Wondering Mind by Cheryl Pillsbury |
| Nicodemus by Peggy Greene |
| Summer of 1974 by Kimberlee Medicine Horn Jackson, Yankton Sioux |
| Captured Type |
| Art by Wendy Whittingham |
On the farm, we had a rather small black dog. This
fellow truly lead a dog’s life. My sister and I used to
dress him up in girl’s clothing and paint his s dog. The
dog did not seem to mind, but it drove our brother
crazy. Mind you, it was a short drive, and Sissie and I
were experts at finding his raw nerves.
As I say, Nicodemus was quite congenial as dogs go,
but he obviously had a mischievous side. He co-
existed happily with the chickens in the farm yard, but
once in a while if he saw a cluster of them in a small
spot, he would get this strange look on his face. I
swear this is the truth. He would lower his head and
watch them. Then suddenly he would shift into high
gear and race right into the midst of the hens while
barking joyously.
Hens that had been calmly pecking and clucking along
would flap into the air squawking and then scatter in all
directions. In a matter of seconds, the hens would go
back to calmly clucking, scratching, and pecking. The
attention span for a chicken is not long. Having had
his fun, Nicodemus would trot happily back to the
house with his tongue hanging out. He had a very
satisfied look on his face. I swear that is the truth;
dogs do have facial expressions.
Actually I had a bank manager who did what I referred
to as rushing the hens. He used to get excited about
team progress. One or more of us would be deep into
some knotty software problem, and he would rush in
and demand other things, and as I explained to the
team, this old hen squawked and flapped around until
he got what he demanded. I used this illustration to
explain why I had come to a meeting without some
promised material.
Unfortunately one of our team blurted out that
reference to him, and I had to repeat this story to
explain it, knowing full well the guy had an awesome
temper. Fortunately he balances his temper with a
sense of humor, and he laughed. He also told me he
trusted that he would not hear that reference again. I
assured him he would not. In exchange, he rushed the
hens less. I think the Nicodemus story struck a nerve.
My parents, who adopted and raised
me and two older brothers and one
older sister, loved to travel on family
vacations in a motorhome. In the
beginning, my dad built his own pop-up
camper. He called it the U.R.O.,
translation; the unidentified rolling
object. My dad had a great sense of
humor. We'd load up in the station
wagon, Chris and Dan, Becky, myself
and Daisy, the dog. Off we'd go on
vacation.
In the early 70s, my mom and dad
purchased the motor home and we
took a trip out west, one stop being
Pine Ridge reservation, where Dan, a
full-blood Oglala Sioux was born. I was
nine, perhaps ten years old,
depending on the dates we were gone.
The other stop was the St. Francis
Mission on Rosebud reservation. For
some reason, my parents were told I
was Rosebud Sioux and I grew up
thinking that was part of my identity.
Later on, I discovered I was Yankton, a
different tribe, different place and
different dialect of language. This is
not an uncommom blunder. Other Lost
Birds I've known were also wrongly
informed of their tribal roots. I can only
think that social services or whomever
was in charge of taking down our
non-identifying information was either
ignorant of the different tribes or just
didn't care. Either way, there is no
justification for such carelessness.
It was hot, hot, hot. There were water
mirages on the road and dry, dusty
terrain. We visited the Rosebud
reservation and my dad stopped at the
St.Francis church to see when Mass
was held. I don't remember if we
stayed for Mass but I do recall the
priest or deacon said he was kola, but
in my nine year old mind, all I could
think was cola.
After that, we visited the Corn Palace
in Mitchell, South Dakota, and Dan was
now the proud owner of some sea
monkeys. I was jealous. We headed
further west in the direction of the
Badlands and Pine Ridge. I remember
prairie dogs and how mom drank too
many cans of soda-pop, (she was an
un-cola person) her feet swelled. We
stopped a trading post and my brother
and I went into the store. I can see the
crowded interior now and an Indian
was sitting behind the counter.
I often wonder what the he thought of
my brother and I and if my parents felt
uncomfortable being non-native? I will
never know for sure. The man behind
the counter felt it important to teach us
a word in Lakota, kola, which means
friend. He repeated it several times
until we could say it, know what it
meant and remember.
My mom wanted to see where Chief
Red Cloud was buried. We went into a
small cemetery and were cautioned not
to wander off because of rattlesnakes
and mom stubbed her toe on Red
Cloud's grave. Funny, I would
remember that. But there is something
else I remember seeing.
Wounded Knee.
I think now of what had happened the
year before we visited. The Wounded
Knee Occupation was in 1973. When
we were there, we passed burned
buildings. The white church on the rise
stood by the cemetery where the mass
grave held the victims of the Wounded
Knee Massacre in 1890. It was eerie
and desolate to pass burned out
buildings and feel the hot blast of wind
on the rise. Thirty four years later I
returned to Wounded Knee, the same
hot wind blew, the memorial brought
forth a deep grief and the white church
had burned down, replaced by a log
cabin style structure.
Although I didn't know it then I was so
close to my birth mom, when we
passed through Mitchell. Only 50 miles
or so, an hour drive. I shake my head
everytime I think of it. How close but
how very far away.
People often ask me if I knew anything
about my culture growing up off the
reservation, the nearest city to us 30
miles west. I do know Dan and I share
a kinship closer than any other
relationship I've had. We always knew
we were Indian. Our adoption days
were a celebration. It's like we were put
together by circumstance just to know
that we were not alone. We were each
other's culture, grounding, touchstone.
My other brother and sister did not
share the same kindred connection
with us. If nothing else, we had each
other. And we had the summer of 1974.
Late one night, about ten o’clock, no
movies or shows on television, I
decided to go into my room and relax.
I lit my candle on my nightstand,
changed into my long, white gown and
laid down on the bed. Crossed my
hands - right over the left - squeezed
my eyes tight, then opened them. I
looked around my room, it was clear,
the light flickering from the flame of the
candle, but dark.
As I slowly closed my eyes, it grew
darker, but I could see a little light out
from the corner of my eye. I felt my
body become light - almost like a form
of levitation. A warm sensation filled
my senses, and before I knew it, I felt
like I was traveling to another world;
another dimension.
It felt familiar but strange. Rising from
the bed, I opened my eyes and walked
toward my door. Beyond the door was
a field blanketed in wildflowers -
butterflies prancing from petal to
petal. A fresh new born smell hovered
overhead filling my pores, and I
exhaled with a great sense of
happiness.
Where am I? I do not know this place
or time for that matter. I see a pure
world, but only I am here. Where is
everyone? This place of unknown can
be very frightening but I felt very safe
and secure, right at home.
Suddenly, a gentle breeze came by,
lovingly touching my arms, hugging
me; it seemed there were words
echoing from the wind. It told me to
relax, I was safe and I was among
those who loved and cared for me. I
felt nervous but somehow it felt just
right, like a security blanket to a child.
I stood in the center of the field
inhaling the scents of nature, closed
my eyes and froze. The breeze
embraced me, blowing my hair and
filling me to overload.
Without hesitation, I woke up sitting in
my bed and looked all around me.
The candle had gone out, so I turned
on the light. The room remained the
same - my curtain swaying from the
breeze outside. Was this a dream or
real? Who knows. I felt refreshed and
energized for the night.
I slowly climbed off the bed, but froze.
There before my feet was a pastel pink
wildflower. My gosh, I picked it up,
inhaled the scent and smiled wide. It
may not be real to others but it was to
me; it felt my emptiness. Past loved
ones came in to comfort me to let me
know they are not far away. What do
you think?
| Gateways by Kimberlee Medicine Horn Jackson, Yankton Siou |
| Ceremony by Kimberlee Medicine Horn Jackson, Yankton Sioux |
My mom went to a reservation boarding
school in Marty, South Dakota. Her
mother died when she was a pre-schooler
and she was sent to live with her
grandmother. The unthinkable happened,
grandmother died. As a result, mom was
sent to live in the boarding school. I saw a
picture of her when she was young and
her hair was cut in a clumsy pageboy. Her
life in the school was not an easy one.
She suffered abuses as did other young
ones.
Years later, I asked the women in my
Bible study to lift my search up in prayer. I
cried out to God as I drove home one
chilly autumn night that it was the desire
of my heart to know who my birth mother
was. Somehow, I felt certain time was
running out and I didn't want to miss my
chance. I also prayed that if I were to
reunite with family, that there was a
greater purpose aside from my own
desire. I had searched on and off for
years, but somehow, after those prayers,
things happened quickly.
I discovered one night as I searched the
Internet, mom was one of six plaintiffs in a
lawsuit for abuses suffered in the
reservation boarding school. Although I
have heard stories of what she and
others endured, if she hadn't been in the
school, and the lawsuit never happened, I
would not have known she was still alive. I
believe her life in the school and the
treatment by the nuns was a gateway of
the enemy, instead of the good witness of
Christ's love it should have been. I still
wonder how, in good conscience, grown
adults; believers of Jesus, can be so
cruel. Mom's example of Christianity was
of being put in an unlit incinerator
because she spoke her native tongue,
because she behaved as she was
created.
As a teenager, she was thrown out of the
same school, left to manage on her own.
The examples she had of non-natives
trying to help her, were of people who
took something away from her. Greater
than any loss of material items, they took
love, dignity and understanding away
from her. She told me once, after two of
her daughters were taken from her, how a
grandmother of the tribe had told her one
day the daughters would return. This was
part of the gateway opened to her that led
her more deeply into following traditional
Native ways. Four decades later, we
returned. There is active healing going on
in the family and in Native familes in other
reservations whose children have been
taken. There is healing in my heart and I
know God is joyful to see this restoration
begin.
My challenge as a follower of Jesus is to
show her or tell her that the things she
experienced as a child and really
throughout her life are from Christians
immature in their relationship with Jesus. I
have said to her, not all Christians are the
same. To this day, she still cannot pass
the school without sounding as if waves of
revulsion are roiling within. In spite of
everything she has been through, I see a
loving woman who has a deep concern for
those in greater need than she. Although
she struggles to keep every mouth fed in
her home, if someone has been kicked
out of their home, she will help them. She
could have let her life experiences make
her bitter. So who is the gateway? Her
desire to help those in need
demonstrates what Jesus would have us
do. She doesn't have a planning meeting
or put together a committee, she just
gives what she has. What she has is love.
"We love, because He first loved us."
What kind of a gateway are you?
I do not have the power to undo what has
been done to her. I can tell her about
Jesus and the relationship I have with
Him. I can be an example of love and so
can you. "Native Americans," as my sister
Brooke says, "are human, just like
everybody else."
I had the honor of witnessing a Lenape Nation
wedding this weekend. It was, without question, the
most moving wedding ceremony I have ever seen.
The church was nature, a circle of woodlands, open
blueness of sky, downy clouds floating, and the
breezes. The bride wore a halo of flowers in her hair
flowing loose down her back. She wore a simple
white garment, and stood in her bare feet. The
groom wore white trousers and white shirt with red
ribbons. His hair was in a pony tail. To see the two
together, it was natural for them to be husband and
wife.
The ceremony was spoken in the simple yet bold
language of the tribal chief. He explained certain
components as the ceremony unfolded. Eveything I
saw showed me who the Lenape are, what they
believe, what they value. I saw their identity in the
action.
Humans need to be grounded or anchored by
something, otherwise we are nothing but flotsam and
jetsam. How helpful is that? There must be
boundaries of what is acceptable or expected and
what is not.
In the wedding ceremony, the chief asked the bride,
"Are you willing to chase the snakes away from your
lodge and marriage?" How I wished someone would
have asked me that when I married. "Are you ready
to help your man be a strong warrior?" Deeper in
the ceremony, the two gave gifts to each other
symbolizing what their roles in this union were, he to
provide food, shelter, and protection, she to provide
warmth, comfort, and sustenance; the community to
help them achieve this end.
The chief said, "You have come before us, stating
your desire." In this statement, accountability. The
mother of the bride gave a stick for the couple to
hang on the wall above their bed so at the end of
each day they take the stick down and carve a mark
into it if they had a good day. If they had a bad day,
this was the time they talk together of the good days
they have had. In this way, they would not end the
day in anger. The chief cautioned, "You must love
each other even if you are angry with one another."
