The Fox Squirrel Review by BD Creative Group

Welcome

Table of Contents

We are thrilled to share the second 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 embers to deepen appreciation for their neighbors’ talents, and to provide a vehicle for their creative expression in the literary arts. To all the contributors, thank you for sharing your craft and personal expressions with us. We hope it encourages many others to pick up a pen and follow your inspiration!

02. Kiwis, Babies, and Labels and Things by Neil Lorenz 03. Life at Wood Stork Pond by Chuck Pardee 03. Down by the River by Betsy Chaffin 04. Southern Belle - For Tennessee Williams By Rebecca Haas 05. Straight by Neen Hunt 07. Special Things by Gloria Pinza 12. Letters by Bruce Smith 14. Notes to an exceptional graduate by Martha Stibbs 17. Home by 16 yr. old, Brooks Crossman 18. Sacred by Neen Hunt 20. These shoes are made of satin by My Jaundiced Eye 21. The Hunt by Wendy Kilcollin 22. Mean Girl by Laura Aronstein 24. Treasure Quest by Jeff Haas

The pieces of art featured in this publication are the 2020 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.

36. Daddy Screech Owl by Gail Olson 37. We-solation by My Jaundiced Eye 38. A New World by Paula McGilly 39. Meditations on a Country Road by Karen Penchuk 02

40. The Lives of Two Ostriches by Lorraine Griffin 42. Book Review: Brilliant Blunders by JJ Keyser 44. Extinction by Gary Nordmann 46. Natural Art by Anna Aldrich 47. Have you ever watched a cloud grow? by Charlie Wagner 47. Do you… by Terri Lodge 48. Scent by Neen Hunt 50. The Invitation by Jim Kothe 53. Mier Expedition by Sandy Stuart 57. Blue Waters: Chapter One by Susan Ambrecht

01. Alesia Saboeiro - I was here first 02. Cathy Cooney - Tele

for instance, which faucets contain hot and cold water, tell us that objects in the mirror are closer than they appear, suggest the surprising notion that smoking is bad for us, and educate us as to the meltdown probabilities of using more than a 60 watt bulb. They warn us that dry cleaning plastic makes a terrible toy, indicate that air bags can either save your life or kill you, and suggest that packets of beans may contain rocks and dirt, thus making washing them advisable and smart. These helpful hints leak over into ludicrousness only when they seriously suggest we not eat the packing material around a new television set. Okay dokey.

Neil Lorenz

Kiwis, Babies, and Labels and Things I grabbed a kiwi at the store yesterday and was a little surprised to see that it had its own teeny tiny little label with its own teeny tiny little name, number, and country of origin. Now I confess to always being in a hurry and thus I am the numero uno customer in the U-Scan-It line. Because so many of us have this unfortunate I-can-do-it-faster-get-out-of-my-way mentality, I know that they have to give everything in the grocery store a number or bar code so we can throw it in our bag quickly and sprint out the door. Some of us need to hurry thusly so that we can go publish the cure for cancer, but most of us are just impatient, so we demand speed in all things….including kiwis. I guess it must have been the fact that the label was as big as the item itself that made me laugh. If they label individual kiwis for goodness sake, is anything safe? Probably not.

Labels of the informative variety are really scary. Did we really want to know that peanut butter contains diglycerides and hydrogenated rapeseed oil? Do we care that your butt was by jeaned by Ralph and your socks were knit by Nike? Do we need confirmation that a Whopper and fries really do contain fifty grams of fat? Is it necessary that we realize that our cold medicine can cause seizures and death? O.K., O.K., I guess we do need some of that stuff but I think we’re on a bit of overload. I propose a law that makes it perfectly acceptable to make fun of anyone who needs a label informing them that they might want to stop the lawnmower before cleaning the blades or a blurb suggesting it is a good thing to keep rat poison away from children. These folks have a high duh factor, which causes manufacturers to treat us all like idiots.

If you think about it, labeling begins the moment we emerge from the womb. We are naked, tired, and cold, not to mention annoyed at being disturbed at nap time, when bam, we get a wrist label that identifies us as ‘baby boy Jones’. The doctor knows it, the nurse knows it, the dad knows it, and I guarantee the mother knows it, but, just so someone doesn’t ring us up as a kiwi, we get our own little label.

Chuck Pardee

Betsy Chaffin

Life at Wood Stork Pond

Down by the River Moments, fractions of seconds

Wood Stork Pond is home to a wide variety of wildlife which constantly entertains us. There are wood storks, of course, but also blue herons diving for small fish, ibis and egrets gliding just above the surface, otters seeming to play all day, ducks stopping over for a few days while migrating from one place to another.

reflect the hours, days, years I return to the blues, grays, greens, purples of the river, To her changing moods. It is an act of solitude. Healing waters wash over

And at dusk: the primitive sound of frogs.

memories of yesterday and bless my tomorrow.

01.

02.

So, labels are everywhere. The ones on license plates proclaiming that some state has labeled itself “The Guacamole Capital” are fun, the stupid ones arbitrarily pinned on people because of their haircut or skin color are not. My favorite, however, is still the cute one on my little kiwi. It doesn’t contain anything mean or scary, it lets me know what it is and where it was born, and best of all, it tells me that it’s number 4516, thus allowing me to scan it, throw it in my bag, and sprint out of the store……..just in time for my press conference where I reveal my plan for world peace.

