The Fox Squirrel Review

Welcome

Welcome to the inaugural edition of the Fox Squirrel Review, Spring Island’s Literary Arts magazine. Initiated and produced

by Spring Island members, the Review showcases the creative talents of our resident authors and artists. It also provides a tangible record for potential and future Spring Island dwellers of the artistry, sensibilities, values, and topics of interest that characterize people who choose to live in this extraordinary, unique community. The magazine accepts all types of writing including memoirs, essays, poems, haiku, limericks, jingles, commentaries, critiques, anecdotes, speeches, journal entries, observations, and very short stories; and all levels of writers have been invited to submit their works. In addition, sketches, original photographs, drawings, and copies of other types of works of art created by Spring Island members are included to complement the written pieces. We intend this publication to be an enjoyable, interesting way for our members to deepen appreciation for their neighbors’ talents, and to provide a vehicle for their creative expression in the literary arts.

Our deepest and special thanks are extended to Ashleigh Whitmore for the grace, humor and advice she expressed through each phase of this project; to Pam Ullman for the talent and wisdoms she applied to the magazine’s design; Neen Hunt and Gloria Pinza for seeing the idea through and adding their brilliant touches; and especially to Helen Wagner for her dream of showcasing the literary expressions of her neighbors on Spring Island. Lastly, thanks to all contributors for sharing their craft and personal expressions with us. We hope it encourages you to pick up your pen and follow your inspiration!

The pieces of art featured in this publication are the 2019 submissions for the Spring Island 12x12 Gallery on display in the lobby of the Sports Complex. Each January the unveiling is a celebration of the 22 unique pieces of art by member artists.

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02 01. Bonnie Mason - Flowers from a Friend 02. Laura Robinson - The Chickadee Cuddle

Table of Contents 02. Dumb Dog by Neil Lorenz 04. Introduction to Jet Fighter Flying 101 by Carl Canzanelli 07. My Conversation with George Hamilton IV by Jim Kothe 08. An Embarassment of Riches from the Land of Plenty by Robin Peake Stuart 14. Land So Still, Lowcountry Song by Gail Olson 15. Genesis of Statistics by Dodd 16. The True Story of Mia by Griffin 17. The Sea by Chuck Pardee, Shrimp Poem #1 by Laura Aronstein 18. Phoebe Snow by Tim Maloney 20. A Letter to the Kids by Mark Cragan 22. Moments by Gloria Pinza 24. Lessons Learned in a Tribal Community by Neen Hunt 27. The Dreamer by Schoch 29. Response by Paula McGilly 30. Three Brothers by Bruce Smith 34. The Queen is Dead Long Live the Queen by My Jaundiced Eye 35. Stay Involved by Morrow 36. Down the Beat Goes by Pam Ullman 37. Spanish Moss by Mark Cragan 38. Book Review: Rambunctious Garden by Keyser 41. The Two Brothers Bridges by Susan Ambrecht

01

Neil Lorenz

Dumb Dog

We used to have a Golden Retriever who thought her name was Dumb Dog. It wasn’t, of course, but she didn’t know that.

Her name actually was Elizabeth Tudor – like the queen – and was shortened to Zabet.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew her real name but they confused her by calling her Dumb Dog….as in “get out of my trash cans, dumb dog”.

Nobody was mean to her…they were just tired of cleaning up their garbage.

Zabet and I grew up together…not like Lassie and that TV kid, but like real people. At the age of 23 I had a long list of “nevers” that were absolute. This list was going to save me from a life that was that terrible thing…ordinary. I was never, repeat never, going to live in the suburbs, own a station wagon, belong to a bridge club, join the PTA, drive car pool, or finally, own a dog.

Never! Did you do that too? Who did we think we were…queens of England?

Zabet was officially the boys’ dog, but she and I spent a lot of time together. She was with us as I learned that life is a wonderful stew that needs to be stirred. I learned that spices need to be balanced with good solid ingredients in a cast iron pot. We got her because it is a rule that boys must have a dog or they will grow up warped, but to me she was the last “never” that bit the dust.

We were happily in the burbs with the wagon, the car pool, the PTA, the bridge group, and then, finally, the dog. I took merciless kidding when we bought her and, since I deserved it, we named

her after the queen of England. I most often just called her Dumb Dog.

When she was dozing in the kitchen I would pat her head and say “hello dumb dog”. I called her dumb dog when she ate the Christmas roast. I called her dumb dog when she ate the couch. It tasted like jelly beans and peanut butter at the time. I patted her with relief and affection and called her dumb dog when I found her lying, unflinching, while the two-year-old bonked her with a Tonka truck. I called her dumb dog and cried into her coat when my father died. It became our standard greeting, and my reminder to myself that I had now happily done everything I vowed I would never do…I had grown up.

Our youngest son held Zabet when she died. I held him when he grieved. I called the other boys away at school and ached for them. I wrote the vet a nice note. I vacuumed her bed and gave her cage to a friend with a new puppy. In other words, I was thoughtful, motherly, and efficient… just like you all have been in these situations. We handle these things because we are grown-ups.

What took me by surprise was that I also cried for two days. How could I be so sad? She was a nuisance, she shed, she chewed everything, and she wasn’t even mine….dumb dog. ∆

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02 01. Peg Murphy - Gracie E 02. Steve Smith - Dune Walker

“Zabet and I grew up together…not like Lassie and that TV kid, but like real people.”

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Carl Canzanelli

Introduction To Jet Fighter Flying 101

Each flight surgeon was assigned to several squadrons with the intent of establishing a relationship with the pilots to develop a sense of comraderie. It was also important for the flight surgeon to work closely with the squadron commanders in situations where a pilot needed to be grounded for something more serious than the common cold. My initial assignments included the 4521st training squadron, an F-100 gunnery training program as well as the crash rescue helicopter group.

Paul Hamlin covered several squadrons including the famous Thunderbird Demonstration Team and one of Jim Pitcavage’s was the Fighter Weapons School where my next door neighbor Ted King was assigned.

Prior to my first flight, the personal equipment technician fitted me to a brand new Bell custom helmet valued at $300 which was a princely sum in those days. The flight surgeons were generally given VIP treatment and the latest and best equipment rather than an older, used helmet. My helmet, a gleaming white plastic shell had a retractable face shield which pulled down from its protective cover above my forehead and was contoured to fit my oxygen mask. The shield was darkly tinted for both sun protection as well as to protect my eyes in the event of a nuclear blast. The oxygen mask covered my nose and lower face and attached to the helmet with bayonet attachments. Acoustic headphones were built into the helmet and a connector plugged into the audio system in the cockpit. With the face shield pulled down snuggly against the oxygen mask, my face was protected from the damaging effects of wind blast in the event of an ejection as well as protected from flames in a ground crash.

Our flight suits, front zipped coveralls in olive drab were made of a flame resistant material similar to the Nomex now worn by NASCAR race drivers. On top of the flight suit we wore flight jackets with knitted cuffs. The jackets were olive drab and decorated with our squadron patches but were reversible to a survival orange interior to aid in a pick-up after a bailout. We always wore light, flame resistant leather gloves with long gauntlets that came up over the jacket cuffs to protect us from fire. Lastly, we wore parachute boots. When flying in jet fighters, we also wore G suits, basically chaps with inflatable bladders that covered our lower abdomen, thighs and lower legs. The G suits connected to fittings in the cockpit which pumped in pressurized air of increasing pressure in direct proportion to the amount of positive G forces we were experiencing. As a result, we could tolerate G forces up to seven G’s when pulling out of a dive and reduce the pooling of blood in our lower body so as to remain conscious. Unfortunately, I found that at high G forces, I had to position my elbows on the arm rests of the seat and put my hands under my chin to prevent my head from ending up in my lap! Many of the instructor pilots were Korean War veterans and told me that their greater physical strength and high G tolerance as compared to the Chinese pilots was necessary for their survival. The Chinese were flying MIG fighters which were more advanced in design than the American planes but could be out-maneuvered by superior piloting.

When we left the squadron operations building for a flight, we also picked up back pack parachutes. Each chute contained an aneroid barometer which would automatically open the chute at an appropriate altitude because if you ejected at high altitude and opened the chute prematurely, you could die of hypoxia before reaching the ground. The parachutes were repacked periodically in a special climate controlled shop with very long tables and a smooth, non snagging surface. The parachute tech who did the repacking signed a card which was tucked into the chute and when a pilot ejected, it was customary for him to reward the chute packer with a bottle of whiskey.

Traditionally since World War I, fighter pilots had worn colorful scarves bearing their squadron colors but this practice was banned by an Air Force directive about 1960 following a tragic event. The canopy of an F-100F two seat fighter had jettisoned inadvertently and after the pilot made an emergency landing, the pilot in the rear seat was found dead, strangled by his scarf caught in the extreme wind blast. As a result, many of the pilots wore dickeys with the squadron colors at the open neck of their flight suits.

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Since there were not many two seat F-100F fighters I had to wait for my first flight which was scheduled with a visiting pilot on rotational training, not one of the instructors in my squadron. I arrived at the plane on the parking ramp and met the pilot in my sophisticated gear.

He took one look at me and began to laugh, announcing that this appeared to be my first flight in an F-100. When I asked how he knew that, he pointed out that I had put my G suit on backwards so that the intake hose was emerging on my left side instead of its proper position on the right.

His mission that day was dive bombing where the plane approached the target at 10,000 feet altitude, rolled over into inverted flight and then peeled off in a near vertical dive at 600 knots airspeed aiming at the ground target. The bomb was released at 1,000 feet altitude at which point the pull out commenced so as to have adequate ground clearance. He did this at 7 G’s on each pull out and I was feeling quite airsick. He clearly relished my distress because as we climbed back up to 10,000 feet he would look in the rear view mirror and make comments such as “Doc, are those beads of sweat I see on your face?”

I then learned that airsickness was similar to seasickness where the first phase is that you feel so awful that you think you are going to die and the second phase is that you feel so awful because you aren’t going to die.

When I told the squadron commander about my first flight, he was apologetic and suggested that when flying with the instructor pilots in my squadron that they would be more considerate. Some pilots considered flight surgeons fair game because of their resentment that we had the power to ground them but once I became acquainted with the instructor pilots in my squadron, they became very good friends. After duty, the pilots were allowed to go to a small “Stag Bar” in the rear of the Officers Club in their flight suits which otherwise could only be worn on the flight line area. After flying, I would often join them there where I learned to drink “Air Force Martinis”, old fashion sized glasses with icy cold gin, before going home to dinner.

I also developed criteria for the pilots I preferred to fly with; e.g., they should be Captains, not brash young Lieutenants, preferably married with children. Given the demands of flying a jet fighter, I also considered any pilot over the age of forty to be too old to have the reflexes necessary for safe flight. A popular saying was “there are bold pilots and there old pilots but there no old, bold pilots.” I also avoided flying with older pilots whose primary duty assignment was a desk job and who flew a few hours each month to maintain their pilot’s rating.

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My favorite instructor was a neighbor in base housing, Capt. Jim Graham, a Korean War veteran, who on pre-flight always advised me that if I began to feel queasy, I should let him know over the intercom and he would pull out of the shooting pattern and let me take the controls for a few minutes. Once the motion input to my middle ears came from my own hand on the stick, my stomach would settle right down. This lesson came in handy many years later when Linda and I would cruise in our lobster boat. Once we left Ipswich on a stormy morning heading to Wentworth by the Sea in Portsmouth, NH and Linda became quite seasick. As soon as I put her at the wheel, her stomach settled right down.

To this day, the takeoff acceleration of the F-100 was one of the most dramatic sensations of speed I have ever experienced. In the hot weather, we taxied out to the end of the runway with the canopy open which was then closed and locked when given takeoff clearance.