Such wisdom to hear on the wedding day. I felt it was
so much more honest than the church ceremonies I
have witnessed.
A blanket was wrapped around the couple and
fastened with a length of twine, symbolizing the two
were now one. Culture and ceremony defines who
we are. Spiritual beliefs are the anchor used to help
us live in a good way.
As I become acquinted with Native Americans from
different tribes, although we come from different
places and the ceremonies may differ, we seem to
have a common purpose; to keep identity alive. I
had the pleasure of speaking with an elder named
Quiet Wolf. His concern was to keep language alive
among his tribe and to visit with other tribes to ask
how their battle goes. He offers to help, realizing the
power of listening. I recognize him as a granfather,
he is a Native American elder and veteran. I watched
his eyes well up with unshed tears as he spoke of
his journey and I laughed with him as he told jokes. It
is good, to be in the company of other natives.
Last year, at Thanksgiving dinner, I spoke with a
native brother who was originally from New York. He
had experience working in a vineyard, so I
mentioned the verse about Jesus being the vine and
we are the branches, apart from Him we can do
nothing. Here was a man who knew what it was like
to work as a vinedresser, and had a vivid image of
the life application of that verse. He knew what was
too much pruning and wasn't enough. When I asked
him if he was connected with his Native roots in any
way, he quickly said no. I remember thinking how
that was one of the important and good things
pruned entirely out of his life.
Those of us connected to our culture, our Indian
ways, have a responsibility to teach those of us who
aren't. It's a good place to begin, much like the
young girl who swept away the old hurts and the
past separate lives of the couple before they were
joined together as one.
| Kimberlee Medicine Horn Jackson, Yankton Sioux writes on a variety of topics of interest to Native Americans both on and off the reservations and the non-native reponses to the challenges we face. SHe is studying for a Master's of Fine Arts in Poetry/Creative Non-Fiction. She lives in Ohio with her son, her German Shepherd Dog and cat. |
| THE NIR TAMID by Elaine Rosenberg Miller |
She stared up at the tablets.
Hebrew letters were carved into the
wood.
Five commandments per tablet,
separate but joined. The first set
referred to the laws between man and
God, the second, between man and
man.
She reached the sixth line.
She quickly dropped her gaze to the
heavy book resting on her lap.
Parashas Yisro. The giving of the ten
commandments.
"Why is the parsaha named after
Yisro, Moshe's father-in-law, who after
all was a heathen, a pagan, a Midianite
prince?" the speaker asked. "Why not
call it Parsahas Moshe? After all,
wasn't Moshe the greatest teacher,
prophet?"
No one responded.
"It's because the chapter begins 'And
Yisro heard'. What did Yisro hear?"
Someone sneezed.
"Yisro heard of all that Hashem had
accomplished for Moshe and the
Jewish people and he hurried to join
them. He rushed. He brought his
daughter, Moshe's wife and her two
sons and joined the Jewish nation.
Because Yisro accepted God so
readily, because he sped to accept
him, he is honored by having the
chapter named after him."
She read the English translation.
"You shall not kill: you shall not commit
adultery; you shall not steal; you shall
not bear false witness against your
fellow."
She slapped the book shut. She
wondered if anyone had noticed. The
old woman next to her was hard of
hearing. Her Irish caregiver seemed
consumed with the service.
Adultery, she said to herself, is right up
there with murder.
She wondered if he had left a message
on her computer.
She closed her eyes, trying to block
out the memories of the previous night,
She imagined that her face was
flushed.
They were all the same! Adultery,
murder, theft, lying. Taking one's life,
one's marital relationship, one's
property, one's reputation.
She shifted in her seat.
"What are they up to?" the elderly
woman asked, tapping her forearm.
"I don't know. I lost track. Somewhere
around here," she said, opening the
book.
"When are they going to do the prayer
for the sick?" she demanded, her voice
rising. Her attendant put her fingers to
her lips.
"I'm not sure. Soon."
"I can't walk," she said loudly.
"Maa," her daughter said, approaching.
"Ssh."
"When is it over?"
"Same time as always."
"Remember. I have to go to Jennifer's.
You promised."
"Later."
"I don't know why I have come here
every week."
"Do you want to sit down?"
The girl rolled her eyes and looked
over at the other woman. She made a
small circle with her forefinger adjacent
to her head.
Her mother coughed, hoping that no
one had seen her.
She turned and walked towards the
back of the sanctuary.
The strong light streamed through the
tall, Moorish looking windows.
It's as if God is in this room, she
thought.
What would he say?
She must choose between her lover
and God.
She found herself swinging between
faith in him and faith in God.
The letters seemed burned into the
wood.
She knew that the plaque had been
carved over one hundred years ago
and had been housed in a
congregation of tailors and tradesmen
in the north. When the group withered,
its furniture and ornaments were
reinstalled here, in their assembly.
How many eyes have gazed up at
these tablets, illuminated by the Nir
Tamid, the Eternal Flame, suspended
above the cabinet containing the holy
scrolls, she wondered.
During the last hurricane, I bet the
lamp went out, she thought.
Thinking of him, his broad back,
deeply muscled, his masculinity,
caused her heart to ache.
They seemed so perfect together. Two
pieces of a puzzle.
She stared at the tablets. Pleaded with
them. Argued with them. Wordlessly.
He wanted her.
Her pleas were unanswered,
What if there isn't a God? she thought,
angrily.
Silence.
"Are they up to it yet?" her seatmate
shouted.
"What?"
"The prayer for the sick!"
"No, I'll tell you when."
A tall man was chosen to lift and exhibit
the scrolls. Some people crooked their
finger in the direction of the rotating
torah. She kept her hands at her side,
occasionally wrapping them around
her waist as if to steady herself.
Another man gently placed a belt,
covered in blue velvet, around the s
crolls securing them. The congregation
sang as they placed the embroidered
cover over the fastened torahs.
A sign, she thought. I need a sign.
Seated in the sanctuary, surrounded
by ritual, objects, people, she felt
secure, certain about herself. Outside,
in the glare of the strong sun, she lost
vision.
"Did I miss it?"
"Miss what?"
"What's the matter with you? The
prayer for the sick!"
"I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention."
"What good are you!"
"Mrs. Cohen," the companion, broke
in, "it's coming up. Here, mark this
page" she said, handing her a prayer
book.
"How did you know that?"
"Oh, I've been coming for years and
with Mr. Cohen before that." She
smiled.
"I love your accent. Where are you
from?"
"County Cork."
"I love Irish literature."
"Ssh!" the deaf woman said.
She glanced at her watch. Eleven.
Another hour to go.
She turned around and glanced at the
women behind her sporting all sorts of
straw, felt, and lace trimmed hats.
She had never worn a hat, even when
she had been married. Hats gave her
a headache, she claimed.
She had always craved a mantilla, like
some Spanish duena.
One to hide behind.
"Every day is a new day," the speaker
thundered.
That's for certain, she mused.
"Dysfunctional families. Excuses. No
one had a more abusive father that
Abraham the Prophet. His father was
an idol maker. He tried to have him
killed. Brothers? Cain and Abel, Jacob
and Esau. Joseph and his brothers.
Yet they preserved. Reinvented
themselves."
She lost track of the speech, sped
along by reveries of his body and
power and ardency.
Her daughter returned.
"When?"
"Soon ."
She turned, frustrated and left.
She watched her daughter's retreating
back, her narrow shoulders, her
slender legs tottering on her first pair
of heels.
"She's going to be tall," her bench
mate yelled.
"Yes."
"Like her mother. Pretty."
She wanted to gather her belongings,
children and flee to him but she
remained seated, as if glued to the
wooden bench built for the simple
worshipers of the last century and
those before them.
The time ticked by and still she stayed.
CHRISTMAS IS By Maryann Miller |
Christmas is a time like no other in the lives of most people. From the wistful old lady who sits
alone remembering Christmases past, to the starry-eyed kid who bounces around the house
singing his own rendition of Silent Night, there is a place for each of us.
Sometimes for me, Christmas is the desperate race to get everything done in time. Every year I
tell myself to start early. Make use of those lazy summer days to at least do the shopping, but
somehow I don't often find my summer days all that lazy. Not to mention how hard it is to think
"Christmas" when it's a hundred and five in the shade.
So invariably, I'll be running around the week before Christmas, trying to find something for Aunt
Lucy and trying to balance the number of packages each of our kids will receive. (They will count
them no matter how old they are.)
What bothers me most about last minute shopping isn't the mile long walk to get to the store from
the parking lot. It isn't the lady who runs over my foot with her shopping cart. It isn't the clerk who
can't possibly tell me where to find the ‘must have’ toy for this year. What bothers me most is
wondering whether I'll make it through the check-out line before the kid I bought the tricycle for is
ready for a car.
Sometimes I'd like to forget all about the Christmas Season and just spend two weeks in a rest
home. Especially when the excitement starts to build in my kids, and I wish they'd just sit still and
be quiet so I'd be more in the mood to be nice to them. It's hard to think kindly of a kid who's
followed you around the house for a week reading his Christmas list.
Sometimes Christmas is the frustration of cookie crumbs mashed in the carpeting, candy canes
stuck on the sofa cushions and the eighteen truckloads of trash strewn around the living room on
Christmas morning. Sometimes it is a sense of futility as I wonder if we'll ever overcome our kids'
basic selfishness and teach them the concept of giving as well as receiving. And sometimes it is a
feeling of anxiety over whether we've maintained the proper balance between Santa Claus and
Bethlehem.
But that's only sometimes.
Other times Christmas is a warm feeling of closeness when I share my daughter's wide-eyed
wonder at the concept of Santa and all his magic. Or when I share my son's pride in the surprise
he created for his dad out of a chaos of construction paper and glitter. Or when I share my
daughter's satisfaction when she transforms our living room into a wonderland of tinsel and holly.
Or when my other son asks me for the umpteenth time to get my guitar and play the Little
Drummer Boy, and it reminds me mistily of another time, another place.
Somehow my dad could never refuse either.
And other times I think my heart will burst when I watch one of my kids spend their last dollar on a
present for the brother I was sure they hated. Or when I find something totally impractical under
the tree for me, and I look up to see my husband smiling in delight.
And other times I have a sense of awe when one of the kids wants to bake Jesus a Birthday cake
and sing Happy Birthday. Other times I'm filled with an incredible sense of tenderness and love
when I watch my oldest daughter set up the nativity scene and explain to the younger kids what
happened that magical night two thousand years ago.
Yes indeed, CHRISTMAS IS a time like no other in my life!
| A diverse writer of columns, feature stories, short fiction, novels, screenplays and stage plays, Maryann Miller has won numerous awards including being a semi-finalist at the Sundance Institute for her screenplay, A Question Of Honor. Her work has appeared in regional and national publications, and the Rosen Publishing Group in New York has published her non-fiction books for teens, including the award-winning Coping with Weapons and Violence In School and On Your Streets. A romantic suspense One Small Victory is in hardback from Five Star Cengage/Gale Publishing, and Play It Again, Sam is an e-book from Uncial Press. You can visit her Web site at: http://www.maryannwrites.com and read her blog at http://its-not-all-gravy.blogspot.com/ |
Plan B - The Sepulveda Solution by Kathie Freeman |
It was crisis time for this one-time middle-class suburb of Los Angeles. Gangs ruled the
neighborhoods, drugs could be purchased on any street corner, and prostitutes plied their trade
openly in the business district. Legitimate businesses were shutting their doors, and law- abiding
citizens were leaving town in droves. Something had to be done, and quickly. A bold stroke that
would send the message loud and clear: "We're not going to take this any more". And so the
ever-ingenious city fathers put their heads together and came up with an absolutely fool-proof
plan, one that would solve all of their urban problems in one fell swoop. They could abolish crime,
end homelessness, wipe out graffiti, and banish gangs from their neighborhoods forever, and
they wouldn't even have to raise taxes to do it.