Labels are mostly good things and they come in three sorts: the identifying kind – like the one on Master Jones, the warning kind, and the informative variety. As warnings, they vary from the helpful to the asinine. They remind us,

01. Anne Mayer - Strutting Woodstork 02. Betsy Campen - Dead Tree on Otter Pond Marsh

Rebecca Haas

Southern Belle For Tennessee Williams

They exile the boy at daybreak. Father says it’s not natural for a young man to linger inside. A woman’s place is in the house. It’s the outside world that belongs to men. Pearl makes sure a plate of dry toast is waiting for him in the kitchen as early as 6. He tucks the slices into the front pockets of his overalls and swings open the screen door. Outside, the hiss of ten thousand crickets, directed this way, then that, the air like a lavatory after a hot bath. He crosses the wide back porch, enduring the fecal stink of the pond, of slime, and rot. A deer stands beneath his sister’s bedroom window, nibbling on Mother’s red roses. She raises her head and glares at him before prancing off into the woods. Striding through the crab grass, he scans for crabs because once he did see an actual crab, blue and large as his head, crawling like a wrestler through the grass. He stops at the garden shed and peeks behind the first pair of storm shutters, lifts it a quarter inch to let in the light. Two Anole lizards lay tucked in the creases, their tiny eyes fixed upon his hands. He sets the shutter back and checks the next, circles the shed, inspects the underside of the other shutters; eleven Anole lizards in all. He skips on to the pond where a Great Blue Heron stands sentinel on the far shore. A chorus of frogs croak their annoyance. The surface of the water reveals no projections, no shark fins, no alligator eyes. He pulls the toast from his pocket, tears off small bitesized pieces and rubs them into balls, tosses them in the water. Soon, small fish are hitting the dough balls like submarine torpedoes, like his Father’s cruel, drunk words, and the boy kneels down, waiting for the water to go still. A rustle, a snake in the brush. He darts away from the pond, sprints to the giant Oak Tree. If chased by an alligator, this is how he’d escape. He imagines the gator’s jaws snapping at his heels as he

Neen Hunt

shimmies up the tree trunk , up, up, up, until he is miles above the ground. Safe, he lies along a thick branch, breathing heavily, nearly level with his sister’s bedroom window. Rose is two years older, a difference that was once nothing at all but is now vast as the night sky. Watching through the frame of the window, he sees her standing in front of an oval mirror, rapt; she’s looking through a portal into another world. Pearl moves around her in circles, tying ribbons, clasping hooks, patting down stray hairs, tightening, narrowing, constricting.

Straight In the quiet light, I am waiting and resting. Then an arm reaches down, carries me to the arched limbs, notches me to the string. I am still, silent, even as the bowstring is pulled back and curved into shape. Suddenly, the string snaps and I am launched! Airborne! I am aware of the archer with his breath, now slowed, still warming my feathers. His shouts of “Woo! Woo!” at the point of release create waves of sound as I sail beyond. I hear the wind whizz, sliding along my shaft, the smoothest in the quiver. In flight, undeterred, with purpose and precision, I propel toward a singular destination. Speeding, stretching, straining to hit that circle, that eye that stares at me from ahead. I drive the arrowhead—shiny, sleek—first setting and then sustaining the direction for flight. There was a time when Native skill shaped the obsidian stone that is my head, the tip so sharp that it could pierce a thrush’s throat, sever the enemy’s hand. There was a time when my body was bamboo, or reed; now slivery aluminum shines in the light. There was a time when my feathers were sacred gifts from a swift bird— no more. These plastic vanes are stiff: so strong, so lifeless. I deserve their mention when they say, “straight as an arrow”; when the old bard calls on me with ‘” the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”. Suddenly, the target nears. Brace!

He glances back over his shoulder, wasn’t she just there, where she always was, beside him? In the tree. At the pond. In the garden. Rose, the tomboy, she was the one who most loved being outside, not himself, not Thomas Lanier Williams III. He wanted only to be with her. To be her. With a sponge the size of her palm and a dramatic flourish, Pearl powders Rose’s face and neck and shoulders. Thomas draws a deep breath through his nose, wishing to smell the perfumed powder, longing to be in that pink room where there is no shit smell or dirt under the fingernails or skin covered in sweat or shoes caked with clay mud.

01.

Rose raises her pale arms and Pearl eases a cloud of meringue colored satin and lace over her hands. When her head emerges, Rose stares into the mirror. Pearl’s grin is as wide as her face and she dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. Rose doesn’t smile. She turns away from the mirror and gazes out the window. Thomas’ chest grows tight with desire. What he would give to be standing there inhabiting that dress. “Rose,” he whispers. Any moment now his Mother will call him back inside, saying dry white toast is not enough breakfast to satisfy a growing boy. 04

02. 01. Steve Smith - Mrs. L 02. Geoff Lorenz - The Passage

01.

02.

01. Bonnie Mason - Five Oranges 02. Peg Murphy - Sharie’s Blueberry Scones

“Emma always baked lemon squares on Tuesday. They were light, airy things that melted away the bitterness of the tea upon his tongue. ”

Gloria Pinza

Special Things

Steamy brown liquid filled Jake’s cup, drowning the delicate blue flowers painted around the inside of its china walls. As a boy, Jake had loved playing tricks with those lively flowers. He’d bounce them back and forth in his mind’s eye, first seeing each as a tiny dancing man, then watching each dissolve helplessly into an indistinguishable part of the circle. Now, stare as he might, he couldn’t make the trick work. It bothered him, and he looked away.

