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Magnets and Ladders, Spring Summer 2013

21-Mar-13

MAGNETS AND LADDERS
Active Voices of Writers with Disabilities
Spring/Summer 2013

Editorial and Technical Staff

  • Coordinating Editor: Marilyn Brandt Smith
  • Fiction: Lisa Busch, Kate Chamberlin, Valerie Moreno, Marilyn Brandt Smith, and Abbie Johnson Taylor
  • Nonfiction: Kate Chamberlin, Valerie Moreno, Nancy Scott, John W. Smith, and Marilyn Brandt Smith
  • Poetry: Lisa Busch, Valerie Moreno, Nancy Scott, and Abbie Johnson Taylor
  • Technical Assistants: Jayson Smith and John Weidlich
  • Internet Specialist: Julie Posey

Submission Guidelines

Disabled writers may submit up to three selections per issue. Deadlines are August 15 for the Fall/winter issue, and February 15 for the Spring/Summer issue. Writers must disclose their disability in their biography or in their work. Biographies may be up to 100 words in length, and should be written in third-person.

Poetry maximum length is 50 lines. Memoir, fiction, and nonfiction maximum length is 2500 words. In all instances, our preference is for shorter lengths than the maximum allowed. Please single-space all submissions, and use a blank line to separate paragraphs and stanzas. It is important to spell check and proofread all entries. Previously published material and simultaneous submissions are permitted provided you own the copyright to the work. Please cite previous publisher and/or notify if work is accepted elsewhere.

We do not feature advocacy, activist, “how-to,” or “what’s new” articles regarding disabilities. Innovative techniques for better writing as well as publication success stories are welcome. Announcements of writing contests with deadlines beyond April 1 and October 1 respectively are welcome. Content will include many genres, with limited attention to the disability theme.

Please email all submissions to submissions@magnetsandladders.org. Paste your submission and bio into the body of your email or attach in Microsoft Word format. If submitting Word documents, please put your name and the name of your piece at or near the top of the document. Submissions will be acknowledged within two weeks. You will be notified if your piece is selected for publication.

About Behind Our Eyes

Behind Our Eyes, Inc. is a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization enhancing the opportunities for writers with disabilities. Our anthology published in 2007, “Behind Our Eyes: Stories, Poems, and Essays by Writers with Disabilities,” is available at Amazon.com and from other booksellers. It is available in recorded and Braille format from the National Library Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped. Several members of our group meet by moderated teleconference twice monthly to hear speakers; share work for critique; or receive tips on accessibility, publication, and suggested areas of interest.

Our mailing list is a low-traffic congenial place to share work in progress; learn about submission requests; and to ask and answer writing questions. For the conference phone number and PIN, join our mailing list by contacting Donna Grahmann at dgrahmann@sbcglobal.net.

Contents

Editors’ Welcome

This year Behind Our Eyes is reaching high on that ladder we talk about. Our second anthology is in the works, and should be ready this fall.

This issue offers some thought-provoking stories. Our theme, music, has its own section, and appears in most of the other sections as well. In the writers section you’ll find theme ideas for future issues. Other sections show the landscape changing and relationships beginning and ending. A dash of humor here and there helps keep us all sane.

Consider these possibilities as you read this issue: Why does the music stop? (Concerto’s Ghost, section II) Can you picture yourself five, ten, twenty-five years from now? (Older than Who? Section V) How far dare you go for a loved one? (The Cigarettes, section I)

Enjoy!

I. WHO KNEW?

The Cigarettes, fiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

Michelle stood in the open doorway and stared at the woman who struggled under the weight of three cartons of cigarettes which she claimed were for Al Johnson. “That’s my dad,” Michelle said. “He doesn’t live here, but he often comes here on his lunch break because it’s so close to his office.”

“I vaguely remember delivering cigarettes to this address a few months ago.”

“Dad thought I wouldn’t be here today, but there was a mix-up in my work schedule so I thought I would surprise him when he came.”

The woman placed the cigarettes on the living room couch while Michelle found her check book. After she left, Michelle stood staring at the cigarettes. A few months ago, her father promised her stepmother Ruth he would quit smoking. He asked Michelle for a key to her apartment. She had an extra one made, and kept her refrigerator stocked with sandwich fixings so he could make his own lunch. She realized her father was coming to her apartment to smoke, and he was having his cigarettes delivered in order to save time.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. What now, she wondered in annoyance, as she glanced at her watch. Her father would be here any minute, and she had yet to make lunch. When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Ruth. She smiled at her stepmother and hoped she didn’t notice the cartons of cigarettes that lay on the nearby couch.

“Hello dear,” said Ruth with a smile. “I know it’s sudden, but I drove by and saw your car so I thought I’d ask you to lunch.”

Her father appeared, breathless and looking strained. When he saw his wife and daughter, his mouth gaped in astonishment.

“Surprise!” said Michelle.

“Surprise?” asked Ruth.

“Yes,” answered Michelle. “I was planning to surprise Dad today, and now we can all go out to lunch.”

Al glanced at his watch. “Honey, I can’t. I’m supposed to be in court in half an hour.”

“I’ll make lunch here,” said Michelle. “I’ve got plenty. It won’t take long.” She hurried into the kitchen and Al and Ruth followed.

“Oh Michelle, I hope you haven’t started smoking,” said Ruth.

“What?” asked Michelle. “Oh, those cigarettes are Rick’s. He ordered them from Bino’s, but he was called to work before the delivery person came so I told him I’d take the cigarettes when they came and he could pay me for them later.”

Michelle removed bread, lunch meat, cheese, and vegetables from the refrigerator. “Here honey, let me help,” said Al, taking plates out of the cupboard.

“Since this kitchen is barely big enough for the two of you, I’ll just use the bathroom,” said Ruth.

Al whispered, “Those aren’t Rick’s cigarettes, are they?”

Michelle grinned and shook her head. “Your secret is safe with me, Dad.”

Al embraced his daughter. “Honey, I love you,” he said. As father and daughter prepared the sandwiches, Al said, “I tried to quit. I really did, but I just couldn’t do it, not cold turkey, so I’m cutting down.”

“Dad, you don’t have to explain anything to me. I have some errands to do later so I could drop the cigarettes by the office. Do you think your secretary would say anything to Ruth?”

“That won’t be necessary. When I leave, I’ll just say I’m taking the cigarettes up and leaving them outside your neighbor’s door so he won’t have to come down here and get them when he comes home from work. Since we both met Rick when we helped you move in, Ruth shouldn’t suspect a thing.”

In the bathroom, the toilet flushed. A few minutes later, the three of them sat at the dining room table. As Al ate his sandwich, he chatted about the weather and other current events. He mentioned the court case he planned to argue that afternoon. From time to time, he glanced at the cigarettes. Michelle realized that he was probably accustomed to having a cigarette or two with lunch, and her heart went out to him.

Fearing that Ruth might become suspicious of Al’s behavior, Michelle tried to divert her stepmother’s attention from her father by asking her about her work as a counselor at the women’s center. For the next few minutes, they discussed that and Michelle’s job as an activities assistant at a nursing home. Al finally looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got ten minutes to get to the courthouse. I’ll just drop those cigarettes outside Rick’s apartment on my way out.” He rose and hurried around to Michelle’s side of the table and kissed her. “Thanks for lunch, honey.”

Michelle jumped to her feet and dashed ahead of her father into the living room and in the direction of the front door. “I’ll get the door for you, Dad,” she said.

Al and Ruth were right behind her. Al picked up the cartons of cigarettes and headed out the door of Michelle’s apartment. Unaware that Ruth was following him, he hurried in the direction of the outer door.

“Al, where are you going?” asked Ruth. “Rick lives upstairs, remember?” Startled, Al almost dropped the cigarettes. With a sigh, he turned toward the stairs that led to the second floor. “I’ll wait while you take those cigarettes up to Rick’s, and then I’ll walk you to your car,” said Ruth.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” said Al.

“But I want to!” said Ruth.

As Al staggered up the stairs, Michelle said, “Oh Ruth, why don’t you stay a while? I’ll make us a pot of coffee.”

“I’d love to, dear, but I just remembered I’ve got an appointment in fifteen minutes. I worry about your father. He’s under a lot of stress.”

“He’s always stressed out about one case or another,” Michelle said. “I guess that’s why he’s such a good lawyer.”

Al returned, looking more strained than ever. Michelle gave him a conspiratorial wink she hoped Ruth wouldn’t notice, as they walked out the door of the apartment house. She decided to retrieve the cigarettes and leave a message on her father’s voice mail saying they were safe and he could pick them up after work.

When she was sure both Al and Ruth were gone, she hurried up the stairs to Rick’s apartment, her heart pounding. She hoped Rick wasn’t home, or if he was, he hadn’t seen the cigarettes and taken them, thinking they were a free gift. Breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the cartons still lying outside his apartment door, she lifted them and carried them back to her apartment.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the outer door flew open and Al rushed into the hall. Startled, Michelle almost dropped the cigarettes, but without a word, she handed them to her father. The door again opened and in came Ruth. For an eternity, the three of them stood frozen in time. Finally, Ruth sighed. “Well, I had a feeling something like this was going on, but I guess life’s just too short to worry about catching lung cancer, isn’t it?” She turned and flounced out the door.

Stunned, Michelle stared after her departing stepmother, but Al wasted no time. “Honey, would you mind if I came in and had a smoke? I’m actually not due in court for another half hour.”

“Of course,” said Michelle, leading the way into her apartment.

Her father closed the door and flopped onto the couch. He tore open one of the cartons, opened a pack, and withdrew a cigarette. Setting the pack aside, he withdrew a lighter from his pocket and lit up. As he took a long, satisfied drag, Michelle saw the tension leaving her father’s face. He removed the cigarette from between his lips, and for the first time that day, he gave his daughter a broad grin.

Bio: Abbie Johnson Taylor’s novel, We Shall Overcome, was published in July of 2007 by iUniverse. Her poetry collection, How to Build a Better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver, also published by iUniverse, was released in December of 2011. Her fiction has appeared in Emerging Voices and Disability Studies Quarterly, her poetry in Sensations Magazine and Serendipity Poets Journal, and her essays in Christmas in the Country and SageScript. She is visually impaired, and lives in Sheridan, Wyoming. Please visit her website at AbbieJohnsonTaylor.com.

The Work Order, memoir
by Deon Lions

Back in 1983 I was working part time after school in shipping and receiving for the flagship store of a tire company in Waterville, Maine. I helped manage our very extensive stock. We were known as Central Maine’s Supermarket for tires. We had a very good and knowledgeable team, with a great competitive attitude.

During two months of 1983, our company family suffered a couple of great losses as two of our employees had been tragically killed in auto-related incidents. Their names were Wayne and Scott.

One of my warehouse duties was to make sure stock was constantly sorted and easily accessible to the shop employees. They came out into the warehouse from the shop to pull merchandise for car bay work orders. While working in the warehouse cellar, I could hear the footsteps of the workers because the wooden first floors created an echo. I was good at telling who was walking from the way their steps sounded.

Wayne and Scott both had very distinctive walks. Wayne’s was a heavy, booming, dragging step, as he was around three hundred pounds. Scott’s, on the other hand, was a light dragging, slow moving step that didn’t make much noise. He was around my height of 6 foot 4, but with a light build and an effortless gait. I used to freak the employees out when I would holler out their names as they came out into the warehouse. Our shop crew was always changing, with employees coming and going. It would take me a few weeks to learn the steps of the newer employees.

One morning a couple months after the deaths of Wayne and Scott, I was down-cellar straightening out stacks of tires, right underneath where the employees came out from the shop. The store was busy as usual, and the traffic from the shop out into the warehouse was average. As I worked in the cellar, I heard the sliding door to the shop open, and then the sound of footsteps echoing through the cellar. I stopped working to see if I could make out the steps.

I recognized the familiar sounds of these particular steps, and was instantly hit with an intense rush of goosebumps. The steps sounded exactly like those of Wayne, all the way out through the first floor of the warehouse, and down the stairs into the cellar. I stood there, frozen. I could hear the footsteps as they got to the bottom of the stairs, then down the main aisle towards where I was. The steps stopped a couple rows from where I was working, and proceeded down an aisle parallel to me. Then it was silent.

I swear my skin started crawling, and I could feel a chill run up my back, as I heard the sound of folded paper rustling as if someone was checking a work order to see what they needed. I’d heard that sound a thousand times. I didn’t know what else to do, except to holler and ask what they were looking for. There was only silence as I stood and held my breath.

Again, the rustling of a work order could be heard. I asked again what they needed–no response.

I walked out of my aisle, and over to the aisle where I thought the noises were coming from. The aisle was empty, as well as the adjacent aisles. I walked through the aisle, and got a cold chill that rushed through my body, from my toes to my nose. It was a strange feeling that felt as though something was moving through me.

Halfway down the aisle, there was a work order folded on the cement floor. I reached down, picked it up, noticing how cold it felt, and read it. The work order, dated from a couple months before, had the initials “W.F.” circled on the lower right–the same initials as Wayne.

The only thing I could do was get the hell out of Dodge. I ran out of the aisle and over to the stairs. I don’t think I hit many of them as I flew up them, and headed to the main office of the warehouse, where our wholesale manager Nathan was.

I told him what happened, and he thought I was crazy, or pulling a prank. After some persistent persuading that I hadn’t completely lost my mind, and that this was indeed not a prank, he finally came down cellar and walked through the aisle with me, stopping halfway through as he turned to me with a flushed look on his face.

“What the hell is that?” he asked. “What are you doing to me?” He started describing the same feelings I had experienced earlier, and was feeling once again.

I pointed to the work order on the floor where I had dropped it. He picked it up, remarking how cold it felt. He then looked like he saw a ghost, as the same cold chill rushed through him.

We both hurried out of the cellar, and back into the main office of the warehouse. We stood speechless as we studied the work order. The signature was definitely Wayne’s, as he checked it out later with other files from the store’s main office. That work order just happened to be missing, and completed the sequence of numbers for that particular day’s sales folder. The date of the work order was the same date of Wayne’s death.

I worked in the warehouse for the next couple years until I was promoted to regional sales in 1986. Until the last day I worked at the store, every time I went through that aisle, I got a cold chill down my back.

As far-fetched as this story may sound, I had a similar experience a couple weeks later. It was on the other end of the cellar, and the steps that I heard walking through the warehouse were those of Scott, the other company employee who had died tragically a couple of months before. These footsteps did not come down the stairs though. They stopped at the head of the steps, and then all was quiet. When I walked to the stairs and climbed them, I got the same cold rush through my body as I reached the top of the steps. There was no one there.

I worked at this tire store until 1995, the last ten years as a successful regional sales rep throughout Central Maine. The store still remains open for business to this date. The warehouse was eventually torn down back in 2004 due to cracked foundation problems that would have been too costly to remedy.

I will never forget 1983 and this chain of events, nor will I ever doubt that it could have been anything other than what it was, an unexplainable phenomenon that chilled me to the bone and changed me forever. I have dreamt several times through the years about footsteps echoing through an abandoned warehouse. The sounds are distinct; the steps, familiar; the feeling, a temperature-plunging dreamtime chill. The one item that will always bring me back to those unforgettable days will forever be the work order.

Bio: Deon Lyons lives in the central Maine town of Clinton along with his wife of thirty years. Deon worked for the past twenty five years as a Regional Sales Rep, until June of 2010 when he suddenly lost his vision due to lingering complications from cancer as an infant. Deon is currently involved in a vocational rehabilitation program, and is also learning many forms of assistive technology in hopes of re-entering the workforce. Along with a lifelong passion for writing, Deon has many hobbies, but they all play second fiddle to family.

After High Tea, a Taste of Ghost, memoir
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

After enjoying the special treat of high tea at Hotel Blanford, my sister Meagan and I, with my beautiful guide dog at my lead, strolled around the massive lobby while we awaited the 5:15 Ghost Tour of the 107-year-old hotel. For a half hour longer, we could relax to the soothing music of the pianist who superbly played the grand piano.

At the designated meeting place for the “Ghost Tour,” a few people had already gathered near the grand staircase which was almost heart-shaped. When my guide dog promptly sat beside me, I praised her; then, someone asked, “Is she a black lab?”.

“Her mother is a black lab, and her father is a golden retriever.”

“Beautiful dog,” replied the man.

“She is so calm and well-behaved,” added a woman.

As soon as I thanked both of them, the tour guide interrupted with effusive greetings for all. Then, as an aside to me, Mrs. Boone welcomed my guide dog and me as the first guide-dog team to tour the Hotel Blanford-as far as she and the current employees knew.

“What a lovely dog! What is her name?” Mrs. Boone asked in a flourish.

“She thanks you for the compliment. Her name is Jazz. Of course, her puppy-raiser named her, but I like the name.”

“Jazz! How appropriate! Oh! How perfect for the story in the Presidential Suite. I remember your name from the reservation–Amanda. Well, Amanda, I do hope that you will not mind my speaking just a bit about …well, …vision loss when we are in the Presidential Suite.”

“Please do not be concerned, Mrs. Boone. We should only be concerned about the ghosts. Right?” My sister slightly laughed, but tugged at my elbow as only an older sister would do.

After Mrs. Boone took a count to determine that all twenty tourists were present, she quickly jumped from the warm welcome to a brief history of Hotel Blanford. Then, most of us ascended the stunning stairway to the mezzanine, where we met a few individuals who had taken the elevator to our second meeting point. We heard more about the first family who established the hotel–the British Blanfords who had come to the Midwest during the turn of the century.