How, you ask? Simple. They changed their name. On January 1, 1992, the crime-ridden,
gang-infested, trash- littered city of Sepulveda simply ceased to exist. In its place arose the
beautiful community of North Hills, a veritable paradise of prosperity and tranquility. The
improvement in the quality of life was both immediate and startling. The local residents, long
accustomed to drug dealers on every corner, were pleasantly surprised to find themselves
surrounded by pharmaceutical entrepreneurs. No longer did roving gang members engage in
drive-by shootings. Now regional confederations practiced ballistic exchanges. Topless bars and
pornographic bookstores were replaced by minimum apparel salons and anatomical research
libraries. The prostitutes all became independent entertainment specialists, and the homeless
were quickly housed in spacious and well-ventilated plaza suites. Litter vanished from the streets,
supplanted by unattached detritus. Block walls and buildings everywhere are now liberally
festooned with urban territorial art works. Problem solved!
The success of this bold experiment has profound implications for the rest of America. What has
worked so well for the San Fernando Valley can work for the rest of the country. It's quick, it's
easy, and requires little effort on the part of citizens or government officials. The President must
appoint a committee, a blue-ribbon commission on community names. He could call it, say, the
Presidential Appellation Delegation (PAD for short) and appoint to it the most talented
name-callers in the country. Their task will be to identify all the blighted and down-trodden areas
of the country and give them creative new names.
Just imagine the possibilities! Watts could become Wildwood Corners, for instance, and Harlem
might be called Happy Acres. Love Canal could be Black Creek Village. Oh wait. It already is.
Anyway, the choices are limitless. And think of the prestige! If anyone should wax so bold as to
ask a Delegation member, "What have you done for the country lately?", he or she need only
reply, "I'm on the PAD". Everyone will know exactly what they mean.
Best of all will be the money we'll save. We won't need redevelopment agencies. The welfare
people will be out of a job. We can disband the DEA, and retire most of our police officers. After
all, with poverty quickly giving way to circumscribed finances, there'll be no more need for theft.
Why, we could cut the Federal deficit by half overnight.
True, this plan will not be without cost. Signs will have to be repainted and maps relabeled.
Businesses will have to print up new stationery. These expenses are trivial, however compared to
the long-term benefits of the changes. So please, concerned citizens, write the President and
your congressperson and insist that they implement this innovative plan. Let's give America a
name she can really be proud of!
THE END
copyright 1998 All rights reseved
Next Order of Business Rie Sheridan Rose |
“Moving on, we have been tasked by the CEO to decide on the feasibility of continued
operations in Sector 994. As you know, our profitability in that market has continued to
deteriorate—”
“Um…Mr. Chairman…” The voice was light and tentative, but he could guess where this was
heading.
“Yes?” he sighed, rolling his eyes at the slight figure before him. “What is it now?”
“I just wondered if we’ve really explored all avenues open to us in this matter. Surely there
must be some less drastic solution. Think of all the people who will be affected.”
“Oh give it a rest, messenger boy,” Rafe drawled while studying one perfectly manicured hand.
“Sector 994 is a money pit. We can’t keep pouring resources into that black hole.” He
shrugged Armani clad shoulders. “I know you have a particular fondness for the place, but
really….”
“That’s enough,” admonished the chairman. “It is a big decision to make, and one that shouldn’
t be taken lightly. However….” He plopped a four-inch thick report binder onto the tabletop with
a dramatic thud. “…I think that you will have to agree that this decision is backed up by
exhaustive research. Several independent consulting firms have made evaluative visits to the
area, and all of them recommend this closure.”
“There is one option you haven’t mentioned, Mr. Chairman,” murmured a voice from the
doorway.
“This is a closed meeting, Luke. You are no longer part of this board.”
“Oh, yes. I know.” The newcomer strolled forward, hands in his pockets. “I was thrown out of
the organization for daring to voice an opposing viewpoint. But I’ve managed to turn that
dismissal into an advantage. I’ve carved quite a lucrative little niche for myself. And now, I am
in a position to offer your esteemed board a proposal.”
He pulled one hand free of his pocket and snapped his fingers.
A figure materialized at his side with an open briefcase.
“Thank you, Don.” Luke pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I am prepared to take Sector 994 off
your hands for a fair sum. It is better than the offer I made last time.”
“Last time you attempted a hostile take-over,” Rafe interjected while his dark brows drew
together in a scowl. “Don’t listen to him, Mr. Chairman. Let’s just close it down.”
“Can’t we at least hear him out?” Gabe pleaded. “Michael, please—”
“Enough!” Michael thundered. “Thank you for the offer, Luke, but the CEO was quite specific
that it was either complete shut-down or continued operation. There is no ground for
compromise. Majority carried the vote. Cass, if you will add the results to the minutes?”
Cass nodded, fingers poised over his keyboard.
“All in favor of continued operation in Sector 994?”
Only Gabriel’s hand went up. His face grew still, and he turned away, his eyes suspiciously
bright.
“All in favor of complete shut-down of the operation?”
Six hands rose without hesitation. Gabriel groaned.
“Majority carries the vote. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Lucifer shrugged. “I’ll just pick up the property and start from scratch.” He grinned at his own
pun. “Come, Abbadon. We have work to do.”
Gabriel buried his head in his hands as the chairman reached for the phone.
Michael took a deep breath and punched the direct line to the CEO’s office. He spoke softly
into the receiver. “The vote carried, Sir. Six to one. We will be suspending all operations on
Earth.”
“Auto Pilot” by Kimberly J. Dalferes |
Most days, commuting into the District was fairly uneventful, if even downright boring. Boring
is OK. At 7 am, boring is what you want. Read the paper, check the horoscope, review the to-
do list on the blackberry. But, you can get so complacent, so routinized, that from time to time
you might miss your stop. You tend to get set on auto-pilot mode.
And then, one day, things can get interesting.
It started off like any normal commuting day. Parked the car in the garage at the Vienna metro
(end of the line, Orange) walked to the train, found a seat and waited for the door chime that
lets the occupants know, just like Pavlov’s dogs, that we’re moving toward the city. [Quick
sidebar: did you know that the DC metro system door chimes are actually the first two notes of
“Swing Low Sweet Chariot”? I think that’s kind of cool, don’t you?].
So, on this particular morning I settled into my bright orange vinyl seat and the first stop at
Dunn Loring was pretty uneventful, nice looking guy boarded and sat next to me. Smile and a
nod and then I was back to the paper.
Then, at West Falls Church, these two young women stumbled onto the train. And when I say
stumbled, I mean tumbled, stumbled, and groped their way through the door. One was a tall
blonde, one a short brunette, and both were dressed as young professionals going into work:
Ann Taylor suits, hose, sensible pumps. But something was definitely amiss. I looked up just
in time to hear the brunette announce:
“Man, this sucks… no seats… this just sucks...”.
What was peculiar was that there were PLENTY of open seats, at least ten bright orange
bench seats. I thought, “what the hell was she talking about”?
And then I took in, a bit more carefully, their appearance and I saw that things were not quite
right. The make-up was just a little messy and the mascara was a bit smudged, and not in that
cool New York runway model kind of way. The brunette’s blue button down shirt was untucked
on one side and the blonde had definitely not brushed her hair that morning.
And then it hit me: they were both drunk, plowed, completely ripped! It was 7 am… in the
morning! On a work day! Are you kidding me? And, it was suburbia: West Falls Church is
not exactly the area you go to party all night and do the crawl of shame back home. So you
wonder, are they heading home? Where have they been? Did they leave their car
somewhere and are just trying to get back? Is there some wild nightlife in West Falls Church
and I’ve just reached that age when I don’t know what hip is? This, I decided, was doubtful…I
mean, I have hit that age, but it’s West Falls Church for crying out loud.
The cute guy next to me leaned in and asked, “Do you think they are really drunk or just really
stupid?”
Well, our brunette friend answered this on queue when she began to pronounce to her blonde
friend, and to, of course, the entire occupancy of the metro car:
“My head hurts” as hands went to head.
“My back hurts” as hands went to the small of her back.
“My coochie hurts” as, thankfully she tripped over absolutely nothing, preventing her from
showing us all her cash and prizes!
“Oh no”, continued my seat companion, “they’re both stupid AND drunk”!!
Everyone in the car was now just transfixed by the spectacle. You couldn’t help but laugh, you
wanted to look away and you couldn’t.
At our next stop at East Falls Church, this poor sap, who had no clue what he was walking into,
boarded the train and proceeded to stand in the corner closest to the Budweiser Twins.
However, he quickly surmised the situation and attempted to hold the paper up in front of him,
intently reading the Style section of the Post. Why didn’t he just sit down? The brunette
stumbled over and began to read page C 1.
“Gee, that John Edwards is cute, isn’t he cute? I’d vote for him just because he is so hot! He’s
married, right? I’d still date him... damn he is HOT!”
I was now beginning to get just a little worried because it occurred to me: these gals might be
heading in to work. They might actually think they can pull this off…slink in to their offices, or,
more likely, their cubicles, undetected, down a pot or two (or ten) of coffee and maybe sober
up a bit before the boss caught on. I began to think: I need to rescue these girls. I need to
guide them off the train, find a cab, and send them home to sleep this off. It really was my
moral obligation to the next generation of working women.
But, alas, I hesitated and at the next stop, Ballston, the girls tumbled, again, out of the Metro
car. Cute fella next to me announced to all of us: “I promise I will go to church for a month if
they fall down the escalator”. I must admit, I laughed at that.
And off they went, giggling and holding each other up on the escalator as they moved upward
and out of sight and we pulled out of the station.
I often think of those two girls and I wonder what happened. Do you think they were going to
work or were they heading home? Do you think some co-worker took pity on them and sent
them home or narc’d them out and got them fired? What do you think happened when they
sobered up? Do you think they ever realized that, for a few moments one morning they
managed, for three metro stops, to take a whole carload of commuters off of auto-pilot? I do
hope they remember the ride.
Christmas Card Connection |
My husband shamed me into sending
Christmas cards that year. “Shannon, where’
s your holiday spirit?” he asked.
I snapped at him, “I don’t have any. Tampa
doesn’t look or feel like Christmas. It’s 80
degrees outside.”
The truth of the matter was I missed our
home in New Jersey – longed for a glass of
wine by a crackling fire, gray skies spitting
snow, a cup of tea with a friend. My
husband and son were adjusting beautifully
to Tampa. I, on the other hand, felt like
yelling, I hate it here, and I always will.
The logical part of me understood the
reason for the move – a company merger
had spawned an unhealthy work
environment for my husband. But the
emotional part of me felt angry with David
for uprooting our family, and wanted to lash
out. Yet those feelings remained locked
inside. David doesn’t do well with tantrums,
and I was ashamed of feeling like such a
baby.
So, I sat down with my address labels and
started to write. Each label held the name of
someone special to our family. Each name
brought forth a memory. I paused over the
address label for Sheila McGill – Naples,
Florida! Maybe this move would provide an
opportunity to reconnect with an old friend
from when we lived in Nebraska. Sheila and
I hadn’t seen each other in nearly 15 years.
Our friendship started when Sheila invited
David and me to a 4th of July celebration.
Her big heart wouldn’t allow a family, new to
the area, to spend the holiday alone. I
smiled as I remembered her
competitiveness during a game of croquet.
And then there was a more poignant
memory – one that took my breath away.
Sheila was one of the first people I called
when one of my twins died from Sudden
Infant Death Syndrome. I had called her on
a hot July night. The shades were drawn
against curious neighbors. The house felt
dark and depressing. I had sobbed, “Eric
died. He just stopped breathing. This hurts
so badly, and I’m not sure I can live through
it.”
A mother of twins herself, Sheila had a
special empathy for the pain I felt. She said,
“I can’t do this on the phone. I’ll be right
over.”
Again, I felt Sheila’s hand holding mine
through the long night. I saw her eyes fill
with tears. There was nothing she could do
but listen.
Writing Christmas letters reminded me of
friends both old and new. I mailed the cards,
wrapped the presents, set up the crèche.
Several days passed by, and then the
phone rang.
