My First Boyfriend and My First Movie, by Cly Boehs

I fell in love with Robert “The Frog” Qualls in fifth grade at Roosevelt Elementary. His father was a piano turner and completely blind. Robert wore coke-bottle glasses, his eyes staring out at me at twice anybody else’s size, and since they were green as grass and bright as the sky, and they were more often than not staring at me, I succumbed and went steady two weeks after classes began, with him presenting me with an Indian beaded bracelet on the softest suede.

I’d never been to the movies. I was raised a Mennonite and movies were a prohibition in our church, but when Robert asked me to a matinee, I gathered my courage and asked my mother if we could see The Babe Ruth Story at the Cherokee Theater.  She said no at first but came to me a day later and told me that if Robert and I were properly chaperoned and she could meet one of his parents, I could go.

The day Robert’s father came to our house, he walked into the living room tapping his cane, where Mother and I were waiting, and introduced himself. He said his wife would drive us to the movie and pick us up after and bring me home, which she did.

But halfway through the picture, I was suddenly overcome by the sin I was committing and ran to the lounge, with Robert close behind. We sat and ate licorice he bought from the concession stand and waited for our ride home. I didn’t see the rest of The Babe Ruth Story until many years later.

And although I’ll always remember Robert “The Frog” Qualls as my first boyfriend, my first love’s name was Mayre Mueller. But that’s another story.

What comes of breaking?, by Stacey Murphy

What comes of breaking?

When a shell breaks

We might see a bird, a snake,

A dragon or a pearl emerge.

When a cocoon crumbles

It might be a gypsy moth that spreads its wings

Or it could be a monarch butterfly.

When a mirror breaks

Do the shards reveal seven years of bad luck?

Or perhaps seventeen

Different sized and shaped ways of seeing ourselves

That we had not before considered?

What if, when the heart breaks,

We could find ourselves

Holding on to our capacity to love in the first place

And let the pain stand there right next to it

Let them shakily hold hands

Inside our souls

Where there is room for all of it

Where all of it really belongs.

A List and a Food Short, by Sara Robbins

Some Things That Have Not Changed

I still love dogs and wish I could get another puppy

I still try to pet every dog I see on the street if the owner says it is friendly

I still read 3 books at a time

I still love to cook for people but I wonder if I'm bribing them with food

I still think of my mother every day

I still cry when I hear certain songs: Over the Rainbow, Who Knows Where the Time Goes, Danny Boy . . . .

I still remember what my son smelled like as a young child

I still wish I could time-travel

I still have vivid dreams; I remember them and learn from them

I am still terrified of all rodents

I still need to have lots of colors around me

I still carry loss within, I always have, I always will

I still find people interesting and I want to hear their stories

I still talk to dead people; I ask for their help

I still turn to chocolate chip muffins to ease my pain — I call this the grief diet and see no end in sight

I still am a caregiver

I still love therapy

I still refuse to be a victim

I still appreciate anything good that comes my way

Apple Cake

I love to bake apple cakes. I use a variation of Aunt Minnie's recipe and it always works. Sometimes I leave out the cardamon, sometimes I use dried cranberries, and currants, and walnuts instead of pecans. I always add vanilla and cinnamon, the cake always disappears quickly. I bake it in various pans (buttered or oiled, lined with sesame seeds) — a Bundt pan, a sheet pan, a Pyrex pie plate, a tiny heart-shaped pan I got at a yard sale years ago, muffin tins. This recipe is very flexible and I think of Aunt Minnie and say "Thank you" whenever I make it. Maybe I'll bake one today.

5 Minutes / 5 Lines Part 2

Written by some members of the Tuesday Morning Writing Circle on October 6, during the first few moments of our gathering

Gabrielle Vehar

why is it that sometimes

those we most love

make us the most irritated

often just by doing

nothing at all

Leah Grady

how a chair holds you

reminds your body

of being held before

in a mother's arms

or father's, or aunt's

Linda Keeler

the thought of breakfast wakes me

cold cereal

but now, no peaches

so dish up the oatmeal

with seeds and nuts and maple syrup

Marty Blue Waters

little bugs with no appetite for my blood

always welcome around me

hard workers climbing an endless wall

quietly reminding me to refocus

lots to do — lots to do

Sara Robbins

I walk the woods

I still see green above

the canopy my cathedral

I talk to you and breathe it in

you loved this place

Sue Perlgut

72 looms

proving that I am

getting older

moving towards

what? I can't say it

Zee Zahava

after nearly a week

the road crew is gone

all that remains

is the tangy scent

of slow-drying tar

5 Minutes / 5 Lines

Written by some members of the Thursday Morning Writing Circle on October 1, during the last few moments of our gathering

Leah Grady Sayvetz

fall is when leaves come down

I think that's called onemonopea

but I don't think I spelled that correctly

now I'm trying to think back to English 103

where I learned that word

today is Thursday but it feels like Tuesday

making me realize who needs days of the week anyway?

