Sense Memories, by Susan Currie

Carnations are the fragrance of funerals. Standing next to my father’s coffin as a child, the scent of flower stands filled with carnations overwhelmed me. Carnation olfactory hallucinations have followed me ever since — to school, walking in the woods, driving, or even just upon waking in the morning stretching to meet the new day. For years, I was convinced it was my father come back to check on me.

“Eau de New Baby Doll” is the 1950s smell of . . . well . . . a new baby doll. It’s the plastic. Sometimes, even now, a new shower curtain liner takes me back to unwrapping the cellophane on the big box holding a new baby doll. In retrospect, it was quite scary with eyes that never closed.

In the 1970s there was the overwhelming and suffocating experience of patchouli oil, on everyone, everywhere. An Alice Cooper concert was the crowning moment of a communal bath of patchouli. But there is also the memory of sandalwood, the fragrance of thousands of Egyptian princesses mingled with warm oak, earthy and magical.

In the spring, I miss the intoxicating scents of a southern spring night. Flowers give off the color of their perfumes: wisteria deeply purple; magnolias white, sometimes with faint pink and green at the center; daffodils cheerfully yellow; and even violets with their elusive, easy to miss scent. The deepest is the narcissus, heavy with, at first, joy, then at a certain moment, the rot of regret. “Starry Narcissus, starry Narcissus,” my mother liked to sing under her breath as she took care to track the exact moment the flower’s fragrance tipped from beautiful to decay.

The teenage perfume I loved most was one called “Tigress” because it smelled like new paper. There is the "Jovan White Musk" Chris wore when we first dated. Later, I fretted that the perfumes we wore defined our personalities: “White Linen” and “Escape” for her and later “Happy,” while I wore dark, more foreboding-sounding scents like “Eternity” and “Chance.”

We each keep the last bottles of perfume our mothers owned: Estee Lauder’s “Youth Dew” from Antoinette, Chris’s mom, and Lanvin’s “Arpege” from my mother. Perhaps once a year, we pull out these bottles, close our eyes, breathe the scents in deeply and remember our mothers as they sprayed a mist and stepped into it for a lighter effect.

Lessons from my mother about scent:  Only at night, always a light mist that one steps into so that passing through a room, a faint fragrance is left trailing behind like a pleasant memory.


=== === ===


Twenty-Four Hours of Five Senses: November 7, 2018

In the last twenty-four hours in our house, there was the smell of freshly baked oatmeal bread, the odor of turned earth as the gardens were stripped and cleaned for the winter, the wet dog running happily through the house, the fragrance of roasted vegetables for soup.

There was the feel of the smooth, old wooden banister while going upstairs, the slipperiness of throw rugs, the unpleasantness of stepping into an invisible puddle of water in sock feet.

There was the sound of shuffling through leaves on the path while on a walk, the silence ringing in my ears while in the house alone.

There was the contrast in the sky between dark blue-black and grey storm clouds and wispy, faint pink cirrus clouds just under them; the sudden clarity and brightness of a few stars popping out as clouds passed overhead. The light from a low plane on ascent, looking like a car gone mad.

We can’t give up the taste of the leftover Halloween candy — “teenage girl candy” — Starburst, tootsie rolls, and strongly flavored fruit chews that make our jaws ache with the sweetness.

The Lost, by Fran Markover

The usual suspects: socks without mates, lone earrings, wandering keys.
 I lost a Wedgwood china ring. The design: a pearly woman leaning against an anchor.
 Her name was Hope. I had bought it in England to keep me safe crossing any ocean.
 I lost her the day I packed for college.

I lost my father’s medallion, the gold one he pocketed during WWII as he flew over enemy
lines. Inscribed are the 10 Commandments in Hebrew. I wore it to mammograms and
court hearings for my work. I took it to the ER when my 90 year old mother broke her hip.
Found the coin one day at the bottom of a pocketbook. Now, the medallion rests on
velvet by Tante Ruchel’s bracelet.

I lost my first love, a boy I met in 6th grade. Years later, at our 50th reunion, I met his
wife who took a liking to me. We talked, this woman and me, for a long while.
She called me “soul mate.”  So now Annie and I are Facebook buddies. Life surely
becomes complicated when one door slams and an unexpected door swings wide.

I’ve lost words, early sounds of Yiddish, words that spat, that occasionally grumbled their
way home. Words like: bubkis and meshugganah, oy kinehora and tsouris. These are
syllables I yell when English seems too polite. Did I lose myself as words and phrases
vanish?

I’ve lost names. Or can you lose what hasn’t been inherited? Names like Grandpa Morris’
brothers. There were a lot of them and grandfather never could share their stories.
Did he imagine that if he whispered names of the dead, he’d travel back to his lost country,
his lost village? When he strummed his mandolin, I could almost hear a celestial roll call.

I’ve lost possibilities. After my surgery, I could never give birth. I was 31 years old.
The scar across my abdomen formed soft tracks to nowhere. I can accept this fate
until a stranger inquires: Do you have any children?

 I lost a tooth the day I left Spunky the cat at the vet hospital. I thought at 5 years old
 she’d survive. Now there’s a hole in my mouth, unfilled. Like leaving an empty chair
 where dad used to sit or the fissures in my heart when my younger brother died.
 When my tongue enters the gap, I think of Spunky’s smooth fur, how I held her against
 my chest to hear each other’s music. How a rescue cat on my lap can be an anchor.

      

Uproarious Laughter, by Summer Killian

“Uproarious laughter” is the sound she says she won’t forget. For me, it’s more the quiet I remember: the loudest, most quiet ride. The road beneath us. Tires on upstate roads sound hopeful but lonely. The green glow of the numbers on the minivan’s radio display: there must’ve been a song, there would’ve been several, really, but I can’t hear them in my memory.

She says he tried to take her clothes off, while she tried, against the palm of his hand, to say no. She says his friend thought it was funny. She thought she might die there. For me, it was a miles-long calculation of how badly injured I might become were I to slide open the side door of the van (moving 60MPH) and roll away onto the asphalt into the night. There’s a lot of time to think startling thoughts like these when a boy has his hand down your shirt. There’s a lot of time to make elaborate plans for the escape, and the turning in, and then to realize that you should already be saying something, and then to worry about who will get in trouble if you do – you? Him? And then to strangely, horrifyingly, care more about what happens to him than about what is happening to you. To weigh your broken bones from jumping out of the car against his being booted from the varsity soccer team, and to decide that his fate was worse, or that it mattered more.