The man on the line identified himself as
Sheila McGill’s second husband. I had
never met George, though I remembered
him from her Christmas letters. “Were you a
friend of hers?” he asked. “Or did your
husband know her?”
He spoke of Sheila in the past tense, but I
didn’t fully understand – the news was too
shocking. I told him about my relationship
with her, and of how she would always have
a special place in my heart. Then George
asked me to sit down. A sick feeling washed
over me as he explained that on Ash
Wednesday, 2007, Sheila died in a
motorcycle accident. Dead? It just couldn’t
be! Sheila was wiry, with short-spiked hair. I
pictured her smiling face. I heard her
pealing laughter as she planned a
neighborhood card game, a girl’s lunch out,
a trip to a comedy club. The Sheila I
remembered was full of life. I asked him
about her twin girls. George assured me
they were doing as well as could be
expected. He ended our conversation by
saying, “Hang on to your good memories of
her.”
I sat quietly lost in feelings of disbelief.
Finally, I called my husband, David, to share
the sad news. “Nooo,” he said. “That doesn’
t seem possible.” Telling Sheila’s story,
made it seem more real, and I found comfort
in his reaction. She was special to him too.
During the rest of the holiday season, I
pondered my memories of Sheila. She lived
her life focused on the things that really
matter. She’s gone, but the effects of her
many kindnesses remain.
Though the innkeeper turned away Mary
and Joseph, Sheila made room for us at her
family’s table. At a time when many people
avoided me, unsure of what to do or say in
the face of a child’s death, Sheila held my
hand. I remembered that
it’s not as important where we spend the
holidays as who we spend them with. Some
miracles are tinged with sadness. Through
Christmas cards, I reconnected with my old
friend after all.
| Shannon Hitchcock is a free-lance writer based in Tampa, Florida. She specializes in writing for children. Her stories have appeared in Highlights for Children, Cricket, Pockets, Wee Ones, Children’s Writer, and other magazines. Visit Shannon on the web at http://www.shannonhitchcock.com |
Drama Boy |
Walt took a moment to survey his classroom and was actually pleased to discover that it didn’t
look any different that it had when he had been a student here 26 years earlier. Metal desks
with Formica covered plywood desktops. Fabric covered metal blinds with knotted cords in
various stages of stuck. Green tile that could never be removed without benefit of a hazmat
team. One outlet at each end of the room, and nowhere near the ethernet jack he noted on
the opposite end of the front wall near the phone.
The phone was new. Walt couldn’t remember a phone. He did remember the call switch which
connected directly to the main office that Mr. Rickey would use to summon the vice-principal
on occasion. He wondered if it still worked but thought better of flipping the switch from the
private to call position.
Some might have found the lack of modern amenities one more reason to regret moving back
to one’s hometown and teaching in one’s old high school, but for reasons he was still working
out, Walt was delighted by every unchanged aspect of his past life peeking out under his
present circumstances.
Although not particularly nostalgic, Walt appreciated the comfortable. The boyhood he had
chafed under however was a surprising fit for the man he found himself. Who knew?
The room faced the inner courtyard, and trees which had been mere saplings now blocked the
view and in certain spots, poked leafy arms through the screen less windows. He had arrived
quite early to find a squirrel at breakfast in the middle of the room that morning, and a bird’s
nest on top of the intercom above the door. There was nothing like this in the last school he’d
taught at in San Francisco.
212 was a narrow room, running the length of two classrooms with an instruction area in the
front and a small stage in the back. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the stage lights
were functional and dismayed to discover that the cabinets that lined one side of the back of
the stage and nearly half the room on the other were stuffed with what appeared to be
decades worth of discarded textbooks, moldy costumes, sports magazines and leftover stage
props. It appeared that more than one of his predecessors had simply walked away with
nothing more than the clothes on his or her back.
He stood in the middle of the room, hoping a plan for organization would manifest if he simply
allowed himself a moment to feel completely overwhelmed before digging in to what promised
to be several full days of sorting and hauling and being coated with the thin grim of school
eras past.
Holding out his arms with palms facing up and thumbs pinched to pinkies, he parked his feet in
third, closed his eyes and let his head tip back. Taking several deep breaths, he opened his
eyes again and looked around.
“Well, that did nothing,” he sighed and headed wearily to the first set of cabinets.
He opened the doors and cast off clothing from cleats to prom gowns tumbled out, burying him
knee deep in debris not even worthy of a rummage sale. A decidedly stale odor followed
closely, grimacing he lifted one foot and took a step back while pulling the other free. He was
shaking a pair of Christmassy striped boxers from his leg like a randy dog when he heard a
rap on the open door, and she walked in.
“I always wondered what was in there,” she commented and curiously peeked around and in at
the mounds of dank clothing which had not spilled out onto the floor.
She waved a hand in front of her face and stepped away.
“I hope you brought gloves.”
“It might have been a good idea,” he agreed. “I get the feeling that the last guy didn’t bother
much with details like props, scenery, scripts, teaching in general…Stop me if I hit on anything
he might have actually accomplished.”
The woman shrugged and rolled her eyes.
“That bad, huh?”
“We haven’t had a drama production in about 6 years.”
“How’d he get away with that?” Walt asked.
“Theories abound. My favorite one has bondage overtones that probably aren’t appropriate
for a conversation with someone you’ve only just met.”
Walt appraised her admiringly. A helluva opener from a woman who looked like she practiced
wallflower techniques. Possibly pretty but with the hair pulled back in a tight pony-tail,
colorlessly framed wire glasses and clothes at least a size too big, it was hard to actually tell.
“Walt Lucas,” he extended a hand and was surprised to meet a firm grip in return. She had
looked like one of those women who presented with their fingertips and clamped with the
thumb. A pageant princess interpretation that always tempted Walt to make a sweeping bow.
“Julie Cooper,” she motioned to the door, “I teach 11th grade English across the hall.”
“Very nice to meet you. You know you’re the first person who’s actually spoken to me first all
morning,” he told her. “Mostly it’s been head nods, whispering, and pointing. Although the
home ec teacher is quite the versatile conversationalist.”
“That would be Susie Klein-Kelly. And it’s Family and Consumer Science teacher, for future
reference. You’ll never get fresh baked cookies otherwise.”
“Good to know,” he wasn’t sure but he felt she had another purpose for introducing herself
and whatever it was she had changed her mind because she smiled a little shyly and began
backing towards the door.
“I’ll see you at the department meeting then.”
“Department meeting? Oh, yeah. Eleven?”
Julie nodded, disappearing.
He followed, watching her slip quickly into her own room, closing the door behind her.
Interesting, he thought and turned back happily to the mountain of apparel just as a cockroach
scurried out and across the floor.
Arms out, palms up, Walt assumed the position.
Ann Bibby is a blogger and short fiction writer living in Canada. |
THE FINAL STAR by Barry Eva |
She stopped what she was doing and took a step back, looking at her handy work. The tree
sparkled with multi-colored lights reflecting on the numerous ornaments that dotted around the
tree. It would do.
She had only decided to put the tree up at the last moment, for her this Christmas was an
empty shell of what it had been in the past. Her only daughter was three thousand miles
across a stormy ocean with her family. Sure she would get the phone call, or if she
remembered how to get the thing to work, a web cam session on the computer. The computer
was something her husband had bought them so they would be able to keep in contact with
their daughter.
Last Christmas he had spent hours teaching her how to use the computer to enable them to
see and talk to their daughter and their grandchildren. It was almost like he was showing her
because he knew… he knew that the next Christmas, he would not be there to create the link.
Just four months previous, she had suddenly found herself alone. One morning he had simply
just not woken up. She never imagined life without her husband, but over the last months it
was something she'd had to deal with.
Now being Christmas it was even harder.
She wiped away a tear that had leaked from her eye, and took a final look at the tree.
There was only one thing missing, the final star.
Every Christmas, the star had always been the final item on the tree, placed there by the two
of them, as if to underline that they were ready for Christmas. This year when she had
unpacked the Christmas decorations, she'd found the star broken, like her heart.
She sat sipping her coffee, looking at the tree; it looked so empty without the star. Just like her
life was without her husband.
Sitting on the table beside her sat a pile of cards. She just had not been able to open the
festive greetings when so many had been addressed to Mr and Mrs Johnstone. Picking the
first one from the pile, she opened it and read the words inside. It was too much. Tears she'd
held back for months streamed down her face. She dropped the letter and buried her face in
her hands.
Why had he been taken away from her? What did she have to celebrate this Christmas?
Leaving the pile of letters unopened, she made her way to a lonely bed to cry herself to sleep.
It seemed she had only just gone to sleep when loud knocking on the front door woke her up.
She looked across at the clock through heavy red rimmed eyes. It was ten past ten, who would
be calling at this time of the night. The knocking came again.
"Hold on, I'm coming." She shouted pulling her dressing gown round her as she descended
the stairs to the front door. A small face was pressed up against the glass. Carol singers, this
late at night???
She opened the door and was nearly bowled over as two young children jumped at her,
wrapping their arms around her.
"Merry Christmas Grandma."
"Merry Christmas Mum" came the voice of her daughter Rosemary and her husband, as they
moved into the light from the hallway.
"What…. How… Why didn't you tell me…?"
Words were lost as fresh tears spilled down her face as her daughter hugged her close.
"Mum, we sent a letter. In the Christmas card? "
She looked back at the pile of cards, still unopened on the table.
Still in a state of shock, she led the family into the living room.
While her husband took the cases and the children up to the bedrooms, Rosemary sat with
her Mom.
"You did know we were coming didn't you Mom?"
"I did not get around… I could not…" tears once more. "Mom, we could not let you spend
Christmas alone, or any other Christmas for that matter."
"I don't understand…."
"Mom… After Christmas, we'll start planning for you to come back and stay with us."
Further conversation was stopped by two children filled with the love of the excitement of the
trip, the love of their grandmother and the joy of Christmas came running down the stairs.
"Grandma, Grandma" they both shouted. "We've brought you a special Christmas present.
Dad says you can open it early."
Eager little hands thrust a package at her.
"But… I can't."
Rosemary put her hand on her mother's, as her husband came and stood behind the two
children, eyes wide as saucers with excitement.
"Mom, please, the children bought this with their own money, it means a lot to them."
Slowly she opened the package. Under the wrappings of tissue paper, she carefully removed
a bright shining star.
Rosemary took the star, and with help from her husband placed it on the top of the Christmas
tree.
Hugging her grandchildren to her, she looked at the star glittering at the top of tree. The final
star was in place. Now she could celebrate Christmas.
Jay and the Giants |
My husband looks upon the New York Giants
as the second coming of whomever he
worships, and that’s no joke. Today is
Sunday, and the Giants are playing. He is
transfixed. While the rest of the people in his
world go about our business, his eyes never
leave the TV.
I make the assumption that he’s taken care
of all bathroom necessities and has eaten
something to tide him over until dinner,
because there is no movement going on in
his den.
I always think about wild animals who live in
dens—close, dense and deep enclaves,
where they cannot be seen or even heard.
Perhaps we could even pass over their
hideouts, while the animals are in there, not
moving, and never know that they were
there. Protective instincts; They guard their
turf. I guess it’s just an animal thing to do.
So is Jay protecting his Giants; guarding
their turf? Today, I asked him toward the
end of the game how he felt about the fact
that it was a shut out for his team. He never
moved his head. Even though they were
winning, twenty-four, zip, the only words that
came out of his mouth were, “Ask me when it’
s over…”
I didn’t bother.
There is only one thing on earth; a living,
breathing soul who will move Jay out of his
den during a Giants game. Her name is
Maggie and she is our dog. Maggie eats at
four o’clock in the afternoon, on the dot.
How she knows that it’s four is beyond me. If
her alpha male does not comply with her
demands, she takes no prisoners. In fact,
short of biting him, she will pull at his clothes,
push at his arms with her nose and finally
bark in his ear until he moves accordingly.
The whole task of feeding her and letting her
out takes no more than five, ten minutes,
tops. But to him, it’s an enormous gesture of
kindness he makes, when he feeds her on
Giant’s time. Just consider the
circumstances: Somebody could make a
pass on the field, or a field goal, or even a
touchdown; and maybe it would be the other
team.