Since my sister and I had been teachers for many years, we appreciated Mrs. Boone’s enthusiastic and articulate presentation: a history instructor at the local community college, Mrs. Boone not only seemed totally comfortable before an audience, she relished her little stage. The lady who had spoken to me earlier whispered to my sister and me, “I bet Mrs. Boone has been an actress with a local theatre company.”

Our third stop was the ballroom–the Vermillion Room–filled with echoes of the past and one ghost who, apparently, could never get enough dancing. The floral shop, room 313, the passageway to the 1968 annex, as well as the board room atop the 1984 annex brought forth ghost stories told splendidly and spiritedly by Mrs. Boone. Next, we returned to the original structure and paused in front of the Presidential Suite. While Mrs. Boone dangled the hotel keys, she stated, “When I open the double oak doors of the Presidential Suite, you will first see, in the expansive parlor, the marble fireplace, over which is the captivating oil painting of the Jazz-Age bedecked Mrs. Blanford with her most trusted friend who had full access to Hotel Blanford. The remarkable canvas is five feet tall and four feet wide.” As soon as Mrs. Boone opened the heavy doors, her audience simultaneously gasped and chuckled. While our tour guide closed the double doors after all guests had entered, she quipped, “Yes, Mrs. Blanford had experienced some vision loss; and her faithful companion and guide was that gorgeous, white German Shepherd–Lily. Guests in this room have frequently reported hearing the whimpering of a dog–Lily, perhaps.”

Suddenly, the white dog seemed to step out of the painting and walk toward Jazz. Noticeably unsettled, Mrs. Boone tried to open the oak doors, but she could not do so. Standing near the doors, two men tried unsuccessfully to open the doors. Meanwhile, frozen in place, the other tourists watched the ghost of a dog nuzzle my guide dog very affectionately. Then, Lily turned, took a few steps, and jumped back into the portrait. For several seconds, the parlor was absolutely quiet. Nervously, Mrs. Boone stammered, “Now, I will have a new ghost story to tell. Uh…I will just use my cell phone to call maintenance to open the doors for us–not to worry.” However, Mrs. Boone’s cell phone would not work in the Presidential Suite; neither would anyone else’s. While we waited, I gently stroked Jazz.

Bio: Since writing her first poem about poodles in second grade, Wisconsinite Alice Jane-Marie Massa has relished writing poetry, memoirs, dramas, and children’s books. Recently retired from 20 years of full-time work at a technical college where she taught writing and public speaking, Ms. Massa now plans to devote more time to submitting her creative endeavors for publication. In earlier years, her poems and articles were published in “Dialogue,” “Leader Dog Update,” “Newsreel,” and local newspapers and newsletters. Away from her desk, she most enjoys long walks with her third Leader Dog, Zoe.

Trust, memoir
by Robert Feinstein

One of the most difficult problems my parents had to face was what to do with me during the summer, when school was out and I had few friends to play with. My mother heard of a place called Camp Tranquility, in upstate New York, for musically talented kids and she enrolled me. Although I was the only blind camper, I loved it there and returned for five consecutive summers. I felt a part of things and made some good friends.

When I was sixteen, some friends I had made at camp decided to come into Manhattan from New Jersey, where they lived, and invited me to join them. I was just learning how to travel with a white cane, and knew only a few routes, but I took the subway to 57th Street and met my friends in front of Carnegie Hall with no trouble.

Our little group included me, Rebecca and Frances, who were sisters, and Douglas. We were all about the same age, and it was wonderful for me to be a part of this group. I was supposedly “going steady” with Rebecca, and Douglas was with Frances, although he liked another girl named Marcia, who would not give him the time of day. In truth, I liked Rebecca as a friend, but had my heart set on someone else.

Despite these confusing emotions, I felt comfortable with all three of them. Rebecca had even learned some basic Braille, and would write me notes. The best part was that I did not feel different with these kids–I felt accepted and at ease. I was able to forget about being blind and just enjoy myself.

When we got ready to set off that day, Rebecca suggested that I could put my folding cane in her pocketbook if I liked, which seemed an excellent idea, since without the cane I could walk with a friend on each side. I walked with Rebecca on my left, and would alternate between having Frances or Douglas on my right. I was quite demanding, and during our walk I would suddenly say, “I want to walk with Douglas NOW!” and he would go to my right side.

Having someone on each side made for wonderful walking. We even ran a bit, and Frances tried to teach me to skip, which was a disaster–I wound up falling and pulling Frances and Rebecca down with me, but it was all in fun, and I was the happiest kid in the world.

We walked around Manhattan, ate in a diner of sorts, and decided to take the subway downtown to explore Greenwich Village. I was supposed to go back to Rebecca’s house in New Jersey that night, so I didn’t have to check in with my mother.

At the subway station, waiting for the train, Douglas called Rebecca to come look at something while I stayed put. I was accustomed to being left when sighted people wanted to look at things, so I wasn’t at all upset, but then I heard the train arrive and depart, and nobody came back to me.

I called out the names of my friends–“Rebecca, Douglas, Frances! Are you there?” No answer. I stood stock still, trying to listen. I heard throngs of people, and trains pulling in and out, but nobody approached me. I must have been mistaken, I thought to myself. The train I heard must have been across the platform, on the other side. My friends were probably just still looking at something. Why was I such a worrier? They would be right back.

I tried to relax as I listened to the throngs of people coming and going, the trains pulling in and out all around me. But still nobody came. I called out again, “Rebecca? Douglas? Frances?” No answer. I realized then that I was alone–alone on a double-edged subway platform without my cane.

I cannot express in words the terror that seized me. To understand how I felt, you need to have an idea of how a white cane is used. First, you learn to swing the cane from left to right in an arc. As you swing left, you step with your right foot, and vice versa. At each step, you tap the cane from side to side to establish a regular rhythm, a technique called two-point touch. You lift the cane slightly as you swing it from left to right, and the tip touches the ground only when the arc is completed on either side.

There is one exception to this technique, and only one: when you are on a subway platform. There, you slide the cane so that the tip never leaves the ground. This is because subway platforms, especially those with tracks on both sides, called double-edged or island platforms, are as dangerous for a blind person as walking a tightrope would be for someone sighted.

Due to the noise level, the distorted acoustics, and the crush of people, you must walk very slowly, and make certain that the tip of the cane does not leave the ground. Because it’s difficult to walk in a straight line in a crowd, you have to worry about the platform on both sides of you.

When I walked subway platforms, I used to put the cane over one edge and trail that edge–I’m sure this looked dangerous, but it enabled me to worry about only one edge and kept me walking straighter. Now here I was, on a subway platform, totally alone, with no cane.

I began to yell for help and a woman came over to me. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“My friends left me and I don’t have my cane!” I managed to say.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

“I can’t see,” I answered. (My mother forbade me from using the word blind, but I figured the dark glasses I wore were enough of a clue.) “I need to call my mother; please help me.”

“There’s a phone upstairs,” said the woman.

“But I can’t see,” I shouted.

“I think he’s crazy,” another woman said. “We better get away from him.” I realized my terror had driven me to flail about with my arms, feeling for a pole, reaching for anything solid, but by doing this I had become totally disoriented, lost all sense of where the platform edge was. Everything echoed. It all sounded loud and confusing. I felt like I was going to pass out.

Calling on the orientation skills I had developed, I made clicking sounds to see if I could locate a pole. If only I could grab a pole, I’d be safe–I wouldn’t risk falling onto the tracks. As I clicked, I could hear solid objects, but I could not tell if they were on my side of the platform. I was getting more and more turned around. By the time I stopped trying to orient myself, I was more lost than ever, without the slightest idea where the edge was in relation to where I was standing.

My fear grew, and I resigned myself to the inevitable–I would never get off that platform, or at the very least, I would wind up falling onto the tracks and being crushed by a subway train. This had happened to a blind instructor at the Lighthouse, and people were still talking about it months afterward. He was a good cane user, but he did not survive. And there was the blind woman named Mary Lou who had fallen onto the tracks and lost both legs. Now it would be my turn.

I felt someone touch me and a man asked, in a kind voice, “Can I help?” I tried to answer, but I was so upset that I could not talk. Instead I started to cry. At last I managed to say that I could not see and my friends had left me. The man asked if I was blind, and I said that I wasn’t supposed to say that word, but that I was. He asked what he could do for me, and I asked him to take me to a phone booth.

Just then, a train pulled in, and suddenly my friends were hugging me and apologizing. Each one thought the other was watching out for me. “Oh, thank God you’re okay!” said Rebecca. “Now we can go visit Greenwich Village.”

I stood stock still, trying to regain my composure. It was obvious to me that they hadn’t taken this whole thing very seriously. They had forgotten me, but now they were back, and all was fine with the world. Well, all wasn’t fine with my world. “I don’t want to go with you guys any more,” I said. “I want to go home.” They tried to convince me to stay with them, but I was too upset.

“Give me back my cane!” I demanded, practically shouting at Rebecca, “and put me on the subway!”

Rebecca gave me my cane and my carry-on bag, and they waited with me until the subway came. I got on, sat down, and the doors closed. When the train reached Sheepshead Bay, I laboriously used my cane until someone showed me the “down” stairs. Once on the street, I knew where the bus was, and took it to within two blocks of my home.

“What are you doing here?” my mother asked. “I thought you were going to stay in New Jersey.”

“I decided to come home,” was all I said.

I did a great deal of thinking that night. I was afraid I would never fully trust sighted people again. I decided that no matter what the circumstances, I would always keep my cane with me, and always carry enough money to take a cab.

Although my friends called me a few times, I brushed them off, and never went out with them again. I was too young and too hurt to forgive them. I couldn’t comprehend how they failed to care about my terror. It was then that I began to sense the chasm that exists between what I experience as a blind person and what sighted people understand about me. I realized that I could never totally relax with sighted people. I could never let my guard down because I had to “watch out for myself” unceasingly.

That disappointing night was a part of growing up that I wish I could forget. But thirty-six years later, I still remember the terror I felt.

Bio: Robert Feinstein grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. He earned his Bachelor’s degree from Oberlin College, and his Master’s from Middlebury College in Vermont. Robert studied and worked in France, then returned to New York for a twenty-year career as a language teacher for children with English as a second language. He speaks French fluently, and has conversational background in Hebrew and Yiddish.

Robert was a volunteer telephone communicator for the deaf community. He learned rudimentary sign language and became friends with several deaf-blind individuals. He researched the life and writings of Helen Keller.

New Life: Departure Island, 2099, fiction
by Marilyn Brandt Smith

The logistics and advanced construction teams returned to Earth safely. It was time for long-range testing with volunteer colonists. New life from Earth would guarantee a future for humanity. Private-sector seed money and multinational government funding sought an alternative solution for the future.

All travelers were partnership couples at least three months into a healthy pregnancy. Each colonist possessed a valuable skill or service to offer toward the survival of the community, first on a delivery mission to one of the space stations, then at the moon colony beyond, tentatively known as Luna Beta. Ship personnel loaded first, along with scientists and administrators for the program. Next to board were the pre-qualified mothers-to-be. Finally, it was time for the fathers.

Two brothers, Simon and Baxter, approached the spacecraft, DNA profiles in-hand. Rigorous selection procedures found them worthy to provide physical labor and to assist with security.

“I’ll never know,” Simon muttered as they joined the line of men seeking routine paternity verification, “what Marsha and Lois saw in those scrawny little guys from the lab who kept chasing them.”

Baxter shook his head in agreement. “Everyone wants to escape the plague and plunder here. Science has let us down. Why are some of us immune to the plague, and why can’t they find a vaccine like they do for everything else?”

“It’s turning into ‘us against them,’ and unfortunately, there’s more of them than us,” Simon continued. “The sicker they get, the meaner they get.”

“No one’s safe any more,” Baxter agreed. “Well anyway, the girls know we are already locked in place as their primary partners.”

“Some people are making money off this thing,” Baxter continued. “Did you hear about that hospital in China where one of those gangs stole all the drugs and food, kidnapped all the doctors, and burned the building down with everyone else in it? Lois and Marsha should be grateful we saved them from becoming nursemaids. Lots of healthcare workers wear down their resistance finally, and die.”

“That’s right,” Simon agreed. “But hey, Marsha’s in food distribution. She can make sure we don’t starve.”

Marsha wedged her way through the crowd to the nutrient dispenser. Lois was close behind. “I’m grateful to be part of this adventure,” Marsha said, “but I think Simon’s going to be a selfish father. He was never a considerate sexual associate, nothing at all like Sidharth.”

“Baxter was just plain threatening,” Lois sighed. “He passed it off as game playing. I hated that multi-partner pledge we had to take to qualify for this program. I want my lab buddy too!”

“I know,” Marsha agreed. “Sometimes I feel like a brood mare. Those brothers were all but forced on us. There’s even politics in space.”

“Why didn’t we meet Ernest and Sidharth first?” Lois pondered. “Remember that crazy night they showed us how they decrypted some files and found out which country paid the most money and what our target launch date was?”

“I guess I’d be a little jealous to think Ernest was father to one of these other babies on-board,” she sighed. “Brawnmeisters against brainmasters…but maybe that pledge is okay. After all, I won’t be stuck with Baxter forever.”

Marsha tossed her container into the recycle slot. “They’ve had us isolated since final selection began, had us doing all that training. I guess we should be glad to see anyone from the male species.”

Simon shook his fist in disbelief when his DNA card was returned at the loading platform panel. “Ineligible?” he questioned. “Run it again! There’s a mistake here!”

Baxter shoved his card toward the screen when he received the same result. “Our women are already on-board. Get me someone I can talk to. I know we got here a little late, but this is crazy!”

A well-endowed mother-to-be whose badge read “Personnel” appeared to resolve the discrepancy. “Twins,” she smiled, observing their stares. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” she said sympathetically, “but lab results in our fetal database do not match either of your profiles. You are not fathers to any children on this voyage. You’re not the first to have this complication.”

“Well then who…” Simon began.

“Sir!” the woman behind the screen interrupted. “I understand that you’re angry and disappointed. I’m advised to recommend that you enroll in our fertility matching plan. You will likely qualify for the next voyage because your other files are in order. Next, please.”

“”Ten minutes to departure!” said a disembodied voice accompanying a flashing sign on the monitor screen. “Last call for boarding!” A guard escorted Simon and Baxter down the ramp, back to Terra Firma.

Marsha gazed at the line of women waiting their turn at the scale. “I sure hope they have some good doctors.”

“They’re saying,” Lois began, “we may have to stay in Aldrin Dome for the birth and until the babies are at regulation weight and receiving sufficient nutrition.”

“Good evening, ladies,” Sidharth smiled as he grabbed a coffee from the dispenser and offered Marsha a bear hug.

“I don’t believe this!” Marsha gasped in surprise. “How did you manage it?” she whispered. “We thought you guys were back there,” she pointed to the boarding ramp, “and we were expecting you know who.”

Ernest interrupted, glancing at the new sign on the screen, “It looks like our ETA is about eighteen hours from now? Let’s save the explanations for later.”

“Wait a minute,” Lois grinned. “Does this have anything to do with that time we had pizza and beer with you guys down in the lab, and we slept for twelve hours afterward?”

“You never know what goes on in labs,” Sidharth grinned. “It’s a marvelous night for a moondance,” he sang, twirling Marsha into his arms. “Let’s go check out those new bunks. They’re bound to beat the counters in the lab.”

Bio: Marilyn Brandt Smith worked as a teacher, licensed psychologist, and rehabilitation professional. She has edited magazines and newsletters since 1976, and was the first blind Peace Corps volunteer. She lives with her family and many animals in a hundred-year-old home in Kentucky. Her first book, “Chasing the Green Sun,” published in 2012, is available from Amazon and other bookstores and in audio form. She loves writing flash fiction stories, and is the primary editor for the “Behind Our Eyes” anthology and this magazine. Another interest is music–barbershop harmony, folk and Americana, and current hits. Visit her website and read her minimag/blog at marilynspages.com.

Kiss Me Slowly, flash fiction
by Nicole Bissett

He guides me to the dance floor for a slow dance. He kisses me slowly, deeply, in that special way he has.

“You two get a room, will ya?” his co-worker teases from a distance.

He just laughs and kisses me again.

“He is such an attentive, loving man to be with someone so dependent,” his coworker’s gaze tells me.

Should I tell her I haven’t dared get a room with him alone for years? After all, he does have a bad side… Nah, she’ll figure it out in time… Or will she? She’s not really his type.

As for being dependent, he wouldn’t have me any other way.

Bio: Nicole Bissett lives in La Mesa, CA, with her husband Harry. She holds a bachelors degree in journalism with a minor in English.

Her profile articles appear regularly in Today’s Vintage Magazine and the Insurance Journal. She has written for “The Jonestown Report,” and has been a volunteer transcriber for the Jonestown Institute. Several of her pieces appeared in “The Gratitude Book Project,” which became a number one Amazon best-seller in December, 2010. She also acts as a ghost-writer for Kevin Cole, a life coach who founded Empowerment Quest International.

Nicole can be reached at nicolebissett1969@gmail.com.

Goodbye Bill, abecedarian
by Nicole Bissett

All along I knew you were too good to be true,
Bill, Harold, John Jacob Jingle, whoever you are this week;
Can you even remember your own name, and the lies that go with it?

Dear big brother or
Ex-friend,
Fine friend you turned out to be!
Goodbye, Bill.

How you managed to worm your way into my heart to begin with
I’ll never know.

Jerk that you are, you thought you’d pull the wool over my eyes forever,
Knowing nothing of me,
Luring my loved ones with empty promises,
Mocking us with repeated lies and elaborate tales of woe.

Now, shame on us!
Oh yes, shame on us, indeed!
Poor as we were, we still knew better,
Quite well,
Really.