It starts with thinking it’s a fly or some other annoyance on the back of your neck, but it’s his fingers and then, no…no. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t possibly be fumbling with your bra strap? Your friend sleeps peacefully beside you, or maybe even in your lap. Wake up! You are beaming a message to her brain from the center of your own. You don’t wake her up. You don’t move.

You imagine telling your dad. He would go over there! Demand a talk with the boy and his dad. Not in a fighting way, but he would fight if he needed to, maybe? Before all that, though, you can hear your dad asking you — why wouldn’t you say anything? I raised you to speak up for yourself. You are worth more than that. And you can hear the hot tears splatter on your jeans as you look at your lap, ashamed here in front of your dad. And you don’t know what to say, or to do, again.

She says she had one beer. I don’t think I had any. I also didn’t have a crush or even an interest in this boy beyond an inherent fascination with kids further along in high school than I was. But what he had was my right breast in his hand for miles. Me, staring out the windshield, and him, doing whatever he was doing with the other hand while he leaned forward from the seat behind mine.

She says she told a therapist. I told my girlfriends, in whispers. His sister was in our class. Shhh! We can’t let her find out.

She says he isn’t fit to serve. This guy sells cars today. I can see how he’d be fit for that. I imagine him speaking to a customer: “Such a quiet ride.”

Today, I wake to news that the investigation has been concluded. I read comments of all sorts, the angry, the supportive, the poorly articulated, the painstakingly so. A new theme emerges, and sounds kind of like this:

Even if he did this drinking-too-much, holding-her-down, uproarious-laughter-terrifying thing, even if, the bottom line is that he was so angry, so unhinged during his questioning, that he clearly can’t be considered for the Supreme Court. So that in the end, even if he isn’t nominated, it won’t be because he sexually assaulted someone. It will be because he was too angry about being accused of it.

This makes me want to be 14 again, speeding in a minivan on the way home from the Saratoga Performing Arts Center at midnight on a school night. I will say stop the fucking car and I will unbuckle my seatbelt and my girlfriend will wake up just in time to see me spin around with this guy’s right forearm gripped between both of my small hands that are so much stronger than they appear, and I will fucking twist that arm until he says JesusChristwhatthehell and then harder until he cries, and that’s right, I will say, YOU don’t get to be angry.

And then I will tell everyone else in the car what he was just doing and then I will tell everyone at school the next day, starting with his sister and then the soccer coach. And then I won’t even have to tell my dad because I will have handled it.

I won’t have to think about him when I drive past Ford dealerships in other years, in other states.

I won’t have to forget all the details of that night: which friend was next to me, which concert we’d been to, what I was wearing, what happened the next time I saw the guy.

I won’t have to tell my daughter that even if a man fucks up in this way, he doesn’t get in trouble. I won’t have to tell her to wait, he’ll soon exhibit some other, more minor bad behavior and we can remember him for that instead.

Celestial Rolodex, by Fran Markover

A is for Albie, beloved uncle, fighter pilot, who made model airplanes at Horizon Village. His last words to me as he lay dying were “I’ve still got all my marbles, kid!” At his burial, my cousins played Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon.”

B is for Barbara, mother-in-law, her favorite expression: “I’ll be darned” to most anything we said. She loved her hummingbirds, hummers who alit on her trumpet vines. “I’ll be darned,” she’d cackle to them.

C is for Carl, my father, who I miss so dearly. Dad, whose harmonica I found in a velvet-lined box shaped like a casket. “Chattanooga Choo Choo, Woo, Woo.” Somewhere over the rainbow he’s chugging out a song. His finale ─ “Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.”

D is for Deborah, classmate at Ellenville Central, who gave me a 16th birthday party at her home. I can picture the gift she gave ─ my favorite sweater, the one I saw on the cover of Seventeen magazine, pink mohair with yellow knit dots.

E is for Elizabeth, 2nd mother, who adopted me in college. She’d sit patiently in her rocker, wrapped in a homemade afghan, listen to my misadventures with boyfriends. She sheltered me after my surgery. Years later, when her husband George was so ill, she called and said, “please come over, Fran. I need children.”

F is for Feigele. I’m named after her, my grandfather Morris’ mother. She remained in her home in the 1920s. “They’d never harm an old lady,” she told Grandpa in her Ukrainian doorway. Feigele. It means “little bird.” I’m so sad she never took flight.

G is for Gerry, our friend, poet, who loved to take walks in the woods. Who knew all there was to know of white-tailed deer. He had a booming voice. Cancer took that away. To this day I can hear Pastor Jack at the funeral say, “Sometimes we’re dealt a bad hand of cards. Gerry played his the hardest. Gave it his best.”

H is for cousin Harry, a man I never met. He was the first relative in America, early 1900s. Harry was a tailor from a line of tailors and seamstresses. I can imagine him in a tenement, early Brooklyn, cutting away with his big scissors. They’re now in a place of honor in Tante Ruchel’s hutch.

I is for Izzie, another tailor from the old country. His shop was down the block from our house,
Izzie was the shortest man I knew, also the most ornery, the most gruff. When I brought my prom dress to him he questioned me as if he were part of the Spanish Inquisition. His last name was Needleman.

J is for Uncle Jack, my father’s brother. He was a Navy man during WWII. Jack gave me a grass skirt from Hawaii and I’d dance bare-breasted around our poultry farm, wildflowers in my pigtails. At five years old, I didn’t think he’d never speak to us again, how heart-broken my father was for the rest of his life.

K is for Mr. Kesselman, superb Social Studies teacher in high school. I remember him not so much for lessons on world events but for the handsome blond boy who sat opposite me, Peter, my first crush. Oh, yes, there’s one lesson Mr. K. taught that I recall: “jaw, jaw is better than war, war.”

L is for Laurie, expert musician and my meditation instructor who taught me to breathe in 2, breathe out 4. She planted flowers in every nook and cranny in her neighborhood. They have bloomed long after her death. I picture her in a celestial spaceship playing a flute cantata, seeding posies like stars dotting the universe.