When I met Jay as a young woman, I knew
about his NY Giants obsession. I even went
to great lengths to learn about the game, in
total, so that if I wanted to be with him on a
Fall Sunday, I would at least understand
what was going on.
After the babies were born—and they were
clearly not conceived on a Sunday afternoon
in autumn—they were not allowed in the den
while he was watching his men in their blue.
After all those years, I lost interest in the
players who were not recognizable to me
without checking the back of their shirts for
the names and numbers. I got to the point
where I cared even less about who made
what play and sadly, who was injured.
Now that our babies are all grown and out of
the house, and I could check back on the
Giants to see what they are up to now, I only
care to see if he’s happy when the game is
over.
You see? It all depends on the score. If
they win, he remembers he has a wife in the
house. If they lose, I watch “Desperate
Housewives,” alone.
| Linda Spear is an author and a journalist with 30 years of communications experience. As a 19-year veteran journalist for The New York Times reported primarily on evolving health and human interest issues that affect our culture. She is also a ghost writer for eight books by doctors who reveal the latest information in their field of medicine. |
GROWING UP by Tanja Cilia |
It happened shortly after I had my
appendectomy; I was merely six years old. It
was a clammy, grey Monday morning, as I
recall (because the maid always came on
Mondays, and that day she did, too).
Every staccato scene is still as sharp in my
memory as if I were riffling through a photo
album.
My only sister and I had been to the Public
Library after Mass, and brought home my
ration of Science Fiction books. Even at that
age, I loved to dream that one day, my name
would be on the cover of one of them.
On the way home we had dropped by at
Trezza’s house. The musty atmosphere –
due to the dry rot making surreal patterns as
it climbed the walls – did nothing to deter the
children of the neighbourhood from
congregating there. I remember that I was
wearing my scratchy striped top. It made me
itch, but I loved it.
Trezza had given us double helpings of
pistachio and choc-chip ice-cream. How
were we to know that a tragedy had just
unfolded, across the city, as we hopped,
skipped and jumped our way home? To this
day, even the very thought of choc-chip ice-
cream makes me want to throw up.
It was the morning my father died – July 11,
1966; in our summer holidays. When we got
home, there was already the smell of warm
tea and sweat, and cloying, conflicting
perfumes and after-shave lotions. Aunties
and Uncles had materialised from all over
the country, in the sitting room at our house,
saying trite things such as how he was
praying for us from heaven, and how my
mother was too young to be widowed at
forty. I felt nauseated, so I left the room.
Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. I knelt on
the window sill, sobbing and breathing onto
the panes, drawing pictures in the
condensation with my fingers. My Auntie
Stella knocked tentatively on the door,
opened it, and peeked from behind it, asking
whether she could come in. I nodded
through my tears.
She sat with me on the bed, hugged me, and
cupped my chin with her thumb and
forefinger. “You’re a big girl now!” she told
me. “Life will be very different. You have to
learn how to fend for yourself.”
I looked at her, uncomprehending. “…I don’t
mean simple things such as polishing your
shoes or making your own lunch… I mean
the tough things, such as maths homework
and speaking up for yourself and waking up
half an hour before you really ought to…”
One minute, I could not understand what she
meant, and the next, I could.
I had grown up.
Proposal in the Dough by Marguerite Arotin |
The last thing Ginny needed was for the phone to ring when her hands were covered with
sugar cookie dough, two of her cub scouts were fighting over who got to put the sprinkles on
the cut out shapes, and the timer had just buzzed. First things first, she had to get those
cookies out of the oven. The last thing she wanted to do was burn her first batch at her first
den meeting. “Aren’t you going to answer that, Mom?” Ginny’s seven-year-old tow headed
son pulled on her ruffled Christmas apron while the phone continued to ring.
“No. Whoever that is can leave a message on the answering machine. Now will you please
back up? You’re in the way of the oven door.”
The answering machine picked up just as Michael, one of the youngest scouts, came into the
kitchen with bottom lip protruding a full pout. “Ms. Jacobs, Ernie won’t share the sprinkler
canister.”
Ginny set the baking sheet on top of the stove, thankful that the cookies were golden brown
and not brunt to a crisp. “Ernie’s mom is in dining room with you boys helping you decorate.
Why are bothering—”
“Um, hi Ginny,” A familiar masculine voice sounded loud and clear on the answering machine.
“This is Nate. I was wondering how the cookie baking was going and … I guess I can you back
or I’ll see you when I pick Kyle up. Might be a little late, but I just thought you should know.
Bye.”
“Darn it!” She didn’t mean to shove Michael aside, but she had to call Kyle’s father back. Not
only was Nate probably the cutest single dad in her hometown, but also easily the sweetest.
They had one date when she’d managed to get a sitter, but she had known Nate Jordan since
high school. “Sorry kiddo. I need to take break and make a phone call.
Brushing a stray brown curl out of her eye so she could read his number, Ginny furrowed her
brows when she realized Nate had called her from his office. While she appreciated his
concern, why would he call her from work? She knew his job as a network engineer kept him
busy and she didn’t mind one bit if he was late to pick up his son. Jimmy and Kyle were best
friends and usually kept themselves occupied even after the other boys had gone home.
She hit his number and waited while the phone rang, half-expecting it to go directly into Nate’s
voicemail, she breathed a sigh of relief when she heard him answer, “Hello, this is Nate
Jordan.”
“Nate, hi. Hey look, while I appreciate you calling, I know you’re busy at work and you didn’t
have to—”
“Yes I did. I wasn’t just calling about Kyle. By the way did you open the batch of dough he
brought over?”
“Not yet. We’d finished one roll and I was about to move to the one you dropped off with Kyle
next.”
“Well, I was hoping I’d be there when you opened the dough, but the way things are going
tonight, and really, I just couldn’t wait anymore—”
“Wait anymore for what? I don’t understand.”
“Open the dough and you’ll see.”
She shrugged, wondering what could be so important about a batch of regular Pilsbury cookie
dough. “Should I call you back after I do or will you wait?”
“I’ll wait. Go on.”
Heading to the kitchen, she frowned when she spied flour on her hardwood dining room floor.
Ah well, she could always clean up later. Ginny found Kyle’s roll of cookie dough still in the
plastic grocery bag. It did seem odd to her that Kyle wanted to leave it in the bag when he
popped in the fridge, but she didn’t question at the time because the other boys were arriving
and she knew they had a crazy night planned.
She reached into the bag and then her hand went limp when she spied a diamond ring
meticulously tied to the cookie dough roll with red and green ribbon. Was the ring an
impromptu early Christmas gift from Nate or did it mean something more? Ginny shook her
head. It couldn’t mean more, couldn’t be a proposal, not after one official date. But if it did, it
wouldn’t be a bad thing. After all, she had adored Nate since he took her to her first dance. He’
d claimed back then that it was only a friendly thing. He was only doing a favor for her older
brother who wanted to go, but didn’t want to leave his little sister behind.
Ginny raced for the phone, determined to find out if he felt the same way about her as she did
for twenty years. “The ring’s beautiful, but it’s a bit much for a Christmas gift. I mean unless of
course—”
“I hope you’re not thinking it’s too soon for me to give you an engagement ring for Christmas.
God, that totally didn’t come out right. Can I start over?”
“If … I mean what do you want to say?”
“I want to tell you how I’ve loved you since you were fourteen years old. I mean to say that we
should’ve ended up getting married right out of high school but fate had other plans. I wish I
were there right now to get down on bended knee and ask you, but we’ll have to settle for over
the phone. Ginny, will you—”
“Yes!” Her joyous proclamation sliced through his proposal. Aware that the moms and kids
were now watching her, she didn’t care as two teardrops slipped down her cheek. “I love you
too and I will marry you.” She tore the ring off the curled ribbon and put it on. Perfect fit. “And
although you had to propose over the phone, I’ll give you bonus points for creativity. Tying the
ring to the cookie dough roll was genius.”
| Marguerite Arotin has been writing since the third grade when she wrote her first story for a Halloween class project and loved the praise she got from it. She didn’t pick up her first romance novel, however, until the age of nineteen when she met her husband who showed her that true love does exist. She lives in Ohio with a pesky kitten, an older lovable cat, and a smart little boy. You can find her stories at The Wild Rose Press- http://www.thewildrosepress. com and her first print novella is now available at Amazon as well http://www.amazon.com/Way-Back-Home-Abbey-MacInnis/dp/1601546572/ref=sr_1_1? ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255566387&sr=8-1 You can also find Marguerite on the net at her website- http://www.ohioromance.net for more tales of romance from the heartland & beyond. |
African Princess non-fiction by Natalie Williams www.natalie-williams.com |
I grabbed the wood of my staff. It was warm in the hot baking sun. Without it I would have been lost; my steady friend. I moved it in my fingers. It
was rough and the heat it had absorbed in the hours of my journey pulsed through the teak wood fibres, through into my skin and bones. The
wood was uneven and I cautiously ran my fingers down to its base, expecting a splinter but I felt no stab or prick. The knobbles and dark markings
that mottled its fibrous coat were part of my staff. Just like the African earth I stood in and was covered with my staff’s damaged parts were
beautiful. I looked down at my hands, happy in the silence. The lines in my hands were marked out from the red earth I’d climbed up in. There is a
legend, you know. They say the earth in Africa is so red that you can see the blood of fallen warriors flowing through it. I imagined the Zulu
warriors of old fighting with spears and skin shields, in the midday hours in the same grasslands I had passed through only moments before.
Disturbed from my reverie by the team, I turned to look what was happening behind me. Our guide was poised on one of the outlying boulders
looking over the grasslands by the waterhole. One of the men whispered to him, “what is It bût?” “Sssh.” Our team leader held his hand up to
silence him and pointed to the left of the horizon. We stood marking the silence, the heat cascading off the earth in mirage-like waves, until
towards the left rising slope we saw a herd of antelope strolling through the grasslands. The majestic herd leader strode tall, chewing the cud at
the front of the herd and looked over to where we stood, watching. He locked eyes with me, moment to moment, as keen to understand my
presence there as I was to understand his.
Two little ones skipped underfoot from the herd tumbling, forward from the back, play-fighting and as they spied the waterhole they raced forward
eager to drink from the cold, fresh water. The bull, graceful and in control tipped his antlers forward to trip them both up, never moving his locked
eyes from mine and the little ones plunged forward ahead of him and landed locked together antlers, red clouds of dust and excitement. We’d
seen crocodiles warming in the sun when we’d passed by before, I wondered how he’d known, or perhaps he believed he should drink before the
others.
It was strange how the herd marked us but did not run. Perhaps we had become like them, part of the bush and so we had our place. We had our
part to play.
In any case, we couldn’t stop to find out.
“Come on everyone, the mountain won’t climb itself and the hardest part is yet to come. Probably be cool ‘round mid afternoon, so use your water
now if you need it. We should hit the next water spot in a couple of hours.”
Our guide was an agile young man called Thulani, the name meant happiness in the native language of Zimbabwe, and I, along with many others,
was climbing its highest mountain. It had taken us three days to get to this point, on the shadow plains and as the grass underfoot turned to red
earth and then to red rock I knew it would become harder.
We moved up the red rocks, and with the sweat pouring off my legs the dirt that clung to my skin became like glue. Hands reached down for
hands, and muscles strained as we climbed further and further. My legs were burning with the effort each step took, but the feeling of the hot
rocks and sun on my skin was a comfort I knew I would never forget. I felt like I belonged.
Thulani reached the largest rock ahead of us, and stopped to look down. I smiled. He was like a cat, stretched out in his glory, and his glory was
his comfort in this wildness. I lunged forward, using my staff to pull me up and he grabbed my shoulders, placing me on the mossy rock beside him.
“Tired?” Thulani patted me on the arm.
“I’m ok. How do we go any further?” I gulped, looking downward at the red drop. The red earth had turned to clay, with rocks embedded inside like
souls trapped in a coffin. It was a long way down, and I had no idea with what strength I had left how I would get to where we going, or how we
could pass through here. There was a very small windy path, snaking its way down through the clay, only enough for one person and a staff.