One hundred percent oxygen was selected on the oxygen regulator for takeoffs and landings. The pilot pushed the throttle forward to the maximum position which ignited the afterburner in the tail producing a loud explosion beginning our race down the 10,000 foot runway. The acceleration force was extreme, pushing us back into the seat forcefully and more than I’ve ever experienced in an automobile except briefly many years later in a friend’s Porsche 911 Carrera. The rather tiny tires, inflated to extremely high pressures were likened to roller skate wheels and had to be replaced after every three takeoffs and landings. On extremely hot summer days with runway temperatures well above 100 degrees, the lower density air required long takeoff runs before becoming airborne. Concomitantly, the high stall speed of the F-100, roughly in the range of 250 knots required a very high landing speed. On touchdown, the pilot released a drag chute from the tail of the plane which supplemented the brakes to get the plane slowed down before reaching the end of the runway. A service truck waited there to release the chute before we taxied in.

If the drag chute failed to deploy properly, there was a barrier at the end of the runway. Lightweight posts on either side of the over-run held up a mesh of extremely strong nylon tapes which would engage the landing gear.

The barrier was attached to long lengths of navy anchor chain made up of giant links, about one foot in length.

As the plane began dragging the chain, progressively more links were pulled behind the plane producing a safe rate of deceleration. ∆

“They were still setting up chairs on the gym floor when I arrived. I claimed a seat right in the middle of the front row.

Then the wait began. �

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Jim Kothe

My “Conversation With George Hamilton IV

It was March 21, 1968, my junior year at Vanderbilt University. Bobby Kennedy had just announced he was running for president and somehow he was coming to Vanderbilt…a campaign stop positioned as an early speaker for that year’s speaker program called Impact. Like most of the campus, I was “fired-up” to see him!

So fired-up that I got to our basketball arena, Memorial Gym, rather early. And I mean early.

They were still setting up chairs on the gym floor when I arrived. I claimed a seat right in the middle of the front row. Then the wait began. I recall that he was supposed to be there about 8 PM. I was going to have a couple hours wait. What did I do?

Decades before smart phones, I guess I brought a book along. Gradually the rest of the campus started to file in. By 8 PM there was pretty much a full house and then came the announcement that “due to some bad weather in Alabama, the Senator’s plane is running late.” The crowd was disappointed but was, as yet, not restless. Then, restlessness did set in, followed by angriness. After all, it was a school night!

Reacting to the situation, someone arranged for country music singer, George

Hamilton IV, to provide some entertainment… sort of a “pop-up” concert. (The singer is not to be confused with actor George Hamilton, who had briefly dated a Lyndon Johnson daughter.)

As I recall, the crowd certainly gave Hamilton IV the benefit of the doubt. There was less moving around. Many sat in rapt attention.

After a few songs, he asked if anyone had a request. I was not, still am not, a big country music fan, but I was sitting on the front row (still probably 30 feet from him) and I decided to make a request. I figured there was a popular cross-over song he would know, so I shouted at him: “If I Were a Carpenter.” He put his hand to his ear and I repeated: “If I Were A Carpenter.”

Next, he grabbed the microphone and asked for everyone’s attention. The gym got very quiet, expecting to hear a news update on Senator Kennedy’s arrival. Instead, Hamilton announced: “Elvira Carpenter, you are wanted down front.

Elvira Carpenter, please come down front.”

The crowd did not respond. I did. I probably had the loudest laugh of my life. A laugh that no one else could hear. ∆

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Robin Peake Stuart

An Embarassment of Riches From The Land Of Plenty

In January, 2003 I happened to tune into the coverage of Mamie Till’s funeral on NPR as I returned to Lake Forest from Chicago. At the time, I did not know who Mamie Till was or why her death merited such attention. As I listened, the tragic chapter of her life unfolded, focusing on the lynching of her 14 year old son in Mississippi in the summer of 1955 for allegedly whistling at a white store keeper’s wife.

Against the advice of the undertaker, it was Mamie Till’s decision to have an open casket at his funeral, which subsequently contributed to the beginning of the Civil Rights Movement several months later, when Rosa Parks refused to sit in the back of the bus.

I immediately thought Mamie Till was a woman whose story I wanted to research for my Coterie Paper. But there were other stories to write and weddings to host before then so it wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that I decided to tell Mamie’s story. Or rather focus on the looming delivery date of my Coterie paper.

Racism, prejudice, murder and injustice in the South are the essential themes underlying Mamie Till’s story, and these echoed many recent shootings, some racially motivated, that took place in the South—and I realized I didn’t want to talk about more bad things that happen in the South. As Abraham Lincoln famously said, “If you look for the bad in mankind, be prepared to find it. You surely will.”

I love the South as you all know. It’s a place I’d rather celebrate.

When looking for a recipe several weeks ago

to complement Sandy’s smoked pork for a dinner party, I turned to two cookbooks on my shelf; Southern Food: At Home, on the Road, In History by John Egerton and The Pat Conroy Cookbook. Bingo. I would write my paper about various Southern writers writing about Southern food in the South organized and presented in cookbook format.

The 2017-18 Coterie theme is “There’s always room for improvisation” so here’s goes.

The name of my cookbook is: An Embarrassment of Riches from The Land of Plenty.

Speaking of cookbooks, in Cracklin’ Bread and Asfidity, their book of remedies and recipes, Jack and Olivia Solomon observed:

The South is legend-legend begetting legend.

Never doubt it…As in all myth, truth holds fast in the center: We are hospitable, our women are beautiful, and our men are gallant and brave. Whatever else the world has thought of the fabulous land below the Mason-Dixon line, it has granted us one supreme achievement-Southern cooking, like the South herself, is not one but many. The number of cookbooks on the market is astounding. In fact, cookbooks (in the South) outsell everything but the Holy Bible.

FORWARD

John T. Edge and John Egerton co-founded the Southern Foodways Alliance, the SFA, whose mission is to document, study, and explore the diverse food cultures of the changing American South. In his book, A Gracious Plenty, Edge does a marvelous job of answering the question: What is Southern Food?

Southern Food is as diverse as the regions that make up the South. The South is a collection of regions; The Appalachians, the Alleghenies, the Blue Ridge and the Ozarks are the Mountain South. The Upland South has been a place of hill-country farmers, the tobacco business and textile mills. The Lowland South is the Deep South, a place of cotton growing, the blues, warm Gulf Coast breezes, Florida beaches, and Latin rhythms. The urban South has been the center of the New South, from Atlanta newspaper editor Henry Grady in the 1880’s to Andrew Young today. More specific landscapes include Cajun Louisiana, the Kentucky bluegrass, the Mississippi Delta and the Piney Woods.

Edge’s SFA co-founder, John Egerton (Yes, I know those two names are confusing) was similarly eloquent in his own book, Southern Food: At Home, on the Road, in History.

Our food has been a powerful reflection of our 08

history, an open window on the daily joys and sorrows of our lives, a constant reminder of who we are and where we came from.

The appeal of Southern cooking transcends the barriers of race, class, sex, religion and politics. Here in this historically unique region of the United States-unique for a great many reasons, good and bad-food has been perhaps the most positive element of our collective character, an inspiring symbol of reconciliation, healing, and union.

And then there’s me…a Southern girl at heart with a Midwest address…

I was raised in Houston and while Texas is not included in the map of Southern states (it stands alone), it is obviously geographically more Southern than Illinois.

However, the food of my childhood was purely Southern, prepared by the beloved African American cooks of family and friends. Staples of our meals were fried chicken, vegetables and greens cooked with lots of butter, rice and vegetable casseroles. We had homemade biscuits and a pie at every dinner.

My great-uncle Bob planted a vegetable garden on the former site of a barn and the size of the resulting produce was enormous. While my brother and I assured the grownups we did not like green squash, yellow squash, tomatoes, okra or eggplant, we liked them fine when our cook Lettie Mae did her magic with butter and salt and bacon pieces. In the summer, Lettie Mae fried up the catfish my brother and I would “catch” on the trot line.

More butter and more salt!

APPETIZERS

A letter to the King of Sweden on the occasion of William Faulkner’s receipt of the 1949 Noble Prize in Literature.

Oxford, Mississippi December 13, 1950

Knowing this, I am sure he treated you with royal respect and courtesy.

Since you have been so nice to our friend, Mr. Ike Roberts and I and all the rest of the boys invite you to our camp next Fall for a coon and collard dinner, for if you are a friend of William Faulkner’s you are a friend of ours. This includes the cooks, the horses and the hounds.

Now, King, I want you to be sure to come to our camp next Fall because I am sure that when you leave you will say you never had a better time and never was in better company.

Please be assured that we Mississippians, and particularly we Lafayette Countians, are deeply grateful to Your Majesty for the courtesies extended our great fellow-citizen.

Sincerely yours,

John B. Cullen Old Times in the Faulkner Country, 1961

Here’s an observation of a couple of homesick Southerners from Eugene Walker’s American Cooking: Southern Style.

On a summer evening several years ago, two of the South’s most celebrated writers, William Faulkner and Katherine Anne Porter, were dining together at a plush restaurant in Paris. Everything had been laid out to perfection; a splendid meal had been consumed, a bottle of fine Burgundy emptied, and thimble-sized glasses of an expensive liqueur drained.

The maître d’ and an entourage of waiters hovered close by, ready to satisfy any final whim.

“Back home the butter beans are in,” said Faulkner, peering into the distance, “the speckled ones.” Miss Porter fiddled with her glass and stared into space. “Blackberries,” she said, wistfully.

LIBATIONS

The Mint Julep Recipe of Judge Soule Smith of Lexington, Kentucky, Circa 1890

King Gustav VI of Sweden Stockholm, Sweden

Take from the cold spring some water, pure as angels are; mix with it sugar until it seems like oil. Then take a glass and crush your mint within with a spoon-crush it around the borders of the glass and leave no place untouched. Then throw the mint away-it is a sacrifice. Fill with cracked ice the glass: pour in the quantity of Bourbon which you want. It trickles slowly through the ice. Let it have time to cool, then pour your sugared water over it. No spoon is needed, no stirring is allowed-just let it stand a moment. Then around the brim place sprigs of mint, so that the one who drinks

Your Majesty: I saw a picture of you giving William Faulkner a prize last Monday, and I’ll bet William didn’t tell you what a big coon and collards eater he is. Now, I told William to carry some delicious coon and collards to you. If he had I am sure you would have given him a larger prize.

In spite of William’s dereliction in this respect, I am sure you liked him, because he is the kindest person I ever knew.

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cont’d from page 08 may find a taste and odor at one drought. When it is made, sip it slowly. August suns are shining, the breath of the south wind is upon you.

And this from Henry Watterson, renowned Louisville newspaper editor, circa 1910: Pluck the mint gently from its bed, just as the dew of the evening is about to form upon it. Select the choicer sprigs only, but do not rinse them. Prepare the simple syrup and measure out a half- tumbler of whiskey. Pour the whiskey into a well-frosted silver cup, throw away the other ingredients and drink the whiskey.

ENTREES

I joined the Southern Food Alliance after becoming a John Egerton fan and learning that he was a co-founder of the organization in1999. The mailman made a timely delivery of their quarterly publication called Gravy just days ago. The table of contents includes a definition of NABS, Nabisco’s original cheese and peanut butter crackers, the unexpected discovery of good food in the small college town of Gainesville, Florida with the lead, “You’ve got to be where you’re at-how can you not?”, Day of the Dead celebration in Jonesboro, Arkansas, “The Crossroads of Church and Plate” at King’s Kitchen in Charlotte that serves up chicken and church, food and faith and an accounting by a citrus farmer whose crops ultimately survived saline contamination from Hurricanes Katrina and Isaac and sold his produce from the back of a pickup in New Orleans. My favorite of all is the section called “Dirty Pages”, an ongoing recipe exhibit based in Nashville and inspired by time worn recipe pages in home collections. This latest one was a recipe for empanadas described by a Columbian woman who lives in Atlanta. Included is the slightly smudged recipe in Spanish.

However, the jackpot for me in this publication of Gravy was titled “Hostesses of a Movement, Everyday Women Fed a Revolution.”