M is for my brother Michael who passed 5 years ago at 56 years old. Severely autistic, he lived in a group home for adults. I think of him daily and with every piece of writing, with every poem, I try to channel his voice, to say words he never got to express. Rest well, Michael.

N is for Nick, my husband’s client, who remained a friend to us. Nick, developmentally disabled,
beaten as a boy, still so angry as he grew up. We loved him, became family. When he was found deceased on January 2nd, the coldest night of the year, we felt the ice in our hearts when the cops came to our door with news of his passing. Every month, we place a stone on his grave.

O is for Olga, my aunt. I wear lipstick in her honor ─ Passion Fruit #308. She began each phone call: “Hello, Bubbalah. How are you, delicious girl?” I miss her orange puffy hair that reminded me of cotton candy, miss her muumuus and gold lamé sandals. If love were a color, it would be bright orange.

P is for Papa, my mother’s father, Morris. He’d greet me ─ “Francinooski, eat something, skinny girl.” When he escaped from Vinnetska, he carried his mandolin as he rowed across the river Dnestr. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I hear his Russian folk tunes strumming after seders.

Q is for Leo Q., my cousin. I only saw him on Passover. His cigar formed circles each time he’d catch the little ones giggling at Hebrew or sneaking matzoh under the table, breaking the unleavened bread into tiny pieces so that the floor felt like a beach.

R is for R.C., poet and sailor. I saw him 2 times a year at workshops held at Amazing Grace. He once pinned a buttercup into the button hole of my sweater and whispered how poetry was “necessary.”

S is for Slapsie Maxie, my father’s distant cousin. He was welter weight champ in the ’30s and a Grade B movie star. I know him through his films like I Married A Monster from Outer Space. On bad days, I imagine him yelling: “Don’t take no crap from no one.”

T is for Tante Ruchel. She worked in a millinery. Her hair was the color of parchment. Ruchel earned her high school diploma at the age of 80. Every time I wear a sunhat, I picture her sewing ostrich feathers, or polka dot netting, or velvet trim around the edges so I could be a proper lady.

U is for Ursula, my father’s mother, who left my grandfather when dad and his brother were young boys. I never met her. She headed to Ohio with her lover, abandoning her children. Ursula was a hand model. Did she ever think of her grandkids? My father? I believe she’d disapprove of my fingers, garden dirt under my nails, uneven crescents.

V is for Uncle Vinny, mother’s brother. No one liked him. He was a gambler, snarled a lot. Once, he met Cousin Eileen at the door with a shotgun. After his funeral, I discovered he was an Elvis wannabe in a band called the Four Roses. He once loved a woman named Rose but felt he couldn’t marry her because she wasn’t Jewish.

W is for Ed Wuppersahl, dad’s friend. Both worked as prison guards. Long after Ed died, I found a newspaper blurb about his life. He was a member of the Klan. Father never knew this. I think of Ed and his wife at our dining room table, joking, eating ice cream in front of our menorah.

Y is for Yitzak. He was Grandma’s brother. He lived in her attic and came downstairs for dinner. Yitzak was toothless. He loved sardines. He spent time mumbling in prayer. I was fascinated by his tallith that hid him like a fringed curtain. I was certain that if there was a God, he’d look like Yitzak, tired, very wrinkled, robed all in white, looking out from above.

Z is for Zeke, short for Ezekial the cat, supreme outdoor adventurer. He originally belonged to in-laws. We had promised we’d look after him when my in-laws died. Zeke had other plans, and ran away. The last time I saw him, he was resting against my mother-in-law’s feet like some furry Egyptian deity, as she lay dying. “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…” I hope, Zeke, that you are still dreaming of heavenly mice scampering across some Elysian fields. 

School Daze, by Rob Sullivan

white shirt immaculate,
conception of knotted tie
still room for improvement
older brother's aid invaluable

trousers had the crease
black shoes had the shine
face and hands- the sheen
heart and spirit- the genuflect

make no mistake
to be of value and use
all we colts
needed to be broken,
brought low
quitted down
and tamed

every manner of half-truth
and subversive lie
was to be weeded
from the garden-primeval

catechism, church doctrine,
daily prayer ,weekly mass and confession
all designed to bring
wayward young souls
back
back into the fold
back into the arms of the one true god

how we wanted to be saved
how we yearned for love
and acceptance
into the good
boys and girls club

save for the fallen angels
who would not bow down
or cower in fear
of ruler and switch
across knuckles or bottom

these prideful angels
found themselves
thankfully banished
to the most public
of schools -- forever

each of us who stayed
fought the good fight
to be saints
in a fallen world
to be imitations of Christ
to be of and not of
this world

to be good
to be small
to be quiet
to be humble
to be servants
to be docile
to be less
to be no trouble
to be obediant
to be afraid

The Kansas Wind, by Marty Blue Waters

Every day in Kansas you can pretty much count on the wind to mess around with you. It is so ubiquitous an element that not much concern or attention is usually given to it. Even when everyone grabs for their hats at exactly the same moment an enormous gust of wind whips by, nobody misses a beat, they just continue on with whatever they were doing or saying.

It really made sense to me when I learned that the state of Kansas was named for a Sioux Indian tribe, the Kansa, which means “people of the south wind.” When I was growing up in the open spaces of western Kansas, I liked to watch the wind at work, and discovered many different ways to witness its power for myself. A cottonwood tree was a good choice for climbing. I could sit astride a high branch as though I were riding a pinto pony, heading into the wind, and looking it straight in the eye. I rode with great glee. The leaves of the cottonwood rattled like fleshy castanets and provided an inspiring rhythm to dramatize the movie that was playing in my head.

Nobody had automatic clothes driers in Kansas. We had clotheslines stretched across our back yards. Sheets became parachutes, straining to free themselves. Everyone had their own special methods of battening down the wash. Clothespins usually worked just fine, if you used enough of them. But sometimes they still needed a little help. Mom sewed iron weights into old pairs of socks and knotted them together into long, heavy strands. Then she tossed these odd ballasts over anything that attempted to leap into the sky.

