Mendocino College

Fort Bragg Campus

Good Words 31 November 18, 2014

To me, poetry is somebody standing up, so to speak, and

saying, with as little concealment as possible, what it is for
him or her to be on earth at this moment.



Galway Kinnell
Born: February 1, 1927, Providence, RI
Died: October 28, 2014, Sheffield, VT
Galway Kinnell, a Vermont poet laureate and Pulitzer Prizewinning poet, diedOctober 28, 2014,at his home in Sheffield,
Vermont. Born February 1, 1927 in Providence, Rhode Island,
Kinnell won the Pulitzer Prize and the American Book Award
for his Selected Poems. From 1989 to 1993 he was Vermont's
poet laureate. According to the National Poetry Foundation,
"CriticMorris Dickstein called Kinnell 'one of the true master
poets of his generation."

Good
Words
31

Good Words is a collection of the best poems, fiction, and

non-fiction, written and performed by students attending
Creative Writing classes at Mendocino College, in Fort
Bragg, California.
This years performance was held November 18, 2014
at the College.
Good Words is edited by Instructor, Norma Watkins.
Layout, graphic design, and printing made possible through
the generosity of Doug Fortier.

Good Words 31

Published in 2014
Copyright 2014 by the individual authors
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used
or reproduced in any form or medium; written,
electronic, oral or other without permission of the
author and the publisher.

Alice Bonner
Barbara Lee
Joan Hansen
Catherine Marshall
Holly Tannen
Carol Reffell
Priscilla Comen
Roberta Belson
Sharon Gilligan
Laurel Moss
Frieda Feen
Molly Boynoff
Bill Baker
Susan Fisher
Diane Semans
Dorrit Effinger
Holly Tannens
Closing Song

Morning Hike

Alice Bonner 1

Tanoak acorns wearing hairy crowns litter the damp duff

Lines of plugged holes in redwood trees store woodpeckers bounty
Madrone bark peels from tree trunks, red papery skin falls in curled sheets
Fresh lime green growth left behind
Natures art
Dogs run with utter abandon, chasing, hiding, attacking
Lichens cover rotting branches
Crusty, leafy, scraggly as an old mans beard
Mushrooms push their heads through packed earth
Banana slugs and bugs feed on spongy flesh
We wait for golden chanterelles with their fool-proof ridges and wrinkles
We hike, never meeting a soul
Quiet
Storm rivulets run alongside us
Headed for Bear Wallow, Rancheria, Navarro, the Pacific
Magnetic attraction pulls mutts into muddy puddles
A locked gate greets us at the bottom of the hill
We retrace our steps, saving the heart-pumping climb for last
Ready for the day

A Non-Repentant

Barbara Lee 2

A dwelling is a nest and God help the interloper. This guided my

suggestions when I ran my interior design business. Whatever the home
dcor fashion of the day, when a client asks for help, its wise to tread
lightly with a big ear.
When our young daughter moved back home after a shot of reality
on her own, a pair of zebra finches, itty-bitty birds in white and black
outfits, sporting bright, salmon-red, pointed beaks, moved in with her.
Their preferred nest was a hanging hollow ball of woven straw with a
small opening, inside a thin bamboo cage, which hung in a corner of our
kitchen. Mike and Meemee were quite the couple, nuzzled up against one
another on the main perch. Me-me-me-me, they called.
Al and I didnt know, but this was the begetting season. Mike
pecked at the paper on the bottom of the cage, creating shards he took
through the nests tiny opening. They stomped on the scraps, and Meemee
snuggled her little behind until she was happy. Sometimes she cried, meme-me-me. Other times, she threw the stuff out, to Mikes bewilderment.
I added shredded paper to the cage floor, for him to offer to the wife he
tried so hard to please.
One morning, there were eight tiny eggs in the nest. Excited, we
became obsessed observers. Over three days, Mike and Meemee threw out
three of the eggs. They sat on five, their beaks side-by-side, looking out
the openingoften into one or both of our faces. Three weeks later, five
chicks cracked out of their shells. The next day, one chick lay splayed on
the bottom of the cage.
I was horrified. Mike, Meemee and the four chicks were at peace,
acting as if they didnt notice one of them had fallen. Odd Man Out was
not dead, so I got a spoon and scooped him back into the nest.
The next day I found the same chick tossed out. I spooned it back
in. I told my mother about this behavior. She said, Zebra finches can only
count to fourany more than that gets tossed. They know whats best.
The next day, Odd Man was out on his ass again. My mother could
not be right. I repeated the spoon-scoop maneuver.

A Non-Repentant

Barbara Lee 3

Mike and Meemee worked their tail feathers to a frazzle to feed

five chirping mouths. Once the chicks started moving about, three days
were spent jumping out of the hole to teach the babies to leave their bed. If
one did it, another followed. Four exited and flapped down to the main
perch.
Odd Man was not so inclined. The free-flying chicks learned to eat
from the seed bucket and bathe in the water trough, but their parents still
had to feed the latecomer, who was getting very big. We renamed him
Baby Huey.
When everybody but Huey left the nest, Meemee became agitated.
She flicked her wings at the opening and climbed over the top, a frantic
sight. We guessed she wanted the lingering baby out of there. Sure
enough, she and Mike got behind Huey, braced themselves against the
back wall, and pushed him out the hole with their feet. Not a solid thrust,
but a steady beating against his back until a really big chick came out.
Meemee threw everything out of the nest, while the rest of the
family squeezed together on the main perch. Lots of me-me-me-me.
Baby Huey, in the middle and bigger than his father, had survived the
four-chick limit.
With the help of a non-repentant interloper.



