Matriarchs, Aunts, and Strong Women From Long Ago, And Not So Long Ago, by VJ Armstrong

The following are the first two entries in a series that the author intends to expand to a dozen or so pieces under this title.

Even at Nineteen (Aunt Elsie)

Even at nineteen, she felt daring enough to travel a thousand miles north and take on a room full of strange children, children confined by the tough scrubby woods of North Ontario to lives of hardship and isolation and wonder. These children knew how to chop and stack wood by seven years old, they knew to avoid the sides of the trails where muskeg could suck you down, and they knew how to bask their bodies in woodsmoke to ward off the interminable black flies. These children had never seen fertile lands like where Elsie had grown up, had never seen wheat or potatoes or apples grow. 

Elsie was as strange to them as they to her, and Elsie had never been so very far away from all that she had known. Daring was not enough. Elsie returned the following year to a job closer to home, having done what she could to teach reading and writing in a northern world too remote for even her Strathdee hardiness to handle.

The Peony in Her Hair

My mother grew peonies in her garden, big fat round blossoms filled with delicate layers of tissue-like petals and dripping with sweet syrupy scents. She had bushes of pink ones, and white ones, and once, a small bush of cranberry red ones too. 

Before the peonies blossomed, they were little tight-fisted balls of green. Slowly the fist grew bigger and began to show the color of the blossom underneath, as the tight green skin cracked and spread a little wider every day. Even when the color of the blossom began to show, it stayed tight and waxy and stuck in a ball. That's when the ants came. A few ants, and then a few more, and then dozens of ants crawled all over the flower balls, eating up, as my mother explained, the sweet waxy layer so that the blossom could open. 

I do not know what possessed me to cut one of these flower balls and put it by my sister's head when she was sleeping. But I do know that I did not do that again. Ever.

Raindrop Drum, by Vita

Raindrops continue

tapping on the sunlight glass

Why do they call it a sunlight?

It is the sound of the raindrops

that brings calm

and peace

to my little writing room

my little

hardwon

Room of One's Own.

I think from now on

I will call that thing

formerly known as a sunlight

my little

rooftop

raindrop

drum.

This Winter, Sylvia Bailey

This winter was perfect; so long, so dark, so cold. And there was so little I had to do — get groceries, make some big pots of something.

I went to bed when I wanted. The same with getting up. "No where to go, nothing to do" was my life this past winter. I could start a fire and I did, most days. I dreamt, I read, I meditated, I drew, I slept some more. Many days I didn't leave the house. I watched entire series of some TV shows. Here in America where doing is king, I was the Queen of Being.  

One friend, on Sabbatical, is working on writing three books — serious, academic books — while raising two teenaged granddaughters, and running a program at a major university. Always running, always behind. Doing good works, faithfully attending church, driving the granddaughters to piano lessons, violin lessons, gymnastics, and basketball. Doing myriad serious and righteous things in the world.

"And what are you doing this afternoon?" she asked over the phone. I answered, from my recliner, from my still-pajamaed body, "I'm going to a yoga class and later I may spend time with Carl Jung's Red Book."

Carl would have understood. This was more than enough for one afternoon.

Walking Spirits, by Peter Quinn-Jacobs

I've been offering a Writing Circle at the Tompkins County Public Library this month on Thursday mornings — a group of women and men of all ages; it's a terrific group! Each week we write in response to visual images as well as text, sometimes directly and sometimes loosely. Yesterday, we were in the company of art work by Rex Ray and words by the poet Joyce Sutphen . . . . and Peter Quinn-Jacobs wrote the following piece.

—zee

I used to climb on the rooftops and watch the sunset. The stench of the streets held no sway there, and the air was fresh. The wind could whisk my soul from my flesh for a moment and sweep it to and fro. I would often stay until I could see my father's star on the horizon.

I used to wander the city in the rain, and no matter where I went, I always ended where I wanted to be. The rain was warm, and when I finally went home, I would peel of my drenched socks with a smile. It rained almost every day.

When I could, I used to buy old trinkets from the street vendors, their wares spread before them on rough blankets. Belt buckles, wallets, books, umbrellas.