For some reason, our next door neighbor, Miss Pew, never quite got the hang of it. She was a robust woman, and her huge overalls flapped on her clothesline like giant flags on a ship at sea. Her bloomers, as she called them, were cumulous clouds darting about in the bright blue sky. It was not unusual to see a pair of her runaway bloomers flitting down the back alley in search of a lilac bush to get all tangled up in. It was one of my favorite neighborly duties to retrieve these escaped undies, fold them up nicely, and knock on Miss Pew’s door with a grin on my face. She always had a good laugh and said “Oh, did those naughty girls run away again?!?” Then we’d sit on her big porch swing for a long while and talk about anything that crossed our minds. Or just be quiet and rock gently back and forth.

Miss Pew was called a spinster, whatever that was really supposed to mean, and I think she was in her 80s when I was in grade school. She lived in an enormous house all by herself and she loved to collect things. Like salt and pepper shakers. They were handsomely displayed in two giant glass cases in her living room and she enjoyed telling me the history of each pair, over and over.

And, speaking of pairs, I wanted so badly to have a pair of overalls like she wore. They looked so comfortable and had lots of deep pockets. As soon as I started babysitting to make some money of my own, I went by myself to Woolworths and bought a pair of Osh Kosh overalls, much to my mother’s horror. She had to drag me into clothing stores to shop for skirts and dresses to wear to school and church, so this was quite a shock for her. Thank you, Miss Pew, for giving me the courage to do that, back in 1958.

As I approached my teenage years, whenever a big storm blew through town, there I was in my overalls, disregarding the sirens that were blasting the well-known code, informing everybody that it was time to dive into their basements immediately. I only heard the wind in superb action and headed for my favorite tree. I had to grab on to that upper cottonwood branch so tightly I thought I might snap it off the massive trunk all by myself. Like a Thanksgiving Day turkey wishbone. I imagined I was in a rodeo riding a bucking bronco and I was not about to let myself be thrown off. Afterall, I was a fearless cowboy having the ride of my life!

Things That Make No Sense, by Rob Sullivan

twig cracks underfoot,
rain drop chooses
this moment to fall
into a puddle

eyes smile serene,
knowing long beyond
the kingdom of words
the province of thoughts

mind blown as the wind
shifting, sculpting
dry, desert sand
into a greater design

body, ephemeral vehicle,
for this leg of the journey
that spans the birth and death
of many universes

spirit remembers true calling,
dross melts away
revealing wondrous beauty
of a love supreme.

I Remember (Except When I Don’t), by Annie Wexler

There are things I don’t remember anymore. Like I don’t remember what I did three days ago, or two days ago. On a good day I remember what I did yesterday, but I don’t have a good day every day.

I started a journal a few months ago where I wrote down everything I did on a particular day so I could look back on a date and be reminded of what happened. But after a few entries I forgot to write in the journal, so most of the pages are blank. I would be in a state of panic over this except for the fact that most of my friends nod in knowing empathy when I bring it up. “Oh God, me too,” is what they say.

But there are many things I do remember. Like most people’s names. When I see someone I haven’t seen in a while the wheels start turning and out pops, “Hi Jane,” or “Hi Joe.” My husband Tony remembers clearly what he did yesterday, but when we run into someone we haven’t seen in a while I can see that blank look in his eyes. So I announce, very loudly, “Bill! Great to see you.” Or if I think Tony still doesn’t get it, I’ll say “Look Tony, it’s Bill.”  I’m sure our friends know exactly what I’m doing. If they are young they just say “Hi Tony.” But if they are old (our age!) they catch on right away and say, “Don’t worry, I’m the same way with names.”

I remember quite well things I’ve learned over time, like how to speak French. And even some Hebrew, which I spoke fluently in 1968 after living in Israel for two years, and after lying in an open trench, terrified, during the six day war, wondering if I’d come out alive. I remember how to cook chicken and matzo ball soup from my grandmother’s recipe, but not how to make her sweet plum tart. Although I can’t fault myself for that because I never tried it.

I remember how to read music and how to play all the chords, including all the diminished, and the majors, and the minor sevenths and ninths. I just started my piano lessons again last week and sat down to play “You Go to My Head” and only messed up on the G-flat major 7th chord  with a sharp ninth.

I remember all the bird songs I’ve ever learned and I can walk in the woods on an early May morning and hear the yellow warbler go, “sweet sweet I’m so sweet.” Or a chestnut-sided warbler sing, “pleased pleased pleased to meetcha.”  Or if I’m lucky, a barred owl in the distance hooting, “who cooks for you who cooks for you all.”

I remember how to play crazy eights and gin rummy with my grandchildren. How to iron a shirt collar first, as my mother taught me. How to blot out a red wine stain by pouring seltzer on it.
How to polish my brown leather shoes, but come to think of it, since I never do that anymore, I can’t be sure that I actually do remember.

I remember how to design a garden — how to know in early April what flowers will bloom, and what color each will be, just from seeing a few shoots of green.

I still know how to find my way around town, how to make and keep friends, how to be happy. So until I find my purse in the freezer I’ll consider myself lucky and be grateful

Morning Glory, by Barbara Anger

Before I had a garden I praised the morning glory
Watched it climb up the sides of porches
Open its fluted white flowers
At the dawn of day and reach for the sun.
How sweet, I’d think.

Now as I weed my garden
There she is in all her glory.
Wrapping herself around the clematis
Choking its budding flower
Taking it, pulling it over
Toward the thorny rose vine.

Careful not to break the stem
Of the clematis
I begin to unwrap the morning
glory
Pulling its root from the ground.

There I spot another one.
Her leaves nearly heart-shaped
Taking my leg in its reach.

Clinging to my bony ankle
And running up to my knobby knee
Growing upward to the spot,
My spot, where I cannot resist.

You can’t get rid of morning
glories.
So I try to manage her,
But you know
That’s not something you can do
In a relationship.
Wild remains wild.
Accept her in the garden.
What else can you do?

The Room at the Back of the House, by Sue Crowley

My mother didn’t want us playing in that oldest part of the house. She always insisted that it didn’t belong. It stood out off the back, where ages ago, when the house was a much larger structure, a grand hotel with spa, deliveries were made and inventories taken. As kids, we would never have guessed at such a rich history for our ramshackle old house.
           
The grownups spoke about boom times back in the day before even our parents were born. The boom times began in the late 1800s with the first discovery of crude oil in the U.S. and lasted through the Roaring ‘20s right up to the Great Depression. Not much around these parts survived after that.
           