When visiting with her cousin, the author, Rosalind Bentley discovered that her great-aunt’s house in Albany, Georgia had been a Freedom House.

Albany was an early battle ground in the Civil Rights movement although not as famous as Selma, Alabama.

The voter registration drive was just gaining traction in Albany in 1961 and seemed the perfect opportunity

for the newly formed Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, SNCC, made up of black and white college students working together to register African Americans to vote.

These students made about $10 a week and needed to be fed. Other than a handful of black-owned restaurants, the civil rights workers were not allowed to eat in Albany’s hotels and restaurants. Therefore, a group of women gathered together to feed the increasing numbers of SNCC workers.

Recalling her mother’s role, one woman said she looked at it as her contribution to the movement because she knew she was not going to march but that her children would.

Maurice Hobson, a professor of African American history at Georgia State said, “It’s a major part of activism. One of the ways, particularly within Southern vernacular culture, in which you show love and support is you feed people.”

However, contributions of the women of Albany have been overlooked and underestimated because history has always focused on the men of the movement written by men. What women did in their kitchens and gardens wasn’t as obvious or respected as what happened on the streets and in the courtrooms.

Professor Hobson said, “Women really put gas in the tank to support the civil rights movement and they’re given very little credit. Many of the domestics took off their jobs to make sure that the food was prepared for these protestors. We’re talking about the actual nuts and bolts of sustaining a movement on food and rest.”

SIDE DISHES

Here’s how turnip greens figured in a love story as told by cousin Glenda in Lewis Grizzard’s book, Elvis is Dead and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself.

“Well, she said, “I was working at a Hardee’s and Owen was working at the gas station next door. One day, I stopped to fill up my tank and he came out to wait on me.

“While the gas was pumping, we started talking and I casually asked him how he was getting along. He said everything was fine, except that somebody had given him a mess of turnip greens and he didn’t have a pot to cook them in.

“I said, ‘Well, I’ve got a pot if you’ve got the greens,’ and next thing you know, we got married.”

Carson McCullers, wrote about hopping-john in Member of the Wedding.

Now, hopping-john was F. Jasmine’s very favorite food. She had always warned them to wave a plate of rice and peas under her nose when she was in her coffin, to make certain there was no mistake; for if a breath of life was left in her, she would sit up and eat, but if she smelled the hopping-john, and did not stir, then they could just nail 10

down that coffin and be certain she was truly dead.

From The Pat Conroy Cookbook: Collard greens are soul food, pure and simple. In 1971, while living near San Francisco, I had a car cut me off and wave me down while I was driving through the Presidio. A huge black man got out of his car and approached my own. Oh, oh, I thought, he saw my South Carolina license plate and has decided to kill me because of the crimes my people committed against his people. But he surprised me with a large, magnetic smile.

I got out of the car and we shook hands.

“Where you from in South Carolina, man?” he said.

“Beaufort,” I answered.

“Man, I’m from Charleston. Don’t you miss the Low Country?”

“More than I can tell you.”

“I saw your license plate and I just had to talk to someone from home.”

We talked for fifteen minutes and he told me the names of three soul food restaurants that served good collard greens, fried chicken and pot likker-two in Oakland and one in San Francisco. He told he prayed every day for a good-paying job to open up in Charleston and that he was worried raising his children among “the hippies and wackos.” He missed fishing for bream in the Edisto River and going after blue crabs with string and a chicken neck. Everything I loved about the South was contained in this ebullient homesick man. He told me the name of two Baptist churches in San Francisco. “The old-time religion. Man, these people believe some weird shit out here.” He embraced me when we said goodbye, and as he drove off I regretted not getting his name and address. I would have liked to have been his friend for the rest of my life.

Conroy includes a recipe for collard greens and one for Southern ratatouille with bacon. “This is called Southern ratatouille because it contains bacon.

Southerners cannot seem to cook anything without flavoring it with some part of a pig. I still cannot spell or pronounce ratatouille, even with the bacon in it.”

LAGNIAPPE From Mark Twain’s, Life on the Mississippi: We picked up one excellent word-a word worth traveling to New Orleans to get; a nice, limber, expressive, handy word-‘Lagniappe.’ They pronounce it lanny-yap. It is the equivalent of the thirteenth roll in a “baker’s dozen.” It is sometimes thrown in, gratis, for good measure. When a

child or a servant buys something in a shop-or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know-he finishes the operation by saying: “give me something for lagniappe.” The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of licorice-root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a spool of thread, gives the governor-I don’t know what; support, likely.

Pat Conroy says: When I refer to myself as Southern, I am talking about the part of myself that is most deeply human and deeply feeling. It is the part of me that connects most intimately and cordially with the family of mankind. There are qualities of grace and friendship and courtesy that will always seem essentially Southern to me, no matter where I encounter them on the road.

Ernest Matthew Mickler wrote in White Trash Cooking: I know you’ll lay down and scream when you taste Loretta’s Chicken Delight. And Tutti’s Fruited Porkettes are for the table of a queen. And just how can you miss with a dessert that calls for twenty three Ritz crackers?

You’ll be the talk of your social club or sewing circle when you prepare a Resurrection Cake that’s guaranteed to resurrect when you pour on the whiskey sauce.

FUNERALIZING and DESSERTS

The Reverend Will Campbell, a longtime defender of civil rights and civil liberties said so beautifully in his book Brother to a Dragonfly: Somehow in rural Southern culture, food is always the first thought of neighbors when there is trouble. That is something they can do and not feel uncomfortable. It is something they do not have to explain or feel self-conscious about. “Here, I brought you some fresh eggs for your breakfast. And here’s a cake. And some potato salad.” It means, “ I love you. And I am sorry for what you are going through and I will share as much of your burden as I can.”

Pat Conroy observes: Southern grief at a funeral of a loved one often gets mollified by the scrumptious feast that follows the ceremony. In the South, you often eat as well after the burial of a family member or friend as you do on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Cooking food for a grieving family and their friends is still one of the classiest ways to send a love note that I can think of.

When a good friend dies, I take two pounds of pickled shrimp for the mourners. When a great friend dies, I go to five pounds.

When I die, I fully expect all the shrimp in Beaufort to be pickled that day.

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Attentive members will no doubt remember my

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02 01. Lorraine Griffin - Windmills 02. Renee Waldron - Midnight Madness

“When Shiva was explained to me, I realized that is exactly what we do in the South. We call it Visiting. �

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cont’d from page 11 Coterie Papers of 2002 and 2013 that told of all that happened around the passing of my mother and my father—a good deal of which had to do with food. I had the privilege of experiencing this during the days leading up to the funerals of both my mother and my father. No one came empty handed to our house in Houston and those who didn’t carry their offerings to our dining room table, sent them instead. For example, mere minutes after the hearse drove down the street with my mother, a delivery truck pulled up with a case of white wine and a case of red wine. This was from the first of our family friends we called to say Mom had just died.

And then there was the call from Grace who for many years cooked for my godmother across the street and “ran herd” on us kids in the neighborhood. Grace asked if we had any chicken and I said no because I knew she did not mean chicken salad or sliced chicken or dainty chicken sandwiches from The Junior League. Just in time for that evening’s gathering of friends, Grace delivered a huge platter of warm, fried chicken…her only kind of chicken.

Thanks to many generous friends, our table was filled every day and night for those who stopped by to funeralize until the memorial service. And after the service, everyone showed up so the house was filled with great camaraderie and conversation and of course, a lot of food.

When Shiva was explained to me, I realized that is exactly what we do in the South. We call it Visiting.

In Lake Forest, a dear friend, Southern by birth, delivered a tray of ham biscuits immediately after I returned from my father’s funeral in Houston. The month was February, the weather was very cold and her offering warmed me up.

In my old Houston Junior League cookbook there is a recipe for Funeral Pie which has a minimum amount of ingredients, basic staples for a pie that can be baked quickly and delivered as soon as the word is out.

Evidently, I was intrigued by John Egerton’s obituary in the New York Times, dated November 23, 2013 because I found it tucked into the front of his book.

John Egerton understood that the American South was a region of contradictions, holding both savagery and sweetness, churchgoers and evildoers, good cooking and bad.

“There is no explaining,” he once said, “how the best writers would come from the region that has the most illiterates.”

A son of the South who grew up when the Ku Klux Klan was almost as mainstream there as the Rotary Club, Mr. 13

Egerton used the written word, humility and ultimately the power of the Southern table to champion racial reconciliation and lead a new generation of writers to look beyond clichés and divisions to understand the region.

“He could be deeply pessimistic about this place and a minute later, with a whiskey in his hand and his arm around your neck, would be regaling you with tales of the people and places that he loved,” said John T. Edge, who, in 1999, along with Mr. Egerton and a group of others, created the Southern Foodways Alliance, an irreverent but academic institution-it is anchored at the University of Mississippi-dedicated to Southern food and culture.

Mr. Egerton believed that food could fix just about anything. After the levees broke and Hurricane Katrina flooded New Orleans, he arrived at a gathering of his beloved Southern Foodways Alliance with a case of bread and butter pickles spiked with chilies bearing the name S-O-S Sharpies. He planned to sell them for $10 a jar to help rebuild the city’s restaurants. Friends, who said Mr. Egerton had a penchant for tilting at windmills, just shook their heads.

“I mean, how much money you going to raise selling a damn pickle?” said Lois Elie, a former columnist for Times-Picayune of New Orleans. “But for him, the food was always the way through something. It was always about the people who made it, their relationship to it and their relationship to each other.”

In the end, the pickle project raised about $10,000.

Mr. Egerton advised his friends and followers to be cautious both in celebrating and criticizing the region he loved so fitfully all his life. “I’ve kind of cobbled together a modestly successful career out of predicting the demise of the South and all that’s kept me in the game is its refusal to die.”

Pat Conroy believes “a recipe is a story that ends with a good meal.”

And so, I will end with the story of Chess pie.

Chess pie is a favorite dessert that appears throughout the South and the origin of its name has two sources.

One refers to a pie safe or a pie chest which is a cupboard with perforated tin panels to store pies and other confections for safe keeping. Chess pie may have first been called chest pie.

The other story is when the cook was asked what kind of pie she served, she answered, “I don’t know, it’s jus’ pie.” ∆

Gail Olson

Land So Still

Low Country Song

My heart is here-truly paradise Friends and fun-life so nice Golf, tennis, play and imbibe So much to do-yet it’s a total glide.

Sunrise, sunset, this land beckons Walk, bike, kayak-this must be heaven So hard to leave, forever I want to stay Everything is HERE-let me show you the way.

Land so still, but nature abounds Take a quiet hike and look around Flora, fauna -be alert and observe One never knows what’s around the curve.

Close your eyes, listen to the marsh The rail cries for joy, the day was not harsh Evening settles softly-my heart is full When morning comes, I will embrace its pull.

How lucky are we Spring Island to share?

For me, all here is beyond compare Each day is a wonder-get your fill Our precious time in the Land So Still.

The rushing of the rivers The gentleness of the land The murmur of the marsh Awesome beauty by God’s hand.

Birds of every song and color Fish and shrimp beyond compare Butterflies fill our island This land rewards all who care.

High tides fill marshes and souls Sunsets take your breath away Full moons so big and bright Tis a land that begs you to stay.

Dark, quiet nights - stars that shine Softness of place fills our hearts Gentle people, talented friends The time will come when we all must part.

Faithful stewards we must be There is so much here one would miss The Low Country stays deep inside Just close your eyes and feel its kiss.

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David Dodd

Genesis Of The Statistics

The Statics were a rock ‘n’ roll band active from 1965 through 1966 in the East Atlanta area. The members, neighborhood friends, were Allen Hoss, David Dodd, Bobby Taylor, Robert Gaissert, Wayne Owen..and, Morey Morrison (the “sixth Static”).

Mainly, though, the Statics were a state of mind.

During the summer of 1964, a family moved to East Atlanta. It was, I believe, a hot July day filled with the boredome of youth that the foundation of the Statics was born.

