Care Packages by Betty Winslow

How long will it be before I forget
what your favorite cookies were?
I don't know what you eat in heaven
but it's probably not meringues,
crispy-crusted, chewy-centered,
vanilla-scented,
lightly toasted on top
like a summer sunburn,
and crumbling at a touch;
I'm sure you don't long
for packages from home
filled with meringues, red licorice,
rice krispy treats made by childish hands,
and peppermints from meals at Pizza Hut,
squirreled away by your dad to put in the box
alongside the letters and drawings
and heapings of family love. 

Now, you have everything you need
or ever wanted,
and we're left holding the box
with all the love,
with no one left to send it to. 

 

Author Betty Winslow, who lives in Bowling Green, Ohio, wrote this poem for Down the Cereal Aisle: a basket of recipes and remembrances (edited by Alice J. Wisler), in memory of her daughter, Lisa, who died in 1993 and always loved to get care packages from home.

Home by Kathleen Lynch

I sat staring around the empty room for forty-five minutes. Twenty-two empty seats, the now blank walls stripped of Macbeth movie posters, an overflowing garbage can, a tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet on the floor. Fourth row. Third seat. Jennings's desk. Guess he won't be getting to his reading over the break. Sigh. 

They left today for holiday, with the bravely, boasting brunt of adolescence, jeering them onto the buses that will transport them away, away, away from here, the deeply seated enemy. They are so excited to be released, and would never dream of letting you feel a remote inkling, a minute possibility of any reluctance of leaving this room, this home, or above all you. You who have become the target of the rolling eyes, and labored exhales as loud as the last breath of life from a twenty pack a day emphysema patient. I have been reduced to the form of the jester whose mere attempt at any form of knowledge is so comical…pitiful…

How dare I expect something of them? How dare I expect something of them? Who the hell am I anyway? And in the quickening passing of 180 days, I begin to wonder, who the hell am I anyway? I second-guess myself for the tenth-thousandth time.

They walk down the path toward the buses, and I watch the embraces that would weaken Russell Crowe at his best.  Kisses so deep and meaningful they would carry anyone over the age of 35 through 400 years of solitaire… and then some. I try to imagine in my mind's eye the world that is waiting for them on the other end. The impending hallmark and hell mark moments on the horizon. I miss them already.

Earlier this morning, when my alarm rang out, I tightened my eyes and audibly said, “Not again…” And now I sit here, and I miss them.  I realize I will come to my senses, live my life, enjoy my holiday…and will wake 12 days from now, rolling over, closing my eyes, Here we go… again…and again…and again…and so it passes…

….and here I am. The holiday box has been emptied and another year has passed. The alarm is going off.  I think of them. I recall a vague…vague,,,mmnnn… sense of missing them.  Shower, coffee, darkness. 15 degrees. Jeez... I piece together my welcome back class… I finally smile a bit when I turn into the parking lot and remember.

“Well, let's talk about the themes in Romeo and Juliet. Jennings—let's hear what you think.”

And so, the battle begins once again. Welcome home.

Kathleen Lynch
klbmaine@netscape.net
January 21, 2004

 

 

Tres Hermanas by Ken Rodgers

I heard them running through dead weeds. Away from the eleven a.m. sun. The Cedar Mountains lounged in the west like they were no name. A bright day, west wind, often brisk, welcome long johns.

My shotgun to my shoulder. I heard them running. Jimmy Joe looked at me and shrugged. Last night she came. Drove all the way from El Paso. One hundred thirty miles of sandy bottom, ruts banging her Stetson into the headliner.

The night was bright and coyotes palavered behind Tres Hermanas. We turned in early. She came. I'm a light sleeper

I heard them running. The quail, that is. They were beating their horny feet on the stems of those dead weeds. Like radar, my ears. One flew. Bloom. In the ditch. Scaled quail hate to fly.

In the tent they started hanky panky. I heard her shuck her jeans. I thought she was leaving him. They smacked lips. I turned in my sleeping bag. They got quiet.

I found the bird in the ditch. Picked it up. Gray to bluer, black lines on the ends of the feathers, reminded me of lace on grandma's hankies. They hate to fly.

I heard them running. Running to the truck. They left the tent flap open. I spotted Orion in the early morning sky. Heard springs squeak. The night breeze in my sleeping bag. I shivered. She giggled.

I walked along the flats that dipped north with a slow demise. I heard quail running. Fly. Bloom, it toppled. Feathers drifted east. Satisfying sound, that plop.

On the hood of the truck in the dead of black, springs creaked, and muffled grunts, some whispers. He told me he'd hired a lawyer. A short squeal.