When you’re a little girl, a bit naughty, a bit of a tomboy, hearing your mother fret about an old boarded up room being off limits was simply an enticement. What self-respecting, rambunctious 10-year-old wouldn’t want to explore such an ancient and hidden place? It wasn’t a very big room and decades of neglect had left it unbalanced, cantilevered to one side. Mom and Gram wanted Dad and Uncle Frank to tear it down entirely, first because it was “an eyesore” and then because they thought it dangerous. No, we weren’t supposed to go near it, let alone inside.
           
Drawn to the forbidden, I finally convinced my more cautious and constant companion, my cousin Joanie, to go exploring. Now Joanie was best as a lookout. She’d keep watch for big people, meaning not just parents, but our five older siblings who would either take over the adventure or rat us out to the grownups. I did reconnaissance, like in those World War II movies that filled tiny TV screens back in the ‘50s. In my imagination I was a brave soldier checking out an enemy outpost.
           
I began carefully peeking through the rotted-out door frame, but the view was just too limited. So then, balancing on my bike seat while it was propped up against the wall, I looked through dusty, broken windows into a space littered with boxes, filing cabinets, old broken bits of furniture, faded papers strewn around, and a calendar, still hanging by a nail on the far wall. There was a date circled on it. That was exciting. My imagination said it was a clue to the movements of the enemy. My head said, I want to see that calendar. What day was it? What month? What year?
           
Sometimes, when you’re a kid, you just have to find out these things. The world is such a big place, filled with big people, and you need to make your own space. We were surrounded by seemingly endless mountains and forests, dotted with run-down towns and villages, and one city two hours away by car. And in all that, you have to find your place. 
           
Some kids might never feel that way. Joanie, I suspect, was one of them. Some kids already know their place, both assured of it and bounded by it from birth. Some just feel at home in the world. I felt at home only at home in that strange old house in Knapp Creek that was built to be something else entirely, only a fraction of its former glory still standing. And there was  always some little itch at the back of my mind.  What’s out there farther than I’ve ever gone, around the next turn? Or what’s in there, where you’re never supposed to go?
           
Later, after the adventure, my Gram would say, “There are ghosts in that room.” I believed her.

More Mother Stories . . . in 6 Parts, by Yvonne Fisher

1.   
I remember a time when I tried to make a reservation at a restaurant and it was full. I told my mother and she said, in her Viennese accent: “Don't worry about it. We'll just go there and they'll find a table for us.” I told her “No, Ma, that's not how it works,”  but she wouldn't take no for an answer. Ever! She wanted to buy airline tickets by going directly to the airport, standing in line, and buying a ticket. I told her “Maaaa, it doesn't work that way.”She said “Never mind. That's what I will do. You'll see.” We always fought about stuff like that.

2.   
My mother always took credit for everything. After she heard me read a story at one of Zee's group readings I asked her how she liked it. She answered me “I always said you were a good writer. Didn't I say that? You never listened to me. I always told you!”

3.   
My mother always claimed that under the surface everybody hates the Jews. She used to say to me “Don't ever marry a man who isn't Jewish because when you have an argument he  will call you a dirty Jew.” I always answered her “Maaaa!”

4.   
My mother always wore bold, flowery, polyester blouses. They were very loud and bright. She took pride in her clothes. How she dressed mattered to her. The other day I was at T. J. Maxx and I bought myself a lovely, silky, light kimono-type jacket with little flowers all over. It's hanging in my closet. I haven't taken the tags off yet. It reminds me of my mother. I'm thinking of returning it.

5.   
When I think about my mother, which is often, I feel a kind of overflow of bittersweet love, mixed with regret and remorse. There are so many things I would like to do over with her. I wish I had been more tolerant and patient with her. She was so impossible, so bossy. She always thought she was right about everything. She always thought she knew better than everyone else and she wouldn't let go. Oh, God! I'm just like her!

6. 
My mother used to say “Dry yourself very well after you bathe or you'll catch a cold.” After a few years I realized that it wasn't true. I wouldn't catch a cold. In fact, it was a bit ridiculous. Maybe it was true in Vienna in the 1920s but not in America in modern times. Still, every day I step out of the shower and I find myself drying myself extra thoroughly, much of the time without thinking. You just never know. My mother taught me well. Thanks, Ma.            

On Occasion, by Susan Currie

Inspired by the poem “On Occasion,” by Grace Paley

 
On occasion, I wake in the night and wonder if we are living in virtual reality. I read that Elon Musk thinks we are living in the “Matrix.” On occasion, I think I see something out of the corner of my eye — something just out of sight or something at the edge of my vision shifts. Is this a glitch in the software of my virtual reality?

On occasion, I wonder if those who are long gone come back to check on us, to see what we’ve been up to in their absence. Once on my mother’s birthday, a framed photo she gave me fell on the floor. It was on the fireplace mantel and seemed to leap off as if she were demanding I pay attention to the day. Was this a shift in virtual reality or just an old house shifting? I like the idea of her invisibly sweeping the frame off the mantel, stamping her foot and asking, “Where is my birthday cake?” I made a small lemon ricotta cake for her and ate the entire thing myself.

On occasion, I have had an out-of-body experience. So, maybe we are, each of us, living in a virtual reality game that intersects with others’ reality. There is an article in a recent New Yorker about out of body experiences and I am afraid to read it. I don’t want to have another one. Once when I was a teenager, I awoke to find I was floating on the ceiling looking down at myself. “Is that what my hair looks like?” I thought. The last time was a few years ago when I seemed to be floating down the stairs in our house. I kept trying to go down each step but my feet floated in front of me.

On occasion, I make the mistake of sharing these experiences with someone I hardly know — it often ensures that I won’t see them again.

On occasion, I think we are all living in a science fiction novel where the characters have come to life. After all, what do you think about a place called “The Preventorium” — a place I knew well when I was very young — where all the children have the same exact haircut, wear little white bloomers and shirts, march single file everywhere with hands on hips? I know what you’re thinking: “Children of the Corn,” right? Or some other sci-fi movie.

On occasion, I wonder if we humans are the least intelligent species and all the animals understand us and each other, while we can only understand other humans, and often not very well. Crows can recognize faces, chickens plot out their exact territory, dogs learn to guide us to what they need and want but we only guess at what they know. Maybe they are smart enough in science experiments to teach the researchers what they want them to know.