Jake realized he’d watched this ritual for years. Probably close to sixty, if he wanted to count – ever since Emma first choreographed the dance while serving tea to her dolls as a small girl. Even then, ritual had been a large part of Emma’s life. And even then, he’d strained against it, shattering the miniature cups of her dolls’ tea set with rough speckled pebbles flung by his sling shot.

“Milk and sugar?” Emma asked, knowing full well that he’d want an embarrassing lot of both. Like so many things in life, tea was always a disappointment to Jake. It never tasted as good as it looked. Despite this, Emma served it to him. She would never let individual taste threaten the hallowed rite of tea. “Yes, please,” he answered. Her swollen knuckles unwrapped themselves from the handle of the pot as she set it back down on the tray. Emma worked slowly but precisely as she served the tea. Every movement had been studied and rehearsed until it was second nature, like set steps in an oft-performed pas de deux between Emma and the teapot. Only the trained eye could detect that the dance now jerked rather than flowed, as though the dancers had been left out in the rain too long and their joints had rusted.

This afternoon the tea was made better by Emma’s crunchy lemon squares. Today was Tuesday, and Emma always baked lemon squares on Tuesday. They were light, airy things that melted away the bitterness of the tea upon his tongue. Emma had arranged them on a small china plate whose blue flowered pattern matched the cups. He ate half the lemon squares with his first cup of tea, and Emma looked pleased. “Mr. Sampson’s meeting me here tomorrow morning at ten, Emma. He’s bringing the appraiser with him.” He knew that Emma heard him – that she was listening carefully. But to acknowledge his words was to accept them, and she couldn’t do that. Jake understood this and didn’t press. “I’ve got a key, so I can let myself in if you don’t want to be here.”

cont’d from page 07

“Where would I go?” She wiped the crumbs from around Jake’s plate with one quick motion. Emma cleaned continuously, not waiting until a meal was over. By the time the eating was done with, the table looked as though it had never begun. Jake wasn’t sure how Henry had lived with such compulsiveness for fortyeight years. Even now, though Jake hadn’t had more than a handful of meals with Emma in the last few years, it was all he could do not to snap at her and tell her to stop fiddling. “Sampson says if we’re going to sell, we should get it on the market by the end of the month. People like to settle into a new place before school starts so their kids don’t have to be yanked out of one school and slapped into another in the middle of the year. Then, as off-handedly as he could make it sound, “He said it will show best furnished.” Emma’s body tensed. Well used creases between her eyes and around her mouth deepened and transformed the look of resignation on her face to anger. “You didn’t tell me that. You promised me the furniture.” “I know I did. It’ll only be until the house sells. Then we can move it.” “Don’t think I’ll change my mind, Jake. You promised me the furniture.” Jake picked the tea tray up from the polished cherry table that had been their grandmother’s and slid toward the kitchen. He didn’t want a fight, so it was best to move – retreat to a neutral corner and regroup. Even as he pushed open the kitchen door, the memories covered and clung to him like cobwebs. As he struggled to wipe them away, his limbs felt heavy and lifeless, and he found himself in his recurring dream, trying desperately to run through knee deep sand, his pursuer closing fast.

He felt Emma behind him and turned to see her leaning heavily on her cane in the doorway. Her large chest and arms seemed permanently tilted as they found the center over three spindly legs that formed a neat triangle on the linoleum f1oor.

seams don’t part for a year or so. Then if something goes wrong and you complain, they look at you like you’re crazy and tell you all houses get a few cracks after they settle.” Sampson rapped the aging floral wallpaper with his knuckle.

“Maybe we can take the bedroom pieces and a few other things now,” he said. “But it can’t look empty. Sampson says people don’t like to buy empty houses.” Jake looked through the plastered arch at the old-fashioned tables and chairs that filled the parlor to overflowing and wondered to himself if Sampson was right in this case.

Now he would recite a laundry list of problems, making it clear they wouldn’t get as much for the place as they thought they should. Jake knew the game. He was just glad Emma was downstairs, and Sampson had been smart enough to save this part of the show until they reached the upstairs bedroom.

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“I don’t want you to change your mind, Emma. We’ll move the rest of the furniture as soon as the house is sold. I gave you my word.” Emma reached behind her with one hand and dragged a dining room chair around to sit in. Her arms were stronger than her legs. Moving wasn’t easy, and she sat a lot, her back straight and her hands resting heavily on the cane in front of her, as though even sitting she needed it for support. Jake sensed that she wanted something more – some tangible evidence that the dark, heavy wooden friends of hers that had filled the house for years would not be left behind forever. Her eyes were steady and penetrating as they looked at him. Jake bent down to pick up a nonexistent crumb from the floor. He could ask her why she expected him to do God knows what with the things that he and Susan had collected for thirty years to make room for her things, but it wasn’t worth it. Before he’d asked her to move in with him, he’d guessed this would be part of the price. He still wondered what the total cost would be. **** “It’s hard to find a house with moldings like these nowadays, especially good oak like this.” John Sampson seemed genuinely interested in the dark grain of the aged oak. “Most of your builders just slap the sheetrock together with a little tape and hope the 08

playing plumber in the tub with his father’s hammer. The hammer had dropped, and the smooth white porcelain had been irretrievably damaged. Jake could still hear the clang of the falling hammer resounding through the rooms of the house like a warning bell. He’d thought he’d be in big trouble. But once his father had determined it was only a surface crack and didn’t leak, no one had really seemed too mad. After that, Jake and the crack had become fast friends and spent many wet, happy hours together trying to defeat Jake’s toy navy.