Sometimes I think critters are stupid. But maybe they think that about me. I have a gun. Changes the odds some. When I woke up next morning, she was gone. I saw her tire tracks in the sand. She was driving all terrain. Now he's got the mopes.  Missed three shots. Never saw such a thing. She left her Stetson. It's bright blue with a red feather.

 

November
Near the The Coronado Trail
Nineteen Eighty-eight
Harsh sun and windy

Ken Rodgers. Sebastopol, CA

 

 

Friday Night by Charles Markee

In the shadow of Mt. Shasta, in the valley of the Sacramento River, we gather for a ceremony as old as man, sharing a meal and telling stories into the night from overstuffed chairs that surround a virtual campfire.  Ages 13 to 90 at one table, different agendas, vastly different histories, but aware of each other in the way of families, n' everyone with a story. 

“We come on this ole boy, so lost he didn't know which way he's a goin'.  Asked him why he din't just backtrack his own prints in-a snow?  He said he couldn't tell which way they-sa goin'”

“Gran' always has her coffee n' milk n' cereal, but this mornin' we were out-a milk.  I said, I'd go to the store n' be right back, but when I got back, she'd already eaten her cereal.  When I asked her how, she said she just poured the coffee on the cereal.  At 90 she said, it all tastes the same anyhow.”

“Some days she's fine and other days she thinks that Johnny Weissmuller and Joe Montana were here for dinner last night.  Watchin' MASH the other day, she said, I remember fixin' lunch for those boys last week.”

The youngest says, who's Johnny Wiessmuller?  And we remember the movie Tarzan who won five Olympic gold medals and broke 67 world records for free-style swimming and wonder why the past disappears.

“Thut bar's hangin' ‘round the gully next to the house.  Las' week he ripped the door of the cage next door an' et thar pet rabbit.”

There's no pause, no break in the stories, they chain together, one leads to another and they flow continuously like waves against the shore.  Laughter, that spasm of surprise, reflects from the walls, and sparks one more story before the energy winds down and someone says, I gotta get home, and the divergence begins, each to his own bed, to prepare for another day.

 Saturday morn, looking across the road into the river, then a walk down First Street along the river's edge where wildflowers challenge civilization and the walk back with Mt. Shasta visible over the tree tops.

           

Charles Markee writes belletrism and film reviews from his moonview cabin in Santa Rosa, California.  After 41 years slogging through corporate corridors, he saw the light; studied creative writing with Chitra Divakaruni, Floyd Salas, Terry Ehret, Ida Egli and others; film reviews www.hazelst.com, short shorts www.bettyauchard.com (past winners), email chuck@hazelst.com.

CA.

Vernal Desire by Annie Scott

Springtime in the foothills of the Central Sierra is all about the glee of freedom. Finally, after a long winter of snow and fog, Sonora Pass opens, the upper reservoirs of Beardsley and Lions Lake open their gates, and Pinecrest Lake fills once more with water. Although it is still too early for swimwear and canoes, the glorious vistas and high country trails of Sonora Pass call to us. All winter it has felt snug and cozy here in the foothills, with our local Cover's hot cider, lama wool sweaters and crackling woodstoves. Yet, a claustrophobic tension has grown in the nerves of every local since the pass closed in late November.

Sonora Pass provides an almost spiritual release as it beckons us to cross over the mountain. Access to the Eastern Sierra, with its palpable rock faces, hot springs and desert landscape, never fails to fill the gathering places of Tuolumne County with a buzz of excitement. We grow giddy thinking of the new adventures that await us in our summer backyard. In those first few days after Caltrans sends the news, people's first words on the streets or in the markets are, “Have you been up to the pass yet? It's so beautiful.” And this is sighed with a tone of wonderment, as if they had never before seen anything so breathtaking, as if they didn't enjoy this same late-May ritual every year.

In these early months of alpine spring, twelve-foot snow piles still loom over the edges of the road in the high country. Drifts hide the trailheads, and the water of most mountain streams is only partially visible through shining patterns of melting ice. But the light and the piercing freshness of the air are worth the drive, even if you are only able to peer at the wilderness from the road, there is no greater thrill than to catch a May glimpse of the upper reaches of the Central Sierra.

I would like to assign a field trip to all self-professed mountain lovers who have been turned into virtual flatlanders by months of road-closing snow. While a simple drive to the top of the pass and back is a rewarding spring outing, you cannot beat the feeling of passing beyond that mountain range into the vast open space of the Great Basin. Get on HWY 108 and drive past the Leavitte Meadows, past Walker Valley and out into the ranch land near Bridgeport. Then turn around.

The months of winter brooding and tedious indoor projects will drop away, as you stare in awe at the soaring jagged peaks of the Sawtooth Ridge rising out of the Northern edge of Yosemite. Still covered in snow, the Sierra range will pop out at you in stark relief against a spring blue sky. You might sigh or laugh as you recognize your good fortune. Then head home, back over Sonora Pass, and into the warm blanket of your Sierra.