So why did we continue choosing
To take your ranting phone calls,
Unsure what sob story or cruel words would infect us next?
Very simple,
We were suckers!

X you out of our lives? No problem!
Yet still you pester,
Zealous for that final word you’ll never have.

Survivalist Shopping Spree, memoir
by Ilona Sovany

A bell jangled as I entered, warning the shopkeepers of an intruder. I pulled the huge wraparound shades off my thick glasses and dropped them into my tote bag, where they rattled down a sheaf of papers. The flash of August brightness revealed a clear path to the bookstand. Then the door swung shut, and the change from outdoor glare to indoor dimness turned me blind.

I took two quick strides and grabbed a wooden shelf for balance. Leaning on my white cane for support, I pretended to scan the shop’s depths. In the one glimpse I’d had, I’d caught an impression of bulky forms halting. I could feel the store’s guardians watching me, seeing a thin, middle-aged woman, a puzzle in the guise of wounded warrior.

Thirty seconds. Whirring fans stirred the scents of rubber, plastics, and old canvas. One minute. Shapes teased, took vague form. Remained gray.

I walked forward, tracing the straight line of a shelf, turned the corner, and touched myriad piles of folded objects. Tacky. Inflatable lifeboats? Slick. Raincoats? Groundsheets? Textured. Tents? Tarpaulins? Curiosity drew me to an overhead rack. Sleeves. The roughness of old army shirts.

Satisfied to have identified even one object, I returned to the bookrack. I took care to keep my face averted from the shop’s front. If the grillwork windows admitted shafts of sunlight, one glance would have me waiting through more moments of complete blindness.

I’d been here once before, months earlier. This time I’d shown up in my version of camouflage: Ancient hand-me-down boy scout shirt over khaki trousers, green fanny pack slung low on my hips, navy sneakers, and an impressive bandage sheathing my left forearm. I’d come from one of my better dialysis sessions, a bit wobbly, but strong enough for this excursion.

The rack consisted of rows of wooden cubbyholes. Since my cane would be one too many things to hold, plus it could trip passersby when I inspected the lower shelves, I folded it and slipped it in my tote. I started at the top left nook, pulling out the whole stack of publications. Two spotlights provided illumination, good enough that I could see the cover was pale blue — or green. Lifting the thick magnifying glass attached to a long cord around my neck, I hooked my eyeglasses to a precarious rest near the tip of my nose, held the slim paperback a few inches from my face, and brought the title into focus.

“Assuming a New Identity.” I frowned, considering. Slipping the book to the bottom of the pile, I focused on the next. Eight copies of the first book. Two brochures on the same topic by a different author. Three copies of “Better than Mattresses: Where to Hide Your Money.” I grinned. Tempting, but not what I’d come for. Good to know it was here in case I wanted it in the future.

I went down the left nooks, and up the next row. No keepers yet. Readjusting glasses, mag glass, and the next handful of brochures, I continued.

A soft step. “Can I help you?” The gruff voice had that suspicious tone as if warning off a potential shoplifter.

I wasn’t surprised. Despite my camouflage, I patently didn’t belong here. But I do. What I needed was here and nowhere else. Last time I’d made some purchases, but hadn’t had a chance to look through the entire rack. And when I’d shown off my purchases, the others had wanted what I’d found.

Glad I hadn’t had any merchandise in hand when I’d put away my cane, I said, “Not yet, but thanks.”

I hit gold in the next stack. “The Dirt from the Dirtiest Street Fighter.” I owned a copy from my last visit. Hearing two male clerks whispering together, I hoped I wouldn’t have to practice anything I’d learned. If my legal blindness was baffling them, they need only ask.

Trying to place where the voices came from, I scanned the store. Intriguing shapes surrounded me, none moving. I’d love a full inventory, to know what treasures this shop held. Sure, it was a fabulous shop for hikers, hunters, and campers. But, it was a vital resource for the lone recluse, the fugitive, or runaway; for paranoids, survivalist communities, and conspiracy theorists.

Ah, yes. We’re all paranoids. I could never be inconspicuous, and by necessity, any shopping I did was slow. Others could make furtive visits, a quick supply run, then vanish into the woodwork, or woods of the nearest wilderness.

With three stacks of niches left to search, exhaustion from dialysis and straining to read hit me. I gripped the wooden rack, eyes closed. Deep breath in, slow breath out. As group leader, I had undertaken this mission and would complete it.

I sat cross-legged on cracked linoleum and went through the three bottom nooks, the next level up, and the one above. That rest gave me sufficient energy to stand and go through the last cubbies.

I brought my finds to the counter, lowering an armload to its surface. Movement, and a blurred form stopped behind the register.

“Do you have more copies,” I asked, “or are they all on the rack?”

“Everything we have is there, but we can order more copies. No extra charge.” It was a woman’s voice, quiet and cordial.

“Great! I have enough copies of ‘Offensive Defense.’ And these. And these. But” — I fanned out the remaining publications — “I’ll need five more copies of ‘Knife-Fighting,’ three more of ‘Tracking Men and Other Animals,’ and six of ‘Evasion and Escape.'”

I paid cash for the publications I’d found, and the woman handed me the store’s card, telling me to phone in two weeks to see if the other copies had arrived.

She bent close enough that I could make out her wary, perplexed expression. “What group are you with?”

Wondering how many survivalist groups she knew by name, I leaned over to speak in her ear and said, “They’re for my writers’ group.”

Bio: Ilona Sovany grew up in Pennsylvania, reading, drawing, and writing. Her artwork, poetry, and fiction appeared in high school, college, and other literary magazines. One of her short stories won fourth place in a competition, leading to publication in several countries.

A Different Kind of Healing, memoir
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

I was the first born child of a nineteen year old Apache youth serving in the army and a seventeen year old Chippewa girl. Eventually, I was the big sister to three younger brothers and a little sister. I had been diagnosed as having Congenital Glaucoma at six months of age. The variety of glaucoma seen in children at birth, unlike the type experienced by middle aged adults, is extremely painful. I underwent two surgeries before my seventh birthday in attempts to stem the course of this insidious disorder. Each time the pressure inside my eyes surged upwards, more of the delicate rods and cones of my retinas necessary for vision were crushed. At three, my world was bright and full of color, and my doting great grandfather taught me the magic of the written word. As the years passed, colors dimmed and began to gray out. Print became too blurred to read and milky shadows hid my family’s faces making them harder to see.

My parents arranged for me to take my first communion the day before I was hospitalized to undergo a third operation aimed at saving my remaining vision. As I knelt beside my mother, wearing my new white dress, bright sunlight poured through the church windows causing my light-sensitive eyes to fill with tears. My mother had me move back a pew to my aunt. The sun followed me. As I took my place at the communion rail with the other little girls and boys, sunlight again shone brightly only on me. My young mother became very frightened. She feared that God was telling her that I was specially chosen and might not survive the surgery scheduled for the next day.

I did survive this third surgery, but awakened from the operation to find that all my remaining vision was gone. Like most people suffering from sudden vision loss, I was angry and spent my recovery time at home grieving. I railed at God and accused him of being uncaring and of depriving the world of a great ballerina or wonder-working veterinarian. As I sat alone on my bed, yelling at him in my mind, the room suddenly came into sharp focus. I could see the white curtains blowing in a gentle breeze and the large cabbage roses patterning the linoleum covered floor. Sunlight made golden pools without causing my eyes to squint and fill with tears. I jumped up and ran to find my mother. Crossing the adjoining room, I circled around a stool in the middle of the floor and entered the dining room where she sat at her sewing machine. Her long dark hair fell down her back. As she turned to me, the world again went black.

Doctors said that I must have hallucinated the experience, as there was no possibility that I could have seen anything. Of course, they couldn’t explain my avoiding the misplaced footstool in my mad dash to find my mother. I have always felt that God wanted me to know that he did care about the fear and pain I was suffering. He was telling me that yes, he could heal my blindness, but it wasn’t the road he wanted me to walk.

I have been totally blind since the age of eight. Occasionally, I have met sincere people who can’t understand why I seem content with my life and don’t seek for healing. When training with my sixth guide dog, I had an opportunity to talk with a former lobsterman from Maine, who was training with his first dog. He found it difficult to understand why his prayers for healing had not been answered. He had always been a man of deep religious faith. I suggested that perhaps his prayers had been answered, just not in the way he expected. After all, he was taking a step toward getting on with his life. He was in training with a guide dog even though he was in his sixties. Several years later, I read about Phillip, the former lobsterman, traveling around Maine as a public speaker raising money for eye research. True healing can come with acceptance of what life hands us, and doing the best we can with it.

Bio: DeAnna (Quietwater) Noriega is half Apache and a quarter Chippewa. She lost her vision at age eight. She has been a writer/poet, advocate on disability issues and story teller since childhood. She currently is teamed with her eighth guide dog, Reno, a chocolate Labrador retriever.

Her writing has appeared in magazines such as: “Dialogue,” “Angels on Earth,” “the Braille Forum,” “Generations–Native Literature,” and in the anthologies “Behind Our Eyes,” “2+4=1,” “My Blindness Isn’t Black,” and “Where We Read the Wind.”

She lives in mid-Missouri with her husband, youngest daughter, three grandchildren and a host of critters.

II. POETS’ FOOTPRINTS: WOMEN REACHING

Concerto’s Ghost
by Myrna Badgerow

She pushes open fear’s portal,
entering her mausoleum of silence;
stifling, stale air assails her senses,
almost choking her determination
to bury the memories that haunt.

A piano sits quietly in the company
of dust motes and a concerto’s ghost,
no longer mocking but clearly indifferent
days, weeks, months begin to slip away,
flinging her headlong into her nightmare
of grief, of transparent denial.

Of their own volition, slippered footsteps
carry her forward, demanding an intervention,
a cleansing, an acceptance of truth.
Sheets of yesterday’s joy still wait
as though she never left them, as though
the melodies had not been silenced. Icy fingers touch her heartbreak
and eyes, wide as an azure sky, close
quickly against such pain, such loss.

Just one key, she promises herself,
a quiver echoes within the depths of her soul
but hands, long denied their passion,
move with unerring certainty
upon ivory memories and ebony dreams.
She weeps into the silence
until but one tear is left to fall
and with her final chord, it too
falls into the depths of forever.

The dust motes dance away, while
the concerto’s ghost applauds
and she sits quietly, wondering
if it can ever be enough to simply
remember the music, to mourn its loss,
and to accept the silence.

She remembers the melodies
of yesterday, intimate chords clinging
to a distant dream, a forgotten song
she has never forgotten, for
even in the silence, the passion lingers.

She will play again
and her blue eyes will close.
It will be enough
it must be.

Bio: Myrna Badgerow, a graduate of the Louisiana School for the Blind, makes her home in the bayou country of southern Louisiana. She enjoys writing, reading, helping young writers, and spending time with family. She began writing seriously in 2000 and was nominated for the 2008 Pushcart Award by the editors of Mississippi Crow magazine, named 2004’s Poet of the Year at The Writing Forum, and also has a credit as lyricist on a CD released by the band Against the Wall. Myrna serves on the Board of Directors of the National Federation of the Blind’s Writers Division.

SHOWER SINGER
by Nancy Scott

In the shower, I sing well.
It’s all the water and tile
and sudsy promise
that puff up my voice–
my voice that wouldn’t really
be heard beyond the third row.
I sing past lavender passion
that keeps me from breathing too deeply,
saving me from holding
the long stylized phrase that,
in the shower,
would just make me sneeze.

In the shower, I have no doubt, no shame.
It must be the scrubbing
off of old skin
or old fear.
I try on Carmen;
“la-la-la” through most of it,
lathering up to the octave leap
of “l’amour”–
the only word I remember.

I splash-tap Spanish rhythms,
feel the first heart-heavy beat
of each measure.
I sing to the secret
dream of the duet,
no audience necessary,
with one great singer–
a bass who’d make the phone book sound good,
a baritone in the mysterious velvet middle,
or a tenor with whom I’d have to sing a love song.
The vibrato of this dream is operatic,
sung better for having dreamed.

But the hot water
and the scented suds are gone.
I’ve lost count of the
“l’amours”
and I missed
the octave leap last time.

Time to go out
to the world of brave singers
and silent wannabes
whose deep-breath-from-the-diaphragm
forces the brighter speaking voice
that’s as close as I get to courage
till tomorrow.

Bio: Nancy Scott, Easton PA, is an essayist and poet. Her over 550 bylines have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies and newspapers, and as audio commentaries. Recent work appears in Breath and Shadow, Contemporary Haibun Online, Thema, Whistling Fire, and Wordgathering. Her third chapbook, co-authored with artist Maryann Riker, is entitled “The Nature of Beyond.” Her essay “One Night at Godfrey’s” won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest.

Restlessness
by Laura J. Minning

I lie here in solitude,
clothed only by the restlessness
of my own burning fire.

The air around me
is scented with sweetness,
and my body is moist with desire,
as I await your presence
in silence.

I stare at the moon
in order to pass the time,
but I can’t get the thought
of your tender touch
out of my mind.

Where are you tonight?

You’re late,
and my patience is dying!

Bio: Laura Minning has traveled extensively throughout North America, Europe and Asia. She’s additionally had the opportunity to visit the Caribbean. Laura’s also a published poet and author. She’s had 102 individual poems, six articles, two books and one short one-act play published both in hardcopy and online. She strongly endorses the National Federation of the Blind. To learn more about Laura and her work, please feel free to log onto her web-site at www.warfieldweb.com/verbalcollage.

Stripped
by Laura J. Minning

I shed my clothing,
and bare my soul,
to the moon
in silence.

My flesh quivers
with the anticipation
of permanently leaving
my pain and sorrows far behind.

And as I continue
to pace myself,
along a new and deserted path,
I find strength in weakness.

I find strength
in me.

Persephone’s Temptation
by Cala Estes

The goddess within me sings.
My dark Persephone,
the sunlight in your hair flames gold.
The bare-legged leap of spring– the taste
of apple blossom in the air
is dancing all around you.

The fleeting kiss of the butterfly
on your pale cheek,
the tendrils of wind curling around your ankles whisper of
secrets in the distance.
The chorus of the hummingbirds layers beneath
the melody in your smile.

and the blissful ballet,
the sheer abandon of the wildflowers
twined around your neck and wrists
and trailing as you kneel to touch
the clovers in the field–
they are captivating in their innocence.

A pomegranate seed
in the shade of a far-off willow tree
waits with patience for your tongue to taste
of temptation’s purest ecstasy.

Bio: Cala Estes is a twenty-one-year-old English major in her senior year of university. After losing what partial sight she had at age 11, she soon discovered, through a 7th grade English class, her love for poetry. Cala plans to continue her education to a Master of Fine Arts program in order to teach English at the college level.

Reta’s Song
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

She sits in her wheelchair, day in and day out,
singing the same song over and over and over again.
The tune is the same.
She makes up different words.
Sometimes, her words make sense;
Often, they have no meaning.
Unaware of what goes on around her,
she just keeps singing that same song
over and over and over again.

There was a time when she didn’t sing,
not even when someone else was singing.
She’d talk your head off for hours.
She didn’t keep singing that same song
over and over and over again.

She has changed.
She no longer talks your head off.
She sings it off.
When spoken to, she responds mostly In song–
The words are different,
The tune is the same.
She just keeps singing that same song
over and over and over again.

III. THE WRITERS’ CLIMB

Electronic Publishing, The New World, nonfiction
by Phyllis Campbell

That magical thing called “books” has always been a part of my world. I can’t remember when someone wasn’t reading to me, and one of the happiest days of my life was when I discovered I could read for myself. Then one day I made another wonderful discovery. I could create things of my very own! Not only could I enjoy that world, I could be a part of it! I could write!

Thank the powers that be, none of those childish efforts have been saved for posterity, but I was on my way along a road that has been filled with bumps, ruts, and many detours. It has always beckoned me forward.

My first efforts, even the first I sold, were created using a slate and stylus, a Perkins Brailler not being a part of my budget. I submitted my material done on a huge old Royal typewriter without the benefit of a proofreader. Would I go back to those dear old days? No way!

By the 70’s I had graduated to a Perkins and an electric portable, and I shiver to think of how tolerant editors who bought my work must have been putting up with all of my technical errors. Then, the miracle, in the form of an Apple IIe with speech, an Echo that resembled Donald Duck. Well, okay, I wouldn’t go back there either, but for the first time I could come close to finding and correcting my errors. With this came the sale of my first book to Avalon Books in hard cover. By 1996 when I sold “Friendships In The Dark” which was published in hard cover, soft cover, large-print, and was published in China and The United Kingdom, I was sailing along with my PC.

When I started selling in the 60’s almost nobody self-published except those doing special interest and scholarly material, the kind of thing that wouldn’t make publication worthwhile for the commercial publishers. With the coming of E-books and such publishers as Amazon, Lulu, Smashwords, and Book Baby, things began to change.

E-books are in a number of formats, some being specific to a particular family of electronic readers. Until the coming of the Apple family of devices, many of those formats weren’t accessible to the blind, but this is changing. This question of accessibility is one of the reasons I decided to try E-books for my last two titles.

I admit that the decision took several months, a lot of research, and yes, more than a few prayers. I asked questions; I looked up E-publishers; and I studied their sites. In the end, however, your choice is a personal thing.

If you are able to do your cover and formatting independently your choice might be different from mine. Most publishers offer tools for doing these things, but since I don’t have sighted assistance due to my husband’s illness, I had to consider other options. Some publishers offer formatting, cover design, and the like for a fee, and still others like Smashwords provide a list of competent designers and formatters who charge a relatively modest fee. In choosing, consider not only the fee, but what you can realistically expect to make in royalties. Weigh the royalty percent against the cost of getting your book out there.