On occasion, I think about what it feels like to be a plant or a flower in the rain. Once I lay on our patio in a rainstorm to see if I could imagine being a plant.

On occasion, I think about the elaborate pastries and cakes made before baking powder and baking soda were discovered — were they discovered or created? Now that is something else to wonder about on some occasion.

On occasion, I like to say some of my favorite words aloud, even when there are other people present: “CAKE” “SATISFACTION” “CHANGE.” If I had done this at work, it would have been a problem, but at the grocery store, for example, people just move away carefully. I like the words with a “ch” sound like sandwich. When I was a teenager, two of my friends came for a visit and wanted to share all the new dirty words they had learned. I made the mistake of telling them some of my favorite words. They just looked at each other. One said to me, “You look normal, but you are weird.” I agreed happily, telling them I was complimented that they thought I looked normal. Then I told them it’s a good thing I do look normal because that way, they never knew what I was thinking. Later, one of these girls told me at school that her mother didn’t want her to come to my house anymore.

On occasion, I think about some of the games I invented as a child, like the time two little girls and I used a combination of airplane glue (my brother’s), a bucket of tar taken from a construction site across the street, and feathers I had collected from the ground outside my grandmother’s hen house, to create “symbols” on every air conditioning unit on the street. The symbols were for safe air to go into the house and it seemed logical that the air conditioning unit was the perfect vehicle.

On occasion at night, I go to a window and look for lighted windows as a sign I am not the only insomniac worrying about virtual reality — well perhaps others are not worrying about that but are simply awake in the night, looking at the moon and stars or clouds or silent snowfall or fireflies in the summer, or simply waiting for dawn to come and take away the unrealities of the dark. 

Simple, Perfect, Peaceful Harmony, by Marty Blue Waters

There are many jobs that have to be done even though they would never be something you would choose to do, if you had that choice. Life is full of them, especially after a major reality check -- like moving from a big house into a small apartment.

One of my favorite TV shows at the moment is "Hoarders: Buried Alive." I think that's the full name of it, although I may have made up the "buried alive" part just because that's how I feel right now. I turn the sound off of that creepy show and put Mozart or Bach or Puccini or Pink Floyd on my CD player and turn up the volume. Then I go to work in that slow pace that is the only pace that works for this kind of boring job.

Don't have anyone else try to help you sort through all your beautiful and/or strange collections. They will get impatient with your odd fascinations and try desperately to speed you up. They can help with other stuff, like carrying heavy bins down the stairs, packing them into the car, and driving them away to charity or re-use places that will find new people to appreciate your special things and give them a new home. But only you can decide what goes and what gets to hang around with you a while longer.

Glance at the TV and take in a house piled to the ceiling with stinking, broken garbage bags, random junk from yard sales, and rotten food feeding hordes of cockroaches and mice. Get a load of the thousands of squirming maggots some poor soul just uncovered and shudder. Then take a look at your stacks of music, art books, notebooks, toys, etc. and feel superior for a moment. Appreciate that at least you can identify everything in the piles of stuff before you and that you don't need a fly swatter to keep the bugs at bay.

Close your eyes, tune yourself to the music in the air, and re-enter that monochromatic zone where focusing on one tiny paperweight for 30 seconds is not a waste of time ... as long as it also goes through the final acid test of "present needs/keep" vs. "collective excess/let go." Give it a kiss and either put it on your desk or into a bye-bye bin. Then, immediately pick up another beautiful thing and make the same final decision, again and again and again. Eventually, everything will find its way to a new life. Either with you or someone else.

After you've cleared this overwhelming mess up a bit, you'll start rediscovering the magic of empty space here and there. Feng Shui will naturally carve its way into the room and show you how to arrange the survivors of your material past into simple, perfect, peaceful harmony. Then you can sleep deeply every night like a happy baby. And wake up each morning to a cozy room full of inspiration, potential, and joy. Life is good!

Letter in Pateawot, by Rob Sullivan

The writing suggestion was to write a letter in a language you make up. And then translate it.


Ublate Hindingus,

Hindingus, mot flam bittear, yap pergoin ut qua ti on. Ubbe tondral qui utino swarlb papayshewn.

Pakipan pai pakipan lashfotay bultmo ut farrah deutrino. Mashiman tie domtiti rentch ateasi sak jambote. Dway susay blay, sonne utangi blaypone.

Caipanni luipope kwai umma slyslyqui chanse goran.

Tweg pepe paka wot,

Shandwat




Dear Hindingus,

My dear friend, please know our hearts are one. Sad news traveled quickly of your recent loss.

Know and know well that your needs are our own. Your mom was like a mother to everyone who got to know her. We were family then, and you are family forever.

Please use the love of us all to fill the hole in your heart.

Until time is no more,

Shandwat

3 poems, by Heather Boob

1

Walk gratefully
away —
when you have finally
learned the lesson.
Even if it has exposed you.
For this naked Truth
is now free
to swim bare-skinned
in a silky sea,
and your heart —
now the mast —
bravely sets sail
on the winds of change.

2

Perhaps I love her deceptive softness —
The way she keeps changing her mind
untethered and unwilling
to surrender
her pushing and pulling
dragging me through the Mud

Perhaps I love the mud bath —
A chance to let the earth penetrate me
the closest I have come to the Creator
Earth-bound body
made up of water
Reaching for the root of my existence

Perhaps I love the reaching
For it is what I have always
known. And the quieted comfort I feel
from a lifetime of wanting is
the perfect preface to this
letting go

3

(I fill my glass again)
Although it is not my only option,
I choose
Happiness.
And the heartbreak and despair that has been lingering
in heavy air (which requires me to carry around
a paper lunch bag to aid in
breathing — in and out, uniformly
folded in my back pocket
in case of emergencies)
must also be welcomed here.
For it, too, reminds me to breathe
in and out. Repeat forever —
(I fill my glass again) in hopes
to become (more and more cockeyed with gratitude)



NOTE: inspiration came from a number of different poems, by a variety of poets. The very last phrase, about becoming cockeyed with gratitude, is borrowed from Billy Collins (“As If To Demonstrate An Eclipse”).