Renewed

Joan Hansen 4

Depression, thick as fog, weighty as granite.

Through the darkness swirling in her head, the echo of a voice insists:
Take a walk. Do it now. Get up. Get out. A daily mantra.
With a cup of coffee in her hand, she shuffles out to the garden. Feels the
minuscule cool droplets on her warm skin.
In a protected corner, she spies the Tibouchina tree, its oval velvety green
leaves edged with yellow, the branches proud with purple bloom.
A lime-green, black-spotted beetle crawls about in a blossoms hooked
stamens.
The tree was dead, or so she thought. A winter freeze burned the leaves
brown and crusty. They fell to the ground and she pruned without mercy.
The warmth of sunny days, long after the frost, inspired a rebirth. Life,
beauty and glory renewed.
The tree invites her to renew her spirit and her mind.
(Hot coffee, and a modern pill, also helped.)



Chapter 35: Repair Work

Catherine Marshall 5
Excerpt from The Easter Moose: One Familys Journey
Adopting through Foster Care
As I sped through the winding curves skirting the hills near Mt. Diablo, I
recognized the wobble of a blown tire. I tapped the brakes and pulled my
car to the side. Id changed a flat many times, so I wasnt worried. I was
more concerned about disappointing Jenny. I had promised to take her to a
concert in the park and now I would be late.
My adopted foster daughter Jenny was at a therapeutic group home
in Pleasant Hill. At the age of fifteen, she was a chronic runaway and an
addict. Shed been hanging with a rough crowd of older boys, trading sex
for drugs and alcohol. Emergency room visits were frequent and I had
become accustomed to filing missing person reports for her. Her therapist
and her social worker agreed she was spiraling out of control, and the
county agreed to pay for the program. At the group home, she received
twenty-four hour supervision, psychiatric care, and medications to manage
the hallucinations, addictions, and depression. She was safe for the time
being, and I got much-needed relief from the drama and stress.
The right front tire hung from the wheel, twisted into a wad. I
chocked the good tires with flat stones, and popped open the trunk. The
jack, lug wrench, and spare tire were right where Id left them next to a
solar blanket and some rags. I felt under the chassis for the spot to brace
the jack, and raised the car enough to loosen the lug bolts. I stomped on
the wrench until the lug nuts loosened, and jacked up the front end.
A late-model Dodge truck pulled in front of my car and a guy in
his mid-thirties hopped out of the cab. You need help? he asked.
I stood and pulled the lug wrench from the jack, holding it like a
weapon. I got it, I said. I didnt smile.
His head jerked back as if Id slapped him. Okay, then. He
climbed into the truck and drove off in a spray of gravel. Id been rude, but
I had to be careful.
I lifted the spare onto the wheel, fastened on the lug nuts, and
jacked the car down to the pavement. I tightened each lug nut again. I
rolled the bad tire up into the trunk and wiped my hands on a rag.
Security was tight at the group home and it took a while for
someone to come to the door and let me in. I could see Jenny smoking in
the atrium with a half dozen other girls. She wore a tight, low-cut T-shirt

Chapter 35: Repair Work

Catherine Marshall 6

that emphasized the weight gain from her new medication. She pointed me
out to the others and doused her cigarette. Her friends glowered through
the glass as one of the staff brought her out.
Im afraid Jenny has something she needs to show you, the
assistant director said. Jenny gave her a side glance, looked straight at me,
and stuck out her tongue. A crude stud was cushioned there, slightly off
center.
Jenny watched for my reaction, her face a mix of defiance and fear.
That looks like it hurts, I said.
Not too much. She shrugged and glanced over at her friends
watching our little drama.
Why dont you take that out for the time being, I said. I dont
want you to get an infection.
Her shoulders slumped in disappointment, playing to the audience,
but I saw relief wash over her face.
While I waited in the hall, I watched the staff and girls busy
themselves with evening chores, cooking dinner, and homework. It was a
cozy scene, like any home, the way I wanted my home to be again.