I chose Smashwords, which pays a royalty of something like 80-85 per cent on each title. They do not offer services, but on request will send you a list of those who format and do cover design. You pick the person(s) who you feel best suits your needs, and yes, your budget. They also have a guide to electronic publishing that can be downloaded free of charge from smashwords.com.

I liked the package that Book Baby offers, but I felt that the small amount which I paid for cover design and formatting would pay off in dollars and cents. You might prefer to turn the whole thing over to a publisher such as Book Baby, pay something like $219.00 and let them have the hassle.

At this point you may be saying, “But I know how to format!” Remember, though, that E-books are produced from an entirely different process than regular print books. For Smashwords at least, all symbols that normally give the printer instructions and aren’t visible normally must be stripped from the manuscript. This can be done with speech, but is long and tedious to put it mildly. Again it’s your choice.

Both Smashwords and Book Baby offer your book to the major E-publishers such as Sony, Apple, Kindle, Barnes &Noble, and many others. Your work is also available internationally, giving you a lot of exposure.

You maintain all rights, and you set your price. Be realistic in doing this. Don’t shoot for the moon, but don’t sell yourself and your work short. Check similar books in your genre that are on the publisher’s site. There are almost always samples available for free. This will give you an idea what others are doing. Be realistic, too, in your sales expectations. You probably aren’t going to become a bestselling author immediately in the electronic publishing world any more than in the world of conventional publishing. Well okay, that said, maybe if you’re a J. K. Rowling…but I suspect she didn’t expect it either. My two E-books, “Who Will Hear them Cry”, and “A Place to Belong” have done rather well, but they won’t set the publishing world on fire.

In closing, let’s take a look at some of the advantages and disadvantages of going electronic. Let’s look at the bad news first. Conventional publishers offer publicity, although more and more are offering less than they once did. Still, being completely responsible for all of the publicity can be a chore, although social networking sites such as Facebook have made it easier. Also, there are a lot of articles offering suggestions on most sites. Get to know your publisher’s site.

Another problem I have encountered is that often E-books aren’t shown the same consideration as that offered to print books. I prepared a press release and sent it to all the newspapers that had given me publicity when I sold “Friendships in the Dark.” Not a one responded. Hopefully this will change in the future, but for now, it may be a fact of life.

Book signings generated a lot of sales for me with my first two books, but so far I haven’t come up with a way to accomplish this with an E-book. For those who may enjoy showing their nicely illustrated print book, an E-book may seem like something of a let down. Here again, each individual must decide what works better.

Balanced against these things is the fact that an E-book is almost instant gratification. Once it is prepared and uploaded to your chosen publisher, it is up for sale, although there may be a waiting period while your title is accepted and placed in the catalog for other publishers. It is, however, almost instantly available on the site you have chosen. This delay and acceptance has nothing to do with the quality of your writing, but how well your book is formatted. There is not a long period of months while you wait and wonder about the fate of your masterpiece. The reader is the judge–not some editor who may hate cats, and therefore hate your book about that fearless cat who saves the country. Okay, so I probably wouldn’t buy that either, but you get the idea.

I’ve already mentioned the fact that royalties are higher, so you make more with fewer sales than with conventional publishers. Also it’s nice to track your sales each day rather than wait until the end of the quarter. Smashwords sends an email each time I make a sale, and your sales appear on your page each day at Amazon. Other publishers have similar policies.

So there it is, a quick look at the world of electronic publishing. Obviously, there’s a lot more to it, but hopefully this is enough to get you started.

Bio: Phyllis Campbell has been writing professionally since the 60’s. Her work has appeared in “The Christian Herald,” “The Lutheran Woman,” the publications of the McFadden Woman’s Group, and in “Dialogue.” She has written two books “Come Home My Heart” and “Friendships in the Dark.” She is the editor for the crafts and hobbies columns for “Our Special.” “Who will Hear Them Cry” and “A Place to Belong” are her first digital titles–they won’t be the last.

Mrs. Campbell lives in Staunton, Virginia with her husband Chuck. She teaches piano and voice with an emphasis on Braille music, and serves as organist at Faith Lutheran Church.

What is a pantoum? nonfiction
by Mary-Jo Lord

It’s not a savory dessert, a stylish skirt, or an exotic vacation spot. The Pantoum is a poetic form using repeated lines that originated in Malaysia during the fifteenth century. It consists of four stanzas, each containing four lines in a proscribed pattern. Although older pantoums rhymed, modern ones typically do not.

The line pattern for the first three stanzas is always the same. You begin the first stanza with four lines. The second stanza begins with the second line from the first stanza, followed by a new line, followed by the fourth line from the first stanza, and ending with a new line. The third stanza follows this pattern of taking the second line from the stanza above, followed by a new line, and so on. Lines can vary slightly in wording and punctuation, to avoid monotony and to fit the context of the poem. You can extend the poem for as many stanzas as you choose following the same pattern as the first three stanzas. Here is the way the poem is laid out.

  • Stanza 1: Lines 1, 2, 3, 4.
  • Stanza two: Lines 2, 5, 4, 6.
  • Stanza three: Lines 5, 7, 6, 8.

The fourth or last stanza are all repeated lines and you have the choice of two line patterns. The most popular pattern is: Lines 7, 3, 8, 1. You can also choose to end with lines 7, 1, 8, 3 if you want your pantoum to be symmetrical.

Here is a pantoum using the 7, 3, 8, 1 last stanza pattern.

Bondage

I hate pantyhose.
They cling in the summer, provide no warmth in the winter.
Emphasize every imperfection.
When I’m in a rush, they run.

They cling in the summer, provide no warmth in the winter.
Control top, leg shaping.
When I’m in a rush, they run.
Men think they are sexy.

Control top, leg shaping.
I long to be free of their bondage.
Men think they are sexy.
You know they do.

I long to be free of their bondage.
They emphasize every imperfection.
You know they do.
I hate pantyhose.

Here is one using the 7, 1, 8, 3 ending pattern.

Phone Solicited

“Would you like to buy a subscription to our newspaper?”
“no thank you. We’re blind and cannot read it.”
“But if you subscribe now you will get the first six weeks for free.
You are really missing out.”

“No thank you. We’re blind and cannot read it.”
“Do you run into each other and bump into things?
You are really missing out.”
“I beg your pardon! What did you just say?”

“Do you run into each other and bump into things?”
“No. Do you?”
“I beg your pardon! What did you just say?”
“Do you have a supervisor?”

“No, do you?
Would you like to buy a subscription to our newspaper?”
“I want to talk to your supervisor.”
“If you subscribe now you will get the first six weeks for free.”

Here are some websites where you can read more about the pantoum along with many examples.

Bio: Mary-Jo Lord has a masters’ degree in counseling from Oakland University, and has worked at Oakland Community College for twenty-one years. She writes poetry, fiction, and memoirs. A section of her work is published in a Plain View Press anthology called “Almost Touching.” Her work can also be found in “Behind Our Eyes” and in past issues of “Magnets and Ladders.” She lives with her husband and son in Rochester, Michigan. She has been blind since birth. You can reach her at mjfingerprints@comcast.net.

A Journey to Endless Skies

It was mid December when two of our group members learned that the Heart and Soul awards program sponsored by the CTK Foundation was hosting a poetry contest worth thousands of dollars in grant money to a qualifying nonprofit organization. We were eligible, but it was holiday time, and the deadline was January 7. Could we do it?

For several Sundays eight of us met in a telephone conference to try. We checked our egos at the entry chime and got cracking. What did the poem need to include? How could we show our mission in just a few lines? We brought differing poetic styles to the table. We weren’t allowed to send material about our projects and accomplishments–just the application and our poem.

With eight possible contenders, we asked the others on our discussion list to help us choose. Donna Grahmann’s poem easily won our favor.

We don’t have funds to pay regular contributors to our magazine, officers, and/or editors. Workshop providers must be paid, and we have to maintain our nonprofit status federally and locally with fees. We need to reach service providers for the disabled and university programs with our anthologies. Grant seeking has to be an important part of our organization’s work.

It was February 8 when we learned that we didn’t win “the big one.” We’re still on their notification list for the future. What we gained for our hard work was a bonding and a sense of commitment that can’t be defined by dollars. We’ll find ways to keep doing what we’re doing.

If you know of a funding source, a grant opportunity for nonprofits, or if you’d like to encourage an organization or an individual to help sponsor one of our projects, please contact us at our website BehindOurEyes.org. We are forever grateful to our volunteers and our financial supporters.

Who took home the gold? There is an organization in New York which provides new furniture for needy families moving into low-income housing. We know about hard choices because we have to make them each time we receive submissions we can’t fit into an issue of our magazine. Maybe next time?

Donna’s poem captures the heart of our work and the determination of our commitment as writers.

Endless Skies
by Donna Grahmann

The pages we create, inspire us one and all.
Behind our eyes, endless skies lead us to the call.
Keyboards, Braille, spoken words, critiques from near and far,
Sparks unite, shining bright, revealing who we are.
Conquering, challenging, and writing as a team,
The power in our words enables us to dream.

Bio: Donna Grahmann lives in Magnolia, Texas with her husband, David, and her guide dog, Huey. Her vision loss is due to diabetic retinopathy. She organized and continues to maintain her neighborhood’s Crime Watch program. She is an accomplished equestrian and dog handler. Donna and her horse, Rebel, won the 1978 Texas State Pole bending Championship. She and her Border Collies, Scotti and Clyde, placed second at the Texas Sheepdog Finals in separate years. Writing children’s books drawn from her experiences with her animals gives her endless enjoyment. Her current working titles include ALONGSIDE HUEY, BORDER PATROL, and EYE ON EWE.

Always A Believer: Writing with Melody, memoir
by Valerie Moreno

Many times I am asked why I started writing, and my answer is immediate–because of music. Not just any music, even though I’d been listening to the radio since age four. My special muse came when I was about to turn twelve in 1966, in the guise of a new, innovative television sitcom that combined music and comedy in a zany thirty-minute plot. It was The Monkees.

At the time, I was struggling with pressure and frustration as the only blind student in my local Catholic school, problems fitting in with the kids in my seventh grade class, and chaos at home due to my dad’s alcoholism. Though music had been a comfort and relief, I’d never had an inclination to creatively express myself until those four mop-topped, smiling boys flashed across my television screen. I had enough usable vision then, which allowed me to sit on the rug with my nose nearly touching the TV and, because company always arrived on Monday night, I had the TV to myself.

Something unlocked in my soul and mind watching Micky, Davy, Mike and Peter week after week playing the parts of a musical group trying to hit stardom. I fell in love with the show and the music it generated, but it was the boys themselves I found incredible. Their voices and personalities were genuine, charming, and distinct from one another.

I became a “fan” beyond the usual expressions of buying every record and teen magazine and turning my room in to a wonderland of Monkee pictures and posters. I decided to try writing about them after my parents ordered me to stop talking, talking, talking about them.

My first story turned in to a 200-page novel that seemed to flow from my imagination and heart like an untamed river. A light had gone on in my spirit, and it flooded my life with release.

I remained a fan for years after the boys went their separate ways. By this time, I’d learned all I could about them, and never lost the connection between what they gave me and my writing, though it had grown from light fiction to introspective poetry and short stories inspired by Cat Stevens, John Denver, and others.

In my teens, I started corresponding with Monkee pen pals listed in “Monkee Spectacular.” One girl, Francie, was a close friend until her death in 1986. As I grew older, my desire to write in order to help others became the energy of my life. I wanted to make a difference and bring people joy the way The Monkees did for me.

During the 1980s, The Monkees (minus Mike) reunited for a 20th anniversary tour, and were suddenly popular again–only now they were on MTV and their TV show was airing again on stations all over the country. My first paid publication, a review of a new single they’d released , appeared in “Dialogue Magazine” that year. They paid me $10 that felt like a million!

In 1987 The Monkees (again minus Mike) opened their tour in our town, and my six-year-old daughter and I went to see them. Thanks to the president of a local fan club, we were able to meet Micky and Peter. They were like old friends, just as I’d dreamed they would be all those years ago.

I wrote several articles and poems for fan clubs as well as other pieces in “Dialogue” and disability newsletters. In 1989, after another Monkee concert, I was thrilled to meet Davy, his sister Hazel, and brother-in-law Ken. Again, I was not disappointed. Hazel and Ken tracked me down through Davy’s fan club network and we began exchanging letters and tapes. I’d also begun a fan club on tape for blind fans and got a taste of editing four 90-minute issues a year.

I promised Hazel that our club would never invade Davy’s privacy like some fan groups do. However, once, when he was visiting her, she told him about our club, and he recorded a song in her living room just for us. I couldn’t wait to send every member a priority mail copy of the next taped edition.

Hazel gave me information about Christmas traditions in their part of England, Manchester, and about Davy’s visits home. I was able to write stories with new cultural flair and with the heartwarming family feel that only personal insight can offer.

I’ve learned a lot about writing and have branched out in other areas, but music remains the essence of my writing. After the death of Michael Jackson, I felt moved to research his life, and have been deeply impressed to write about the true man he was. A poem of mine appeared in “Fans in the Mirror,” an e-book of the Michael Jackson Tribute Portrait designed by L.A. artist, David Ilan. Several poems have appeared in the Tribute Portrait magazine, “The Jam Cafe.”

My love of writing, and wish to make a difference, remain strong. My experience with music has brought me many answered dreams.

As for The Monkees, sadly, Davy passed away in 2012, and there’s a big empty space because of his absence. But after seeing Micky, Peter, and Mike this past November, I am still writing about them.

The six-year-old daughter who met them with me decades before is now a grown woman and mother. She and I shed tears for nostalgia, screamed like the faithful followers we’d always been, and were left completely speechless when the concert combined the “here and now” people and music with a video from the TV show picturing Davy on a deserted beach, contemplating his return to England.

I am a believer in the power of creativity, how someone can touch your life in the deepest way without even knowing. What I receive is what I want to give–consolation, release, a spiritual nudge to keep on dreaming. To me, touching a person’s soul is the ultimate success. Writing and music can both do that. It’s almost magic when they work together for the listener and the reader.

Bio: Valerie Moreno, age 56, has been writing since she was twelve years old. Always inspired by music and fascinated by people around her, she’s written fiction, memoir, poetry and articles.

Publishing credits include many articles, stories and poems in “The Troubadour,” newsletter/magazine of the Secular Franciscan Order, “The Answer,” newsletter of DIAL, “Dialogue,” “Matilda Ziegler,” and the “Dot-to-Dot” Magazine of The Michael Jackson Tribute Portrait. Several stories and poems appeared in “Behind Our Eyes,” an Anthology of twenty-seven writers with Disabilities, and a poem appeared in the e-book “Fans in the Mirror,” published by the Michael Jackson Tribute Portrait.

Coming Soon?

Contest alert! We need more fiction, and we’re offering $30, $20, and $10 (US funds only) to the top three submissions. All genre are fair game.

You’ve seen some, and will see more abecedarian poetry as explained in the last issue. Mary-Jo Lord wrote two clever pantoums, and showed how the rhyme scheme works. Try one. Repeating those lines several times can be tricky, but it’s a challenge worth taking.

We can never work all the good material we receive into one issue. What do we do? We save it in one of those cyberspace clouds hoping it will soon rain down more pieces of a similar nature. Had you guessed that? That’s where our themes originate. Here are some of the potential section themes/prompts which are hiding up there in waiting.

  1. Transportation: The cruise where boy meets girl but something goes wrong; the burned-out vehicle at the side of the road; the bike that got you lost.

  2. Kids: Growing up is tough, wondrous, scary, fun… Depends on which side of the timeline, paddle, or cell phone you’re on, right?

  3. Food and beverage: How many did you drink? How often can you eat that stuff? They sustain us, tempt us, bring us together, hail from a region, create new trends.

  4. Communication: Body language sometimes says what we didn’t mean to tell. Equipment can be the beauty or the beast. We reach miles for friends we will never meet.

A poem; a tall tale; a flashback; a flash forward–we’re ready.

Why I Want to Write: From the Philippines to Behind Our Eyes, memoir
by Ma. Eleonor Valbuena

Editor’s Note:

Learning to communicate in a second language may be a dream for many of us. Conversation and body language skills offer an interactive connection with immediate feedback. Writing is different.

Our writer is a young woman studying to teach and write and hoping to travel. Her perspective takes us to the time, if not the place, where we once launched our careers and dreams. She reminds us that there are writers everywhere who could use our encouragement and guidance.

We have published writers with disabilities from Europe and Africa. Do you know a writer with a disability who has a language challenge? Connect them with us, and we’ll do our part.

Let’s go to the Pacific and hear from our new contributor.

There are many reasons why we do things in our lives. The reasons in the backs of our minds push us toward what we are trying to accomplish. They serve as our inspiration, and after we have accomplished them, we may find that we feel emotions we didn’t expect–sadness, happiness, surprise, and many other sentiments. I’m glad I can share with you the reasons I want to write.

The first reason is that I want to share with people the knowledge, experiences, and opinions that I have. I know I’ll be a teacher in the future. If there comes a time when I can write my own book, I’ll share it with my students and make sure they can learn and be inspired from the stories I’ve written. I’ll make sure the characters I use are people the students can relate to, and that they will be remembered by my students. Famous educators and authors have written amazing articles that inspired me. I want to be like them.