David Dodd, bored, was riding a bicycle up and down Gresham Avenue for no particular reason. He had been living in the house only about a week and had met no one except some punk girl in Brownwood Park. And, she had ratted hair and pimples, so who the hell cared.

Unknown to any of the youth involved, there was at the same time, a boy and girl starting to walk down Gresham Avenue from East Atlanta. They were Allen Hoss and Connie Cawthon.

The three, Connie, Allen and David, had met two years earlier in the 8th grade. They had shared Physical Science under Cecil D. Pickens, having suffered the pain of labor, but the price of that curse.

It was on this uneventful day that a chance meeting occurred. The two parties saw one another, spoke and friendships began. Why this chance meeting became so important, one can only guess.

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My feeling is that David, in the loneliness of his youth, living in a new neighborhood, bored beyond reason, place great emphasis on seeing two people who before were simply classmates, not close friends.

During the next days and weeks, David frequently visited both Allen and Connie. The three became close, at times as close as young friends could be. At the same time, they were experiencing what so many youth of that period were experiencing – the Beatles.

In the boredome of the days prior to seeing Allen and Connie, David frequently listened to Beatles records, learning the words and trying his best to sing like the particular Beatle on the song. After meeting up, David and Allen would typically go to Connie’s to play Beatles records.

Although he didn’t have a guitar, David had decided that was what he wanted for Christmas. Perhaps this best typified the optimism and arrogance that were prevalent in the Statics. Here was a boy who had never before considered whether or not he could play the guitar; he simply wanted to express his own feelings. It would provide the outlet so desperately needed for the youth at that time of his life.

Again, fate took over. Allen, who had studied piano for eight years, had decided to get a guitar. One day, probably in November, as David and Allen were listening to Beatles songs in Allen’s living room, they informed each other of their respective plans for a guitar.

As David remembers, Allen suggested playing the guitars together. David was ecstatic.

This was what he wanted, more importantly, what he needed.

Then, what did they do? They walked over to Connie’s and informed her, of course. ∆

Lorraine Griffin

The True Story Of Mia September 6th, 2018.

With squealing brakes, i stopped my car in the middle of the street. I stared at a tiny little piece of white fluff standing in the middle of the road, it’s little pink tongue hanging out with thirst and exhaustion.

I stopped the engine, and the kitten disappeared into my old clunky car’s innards.

I was stuck, if i moved the car, the kitten would perish.

The heat was extreme.

Suddenly, a very good looking motorcycle driver, complete with a gorgeous outfit, gloves, colourful helmet , and a tantalizing british accent was at my window. He offered to look for the kitten, so, as i stood outside, and worried and mel ted in the lowcountry heat, after 45 minutes flat on his back, he appeard with a spitting angry kitten.

An office nearby provided a huge box, and off i went, to ...•••...•• Who knows?

To the veterinary hospital, and to our home, where she is much loved. She is a girl. She is a diva, and rules us all.

Kitty’s saviour was stationed at the marine air station in beaufort, sc., And i got his name, that is all, no surname.

I had just finished with a long treatment of radiation, and had contemplated getting another cat to keep our present one company. I wished for a female, as well.

In the months that followed, and to this day, she has given me so much love, made us laugh so much, and has proven to be such an important reason to make a special effort to recover.

Talk about excelent timing.

Thank you paris street, port royal, sc.

Thank you, my british friend.

Mia says thanks.

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Chuck Pardee

Laura Aronstein

The Sea

Shrimp Poem #1

Here I sit just wasting time,

At the bottom of the shrimp hole,

Trying to make my poem rhyme.

Doubt it if you please,

It seems a hopeless task to me,

I believe the shrimp are speaking

To write a poem about the sea.

Mandarin Chinese.

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04 01. Cleta Grant - Late Afternoon, Star Mountain Trail 02. Helen Wagner - After Glow 03. Michelle Borzillo - Painted Bunting 04. Deb Ward - Gray Mare

Tim Maloney

Phoebe Snow

Originally, the event was supposed to be an intimate affair, maybe 20-30 people, in Bailey’s living room. JJ, a retired surgeon, had a past not secret as much as not discussed, not out of embarrassment or fear but humility, the insight of age that many people did something interesting and different when they were young, so what’s the big deal? His secret was out: the beloved neighbor and friend was an accomplished musician, facile with the violin, bass, or guitar. He agreed to play for an hour or so. Then 125 people showed up.

“Annie and I have been married for 52 years,” he quipped. “We’ve lived on this island for 26. 52 divided by 26 is 2. I guess we’ve lived here twice as long as we’ve been married,” much to the knowing delight of the crowd jammed into the living room, porch, and hallways. Amid tales of musical excursions in Europe during his college years, JJ embarked on a folk tour of songs

by Woody Guthrie and others, celebrating .44 caliber guns, life on the river, and trains.

I saw her name on the side of a train Somewhere a long time ago Don’t know who she was But I gave my love to someone called Phoebe Snow

That sounded familiar. Not the Utah Phillips song I had never heard until JJ sang it, certainly not the ‘70s singer of “Poetry Man,” a song best relegated to the same musical ash heap as Minnie Riperton’s “Loving You.” The name on the train. Phoebe Snow.

The groundbreaking 12-minute silent film “The Great Train Robbery,” possibly inspired by the real-life escapades of Butch Cassidy, was filmed in the Edison studios in New York and in New Jersey, partly along the tracks of the Delaware, Lackawanna, and Western Railroad. The 1903 movie’s one semi-comedic scene was in a dance hall as the locals shot at the feet of a stranger to make him dance. Born and raised in New Haven, Marion Murray had moved to New York to pursue her dream to be a model and actor. She thought at the time that her role as one of the movie’s dance hall performers was the big break of her career.

Whether Earnest Elmo Calkins, hired by the DL&W to advertise and promote their new, “clean,” anthracite-burning locomotives, remembered Marion Murray from the film shoot is unclear. Upon seeing her modeling image, however, he traveled to New Haven to secure her parents’ permission to transform her into “The Maiden in White,” the young woman traveling from New York to Buffalo wearing a flowing white dress and matching hat, “My gown stays white From morn til night Upon the Road of Anthracite”

From 1904 – 1907, Marion Murray was one of the most recognized women in America: Phoebe Snow.

Her image appeared in ubiquitous ads as she toured New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania to promote the luxury and soot-free travel of the Lackawanna’s newest train, drawing adoring crowds eager to catch a glimpse of the fetching and glamorous traveler. When you opened the window to breathe the fresh air along the Nicholson Viaduct or in the Pocono Mountains, she said, no black smoke or singeing ashes sullied your ride, or you. Women throughout the tri-state area copied her hair style, her hat, her violet corsage, her look.

The fame and constant travel were wearing, so she stopped appearing in 1907, attempting a return to acting although her white-clad image lived on for

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several more years. When WWI commenced, anthracite coal was needed for the war effort, ending the promotion, and relative cleanliness, of Phoebe Snow and her train. But the name lay dormant, not dead, until the railroad’s creative marketers resurrected Phoebe Snow in 1949.

Leaving JJ’s performance, I turned to my wife, Sharie,

“I think Phoebe Snow was the name of the train my grandmother used to take.”

Reaching back for early-century choreographed glory, the railroad decided that the Lackawanna’s newest, most modern, streamlined passenger train would indeed be dubbed The Phoebe Snow. It traveled from Buffalo, N.Y. to Hoboken, N.J., swaddling its passengers in luxury coaches, serving delicious but affordable meals in its dining car, and opening to the night sky in its innovative tavern observation car. At the launch event, now Marion Murray Gorsch reprised her role, appearing to the delight of attendees, adding to the nostalgia and allure of the event.

Annabel Peabody arrived at the Union Terminal in Cleveland after eating an early dinner and being driven downtown by her nephew to catch The City of Cleveland, the 7:45 Nickel Plate line train to Buffalo, where she transferred to The Phoebe Snow around midnight, settling into her sleeper car for the remaining eight-hour ride to visit us in Summit, New Jersey. My grandmother would later enjoy an early breakfast in car 469, Phoebe Snow’s dining car. In 1960, she could savor her pot of coffee for 30 cents, a jelly omelet for $1.25, with a side of toast with butter, lots of butter, for 20 cents, served by solicitous attendants as the train rumbled between Scranton and Dover. She had grown up in industrial Cleveland with plenty of soot for everyone, eating a stick of full-fat, cardiac-arresting butter most days of her 90+ pre-statin years.

One of her earliest memories was being let out of school to go to the “depot,” as she called it, to see the soldiers off to war. The Spanish-American War. Waiting at the Summit depot many decades later, the incoming maroon

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and gray engine was massive and loud, scary but exhilarating to a five-year-old standing on the Arrivals platform. Properly dressed for travel, my grandmother descended the steps from her car, assisted by an attentive porter as my father took her suitcase. My sister and I then ran in for hugs and exclamations about how we’d grown as The Phoebe Snow pulled away.

Now a traveling life might seem all right A life without worry or care; Always up and always out and always going somewhere But I’ll tell you, friend – it’s not where you are But your reason for being there

Marion Murray married Col. Rudolph V. Gorsch, who went on to become a successful and leading New York proctologist. Perhaps they met when then-Sgt. Gorsch led his army Detachment down Fifth Avenue during 1918’s Liberty Loan Parade. She died in 1967 having chosen to leave the world of Victor flash lamps and clamoring crowds for the relative quiet of Queens.

My grandmother would stay for weeks, sometimes months, at a stretch. While that likely chaffed her son-in-law, who then chased planes instead of trains, it worked just fine for me. She made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup every day when I came home from school for lunch. Franklin Elementary was right across the street. After one divorce and two deceased husbands, Annabel Peabody settled into the love and care of her grandchildren.

JJ played and sang for fortunate friends in a special place we are blessed to call home. His songs and stories reminded us of our shared history and of the intimate connections that bind across generations and geography, expanding and enhancing the meaning of family. He reminded us all of reasons we’re here. ∆

Mark Cragan

many nesting pairs of liberals on the island as we have nesting pairs of eagles.”

As to the point about senior citizens raising hell, let me just say there is so much cool stuff to do here there is hardly enough time – or enough Advil - to do it. Fishing, swimming, yoga, tennis, croquet, golf, 01

A Letter To The Kids A tongue-in-cheek letter to the kids from a new-toSpring Island dad, shared with the SI community at the Talent Show on March 9, 2018.

Dear kids,

I know you all had concerns when Mom & I decided to up and leave the family home in New England after 40 years, and moved to this strange place called Spring Island in the backwaters of something called the Low Country, in a foreign land called South Carolina.

Well, I’m writing to reassure you that you needn’t worry about us - Mom and I couldn’t be happier. Yes, the weather is wonderful, but beyond simply trading New England’s cold winds and subzero temperatures for Spring Island’s warm breezes and SubZero refrigerators, what we realize now is we traded a frenetic Boston suburb focused on young folks raising children for a beautiful South Carolina island focused on older folks raising hell.

I know you had concerns South Carolina might be too conservative for us Northeast liberals, but I’m happy to tell you the reception we’ve received from our many conservative friends on the island has been wonderful. In fact the only poor reception we’ve experienced on Spring Island has been from Verizon. Their signal strength fluctuates much as your nightly travels did when you were in college, between one and two bars.

It is true most SI residents tilt politically a bit to the right. As one member told us after seeing Mom & me in line at the polling station for the Democratic primary, ”I guess we now have as

horseback riding and just horsing around.

We also have a great sporting clays course and while some say there is no longer any hunting on the Island, apparently they haven’t tried to find a small FedEx package in the mailroom the week before Christmas.

All these activities make us hungry, and fortunately the food here is terrific. Chef Jeremy and his staff do a great job keeping us all well fed with lots of locally sourced food, some of it from our very own Waterfall Farm, under the energetic direction of Jim Basara. As a sign of the many medical needs of our gracefully aging community, Jim recently announced we’ll be replacing most of the fiber rich leafy vegetables at Waterfall Farm with 3 acres of medical marijuana.