Forgetting by Christine Falcone

How quickly we forget the contents of old boxes, what's in those suitcases packed up in the attic, or the plastic bins from Home Dept nesting on the rafters of the garage. So much “stuff” we collect as humans. But what of the “stuff” we carry around on the inside? I bet you'd never forget your first kiss. Could tell me right here, right now, how the rainwater collected in puddles all around your family's front porch—the clearing sky and full moon reflecting in them like mirrors to the heavens. I bet you remember exactly what you were wearing, that coveted red coat borrowed from a friend, the one with the faux fur collar. I bet you can remember how warm his mouth felt on your cold cheek, then how you turned to face him, heart pounding until your young, supple lips pressed back against his.  How his breath looked, white and swirling in the cold winter air, the exhale of a god, your first love. 

How do we remember all these things: our first day of school; our new lunch pail and knee-high socks pulled up to the hem of our Catholic schoolgirl uniforms; the day we graduated high school, left home, got married—perhaps finalized our divorce.  Where are all those ripples, those wrinkles carried in our brains? There must be folds, crevasses, caverns of collected memories, cassette tapes of the past we can pop in the VCR of our mind anytime we please, hit “play” and watch those treasured images as fresh as the hand holding this pen skip across the page of memory. These are the things we may never pack up, liquidate, ship-off to Good Will. They're ours alone and they are the things a life lived well are built upon. They are the true riches of any man or woman.

 

Christine Falcone remembers in Novato, CA.

 

First Encounter by Kathleen Lynch

I never thought I would be able wait that long. There were few virtues that were bestowed upon me to begin with, and patience was definitely not one of them. But I waited, and time crawled by on its belly across the platitudes of my mind. I waited. The clocked ticked and tocked, repeatedly drumming like a relentless faucet into the not quite stainless steel sink of my life.

The years quickly relented, and it seemed like I was destined to be alone, and a quiet cloud of resolve blanketed me. Years of wearing of this hollow, empty halo carved time upon my cheeks, and drained the shine from my eyes. Until the day I found out about you. That was the day the tide rushed through me, and drowned my heart with the promise of love and possibility.

      I still had to wait. I had not met you yet, but this instinctual orgasm overwhelmingly took control of me body and soul. I knew it was a match.  I knew we were to be forever connected and that no circumstance conjured up in the minds of the mocking gods would separate us. The waiting was painful.

I kept imagining what you would look like when I finally saw you. That suspended moment when I first would gaze into your eyes, and run my hands across your face. I knew I would spend hours staring through you, and that although we were two people, we would become on a transverse level, one soul. This intersecting of ‘being' astounded me and I waited.

The day was slowly approaching when were to finally meet. It was excruciating. It was blinding anticipation and the only thing that made such a journey even possible, was the knowledge that I was finally going to meet you at the end of it. I endured living fifteen million Christmas mornings at seven years old all at once. I found myself weak-kneed and sweating, twitching, trying to reach down deep, just to gain the voice to utter a sound. Then you appeared, and when I finally locked you in my gaze, after that eternity of time that passed without you, when you were there—tangible—when I was able to see your eyes, I swallowed you with a smile that would melt a iceberg. Ha! You are the Titanic of my soul!!

“It's a boy”! the doctor cried out as he passed to me my son.

Kathleen Lynch

Farmington, Maine

Outside, a gardener is sweeping debris from the street, and I listen to the rhythmic swooshing sound, back and forth, back and forth.  A lullaby of sorts. 

I think of all the sweeping that goes on around the world.  Sweeping since time began...in a garden, in a cave.  Sweeping the earth, sweeping palaces, sweeping schools, hospitals and prisons.  Sweeping in barns and taverns.  Cottages, ships, trains.   Churches and sacred groves.

Babies learning to sweep, grandmothers sweeping.  Families sweeping.  Men, women and children sweeping.

Swoosh, swoosh; easy strokes, simple movements.  Gathering up the mess of life.  Mess that gets underfoot, mess that causes disharmony, scraps from the creative process of Life.  Mess that must be gathered and thrown out.  Dangerous messes like broken glass, beautiful messes like sparkly paper scraps.  I pause and think of the hundreds of things that need to be swept up and discarded.

When I sweep, I am connected to all the women of all the ages and nations, and I marvel that the broom itself is unchanged.  A simple device....a stick, some grasses, and still we sweep, sweep, sweep with this ancient tool.  In this age of Newer and Faster, there is nothing that is better than an ordinary broom.

Whether physical, or spiritually symbolic, the broom is an icon of renewal, beauty, and the peace it brings.  It does not require strength, just a gentle motion, a willingness to pick it up and go through the motions of sweeping, sweeping, sweeping.