. He was never invited to the dedication ceremony as we all shared a bottle of orange soda staring at the horizon, speechless.
Contributed by Amanda Sasaki...
Sea Urchin
The glass-bottom boat tour should have been interesting to a seven year old, with the vibrant colors of the ocean passing underfoot, but the constant flurry of images mostly just resulted in sea sickness. Taking a break from the stimulus overload, I listened with feigned interest to the tour guide who was showing off a sea urchin. She dutifully explained the educational features of the sea urchin, highlighting key points of interest. The sea urchin’s nickname is a sea hedgehog. It belongs to the same family as the sea star and the sea cucumber. Usually not poisonous. Edible. Suction cups. When the end of the lesson was over, she approached each pair of attentive eyes with the offer, “Would you like to hold it?” Initially, I was enthralled with the creature. It was spiky and cool. But when she approached me and I saw it up close, I noticed its spines wiggle and its suction cups pulsate and I began to have a change of heart.
The moment it touched my hand, I felt its suction cups slurping on my palm. I flung it off, passing it quickly back to the tour guide, but she was unprepared for the transfer. She panicked as the creature fell between us, her arms reaching out to cradle it, but the sea urchin landed right onto my younger brother’s leg, spiky side down. He was unprepared for this event, his eyes fixed on his Speak and Spell, so when the spikes of the sea urchin pierced his chubby right leg, my brother’s screams jarred the entire boat. The panicked tour guide gently scooped up the sea urchin and began cooing to it, looking over at me with contempt.
It was one of the few times when my mother spanked me in public. I tried to explain about the creepy suction cups pulsating but my mother was unwilling to humor any version of the story that didn’t involve me forcefully hurling the sea urchin at my brother. She then sat down, cradled my brother and tried to console him, darting angry glances at me with predictable regularity. The tour guide clearly felt vindicated. The rest of the trip, I was not allowed to touch any sea creatures, my mother guilting me for throwing the sea urchin, despite my insistence that the tour guide was a bad catcher. My brother, of course, milked it for all it was worth, but to be fair, it was my brother who was forever scarred, literally, by this experience.
The glass-bottom boat tour should have been interesting to a seven year old, with the vibrant colors of the ocean passing underfoot, but the constant flurry of images mostly just resulted in sea sickness. Taking a break from the stimulus overload, I listened with feigned interest to the tour guide who was showing off a sea urchin. She dutifully explained the educational features of the sea urchin, highlighting key points of interest. The sea urchin’s nickname is a sea hedgehog. It belongs to the same family as the sea star and the sea cucumber. Usually not poisonous. Edible. Suction cups. When the end of the lesson was over, she approached each pair of attentive eyes with the offer, “Would you like to hold it?” Initially, I was enthralled with the creature. It was spiky and cool. But when she approached me and I saw it up close, I noticed its spines wiggle and its suction cups pulsate and I began to have a change of heart.
The moment it touched my hand, I felt its suction cups slurping on my palm. I flung it off, passing it quickly back to the tour guide, but she was unprepared for the transfer. She panicked as the creature fell between us, her arms reaching out to cradle it, but the sea urchin landed right onto my younger brother’s leg, spiky side down. He was unprepared for this event, his eyes fixed on his Speak and Spell, so when the spikes of the sea urchin pierced his chubby right leg, my brother’s screams jarred the entire boat. The panicked tour guide gently scooped up the sea urchin and began cooing to it, looking over at me with contempt.
It was one of the few times when my mother spanked me in public. I tried to explain about the creepy suction cups pulsating but my mother was unwilling to humor any version of the story that didn’t involve me forcefully hurling the sea urchin at my brother. She then sat down, cradled my brother and tried to console him, darting angry glances at me with predictable regularity. The tour guide clearly felt vindicated. The rest of the trip, I was not allowed to touch any sea creatures, my mother guilting me for throwing the sea urchin, despite my insistence that the tour guide was a bad catcher. My brother, of course, milked it for all it was worth, but to be fair, it was my brother who was forever scarred, literally, by this experience.
Visitors
Just as always, he stalled the visit Small talk and window shopping Wistful browsing of items we didn’t intend to buy Just a quick visit to say hello, we had agreed, Both knowing that wouldn’t be the case. A surprise visit this time She sat lifeless, staring at the window Her hunched over body stiff as stone “Mom?” he called out, rushing to her She spoke words only he could understand. I grasped at loose coins in my purse He popped them in the machine To purchase the soda that would Reanimate the statue. The transformation was quick Recovery switched on to full She was uncomfortable appearing weak he concern on his face quickly buried So she could regain her dignity But his fidgeting fingers betrayed him. I was an outsider to this They had system, a way of managing Conducted mostly in the silence of knowing I tried not to stare or feel sad About things that weren’t mine to feel sad about And settled for quiet. He was mostly silent that trip home Alternating between unrelated thoughts And cheerful anecdotes And gentle words of affection I tried to keep pace And to not revive the pain I wished I didn’t see |
Mistake
I bought a house, but not in the way most people do it. Most people, I’m told, make lists, have non-negotiables, see lots of houses, plan out every step of the process. Not me. I bought a house before even stepping inside it. Sure, I looked briefly in the front window, and it didn’t look haunted or foreboding, but I had to leave for a conference and didn’t have time to view the house before having to make a bid. I knew my only options for buying a house in the near future were to either get a HUD house through the Good Neighbor Next Door program, or to buy something likely to be condemned without immediate and expensive TLC. The Good Neighbor Next Door program is run by HUD and allows teachers, firefighters, police officers and EMTs to buy a high risk house for half of the listed value, with the small condition of living there for three years. My uncle had told me about the program before I ever considered Salem as a permanent kind of residence, so I would look at the website periodically, but most of the houses were: scary, run down, former meth houses, about to fall apart, unsightly, in questionable neighborhoods or full of bad juju. I was wary of making such a large investment in a house when I lacked the skills to make improvements and repairs. So when this house became available, I peeked in the window, just out of curiosity. No skeletons. Without much thought, I entered the “lottery,” where they put everyone’s name in and whoever’s name gets picked gets the house. I knew that these houses, especially the nicer ones, could be highly competitive. Twelve other people had already entered the lottery, so I knew my odds weren’t great, the only contest I’d ever won having been a door prize where as the number picker I drew my own number. I didn’t have that same advantage now. Since I didn’t expect to win, I didn’t exert any effort scheduling a viewing before leaving on my trip, I just fantasized about the unlikely satisfaction of it all. I got the phone call during the middle of a seminar. The group was small and full of the kind of teachers whose primary concern in life is attendance, silence and perceived intelligence, and so stepping out to take this phone call was met with disdain. Who would my discussion partner, the stodgy AP teacher who already knew all of the answers impart her wisdom onto if I wasn’t there? It was partly out of not wanting to return to the stuffy yet overly air conditioned room that I confirmed with my realtor my intent to purchase the house, if for no other reason than to stall my return to the room of doom. It wasn’t until that evening when I had to rush to Kinko’s to fax all of my paperwork in that I realized that I had just spent close to $100,000 on a whim. For a house I hadn’t even been inside. I had never even bought clothes without trying them on first. But the perfect storm of luck, snobbish teachers and spite had resulted in a proud transition from apartment dwelling to the joys of owning my own home. |