Things That Linger, by Nancy Osborn

Inspired by the poem “Adios,” by Naomi Shihab Nye, which contains the line:
"Think of things that linger: leaves, / cartons and napkins, the damp smell of mold."



the sound of the final chord of the piece by Chopin, filled with sharps that cause my fingers to stretch to reach the black keys

the smell of yeast as the bread dough breathes and expands in the mixing bowl

the slight tension in my back even as I hear my yoga teacher remind us to just be, just do nothing, just breathe

the brightness to the west after the sun has set behind the hills, letting us continue to sit on the porch even as the darkness creeps from the east

the scent of sunshine in clothes brought inside from the clothesline

the moist trails on the garden stepping stones showing us the paths the snails took before dawn

the echoes left behind by thunder as the next flash of lightning crosses the sky, followed by the after-image brightness of that flash

the pieces of thread that litter the floor after a sewing project is finished

the memory of the softness of my mother's cheek the last time I caressed it in a goodbye

the mysteriousness of ghost images in an inadvertent double-exposure, something that never happens with digital photos

the memory of myself jumping rope, joyfully, easily even as I sometimes now find my walking pace slow as knees speak up and ask me to pay attention to them

the way the fingers of the waves seem to grasp the sand as the tide goes out, keeping their hold on the land as long as possible

the shimmer of chalk dust in the air after cleaning the classroom erasers

the welcome coolness of shade even as I walk beyond it into the sunlight

the scent of basil on my fingertips long after I've picked and shredded the leaves for pesto

the fading pencilled notes in an old college textbook, carefully written to remind me of some valuable insight but making no sense to me now

the fragile paper-y wasp nest after the first frost

last week's collection of fruit and vegetable peelings, as they are slowly eaten by the worms in the compost heap

the desire to make sense of the world

my foot still feeling that pebble in my shoe even after I've shaken it out onto the sidewalk

the burning sweetness that continues to bite your tongue even after you spit out an Atomic fireball

the scent of pine when you walk on a soft, padded trail of needles

the warmth left in the cloth napkin after smoothing its sprinkled dampness with an iron

the film of molasses in the measuring cup when I am making brown bread

the French verb conjugations from 55 years ago, chanted out loud with my classmates, for which I now have no use

the taste of glue after I've sealed another letter to my sister

the glorious feeling of freedom I felt the first time I rode my bicycle out of our driveway, beyond our block, and into the unknown and unfamiliar streets of our neighborhood

the memories of all the libraries that have welcomed me in over the years: the creak of their wooden floors, the smell of their books, the smoothness of their wooden seats, the quietness that gave me shelter and peace of mind

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Jackdaw, by Saskya van Nouhuys

Inspired by the poem “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” by Wallace Stevens

I
Hopping along the centerline of the road
each step landing, a thunk, with
more weight than possible

II
It stands looking indignant
with dark gray shoulders and a hood
the color of rain-laden clouds

III
Monitoring the goings on
from a bare branch
through tiny tangerine eyes

IV
A single sharp “caw” lending perspective
to the urban drone
of cars and of heat exchangers

V
A single sharp “caw” that disrupts
the perfect melodies of songbirds,
absolutely

VI
Standing on one foot,
head tipped to peer through one eye,
at a flat dead viper

VII
Perched on a knee-high fence,
raising and lowering its wings, shifting
from one foot to the other, attentive to each bite
of scone I take, it waits

VIII
One on each side of the road, taking turns.
In the interval between cars each bird hops to the center to have
a few hurried bites
of freshly killed kin

IX
A disarray of feathers on the ground
and nothing else.  I am embarrassed
by the private light soft down
left exposed in death

X
A blustering flock of seagulls noisily harvest
the bugs brought forth by the tractor’s plow.
The jackdaw lands and they scatter.

XI
I lie in bed at dawn
in the hot heavy silence of a mounting summer rainstorm.
A lonely jackdaw calls. From far away
another calls

XII
A jackdaw moves across the sky carrying a slice of pizza, soundlessly

XIII
The jackdaw stands just at the edge of a rock pool.
I wonder,
is it looking at its own reflection, or
is it fishing for leaches?

As The Crow Flies, by Heather Boob

If I could draw a map of my heart
it would need to be topographical
so that you could lay your hands on it —
like braille —
to feel my existence,
to empathize with the contours of my  experience,
and the inclines and rolling valleys
(upon which I have ridden)
representing my relief.

One day when I’m wise and the lines on my face
reflect the journey of my heart,
I hope that the crow who has made his footprints
at the corners of my eyes,
will come to rest on my shoulder —
as he will learn, that even
the shortest distance to fly
would not be fast enough
to get from here to there —
from every joyful smile to the next.

Mapping the Way to Spring, by Sue Norvell

Leave in Winter, February, right around Valentine’s Day. Check the forecast, poke in the snow by the fence line. Here’s the first sign pointing toward Spring: green shoots just barely above the frozen soil. (How do they do that?) The snowdrops are coming.

The Juncos become restless. Instead of feeding placidly in small flocks, they chase and dart in among the neighbor’s hemlocks. The flash of white tail feathers is unmistakable. This is the second marker.

Proceed straight on through the weeks to March. The male Cardinal sings, claiming our feeder as his personal territory, an area he has willingly shared all winter, ‘til now. He’s sung this song, fitfully, since early January as the light shifted, but now he sings in earnest, chasing younger birds who audaciously challenge his seniority.

A late snow blankets everything, but soon melts. The barberry bushes, so heavy with red berries last week have been stripped clean. Cedar Waxwings? Robins?

We’ve nearly arrived. Follow the signs. Spring is just ahead, just around that corner. I’m sure I can see it from here!

In the L Section, by Stacy Murphy

This was inspired by the line “I Found Myself in the L Section of the Dictionary” — from the Billy Collins poem, “The Lanyard”



I went looking for the answers to all of it — to the meaning of life, to the Universe, to our place within the great scheme of things.

I listened to podcasts. Went to yoga retreats. Therapy. Travel. Thrill-chasing jumps out of airplanes.  Softness. Shock. 

I tried all the ways that one can contort and chase, strive in that ever-elusive quest to know oneself.

Turns out, what they say is true — to find something it does help to stop looking. 

Turns out, I found myself in the dictionary.

Turns out, I found myself in the “L” section of the dictionary.

I recognized myself in longing right away, and could remember my younger self in lust. 

Logic has its place but too much can lead me to languish in loneliness, though that I recognized too.

Luckily, laughter — loud laughter — was another favorite find.