I used to be the only god I prayed to. I knew that I would always listen, always answer, always act where other gods shrouded their deeds in mystery.

Now the rooftops are a dangerous place, and the sunsets have changed from brilliant orange to dusty gray. Wood rots, plaster chips, and one man's ceiling and my floor are like to collapse under my weight. I stay close to the ground, but on clear nights I can still see my father's star.

I still wander the city, but the streets are strange to me now, and by nightfall I rarely know where I am. It seldom rains anymore, but when it does, I find shelter where I can.

The street vendors are gone, their blankets and umbrellas discarded in heaps, riddled with holes from the rain. In their places are gaunt men. They carry knives, pipes, sometimes guns, and always sacks of bliss to trade. They like valuable things. Guns, knives, food, people.

Now I don't pray at all. Even my god no longer answers. He has grown silent in the presence of the spirits who have come to share his home.

Dear Reader, I am Sage.

In Dreams, Anyway, by Perri McGowan

I can fly. Not like in an airplane, really, truly fly. Like a fairy. No — more like Peter Pan, with fairy dust!  I can zoom and float and twist in the air, move up, down, east, west, wherever I please. If I want to get away from something, I just think to myself "let's get out of here, girlfriend" and I start to feel all light and floaty, and I am. And I get out of there. In dreams, anyway.

I work in a circus, a really great, magical circus. One with giant tents that have no obvious supports, but just hang above our heads majestically. A circus with beautiful people with extraordinary talents, and regal animals who know all their tricks without need of any of the abuses that probably happen at normal, inferior circuses. They want to be a part of this circus, and they're all my friends. I am an acrobat. And a singer. And I do tricks on those big beautiful white horses. Sometimes I am even the Strong Man. I do it all, at some point or another, and I do it well. In dreams, anyway.

I set the world record for something. Something cool. Something amazing. Something important. Everyone loves and admires me for it. I've saved lives by setting this record. No one will forget me, because of it. I'll go down in history as the most important, talented girl in the whole history of the world. I'll never be forgotten. When I walk down the street, people stop me (politely) to shake my hand, to have me kiss babies. I'm universally known and loved. In dreams anyway.

I have a menagerie and a botanical garden in my backyard.  The exotic flowers of all kinds of vibrant colors stand high over my head, raining sweet smelling pollen over me, and it doesn't even make me sneeze. The flowers are all abuzz with the activity of hundreds of beautiful bees and hummingbirds  The bees don't sting, so there's no reason to be afraid. I like to let them come to rest on my shoulders while squirrels sit around my feet and I tell them all stories and they listen and understand. In dreams, anyway.

My fears have all been confronted and dealt with. Nothing can hurt me. I live my life to the fullest, with no hesitation. Experiences are had that fulfill me an enrich my life. I do what I want with people I love and who I know love me. We only cry from laughter, never from anger, fear, hate, sadness. But I remember what it is like to feel all of those emotions, but only enough to make me appreciate the joy and happiness of the moment. And I'm never, ever, ever lonely.

In dreams, anyway.

The World Ends in Water, by Rita Feinstein

I had this dream once. I dreamed it rained enough to reshape the continents, and in a dark room a woman traced a projection of the world map with a laser pointer. Since the global flooding, a new race of angels had inherited the earth. I was one of them. My wings hadn’t opened yet; they were made of thick, mint-green glass and folded into a perfect circle. Hunched under the weight of the disk, I tried to memorize the subtly shifted nomenclature of the countries. The other angels held my hands. I always knew the world would end before I made friends.

I had this dream once. I dreamed I was a seagull with gray-wedged wings and thick girly eyelashes, and I was diving for shrimp off the California coastline. There were other gulls, but most of them were dead. It was the water. The water was bad. It was warm and oily and glazed with something like metallic gelatin. I didn’t know what to do. I could feel my human body imprint itself on my bird body— fingers inside feathers, lips inside beak, marrow inside bare, buttressed bones. 