When it comes to sharing my feelings, I want to express my opinions about the world, the government, and other people. I believe that there are things we cannot just simply speak out. I can write more freely and avoid getting in trouble or hurting someone’s feelings in a direct way. If I speak my feelings and they are not carefully worded, my reputation as a writer could be ruined. Therefore, I’d rather write them down. I’ll choose carefully what I speak of in public. Writing our opinions can help us lessen the burdens we carry in life, reduce emotional stress, and help us find ways to resolve our problems.

The writings that we offer about the experiences in our lives can also be a tool to help others. They will remember the writer, and what has been written, and the writer may become their example. Changing lives is an important task if a writer chooses to share experiences. He could change someone’s life in a positive or negative way. I hope to write in an optimistic way which will encourage readers to make good changes in their lives.

I want to write because I want people to know that life is thrilling. It is full of adventure and magic. I want to explore the world. If I can travel around the world, go to different places, I’ll appreciate the beauty of Germany, England, France. Through writing I can present an article about the beautiful places and share the beauty of the world with my readers.

I want to have a career other than teaching, and writing is my choice. Helping other people is very important to me. If I can contribute to society through writing, my confidence will build through recognition of my work, and I will reach many people. Perhaps I can be an icon for other individuals who want to write. Maybe my ideas and words will carry on to the next generation. All these opportunities and possibilities have convinced me that writing is a good activity to pursue.

Bio: Ma. Eleonor B. Valbuena is a totally blind person who lives in the Philippines. She’s also called Mariel by many friends who know her. She was born on July 27, 1991. She studies at Trinity University of Asia, and is working toward a Bachelor of Secondary Education majoring in English. She wants to share knowledge with people. She believes that in order to achieve success, we should give our best in all the things we do.

A Review of “Beauty is a Verb”
by Nancy Scott

How does the lens of disability shape up? What can and can’t we say, and to whom? How do we juggle voice and silence? Where do we fit in this time and culture, and how has that fit been shaped?

“Beauty is a Verb” (DB 74050) explores such questions through essays and poems that feature disability. The book is written by people with visible disabilities, many of whom have been published by independent presses. It examines artistic, philosophical, and historic frameworks of disability poetics. It also contains some very good poetry by some well-known and not-so-well-known authors.

Much early disability poetry was limitedly available to blind people (mostly through Womyn’s Braille Press). Michael Northen’s preliminary essay traces the movement’s beginnings and early writers. The book fills in a lot of knowledge, from the middle twentieth century to current authorship. It’s a continuous invitation, not just for blind people, to research further.

After a section dedicated to early voices, there is a lush portion of essays and poems by more current writers. There is also a contributors’ section listing biographical information for each author. You might recognize people such as Stephen Kuusisto, Dan Simpson, and Kathi Wolfe.

This book is a language romp. It is filled with questions about identity and artistic paths. When we don’t declare our disabilities, do they still inform our writing? “If I touch [the scars] long enough, will I find those who never touched me, or those who did?” Could you be a “crip” poet?

In recent years, several national writing conferences have offered panels on disability poetry. More magazines now feature poets with disabilities, and there are also disability anthologies such as “Staring Back” (also available from NLS, db 46555). But there are still medical and charity models that capture mainstream attention.

“Beauty is a Verb” wants, and needs, to be both intellectual and human. It both analyzes and experiences. I think this balance mostly works, for both academics and readers seeking personal motivation. For this review I read the book from beginning to end, but you could dive in anywhere.

There are fewer poems in the book than I expected. Some of the essays are scholarly, but within them there are moments worth finding. I hesitate to choose favorites, because finding your own moments in the book is a journey you should take.

Motorcycles, medicines, mantras. Gender, class, sexuality. The drama that non-disabled people seem to like about going from non-disabled to disabled. Or the drama of over-achievement. These are not the only dramas of a disabled person’s life.

All those permanent words of determination. All those hundreds of suggestions for further reading and thought. You don’t have to be an artist with a disability to need this book, but if you are, it is a validation worth savoring. It is luck redefined. It is purpose immortalized. It is future conversations to change the world. And if all these poets can do it…

How could you not like quotes such as the following:

“Hearing more than Beethoven did, and infinitely less.”

“A fall is a ‘pause’ and you will never be the same after you get up.”

“The invention of stairs was a mistake.”

“I too was part of all creation, and I had the language to prove it.”

“Not everyone with a mask is bad.”

How could you not like questions such as the following:

How do you as a blind person handle poetic line-breaks?

What happens when you lose your sense of touch?

Why would saying goodbye with lights be comforting if you were deaf?

Could you write a first-person poem in which you are able-bodied? What is control?

When do we want to be someone else?

What would it be like to “hear a pear?”

Why do I detest the word “normal?”

Lose yourself here. Find yourself here. Beauty is a language. “Beauty is a two-faced god.” “Beauty is a Verb” is a many-mountained map worth reading and, once you get comfortable or uncomfortable, re-reading.

IV. MUSIC

A Noteworthy Friendship, memoir
by Rhonda T. Spear

I’d just finished my usual fifteen minute walk during my morning break at work when the faint sound of music drifted toward me from a distance. It was so soft at first, I thought it must be a record playing. Not in a hurry to return to work, I followed the sound and discovered what I heard was not a record after all. Two women sat in the lobby and sang. By the time I made my way over to them, the song was over, and they were finished. Disappointed not to have heard more, I went back to the office.

Several days later, while on another walk through the halls, once more the musical sound of harmonious voices floated to me. The acoustics of the building allowed their voices to resonate, so they were clearly heard anywhere on the lobby level. All thought of exercise was abandoned as I quickly found the place where they sat singing. The songs they performed were classic church hymns. I stood against the wall and lost myself in familiar tunes until the short break time passed, and they stopped. My morning exercise routine was forgotten as each day found me down in the lobby, stationed across from them. While I listened, I silently moved my lips and hummed a higher third harmony part. The enjoyment their music gave me always brought a sense of renewed energy. After they finished, I went back to work with a lighter heart, still humming the songs they’d sung.

One day one of the singers approached me and introduced herself. Phyllis explained why they sang in the lobby and said she’d observed me as I listened to their songs. When I asked what times during the day they sang there, she told me during the morning and afternoon breaks. Armed with the knowledge of when they would sing, and drawn to my favorite spot by their music, I became their groupie. Faithfully each day, I listened to them sweetly harmonize.

They soon invited me to sing with them, but I declined. I didn’t know all the words to the verses, and I worried I would spoil their melodic sound.

Several weeks went by and the other singer came over and introduced herself. Carol Sue played the guitar and accompanied the two of them as they sang. We sat in their lobby spot and chatted for a few minutes. She asked if I knew “Amazing Grace.” When I said I knew the first verse, she began to play, and I sang the higher part. When Phyllis joined us, Carol Sue told her to listen to my voice. Carol Sue sang the melody while Phyllis and I provided the harmony parts. Our voices blended beautifully together.

Carol Sue insisted I join them each day because she liked the higher harmony part I added to the group. My blindness wasn’t an issue for them, and I was given a complete set of the songs they practiced so I could Braille them. I love to sing. My free time at work became filled with music, and our friendship deepened. Other workers in the building stopped to listen, and we were known as the Lobby Singing Ladies. People would say how nice it sounded or wave and smile as they passed.

Soon, guitar lessons from Carol Sue followed because I mentioned I’d always wanted to learn to play. She loaned me one of her guitars, and patiently worked with me and taught me each chord until I slowly learned. I bought my own guitar when I knew I’d continue singing with them.

Months after we met, we were in the lobby singing when Phyllis told me our Virginia Governor, Tim Kaine, was in the building and coming toward us. Not able to see him, I didn’t believe her, and brushed that off as nonsense. However, as soon as he spoke, I recognized his voice. He shook our hands and asked what we were doing, and why. His whole party was forced to stop as he chatted with us. I was nervous, and still not very good at the guitar, so Carol Sue took it from me, and we sang a song for him. After we finished, he inquired if anyone ever dropped money in Carol Sue’s guitar case. We laughed and said no. Governor Kaine took out his wallet and casually dropped a ten dollar bill in her case and left. We were so shocked and excited. We couldn’t believe we’d just sung for the governor of Virginia, and he’d paid us for our tune.

Many years have passed, and our friendship remains strong. Our shared love of music keeps our connection close. We occasionally perform at churches and nursing homes, and the joy and fellowship we share with others reminds us of why we love singing.

Bio: Rhonda Turner Spear is a native of Richmond, Virginia, where she currently resides with her cat, Downey. She was educated in both public and small Catholic schools. She works as a receptionist, and in her free time she enjoys listening to country music, singing, playing guitar, watching sports on TV, and collecting trivia.

Rhonda has been completely blind her entire life, but that has not stopped her from living independently and pursuing her true passion, writing. She writes with hopes of sharing her work with a broader audience.

The Music Room, poetry
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

After one crew removed the old room, another poured cement, created a floor, walls, windows, roof.
Carpeting was laid.
The piano, drum set, and stereo were installed.
A love seat and Franklin stove were purchased.
For years, we played together in that room,
me on piano, my brother on drums.
We eventually went our separate ways–
the house was sold–
we still remember.

When I Was a Star, poetry
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

I stood on the front porch,
a piece of wood to my lips, sang
while my brother went rat-a-tat tat
on an empty paint can.

I was Olivia Newton-John,
begging some drunk in a bar
not to play that painful song on the jukebox.
The air rang with applause.

As Debbie Boone, I told the love of my life
how he lit up my life.
There was more applause.

I stepped into Paul Simon’s shoes,
longing to be a sparrow, not a snail.
The crowd was on its feet.
I bowed, took my leave.

Banana Milkshakes and Three Words for Jennifer, memoir
by John Wesley Smith

On a Tuesday in March of 1979, I had my wisdom teeth extracted. I was 19 and home on spring break from college. That evening, as I lay on the couch, half stoned on pain medication, my mother asked if I wanted anything to eat.

I didn’t. Would I like a milkshake? What flavor? How about banana?

Banana it was. And I had several more throughout the week. I loved the creamy, sweet, soothing coolness.

But another thing made that week memorable. I composed a song for the girl on whom I had a crush then. I had unusual confidence that Jenny wouldn’t break my heart. The song’s refrain started with the words, “I trust you.”

When it came to playing the guitar or writing songs, I wasn’t that good. Previous submissions to song writing contests had bombed. But that didn’t stop me that week. Using a cheap cassette recorder, I crudely dubbed myself singing to the accompaniment of two guitars. Later I would make several copies. And, throwing caution to the wind, one copy went to another song writing contest sponsored that summer by an Omaha country station.

To my surprise, one day in August, I got a call from the station’s program director informing me my song had won one of the runner-up prizes. It was a Panasonic stereo system with AM/FM tuner, a turntable, and two speakers. A cabbie had to help me carry it into the apartment I lived in at the time. I wish I could remember whether I gave him the tip he surely deserved.

I’d been deprived of a stereo system through my teen years because my dad said I didn’t need one. I was thrilled to get one for a song.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get the girl. Jenny was flattered, but already taken. I had the stereo for about ten years before I stupidly sold it to a neighbor at a yard sale.

I don’t know if banana milkshakes helped write the song that won the stereo. Maybe the creative juices that week in March were enhanced by the pain pills. After all, lots of artistic creations have been birthed under the influence of one sort of drug or another. But I’ll always remember that spring break week in 1979 for banana milkshakes and my award-winning song, “Three Words for Jennifer.”

Bio: John Wesley Smith is a blind writer from central Missouri. Most of his creative endeavors go into his blog site at DestinySurvival.com.

PIANO JAZZ FOR THE UNINITIATED, poetry
For Dave Leonhardt, Jazz Pianist
by Nancy Scott

Left hand measures beat,
keeps right hand from getting lost
or spilling too much scat and glissando.
Left hand rules,
right hand ignores.
Bass plays by the numbers.
Grace trills and arpeggios.
Need left, want right.

Too much is diminished and augmented
in your audience geometry
of Mozart and Manilow.
You can’t find a melody tonight,
but you know the pianist has a score.
In this moonlit summer park,
in your maze of math and music,
count and pray
your ear will adjust.

Maddie’s Love of Music, memoir
by Judith E. Vido

Maddie led me casually down the hallway to the activity room to get my dinner. I overheard the musician who had performed for us numerous times chatting with the building manager. He was talking about his new job as the director of the Senior Connections Choral Group. In moments they would be performing for us at our monthly birthday dinner. I decided to wait and listen. My dinner was wrapped up, ready to go, and I stood just outside the activity room where I could make a quick and quiet getaway if necessary.

To my surprise, they were wonderful. Song after song made me smile as I sang along, thoroughly enjoying myself. I beamed with pleasure as one of my favorites came last, the lovely and haunting “Shenandoah.”

When the last harmonized chord faded, Tony Williams introduced each member and offered an invitation to anyone who would like to join the group. Time and place were announced, and within moments the group of twelve people dispersed. They would meet again in one week, on Thursday afternoon. It was perfect, and I decided to take the bus and see if, by chance, a blind lady with a dog guide could find a place within their group.

Four months later, I was shown to the side of the grand piano within the Jefferson Hotel’s rotunda. One of my fellow choral group members placed my hand on the top lid of the piano, and I stood just at the side and back of the keyboard, where Tony could cue me without difficulty. Over four months with the group took me to nursing homes, assisted living facilities, hospitals, and to my own housing community to entertain and do what I loved more than anything, sing. My beautiful black lab Seeing Eye dog was at my side at every performance, and today we were both filled with the excitement of singing for Christmas at the five star Jefferson Hotel.

Maddie, for the most part, just lay at my feet and looked around at the people before her. She seemed to know it was her job to be still and quiet while I performed. The audiences always loved her, and she got to relax afterwards by meeting and greeting folks and receiving a few pats along the way. Today she was adorned with her silver jingle bells upon a white fur collar. She looked adorable.

Tony began the introduction to our first number; the Charley Brown Christmas favorite, “Christmas Time Is Here.” Provided with the lyrics beforehand, I had memorized every song. The rest of the group held black binders with all the songs we would need to sing for the allotted time of one hour. We moved to “Jingle Bell Rock,” and beamed through old favorites such as “White Christmas” and “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.” The dastardly hit of our program was always “The Grinch.”

The hour flew by. It seemed we had just begun when Tony played our final number, “Silent Night.” We harmonized with such familiar ease. As Tony struck the ending chord, I felt Maddie get to her feet. I knew in an instant what she intended. It was her habit to place her head upon one’s knee for attention. Afterward, I discovered her picture perfect movements. She rose, went to the keyboard, and as Tony’s hands came down on the last chord, she placed her chin down upon the fingers of his right hand, resting it there as the notes’ tones lingered.

When he explained what she had done, with tears in his eyes, I felt she was just letting him know how well we had done–in her own special way.

Bio: Judith E. Vido lives in Richmond, Virginia. She joined the Senior Connections Choral group five and a half years ago and sings all over the city, promoting seniors aging well and persons with disabilities. Ms. Vido has also written five novels independently published on lulu.com.

Ivory Brushes, poetry
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

The painter is at the piano,
and the canvas is grand.
Strokes of sound flow easily from his easel,
as we watch his gifted hands.
With only two hues and 88 shades, his palette
coats the air with colors of a minuet,
made by his brush of ivory keys.
His ivory brushes beckon the gallery to say,
“Once more, if you please.”

V. LOOKING BOTH DIRECTIONS

Older than Who? memoir
by Nancy Lynn

Five years ago I didn’t know what constituted a senior citizen, but I had a sneaking suspicion I was about to find out. I was five years past the half-century mark. I was as old as my fifth grade teacher was, when I was in her class.

That summer I had people visiting me overnight. It was part of a family. There were the two little girls and their mother. The grandmother was also with them. I asked her how old she was. She said she was 53, and it really struck me that I was actually older than somebody’s grandmother. Never mind that the girls were only 6 and 3.

Our nation made history in 2008 with the election of our first African-American president. I made history too. For the first time, I’m older than the President of the United States.

I know we have to turn this world over to the next generation, and I believe the young people will be ready for it. They will all be younger than I am. After all, I’m older than my fifth grade teacher when I knew her, older than lots of people’s grandmothers, and older than the President.

These signposts on the road to senior citizenship are really no big deal. I’m only as old as my heart and my mood tolerate. Last year at sixty, I took a trip to Hawaii, and my plans for an exciting future are by no means over.

Bio: Nancy Lynn was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on Halloween of 1952 and grew up in both Pennsylvania and New Jersey. She attended Lycoming College in Williamsport, Pennsylvania where She graduated with a bachelor’s degree in sociology. She did a little telemarketing over the years, but her main job was as a communications assistant for AT&T in the relay center for the hearing impaired. Her interests include reading, travel, and anything that involves creative self-expression. She has lived in St. Louis, Missouri for the past 10 years. She is an active member and former officer in the Toastmasters organization.

Wisdom from a Blue Rose, poetry
by Laura J. Minning

I look down into the river
and I see an old woman
staring back at me.

Her hair has been changed
by the elements of time,
and her cheeks are dampened
by the bitterness in the air.

But her eyes glisten in the moonlight,
just the same.

She tells me, in secret,
that she will never allow herself
to be hurt like that again.

And so her mind lives elsewhere,
making plans for the future,
while attempting
to put her past behind her.

I try to console her,
but every time I begin to speak,
she turns away.

You see:
I think that she
is as wonderful on the inside
as she is beautiful on the outside.

And sometimes,
she can appear to be
almost youthful and free.

But she won’t hear my words.
She won’t listen to me.