Naomis Wedding

Holly Tannen 7

I am God. Jehovah, the God of your fathers. I shouldnt have to explain

this.
Back in the day, I was God, and nobody argued about it. Anybody
worshipped other gods, I smote em. Nowadays you smite someone, they
charge you with sexual harassment.
Wild and crazy Naomi is getting married. Should have been
married ten years ago, but no, she had to smoke that stuff and sleep with
meshugenah musicians.
Miriam Winkler, in a grey silk dress, is assessing her future son-inlaw in his black suit and yarmulke: Cant speak for himself. No presence.
Schlemiel.
Oh, Mimi, be nice. At least hes Jewish. You know wholl wear the
pants in the house you bought them.
Naomis father Eddie is over there by the wine, avoiding people.
My bubbelah. Still zaftig after all these years. Whatll she look like after a
couple of kids?
Here comes Naomi in her whitedont make me laughwedding
gown. Eddie Winkler, beaming, takes her elbow. Her long dark hair swept
up and wreathed in flowers, Naomi glows in a pearl-encrusted gown of
silk and lace.
In April, Naomi invited Holly to help her choose this dress. Amy
Kuschels Bridal Shop in San Francisco: red carpets, white wine, young
women telling Naomi how beautiful she looked. She tried on a white
taffeta creation, acres of cleavage so the husbands family should know
hes getting a good deal, an enormous bustle, and a train, I kid you not,
twenty yards long.
Naomi looked at herself over her shoulder in the three-way mirror.
What do you think? she asked Holly.
It makes you look like a baboon in heat.
Never go bridal shopping with an anthropologist.
Holly sasses Me. If You are the one true God, whats to be jealous
of? If other gods do exist, why cant You play nice, like Pan and
Dionysus?
Smartass.
The bride and groom stand beneath the chuppa. The lady Rabbi
How can you be a Rabbi without a putz?the lady Rabbi reads from the

Naomis Wedding

Holly Tannen 8

Bible in Hebrew. Naomi and Arnold recite their vows. The best man
brings out the wine glass and Naomi stomps it to smithereens.
You cant convince Me those Biblical commentators didnt
understand the symbolism of breaking glass. Destruction of the Temple,
My tuchus. We know whats going to get broken tonight. Or would, if she
hadnt shtupped all those goyim.
Fiddles, banjos, such a ruckus. Redneck music. The kids couldnt
instead play klezmer, the music of their ancestors?
The parents spend five thousand dollars on violin lessons, they
should play in the symphony, and they sit around sawing away, Angeline
the Baker, Old Joe Clark, or Irish music, dotten dotten dotten dotten
dotten. That nebbish over there blowing into the butt of a goat: Hey,
schmendrickits not dead yet.
And dont get Me going about banjos.
Theres Hollyin a dress, will wonders never ceaseplaying the
dulcimer. Hillbillies think cause they gave it a name from the Bible, that
makes it a real instrument. Skrikka, skrikka, skrikka, like a raccoon in a
garbage can.
And what kind of name is Holly? Not a Biblical name: Ruth,
Deborah, Rachel?
Holly is worse than Christian, its pagan. Anglo-Saxon. Norse.
Alvin and Esther didnt want their daughter to have a Jewish name.
Holly Tannen might escape being sent to the camps. Rachel Tannenbaum
never would.
Theyre going to cut the cake. Plenty of food, good sign. But
shrimp dip? Trayfe. You think I gave you those commandments to hear the
sound of My own voice?
Not that Im saying they should get sick and die. I am a merciful
God.
There will be much I shall have to forgive them for.
Go forth, My children, be fruitful and multiply.

Into Thin Air

Carol Reffell 9

So. My name is Rainbow Emerald Sunshine Crabtree. That's right, my

mother, who wants me to call her Sunshine, is a bona fide hippie. She ran
away with Starman (whose parents named him Sidney), when she was
fifteen, and they moved to a commune in Texas. She had me before she
turned sixteen.
The idea was that she and her forever love, Starman, would have a
whole tribe of mischievous elfin children with whom to go with the flow
and live as nature intended. Unfortunately, by the time born, they had left
the commune and having a baby in an overcrowded and none too clean
van wasn't such a good idea. She developed some kind of uterus thingy
and that was that. She was stuck with just me.
We lived in the van at first. It was crowded with junk and rather
claustrophobic. The first time I saw a microwave oven crowded with
dishes in a school cafeteria, it reminded me of my early childhood and
being packed into a similar confining space. We moved month to month,
sometimes helping with pot cultivation or harvesting. Or else Sunny, as I
thought of her, read palms or pretended to interpret tarot cards. I'm sure
she faked all the drivel she fed the suckers. I think I taught myself to read,
as books weren't of value in Sunny's life. Or maybe Starman helped. He
wasn't the greatest father, but he kept her wildest larks under control.
Then he decided he had to get back to reality, get his parents to pay for
college and maybe law school. Besides, he told her, I'm not sure she's
mine. She doesn't look anything like me. They both studied my face
carefully before turning away and sighing. She said, I'm pretty sure she's
yours, but you know things got confusing sometimes.
Starman is weedy, but handsome, with a thin ascetic face and a
perpetually worried frown. Sunny is tiny, elfin, and lovely, if slightly
grubby a lot of the time. Beautiful long black hair, sparkling umber eyes,
and a lithe little body someone described as to die for.
I am tall and heavy. Chunky would be the kind word, though no
one is kind and I am just the new weird fat chick with the pizza face.
My hair is dark, but a sort of faded brown and so frizzy I often look like I
have a cloud of voracious gnats round my head when I move. Acne, sly
lover of many teenage years, visited often, and liked me so much he