I had this dream once. I dreamed there was an ocean where once there was suburbia, and through the mad scramble to secure belongings to rafts, the coffee shop was still open. As my family shoved our charcoal-colored minivan into the water, I looked over my shoulder and wondered if I had time for one last mocha — the last mocha ever, as far as I knew. I decided against it, and we joined the fleet of floating cars and drove with our windows down until we reached the striped sandstone cliffs of the Grand Canyon. There was no one else there, just the pristine turquoise water below us and the promise of the Eden we would build.

Some Things About Rain

It was raining hard in Ithaca on Friday morning, and I thought it might be fun to ask people to send me poems or stories about the rain. I put out a "call" on Facebook and sent some e-mail invitations, curious to see what I would receive. I set a deadline of 5 p.m. on Sunday. 

Now here it is: Sunday. 5:05 p.m. And I have some things to share with you, poems and stories. And the sun is shining. Everything seems to have fallen delightfully into place.

-Zee

Annemarie Zwack

raindrops hit the roof

I am warm inside with fire

burning in wood stove

Barbara West

A true story remembered from the mid 1960s:

It had been a stormy rainy day with no joy when a New York City mom picked up her blue-eyed blond-haired four-year-old from preschool. The child's usual chalk-white skin was rosy because of the excitement she was feeling. She instantly told her mother that she had met her twin that day in school.

For three days it continued to rain. Even though the children could not go out to play the girl was the happiest her mother had ever seen her after being at school. All she could talk about was her new friend who looked just like her. She asked her mother if the girl could come over on Saturday to play and have lunch. 

Her mother made all of the arrangements. On Saturday morning when the doorbell rang the little girl said "Wait, don't answer the door." She ran and got her yellow rain coat and put it on. Pulling her long straight hair out of her collar she opened the door. There stood her twin, brown eyed, short curly hair, skin as dark as all of the people from her African birthplace.

The two girls stood shoulder to shoulder both declaring they were twins, big smiles above their identical yellow raincoat collars.

Bridgett Perry

Rain, urging grasses to grow, trees to bud.

Rain, making puddles in my driveway, flowing down the spouts.

Rain, nourishing my garlic buried underneath the mulch.

Rain, causing droplets on my window, changing my outlook.

Diana Kreutzer

Forty one years since we last saw each other, two old friends meeting at a Japanese restaurant. In out of the chilling night rain I arrived first to get a table, to be the one doing the greeting since Donna had traveled here to where I live, on a college tour for her daughter.

I sat on the waiting bench aware of the candles on the little table in front of me. Aware, through the window behind me, of rain dropping on puddles in the shiny black parking lot. I sat and waited, watching a large party of very young women with very short dresses maneuvering around unnaturally on their very high heels, and the very young men they were with. I could imagine what these young men waited for, patiently, through the picture taking and through the soon-to-be hibachi dinner, and thereafter.

In walked Donna as I had seen her 41 years ago. How could it be 41 years ago?  Her daughter was the image of 17-year-old Donna.  Then Donna and the "Oh!" of a poignant moment of recognition, the hug that kept getting tighter until we felt each other crying from the joy and sadness of seeing someone who knew us when we were children, who knew our mothers, who knew our old houses in the old neighborhood. I didn't want to let go. Ever.

For however long the dinner lasted I payed gracious attention to her husband and sincere attention to her daughter, but all I wanted was to talk to Donna, to look straight into her eyes and really see her and be present. 

It was so hard to believe that we hadn't just been in the street outside her house jumping rope as Lynn stopped turning her end and yelled, "CAR!" and JoAnn dropped her end while we all walked to the side of the road, and when the car passed we again turned the rope and jumped until it started to rain. Then we all went home. 

Tonight, in the rain, Donna and I hugged again, and I could tell it was the same for her, neither one of us wanting to let go, comforting witnesses of our herstory and the common awareness that even though it was not perfect, it was our childhood and there was time forever, then, to be with our now gone mothers and other fleeting pieces of ourselves. 

Julia Grace

The Warm Embracing Cold 

Dark, black.

Dancing on the benches, skipping on the concrete.

Twirling in the sky.

Hitting the sand, the street, the ocean.

It flies and flies.

When it lands, it lies in my hair and drips down my skin.