Switching Hands, memoir
by Leonard Tuchyner

It had been four years since I’d actually seen my daughter’s face. Oh, I’d had plenty of pictures, talked to her on the telephone, written e-mails and sometimes gotten desperate enough to follow her exploits on Facebook. But that’s a far cry from sharing a warm hug, or seeing a real animated smile on a real, live, present face, even if it’s only dimly perceived in my Stargardt-fading eyes. At seventy-two for a father, that’s far too long a span of time. In this, my eighth decade, time seems to get ahead of me. It’s harder to keep up with, and as I run to catch the years that disappear into an inevitable future, I’m aware that I’ll be out of time completely. I already wonder how I managed to waste so much of it. At forty-eight, Karen’s no longer a little girl, so maybe she’s having some of the same feelings — though forty-eight seems like the prime of life to me.

Then there’s Brooke, my granddaughter. At fourteen, she’s not a baby, either. I’d seen her pictures, particularly the ones they’ve done every year at Christmas, when Karen and Brooke sit on Santa’s lap together and have their department store picture snapped. They’ve gotten the same Santa since the ritual began. So now I have a series of Santa portraits. You can tell the old elf is getting wizened, even through the whiskers. I think they told me the beard is his own. I could get a little riled at the idea that the aged fuzzy guy gets to see them up close more than I do, but I’m not really. In fact, I’m looking forward to the next pic, if Brooke doesn’t decide she’s too old to be sitting on Santa’s lap with her mother. It was getting to be harder to distinguish who was the oak and who the acorn.

“I plan to drive all night and get there in the morning,” her voice promised on the telephone.

“Nine hundred miles, are you sure? Don’t you think you ought to stop for the night? You’re the only driver.”

“We’ll be fine, Dad.”

“If you say so.” I tried to leave my lack of faith out of my voice.

The next time she called, her voice was tired. “Dad, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. We’re stopping for the night. See you tomorrow for lunch.”

“Glad you’re not pushing your luck. Get some rest. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

Brooke and Karen were ringing our doorbell uncharacteristically promptly at eleven a.m. Diane, my wife and her stepmother, greeted them while our hound and Eskimo dog went through their greeting hysterics. I made my way out of the study, where the computer had just died. For a legally blind person dependent on technology, that is a disaster, especially just before Christmas when help is unavailable.

No one lights up a room with welcome like my wife does, when she wants to, and she definitely wanted to. The house filled with the sounds of welcome and “So nice to see you.”

“Hello, Dad,” she walked up and hugged me. Part of me was seeing and hearing a competent, successful professional forty-eight-year-old woman, while another part just saw my beautiful daughter. Neither of us often wears our emotions on our sleeve, and after this long period of separation, there remained some reservation in our contact.

I turned my attention to my granddaughter. “Hi, Brooke.”

“Hi, Grandpa.”

Partially-sighted people often can see or detect things that the fully-sighted miss. Brooke had that look of light in her eyes that speaks of new awakenings and possibilities, mixed with self doubt and fears. It brought me back to my own early teenage years. I understood. Funny, I never saw self-doubt in her mother. Maybe she had those feelings. Of course she had them. But I was insensitive enough not to pick them up.

Thirty-four years ago, when her mother and I were divorced, I felt and acted like a teenager running away from home. Because my three children had made it clear that their parents should get divorced, it didn’t dawn on me that it wouldn’t be okay if I just got out of town — twelve hundred miles out of town. I guess there’s more than one kind of blind. I was remembering a painful telephone call with Karen.

“How could you do that to me? We were so close. All the good times we had together. You just walked out on me.”

“Yeah. I did … I just had to get away.” So much bad had happened, It sounded lame, and my heart was pounding.

“You made a new life for yourself, and I wasn’t part of it.”

Brooke’s voice brought me back to the present. “Grandpa, you wouldn’t believe the flea-bag we had to stay at. I begged Mom not to stop there.”

“She’s right,” Karen affirmed. “It’s the worst place I ever stayed in. Everything was filthy, but I was just so tired. I was afraid I’d fall asleep at the wheel.”

“We didn’t even take our clothes off. We were afraid of getting infested,” Brooke said.

“They asked me if I wanted to register Brooke as an adult. Why would they ask me that? It was the same price regardless.”

“Karen, this motel wasn’t by any chance just outside of a small town, was it?” I asked suspiciously.

“It was, Grandpa.”

“It sounds to me like the place you take a date when you want to keep it secret and don’t intend to stay very long.”

“I told you, Mom.”

Karen’s jaw dropped. “You mean … Oh.”

Then the doorbell rang and the dogs did their usual barking, tail-wagging song-and-dance welcoming routine. My youngest and only son, Ben, and my wife, Diane, came through the door. I don’t know how long it had been since Karen had seen her half brother. It was a lot longer than four years. But it seemed like everyone had seen each other just the other day. Conversation flowed like warm, scented water.

The following day, Diane’s sister, my brother-in-law, and three of their young adult kids drove in from Richmond to meet Karen and Brooke for the first time, and to have a pre-Christmas pot-luck dinner. Everything went seamlessly, except for the fact that I was going crazy over my dysfunctional computer, and Brooke was obviously infected with a world-class bug. She looked and sounded horrible.

“Mom, it was that motel. I’ve contracted a sexual disease. I told you not to stop there.”

“You’re right. Your life is ruined. Will you ever forgive me?”

“No.”

Brooke faded miserably into her own protective cocoon. But actually, I was impressed at how well she coped with her obvious misery. She was doing better with her problems then I was doing with my sick computer.

The afternoon and dinner went beautifully. Obviously, Karen had developed impressive social skills. A good time was had by all.

After the in-laws left, Karen approached Diane and me. “Dad, we really want to visit Luray Caverns. Brooke and I have never seen a cave. Ben says he wants to go. Would that work out for you guys if we go tomorrow?”

“I have one last big rehearsal for the Christmas Eve Service I’m playing for,” Diane said. “But I don’t mind at all if Leonard goes.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. I didn’t really have any great desire to see the caverns again, but it was a chance for me to have almost one-on-one time with my daughter and granddaughter. My son, Ben, wouldn’t have agreed to go if he didn’t like the company, and he was enthusiastic.

My son drove Karen’s rental car. Karen rode shotgun, while Brooke and I took up the back seat. I thought I’d probably catch whatever it was Brooke had, but I decided it was worth it. A good part of the journey was taken up by banter between Brooke and her mother. I delighted in siding with the young one. I can’t remember a word of what was spoken. In about two hours we were getting our tickets and waiting in line.

“Karen, if you get too far ahead of me, I won’t be able to pick you out of the crowd. You’ll just be part of a fuzzy blob. So don’t wait for me to find you. I’ll have to wait for you to find me.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ve got you covered.”

I wondered if she really understood. Then, accompanied by our group of sightseers, we were on the shadowed, uneven stairs twisting down into the caverns. The artificial illumination was more than adequate for the others, but I found myself holding tightly to the iron rail, feeling with outstretched foot for each uneven step, and straining my attention to notice any low-ceiling head-bangers.

Suddenly, my daughter’s arm was crooked around my elbow, guiding me. It was firm, steady and warm. I am usually reluctant to accept help from anyone, unless it is absolutely necessary, sometimes even if it is necessary. When I do, I always feel somehow diminished. I know that is silly, and I fight against that reaction. But this was totally different. This was years of separation and doubt being swept away.

Somewhere, in the deep comfort of Mother Earth, her hand slipped into mine. Our fingers intertwined. I was surprised by the strength of her hand. They told me of the challenges that she had faced in surviving two bad marriages, getting a graduate degree and rising to an honored place in her profession, while raising a wonderful daughter with whom she had a treasured, healthy relationship . Those hands and fingers were not dainty. In fact, they reminded me a lot of my own. Yet it was a loving hand that guided me.

I was thankful for the darkness that hid the tears that flooded my eyes.

Bio: Leonard Tuchyner has Stargardt’s disease which was first noticed in his teenaged years. He is now seventy-two. He reads through the media of Braille, recordings, and electronic voices produced by Open Books and Zoom Text. He lives with his wife of thirty-three years and their two dogs. He is active in the local writing community, which includes attending a poetry critique group and a broad-genre critique group. He facilitates a Writing for Healing and Growth group at the Charlottesville Senior Center. His hobbies include Tai chi, and gardening. Leonard is semi-retired and still has a small counseling practice.

Silent Discourse: Reflections on Art and Memory, memoir
by Lynda Lambert

Memories of her summer days seemed to silently move in the thoughts of the Great Grandmother today as she thought of the little girl who stood alone, surrounded by a yellow-green world. Great Grandmother’s memory was taking her back to a distant summer day in western Pennsylvania. She thought it must have been in the late 1940s because she was so very young at that time. The little girl was sensitive to the natural world of trees, flowers, birds, grasses, and the brilliant blue sky. She loved to be outdoors in all kinds of weather, but summer time was particularly pleasant because she did not have to wear shoes.

She could splash through the falling rain as it saturated her clothing and made her long auburn hair stick to her wet shoulders. She liked to stomp down with her bare feet because the water would splash up onto her shorts. Her toes dug into the puddles of cool squishy rain water in the yard. She moved them around to explore the wet ground, and it felt so good when she moved them through the thick dark mud.

On sunny days, she climbed into the back yard walnut tree quickly, and liked to hide amid the foliage to survey the entire world of her deep green grassy yard. From there, she could watch her father working in his gardens. There were two of them, separated by a path down the middle. When she thinks about her father, in her mind’s memory book, he is always laboring in his garden and bringing fresh vegetables to the house for their dinners. Father brought other delights, too. There were rabbits and squirrels, wild game birds , and deer. There were fresh fruits from his trees, and chickens from the coop behind the gardens. Great Grandmother’s favorite gift was the assortment of fresh mushrooms he gathered in the woods. He knew exactly what each mushroom was, and exactly when each would be ready for picking. He was a woodsman who knew the ways of the woods and brought the bounty home to feed his family of four children.

If she was not high up in a tree, she might be found in the gardens, making trails and roads through the dark rich soil. She liked to play there in the dirt with her dump trucks and brightly painted metal cars. She was a little girl who did not play with baby dolls or have tea parties with her friends. She read about little girls who liked those things in the books she borrowed from the library, but that was not really her world.

It was the Earth that she connected with. The Earth in all its many manifestations was her muse from the earliest days of her life. Great Grandmother was in her late 60s, and she still loved the Earth. She liked to feel it in her hands. She often sat on it, with her legs spread out as though she wanted to cover as much ground as possible with her short body.

She urged the family to lie under the trees in the shade. Her children would often lie there on the Earth with her, laughing, telling stories, and dreaming together. Their bodies were pasted down onto the surface of the Earth like a magnet. They remarked that their bodies felt heavy on the soft pine covered hillside. She taught the children that the Earth was a positive charge, and that people were a negative charge. It was necessary to join their bodies with the Earth’s surface for them to be complete. Just like a set of magnets, the positive and negative charge had to be together for the magnet to work properly.

Great Grandmother thought it was probably mid-July she remembered best because the days were smoldering and languid, and the sun was high in the sky early in the day. The grass was dry, like straw that snapped as she walked on it. She could hear a sound in the hot afternoon breeze. It was the sound of insects, all singing together like a high-pitched chorus. Was it the locusts? It permeated the dry air and surrounded her. She walked across that dry grass, and she could smell the slight musty scent in the air that day.

The days were so intense and hot that her skin felt sticky all the time. Her hair felt wet from sweating as she played that summer afternoon. The child’s stature was quite small as she stood beneath a large leather-textured tree. She was small, but very strong. Neighbors often said she was athletic and wild.

The apple tree had a central trunk, and then quickly split itself somehow into three parts. She glanced up into its gnarled branches, with their downward movement towards the Earth. She remembered how it felt to put her bare foot into the low separation to begin the climb upwards into the tree. The strong and crackled branches reached out in every direction over her head. The tree trunk and branches felt cool and rough. It was so shady under the tree. There were only dapples of sunlight that filtered through the leaves to light up the ground all around her. It was like being on a stage, with lights streaming all around.

This hulking giant was her favorite tree–a protective, sheltering hideaway. The ancient apple tree stood just behind Mr. Corbin’s gray concrete block garage. As Great Grandmother recalled, it was the only tree that stood in her neighbor’s yard. It seemed to her to stand as a sentinel to separate the garage from the rows of garden plants. But Great Grandmother knew for sure that even as this tree separated and divided Mr. Corbin’s back yard, it was also the connection between Heaven and Earth. It was the space between here and there, between the present moment and the future. The tree stands in her childhood memory as a vertical division in a horizontal verdant landscape–an axis mundi.

The Great Grandmother knew then, just as sure as she knows now, about secret things. She has always known about hidden things and what they mean. She knew about the life inside of rocks, and the tears that were there. She knows about the silent and quiet things that most people never see. Some people call Great Grandmother a “seer,” but she really cannot see because she is now blind. Great Grandmother talks about seeing with her inner eyes. She calls this her “intuition.” She says she sees the very special places that people with good eyesight have never seen.

The secret places are all tucked away in her memories. One by one, over the years, she will share them with her children and her grandchildren and even now, today, she shares this memory with her great granddaughter. It is the Great Grandmother who is the storyteller. Just like the Griot in an African village, Great Grandmother is the one who preserves the memories for the family and tells the stories that will give them the information they will need on their journeys in life. She holds the secrets in her memory until the time is right.

Bio: Lynda Lambert is a writer and studio artist who lives in the small village of Wurtemburg in western Pennsylvania. Her studio is surrounded by the woods along the Connoquenessing Creek.

Lynda has advanced degrees in English Literature, and Fine Arts. She is a former professor of Fine Arts and Humanities at Geneva College, in Pennsylvania.

Lynda Lambert is blind. She is the author of Concerti…Psalms for the Pilgrimage published by Kota’ Press.

Hope, poetry
by Fred Nickl Sr.

“Hope springs eternal,” they say, but what does that mean?

When I was a child, I hoped for that special toy, it never came.
When I was a teenager, I hoped for a date with the prettiest girls, that never happened either.
When I was in Vietnam, I hoped to survive another night.
That happened physically, but I’m not so sure about it happening mentally.
When I was a driver and woke up in the dark and heard someone say, “Probably a DOA,” I hoped it wasn’t true.
It wasn’t, but sometimes I wish it had been.
When I was told I would never see again, I hoped it wasn’t true.
Of course that one was true.
When I was in rehab they told me everything was going to work out for me, I hoped it was true.
That wasn’t true for me either.
When I was stepped on and pushed aside as a blind man, I hoped it would get better.
It didn’t, but I learned to push back.
When, after decades of fighting desperation and loneliness, I still hoped for something better, it never came.
When, as an old man, I entered this nursing home, I hoped at last for some peace.
I think I finally found it.

When you ask how, it’s hard to explain. The feeling that has come over me is nothing short of a miracle. I look back and don’t see it as hope not working for me, but as me not understanding what hope has done for me. Sure, there were many disappointments in my life, but I survived and made a life for myself, and along the way, I gave hope to others in my situation. Being an example for others is not a simple thing to do. I never let my disappointment show. Something inside me made me fight through every roadblock life put in my way.

I was never a success financially, emotionally, spiritually, or even as a father.

Reflecting on my life now, it doesn’t seem as desperate as it did at the time.
Now as the true darkness starts to engulf me, I feel hope that what’s to come is better than what has passed.

Bio: Fred Nickl, Sr. lost his sight in an automobile accident when he was nineteen. He is an unlettered senior citizen that never wrote a line until he was sixty-five. He started writing when he was bored during a computer class. This is his first published work.

Now that he is retired, he spends his spare time in the outdoors. Fred has been kayaking, canoeing, hiking, and camping all over the country. Last year he tried sky diving for the first time. Fred plans on writing more about his experiences in the future.

It just happens, memoir
by Bobbi LaChance

He was eighty, widowed, and a retired mechanical engineer. I was sixty-three, divorced, blind, and an aspiring writer. I was in rehab, recovering from complications of a knee surgery. He volunteered to take my guide dog for her daily walks during my recovery.

He was described as very handsome, looked about fifty, had a radiant smile, and his appeal was his boyish charm. The magic of any relationship is the journey. That first year we became friends, he volunteered to drive me to physical therapy three times a week. His kindness was apparent to anyone who met him. Being from the old school, he was a true gentleman, opening car doors, offering his elbow to guide any lady. There was this amazing aura about him.

Occasionally after therapy he would take me to lunch or for ice cream. We had long talks discovering common interests. Our common denominator was our church. We shared the same values. I would cook him dinner; he would take me to the movies. I thought bridging the sighted world to that of a blind individual would drive him away. He kept coming back. That was a gift in itself. I would bake him cookies; he would make me audio tapes of old time radio programs . We both felt we were just elders sharing a great companionship.

Over time, feelings and directions changed. When I was with him I felt safe and cherished. He said I made him feel needed. We shared our delight in reading good books. We began attending church together. People recognized us as becoming a couple before we did. We began to base our future relationship on our shared faith. We were both skeptical of putting our feelings out there.

He had been widowed for a year and a half; I had been divorced for fourteen years. When you lose a mate you never lose the love you had for them. You just move on to love again in a different way. When you divorce it is not good to be bitter. I had learned to take the good memories with me and let the past lie.

In the fall, he vacationed on the cape. We missed each other. It was the first time we had been separated. The realization came to us at the same time that we were falling in love. Of course there were issues, it was like possibly wanting to merge two worlds, yet not knowing how to make them fit.

In 2008 we merged households. Were there obstacles? You bet! In this economy it was a matter of survival. There were issues about insurance coverage and how to fairly share living expenses. Mainly we were searching for happiness. In the end we worked together through each issue until we were content with our decisions. There were discussions about our spirituality, and how our families would enter into our relationship. He had ten grandchildren, I had three.

