A Publication By and for Fellowship Place Members

Issue 37, Winter & Holiday 2014

The Beacon
“Books are lighthouses in the great sea of time.”
- Edwin P. Whipple
Fellowship Place
441 Elm street
New haven, Ct
www.fellowshipplace.org

Kathy’s Prayer
By Kathy K.
Sometimes in the morning,
When I’m saying my prayers,
I think of my worries,
my problems and cares,
And I say to the Lord,
my higher power,
“teach me to take life hour by hour”.
Sometimes in the morning,
When I’m saying my prayers,
I think of my friends’ worries,
their problems and cares,
And I say to the Lord,
my higher power,
“teach them to take life hour by hour”.
Sometimes in the morning
When I’m saying my prayers,
I think of my country’s worries,
problems and cares,
And I say to our Lord, our higher power
“teach us to take life hour by hour”.
Amen.

This member‐run newsletter, The Beacon, is just one of the many programs that
Fellowship Place offers—which provides members with an opportunity to be creative
thinkers and writers, and, at the same time share information about the latest of
events happening at Fellowship Place. We hope you enjoy this issue.
Please see Sara B. if you are interested in joining The Beacon newsletter staff or if
you have something you would like to contribute to our next issue.
 A Time for Quiet.
By Ryan D.
Time was my worst enemy. If I couldn't free myself from Sandra's grasp, she would
only become more infatuated with me. I had already met her mother, her father, and
she couldn't wait for me to meet her sisters. We had only been dating for six weeks.
Sandra thought I was "the one;" I knew this because she told me. We hadn't discussed babies yet, but I felt
that was right around the corner. She loved me, I think, and I wondered how many other men had fallen
under Sandra's spell.
I spoke to a man in the supermarket. He stopped me and told me all about the woman he knew. "She hit
me," he said. "She was an abuser." I should have known to stop there. Regardless, I continued.
From somewhere a voice came into my head. He spied on Sandra and gave me a running commentary on
her life. He was my inside man. "Look at how gorgeous she is," he said. "Look at how lucky you are." I
wondered if the voice was right. The next day I brought Sandra flowers. I buttered her up by telling her,
'happy six and a half week anniversary,' because I knew she would like that, and even though Sandra gave
me the evil eye, I could tell she was impressed that I remembered.
Sandra and I planned on taking a trip. We looked at brochures of exotic places she said we could honey-
moon. I couldn't afford a trip right now, so I was glad we didn't have to leave right away. Sandra told me
she loved me, and the next thing I knew I was laying in bed trying to fall asleep. I rolled over, looked at
the clock, and then I passed out.
Sandra was growing on me. I thought she was cute, but a woman who smothers her boyfriend is one to
look out for, I thought. I had to talk to her so I gave her a call.
"Sandra?”
“Yes?”
“It's Lenny. I wanted to talk to you."
"Hi Lenny. About what?"
"I think we're going too fast."
"Why do you say that?"
"I feel like you're smothering me."
"We can slow down if you need to," Sandra said.
"I'd like that."
"Would you like to come over for dinner?" Sandra asked.
"I think I should stay home," I said. "Would you like to come over here?"
"Sure, okay," Sandra said. "I'll be there in an hour."
Sandra came over, and I cooked peppers for dinner. She told me I looked distant, so I pulled my chair
closer. "How come you're not talking?" she asked.
"I don't know," I mumbled. "There's 'nothing' to talk about."
"What does that mean?"
"I know about you and the other guy," I said. "He tells me everything."
"What are you talking about?"
"He comes to me in my sleep. He told me what kind of girl you are."
Sandra stood up. "That's it. I don't have to deal with this," she said, and she grabbed her coat and stormed
out. Right then I knew that I wasn't supposed to talk about the voice. He was a sacred gift that was given
to me in solace on one condition: that I kept quiet.