Into Thin Air

Carol Reffell 10

finally stayed. My mother never looked at me much, as if she didn't

believe I was real. Sometimes I think I am the only one who ever sees the
real me. Moving so much didn't help my introverted nature. After a few
weeks in each new school I began to feel invisible. I got so-so grades, but
never spoke up, in or out of class. I sat by myself for the free breakfast
and lunch. A few girls watched me surreptitiously to see how much I ate.
I stopped going to lunch and hid out in the libraries. Dark caverns of
bookshelves were perfect havens in which to lose myself. I walked
unnoticed through the halls, as jostling throngs parted unconsciously
around me, then reconvened.
Home was a dreary apartment on the wrong side of town by the
time I hit my teens. Sunny had many boyfriends over the years, but had
finally settled on one, a nineteen year old to my fifteen. He never met my
eye or acknowledged my existence in any way. We stayed there for
several months as Sunny and the boy toy had talked themselves into jobs
at a local thrift store. They lifted enough from work that our rooms looked
almost furnished. They were caught, eventually, and fired. They packed
up and were in the van, getting ready to pull away from the curb, when I
lumped home from school. The look on their faces told all. It wasn't that
they were leaving me out of meanness. They had just forgotten my
existence.
That's how it started. I think this must be what I have always
wanted, to evanesce, or better still to not exist at all. I fade away more and
more each day, at home and at school. Soon I will be invisible in truth. I
wonder if anyone will miss me. I won't know and I won't care. I won't be
real anymore and soon even the memory of me will fade away.

Part III of A Death in the Library

Priscilla Comen 11

A woman comes in the library door and falls onto the desk. She can hardly
walk, but carries no cane. She has black and white stringy hair; her fingers
are knobby with arthritis.
No, you dont, she says to the children running in the room.
This is a quiet place. Were having a meeting in back to plan a memorial
for Gladys, who died on the front steps. We dont want any noise in here.
Sunny is horrified. She has always loved seeing children use the
library. Its a way to encourage them to become readers, to stimulate their
brains, and further their dreams. Who is this woman? Sunny wonders if
she has had an unhappy childhood and, as an old person, carries that
burden on her crooked back? Was she abused as a child by her father, or
picked on by her siblings? Shes an unhappy soul. Sunny wonders how to
remove her without causing a fuss. She looks like someone who may have
donated money. A private library needs money.
Sunny thinks about Gladys. What could have made her fall on the
library steps? A thrown rock, or a branch falling off the overgrown tree by
the front window? She must go to the hospital to see if they know what
caused her friends death. Shell do that this afternoon.
I bet it was a blow to the head, she thinks. She feels the weight that
is Gladys on her mind. The blood on the steps troubles her. Its still there,
and the worry of it wont let go, like a tic from the forest attaching itself.
She returns to the desk and speaks to Peter, who is working there.
Why was Gladys coming in today? She doesnt usually work on
Tuesdays.
No, she doesnt, Peter says. Shed requested a book and was
coming in to get it. He, too, wonders about the death. If Gladys hadnt
come to the library today, if shed stayed home reading by her fireplace, or
sipping tea in her kitchen, she might still be alive.
Sunny guesses what Peter is thinking and empathizes with him.
Hes a nice guy. He cares about people. Why cant I accept his caring?
Theres nothing wrong with having an admirer. She picks up the book
Gladys was going to read and decides to check it out. Maybe it will hold a
clue.
The angry old woman turns to her. Gladys wont be back you
know. Her soul is gone. Someone may have taken it, stolen it, a younger

Part III of A Death in the Library

Priscilla Comen 12

person who needs it for a longer life, or someone with an incurable

disease. You may not know about these things. She points to the book in
Sunnys hands. But if you take this book home and read it, youll learn
something.
Peter checks it out to Sunny and blows her a kiss no one else can
see. He is subtle, she thinks.
Andy, her grandsons friend, walks by with a load of books under
his arm. You all right, Miss Sunny? Come on, Ill walk you to your car.
What a doll, Sunny thinks. Someday hell be a fine young man.
She wishes she had a granddaughter to introduce him to later in life. But
she wont be around. Or will she? Perhaps with the soul of someone else?
To Be Continued

Excerpt from My Life With Mara

Roberta Belson 13

Shortly before my daughter Mara turned seven, and was about to start a
Swiss school, her doctor set up an appointment for a brain activity test.
At the clinic in Wintertur, Mara was given something to calm her
and sent to the waiting room until they were ready. Fifteen minutes later,
she was climbing the walls in a completely manic state. Thats when the
nurse took her in for the test.
I settled down to wait the hour till she was done. Suddenly, the
door blew open and a tall, red-faced man burst through, yelling. Your
daughter is out of control. We couldnt finish the test, but based on her
behavior after taking a tranquilizer, she has minimal brain damage.
This was how I found out something was wrongby having the
diagnosis screamed at me in a room filled with patients. Mara was still
agitated and hard to control. I was shaking, petrified at having to drive in
the dark on winding country roads back to Zurich. We made it home
safely, both of us emotional wrecks.
My husband Norman was surprised by the diagnosis but not as
shocked as I. He had always been impatient with Maras screaming,
idiosyncrasies, and bizarre behaviors, and this was the moment he started
to draw away from her.
One such behavior was Maras need to have her belt and shoes tied
extremely tight. Norman, losing patience, tied her belt so tightly, she was
almost cut in half. He was not (and still isnt) a patient man.
Today, the two have little contact. Mara cant take his yelling,
screaming, and criticizing when they are together or talk on the phone. He
cannot deal with his disappointment over having a child who is not
normal.
After Maras EEG in Wintertur, we didnt know what to do about
the diagnosis. I researched as much as possible in the dark age of no
Internet. We were advised by our family doctor to have cognitive testing
with a specialist in Zurich.
The results were: borderline IQ, severe emotional problems,
hyperactivity, difficulty relating to others, brain damage, problems
adapting in social settings, bizarre behaviors, along with other problems
discovered later. They recommended a residential school setting. Though I
realized Mara had problems, it was devastating to learn their extent and
severity.