I feel it, love it.

It returns that love and turns it into droplets perfectly placed on my eyelids and lashes. 

The rain glitters webs and waters violets. 

It sprinkles down joy and places it upon clothes and cheers up the misery.  

I can dance in it.

I can love it.

It will never leave me lonely. 

The rain — it dresses and undresses. 

Me. 

Melissa Hamilton

When it rains, especially when it rains hard enough for tributaries to develop on the lawn, I recall a hobby I practiced while waiting for the school bus.  Staring at clouds was a favorite, followed by chewing on my book bag handles, but once I reached second grade, I felt something higher was calling.  I began exploring puddles left from rainstorms, finding them writhing with life.  Preventing drowning in a puddle, became a mission, the reason for my wait.  Despite red fingers and muddy nails, I often saved a life before the bus pulled up.  

Nancy Gabriel

Rain. Of course. We have not seen the sun for more than a teasing moment since she died. How in the name of all that is holy will I ever emerge from this fog that surrounds and inhabits me? One phone call, she’s gone forever and I’ll never again see that radiant smile, hear all those laughs — the delight, the wit, the bawdiness, the cheer-me-up, the affection, the irony, the shrugged what-else-can-we-do-but-laugh?, the don’t-you-just love-New-York-aren’t-we-all-crazy?  Mostly the laugh of THERE YOU ARE YOU SWEET THING!  Writing helps me see and hear her, and visualizing that greeting hug brings back the Chanel No. 5.  She is gone forever, as is, it seems, the sunshine. Must I get out of bed in this rain?

Susan Lesser

Mid-Summer Birthday 

It was my birthday and I was going to be 10 ten years old which I figured was the perfect number of years. My birthday falls smack-dab in the middle of summer and in Texas, in the 1950s, you can bet it was plenty hot. We ran fans all day and at night my father swung open the ceiling in the hallway and started up the attic fan which was actually an airplane propeller installed in the attic space. Worse than the heat was the drought. 

Texans who had lived through the Dust Bowl of the 1930s called it a “drouth” and they told us it was worse than anything they had ever seen. It sure didn’t look good — the greens on the golf course were green, but nothing else was. We had water rationing and had to brush our teeth with only a couple of inches of water in a glass. My father struggled to keep his beloved garden going, watering only occasionally and only after the scarlet sunset gave way to stars. Grown-ups talked about crop failures. Mrs. Davis’ brother sold all his cattle and his ranch was for sale. Clear Creek, running right through the center of town, was nothing but a trench lined with dusty stones. In late afternoon, low-flying airplanes salted clouds with dry ice to release the moisture, except there were almost never any clouds. West of us, towns were hiring Native Americans to perform tribal rain dances. Nothing helped.

Nevertheless, I was to have a birthday party. We played Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey and Kitty gave me a jigsaw puzzle with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. The dining room table was set with paper plates and hats and platters of sandwiches cut in fancy shapes. Mum made a side salad with canned pears served cut-side up, each one sporting a toothpick mast and paper sail, small vessels in search of the sea.

Then came the cake, Mum’s perfect sponge cake with a layer of buttery frosting and “Happy Birthday” spelled out with cinnamon Red Hots. I sat at the head of the table because it was my birthday. The candles blazed and I needed to make a wish, a really good wish because now I was ten years old. All at once, I knew exactly what to wish for. I took a deep breath and leaned toward the candles. I blew as hard as I could and I wished for rain. 

We were just finishing our cake when from the southwest rumbled the deep growl of thunder. Wind rushed through the doors and blew the paper plates off the table. The rain splashed down, bouncing off the parched earth. Lightning slashed through the clouds and the smell of ozone oozed inside.

I cried. I cried very hard, with joy because my wish had come true, but mostly because I was terrified of my own sense of power. It was not going to be easy being ten years old. 

Tina Wright

stuck in his stall the horse

looks wild-eyed blaming me

for the endless rain

people with wet feet

are not making fun of my

rubber boots today

the oats are planted.

the farmer waking to rain

sleeps even better

Zee Zahava

Rainy Day Moon

I found you at last —

inside this mud puddle