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 g . . .
r i n e B.
t u
Fe a D e si r e The Poetry Corner
Happy New Year Christians

Redemptions and anointing up the road,
The savior lifting burdens and heavy loads.
Brand new year of promises fulfilled,
Living according to Christ’s standards, goals,
example and perfect will.
Thanking Jesus for yet another year under
the shadow of the Most High God’s tender Christmas Joy
love and care.
Another year of wisdom, patience, hope, Smiles, laughter, jolly wishes and fond regards,
Remedy medicine for sinners at the end of Radiant candles of love, glow in believers’
their rope. hearts.
New converts like cattle from the bible graze, Wreaths, holly, tinsel, glitter, mistletoe,
Hallelujah! Giving Jesus the highest praise. Santa Clause jolly mouth twisted into a merry
bow.
Choirs singing melodious Christmas carols,
Folks dressed to impress in sharp Christmas
apparel.
Born again Christians feasting on the Bible,
Glad tiding of Christmas,
“Holy Ghost”, souls revivals.
Snow chocolate covered cherries decorated,
glass bulbs,
Hung on a green Christmas tree,
Repent sinners, Christ love is free!
His grace is sufficient for thee!
Red poinsettias point the way to Calvary’s
cross,
Christ seeking to save them whom were lost.
The love of Christ showed to and shared with
the poverty‐stricken and the hungry,
Time Victory at the alter, results of Christ’s prayers
and
Precious, priceless time, Calvary’s blood slaughter,
Sneaking off somewhere into the night just when Ornaments, cards, Christmas gifts,
I need it. Jesus included love, joy, and peace as items on
Tomorrow’s rushing away too fast for his Christmas shopping list.
memories,
Lonely yesterdays fade in the atmosphere,
Tim is very valuable and thank God that it’s
mine.
Always running out on me,
That disappearing time.

3
 Holiday Baking
With Kathy K.
Spice Apple Cornbread
Ingredients:
Jiffy cornbread mix
Oil
Eggs
4 Apples
1/2 tsp. Nutmeg
1/2 tsp. Cloves (ground)
1/2 tsp. Ginger (ground)
Raisins (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

2. Mix oil, eggs and cornbread following the instructions on the box.
3. Dice the apples, leaving the skin on. Stir apples into bread batter. (Add raisins if using.)
4. Add all spices, mix.
5. Bake at 350 for 20 minutes or until brown on top.
6. Enjoy!

A Favorite Holiday Memory

By Judy M.

Many years ago when I was between the ages of three and seven, maybe all those
years, I remember my dear grandmother and grandfather on my mother’s side of the fam-
ily. My grandfather had a clothing factory at that time. I remember Grandpa and Grandma
used to make Diane, my sister, and I clothes and we would shop a lot with Mom.
I especially remember the way the world looked around the Holiday Season. We’d go
to where a lot of the retail stores were and there were lots of beautiful evergreen wreaths
and bows over our heads of glistening icicles, tiers of silvery bells and tinsel like lights. I
remember being with Mom and Grandma and Diane and myself. Grandma had a calming
effect on all of us. Mom seemed to be in an especially good mood. It was a lovely outing I
remember we went to, what I think was, a coffee shop. Grandma used to always get the
cottage cheese plate with a mound of pears and halves of peaches and red jello. I wanted to
be just like Grandma and ordered it too.
I remember Grandpa making for us green felt skirts and pleated, plaid skirts with
plaid suspenders. I remember saying to Mom at Mother’s Morning Out, “May I wear my
new skirt that Grandpa made me?”, and Mom said, “Judy, when you go to kindergarten.” I
remember wearing it to kindergarten.

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 Snowy Memory

By Marian K.

The kids were out back with their snowsuit-overalls fastened and scarves tied tightly—
no neck to be seen. Hats covering ears, some even knitted masks with peering eyes.

I didn’t want to go out! I slipped behind the curtain so Mom wouldn’t see me. I stole a look at my blue snow-
pants hung puffy on its hook.

No, Mom, keep at your dishwashing—warm water flowing. I don't’ care to feel ice cold stabs in my face
as the balls hit hard all around my sphere—my aura transfixed with holes torn and feelings stick out—heart on
my sleeve.