“It’s plaster,” said Jake.

“Oh, I know that I know that,” said Sampson. “Just habit, I guess. Anyway, like I said, these moldings alone are worth a lot. High ceilings, too.” Sampson ran his finger along a hairline fracture in the glossy paint of the door. “Of course, the place needs modernizing.”

He could tell these men a lot about that crack, but it didn’t seem to matter much now. They were probably right that new owners wouldn’t have the same attachment to the crack that he did, and he was getting impatient. The air in the bedroom was beginning to thicken for him, and catching his breath was hard. The warning bell sounded again in his head. “I know it’s an old house, gentlemen. I’m not going to apologize for it. Just come up with a price as soon as you can. The decision’s been made, and my sister and I want to get on with things.”

“New bathroom fixtures, kitchen’s a bit of a relic, strip the wallpaper. Out of fashion. You understand. Then there’s repointing the chimney, fixing the roof....”

**** “Chimney works fine. Roof ’s new.” Jake wondered if Henry would have bothered to replace the roof if he’d known he’d only be around to live under it for a few months.

“So, it’s done.” Jake saw her feet first, then her skirt, as he descended the stairs. Finally, her head appeared just over the bannister.

“Well, you know what I mean,” Sampson said.

In the bathroom across the hall, Jake could see the appraiser kneeling awkwardly over the bathtub, his head obscured by the shower door. The small man rose slowly and was annoyed when he realized the floor was wet and his right pants leg was soaked at the knee. He limped into the bedroom dabbing at his pants with a rose-colored towel.

“They’ll have a price for us tomorrow,” he replied. “I told Sampson we’d be taking the bedroom furniture and the breakfront right away. He has two people he wants to show it to on Saturday if we settle on a price by then and sign the listing.” Emma and her cane were sitting in the front hall next to two large brown suitcases. As always, every button was buttoned, and every hair was combed back smoothly. “I’m sure it will sell quickly,” she said.

“Tub’s cracked near the drain,” he said. “I always check tubs because they’re expensive to replace. Often find cracks in ones this old.” Jake could tell them that crack had been living there without bothering a soul since he was ten and was 09

He was surprised by her matter of fact tone, her efficient appearance even on this day. He’d prepared himself for something less.

cont’d from page 09

“There’s a box in the kitchen,” she said. “I’d like to take it in the car with us. It’s not heavy. It’s the tea set.” “The movers can get it tomorrow, Emma. I don’t want to be fussing with boxes.” He was surprised at his abruptness, as though he was determined to have the fight she wasn’t giving him. “It’s not packed for movers. It’s packed for the car.” He hesitated. There really wasn’t any reason to deny her request, he told himself. It was a small enough thing. “They’re my special things, Jake. I would appreciate it.” The box was all alone on the small table by the window. It sat quietly at her place, as though remembering the many cold mornings that she and Jake had eaten oatmeal from deep blue bowls and drawn pictures with their fingers on the window’s steamy inside. Their mother had hated that. It left streaks, she said. More work for her. Emma had always drawn snowmen with big hats. He had drawn long-fingered monsters that inevitably conquered her snowmen and beat them into erased oblivion. For a moment his eyes searched for the telltale streaks on the glass, but the spotless window gleamed back at him vacantly. Emma was right. The box was not heavy. It was one of those open top boxes that carry fruit to supermarkets, and it smelled of oranges. Emma had carefully spread newspaper on the bottom so that nothing would fall through the inch wide cracks. She had made no effort to conceal its contents, but peering into the box, Jake felt embarrassed – as if he had walked in on her in her underclothes. Her beloved teapot rested in the corner attended by bits of rumpled newspaper guardians. Next to it were enough blue flower cups and saucers and plates to serve tea for four. Jake wondered when

she had last had the occasion to serve tea for four. A plastic shopping bag from the local drugstore filled with needles and yarn and a needlepoint in progress spread itself to occupy the rest of the box. Wedged in between the larger things were smaller treasures – a picture of Henry in college and another at his firm retirement party, a small porcelain doll that had sat on her dresser for as long as he had been her brother, a packet of worn letters – probably from Henry, and a prayer book, which surprised him, for he did not think of his sister as a religious woman. Finally, lying gingerly atop it all was his mother and father’s wedding picture. He knew that the people in the picture were his mother and father because he had grown up with that picture standing on the piano and had been told that that’s who they were. But it always struck him that the man and woman in the picture looked not the least bit like the mother and father that he had known. So, Emma had special things. He considered them quietly, realizing that she was revealing more of herself to him now – by letting him hold them and feel their presence – than she had since they were young and happy and had shared their dreams. She had enough left of those dreams to fill a box. For a brief moment he envied her. He picked the box up gently, giving it the respect it deserved, and carried it outside. He placed it on the bench seat of his pickup next to Emma, then pulled himself in beside it. Emma’s hand found a resting place on the edge of the box, and her fingers gently stroked the waxy surface of its inside wall as one would stroke a child’s head. They sat that way together for a moment in silence, staring at the house. The sun peeked out over the kitchen roof, making them squint, and danced on the metallic blue of the car hood.

Jake looked away, taking a deep breath.

that surprised Jake. He wondered if it had always been there, waiting for him to discover it.

“You know she said the same of you.” Emma smiled at him and shook her head, remembering. The smile suited her face better than he had imagined. “You’d get so mad at her! You’d think your hair was on fire.” Her voice was almost playful. It occurred to him she might be teasing, but he preferred to believe she was being critical.