Many residents are looking forward with high expectations to the next prescribed burn at the farm.

In addition to an amazing staff, we also are blessed with a bountiful deer herd and we show our appreciation for both – for our wonderful employees by serving a meal TO them at our Employee Appreciation Luncheon each Christmas, and for our prolific deer by making a meal OF them at our annual Venison Appreciation Dinner.

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The wildlife here is amazing. For city slickers, we’ve learned a lot. We’ve learned an alligator is not someone who makes an allegation. We’ve learned that big critters are less problematic than little ones. Hence, no see-ums and moles are much more trouble than coyotes and alligators. We’ve learned that fox squirrels are incredibly cute, armadillos are incredibly dumb, and exterminators are incredibly busy.

Speaking of unusual critters, the island is also home to many wonderful, talented and quirky people. I know you think Mom and I get weirder as we age, but trust me - you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. A couple examples of some unique SI personalities:

Jack Crawford – owner and trainer of some of the island’s finest hunting dogs. Jack’s obedience training skills are so legendary some believe he could even teach the perpetual motion machine known as Charlie Manker to “Sit” and “Stay”.

John Cooney – One of the island’s many avid golfers, I once heard John referred to as a speed freak. This alludes not to an appetite for illicit drugs but to his maniacal focus on pace of play on the golf course. In his effort to ensure everyone can complete 18 holes on Old Tabby Links in under 4 hours, John has convinced the golf committee to encourage slower players to speed up their pace - by tasing them on the 10th tee.

Bailey Symington – Patron of the arts

who generously shares her lovely home so we can all enjoy a variety of classical music performances. Bailey’s house has marvelous acoustics, or so I’m told by the handful of islanders who have yet to be fitted with hearing aids.

You’d be proud of how Mom & I party hard at these and other musical events arranged by our performing arts ringleader, Nick Ihasz. Nick is the second most famous Hungarian on the island after our assistant chef, Attila, known affectionately as Attila the Hun…gry. Some of our wilder concert events go on until 9:00 PM. Or, as we call it here on Spring Island, midnight.

Mom and I see ourselves living here a long time which, I have to warn you kids, could both delay and reduce your inheritance. Given our high monthly charges from Verizon for intermittent cellphone service, and a water bill from CUC that is so high we’ve begun watering our plants with bottled water we’re pilfering from the coolers at the tennis courts, it’s likely there’ll be very little inheritance left when Mom & I, as they say, “finish playing the back 9”.

Well, kids, I hope you’re reassured Mom and I weren’t crazy when we decided to move to this amazing place. But now that I think about it, maybe we ARE a little crazy – crazy about Spring Island’s creatures, its beauty and especially, its marvelous people.

Your ever loving, and ever aging, Dad

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01. Cathy Cooney - The Ruins as Nightfalls 02. Geoff Lorenz - My Woods 03. Allison Crossman - Oyster Shells in the Sand

It was a moment to remember All of us sitting around a table at the Hark All together Joking, laughing, solving the world’s problems The sun shining brightly in on us at an angle Through the tall windows I told myself I should remember this I would remember this Not sure I could remember this But I did It’s there ready to be recalled And it is From time to time Moments to remember

Gloria Pinza

Moments

Yesterday sitting around a circle To learn mindfulness Close your eyes she said Breath deeply Think about your shoulders, your knees, your toes Think of yourself and your body Hear your breath Focus on the angle of your back against the chair Forget Clear that clutter from your mind See only the moment You, in this moment Yourself For self Am I the only one with eyes open Looking at the circle of closed eyes And deeply breathing chests Is it just me Who doesn’t want to clear my mind Or forget Who embraces the clutter Longing for the moments That draw you from yourself Lift you from yourself Let you see the sunlight streaming in at an angle Actually see it To recall in the future When you need it Moments to remember

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Fantasies

Intersections

Fantasies of future dreams And of disaster flow, As past and present happenings Make footprints in the snow.

Snowball fights, contrived yet real, Bring self-inflicted pain; And snowmen once so fat and round Lose shape in snow turned rain.

Hot cocoa warms the throat and soul And soothes the snowballed face.

Monopoly played near the fire Usurps the snowman’s place.

How comical the child’s rage As Park Place falls to foe.

Contagious then her sheer delight Each time she passes “Go.”

He was a redwood at the back of the room, Shadows buzzing around him in the half-light.

The heavy thump of music met me As my eyes adjusted.

Just another New York City bar, but not.

The shadows resolved into shapes And the shapes into friends, old, new, to be.

Surprise!

I hugged him and felt the harsh stubble Of this young man who had been just a boy.

His mouth moved in its smiley way Saying words I longed to hear, But the sound dissolved into the drum beat.

Had my ears ever been good enough to hear them?

Around me were so many that I knew But had not seen. Not forever.

There’s Emma and Henry, Betsey and Jim And Frank and Alejandra came too.

Young outnumbered old.

Greetings from friends.

Wondering eyes from sleek young New York types Who had become part of his life.

Who are you? a long lanky blonde asked Reaching across me to refill her glass.

Joe’s mom.

Oh wow! He’s great, she said.

I know, my mind replied.

Fantasies of future dreams And of disaster flow, As past and present happenings Make footprints in the snow.

A heart too full cannot contain Its fantasies created.

Fears that fester in the mind Soon make what’s loved, what’s hated.

Kind words, a touch, a look perhaps Relieve her fears unspoken; Still dreams of what may never be Replace proud hopes now broken.

How tragic is the lover’s rage As rain destroys the snow.

How genuine her sheer delight When melted snowmen grow.

Contented, I stood in the corner Looking through a window into his life.

Fantasies of future dreams And of disaster start To kidnap past and present joys And rule the stranded heart.

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Neen Hunt

Lessons Learned In A Tribal Community

I felt my foot smash through the planks on the step leading to a classroom in a shed-like structure on the grounds of the local high school on this rain soaked island. Yanking my muddied shoe from the clutch of wood rotted by incessant downpours, I entered a room whose borders were lined by piles of trash— torn papers, dirty clothes, unclean dishes, and discarded books. The room led to a smaller one, with one open flap window, in which eight high school girls sitting cross-legged on the bare floor were awaiting the arrival of the teacher. They laughed, chatted or brushed the long black tresses of a friend. Most of the teenagers were dressed in the brightly colored, intricately designed hand embroidered skirts that were long enough to cover the knees—the national dress of women on Pohnpei, a small island of 30,000 people in Micronesia.

As a Peace Corps Volunteer in the role of Education Specialist, I arrived that morning to evaluate the performance of the home crafts teacher whose classes included embroidery, beading, basket weaving, sewing and jewelry making. I had low expectations for the teacher. The “classroom” had no lighting—just one window open to the air when its flap was raised. Art supplies such as paint, construction paper, rulers, clay, brushes, crayons were not available. There were no desks. I wondered how any kind of effective instruction could occur in this bleak environment, or how students could remain

attentive in a sweltering, airless room. I wondered how a teacher could convey the joy of learning a simple craft for students aware of many of the exciting new electronic technologies and their flash and speed. I also wondered how I could assess performance when the teacher would be speaking Pohnpein, a language I did not understand.

The teacher entered late; she was collecting the lesson materials from a storage bin--- sewing needles and pieces of yarn and fabric. I knew she was respected as a teacher elder, but there was also a familiarity with this teacher that reflected a deeper relationship: kin, church member and spokesperson for the village women. She quickly commanded each student’s attention with a calming voice and an encouraging smile. Her large round body seemed to capture the room and blunt the inhospitable colorless termite damaged walls. First she displayed samples of exemplary work completed by other students: simple, neatly stitched hearts, flowers, shapes, words on fabric sewn to create a potholder, flag, and even a snot rag. Then she stood with arms lifted high and hands positioned to demonstrate how to sew a chain stitch in a straight line. She emphasized the importance of a “straight line” to the appearance of the final product. The girls inched closer to her, with all eyes lifted to observe her fingers’ movements as they formed the loop in the chain in the air. With a large toothy smile on an almond brown face, she maneuvered fleshy fingers with the ease of a designer.

In a slowed, almost imperceptible motion, and with exquisite precision that reflected her skills honed over 20 years of teaching, she added thread to create a loop and then a second and a third. The chain, so perfectly shaped, emerged as if machine produced, its loops equally sized and connected to one another like a product of nature.

The girls’ attention to the task held steady as their eyes strained to observe this master.

The teacher then distributed large pieces of colored fabric to practice the difficult stich, instructing each student to fold the fabric and cut it into 4 squares— their practice samples. A single pair of scissors, plastic and fitting a child’s hand, was passed from student to student.

The girls waited their turn without speaking, working on the folding process to ensure four equal squares without the aid of a measuring tool. With the squares prepared for sewing, each girl threaded a needle and began the work. Lacking eyeglasses, one of the girls brought the fabric close to her face so she could see the tiny stitches as they emerged on her cloth. Mistakes were occurring: the thread got entangled; the loops were different sizes; the chain was crooked. The teacher, witnessing the errors, assured the girls they were learning from mistakes and to 24

remain steadfast.

One student, who had taken longer to thread her needle and to begin the sewing process, was struggling to create the first loop. Her needle point continuously pierced the wrong place in the fabric and the tiny stitches she made were of different lengths and unevenly placed. The teacher approached the girl, sat on the floor next to her, and took the girl’s hand in her own. She placed her entire hand over the student’s and guided it “at a snail’s pace” as together they penetrated the cloth with the needle and meticulously sewed each stitch to form the first loop. They did not speak. The student held up the cloth to view the results of their work in tandem--and then started the sewing anew as the teacher watched over her. Finally, the teacher asked the girls to display their work. She pointed to “the best” and praised the efforts of the others. The girls’ faces radiated delight with their progress; each carefully placed her sample in a pile on the bench. They had learned well—and so had I.

“Home” in Micronesia, where I lived and worked for a year as a school accreditation specialist, is a cement rectangular structure divided into three small rooms.

The windows are screened but tears in the mesh allow flying insects, small lizards, and dirt to enter. (I plugged these holes with a type of Brillo pad I purchased at the town market.) The largest room has one hot plate, a small refrigerator, a sink, and a long table flanked by a few folding chairs. A single bare bulb provides the lighting.

It is 7:00 p.m. and I hear the familiar rapping at the door of my house. As usual it is raining hard, with coin-sized drops creating a symphony of sound. I open the door to two children who arrive every evening to learn English. Eppilener, a 5th grader, greets me in Phonpein: “Souchik mwahu (good evening).” She is a shy child who is hesitant to speak English even though she knows many words. Her face is lovely, innocent—petite features appear on clear tawny skin. Her waist length, brown hair is pulled back and clasped with a plastic flower. A beaded bracelet decorates her wrist—“ A gift; Hawaii”—she says, admiring its simple beauty. Eppilener is holding the hand of a young boy who wears a smile but whose eyes tremble.

Rolenstar is in 2nd grade and this is his first opportunity to learn the language. Clearly nervous, he does not speak.

With a chubby, large body, and round face, he appears older than his age.

I beckon the children to enter the room quickly.

As they take seats on the metal chairs, the remnants of raindrops slip from their bare arms onto my kitchen floor.

They sit upright with eyes and ears awaiting directions.

They seem oblivious of the hard metal seats, the poor 25

lighting, and the constant heat. I, however, am acutely aware of our wobbly worktable whose legs are sitting in Styrofoam cups filled with water to drown the teeny ants that are relentless in their search for crumbs. I look upward to view the small flying insects whose gossamer wings are singed by the ceiling light bulb as they approach its inviting glow.