Excerpt from My Life With Mara

Roberta Belson 14

From the time I was a child and overheard my mother speaking to

a friend about someone giving birth to a baby who was twisted like a
pretzel, I worried about having an abnormal child. And here she was, my
worst fears manifested.
Hoping for different results, my parents made an appointment at
the Jacobi Albert Einstein Hospital in the Bronx We flew to New York to
get Mara more tests. Despite taking them in English instead of German,
the results were identical to the ones done in Zurich. With the same
diagnosis from both countries, I realized I needed to accept the situation
and proceed.
Children in the mid-1960s, who had developmental delay or
were handicapped, were not publicly seen in Switzerland or the United
States. Most were kept hidden at home or tucked away in institutions. I
was determined that wouldnt happen to Mara. Back in Zurich, I began
searching for the best residential school.
Heim Oberfeld in the Appenzell, near St. Gallen, was
recommended, and Norman and I drove the hour and a half from Zurich to
inspect it. We found green rolling hills rimmed by the larger Appenzeller
Mountains, lush pastures with fruit trees and contented grazing cows, an
idyllic setting. A large wooden building housed the childrens dormitories,
schoolrooms, kitchen, dining area, playrooms, and a small apartment for
Herr and Frau Schultz, who ran the school.
Heim Oberfeld was based on the philosophy and teachings of
Rudolph Steiner, similar to Waldorf schools in the United States. All fruits
and vegetables were grown organically. The students and staff only wore
natural fiberscotton and wool. Dr. Steiner believed food additives had
disastrous effects, especially on compromised children, causing them to be
extremely hyper. Today these theories are well known and followed. In the
early 1970s things were different.
We observed contented students helping to tend the gardens. They
sang and moved to sing-song melodies, did chores, and plain had fun. Herr
and Frau Schultz were in their fifties and looked like kindly, comfortable,
pudgy grandparents whom the children seemed to adore.
I left Heim Oberfeld impressed and relieved such a positive and
happy school possibility existed for Mara. Norman was a sour puss,
making fun of the students, Herr and Frau Schultz, the school, and

Excerpt from My Life With Mara

Roberta Belson 15

basically everything. I realize now he was having a hard time accepting

the idea a daughter of his belonged there.
Over the next five years Mara attended Heim Oberfeld. It was clear
that this was the correct decision. She played and studied with children
who had their own or similar problems, creating interpersonal connections
for the first time. Teachers and staff were trained in the Rudolph Steiner
philosophy, which helped them support, interact, and instruct the children.
They used art, a form of movement called, Eurhythmics, and singing to
assist the students with academic subjects. Mara responded well and her
hyperactivity and concentration improved
My head knows the decision to have Mara attend a residential
school was correct, but it still hurts. Though she made progress there,
Mara wasnt at home with the rest of the family. She saw that her sister
Monica got to stay in Zurich, while she was separated from us and from
Mosey, our standard poodle she loved. To this day, almost forty years later,
I remember her little face, pressed against the window of the school,
watching me drive away.

Our New Girl

Sharon Gilligan 16

She came to us as Princess

A sad, defeated lump of fur.
The whole way home no bark or whine,
Two hundred miles of sullen silence.
To get inside she needed help
One step up was quite a chore
A flight of stairs unthinkable.
Our canny vet declared her a mess,
But fixable.
A suffragist's name to make her fight,
She became Carrie after Chapman Catt,
Not Stephen Kings.
Then eye meds, ear meds, anti-biotics, semi-fungals,
Thyroid therapy, lots of baths and love.
Now she bounces down the stairs,
ID tags clanking a tinny tune
To greet the morning and us with joy.