The fingers of her left hand curled tightly around the edge of the box for a moment, then moved up to brush his shoulder shyly. Jake was paralyzed by the touch, as he sensed the anger motivating him for the better part of his life slowly evaporating. He felt cheated somehow.

“All I wanted was my freedom. I was suffocating.” He looked straight into her eyes. He was 68 years old and for the first time in a long time he let his feelings show. He wanted her to argue with him, but she was silent, waiting for him.

The shadow of the house finally consumed the pickup entirely, as the sun’s last lazy rays died behind the kitchen roof. Jake shivered. He started the engine quickly and backed out of the driveway.

“I didn’t mean for you and Henry to have to take care of her, of everything,” he said. “It was your choice. You didn’t have to stay.” Why did he sound so defensive? She was the one who had acted the martyr all these years, wasn’t she? She was the one who stubbornly had lived locked in time, hanging on to the house and its memories. Emma’s eyes left his and searched the windows of the old house. “Jake, Jake,” she said, sounding once again like his big sister. “You’d think there were bars on those windows. I never envied your freedom because I had mine too. You could just never believe I would use it the way I did. For as long as I can remember, you wanted to get away from here. I didn’t, that’s all.” “And now?” “Now?” She repeated the word as though it were new to her. “Now it’s time to leave. I knew that when I opened the front door this morning and saw Mr. Sampson standing there like old Griffin the undertaker come to size up the body for the coffin.” Jake smiled as the rumpled figure of Alfred Griffin walked through his memory.

“Mother would never forgive us for this, would she?” “She wasn’t a very forgiving woman,” he replied. As the sun lowered itself behind the peak of the roof, the house loomed like a dark ungainly haloed head. 10

Emma continued. “If I don’t leave now, they just might close the lid on me. There comes a point when you have to let go, doesn’t there?” She seemed content with her decision. A softness surrounded her

Lenore Sillery - Farm Girl 1930 Nebraska

Bruce Smith

Bear Letter

4th of July

March 1884

July 1885

Dear Charley,

Bruce Willis wanted some local history for the menus or on the walls of a restaurant he opened in Hailey, Idaho, which is 11 miles south of Ketchum/Sun Valley. I wrote a half dozen “letters” for him. These letters, written by an imaginary miner to his brother, were partially related to events in the area in the late 1800s, mixed with outright fabrications.

Dear Charley, I’m going’ to tell you sumpthin what happined to me and Bates last octobur but I got to swear you to secrecy. Weed be laffed outa town if it got round so I hope you kin be trusted. Weed gone out trapping up ner Salmon thinkin to put up sumthin for winter since we wusnt goin to them California mines. Anyways we had but one riffle and Bates had that dum nogood dog of his that hes stuck on like I’m stuck to my longjohns. Kant seperate em. This nogood dog goes off and finds hisself a bear, a big mean one I wan to tell the lord, and cums runnin back with the bear rite on his tail. I don know what in hell the dog did but the bears so fightin mad hes foamin at the mouth. Me and Bates run up a tree jus like two squrils high as we kin and jes made it. The darn dog run off in the forest and the bear is jumpin up and down snappin his jaws. Then sumthin awful happins. Bates falls clean out of the tree. He aint kilt rite off but l’m sur it aint gonna be long. Fortunitly

Julie Klaper - When I See Birches

the dog cum back to peek if the bear is still around and the bear runs him into the woods agin. I yell for Bates to git up the tree and he trys but hes so takin with frite he jus puts hiz arms round the tree and squeezs it. And here cum the bear agin. The riffle never was loaded for sum rison so l jus get sum bulits in fast as I kin only my hands is swetty frum being scaired myself and the riffle slips and falls directly on the bear. He grabs it up and bites it hard like its what he most hated in this world and he braks the stock. Well dammed if the riffle dont go off knockin the bear over and he jus lay ther. I beleve the critter is jus stuned and we bes get away fast cuz I never seed a grizzly get killed with one bulit. So me an Bates run down that montin fast as we kin. Cuple days later in the saloon, a fella cums in and says he found a bear up in the hills laying on his back with a riffle in his arms and he wuz dead. Appears he comited suicide. We didnt say nuthin. Yer brother, Daniel 12

July 4th wuz full of events. They erected a platform oer by the hotel and giv speeches, a citizen red his poem bout amerika and sum ladies sang, then a lawyer read the declaration of lndependence. There wuz horse races and firewurks and a fancy ball at the hotel. Bates run in the in the foot race an asked me to hold his boots cuz he wanted to run barefoot. Youd hav to be a fool to hold onto sumthin oderous as them boots but I agreed to watch em in case they run away on their own. I said ld shoot em if they moved. Bates wuz so drunk he fell on his face bout half way to the finish and got into a fight with a fella who fell oer him and said Bates kept him from winnin the silver dollar. Oer at Mint we run into sum rooster named Buck said he’d been in jail in kansas. A little ol wood shed kind of jail that when you see it youd say a chicken could fly thu the walls. But the sheriff thowd a piece of cowhide oer him and peged it to the ground so he caint move. He rekomends anyone should stay away from Larned. I didn’t know what hed done but hes one of them fellas always lookin for truble and pretty soon a banjo player cums round. We got us a good game of spanish monte and fur onct lm winnin and thinkin bout laying oer in Francine’s crib. Mor I win the angryer this Buck gits so he commeces to berate the banjo player. Remarkin the fella sounds like a barkin rabbit and that sort of nonsense. We jus ignored Buck but aparently the banjo player wuz a sensitive fella and he whips out a deringer frum his boot. Rest of us do what is custumary and throw 13