But the children’s readiness to learn is palpable; they are waiting for my instructions. I ask Eppilener to read a passage aloud about butterflies from a workbook for third graders. Her pronunciation is excellent but when I ask her the meaning of several key words, she knows fewer than I had expected, such as the names of the four seasons. Her lack of knowledge does not surprise me: there is only one season, a perpetual summer, on the Island of Pohnpei. While helping Eppiliner to interpret the workbook questions and write answers, I also direct Rolenstar to match pictures of farm animals with their English words. I ask him to draw the animals with the crayons I have brought with me from my home in America, and then to print their names in English and Pohnpein. He giggles when he draws a dog. ”Kidi!” he exclaims with delight as he recognizes the familiar. Eppiliner speaks to Rolesntar in Pohnpein when he appears stumped; her tone is encouraging, gentle. The children laugh as if tickled when I try to say the Pohnpein word for fish- “mwahmw”- because my pronunciation sounds so odd. Not “mow”, they protest, and they exaggerate the movement of their lips to show me how to form the sounds of the word.

I ask the children to write the English words we have been reading on cards I have provided, with their meanings in Pohnpein on the back sides. We now have 15 vocabulary flash cards that I will use for a quiz game.

I have learned that Pohnpeins enjoy competitions so I tell the students that they will take the card when the answer is correct and the person holding the most cards will be the winner. I show them the prize—lollypops of many flavors—and they hunch over the table in anticipation of the first card with eyes eagerly awaiting the game’s beginning. Before I start the game, I hold up each card and alternate asking one of them to read the word, to define the word and then to use the word in a simple sentence. Both of them stumble when they try to use the words in simple sentences, so I simply complete the sentences for them. The word “horse” is written on one of the cards, and neither child can describe this animal or give me the Pohnpein word for it. Eppilener guesses and shouts out “carabao!” but I know that this

cont’d from page 24

means “water buffalo”. To explain, I draw a horse and rider and the children in unison yell “oahs!” The word “seal” is written on the next card and when I show the children a picture of a seal in the workbook, they tell me that there is no Pohnpein word for this animal.

When the game begins, the two children holler the answers, each trying to beat their competitor. They are so delighted when I give them the card they have won; their faces beam with self-satisfaction; and they eagerly poise themselves to leap on the answer to the next card. We are all laughing, enjoying these moments of teaching and learning. Rolenstar yells “pwik” when the word “pig” is presented on the card, and he grabs and clutches the card as if it were a valuable. I am learning also. “Pwik”, I repeat with a pronunciation that does not need correction. Then there is a knock on my door, the signal that the hour has ended and that high school students are now here to learn. Eppilener and Rolenstar continue to stay, even after I invite the older students to enter. I offer them several lollipops to leave, and they take them and walk into the night.

As I stood on the asphalt road, my shoulders strained from the weight of the textbooks and folders of papers that I had stuffed into a zippered bag. In the early light before its rays turned to insufferable heat, my eyes surveyed the postcard projection of hills and lush dense forest that greeted me whenever I left my new home—a square three room concrete structure adjacent to a similar dwelling inhabited by my host family, the Lukner Clan, deep in the forest of Pohnpei, a tiny island rooted for thousands of years in the far Pacific now claiming its identity as a state in the Federation of Micronesia. The road, edged with a guttered channel carrying water from a mountain stream, dropped off in the near distance, an anxious reminder that my journey from an affluent life in America to this island wilderness would also end if I could not survive. In the clucking of a nearby brood of hens, I heard the warning: “You are no spring chicken!”

A calming flotilla of clouds floated overhead. They soothed my sight as they decorated the sky: easier on the eyes than the abandoned, rusted, dirt painted,

window smashed and tire deprived car whose permanent resting place was near my front door. My eyes shifted in search of the large yellow school bus, recently donated by the Chinese government. As a Peace Corps Volunteer Education Specialist for the next year, I was on my “maiden voyage” assigned to travel by foot, taxi, flatbed, and school bus during the week to six schools, grades early childhood through high school and miles from one another, to train principals and teachers. So that morning I planned to board the school bus, hoping the driver would accept me as a passenger along with 20 teenagers who waited while they combed hair, reviewed homework, or finished breakfast of ramen submerged in Kool Aid.

It was no surprise that raindrops began to pelt my skin and dampen my hair--just another day of downpour in the wettest place on Earth. I had stopped trying to stay dry only days ago when I had discarded my cheap plastic poncho to avoid being suffocated by the relentless humidity. While the circles of water landed on my Madison Avenue sandals now mildewed, a mud splashed black rubber flip flop on little feet moved into view along with the lengthy banana leaf that he had fashioned into a natural head cover to rebuff the steady droplets of rain. He was smiling, enjoying the cooling spray of soft water on his brown shins, and balancing the leaf as if it were glued.

With a Spiderman book bag slung over a back so thin it seemed to lack a muscle, he joined the stream of children walking often two miles from forest homes, hidden behind walls of foliage down countless dirt paths that mapped this village. Every boy and girl wore the same school uniform: a red shirt. Each held the hands of siblings so they would not loiter or be struck by a vehicle careening to avoid a feral dog or part of the road collapsed in the recent typhoon. The students needed to arrive when the school “bell” gonged- a rusty torpedo shell pounded with a wooden bat by a student who deserved this honor. As each child passed and stared curiously at me, strangely clothed in a sundress rather than the brightly embroidered long skirts worn by every woman and girl, I heard the respectful morning greeting in Phonpein: “Kasalehie teacher. I am fine. How are you?”

The rain intensified, and I strained to see movement over the rise. With nothing in sight, I felt more keenly the weight on my shoulders, and the fatigue entering my 73-year-old legs after a 40-minute watch. I glanced at threads of water dripping on my folders, and worried that my papers would be spoiled. Then as if the heavens recognized this plight, the sun was again brilliant and drying its kingdom. Washing over me like a torrid wave, the blazing ball began to bake my skin and tremble 26

my limbs. The sweat dripped from my watchband and my underwear felt clammy and clingy. Seeking rest, I sat down on the road when a boy appeared with a worn sitting stone, an oval shaped rock reserved for the highest members of the Clan, or the men who were being trained to pound a local plant into a greyish, stringy liquid that when mixed with juice from hibiscus produces a drink once meant for priests because of medicinal power. I felt relieved to sit, and was wondering if my young rescuer had watched me for long when a sylphlike girl appeared and lifted a banana leaf, like a floppy brimmed hat, over my head to shield me from the inferno heat. The children were teaching the teacher now seated and shaded how to exist in this harsh environment. I managed to say only “Kalanghan”—thank you--- unable sadly to express gratitude in Pohnpein for their kindness and for simple protections against my new home’s weather. ∆

Laura Schoch

The Dreamer

The dreamer, the wanderer The lover of the unloved, unwanted And of the unnoticed And of all God’s creatures great and small.

The traveler, the educator Fearless she went To experience places That most will never see.

Dancing through the world With curls and dimples That shone when she smiled Free spirited and yet a fighter.

But in the darkest hours when The fearless was afraid And the dancer was still Into the night she fled.

Her young spirit soared Chasing her dreams Which reached far beyond this earth And well beyond the stars.

And when we all meet again In the next life we will see that what she has done there is even more AMAZING. RIP.EMD.XO.LPS. 3.8.92 – 2.20.17

Nancy Smith - Marsh Fog

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“Our special environment encourages us to turn up the volume of our lives and allows us to enjoy fulfilling relationships and experiences in all aspects of our island living. �

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Paula McGilly

Response

The question never fails to be asked.

The responses are always interesting and varied.

And all are always given with a fond smile of remembrance. “ So how did you come to make SI your home?” Each of us paint verbal watercolors of our initial experiences that drew us to this wonderful environment we choose to call home.

All are heartwarming to hear and it’s wonderful to realize that no matter the vehicle that brought each of us to this special place, there is an unspoken realization that we share a common denominator of appreciation for our beautiful environment.

Our personal experience was that after realizing that another low country community was not the right fit for us, it had been mentioned that perhaps the place that would suit us better was Spring Island, since it was a place composed of tree hugging intellectuals. We were intrigued by that description, after all, we’d never met tree hugging intellectuals, so naturally our interest was piqued!

There is an unexplainable feeling after crossing the causeway onto the island, a feeling that we know we share with many, where there is an unmistakable knowing that one is home. Having said that, we understand that our special place is

not for everyone. It’s been said by some outsiders that our environment is liken to Jurassic Park which is also home to some scary animal creatures.

But for those of us who embrace our SI living conditions, we all agree that the fingerprint of the island encompasses our deep appreciation for the natural landscape, as well as our love for other species.

There is an obvious universal energy on our island that seems to pulse with opportunities to brush up upon the mystery of inspiration. Our special environment encourages us to turn up the volume of our lives and allows us to enjoy fulfilling relationships and experiences in all aspects of our island living. So from this tree hugger’s viewpoint, how magical is Spring Island that it promotes each one of us in our own unique way to reside in the sweet spots of our souls? ∆

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Bruce Smith

Three Brothers

Once there were three brothers who inherited a large kingdom after the death of their father.

Preferring to hunt and give great feasts, they cared neither for the responsibility of ruling nor for their father’s fine castles. But they very much liked the house the king built for the woman who had been his most trusted advisor.

Designed by the king’s best architect, it was a lovely house, overlooking a lake and surrounded by gardens filled with flowers. The woman, whose name was Serena, was old, loved her house and was reluctant to move. So the sons ordered their servants to carry the old woman and her dog and all her clothes and furniture as far away as possible, then they turned the house into their hunting lodge and the gardens into a pasture for their horses.

During their father’s, Manfred the Great’s, life everyone in the country prospered, but with no one to oversee the kingdom after his death, neighboring kings conspired to seize the land for themselves. Wars broke out, one after another; the brothers quarreled and came to blows. The people became poorer in health and spirit. Years of fighting left everyone exhausted and unhappy. The places where people gathered to dance and feast had all been burned down; most of the crops no longer grew or were burned by the armies of one side or the other; the chickens laid fewer eggs, the cows had fewer calves and less milk, the pigs, when there were some, were stolen by thieves. No one dared

leave his cottage for fear of being attacked.

Then a great plague seized the country, and Death spared no one, not even the children and wives of the three brothers. The wind swept through the broken windows, dust settled on the chandeliers, and the castle rattled like bones in a kettle. The brothers dined alone on scraps.

As the kingdom was about to turn completely to dust, an old woman appeared to the brothers in a dream.

Her age could not be guessed; she was bent and frail and dressed in a long robe; her gray hair fell to her waist and she leaned on a staff as gnarled and twisted as her own body. Her voice crackled through their dreams as she announced: “You must travel to the dark wood together, not one hesitating or lagging behind, not one thinking to leave his brothers. You must go as one and enter the woods. There is no other way. Do as I say and the kingdom will be saved.”

The following day the brothers met to discuss this dream. Fearfully, they looked at one another: no one who entered the dark wood had ever been seen again.

“All nonsense,” said one. “Probably something I ate.”

“Madness,” said another. “Why trust a dream? This bad luck will end.”

But in their hearts they knew they must obey the old woman. They packed what food their servants could find, saddled their best horses, armed themselves with their brightest armor and their sharpest swords, and set off for the dark wood. They traveled for seven days, sleeping under the stars or under whatever shelter they could find, and on the seventh day they came to the edge of the dark wood. It had a very foreboding look: tall black trees, shrouded by leaves and entangled with thick vines that shut out the light. No sounds rose from the darkness.

They heard neither the chatter of a bird nor the stirring of the wind.

“There is no path,” one of the brothers said, and there appeared to be none. They camped at the edge of the wood and debated whether or not to turn back. If no path existed how could they be expected to proceed?

That night, in the midst of their arguments, an old woman appeared beside the fire, startling the sons so much they leapt to their feet with their swords drawn.

In the firelight she looked like the woman who had appeared in their dreams, but it was difficult to say for sure. She was gnarled and old and had long white hair, but the firelight drew long shadows on her face.

“You must go into the woods,” she commanded.

“But there is no path,” they protested.