The Oleomarginilization of Life

Laurel Moss 17

A strong believer of the natural, my mother chose live chickens from the
market and had them killed and plucked, returning home with the still
warm carcass for me to disgorge. This was my first lesson in biology and
anatomy, handling the liver, opening the stomach and seeing the contents,
the spongy lungs, the small heart no longer pulsing, and all the intestines
slimy and odoriferous. Some days I was lucky and found a clutch of eggs,
not yet expelled, and a delicacy in chicken soup.
It was then I experienced the visceral of life in the United States.
Metal cans were relatively new, and my mother was sure you could get
ptomaine poisoning from canned food. Thus, when shopping, we
frequented the pushcarts and the vegetable man, who called, hooted,
belled, and bellowed his wares in songs like, Potatoes, potatoes, fifty
cents a peck; or, Wholl buy my oranges, tangerines and apples?
The peddlers came straight from the commodity markets
surrounding the city, trucks rolling in before dawn with food, peddlers
bargaining with the dealers. They rolled their carts, pulled by hand, or by a
decrepit horse, rattling noisily over the cobblestoned streets, where women
stepped out of apartment houses to shop, or shouted orders from windows
and later emerged into the streets. In some cases, the peddler would let you
pick out your own produce. At other times, he insisted on doing it himself,
and on returning home there would be rotting tomatoes or wilted lettuce.
The produce had remnants of the soil it sprang from, that fresh earthy
aroma, which we washed clean before eating. The produce was irregular in
size and shape and didnt fit neatly into containers.
Food was wrapped in old newspaper and deposited in cloth,
knitted, woven and netted bags we brought with us to shop. Carts were
loaded with ice and covered with burlap sacks, upon which lay whole fish,
their eyes staring glassily in the dawn gloom, while the ice melted to
puddles around the cart, and a cat lurked nearby for a scrapped fish innard.
I had an uncle who used to cart live fish home and put them in a horse
trough filled with water, to keep them alive until needed. My childhood
was rich with sensations, visceral and otherwise.
I have become used to the oleomargarilization of life, accepting
soy ham, turkey burgers, veggie chickens, roses not roses. My cereal
comes in various stages from raw to sugar frosted. For eggs, I spend long
minutes pondering whether to buy small, medium, large, organic, free

The Oleomarginilization of Life

Laurel Moss 18

range, brown or white. With my budget and time, can I afford ready- mix
this and that, or organic peas and potatoes? Do I want my potatoes raw or
fried, frozen or patties, nuggets or mashed, with or without onions, chili
peppers, and cheese? I get the supermarket blues, listening to the numbing
Muzak coming from speakers, staring, in the fluorescent light, at packages
of wrapped pork chops, trying to remember what the pigs looked like.
My life so busy, and time so fleeting, as I stand before the wall of
vitamins, minerals and pharmaceuticals, comparing prices and contents
written in small print. I feel the agoraphobia attacking, and rush home, or
to where I think home is, to feel the real wood, the water from the well,
the bread I have baked into an odd shape, the carrots sliced unevenly,
cooked with peas I grew myself. I wonder at the time I spent or saved, but
eat with relish real berries I have picked.
Then, facing my computer with delight, I am plunged into the
whole wide world-dot-com, that lets me stay home and be in a virtual
reality beyond where I could be without it. Or, is that a mistake? My mind
alone can take me there. I am waiting to communicate wirelessly to all my
friends, to all the world in nakedness and thinglessness in this coming of
my age.

Poems

Frieda Feen 19
Sleepers Awake

Shes quite pleasant to look at: cavernous chocolate eyes cradle gossamer
creases careening down her cheeks, coveting the corners of her mouth.
Most folks dont make it past the wheelchair, oxygen, and bottle
drippingsuspended from the pole, down the tubing, and into her arm.
She lives in a world held together by duct tape. Her landlord repaired the
years-long flapping door, its torn screens and peeling paint, with five long
strips of the stuff and raised the rent twenty-five bucks
She sits facing the moonfull through the foga tiny black dog in her
lap. Sleepers awake, floating on the crisp night air. Heads thrown back,
enjoying a howl. A night owl joins in the song. Drip Ah-ooo, drip
who-who-ooo, drip . . .
As She Composed Herself
Walling off an uninhabitable world,
she built an impenetrable gateway.
She planted a labyrinth.
Tendrils rose to stroke her as she passed.
Keep going youre almost there.
Sticky cornflower-pollened fingertips
brought the taste of sweet promise
to her lips.
She reached its downy core,
cut the Gordian knot,
lay down to sleep.
An orchestra played,
as she composed herself.

Wings

Molly Boynoff 20

There is a bird
flapping around
inside my chest,
fluttering his wings against the cage of my ribs.
[An intercostal penitentiary]
And I dont know what to do about it.
I havent the calculated courage
to kill him,
and I dont know
how to let him go
without cracking myself apart.
You may ask me,
Why did you let a full-grown bird into your chest to begin with?
to which I may respond,
Well, perhaps he sprouted from some stray birdseed
I had scattered around in there...
you know how I am inside,
such a tangle of twigs and dirt.
He was hidden carefully as a seed,
and suddenly I had a birdsprout right in the middle
of my central hollow.
I could not hinder his hatching,
and now hes a strong saucy thing,
hopping about expectantly,
twittering variegated incantations
of your name.
A clear-visioned, pure-hearted joy-warbler
who Ive never actually beheld,
whose form and manner are still shrouded in mystery.
But oh, sweet silvester innocent!
His existence inside me brings me cheer,
keeping me kinder, more compassionate, protected from fear.
Companion of love, inner traveler, always near
lifting me almost half-way off my feet,
lightening my step, as he practices flexing for far-off flights.
He warms my heart, lined with feathers and mud,

Wings
and tap-dances on top of my lungs
until I laugh out loud.
I tell him about all the world,
but he speaks only of you,
and begs for aerial expression.
His could be,
a bittersweet fate,
to perish captive in the dark
never having lofted free...
though I was rather hoping dear,
that you might have the key?
Here, Ill help look,
rifling through your pockets,
perhaps I asked too subtly.
No, you push me back,
gently,
firmly,
and laughingly.
I know,
this bird is not of your invention;
hes a real part of me.
Hell never escape
the shadowed trappings of my flesh,
but hell fly one day, youll see.
As soon as I perfect my stretch,
the arc of my arms,
a loveliness, a trust,
a path of honesty.
And seemingly,
weightlessly,
well lift off into the winds.
Come along little love-bird,
away we go.