Roger, he was the bully, the fine marksman who could hit an open window in a moving car down our
Shell Street which had no shells now, the summer gone…

Let me make snow angels in the wisps of white. Instead of the fine mud castles we would build in the hot
sun of summer on the banks of the muddy sandbar puddles, to wash into the salty sea.

Now I start an igloo—a tall rounded block-built bubble in the midst of the kids, the gang of blustery ball-
throwers.

One block, cut by a sharp stick, the ice cracking as I formed it. I lifted it out sideways, pulling and sliding.
Soon the first block was in place. Then cut another. Then building. Rip-rap wall in white.

Slowing forming a wall of protection. The kids looked up. Second-take. Stopped throwing. Came over
with discovery sounds.

“Can I help?”

“How do I cut it?”

“Tell me where to put this block.”

“How do you keep the ceiling up?”

It was a feat of physics and philosophy.

JOIN US FOR WRITERS’ GROUP

TUESDAYS 2:00-3:00 in HALD 2
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The Kwanzaa Connection‐ African‐American Connections to My Family
by Jon Singer

Several years ago my sister‐in‐law told me that her brother married a woman
whose mother was Joan Countryman, a famous teacher. I found data on Mrs. Countryman
on the internet on Dec. 19, 2012‐ the AEI Speakers’ Bureau. Mrs. Countryman grew up in
Philadelphia. Her maiden name was Cannady (see below). She was the first African‐American to
graduate from the Germantown Friends’ School. She went to Sarah Lawrence College from which
she got a Bachelor’s degree in 1962 (elsewhere on internet). Ms. Countryman received a Master’s
degree from Yale University and won a Fulbright Scholarship to study at the London School of
Economics.
Mrs. Countryman taught mathematics at the Germantown Friends’ School in Philadelphia
and rose to become Assistant Head for Academic Planning and Director of Studies from 1970‐
1993. For 12 years she was also the Head of Lincoln School in Providence, Rhode Island. She re‐
tired from there in 2005. She was also on a 12‐year term not only as a member of the Board of
Managers of Haverford College but also as President of the Corporation of Haverford College! She
is also on the Board of Trustees of Sarah Lawrence College and is a member of the Board of the
Providence Journal Company (a newspaper, according to my brother). One of her publications is
Black Images In American Literature (1977). William Zinsser’s book, Writing to Learn, has a chap‐
ter on her.
From 2006‐2007 she was a consultant and Interim Head of the Oprah Winfrey Leadership
Academy for Girls in South Africa. An article on‐line from The Philadelphia Inquirer by Martha
Woodall was “To South Africa Via Germantown School here helps Oprah Launch Hers.” Attending
a ceremony at Oprah’s academy were Spike Lee, Tina Turner and Nelson Mandela!
An article about Sarah Lawrence College said that Joan Cannady Countryman was of the Class
of ‘62 and her uncle was Leon Sullivan, a North Philadelphia minister whose 1977 “Sullivan Princi‐
pals” helped boycott South Africa’s apartheid system.
I don’t remember hearing about Leon Sullivan so I looked him up on the internet.
I found the report, “West Virginia Archives and History, Leon H. Sullivan.” Sullivan was born in
1922. As he grew up, he met Adam Clayton Powell and worked with him. In the early 1940s he or‐
ganized a march on Washington. In 1950 he became head of the Zion Baptist Church. In the 1960s
he worked with Martin Luther King, organizing boycotts of Atlanta. In the 1970s he organized
multinational boycotts against South Africa. In 1994 apartheid was overthrown. In the 1990s Mr.
Sullivan worked with Nelson Mandela to restore South Africa’s economy. So my family was in a
leadership role in African liberation movements!
Note “Tim Hashaw’s 2001 on‐line paper: Malungu said that the Cannadys were a Melun‐
geon family from Tidewater Virginia, going back to 1630. My brother agreed that they were the
same as Mrs. Countryman’s Cannady family, which came from Tidewater Virginia! Hashaw traced
the Melungeons back to the Mbundu people of the Ndongo kingdom of Angola, southwest Africa.