Thulani pointed downward. The others were sat around me, breathing heavily. “Single file. Down the pass. It’s the only way to get up; we have to
go down first. Go slowly; use the staff to get a hold in the ground and you won’t fall. If you lose your grip, try not to get in anyone’s way or you’ll
take us all down with you. Now go, one at a time.”
I swallowed hard, I didn’t expect this. The earth was so beautiful but yet, for us, so small and insignificant it was beyond threatening. It held the
promise of death. Frozen in the spot I sat in, the boys went first and then the girls. Thulani nodded to me. His face was set in grave lines; maybe
he could sense my fear, our fear. The air was filled with it. I wanted to say I couldn’t but my body got up before my mouth could form the words.
I began to make my way down. The clay swallowed our feet, and dyed our hands red. The rocks inside it were sharp and my fingers began to
bleed. The blood marked the wood in my staff. I felt tears sting my eyes and blend into the russet-coloured sweat on my face. Thulani was behind
me. I turned to see where he was so I could keep enough space between us and as I did, I stepped too hard on the rock ahead of me and just
slipped. The air rushed in my nose, and the hot air turned to cold as I fell. I didn’t know where I was, or what would happen. I only felt the fear. I
could not control these next moments.
“There. Got you.” It was Thulani. Somehow he’d stopped me from falling.
“H-how?” I stammered, shaking. I felt like a dead weight. I could see the others, as he pulled me up, one-handed. I could smell the strain as he
pulled me closer, up back onto the path.
“I jumped.” He smiled again, his face was red-black and his white teeth shone uncomfortably in the sun.
There was no thank-you or time to experience the moment. We moved on, down and down until we slipped out at the bottom through a curtain of
sweet-smelling green firs, into a cold jet stream of water. Gasping with shock, I heard Thulani shout something in native language, and jump. We
were in the back of a waterfall, and so we all jumped, one after the other.
I couldn’t see the bottom, but the fear had been taken from me. We reached the water-side and clamoured out. I sat there in my own thoughts,
until night fell.
Thulani had built a fire the warm space between two huge boulders, and the others were sat rubbing their hands together. It was dark so
suddenly, as it always was in Africa but so much darker here. Our guide was sat on the boulder staring up into the sky.
We were right under the Milky Way. There were millions of stars, more than my eyes could take in or count. They were so close to the touch, I
climbed up to sit with Thulani and reached up to grab one for me to keep.
“Have you eaten little one?” He looked up at me in the darkness.
“No. Not hungry yet.” My hand was empty. There were no stars to keep, only to see.
“Sit.” He patted the granite beside him.
“I fell today.” I was ashamed, and whispered. “You caught me.”
“Yes, little one. Shall I tell you a story?” He held out his hand, and placed a rock, still warm from the heat in one of my hands, and a lump of clay in
the other. “You see, we have walked today in grass as high as the antelope, and drunk from the steam of the storm. We have bathed in the earth,
and washed ourselves of past and future. We have become covered in the soil, and we shall always carry these things with us, like these here in
your hands. We have hair, like the grass and skin, like the clay. We have hearts like the proud granite, and our souls will always give glory to the
stars, here.”
I looked down at the rock and clay, and up at the stars, frowning. “I don’t understand.”
“Little one, you have fallen in Africa and Africa caught you. You are part of it now, child. You’re an African princess now.”
Hush-a-bye, Baby by Rie Sheridan Rose -- the Bardabee Poet |
“I’m sorry. The situation proved to be more complicated than we originally anticipated. We did discuss this possibility. I’m sorry it proved to be the
case. There was nothing else we could do—”
Cora stared down at her hands, knotted tightly on the chenille spread. “It’s all right,” she answered, in her soft drawl. “God’s will be done.” She
smiled tremulously at the doctor, but her eyes were dry.
“Well, if I can do anything, just let me know.”
Cora’s throat worked convulsively as she fought the impending tears. You didn’t cry in front of strangers. Her mother had drummed that into her
head. Her mother….
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” the doctor promised, patting her arm consolingly. “You get some rest.”
After he left the room, Cora faced the wall and let the storm break. Disconsolate tears were counterpointed by ugly, racking sobs that tortured her
throat and sutured abdomen. They had assured her the operation was standard procedure. They had intimated there should be no permanent
repercussions. They had said the prognosis was good. They had made it seem mere routine to sign the consent form, “Just in case.”
They had apologized when there were complications.
The problem had been irreparable. They had removed her entire uterus. It didn’t help that the organ appeared to have been dysfunctional—what
mattered was that she could never have children….
When she had married young, they had been cutting corners so closely that it seemed prudent to wait before having children. There would be
time…and then Jerome's convertible slammed into a truck, killing him instantly. She never even got to say goodbye.
It had taken her four years to crawl out of that pit. She had begun to toy with the idea of having a baby alone. She had even made some
inquiries—before they rushed her to the hospital for the emergency surgery, and dashed her hopes again….
After the initial shock had died away, and they shooed her out of the hospital like a good little girl, she drifted back to her empty apartment and
her oh-so-proper career at the bank. Everyone was very solicitous, and somehow that made it worse. She just couldn’t take the kind looks and
the whispers. The management was generous with their severance package, and it gave her a little breathing space.
However it didn’t take long for the novelty of being a person of leisure to wear off. It gave her too much time to dwell on what she couldn’t change.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision really. She was walking by the daycare center and saw the sign in the window.
They were only looking for a general support person, so her lack of child-care experience didn’t worry them. Even the drastic pay cut was worth it,
because it gave her a chance to connected with children. She would sit on the floor, listening to the toddlers with grave attention. The youngsters
responded to her with an unconditional love that went a long way toward soothing the dull ache inside.
It was two months after she started the job that she first met Benny Chamberlain. It was love at first sight for Cora. When they met, Benny—a
solemn-eyed three-year-old whose tousled blond curls tangled engagingly over his forehead—hunkered silently with his back pressed tightly into
the corner.
“My name is Cora. What’s your name?” she asked softly, kneeling before him.
Hope lit his eyes. “Can we pretend you are my mommy?”
Cora’s heart contracted. “We can do that,” she promised recklessly, holding out her arms.
The little boy melted into them. “My name is Benny,” he whispered, his breath warm in her ear.
That afternoon, Cora learned that Benny’s mother had died six weeks earlier. His father, a corporate vice-president, didn’t seem to have much
time for Benny.
“Poor baby,” Cora sighed, eyes misting. “He doesn’t understand any of this, does he?”
After learning some of the details of Benny’s home life, Cora spent every moment she could with Benny, the numbness inside slowly dissolving
under the sunshine of his shy smile. In six months, she never saw his father, Landon Chamberlain, except when he pulled up outside and honked
for Benny. It grated on Cora’s nerves that the man never even left the car. He didn’t deserve a fine boy like Benny.
As Cora helped Benny into his coat one afternoon, the little boy gazed up at her with his soulful eyes and murmured, “Cora….”
“What, baby?” she asked absently.
“I wish it wasn’t just pretend. I wish you were my real mommy.”
Cora swept him into her arms, hugging him tightly. “So do I, sweetheart, but you know I can’t be. Your daddy loves you—”
“But he’s always busy with Debbie. He don’t have time for me.”
Cora’s blood boiled. Chamberlain not only neglected his son, but also spent all his time with a woman instead? How dare he! “Hush-a-bye, baby,”
she soothed Benny. “Everything will be all right.”
The more Cora thought about Chamberlain’s treatment of Benny, the angrier she became. It would serve the man right if Benny simply
disappeared one day….
Well, why not? She loved Benny, and Benny loved her. They needed each other, and Landon Chamberlain hardly knew his son existed. She
could take Benny away. They could start their own little family. Look how many milk carton kids vanished, even in this cybernetted wonderland….
Cora sat down hard on the tile floor, still clinging to Benny. How could she even consider such a thing? Stealing the boy wouldn’t make him hers. It
would be worse than illegal. It would be immoral. It would do to Chamberlain what had been done to her.
There was a loud honk outside, and Cora set Benny down, ruffling his hair. She could at least do something about that! “Let’s go talk to your
daddy,” she winked, taking Benny’s hand. “Maybe he’ll take you for pizza...would you like that?”
Benny nodded with delight, eyes shining. Cora marched purposefully to the curb.
A man with Benny’s beautiful eyes unfolded himself from the front seat of the waiting car, smiling wearily. “You must be Cora,” he commented,
extending his hand. “I’m Landon Chamberlain. Benny has told me all about you.”
“Mr. Chamberlain—” Cora began, but an imperious wail cut her off.
“Hush-a-bye, baby,” Chamberlain murmured, lifting an infant from the car. He jiggled her against one hip. “I’m sorry. I can’t leave Debbie alone in
the car, and getting her trussed into and out of the car seat is more than I can take just to run inside for Benny. I know he’s had to grow up too
fast lately, but my wife died right after the baby was born. It’s been rather hectic, juggling the kids and work….”
Cora’s preconceptions shattered like glass when she noted the shadows under Chamberlain’s eyes, and the gentle caress he gave Benny. This
was not some unfeeling corporate playboy. This was a loving father struggling with far more than anyone should have to handle alone….
With a proud, paternal grin, Chamberlain bent to listen to Benny’s urgent whisper as the boy tugged on his sleeve. “Pizza? Sounds great, sport.
Would you care to join us?” Landon asked Cora, his eyes genuinely interested.
Debbie started to whimper and Cora held out her arms instinctively. “May I?”
Chamberlain handed her the baby with a grateful sigh, and Cora nestled Debbie against her shoulder, murmuring, “Hush-a-bye, baby….”
“You’re a natural,” Chamberlain observed.
“Mr. Chamberlain—”
“Landon—after all, we’re about to break pizza together.”
“Landon,” she amended shyly. “Would you be interested in a little free baby-sitting? I bet you don’t get out much by yourself these days….”
“I accept—on one condition. You let me take you out to dinner one night. Without Benny. You can consider it payment if you like.”
“That would be lovely,” she smiled and—for the first time in a long time—she felt like there was a little something to look forward to in her life.
| The Widower By Elaine Rosenberg Miller |
There he was on her monitor.
A huge, hulking man, not unfriendly.
The photograph was under lit and of no particular artistic
significance.
He had graying hair, closely cropped. He wore a jacket. His
square-looking face rested on the knuckles of his hand as he
gazed determinedly at the camera.
She moved on.
Scrolling down the screen, she found shots of men in black
wet suits,their eyes and noses, encased in masks. Ribbed
tubing trailed from their mouthpieces, disappearing over their
shoulders.
She rolled past gloomy-looking men with haggard faces,
stocky men with apple cheeks, bearded men, men posing in
front of waterfalls, one leg on a neighboring rock. Men
standing next to horses. Men in tuxedos, the ghostly folds of
their long-gone partners' gowns still visible in the frame.
She changed countries.
Israel.
The men wore reflective sunglasses or squinted in the harsh
desert light. Some were in military uniforms.
She read their biographical entries.
Many identified themselves by numbers.
Was it concerns for Mideast security? Fear of appearing
vulnerable, needy? Lonely? They were Israelis! They were
supposed to be self-confident, even arrogant. Why were they
on a website anyway? Had they exhausted all the females in
their own country?
She returned to her geographic region.
Dentists. Schoolteachers. A man at the wheel of a sailboat.
He seemed to leer at the camera. A police officer. A tight red
tee shirt revealed his massive biceps and forearms.
Someone sent her a message.
"I can take the kids, but I can't take the kosher," he wrote.
Furiously, she typed "You can pick up a woman in a bar and
get a sexually transmitted disease but you can't take kosher?"
Smiling, she sent her missive off into cyberspace.
She returned to the first photograph.
Tall.
No spelling errors.
Rising, she entered her bedroom.
Lights of passing cars played against the wooden planks of
the ceiling.
When they had planned this room, they had decided on a
southwestern motif. The fabrics and upholstery appeared
muted, abstract, almost water logged.
The last time he had visited, he passed the bed and said
"This used to be mine."