because the significance of a day is 

what you do

not what they say it's called

sitting on the break or work bench, he's cutting fabric

he's making paper from old military uniforms

I sit down later on my break and am taken off guard

holding this inch-square stained camo with a seam and one button

I realize that the person who wore this died in war

Liz Burns

this morning I walked

my feet hurt

the creeks are fuller and flowing faster

there are some bigger puddles on the streets

but the ground has soaked up all the rain that fell

the small bulldozer plowed through the high grass

it cut through the brush on the hill and

moved a huge mound of earth

the landscapers cut down trees and then not content

with that, moved across the road and cut down more

Michael Schaff

five minutes — stop engines

five lines the limit

on a boat tying up

to an aquatic clock dock

only seconds left to summer

Sue Crowley

we slept in our car while crossing a desert

I was so small I fit on a shelf beneath the curved back window

one night I woke in the dark, overwhelmed by the endless infinity above me

aware at once of this tiny human speck amidst the unfathomable

not even my mother's gentle comforts could stop the tears

Susan Lesser

horse chestnuts nestle in the still green grass

only a few tomatoes left to pick

red leaves from the maple let go and dance to the ground

the gaudy zinnias bloom unaware

their time is passing

on the stove a pot of winter beef stew

in the oven a pie of apples, homemade crust

on the blue countertop a bowl of green salad crowned with a ring of feta cheese

in the basket rolls waiting for the butter dish

all of us home for dinner at last

Yvonne Fisher

at Yom Kippur services

the rabbi reminded us

that just beside joy

is sorrow and just

beside sorrow is joy

the Rinpoche said:

yes, you live in the heaven realm

now but it's better

to come back

down to earth

somebody hit my parked car

I jumped up ready to yell

the driver was a nice man

from Tibet in a big SUV

I calmed down instantly

Zee Zahava

34 years ago I met my sweetheart

she was wearing a pair of Frye boots

she spilled a cup of coffee in my lap

I thought she was adorable

last week she finally gave the boots away

yesterday I cooked up a big pot of apple sauce

for the first time ever

I left the peels on the apples, sprinkled in cinnamon

and used a large fork to mash things up

keeping it all lumpy the way my grandmother used to do

Never, a list by Nancy Osborn

Never borrow your best friend's bicycle if you don't know how to ride a two-wheeler without training wheels.

Never pretend to yourself that you understand those dreadful word problems in algebra.

Never study astronomy if all you really want to do is gaze at the full moon.

Never try to follow an elaborate recipe for a main course if at heart you only love to bake bread.

Never count on being able to renew a library book you haven't finished, or worse, haven't even started.

Never buy beautiful journals in the hope that their elegance will draw forth beautiful writing.

Never expect that any kisses after the first one will be as delicious.

Never trust what your stomach is telling you when you are buying pastries.

Never imagine that you will ever reach the end of your To Do lists.

Never expect that the bulbs you plant in the fall will come up where you artfully planted them.

Never expect that your flowers will grow faster than the weeds.

Never imagine that your most cherished childhood memories are the same ones as your sisters'.

Never pass up the chance for corn on the cob or fresh strawberries.

Never hope that you'll be able to fit into those old jeans, stashed in the back of your closet.

Never delude yourself when times are hard that things will seem better in the morning.

Never have hope that an old lover will return.

Never turn your back on someone who has treated you cruelly.

Never think twice about smiling at someone — friend or stranger.

Never forget your water bottle and rain parka when hiking in the fall.

Never, ever, regret all those things you didn't do yesterday, last week, or earlier in your life.

Shoe List, by Deirdre Silverman

In elementary school, we had to wear shoes to school, then change to sneakers to go into the gym. Because I hadn’t gone to kindergarten, I was younger than the others and didn’t know how to tie my shoes, so I couldn’t make the change. For months, my teacher left me alone in the classroom while the other kids had phys ed.

Buying shoes with my father in the 1950s and being embarrassed by him using 1930s shoe salesman slang.

My father had been seriously injured in an accident, resulting in problems with his legs and feet. He developed a nightly shoe ritual, which I performed kneeling on the floor. I had to unlace his shoes, remove them—gently! — loosen his socks (disgusting), put slippers on his feet, place the shoes in position to air out for 24 hours, and insert wooden shoe trees in the shoes from the previous night. I did this five days a week for how many years?

The late '50s style of dying silk shoes to match a specific dress, and then obsessing about keeping them dry so the color didn’t run.

Boots: the sensuality of showing less skin

   Black vinyl high-heeled boots that ended several inches above my knees. I wore them with a hot pink mini-dress cut to the waist in front and back. Totally trashy '60s manbait.

   My favorite boots ever were black cowgirl boots with red and white stitching, until I sprained my ankle and had to walk a mile in them. I never wore them again.

   The boots I lost at Tai Chi last winter were old and beat up. In fact, I had planned to replace them. But once gone, they became irreplaceable. No other boots can match their comfort and function.

   Now I have duct tape on the toes of my Muck boots. It’s really ugly, but no one will mistake my boots for theirs.

Aurora Shoes: made only a few miles from here, are what I live in now

   Going with my daughter to the barn/factory outside of Aurora to buy “seconds” of Aurora Shoes. Cats wound around our legs and we grew drunk on the smell of leather. Later we had lunch at the Aurora Inn, looking at the sailboats on the lake, pretending we were ladies, which we weren’t, out for a perfect fall afternoon, which it was.

   Getting dressed in semi-darkness on a gloomy winter day and discovering, several hours after I got to work, that I was wearing one brown Aurora shoe and one black. It made my day.

   Having my favorite pair of Aurora shoes resoled and resurrected — pure joy.