“You will make your own path and when you come to 30

the broken tower you may rest. From there the path will become clear.” Having spoken, the old woman turned and disappeared into the wood. For the rest of the night the brothers argued: couldn’t she be a witch leading them into a trap? Did they really see her? Was she a trick of the firelight and the dark woods?

In the morning they reluctantly saddled their horses and entered the forest. When darkness fell they rode close together, one horse on the tail of the other, their swords drawn. They spoke only in whispers as they moved slowly forward, hacking at the branches that blocked their way. Each had the feeling that he was lost and would never see the light again, yet they pushed on.

The darkness was endless, and the silence and the odor of damp and decaying earth made it seem as if they had ridden deep underground. Finally one morning they came to a clearing in the middle of which had once stood a great tower. An old tree had taken root and spread its branches through the cracks and windows, and the stonewalls lay scattered about the grass.

The brothers dismounted, removed their armor and bathed in the fresh water of a little stream running through the middle of this glen. They felt refreshed and hopeful. Hadn’t the old woman said the path from here would be known? While they sat beside the stream they saw a black bird on the tower, and they regarded the bird as a good sign.

They rested for the remainder of the day with a plan to resume the journey in the morning But as sunlight faded and long shadows stretched across the meadow, the brothers nervously watched the edges of the forest. Each sensed danger, and without a word they donned their armor and took out their swords.

Suddenly a net, like a black web, swept over them with such force they were knocked off their feet. The brothers hacked at cords as thick as a man’s wrist and when they broke free they saw a creature taller than six men. Its eyes were rimmed in red, its skin was leathery and thick; it had teeth like knives and talons for feet, and each of its four arms ended in sharp claws.

The brothers shot all their arrows into the creature and slashed at its arms and head with their swords, but the creature seized them in its claws and ripped them into small pieces until silence fell again over the dark wood.

When morning came again nothing could be seen of the three brothers except, here and there, fragments of armor and a broken sword. The brook flowed on as peacefully as ever. Then the old woman appeared at the tower and raised her voice in a singsong call. Within minutes blackbirds flew down and gathered around her feet.

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“Bring me the brothers,” she commanded, and the birds flew off at once. When they returned each carried some small part of a brother. The old woman put the pieces into a bowl, mixed them with water from the spring, and formed a round ball. From the ball she fashioned a figure with a head, arms, and legs. She threw the little figure into a fire and left. The fire burned through the night. In the morning light, amongst the ashes of the fire, stood a handsome and strong young man. A shaggy pony grazed nearby.

The old woman appeared once more from the tower, carrying armor and a sword for the young man.

“Put on this,” she said, “And the pony will carry you to a castle. You will not be entirely safe. You could be killed, but in this pouch are three stones and when you are in danger you must use one of them.”

“Do I have a name?” the man asked.

“Your name is Albert,” said the old woman. “You must find Serena.”

“Serena?” Albert asked, puzzled.

“You must search until you find her.” Then the old woman flew away. Albert fastened the pouch to his belt, climbed on the pony, and they trotted off into the woods.

They traveled all day and as evening swept over the forest they came to a river and the pony stopped to rest. Albert removed his armor and kneeled to drink.

The surface reflected a silvery blue sky, and in the midst of this mirror such a handsome face appeared that he stared at it for a long time. The longer he gazed at his reflection the more beautiful he became; then the face beckoned him into the water.

He followed his image into the stream, and only then did he realize how deep the water was and how strong the tide. The current swirled up around his legs, pulling him out into the middle of the river into even swifter currents. When he struggled to reach the shore, the river wound itself more tightly around his legs and shoulders and pulled him deeper. He sank until only his head was above the waves and then, remembering the stones in his pouch, he drew one out and threw it into the water.

The river became still as a pond, and Albert was released. He pulled himself, tired and weak, back to shore. “The river almost killed me,” he thought. “How silly I was to believe what I saw in the water.” He fell asleep on the grass and when he woke the shaggy pony was standing beside him, stamping its foot impatiently.

Albert put on his armor and once again entered the wood. When he’d ridden for another day he came to a

cont’d from page 30 fork in the road; one path led to a beautiful meadow, a place full of flowers and birds that looked so peaceful Albert urged the pony onto this path, but the pony refused. Albert kicked and cursed the pony and still it wouldn’t obey. At last Albert gave up: “All right,” he said, “you’re a stubborn little beast. So take me where you want.” And they took the less inviting path. In a short while they came upon a fierce looking little man in a tall green cap. Albert, still weary from his battle with the river and hungry too, asked if an inn or shelter was nearby.

“A fine place there is – up the road a bit.

Excellent food and a comfortable bed. You’d be welcome there.” He pointed his staff up the road. Albert thanked the little man and rode until he reached the inn where an ancient dwarf, with a mean, sharp face, showed him into a richly decorated room – the sort a king might expect – and a banquet was set at the table. Although he ate alone by the fire, the dwarf gave him everything he asked for, and the food was delicious. After he’d eaten he felt sleepy and climbed the steps to his bedroom. “Perhaps,” he thought as he was falling asleep, “I’ll stay in this fine place for awhile.”

During the night dreams troubled his sleep.

A monster chased him; he was not himself but three different men, and nothing they tried could stop the monster. As the men were about to be eaten Albert awoke, frightened and trembling. Sitting up in his bed he heard the muffled sounds of someone talking in the room below. He took his sword and crept to the door.

Through a crack he saw the dwarf sitting at a table, mumbling to himself. On the table sat a large wooden chest overflowing with gold and silver and jewels that glowed in the firelight. Albert stared at the treasure: “If only I had that gold and silver and all those jewels I could buy a kingdom. I wouldn’t ride a shaggy pony or have to risk my life!” And he decided to kill the dwarf.

He crept down the stairs and raised his sword over the little man who jumped up in amazement. “You want my treasure!” he cried. “Then take it and the curse that goes with it!” And the dwarf ran into the woods.

Albert heaped up the gold and silver, counted the coins, and delighted in the beauty of jewels. “I am rich!”

With all his money he was sure to find someone to cook his meals and make his bed; and he’d find

subjects to admire him and call him king! He discovered a beautiful white horse in the stable. “How perfect for me,” he said. “I’ll never ride that shaggy pony again.” He saddled the horse and rode off in search of subjects to serve him, but he found only two old people, a man and a woman.

Albert was disappointed, of course. What good is money if you can’t build a grand castle and have hundreds of people to envy your wealth and call you king? He told himself it was only a matter of time, so every day he rode out on his fine white horse in search of people to admire him and build his castle. But it seemed no one except the old couple lived in the woods. He rode out less and less and spent more time with his treasure.

Then one morning as he dressed in his usual clothes, he glanced in the mirror. He seemed changed.

He looked much smaller and the clothes seemed a trifle too large. Was this a trick? He squinted at the mirror.

Must be his imagination, he told himself. He asked the old couple if they noticed a changed, and they shook their heads, no. But after several days he could no longer deceive himself. He needed help to climb on his white horse; the old woman had to make new clothes and, worst of all, he was beginning to resemble the dwarf he’d chased away. His hands had become gnarled and his face sharp and mean.

“That’s what the dwarf meant about the curse!” he cried.

Of course, the smaller Albert got, the greater the treasure looked, so for a while he consoled himself. He seemed to have more money than ever before.

By now the old couple served his food in tiny dishes and he drank from a thimble. He had to be carried up the stairs to his royal bed, which was no bigger than a saucer. He was so small he was afraid to go out for fear a bird might carry him away or a beetle attack him. When all seemed lost, he recalled his stones. Two remained. He asked the old couple to help him carry one of the stones and when they reached the chest with all his treasures he told them to throw the stone into the chest. No sooner had they done as he wished than the treasure vanished, as did the old couple, and then Albert grew until he was as tall as when he first came to the cottage. In a hurry to escape the cursed place he snatched his sword and armor, mounted the shaggy pony, and off they went at a fast trot down the forest path.

“I’ll trust you to take me wherever you will,” he said to the pony. The pony twitched his ears and trotted along until they reached the mouth of a cave that was small and almost invisible beneath the canopy of vines and tree roots. “What’s the meaning of this?” Albert said to the pony. “You don’t expect me to go in there!” But the pony stood before the cave entrance until Albert dismounted.

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“Alright,” Albert said with a sigh. What a stubborn pony!

And to the pony he said: “Don’t run off. I’ll be right back.”

On his hands and knees he crawled through the tangled overgrowth and entered a tunnel just big enough for him to squeeze through. Creeping now like a worm, he descended into the earth. It wasn’t as dark as he expected; in fact, lights as small as fireflies flickered among the rocks and roots dangling from the tunnel ceiling, but as he inched farther the tunnel narrowed and roots blocked his way, rocks scraped his knees, and he felt things crawling in his hair and down his back. He wanted to return to the pony, but the tunnel was now so tight he couldn’t turn around. As he reached the limits of his strength the tunnel grew wider and then opened into a large chamber. At the end of the chamber, rising up into the darkness, was an old castle with a drawbridge that led to a tall wooden door. No lights shone from within the castle, and the bridge tilted uneasily to one side.

Over the entrance, set into a niche, was the statue of a terrible looking three-headed dog. Albert drew his sword and stepped carefully on the bridge, which swayed and groaned so horribly that Albert jumped back in terror.

Below him yawned a deep chasm and the sounds of a river. He stood frowning at the bridge and the doorway beyond. Then he heard the voice of the old woman beckoning them forward, and he stepped onto the bridge.

Step by step, very slowly, he crossed the bridge, and when he stood safely on the other side, the bridge collapsed into the river. His sword still in his hand, Albert approached a door big enough for a giant and knocked gently. He listened and waited but no one answered, so he beat on the door with his sword, and the great door creaked open.

Albert peered inside. A fire burned in the hearth, a woman sat at a table, her back to him. She had long golden hair and wore a dress of red silk; a dog slept at her feet.

“I’ve come for Serena,” Albert announced.

The woman rose from her table and came toward Albert, her arms outstretched, her face hidden in shadow.

“Are you the Serena I was told to find?” he asked. She was very close to him. Behind her the dog rose to its feet and stretched. The dog was a fierce looking beast with three heads. “You’re not the one!” he shouted at the woman. The woman screamed and fell on Albert, gnashing her teeth and raking his shoulder with her claws. The three-headed dog, howling and barking and snapping its jaws, leapt at Albert’s throat. Albert struck it with his sword, but each wound only enraged the beast. The woman broke into the most awful laughter and urged the dog on. Albert stumbled backwards, slashing at the dog, tripped and fell to the floor. The last stone fell from his pouch. Reaching 33

for it as the dog bit into his shoulder he threw the stone into one of the dog’s snarling mouths. Whimpering, the dog shrank and scampered away. With a shriek the woman flew upward into the darkness, leaving the room empty and silent except for the crackling fire.

Albert picked himself up off the floor. The wounds inflicted by the dog quickly closed. He heard the patterpatter of an animal’s feet on the stone floor. Had the threeheaded dog suddenly returned? Albert leapt to his feet. A small dog approached and, wagging its tail, sat at Albert’s feet.

“Are you truly a friend or another monster?”

Albert stared at the dog.

The dog walked a few feet away, stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

“So you’re a guide?” said Albert.

He followed the dog up winding staircases, and when they reached an enormous wooden door, the dog stopped. Albert pushed the door open and saw a magnificent room. In the middle of the room a woman sat sewing. Albert waited patiently until she had finished.

When she put away her sewing things Albert asked politely if her name was Serena.

The woman held out her hand to Albert. She was neither old nor young. “I’ve waited a long time for you,” she said.

“But we’ve never met,” Albert said, puzzled.

“You couldn’t see me,” she said. “Neither you nor the brothers who banished me. But I was there nonetheless, waiting. Now we can go back to your kingdom, and I can return home.”

Albert kissed her hand and as he raised his eyes he thought he saw three brothers standing behind the woman, and they seemed pleased. “But where is my kingdom?”

Albert asked.