Molly Boynoff 21

ShhDaddy is Sleeping

Bill Baker 22

ShhDaddy is sleeping, Birdie said in a whisper, her finger pressed

against her lips.
Her daughter Maggie tiptoed over to the kitchen table where Birdie
was working the daily Sudoku. Ill be quiet as a mouse starting the car,
Mom. I have to run. Theres another disaster at work. Her purse and car
keys were right where they were supposed to be. Promise me you will
make sure Daddy is ready when the Senior Center van comes to pick you
up.
I promise, sweetheart.
Thanks. I love you, Mom, she said, kissing her forehead.
At work, nothing went right.
Her friend Jennifer, the front desk receptionist, barged through the
office door and leaned over the desk. Charles from the Senior Center
called, she said. Your mom refused the daycare pickup this morning.
Oh God, not again. She clenched her teeth. God bless you,
Mom. As if we dont have enough stress today. Honestly, Jenn, I love them
to pieces, but its like a pair of three-year olds at home.
I dont know how you do it, Maggie, or why.
Some days I ask myself the same thing. There was no answer at
the house, so she signed herself out and headed home.
Birdie was in a rocking chair on the front porch, sipping a cup of
coffee, still working the puzzle on her lap. ShhDaddy is sleeping. Be
quiet with the door, please. We dont want to wake him before hes ready.
You are so right, Mom. He can be cranky. But isnt this late for
him? Is he okay?
Of course he is. Hes sleeping like a baby.
As Maggie headed down the hall, she glanced into the bath where
her fuzzy pink slippers, a silly Christmas gift from Daddy, sat by the
shower stall. The toilet seat was down, which meant Bert had not used it.
In seventy-nine years, he had never learned to lower it.
She opened the bedroom door quietly. The blinds were drawn and
the room was dark. There was her father, tucked under the quilt with his
back to her, knees drawn up, looking impossibly smaller than the young
Marine Corpsman who once tossed her in the air.
She walked slowly around the king-sized bed. His head lay
sideways on the pillow, his fine silver hair floating free as spider silk. His

ShhDaddy is Sleeping

Bill Baker 23

eyes were closed. There was a smile was on the lips, already turning blue.
His skin felt cool when she felt his throat for a carotid pulse. She leaned
over and kissed his forehead. Goodbye, Daddy.
Birdie had followed her into the house and sat at the kitchen table
working on her puzzle. This is a hard one, she said. I always say I like
the hard ones, but this one may be too much for me. All the empty
squares were filled with the number seven.
How are you doing, Mama? Maggie said. Are you okay?
Of course Im okay. Why shouldnt I be okay? She rattled her
coffee cup against the saucer. Pour me another cup, Maggie. But please
be quiet. Daddy is sleeping.

A Total Eclipse of the Moon

Susan Fisher 24

It was 3:00 am when Mr. Parsons led his wife over the uneven front yard,
full of holes dug by audacious gophers. After setting up two lawn chairs,
the Parsons plonked their stocky bodies down and each wrapped up in a
knit afghan so they looked like aged babies. Tonight was a celestial event
a full lunar eclipse.
Its nice sitting outside together in the dark, Mrs. Parsons said.
Hmmm, assented Mr. Parsons, and squeezed her hand.
The cats had snuck out of the house when their sleepy human
parents stumbled through the door. Now they leapt onto warm laps, and
joined the wait for a night sky to be temporarily devoid of the familiar
pearlescent face.
Mrs. Parsons thought about how the moon had brought comfort to
every living creature throughout time. She was sharing a primal
experience with all who had preceded her and those who would follow
her, until . . . well, no one knew.
Mr. Parsons tapped her arm and said, Another five minutes to
completion. The silver edge grew thinner and thinner until the ancient
orbs beauty was fully cloaked in an absence of light.
They sat in the thick and comforting darkness, aware that they
were together on their own journey through space on a giant blue ball.
When they saw the moon begin to emerge from blackness, Mr. and Mrs.
Parsons carried the cats inside and they all went back to sleep.

Hiding Places

Diane Semans 25
Sherry,
Her drug of choice.
She hid it
In her bathroom,
In a box of Kleenex,
Where she could go and take a nip.
Another hiding place----In her closet,
In the laundry bag
Hanging on the door.
She would go there,
When she needed more.
Her teenage daughter
Thought she acted strange.
Followed, found,
Then poured the liquid
Down the drain.
It didnt matter,
She just got more.