ourselves flat down on the floor jus as the banjo player lets go. Two shots and both of ‘em hit Buck direckly in the chest but he don’t fall. His face looked like all the dogs in hell wuz bout to chew on him but he aint ded an he apeers the most surprized. Then Jack Bean the bartender takes the pistol he keeps in a glass on the bar and knocks Buck colder than a eskimohs toes. Seems the banjo players derringer got pee shot or sumthin in it and he don’t mean but to warn his critics. So he starts singin agin. We pull Buck oer by the stove to sleep awhile and another fella takes hiz place. Be a whole lot better if everybudy used these dinky guns. When the Mint wusnt nothing but a tent the bulits wood tear holes in the roof an the rain would leek down on the poker table. Not to mentshun that a bulit mite end yur hopes of findin silver. Hope you shot off a few crackers and yer pistol, Daniel

started out as a teacher of English literature, which he adored, and he was beloved by his students. So much so, that in the infinite wisdom of the university brass he was promoted from professor to Dean of Students. He went from being a teacher, mentor, and wise counselor to his students to being the punisher in chief. Martha Stibbs

But in all seriousness, promotion is a trap that bedevils the best teachers, because the better you are at your job the more likely you are to be kicked upstairs, away from your students and into paper shuffling and bean counting. Don’t fall for it.

Notes to an exceptional graduate

I myself have no formal training, so I teach by example. Let’s just say I did something really irresponsible. I don’t think we need to get specific here, but if by some unfortunate circumstance my children happen to witness said alleged bad behavior, my teaching technique involves turning to them, looking them squarely in the eye and saying in a stern voice, “Did you see what mommy just did? That is exactly what I mean by acting foolishly. Do not do that. Ever.” End of lesson. I believe that actions speak louder than words.

First off, I would like to applaud your hard work towards pursuing a career in teaching, which in my opinion is the most admirable profession there is. The world doesn’t need one more financial planner, or code writer or basketball player.

I know that you regret that you weren’t able to walk across the stage and receive your diploma, after 4 years of work, but as life’s disappointments go, it’s sort of chump change. Just you wait. But, graduating from college during a pandemic is a great metaphor for life. Every success comes with a price tag: hard work, long hours, road blocks, dead ends and worse. But the heftier the price tag, the more valuable is the success. So, on a scale of 1 to 10, I’d rate finishing your senior year by zoom and graduating from college despite a global pandemic a solid 10. You definitely nailed the landing!

What we desperately do need are teachers who are committed to educating our children, especially those who live in really difficult situations without the benefit of family support or resources. Sometimes their teachers are their lifelines and change their lives forever. Good teachers are never forgotten. Sadly, teachers are undervalued and underpaid and as a society we really have to change that. Fortunately, despite those drawbacks there are still exceptional people like you who want to spend your life doing this crucial work. Kudos!

You are finally starting to make your life your own. Fill it up with everything you can. Take risks, force yourself to go places and do things that you might not be sure of, obviously nothing stupid or irresponsible, like some people. Get out, explore! You are an explorer at heart so have at it! Even ill-advised adventures teach you something, if only not to do that again.

I have my father-in-law’s mortar board from his tenure as dean of students at a small university. He

The truth is that people learn from failures, not successes, so don’t be afraid, because you will have them, everyone does. Look at them as gifts, although it sure won’t feel like it at the time. Failure forces you think another way, do something differently, make a course correction.

is. I myself would frankly prefer to work in a waffle house, but the world doesn’t need one more pancake flipper or teacher, or EMT, or epidemiologist. What we desperately do need is business titans who are committed to making our economy great again. CEO’s can be role models and change the lives of their corporate workforce forever. Sometimes they may even save a corporation by guiding it on a new more draconian path; laying off workers, shutting down plants, or eliminating health insurance and pension plans. Tough times require tough decisions, and if you can’t stand the heat then go work in the mail room.

Failure can change your life for the better if you learn from it. You have a clean slate in front of you, so it’s useful to write down your aspirations, expectations, your dreams, your fears, your goals, all of that stuff. But write it in pencil. And have a big eraser. Because more often than not, you will end up somewhere you never expected to be. And that’s the most exciting thing of all.

Great business leaders are never forgotten. I’ll bet you that everyone can remember one boss that taught them something that made them a less productive worker, more selfish team player, or more ruthless back stabber. Good bosses are in their own way immortal.

So, here’s to your first step. Congratulations and knock ‘em dead kid.

Business greats are overvalued and overpaid in our society, and we really have to applaud that. Fortunately, the potential guilt about the disparity between the bottom 99% and the upper 1% does not It’s that time of year again. People graduating deter exceptional people like you who want to spend from high school, community college, universities your lives enjoying the hell out of this economic and GED programs. So, congrats grads. You made it, dynamic. just in time to get screwed over by a pandemic, except those of you who were on their toes and bagged a Mark Twain is quoted as saying something spot in big pharma. Lousy timing for the rest of you, about boyhood dreams and whether they are ever but who knew? Except everyone in the world, but the fulfilled. He said he doubted it and wrote “look at Americans who were assured that covid would never Brander Matthews. He wanted to be a cowboy. dare reach our shores. However, in the immortal What is he today? Nothing but a professor in a words of the blonde kid in poltergeist “they’re here.” university. Will he ever be a cowboy? It is hardly conceivable.” My father-in-law was dean of students Louis Pasteur is quoted as saying “Fortune at a small university. He started out as a teacher of favors the prepared mind” and it is, in my estimation, English literature. He was a great teacher and was a maxim to live by. In all circumstances I believe it’s well respected by his students and fellow faculty best to be aware of what might lay ahead and take members. So, the university brass in all its infinite full advantage of other people’s stupid lack of due wisdom thought the right move was to get that guy diligence. out of the classroom and kicked him upstairs to be dean of students. It was great for the university and Graduates I applaud your hard work, for his career (not so much for his former students) especially those pursuing careers in business, which because he became one of a very few top people in in my opinion is the most admirable profession there the administration of the university. The world could