Again, my soul mate found the solution. In September of 2009, he drew me into his arms to snuggle, and quietly stated, “I think it’s time I made you legal.” We had a fairy tale Christmas wedding at High Street Church in Auburn on December 5th of that same year.

It has been a magical three years. We are still happily forging forward. I thank God every day for this unique man in my life. We are so different. He is patient; I am not. I make snap decisions; he thinks about things. We don’t argue; we discuss. I get frustrated; he gets quiet. He supports my ambitions and my dreams. I try to fulfill his desires. We meet our needs and attempt to acquire our wants. We say, “I love you” before we go to sleep at night, and when we get up in the morning. We’re not perfect; who is? The love just flourishes from one day to the next.

If you’re over sixty and alone, there’s always hope. When you least expect it, when you’re not even looking for it, love may just find you.

Bio: Bobbi LaChance resides in Auburn, Maine, with her husband Richard. She has two grown children and three grandchildren. She loves to snuggle with her Maine Coon Cat, Sassy, while listening to talking books. Her two romance novels, “Wishes” and “Cobwebs” can be purchased through Amazon. Bobbi’s short story, “Beyond the Call of Duty,” can be found in the anthology “Behind Our Eyes.” She is active in her church and does volunteer work in her community. Bobbi loves to bake and has a passion for writing and ice cream.

Grace, fiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

“Grace, you have a visitor,” said the nurse to my grandmother.

I approached the bed with caution, not knowing what to expect. Her hair was as white as the pillow and the sheet that covered her. Her eyes were sky blue, and they were looking straight at me. Her mouth broke into a weak smile of recognition.

“Hi Grandma.” I grasped the wrinkled hand that lay on the sheet. After pulling a chair close to the bed for me, the nurse left the room.

I took stock of my surroundings. The bed was next to a window. The curtains were open, and bright sunlight streamed into the room. The only evidence of illness was a machine that stood next to the night stand, its roar and hiss filling the room.

“I was hoping you would come before it’s too late.”

“I came as soon as I could. Mother called me only last night, and I caught the first plane out of New York. It arrived about an hour ago.”

“I’m so glad you came,” said Grandma, squeezing my hand. “How’s your work going?”

“I’m still working on my new CD. It should be released in a few months.”

“That’s wonderful. When you and I sang together years ago, I never dreamed you’d be singing for a living.”

She closed her eyes and fell asleep. I held her hand and thought of the happy times I spent with my grandmother as a child. When I visited her, we often sang together as we did dishes or other domestic chores. Her favorites were “I’ll Fly Away” and “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder,” and I learned these and many other songs at an early age.

One Sunday morning when I was about thirteen, Grandma and I were driving to church when we heard Judy Collins singing “Amazing Grace” on the radio. Grandma pulled the car to the side of the road, and we sat and listened. I could tell she was touched by this particular version of the song. Her eyes grew misty, and she reached into her purse for a handkerchief. “That’s so beautiful,” she said.

I bought a recording of Judy Collins singing “Amazing Grace” and practiced singing it her way until I mastered it. The next time I visited Grandma, I surprised her by singing it that way, slowly and methodically. Grandma’s eyes filled with tears, and she reached for a handkerchief. “Melissa, you have such a beautiful voice.”

She called the pastor of the Baptist church we attended and arranged for me to sing “Amazing Grace” at the service the following Sunday morning. It was my first solo performance, and I was terrified, but Grandma said, “If you can sing to me, you can sing to the congregation. Just pretend you’re sitting at the kitchen table across from me like you were the night you first sang me the song. God has given you a wonderful talent, and He will give you the courage to use it.”

Despite my nervousness, my performance at church was a success. People in the congregation wiped their eyes and blew their noses. That was when I decided I wanted to be a singer.

Grandma always supported my musical endeavors. As I grew older, I lost interest in singing hymns and started singing popular songs. I even wrote a few of my own. I learned to play the guitar and used it to accompany my singing.

Although Grandma didn’t like this kind of music, she always listened with interest. When I landed my first recording contract, I called her from my apartment in New York City. “Oh Melissa, God has finally answered my prayers,” she said, her voice breaking. “Now, you can make money by sharing the special gift He has given you.” That was about ten years ago.

Since then, although I couldn’t always find the time to visit Grandma, I often called and wrote her. She was always there for me through the triumphs and sorrows of my career, even when she was diagnosed with cancer, and her prognosis was grim.

Now, as I sat by her bed at the nursing home, I noticed a portable CD player on the nightstand next to the bed. On top of the machine lay a copy of one of my albums. I was touched by her loyalty. As I was about to insert the disc into the machine, her voice stopped me. “No Melissa. I don’t want to listen to that now.”

“What would you like to hear?”

Without hesitating, she said, “I want to hear you sing ‘Amazing Grace’ the way you sang it in church all those years ago.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’ve been waiting so long to hear you sing that song. You sang it to me years ago, so you can sing it to me now.”

That was so long ago, but when my mother called the night before, she said they didn’t think Grandma would live much longer. I couldn’t deny a dying woman her last request, could I?

Although I wasn’t warmed up, and I hadn’t practiced the song in years, I sat up straight in my chair, took a deep breath, and began. At first, my voice was hesitant, but when the words and interpretation came back to me, I grew more confident. As I sang, I forgot Grandma was dying. I was singing in church years ago for the first time. When I finished, Grandma’s eyes were misty. I pulled a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and wiped them.

She smiled and said, “I want you to sing that at my funeral.”

“What?”

“Promise me you’ll sing that song at my funeral the way you sang it in church years ago with no band, no chorus, no nothing. Promise me, Melissa.”

Although I wasn’t sure I could do what she asked, I said, “Okay Grandma, I promise, I’ll do it just for you. Now try and get some rest. I’ll be right here.”

With a satisfied sigh, Grandma closed her eyes and I did the same, resting my head on the back of the chair. A light touch on my shoulder woke me. Shaking my head to clear the cobwebs, I saw the nurse standing by my chair. Grandma’s hand was cold and limp. One look at her face told me she was at peace.

“It was your song that did it,” the nurse said, as I blinked back tears.

“What?”

“She had been asking for you. She said she was hoping to hear you sing ‘Amazing Grace’ one more time. After you sang that for her again, she figured it was time to go.”

“I guess so.”

“Your grandmother already made arrangements in advance. I just need to call the funeral home. If you need anything, just pull the red cord.” When she was gone, I let my tears flow.

I kept my promise to Grandma. I sang “Amazing Grace” at her funeral with no accompaniment. I sang it slowly and methodically, the way I heard Judy Collins sing it years ago, the way Grandma liked it. When I first sang the song in church, my performance was followed by a chorus of Amens. Now, there was only a respectful silence.

I also recorded “Amazing Grace” on my next CD, which was released a few months later. In this recording, I sang it the same way. It was the last song on the CD. In the liner notes next to the song title I wrote, “This selection is dedicated in loving memory of my grandmother Grace who always supported my musical endeavors.”

VI. Sunlight, Shade, and Sizzle

The Old Crow and the Beautiful Land, fiction
by Ernest Jones

From my perch high up in the old gnarled pine tree I surveyed the sight before me. I wondered why I remained here; maybe it was this beautiful tall pine tree. The tall tree stood on a small knoll beside some of the ugliest land I had ever seen. Being a wise old bird, I could usually find good in anything or anybody, but this place was terrible.

There was a stream, that is if you could find it buried in a tangle of dead & dying wood; beyond the water there was no beauty to behold. Thorn bushes grew into a tight bramble; thistles grew in the open field & nettles crowded the bank of the stream. Rusty tin cans, shreds of paper, & plastic bottles littered the ground under the brush, making a great hide-out for mice, rats, & snakes. It’s true that many birds lived in the brambles, & rabbits loved the thickets, but beyond this the land was an ugly, useless piece of sod.

Then change came, & it was for the better. A new year had come, & with it, a move for improvements. Huge land-moving equipment came, & in just a few hours the land was a mess of debris-strewn mud. When the workmen stopped for the day, the land was quiet. I could not say there was improvement for now–even the birds & rabbits had gone and only silence greeted this old bird. In dismay, I thought of leaving too, but at least I still had the pine tree. Besides, my curiosity got the best of me; I’d just have to stick around to see what would happen next.

The following weeks, as winter turned into spring, the land began to take on a new look. The stream reappeared and began to flow again.

Then one day in April, many people showed up. There was laughing, shouting, & even some singing as the people worked. Huge piles of debris: stumps, brush, & dead roots grew like magic as the people pulled, raked, & stacked the now almost dried wood. Large fires sprouted out of these piles, & by nightfall the land was clear. A few smoldering fires still spit up some smoke, but mostly the land was rough dirt & ash.

Over the following days the people continued to work, and what a change took place right before my eyes; a new creation sprouted out of what had been a desolate land. Just for me, at least this is what I thought, my old pine tree was spared. The stream’s route was altered a little to make it go meandering through the meadow. New trees were planted along its bank and scattered here and there to give future shade to the visitors. Many shrubs and flower beds seem to have sprouted out of the ground tempting butterflies, hummingbirds, and honey bees to sample their sweet nectar. A trail ran along the stream, crossing the water in several places on rustic wooden bridges. The remaining ground was turned into a velvet carpet of soft, green lawn. Like an ugly caterpillar emerging later as a lovely moth, the land came forth as a place of beauty. Once again, rabbits returned to eat the green grass and other plants, while still sometimes hiding in the fast-growing shrubs.

But what I liked most was the fountain. Right in the middle of the stream stood a fountain, its water shooting up in tall spheres, only to drop into fine mists, to again change into columns of spray. What a lovely way to take a shower or even a bath; we birds loved it. Oh yes, a multitude of birds again filled the air with their sweet songs. What a wonderful way to start the new year.

Bio: Ernest Jones, Sr. worked as a registered nurse until failing eyesight forced his early retirement. He has one published book, and his monthly newspaper column, Different Views, offers encouragement to other blind people. Ernie’s monthly church newsletter column delights the young. Hobbies include gardening, walking with his guide dog, and writing. E-mail him at: theolcrow@charter.net.

Spring, acrostic poetry
by Elizabeth Fiorite

Sun-splattered field, roused from sleep, now shed their sepia stain,
Prepare to shrug the callous cold, receive the welcome rain.
Rivers flex and stretch their thawing fingers
Into streams and inlets where frost still lingers.
Night jasmine blooms, perfumes the air around,
Gray owl blinks and listens, making not a sound.

Bio: Elizabeth Fiorite, O.P. is a Dominican Sister of Sinsinawa, Wisconsin. She has a Master’s Degree in Education and has been a teacher and principal in Catholic elementary schools. Presently, she is a social services counselor at Independent Living for the Adult Blind in Jacksonville, Florida. Elizabeth has been legally blind since 1990 due to retinitis pigmentosa.

Marshmallow Peeps, memoir
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

My parents separated when I was eight years old. My twenty-five-year-old mother had to work two jobs to support my two younger brothers and me. The days of elaborate Easter baskets full of jelly bean eggs and bright plastic toys were suspended as mom struggled to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. On the night before Easter Sunday, my exhausted mother sat at the kitchen table with a row of coffee cups arranged before her, dipping hard boiled eggs into bright primary colored dyes. Carefully she dipped eggs balanced on a spoon into the dyes, turning them over to color the other end in a different dye. There wouldn’t be a new dress or chocolate bunnies for me, but mom was determined we would have some eggs to hunt in the spring weeds of our yard. AS I carefully drew designs with crayons and placed completed eggs into the carton on the table, I was startled to hear mom burst into helpless laughter. In her weariness she had just dunked an egg into her coffee cup.

Laughter has always been a part of how my family celebrates life. Sometimes we laugh to make the rough spots easier to bear. Sometimes we laugh because we enjoy sharing our lives with each other, and sometimes we laugh because we just find the funny side of any situation. Love and shared laughter have gotten us through many of life’s good times and bad.

You are probably wondering what all of this has to do with Marshmallow peeps. The last time my brothers, sister, and mom were together for an Easter dinner, my brother Rob demonstrated his latest discovery. When placed in a microwave, peeps expand, swelling up to double their normal size and getting all soft and melted like marshmallows toasted over an open fire without the charred outsides. Four generations of my family dissolved into giggles at the micro toasted giant peeps.

Easter is a time of new beginnings, spring, and rebirth. May you begin it with shared laughter with family and friends.

A Factor of Two, memoir
by Deon Lyons

I was not forced to do it. I was not told I should do it. It had to be done, and I was the only one who could say the words to make it happen.

I have had a garden every summer since 1992, and if there was one thing in my life that was a constant, it was my garden. There was no form of therapeutic medicine that warmed my soul and soothed my aching mind quite like my gardens did. Just the thought of walking around the cool, freshly-tilled earth makes me smile and sigh. I truly love the feeling of soft, smooth, loose and fresh dirt between my toes. I have had some super gardens in the past, and I have had some extremely frustrating summers of bad weather and bad seed. The good ones fortunately outweigh the bad ones.

The garden of 2010, for example, was one of our best gardens ever. The corn was sweet, the broccoli was tender, the potato rows were full, as was the freezer when all was said and done. I can still smell the roma tomato vines, and they smell wonderful.

I had the garden all in, everything was up, and had just fully weeded it the last week of June when I lost the rest of my vision. My garden seemed to die, along with a big part of me. It was a horrible death, and I was certain the rest of the summer would be void of anything good.

Boy, was I wrong. My wife, God bless her, stepped in and took the reins the rest of the way. She had always liked to help in the garden from time to time, but knew most of the heavy work would be done by me. I never minded, as I truly loved working the soil and reaping the rewards. Just watching the different things sprout from seed and grow into tasty delights was the reward for me.

She single-handedly kept up with the garden that summer, and harvested some of the best produce we have ever pulled off of the plant or out of the ground. Through all of my frustration and “Poor Me’s” and acting like a lost little puppy, she held strong and kept at it throughout the summer and into the fall. “Thanks, Cutie.”

Earlier that spring I’d had the roto-tiller repaired. I put a lot of cash into it, but the tiller had faithfully kept the soil loose and the gardens weed free for nearly seventeen years without so much as a twitch or a hiccup. I couldn’t see not spending the money on her. I call her a “her.” I don’t know why, but to me, she was always a “her.”

She was running tip top through the first tillings, the plantings, and the first month of weeding. In the first few gardens before I bought my tiller, I had to loosen the soil and weed with a garden hoe, and for those of you who know, there ain’t no hoe like a tiller–yo!

From early July on through the rest of summer and into fall, the tiller stood quiet, calmly looking out over the garden where she had worked so hard in the past. My wife could not run her, nor did my son want to have anything to do with the garden. He had enough of his own to do. The tiller stood on the upper east end of the garden from the first of July right through the fall months, and I could swear I could hear her crying from time to time. “Hello? Remember me? How’s about you start me up and run me through a couple of rows!” It was heartbreaking to know she was just sitting there, idle and aggravated.

I ended up pushing her towards the garage in early December through about 5 or 6 inches of snow. She gave me hell all the way to the back of the garage, and all I could do was say that I was sorry. I ended up covering her with a tarp, and holding it down with several bricks.

She sat there all winter and didn’t say a word. We kept her alongside the John Deere riding mower through the winter. I figured she could use the company.

We had just recently started tearing down our old barn where I usually stored the tiller, along with the lawn mower, through the winter. She was not used to being out in the elements, and it was strange how I actually felt sorry for her.

Well, winter did come, and the snow piled up. Every time I got the chance, I tried to get a look over in the direction of where she was, and as the winter rolled on, the snow slowly piled up around her. I could see the blue tarp against the white snow, and it continuously reminded me that something was dreadfully wrong. I could feel it.

The snows came and went as spring hinted at its arrival. The days got warmer and longer as the winter freeze melted into April and May. She sat there, quietly waiting for the season so she could dig her teeth into a breakfast of rich Battleridge soil that she had grown so fond of over the years.

Early into May we pulled the tarp off of her and the mower. I could hear her yawn and stretch, and then she blasted me. I deserved it, and she knew it. We ended up having to change the battery in the mower that spring, and all the while I could hear her asking when her turn would be.

I didn’t know. I couldn’t give her an answer, and I think that drove her crazy. I could tell. I couldn’t stand it, as it drove me insane knowing there was so much work she could do. I also knew her work would have to be done somewhere else. I finally made the move I had been dreading all winter, and since the summer before. I knew what I had to do.

The ad we placed was in “Uncle Henry’s” for probably 4 hours when we received the email, “Will trade for tiller.” I knew at that moment there was a garden somewhere that needed her. Somewhere there was a plot of soil begging for her steel tines to dig in. I knew this and felt this, and it tugged at me.

I have a new girl in my life these days. She lay in my arms as my old sweet red tilling beauty was loaded into the white ford pickup from Moscow, and was taken away from me and from my garden. As the truck drove away with her in the back, a tear rolled down my cheek. I could tell she was smiling, knowing she was headed for another garden where she could sing her sweet song once again. In the blink of a thousand memories, she was gone. A part of me left with her, as the visions of so many wonderful gardens drove down the road. “I will miss you, my dear.”

I am sure I will find a new way to garden, be it box or some other kind. I love helping things grow, and will get back into it gradually.

The other girl I held that day has grown to understand me from the inside out. She has helped me find another lost love of mine. Her tone is sweet and pure. It is a song, straight from the deepest parts of my heart, and I would not trade her for anything. She has become a part of me. I don’t know if she knows this or not, but she has, just the same.

She is a twelve-string Fender electric acoustic, and she soothed my aching soul the first time I held her in my arms and strummed across her sweet strings. She convinced me to pick her up and return to the soothing melodies that she effortlessly passed from her soul to mine. I had dreaded not being able to see the strings, but she has taught me that you can’t see the music, but rather have to learn to feel it from deep inside. I was afraid I would not be able to find the melody, when all this time, the melody had always been in me.