“Close indeed,” she smiled, and taking his hand, led him from the chamber onto a grassy slope. From there they could see the woods through which Albert had traveled. They no longer seemed dark and ominous but open and filled with sunlight and birds. As they stood on the knoll the shaggy pony trotted up. Albert and the woman mounted the pony.

“To the kingdom,” Albert said to the pony and laughed. “I’m sure you know the way.” ∆

My Jaundiced Eye

The Queen Is Dead Long Live The Queen One of my dearest friends died this morning. God damn him.

What the hell am I to do with the rest of my life’s Sunday afternoons?

He created a world that was every bit as magical as anything disney conjured up.

He collected people like most people collect tchotchkes. Collectibles needed to be smart, interesting or entertaining, preferably all three.

Being young and nice looking was a plus.

His circle of friends was immense and as diverse as it was wide. He was the lynchpin of a special universe that only he could pull off.

His feats of what seemed like effortless entertaining were legend. Lunch parties for thirty in the garden, meh.

He was smart as a whip and had a memory that was astounding on virtually any topic: history, literature, music and of course politics.

He was a proud leftie who relished crushing conservative orthodoxy with withering precision.

He loved a good discussion, or better yet, argument and I never saw him concede his point to anyone.

When I met him, I literally felt like judy garland in the wizard of oz when she opens the door and her world suddenly becomes technicolor.

He lived his best life. And died, I am sure, with few, if any regrets.

I am so grateful to have known him.

And wherever he is now I hope he saves a place for me. ∆

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Ron Weltmann

Stay Involved

If you stay involved, good things will come to you.

only to be faced with TV camera lights. It’s ESPN and they want to interview us. Us, when there are so many others they should be speaking to? Okay, it’s our moment in the lights. We are asked and we provide our recap of the game.

“Wow,” I said to Dana when the lights turned off, “that was a great moment.” I didn’t know at the time we were being broadcast live and within minutes dozens of people around the country were texting and emailing that they saw us. We’re celebrities!

After the camera lights dimmed, we walked another 10 yards, at best, when my cell phone rang. It was a reporter for the only newspaper in Syracuse (The Post Standard). He wanted to interview me about the game. I said, “why are you calling ME?” Now remember, we are celebrities walking around New Orleans to celebrate some more. He said, “you were the only one we could reach, no one else picked up.” Not even that balloon could burst our celebrity high, and my second interview in the moment, a state of rapture moment, ensued.

The next day, my interview and PICTURE (of us celebrating in the stands) was on the front page of the paper. Our 15 minutes!

We’re celebrities again in my happiest of times!

Thus, it does pay to stay involved and good things can happen from it. Go ‘Cuse. ∆

I have continued being active in and around Syracuse University since my graduation (what seems like 100 years ago). Establishing scholarships, donating, helping Development, being an alumni admissions representative, etc.

Could there have been more and was I asked; yes. But my businesses always seemed to keep me in balance (thankfully) between earning a living and my strong want to have as much largess as possible for the institutions and charities with which I involved myself.

Preface over and story begins.

It’s 2003 and Dana and I are in New Orleans for the NCAA Final Four. The third one I’ve been to with Syracuse, but the first for Dana.

The last second shot by Kansas to beat us gets swatted away and lands just a few people from where we are sitting. We’re going to win. Less than 2 seconds left on the clock, we have the ball, the game and our first Championship. A magical moment I had waited for my whole life.

We spend a decent amount of time cheering and congratulating the Syracuse fans, dignitaries, players and coaches, and then it was time to leave the Super Dome and head back to Bourbon Street for some serious celebrating.

We walk up the stairs and levels of the arena to the exit and push open the double doors 35

Pam Ullman

Down The Beat Goes Homage to Virginia Wolfe

down the beat goes, he thought crossing the beach at night the spray of salt on his skin tasting the breach of it when heaven only knows why one needs it so why one wishes it so making it up beating it ‘round jumbling it ‘round in a wide stretch of sand aglow in a misty beacon of light fenced by an easterly wind holding it back and letting it go inhale, exhale just breath yes, this was life three strangers abide in the same place past and present tensed in the pounding of the waves and the music of the wind that whips their hair across their faces plays the wires of their bicycle spokes a rhythmic tapping on their open hearts and now his this was what he needed Sue Munson - Where It All Began

down the beat goes

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Things To Do With Clothespins On A Rainy Day Spanish Moss Mark Cragan

count them then separate by color and turn over every cushion until you find the missing blue one in the pantry clip every open bag of chips and while baby naps make clothespin art a clothespin sculpture a clothespin bowl a clothespin tray and a basket to hold more clothespins white clothespins will look nicest in a pink plastic clothespin basket

Outside my window a live oak stretches toward an indifferent sky, Spanish moss streaming like tears from its weathered limbs.

The moss so thick it almost seems like it is the tree, As though without it the tree would not exist.

But I know the moss and the tree are not one thing but two.

Just as I know before my son died I was only the tree, bathed in light.

Now I am the tree wreathed with moss, dappled in grief ’s shadow.

Still, the moss does not stunt the tree’s growth, nor does grief preclude mine.

If it could, I believe the live oak would thank the Spanish moss For making it more beautiful and mysterious than just a naked tree.

So it is I once more haltingly pray to my inscrutable God, Thanking him for Wyatt and for life’s strange tapestry of love and loss.

and then make yourself a martini a clothespin clutching an olive

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JJ Keyser

Book Review: Rambunctious Garden

by Emma Marris

Next March visit Nebraska’s Platte River to watch a half million Sandhill cranes on a migratory stop at an island spot kept clear for them by the world’s most invasive species - humans! They (both) feed in the surrounding cornfields. Emma Marris’ thoughtful and brilliantly researched book rings with her lively and humorous, contemporary prose.

The worshipping of “pristine nature” is a relatively recent American idea foisted upon us by Muir’s western spiritual epiphanies and Thoreau’s “in wildness (not “wilderness”) is the preservation of the world.” Certainly we need to preserve open land and have places where we can still get lost, and we need a “Gestalt switch” to appreciate that nature is everywhere but on impervious surfaces. No pristine ecosystems remain. What is being studied and achieved to preserve and improve where we are?

There is no place on our planet that is anthropogenically unaffected. Look at Erle Ellis’ “Anthropogenic Biomes of the World” map (http:// ecotope.org/anthromes/images/anthrome_map_ v1.png) for a new perspective. Ellis found that 75% of ice-free land showed human alteration. Global warming affects the rest as well. After the great human die-offs from the Black Plague and Mongolian invasions in the 13th and 14th centuries, the earth “caught its breath for a moment” as hundreds of thousands of square miles of trees could grow back, capturing CO₂ in their growth rings. Now half of

the tree lines are advancing up mountain slopes and ecologist Camille Parmesan has found that every species in the northern hemisphere moves poleward 3.8 miles/ decade. With spring occurring 2.3 days earlier each decade pollinators will leave their ecosystems in the lurch. The species that move toward mountaintop limits to stay cool are most vulnerable unless we do “assisted migrations” - a very complex and controversial idea.

Looking backwards by conservationists to try to recover lost ecosystems is problematic. Which baseline do you want to reach? Before Europeans arrived here? PreColumbian North America had more than one hundred million Indians (95% died after Europeans brought their diseases) letting unhunted bison expand to the enormous herds seen by Lewis and Clark. Can you go back to before the first Indian’s arrival during the last glacial epoch 13,000 years ago? Their hunting caused the extinction of enough megafauna (glyptodonts, mastodons, mammoths, etc.) to lower the methane level in the atmosphere as measured in ice core samples. Don’t light a match!

No ecosystem remains unchanged for more than 10,000 years. Bialowieża Primeval Forest on the Poland/Belarus border is purported to be what Western and Central Europe were like before humans cut the trees down. In present form Bialowieża goes back 2,000 years and has always been used by man, recently as game preserve for royalty and then Hermann Göring.

Why not start from scratch and make a prehuman forest? This new idea of “Pleistocene rewilding” is being overseen by Frans Vera in Oostvaardersplaasen with Amsterdam visible in the distance. Ted Turner is doing the same thing on his ranch in New Mexico, introducing first the endangered Bolson tortoise from Mexico. Next will come larger mammals - Asian asses, camels, wild horses. Then lions, cheetahs, elephants.

How will these introduced species interact with their new environment? (We’ve heard much more about the rewilding of Yellowstone with wolves.) “Exotic species” can sometimes become “invasive”. Introduced cats, pigs, rats, goats have wreaked extinction havoc on islands, as have fish species introduced to lakes (aquatic islands) and the brown tree snake on Guam. Our Park Service has 16 plant management teams to deal with the likes of Phragmites australis, considered to be invasive but really a global species eaten by Ground sloths back in the Pleistocene.

“Novel Ecosystems” are “...defined by anthropogenic change but not under active human management.” These ecosystems are now more common than intact ones. Zebra mussels were a problem in Lake 38

medians. We humans, each one of us an “ecosystem,” have contributed to the current state of the Earth and we must work to do all we can to improve and preserve it. For this Emma Marris has listed and written about how to juggle the goals we need to address. Protect the rights of ALL species, protect our charismatic megafauna (Save the Whales), slow extinction rates, protect genetic biodiversity, and protect nature’s spiritual and esthetic qualities. “This conscious and responsible and joyful cohabitation is the future of our planet, our vibrant, thriving, rambunctious garden.” This is a fine book, right up there with Rachel Carson’s work! ∆

Erie until native ducks learned to eat them creating a duck boom. Many introduced species calm down over time - “...nothing lies still long in nature.” Erle Ellis thinks that the Earth shifted from mostly wild to mostly anthropogenic in the early twentieth century.

Restoration ecologists work with “Designer Ecosystems” to restore ecosystem services (water filtration, erosion control, nitrogen removal, recreational value and biodiversity) by creating something effectively new. In our northeast and especially in Europe (by 1700 France had eighty thousand mill dams) the landscape, which had been marshy, was totally changed when the dams later were breached, creating the streams we are used to seeing. Does one try to go back in time or move forward to produce better ecosystem services? Perhaps the Walmarts should be required to buy land of equal size that is threatened by development for its preservation.

The primary message of “Rambunctious Garden: Saving Nature in a Post-Wild World” is that we must see the beauty of nature everywhere - even in highway

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“Campbell was called ‘Wiggy’ by close friends and family. All other acquaintances and business associates called him by his given name. ”

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Susan Ambrecht

The Two Brothers Bridges

“All Saints Cathedral in Nairobi was packed with mourners. Rich and poor, black and white, educated and not so—all there to celebrate the life of Campbell Bridges.

Campbell’s distraught wife and business partner attended as did their son, local politicians, and many illustrious businessmen highly knowledgeable in the world of rare gemstones. No one mourned his untimely and brutal murder more than his devoted older brother, Digby, who knew him better than most and understood both his character and drive. Digby removed his Hilton College tie so that his only brother could be cremated with the proper school tie, an important and fitting gesture for his beloved brother.”

provided one another with happiness and satisfaction. Time and time again throughout the years they needed to connect; it recharged their brotherhood.

Campbell was called “Wiggy’ by close friends and family. All other acquaintances and business associates called him by his given name.

This adopted name emerged when he was very young, and Digby could not manage his younger brother’s name; Digby could pronounce ‘Wiggy’ and, thus, Campbell became Wiggy. Later in life at Hilton College in South Africa, Campbell decided that only his family and closest friends would be allowed this familiarity. ∆

This is the story of two brothers, Digby and Campbell Bridges: two boys, two dreams, two paths, and two outcomes.

Their personal paths often meandered in different directions and on different continents but, somehow, and usually due to intent, these paths eventually wound back to their beginning and each other. Digby and Campbell’s togetherness

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06 01. Betsy Chaffin - Next Move 02. Brooke Cragan - Chickadee Gaze 03. Julie Klaper - Snow on Spring 04. Gig Hender - Surfs Up 05. Lark Smith - From Mountain to Sea 06. Lenore Sillery - Immigrant Lady #3