Alternate notes to an exceptional graduate

cont’d from page 15

have been his oyster, but he lacked the killer drive and ambition required; to denigrate his colleagues, take credit for their work, refuse tenure to talented younger professors, and never advanced beyond being a top dog at a second tier university. Nor did he ever become a cowboy. But in all seriousness, promotion is a gold ring that you should grab as soon as it comes around. The sooner you do, the sooner you’ll get that corner office and begin to enjoy the trappings of full-blown success. Don’t miss it. That’s a loser move. I myself have no formal training in business, so, because I have managed both the finances of our company and our family, I think in a more creative way, outside of the spreadsheet as it were. Finances are fungible in my mind… Let’s just say I did something that was teetering on the fine line between ethical vs non-ethical and if by some unfortunate circumstance my accountant or husband happened to get wind of it, my technique involves coming up with a plausible explanation, fast. Winners gotta be quick on their feet! For example, years ago I went to Paris with a couple of friends. I didn’t bother to tell the OB&C that the Paris bit was a side trip that was not part of the group itinerary to Venice. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he foolishly looked at our American express bill and saw a huge tab from an expensive Parisian restaurant. We three travelers had agreed to alternate paying for meals and I got stuck with that one. Upon my return, the OB&C, in a fury, presented me with the bill with a huge circle around the charge. I calmly told him to cool his jets and explained that I paid the group “lunch” bill with our American express card and everyone repaid me in cash, hence we earned a whopping number of points. And to make it sound even better I added that I got a wad of euros without going to an atm and paying a transaction fee. He and I both agreed it was pure genius. Grads, I know that you regret that you weren’t able to walk across the stage and receive your diploma

but graduating from college despite a pandemic is a great metaphor for life. Every success comes with a price tag, like having to lay off workers, cut wages, eliminate positions, or worse, deal with incompetent co-workers and even more incompetent superiors. But remember, the heftier the price tag, the more valuable is the success. So, on a scale of 1 to 10, finishing your senior year via zoom and scoring a job with say, big pharma right before a global pandemic, rates a solid 10! You are finally starting to make your life your own. Fill it up with everything you have to. Take risks with investors’ money, force yourself to enjoy playing golf with your boss, and obviously let him win, make yourself eat expensive restaurant meals with dull clients (and don’t forget to order the most expensive bottle on the wine list) feign enthusiasm engaging in overpriced workplace activities, like team building in a Napa vineyard. Obviously avoid stupid or irresponsible moves like joining the wrong country club or living in the second best condo building. Winners know safe spaces are the best spaces. The hard truth is that people learn from failures, not successes, so don’t be afraid or daunted, because you will have them, everyone does, but the important thing is to learn how to pin them on someone else. Failure can change your life for the better if you perfect that one essential skill. You have a clean slate in front of you, so it’s useful to write down your aspirations, expectations, dreams, fears, goals, and all of that stuff. But frankly, that is a big waste of valuable time. Your trajectory is straight up, so there’s no point in thinking about what ifs and possible pitfalls that will never happen. So, here’s to your first step. Congratulations, and when the pandemic knocks ‘em dead, you’ll be right there to sell the hell out of pharmaceuticals.

Brooks Crossman Age 16

I stopped to pick up a stick to aid my walking. The stick was a smooth, solid piece of oak, fallen from its carrier in the storm a week before. I kept walking until I found what I was looking for. I had stumbled across it unsuspectingly and unknowingly. I had arrived without an invitation or reservation. I could go without lines of traffic, with no horns or flashing lights. This was nature: cold, brutal, harsh, and rash nature, the mother of us all. I got down on my knees at the sight of the graves, sticking out of the ground like traffic cones, altering whomever saw them that death was present. I had never known these graves carry such a message. Why now and at this time? Reading, rest in peace. Everyone I knew was here, everyone close to my heart.

Home

The graveyard belongs to me, yet the graves were not mine. I read one; my mother’s, then my father’s. Engraved in them is only one thing that strikes me: the dates of their death. They both died on the same day, both dead for the same reason – a car crash. One night when I was about nine or ten, my parents were coming back from a dinner party. They were not speeding or driving recklessly but a drunk driver crashed through the median separating the two roads, hitting my parents’ car head on. They both died on impact. This is why I came. To pay my dues – for whatever they were – I felt like I needed to pay them.

It was a cool autumn day as I walked through the woods of Georgia. My mind seemed to always relax when I was alone in the timber. The tall cypress and pines created a nice shadow over the crisp crackling leaves. My mind traveled to different places; I went all around the world on my walks. I could go from Moscow to Tokyo and back to reality. That was my paradise; this is where I belonged. I walked past the flooded rice, soybean, and corn fields, looking for those elusive wood ducks or maybe a bass eating a dragonfly trapped in the grasp of the black water. I walked past the shack where my great-grandfather had once lived when the deer season was upon him. Past the live oak tree where I first kissed a girl. Past the creek where my friends and I once swam on hot Georgia summer days. The rope, where we would swing and catapult our bodies into the deep, cold water was hardly intact, rotten from age and wear. I walked past the swamp which used to be thick smelly mud that squished in between your toes, but now is dried up and crusty, cracking under the weight of my shoe. I walked to ease the pain. What this pain was, I don’t know for sure.