"How did this happen to us?" she asked, numbed.
Pelting rain stroke the roof. Thunder pounded in the distance.
She spoke aloud. She found that if she said things
repetitively, she could control the feeling of losing control,
being drowned in memories. But sometimes, it did not work at
all.
She missed the secret world that they had made for
themselves. It had been a long time ago. Now, the few times
she had seen him over the last year, his once mobile and
expressive face, appeared like stone.
"I should tell you, in the interest of full disclosure, that I am not
a widower."
"You're not?" she asked.
They were sitting at an outdoor café.
"No, I just put that. My wife is ill."
"Oh."
"She has less than a year to live. A neurological disease."
He had sunk away from them, his brilliant mind fading.
Or had it been she that had dimmed?
The youngest one resembled him.
She felt that when she held her, looked at her, her expressive
brown eyes, arched by perfect brows, her mild olive color, a
gift of his Mediterranean ancestors, she was looking at him,
seven years old.
He was a nice man, the erstwhile widower.
He described his wife's decline.
He was her twin, but he didn't know it.
They sat across from each other, sipping iced-tea, their
lunches untouched.
He never called again.
She was grateful.
For unto us a Child is born by Glen Bear Smith |
Passing through Jerusalem and going on to Bethlehem, Joseph and Mary applied in vain for space in local caravansaries, or Khans, which
catered to caravans as well as pilgrims. Courtyards provided space for camels and donkeys to rest and to refresh with water. Rooms were simple
roofed enclosures with little privacy; travelers competed for space to spread their blankets on the floors. Because there was no room for Joseph
and Mary, even in one of these inns, they took shelter in a stable. Possibly it could have been in one of the limestone caves commonly used for
that purpose.
Did anyone assist Mary at the birth of her first baby—a nearby midwife, or perhaps a female member of her family? The record is silent on this
point. We can be assured, however, that she was watched over by angels as the Messiah entered into mortal life.
Generally, once an infant was delivered in those times, his skin was washed and cleansed with water, then gently rubbed with salt to guard
against infection. Then the infant was “placed in a folded square of cloth, and then wrapped swaddling bands that restricted movement.”
Likewise, the baby Jesus was “wrapped in swaddling clothes” and placed in a manger for his bed. Late March through early April was lambing
season, and shepherds may have been laboring in Bethlehem’s hillside fields the night of Christ’s birth, assisting the ewes in the births of their
lambs. It is likely that these were no ordinary animals, for Jewish law proclaimed that only flocks designated for temple sacrifice could be raised
near the cities.
“And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
“For unto you, is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.
“And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and singing
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” (Luke 2:9-14)
With the departure of the angels, the shepherds went “with Haste” to see for themselves the Messiah, the newborn “Lamb of God, …the Son of
the Eternal Father” who would grow to become the Shepherd of Israel—and be sacrificed for his flock. After their visit, they spread the joyous
word of the Messiah’s birth, “and all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.”
Mary’s thoughts:
That day seems like a dream to me now, when the angel came to me and told me I was to be the mother of the Messiah. I know it was not a
dream. There he stood before me—an angel, as real as the table I knead my bread upon—and said, “Blessed art thou among women. Behold,
thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus.”
It sounded incredible, me, Mary of Nazareth? I was virgin that had never known a man? And what would Joseph think? What of the plans we had
made to join our lives—in our long conversations about the future—this possibility had never occurred to us, but what do you say to an angel
when he stands before you with a message from God? Humbly, gratefully, I bowed my head and said, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it
unto me according to thy word.”
Joseph’s thoughts:
When I found that my beloved Mary was with child, I was in anguish. I love her...yes, but I could not marry her! And then, I dreamed a dream, in
which the angel of the Lord came to me and said, “Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife; for that which is conceived
in her is of the Holy Ghost.” What a burden went from my heart. And what awe and devotion filled me for this great woman whom god had thus
appointed. She was to bear and raise the Son of God. And I would have the privilege of helping her.
Some years later my Son became my teacher.
Wise Men:
When the star first appeared we knew what it meant: the King of the Jews had been born. Our only wish was to find him, to worship him. We
brought with us our best treasures: gold, frankincense, and myrrh and the treasures of our heart as well. Long had we waited for this time, long
had we searched the skies for the promised sign, and when it came, oh how we rejoiced.
When we reached Jerusalem, we inquired of Herod, the King where we might find this child, His chief priests and scribes told him of the words of
the prophets: “Thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, out of thee shall come a Governor that shall rule my people Israel.” When we left the king,
the star went before us and led us to Bethlehem—led us to Him.
Today we still seek him, the Son of God the Holy One of Israel. Like the wise men of old we bear Him still our most precious gifts, our lives and
testimonies that he lives, and He will come again.
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. –
John 14:27
Today we celebrate a singular event in the history of the world at this time of year, the birth of Jesus Christ – The Messiah, the Son of God the
Savior of the world. His birth was foretold by the Prophet Isaiah seven hundred years before the actual event occurred. Isaiah declared the glad
tidings in these simple words: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name
shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace”
May you find peace in this Christmas season and throughout the coming year as you apply the Savior’s teachings in your life.
Bear
Joseph was frantic by Glen Bear Smith |
Joseph was frantic. He and Mary had traveled to Bethlehem so that they could pay their taxes. Mary was pregnant, and very heavy with child. It
was hard for her to ride on the donkey. She was weary and so tired from the trip. "Joseph, she said, please find us a place to stay. I am sure my
baby will come very soon." She thought to herself of the day that the angel appeared to her. That day seems like a dream o me now, when the
angel came to me and told me I was to be the mother of the Messiah. But I know it was not a dream. There he stood before me an angel, as real
as the table I knead my bread upon, and said, "Blessed art thou among women. Behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son,
and shalt call his name Jesus." It sounded incredible. Me. Mary of Nazareth? A virgin that had never known a man? And what would Joseph
think? What of the plans we had made to join our lives in our long conversations about the future? This possibility had never occurred to us. But
what do you say to an angel when he stands before you with a message from God? Humbly, gratefully, I bowed my head and said, "Behold the
handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word."
Her back hurt so badly. Her heart was so full of love for her baby. She knew that he was the Son of God and this was the night he would be born.
Joseph frantically searched from inn to inn. Each one turned him away. Each was full. Everyone had come to pay their taxes and the city was very
busy. Finally they went to the inn of Nathaniel. Nathaniel was a kind old man that Joseph knew. Nathaniel said I have no room. This is the only
thing I have left--is a berth in the stable. Joseph was so angry at this. How could I let Mary and her baby lie down in a manger? This was where the
cattle lay giving birth to their babies.
Angrily, he ran back to Mary exclaiming Mary there is no room at the inn and Nathaniel, my old friend at the inn, all he could suggest was to send
you, the baby and I to a lowly manager. Mary grabbed Joseph by the hand and looked him in the eyes and said, "My dear husband it is time. The
Son of Man is coming. Angels will attend us and all will be well." Joseph looked into her beautiful pleading eyes and an overwhelming sense of
comfort come over him.
The stables were caves carved out of the limestone in the hillside. The smell was bad. There were flies around. Because there was not a lot of
circulation, the air was heavy with the smells of the animals. As Mary slowly walked in, Joseph helping her, she said to Joseph, "The time has
come and I must lie down."
Joseph found a stall and there was a large mound of fresh straw. He laid down his cloak and a few blankets and settled Mary in to the soft clean
bed that he had prepared for her.
Now thinking to himself, Joseph said to himself, I must go and get Naomi, Nathaniel's wife to help. I know nothing about birthing a child. He kissed
his dear wife and said that he would be back. Her glance was reassuring. He had never noticed until that moment how beautiful and radiant she
was. There was such a glow about her and she said, "Yes my husband go and fetch Naomi I will be alright."
Joseph got up, ran to the door and looked back one more time at his wife. She made a gesture with the back of her hand, "Go, go." Joseph
turned to run towards the door and he tripped and fell. Muttering something he jumped to his feet and was quickly outside.
It was about a hundred yards from the stables to the inn and there was so many people camped in the streets trying to sell their wares. Joseph
was frantic, "Why can't they just get out of my way?" he thought. He ran to the back door of the inn, pounding on the door yelling, "Naomi, Naomi,
it is Joseph, please let me in. "The door quickly swung open and there stood Naomi. Joseph hadn't seen her for sometime and noticed how the
years had aged her beautiful face. He thought, "Has it been so long that I don't know you any more?" Her smile was broad and warm. She said,
"Joseph, Joseph, is it really you?"
He was out of breath now. He held to the side of the door. "Yes, yes, but you must come. Please help me. My dear wife, Mary, is heavy with child
and has begun labor."
Naomi recognizing the signs of a desperate man and having helped with the birth of many children over the years, seemed knowingly what to do.
She picked up a roll of clean linens and gave Joseph a large flask of water and said, "Now Joseph, show me the way."
They made their way through the streets hurrying as fast as possible. Joseph's heart was frantic, "Oh Mary how could I have left you alone. Why
could not I have planned better? You are so young and I have brought you to this terrible place."
His mind was racing franticly. He reached back and grabbed Naomi by the arm. She said, "Joseph not so fast I can't keep up with you." The
torment inside of him was terrible. He thought, "Old woman you are such a burden."
At that moment, a strange comfort came over him. His mind became calm and he felt the presence as if someone were helping them. They
seemed to glide through the streets. Naomi thought, "How can this be that we can move so freely and with ease through the streets?"
Very quickly, they were at the opening of the stable. Stopping abruptly Joseph looked in with utter shock. There lay his beloved Mary holding her
beautiful son.
The smell of the stable was gone. The air was pure and clean. No longer were there flies and pestilence; no longer was there the smell of the
stables. The manger was warm and bright. The light that surrounded Mary and her child was so bright. Joseph asked her "Mary, how, how, who,
who? She whispered, "Oh Joseph, angels from heaven came to assist me and to comfort me."
Joseph could hear the sound of music and soft singing as he came closer and knelt by his beloved wife. Mary looked up. Her face was radiant.
She said, "Oh Joseph, my husband, behold, the Lamb of God."
At that very moment, Joseph remembered the words of Isaiah. "For unto to you a child is born, a Son is given, the Everlasting Father, the Prince
of Peace," and his heart within him burned.
Naomi gently pushed Joseph aside and brought the water and salt. Gently she washed the baby, and took the fine salt and rubbed the body down
as was the custom in those days to help heal against infection and wrapped him tight in swaddling clothes and laid him back onto the straw in the
manger.
Mary was so tired. She asked Naomi to take the baby back up and to hold him and rock him. Naomi asked her, "What is his name?" And Joseph
said, "The angels told me that his name should be Jesus, Jesus of Nazareth. For he is Jesus, the Christ, that his birth for so long has been
foretold. Blessed be the name of my God."
As Naomi rocked the baby in her arms, Mary began to sing a lullaby. She was so tired she drifted off to sleep as angels continued what we now
call Mary's lullaby.
Throughout the world angels rejoiced. A new star appeared in the heavens to hallmark the birth of him. To him whom we praise and sing of his
own birth still this day. For behold men still seek him as we celebrate and remember His holy birth. We as the angels of old sing Glory to God,
peace on earth, and good will toward all men. Let your hearts rejoice fill your thoughts with joy and sing the songs of Christmas in remembering
the birth of this Holy and precious child, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace
Foundling by Dellani Oakes |
Mary gasped. The sound echoed eerily in the
cavern; the only sound in the almost
oppressive silence. Stepping back, she slipped
on the dusty floor, losing her balance. She
caught herself before she fell, eyes glued to
the marvels unfolding before her.
The figure inside the carapace flexed,
extending its limbs in one explosive jerk.
Shards of crystal flew passed, narrowly missing
her. Mary curled into a ball, shielding her face
from the blast. Terrified, she cowered a few
feet away as the creature dislodged itself from
its confines. She caught a glimpse of a deep
blue something nearly ten feet tall before it
collapsed on the floor a meter or so away.