She has helped me rediscover my love for chords and harmony and the rising highs and pounding lows. She has helped me regain the song inside my head. It plays loud today with her help. I sit and hold her as she plays sweet notes of poetry into my searching soul. She is truthful and full of meaning, and holds no hidden messages. She is comfort complete, and I thank God she came into my life.

Isn’t it funny how you sometimes have to lose so much in order to gain so much? In the end, I have been graced completely, enlightened, and enriched by a factor of two.

Aurora’s Song, poetry
by Myrna Badgerow

O, that I could capture this dappled dawn,
Waning moments and memories pawned,
Drifting and blending into daylight’s hue
Of sun and cloud on canvas blue.
And here am I with but bristled pen,
Its ink of thought, song of morn within
Time’s blank parchment, longing to compose
Delicate lines of rhyme and prose.
For it is not with stroke of brush I paint
But with my words both bold and quaint
That flow from heart and seep from soul to be
My aurora, the music that lies within me.
Each sigh, whisper, every breath drawn,
O, that I could capture this dappled dawn.

Hearing the Sunrise, poetry
by Nancy Scott

This poem is dedicated to the light sensor on my kitchen windowsill.

The sun rises in B major
To sing one verse of “My Way.”
Pitch to remind, tempo to awaken,
Twenty-three seconds of song
Bordered by silence
Serenade through any window I choose
On any morning.
No long gazes.
No missed opportunities.
Twenty-three seconds
Is more than enough time
When you hear the light.

Monogrammed Prayers on Memorial Day, poetry
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

I am a visitor
at the graves–
Ave Marias
on Memorial Day.

Taps and tulips are there;
peonies and patriotism are there.
Where do I place
the monogrammed prayers?

Family Feast, memoir
by Deon Lions

Looking back over the years, many wonderfully humorous tales have wrapped themselves around the family I love. This is a story of one of those occasions.

My cousin Missy and her husband Dana were living in an old farmhouse “down east.” First of all, let me clarify the term “down east.” To me, a person living in central Maine, it means “east of Bangor,” but to the better part of the country, it usually means “New England,” or just “Maine.” My wife and son and I were in the area vacationing. We had with us a young boy named Gyver, who was staying with us for two weeks as part of the Fresh Air Fund summer program. We were a host family for inner city children for a two week period in the summer time. Gyver was our second child from the program, and had been coming to our home in central Maine from the Bronx for two or three years.

Missy and Dana invited us to their home in Whiting, just east of Machias, for a gathering of seafood, steaks, and family cheer. My folks were also there, vacationing from Michigan. They were both born and raised “down east,” so it was a wonderful trip back home for them.

We arrived at their house in the early afternoon after a long day of scavenging the beaches of Campobello Island, a wonderful Canadian nook, just across the bridge from Lubec, Maine, the town where my parents and I were born. I had always loved to go to the island as a child, and relished the thought of being able to take my son and Gyver to see the sights. We also had Missy’s daughter Sarah with us for the day. She and Gyver were like peas and carrots.

When we arrived at their home, there were other guests also arriving. I have a ton of aunts, uncles, and cousins in the area. My mom and dad had not seen a lot of these relatives in quite a few years, and I could see the excitement in their faces. The house was a huge old colonial style, with a thousand rooms and 35-foot ceilings, or so it seemed.

Dana had bought the steamers, the “lobstahs,” and the steaks, and as usual, he was cooking to beat the band. I think he had four separate grills going out in front of the garage, along with huge pots cooking on the stove in the kitchen. The guy is amazing. He is a master plumber and has done some work for us in our home in the past. My cousin Missy snatched up a good one with him for sure.

With the pots of seafood cooking, and the meats grilling, the house soon filled with laughter and frolic. I cherish times like this when I get to go to family gatherings. There is just something about having lots of family around. I can’t explain it other than to say it is a near perfect feeling.

My Aunt Leona and Uncle Ikey were running late, and Missy had noticed that she did not have enough crackers for the lobsters. By crackers, I mean the old fashioned, traditional nut crackers. There were a lot of lobsters, and there was going to be a lot of cracking going on. Missy Called Aunt Leona and asked her to bring some extra crackers with her. The cracker dilemma was taken care of, or so we thought.

I think there were fifteen of us at the gathering. I walked out to the front of the house where a few of the kids were sitting on the front steps watching with binoculars across the road to the tidal inlets out in the field. It appeared to be high tide. The kids were watching eagles soaring over the salt water flats roughly 2 or 3 hundred yards away. There must have been 20 or 30 of them gliding effortlessly in circles up above the trees. They were riding along the hot air currents that were leaving the earth towards the cool sky of a July evening. I asked my cousin, and she said they are usually out there every night around dusk. I watched them with the binoculars for a few minutes. They truly are amazing animals. We couldn’t have picked a more majestic creature to represent our country.

When the cooking was completed, everyone gathered in the dining room and the adjacent rooms set up for the feast. The house was a buzz with excitement, and with anticipation of the great meal at hand.

The last two guests, Aunt Leona and Uncle Ikey, finally arrived. These two people are perhaps the most uniquely wonderful individuals you will ever meet. Leona had worked the seafood canning factories in Lubec for many years until the last one closed back in the nineties, and Ikey, a WWII vet who also worked the factories, was perhaps the coolest guy in the world. I could go on for a thousand years about how much these two mean to me, but I will just say that with their arrival, the gathering seemed to now be complete.

After all the hugs and kisses, Missy asked Aunt Leona for the crackers. Leona had brought in a couple plastic shopping bags with some items stuffed in them. She handed Missy the bags with a smile.

Missy seemed a little confused as she opened the bags. She reached in and pulled out several boxes of saltine crackers. The whole house erupted with spontaneous laughter that is probably still ringing through the rafters. My mom and dad have a habit of laughing so hard sometimes, they start crying. This was one of those times.

Leona laughed the loudest after she found out the misunderstanding. Uncle Ikey hugged her and assured her that he still loved her none the less.

I attended the celebration of their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary a few years later. Their achievement was honored by all, including President and Mrs. George W. Bush, who had sent an autographed plaque commemorating the event. It was a wonderful heart-warming occasion that was recognized near and far, within the family and community. Quite an accomplishment for two people who are completely in love, more so today than ever before.

Well, there we were, with a couple dozen lobsters that were waiting to be eaten. We were sort of at odds at what to do with an inadequate amount of lobster crackers. I could see Dana jump up and head out into his garage. Let me remind you that he is a plumber, and as a plumber, he makes do with what he has on the job. Being able to improvise is one of the keys to any good plumber’s success. He returned after a couple minutes with several adjustable pliers from his toolbox.

The pliers were passed around throughout the rooms, and the lobster juice started flying. One thing about a lobster and clam feast, there isn’t too much talking going on for the first few minutes. People are just way too busy cracking and dipping.

The meal went on for an hour or so, with chatter and laughter rolling through the rooms of the old home. It was a gathering that ranks amongst the best I have ever attended. If someone would have filmed this event, I would watch it over and over a thousand times. It was that perfect.

There were bowls of carrot salad, Cesar salad, macaroni salad, fruit salad, potato salad, and I think there was even kitchen sink salad. I can usually eat seafood until the cows come home. That night I could have sworn I saw a herd of them grazing out in the front yard.

It was a mid summers night made perfect with the added ingredients of a wonderful family and heavenly food. I don’t think there really is a better combination you can find anywhere, as long as you have the right kind of crackers.

Egg Cream, Please, memoir
by Valerie Moreno

As a child growing up in Bensenherst, Brooklyn, my favorite drink was an Egg Cream. This popular drink, served in candy stores and soda fountains, was a taste of true New York culture. Made with milk, seltzer and chocolate syrup, it was always served in small coke glasses and had to be gulped quickly before the foam on top could go flat.

Not many kids liked the taste of this cold, fizzy soda, but I loved it! Not as sweet as chocolate soda–or chocolate milk–the mix of light flavor and seltzer was a delightful treat on a hot day. Sitting at the counter with fans buzzing overhead and a shiny new dime clutched in my hand (that’s all they cost then), I felt happy and my world was nearly perfect.

In 1963, we moved to New Jersey, and requests for an egg cream were met with confusion. One afternoon after shopping with my mom, we came upon a candy store that had stools and a Formica counter.

Climbing on a stool, I asked hopefully, “Egg Cream, please?”

The lady behind the counter laughed, “You like Egg Cream? Do you come from Brooklyn?”

“Yes!” I cried. “Can you make me one?”

“Sweetie, I’ll make you the best Egg Cream this side of the river!”

It was heaven tasting such a treasured part of life I thought was gone forever. She made me another as my mom shared memories of Coney Island and Gimbles Department store.

When I handed her twenty cents, the woman pressed it back in my palm. “It’s on the house,” she whispered.

Soon after that, the candy store was sold, and became a clothing outlet. How I missed that little touch of Brooklyn, and still remember how my homesickness for what we’d left behind had been soothed by that foamy, fizzy drink.

C. A. Palmer Fife and Drum Corps, essay
by Kate Chamberlin

BOOM! There are men bloody and lying all around me. They are dying. They are dead.

BOOM! Others are still standing, shooting, re-loading, shooting.

BOOM! The tattoo of a drum pierces through the din and chaos.

BOOM! My guide dog urges me to retreat…

Wait. My imagination got away from me. We were standing on the sidewalk waiting for the C. A. Palmer Fife and Drum Corps to pass in the parade. I felt the staccato tattoo of the snare drum vibrate into the very marrow of my bones. The deep booming bass drum droned on like cannon fire. The piercing urgency of the fife made my skin prickle. It must have struck a primeval urge in my guide dog too, because her instinct was to get the heck out of there!

Claude Augustus Palmer could not read a note of music, but he had a strong rhythm in his heart and a thirst for history in his head. He organized the Palmyra Drum and Bugle Corps with the fellows in Boy Scout Troop 66.

James P. Smith, A.K.A. “The littlest drummer boy,” loved to hear his grandpa play the drum. Grandpa Palmer died in 1953 when James was nine. James kept after his mother, Teresa (Palmer, Smith) Otte, to let him take drum lessons at the Eastman School of Music. Eventually, Mr. John Beck agreed to take James on as a student, even though he was still in high school.

Mr. Beck tutored James and another high school student, Craig Toft. Instead of a half-hour each week, the boys alternated weeks, so they could stay a full hour for their drum lesson. Mr. Beck introduced the boys to the lore of the ancient drums and fifes.

After visiting the National Muster in Deep River, Connecticut, with his mother’s fiance, Mr. Otte, James, and Craig began to talk about starting a fife and drum corps in Palmyra. In 1961, The littlest drummer, now a junior in high school, named the newly formed corps after his beloved grandfather, C. A. Palmer.

Craig’s father, Robert, was active in the Endicott Drum and Bugle Corps. He agreed to teach fife and drum, if Jim would be the business manager. The charter members were grade school children and high school students with lots of support from their parents. Each member had to give Jim’s grandmother a pair of black trousers. She cut them off at the knee and added elastic. She made a floppy tie to add to white shirts. A Rochester Hat supplier gave Jim credit to buy tri-cornered hats ordered from NYC. Jim remembers hustling a lot of jobs to pay for Corps expenses.

Clifton Springs was the first fire department to hire them to march in a parade. They used brass fifes made by Ted Kurtz of Waterbury, CT.

Jan Mahoney, the current Manager, joined in 1963 when she was in fifth grade. Jan remembers that the women from the Presbyterian Church made their “new” uniforms. “I first played a tin fife that had engravings on it,” Jan said. “Then two piece plastic fifes–which I sat on and broke! Finally I had a hand-made wooden fife.” As in days long ago, the instruments are still tuned by shoving a cork into the open end.

For many years the Fife and Drum Corps would march to the grave site of C. A. Palmer on Memorial Day. Eventually they marched to the site of Noah Palmer, Jim’s great-great-grandfather, who fought in the Revolutionary War.

The National Muster in Deep River, CT, takes place each summer in mid July. After the main parade, each of the Corps performs on the main green. You don’t have to see them, or even be near them, to hear and feel them. The ground vibrates with the drums. The air comes alive with fife energy.

In the evenings, around campfires, informal fife and drum jam sessions spring up. Many of the songs have been played for hundreds of years. They are known by all, and the beat goes on.

The next time you see a Fife and Drum Corps march by, stand up and applaud. They are not just the result of long hours practicing, fund raising and dedication; they represent our American Heritage.

Bio: Kate Chamberlin, M.A., became blind when her children were young. Her teaching career continues through her Study Buddy Tutoring Service, Feely Cans and Sniffy Jars Program, and popular lectures. She is a published children’s author, Anglican educator, newspaper columnist, and proud grandmother. Visit her website at KateChamberlin.com.

Abecedarian in Reverse, abecedarian
by Marilyn Brandt Smith

Zucchini bread in the oven,
You know we have to use it when it’s ripe;
Xylophone chimes from the play room;
Water fight raging out back.

Very soon I’ll have to fold
Up those clothes from the dryer,
Too hot now, static cling.

Summer is too busy:
Running the kids here and there,
Quarreling with yard men,
Pool service people who don’t show up.

Oh, for those hours of freedom,
No schedule, kids in school for seven hours;
Mornings with girl friends,
Lunches, a sinful splurge;
Kids home by three,
Just in time to keep me from getting bored.

I can’t complain;
Here we are in a nice neighborhood,
Good house, good kids.

For three months though,
Every day seems to last forever!
Don’t they ever get tired?
Can I bribe the schools to start early?

Bet those clothes are ready for folding now
And the zucchini bread is smelling yummy.

Monster in the Woods: A Texas Triumph, poetry
by Donna Grahmann

His orange glow dances between the towering pines, inviting all to join him.
A consuming need flickers to unmask his possessive intentions.
None dare accept his invitation as he erupts and devours all in his path.
A furnace boils behind his wicked grin as he greets each guest without remorse.
Brave souls fight back o’er land and air to slow his reign of terror.
Charred devastation maps the monster’s path of explosive hunger,
Smoldering tentacles spread out to continue their feast.
An eerie silence, devoid of the night creature’s rhythmic songs, replaces the monster’s fury,
Sunlight reveals fresh hoof prints, encircling the promise that life continues.
The new fawn slumbers, awaiting the return of its mother.

A Cooking Day, memoir
by Valerie Moreno

It was 108 degrees. Sitting silently at the kitchen table with the swamp cooler chugging–a useless generic of a bona fide air conditioner–my eyes began to close. I was vaguely aware of my home teacher, Dolores, who sat beside me copying recipes in large print. She’d insisted on guiding me through making a pork roast, even though no one in my family liked it. We’d made sweet potatoes from scratch and banana pudding for dessert.

Though I was grateful for all she was teaching me, we often bumped wills. She demanded complete silence from me while she filled sheets of paper with huge letters, her magic marker squeaking. The recipes were for a notebook I was keeping of everything concerning food preparation.

As I drifted in to a daydream of cool, swirling waters (the color of bananas), suddenly there was a screeching thud that made me jump, my eyes popping open.

“Woah!” shouted a voice directly outside my living room window. It was Rob, our apartment manager, who’d tripped on the steps, sending the unlocked gate crashing in to the patio wall. “Shit!” It was his squeaky, Kermit-Muppet yells that made the laughter burst out of me. Immediately, there was banging on the door and I ran to open it as Dolores sat stony-faced.

“Where do you get off laughing at me, lady, I almost broke my ass!” Robert stood in the doorway, hands on hips, a note of teasing outrage in his voice. He began jingling his keys, tapping a foot.

“I’m sor-r-r-ry!” was all I could get out through laughing so hard my eyes watered.

“Yeah, sure,” he said now. “What are you cooking in there? It’s hotter than hell–just go to the Tastee-Freeze and buy some taco salad! What kind of nut-job cooks in this heat!”

Suddenly Dolores was next to me, smoke curling out of her eyes. I felt her fuming as her eyes shot fire at him.

“Excuse me, sir,” she began. “You’re interrupting our time.”

Rob slapped a hand on his forehead. “Oh, I’m sorry…I remember now. No wonder you’re cooking! This must be your mom, right? How are ya! I hope your brains don’t bake in our Arizona heat. I knew you were coming out from back east for a visit. You know, you could just slam the food on the sidewalk for ten minutes. It’d be well done.”

“I am not her mother!” Dolores snapped as I collapsed in hysterics against the open door. “I am Mrs. Fricky from the Association for the Blind, and we were having a cooking lesson.”

Rob was taken aback. He ran a hand through his John Denverish hair, dropping the keys.

“Oh, damn!” he sputtered, “I thought…I mean, excuse me–I’ll be running along now, ladies. Have fun with the food.”

“Bye, Rob,” I gasped as Dolores started for the kitchen, her footsteps quick and angry.

“Lovely woman!” Rob whispered as I shut the door. “You should cook her on the sidewalk!”

Stealing Yeses, poetry
by Nancy Scott

My hands cramp
From pushing your wheelchair
On the Wildwood Boardwalk
Without my white cane.

Your talk guides me
Over vibrating grooves
Through a sea of late-season tourists
That parts for your “Forward,”
“Left,” “Right,” “Clear,”
And “Oh shit! Stop!”

I stop better than I steer,
But we need this risk,
You looking up to say where we go,
Me listening to push or hold back.

The shopkeepers know
We will buy souvenirs–
A heart-shaped cherry box
With one unsanded inner corner,
Seashell wind chimes,
Soapstone dinosaurs,
Half-priced Peruvian sweaters,
Statues of pilgrims.

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