Mothers Day

Diane Semans 26

She picked up the phone and dialed her daughters number in San
Francisco. She got the answering machine. With a shaking voice, she left
her message:
Lori, I dont know where you are right now. For all I know, you may
be lying somewhere in the gutter dead. Im calling to tell you not to call
me today to wish me a Happy Mothers Day. This is the worst Mothers
Day of my life, because I just found out you are addicted to drugs and
about to lose your job. Your life is in danger and there is nothing I can do
about it. My heart is broken. I dont need to hear that you love me or that
everything will be all right because it wont unless you get help. Dont call
me.
She hung up the phone and sobbed. Her other children called that day
and she refused to take their calls. She couldnt bear to hear them wish her
a Happy Mothers Day.
That was eighteen years ago. Today in the mail came a small package
addressed to her. She opened it and read the card.
Mom, this gold medallion belongs to you. You earned it and I want
you to have it. Because of that phone message eighteen years ago I got
sober. I played your message over and over, and cried my eyes out. This
medallion is my AA chip and represents eighteen years of being clean and
sober. Its because of you that I have it. Now its yours.
Happy Mothers Day. I love you. Lori.

Halloween 1956

Dorrit Effinger 27

The season was shifting: cooler nights and breezier days. The
biggest event of the year was about to happenthe Halloween Carnival at
the high school.
I got off the school bus and walked to my house. I tossed my books
and clarinet on the bed and changed into comfortable clothes. I told my
mother I was fixing to catch a ride with Mrs. Phillips, my former teacher,
and her son David to meet up with my friends in town. She wanted me to
wait until Dad got home and ride with them. I argued, no, Ive already
arranged to collect UNICEF money with my friends and thats what Im
going to do. I was coming into that developmental stage in girls where
you separate from your mother. I said, Im out of here, and slammed the
door on my way out.
My friends and I worked the neighborhood near the school. It was
still light out and most folks were at home. We were warmly received and
it was fun talking with the friendly people. We heard the sirens go through
town heading toward Baytown. One of us said, "There goes the meat
wagon, enjoying our adolescent and very clever humor. We laughed and
continued to knock on doors. At dinner time we headed back to the
Carnival.
As we approached, people ran up to me. "Dorrit, theyve been
paging you on the P.A. You need to go see the Principal. My friends
traipsed along with me. Reverend Thompson cut me off. Dorrit, he said,
I want you to come help me bring food over from the house. His wife
was heavy pregnant, so it made sense he might need help. It was only two
blocks away.
Okay, I said. We walked to his car.
When we settled in, he put the key in the ignition and was silent
for a minute. He said, There has been an accident. You probably heard
the sirens. Your Mother is dead. She died at the scene. Your Daddy is in
Baytown in critical condition. We are going to drive over there to see him.
Ive contacted your brother Bob. Hes on his way from Houston. Bills
already there.
This isnt real this isnt real this isnt real this isnt real
Ears ringing, body numb. I turn away from him. I press my
forehead against the car window. Surprisingly cool to my skin. I press

Halloween 1956

Dorrit Effinger 28

harder. Ive been a head-banger since I was little. This is my polite way of
banging my head.
He starts the car and we head for the hospital. I freeze in this pose.
Pressing harder harder. This is not real.
Numb. Totally numb. Would I bleed if you stabbed me?
I get to the hospital. We find my brother Bill in a waiting area. Bob
arrives. I have no idea how long we were there, what was said, or what we
did. We float around the room. Were really not there.
Someone enters and breaks the spell. You can go in and see him
briefly. Hes struggling. In pain and shock. He doesnt know his wife is
dead. No, dont tell him. He might not fight to live if he knows.
We walk in like nothing happened. Dad is all wired and hooked up
with hoses and monitors from head to foot. An alarming sight. Ive never
seen my dad helpless. We try to cheer him up. I start to cry. Bob jabs me
hard and scowls.I reel it in. We Effingers dont cry. Especially now. Cant
upset Dad.
Bob and I spend the night at the Herrmanns. I sleep in the
bedroom with my friend Linda Herrmann. I wake myself up sobbing.
Linda calls out to her Mom. Mrs. Herrmann comes and gives me a pill.
Knocks me out cold.
From that experience I learn its not okay to feel your feelings. Just take
a drink, pill, or fix. And go away. Away. Become comfortably numb.
It became a lifestyle.
I heard that Bill had been cruising around with his friends that
night.They drove up on the accident right after it happened. Bill has never
talked about this.
The accident happened on Highway 146, less than a quarter mile from
our home. A drunk guy on his way to Galveston collided head-on with my
parents. He was fine, we heard.
I was supposed to have been in that car with them.
Could I have prevented it if I were?
No, I was supposed to be there and I should be dead.

!
Good Words 31

Alice Bonner
Barbara Lee
Joan Hansen
Catherine Marshall
Holly Tannen
Carol Reffell
Priscilla Comen
Roberta Belson
Sharon Gilligan
Laurel Moss
Frieda Feen
Molly Boynoff
Bill Baker
Susan Fisher
Diane Semans
Dorrit Effinger