Tiny, jewel colored robots scurried out,
surrounding the figure which lay in an untidy
heap on the floor. Like beetles, they moved
around cleaning the mess on the floor as well
as tending to the body. Mary couldn't tell if it
was alive for there were too many beetles
covering it to see if it was breathing.
Suddenly, the figure sat up, arms flung wide,
singing a single, pure note. It wavered slightly,
rising and falling in volume, continuing longer
than Mary thought possible. Around her, more
of the crystal cocoons appeared, each housing
another blue creature. Numb with terror, Mary
slid away, dragging her legs across the floor as
they refused to hold her weight. Scrambling
awkwardly, she tried to find somewhere to hide.
Aside from the crystalline chambers, which
seemed to be some sort of cryogenic device,
she saw nothing. On her knees now, she
crawled further away, the mysterious indigo
stranger several meters away by now.
The song changed, warbling up and down the
scale, hitting notes Mary was sure no human
voice could imitate. The hairs on the back of
her neck stood up as fingers of doubt crept up
her spine. Finding her way blocked by a solid
wall of the chamber, she turned to face the
mystery behind her. The figure advanced
toward her, arms extended. Multiple tentacles
circled its body, each waving to a different
aspect of the song.
Although she was afraid, Mary could see
beauty in the face - exotic, other-worldly. The
figure smiled, extending arms and tentacles in
her direction. Calmness descended and her
eyes closed as she was surrounded by silence.
Just before she lost consciousness, laughter
pealed from the silence.
"Welcome, little one," the figure said in her
dreams. "Welcome to Shakazhan."
A Strange Noise
by Barbara Ehrentreu
Bunnie’s eyes opened. 3:15 AM! In slippers and robe she tiptoed into the
hallway. The noise got louder closer to the kitchen.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. Bunnie lived alone except for her cats Dottie,
Benjie, Mushroom, and Crank. Noise in her kitchen at 3:15 in the morning?
She turned on the light the noise stopped. She turned off the light. It
began. She flipped it on and off. She opened all her cabinet doors. Could a
mouse have gotten into the cereal? She found nothing.
“I’ll go back to bed and call the exterminator tomorrow.”
The next morning Bunnie went to the basement for peach preserves from
last summer. It was cool and musty down there, but she heard the same
crunch, crunch coming from the corner.
“Oh, the exterminator. Now I really need to call him.”
She shone her flashlight and found a strange combination of cat, rat, and a
tiny bit of hamster sitting in the corner with two rows of teeth sharp as a
saw and two huge fangs hanging in the middle. Bunnie stared at the
strange creature. She ran.
“Exterminator, now,” she said climbing the stairs.
Suddenly she heard a loud wail. She turned and at the bottom of the steps
saw tears running down the creature’s pointy face.
“Please don’t leave.” the creature said,
“You can talk?” Bunnie thought she must have been dreaming.
“Yes, all of us on our planet can talk.” It picked its teeth with long claws.
“What?” Bunnie felt there was a missing piece somewhere. How did this
thing get here from another planet?
“We came for a drive by. You know, a little pass by and decided to stop
and check out the life here.”
“But you talk my language.”
“Sure, I do. We have this cool translator for all the planets”
“You do?” Bunnie, who was completely lost by now, could only keep
staring. “Why did you pick my house?”
“You see, my friend had no idea where he was going and we sort of
crashed into your yard. My friend didn’t make it, but I crawled over here. I
was very hungry.”
The creature rose up and Bunnie realized it was much larger than it had
seemed
“Don’t you move a muscle,” Bunnie said. Am I hallucinating? She asked
herself backing away.
“You’re not afraid, are you? ”The creature raised itself up until it stood. It
was as tall as the cellar. “In my world I would be afraid of you. Where are
your fur and your claws?”
Bonnie moved backwards until she reached the staircase.
“Why didn’t I see you last night? Were you hiding?”
“Hiding, you might say that. We can make ourselves transparent whenever
we want.”
Suddenly the creature disappeared. Bonnie shone her flashlight, but she
saw nothing.
“Fooled you.” The creature appeared out of thin air and Bonnie put her
hand to her mouth.
“You scared me!” Bonnie’s heart was still beating fast.
“Can’t you do that? What a backward place your planet is.”
Bonnie grabbed a jar of preserves and said,” Well, I might as well feed you.
Are you still hungry?”
“Yes. I could eat a whole gagara of monchnit.”
“Sorry,” Bonnie said.
“Whoops, I just consulted my translator and I goofed. I mean a bucket of
cereal.
Laughing, Bonnie started up the stairs with the creature following behind
her. If I’m going crazy, at least I’m having fun she thought.
As they got to the top of the stairs the cats showed off by hurling
themselves at the creature. It waved its hairy arms shoving them out of the
way.
“Cats, right? We’d call them goognats.”
“Creature, do you have a name?” We have names here. Mine is Bunnie.”
“Yes, mine is impossible to pronounce on this planet.”
“I’ll call you Alex, my first cat’s name. You kind of remind me of him. You are
a male, are you not?” Bunnie sat on her kitchen chair while her cats
hovered around her. She opened the jar of preserves and started
spreading it on slices of homemade bread. Bunnie handed Alex a slice.
Sharp teeth chomped down. The bread disappeared in seconds. Alex
grabbed another slice. Bunnie spread preserves on bread until she ran out
of slices.
“What is that taste? What you put on that glatcha you gave me.” Alex
sucked his teeth sitting on the floor. He would have gone through the
ceiling if he had used a chair.
“Glatcha? Oh you mean bread and peach jam. I make them both myself.”
“We don’t have anything like that on our planet. Do you have this all the
time?”
The doorbell rang. Bunnie froze. “I’m going to the door. See that. We call it
a door. Be quiet and hide.”
Alex stayed where he was.
“Go transparent.”
She went to the front door. How long could he stay that way?
“Bunnie, let me in. Why can’t I open your door?”
Bunnie frightened that Jane would find Alex, kept it partially closed.
“Open up! Didn’t we have a date to go antique shopping today?”
“Shoot, forgot all about that. Couldn’t sleep last night and got up late.”
Bunnie looked over her shoulder. She shut the door on Jane.
Jane rang the bell again and again.
Bunnie finally opened it. “Jane could you come back in fifteen minutes?”
Jane nodded her head, surprised at her friend’s strange behavior.
“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes then. I can’t wait to hit those places we talked
about yesterday.”
Bunnie waved goodbye to Jane, shut the door and ran back to the kitchen.
There was no sign of Alex.
“She’s gone now. You can reappear.”
Alex materialized, peace preserves smeared over his face.
“I’m going shopping with my friend. What to do with you?”
“I kind of like it here. Do you think I can stay with you?”
Stay with an alien? One who looks like Alex? Bunnie mulled it over.
“Why not, but remember. Never answer the door.”
by Barbara Ehrentreu
Bunnie’s eyes opened. 3:15 AM! In slippers and robe she tiptoed into the
hallway. The noise got louder closer to the kitchen.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. Bunnie lived alone except for her cats Dottie,
Benjie, Mushroom, and Crank. Noise in her kitchen at 3:15 in the morning?
She turned on the light the noise stopped. She turned off the light. It
began. She flipped it on and off. She opened all her cabinet doors. Could a
mouse have gotten into the cereal? She found nothing.
“I’ll go back to bed and call the exterminator tomorrow.”
The next morning Bunnie went to the basement for peach preserves from
last summer. It was cool and musty down there, but she heard the same
crunch, crunch coming from the corner.
“Oh, the exterminator. Now I really need to call him.”
She shone her flashlight and found a strange combination of cat, rat, and a
tiny bit of hamster sitting in the corner with two rows of teeth sharp as a
saw and two huge fangs hanging in the middle. Bunnie stared at the
strange creature. She ran.
“Exterminator, now,” she said climbing the stairs.
Suddenly she heard a loud wail. She turned and at the bottom of the steps
saw tears running down the creature’s pointy face.
“Please don’t leave.” the creature said,
“You can talk?” Bunnie thought she must have been dreaming.
“Yes, all of us on our planet can talk.” It picked its teeth with long claws.
“What?” Bunnie felt there was a missing piece somewhere. How did this
thing get here from another planet?
“We came for a drive by. You know, a little pass by and decided to stop
and check out the life here.”
“But you talk my language.”
“Sure, I do. We have this cool translator for all the planets”
“You do?” Bunnie, who was completely lost by now, could only keep
staring. “Why did you pick my house?”
“You see, my friend had no idea where he was going and we sort of
crashed into your yard. My friend didn’t make it, but I crawled over here. I
was very hungry.”
The creature rose up and Bunnie realized it was much larger than it had
seemed
“Don’t you move a muscle,” Bunnie said. Am I hallucinating? She asked
herself backing away.
“You’re not afraid, are you? ”The creature raised itself up until it stood. It
was as tall as the cellar. “In my world I would be afraid of you. Where are
your fur and your claws?”
Bonnie moved backwards until she reached the staircase.
“Why didn’t I see you last night? Were you hiding?”
“Hiding, you might say that. We can make ourselves transparent whenever
we want.”
Suddenly the creature disappeared. Bonnie shone her flashlight, but she
saw nothing.
“Fooled you.” The creature appeared out of thin air and Bonnie put her
hand to her mouth.
“You scared me!” Bonnie’s heart was still beating fast.
“Can’t you do that? What a backward place your planet is.”
Bonnie grabbed a jar of preserves and said,” Well, I might as well feed you.
Are you still hungry?”
“Yes. I could eat a whole gagara of monchnit.”
“Sorry,” Bonnie said.
“Whoops, I just consulted my translator and I goofed. I mean a bucket of
cereal.
Laughing, Bonnie started up the stairs with the creature following behind
her. If I’m going crazy, at least I’m having fun she thought.
As they got to the top of the stairs the cats showed off by hurling
themselves at the creature. It waved its hairy arms shoving them out of the
way.
“Cats, right? We’d call them goognats.”
“Creature, do you have a name?” We have names here. Mine is Bunnie.”
“Yes, mine is impossible to pronounce on this planet.”
“I’ll call you Alex, my first cat’s name. You kind of remind me of him. You are
a male, are you not?” Bunnie sat on her kitchen chair while her cats
hovered around her. She opened the jar of preserves and started
spreading it on slices of homemade bread. Bunnie handed Alex a slice.
Sharp teeth chomped down. The bread disappeared in seconds. Alex
grabbed another slice. Bunnie spread preserves on bread until she ran out
of slices.
“What is that taste? What you put on that glatcha you gave me.” Alex
sucked his teeth sitting on the floor. He would have gone through the
ceiling if he had used a chair.
“Glatcha? Oh you mean bread and peach jam. I make them both myself.”
“We don’t have anything like that on our planet. Do you have this all the
time?”
The doorbell rang. Bunnie froze. “I’m going to the door. See that. We call it
a door. Be quiet and hide.”
Alex stayed where he was.
“Go transparent.”
She went to the front door. How long could he stay that way?
“Bunnie, let me in. Why can’t I open your door?”
Bunnie frightened that Jane would find Alex, kept it partially closed.
“Open up! Didn’t we have a date to go antique shopping today?”
“Shoot, forgot all about that. Couldn’t sleep last night and got up late.”
Bunnie looked over her shoulder. She shut the door on Jane.
Jane rang the bell again and again.
Bunnie finally opened it. “Jane could you come back in fifteen minutes?”
Jane nodded her head, surprised at her friend’s strange behavior.
“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes then. I can’t wait to hit those places we talked
about yesterday.”
Bunnie waved goodbye to Jane, shut the door and ran back to the kitchen.
There was no sign of Alex.
“She’s gone now. You can reappear.”
Alex materialized, peace preserves smeared over his face.
“I’m going shopping with my friend. What to do with you?”
“I kind of like it here. Do you think I can stay with you?”
Stay with an alien? One who looks like Alex? Bunnie mulled it over.
“Why not, but remember. Never answer the door.”
Barbara Ehrentreu
http://barbaraehrentreu.blogspot.com/
Red River Writers Live - Tales from the Pages
http://barbaraehrentreu.blogspot.com/
Red River Writers Live - Tales from the Pages
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Gift for Robin Falls