And the future leads me to a lioness, the lioness I long to be, lively and lovely and loving and sometimes languid by a lagoon or lake with a libation and a lobster lollipop.

Two Short Pieces, by Kimberly Zajac

These two short pieces were written in the Saturday Morning Circle on March 24. The first was in response to a “spark” that suggested using the phrase “and then” at the start of each line; the second was written in the last five minutes of the group, using the “Paint Chip Poetry Game” to provide key words.


And Then . . .

And then there is the space between after and before
And then there is the pause between losing and catching your breath
And then there is the silent life between heart beats
And then there is the lift of the pen between words
And then there is the question between worry and relief
And then there is the dangling between seasons
And then there is the suspension between loss and love
And then there is the quiet healing after the pain and before the "I don't remember"
And then there is the wait before the laughter at one's self and the holding back of tears that never really works
And then there is the hesitant lean before reassurance
And then there is the shivering robin on a cold March morning
And then there is my wonder of it all
And then there is the murky tea that brings clarity
And then there is the ink splotch tattoo on my finger
And then there is the inner voice that chooses squiggles instead of words
And then there is the muse that giggles from the last page




My Hometown

my hometown when I was a child
was just my own back yard
a community of bluebirds
and sun rays
fireflies and
orange Chinese lanterns
and best of all was ordering up
a tall glass of iced tea
and snapping off a sprig of mint
to make it oh so grown-up
while I enjoyed my childhood accordingly

The Future, by Marian Rogers

This was written earlier today, Saturday, March 24, during the last five minutes of a Writing Circle in the Painted Parrot Writing Studio. We were playing with the Paint Chip Poetry Game, choosing various words that set a theme and got us started. But that’s when the magic began …. as individual pieces took shape in meaningful ways.




Time past, I wanted the Garden of Eden in our backyard, to create it. That was ambitious, presumptuous even.

Time present,  what we have is the herb garden and the parts of the rock garden we transformed from red rock desert to alpines, lavender, and many kinds of sedum in time for the engagement party.

Time future, it will be a luxuriant jade plant, the kind that's like a tree, many-limbed, succulent leaves, wherever we find ourselves then.

17 Short Poems, by Heather Boob

17 Short Poems, by Heather Boob, written in response to phrases found in the poetry collection “Blood and the Word,” by Rosaire Karij


WHAT WE HAVE FORGOTTEN
Is to stop and breathe
In an out
To look each other in the eye
And to remember
We are all – only human
Or did we ever know?

A TOO SMALL APARTMENT
Is a perfect size
To keep tidy
And a good excuse
To get outside

YEAR AFTER YEAR
We see white canvas
Come to life in chartreuse
And budding rainbow blooms
Smoking chimneys turned campfire-side
To circles of celebration
Like a black bear after a long rest
Ready to refill and restore
On the wild fruits of late summer
Dreaming of hot, humid mornings
When running waters are
The only cooling relief

AT 6 A.M.
On a mid-summer morn
I rise with the sun
Yellow and blue filling sky
At 6 a.m.
On an early winter morn
I rise with the sun
Rose petal reds bursting blooms
Of color to carry through
Winter’s white

TELL ME AGAIN
Where you were standing
The moment you realized
This was not your life
What you were thinking
When she held your hand
So tightly that you felt like
You were choking
Who you called to ask
For help
What was happening
In your body
Why you waited
So long

THIS IS ABOUT A WOMAN
Whose body I came so close to
But whose heart I could not reach

THE LACK OF MONEY
Could limit one or expand her creative mind. Ben Franklin loved his beer and his women, and was crazy enough to fly a kite in a lightning storm. He had nothing to lose. A modest man, he was not. He started with nothing, and retired early in abundant wealth. He had nothing to lose.

WALKING UP THE STAIRS
Is so far, still easy
But I cannot help to think about
When the day will come
Where I feel effort behind every step
Thanking my thighs along the way

IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH
Or was it always too much?

THE FIRST TIME
I laid it all out on the table
You devoured every last morsel
Then hiccuped
I suppose that was your way
Of saying grace

SPEAK THE TRUTH
Even if it’s hard to hear the stuttering escaping your mouth
And terrifying to consider the reaction of the heart that will swallow it

SOME SMALL GRIEVANCE
Makes large
To the underdog

AN INVISISBLE MARK
Of time
Slowly reveals itself
Through a line
On her face

THAT WAS THE YEAR I LEARNED
That mothers don’t always come home
That little brothers are sweet to the blood
That young girls can become women too soon
And
That God doesn’t offer reprieve just because you’re sorry

FOR MORE THAN FIFTY YEARS
I’ll have to come back to this one

I REALLY CAN’T HELP IT
Love and compassion
Are innate

LAST NIGHT, I DREAMED
Before falling asleep
That when I awoke
I would carry the story
Of my yesterdays
Into today
Without attachment
Without hesitation
For the truth of tomorrow

==


(Note from Zee: Thank you Rosaire, for your beautiful poems. Excerpts from your book served as the inspiration for our writing this week, in all the Circles.)

V is for Violet, by Susanna Drbal

V is for Violet. Violet is the name of my toothless cat, so you would think she’s never violent. You’d be wrong. Violet, in spite of her tiny body and little head, has giant paws with thumbs. She likes to swat.

Violet doesn’t think of herself as violent — or as little, or even as a cat. She thinks she is a spy. She hides in corners and under beds, ears perked up, eyes wide and shining. She gathers information — who smells like what, what that noise means, what is inside that stuffed mouse that squeaks.

She compiles her information into a notebook she writes in after everybody is asleep. She holds a pen in her big, right front paw and holds the page down with her big, left front paw. She watches me write every morning and thinks, Susanna must be a spy too.

Violet writes her memoir, and a constant theme is food. How many crunchies did she leave behind for Klaus? She notes whether the wet food was cold or room temperature. She discusses the ongoing issue of cleaning her face after meals. She also writes about her litter box, evaluating how much scratching is ideal for covering up her deposits.

Violet writes about her past lives, too, when she lived on the streets and was chased by tomcats and shivered under bushes. She writes about her time as “Persia,” when she lived in a tiny room with six other cats. She hid under a cushion most of those days. In between, she gave birth and got hit by a car. There was some pain, some fear, but good times too. Violet is visionary.