I then walked back. Back past the driedup swamp and past the oak tree. I then stopped. Something had hit me, something I could not explain in words. It was not a sad feeling nor a happy one. It was past the realization of this paradise of mine. I then grasped it. This is where I call home. I grew up here. I cried and laughed here. I got sick and felt my strongest here. This is me, my home, my woods, my childhood, not to be abused or taken advantage of. This is my one true love, my heritage. My blood runs deep in these woods. Nothing in the world could ever make me feel the same way. I was changed, not in a bad or good way, but just changed. 17

Neen Hunt

Sacred A Pig’s Life

When I first was awakened in the early dawn by the loud, incessant squeals of the four pigs in the pens near my bedroom window, I thought they were being slaughtered. The squealing was hair-raising; the screeches sounded like animals in distress. Then I heard Billyboy, a member of the Clan whose house I was living in on a small island in the South Pacific as a Peace Corps volunteer. He made grunting noises with his throat, calling the pigs to eat. Hauling heavy sacks of feed bought in Kolonia town, he entered the muddy pens and spoke in Pohnpein to his charges. He had bought the highest-grade feed, a serious expense for a farmer. He distributed it carefully and deliberately so that each of the animals would grow healthy and fat.

David Rich - Spring Island Feast in Raised Copper

Billyboy and his family were proud to own pigs, a sign of wealth and status, a source of food, and a valuable gift for weddings, funerals and celebrations. When the family had a party for a beloved friend returning to the island from a lengthy stay in Hawaii, Billyboy selected a full-grown victim for slaughter. He wanted me to see the curved knife he would use to kill the animal to prepare it for roasting. He handled the knife skillfully as he demonstrated a type of movement that would show respect for the pig when the knife enters its body. Drawing a sketch with his finger in the dirt, he pointed to a pig’s body between the heart and lungs where he will pierce the sacrifice, so it won’t suffer.

When he enters the pen, I wait but do not look. The pig chosen for slaughter seems to bark when it is stabbed; it is a strange, brief sound that expresses more surprise than pain, as if the animal cannot imagine that this person, a protector and provider for many years, is the instrument of death. Billyboy calls for help and two young men enter the pen and lift the animal onto a stretcher of bamboo poles and palm leaves. I glance at its face: a gaping mouth and eyes open show no sign of terror. They place the pig belly down with legs splayed and head upright on the leaves. It is resting comfortably and then carried on men’s shoulders to the outdoor cooking area behind the “nass”, the meeting place. The cooking fire is being built by women and young children who are gathering wood from the chopped trees, leaves and grasses surrounding their home, and laying rows of rocks in a large circle. Some of the girls are weaving the leaves and bark strips into boat shaped baskets that will be used to carry coconuts, bananas, rice bowls and parts of the roast to the Clan leaders and to the honored guests. Another man now has the responsibility to empty the pig of its innards. Still resting on the homemade litter, the pig is turned on its side and slit lengthwise so that most of the blood flows neatly into a pail. The man then scoops out the organs and throws them to some of the dogs that typically roam this area and that have been waiting for the remains. The carcass, with its skeleton revealed but meat intact, sits unattended drying in the sun while huge banana leaves are placed around the cooking fire. Now a grate is placed over the wood and brush, and the fire is started with cooking oil and a match. The enormous leaves are then laid gently on the grate so as not to smother the fire. The pig, ready for cooking, is placed on the leaves and then quickly covered with the remaining leaves to create a kind of roasting oven. Men, women and children take turns stoking the fire. When the meat is cooked, the men carry it to a cement slab in the nass where they chop off the limbs, section the torso, and cut off chunks of food that are handed first to the guest of honor and the highest members of the Clan. The pig’s head seems curiously alive even though the body to which it is attached is now an empty shell. The local priest quiets the gathering to offer a prayer of thanks to their Christian God for providing sustenance, and to the pig for giving its life so the people can survive.

One of the women offers me a meaty bone and I accept it in appreciation for her generosity. There is not enough pork for the large gathering; the offer is a sign that I am highly regarded in my role as teacher. Unaccustomed to this tough, fatty meat and its bland and smoky taste, I eat cautiously and slowly, unlike the people around me who enthusiastically grab and chew flesh and bones. Even though many of the mouths lack healthy teeth or any teeth at all, their owners bite and chomp pieces of the pork without difficulty and with relish. Now stripped of every morsel of food, with the head and tail apparently devoured as well, this pig has met its destiny. Later in the week I am traveling in a truck to visit an elementary school in a remote area deep in the forest. All signs of life are hidden by the thick growth, so the only view is the narrow, winding dirt road ahead. The truck stops suddenly, and the driver waits. “What is happening?” I asked one of the other passengers. We step out of the truck and blocking the width of the road is an enormous black wild hog that is reclining sideways so its underbelly and milk- filled nipples are readied for her 6 piglets scurrying to find a teat. The hog is relaxed, barely moving as the small bodies snuggle and suck. The truck driver waits patiently, unable to circumvent the feeding scene and in homage to the mother, a life-giving source who will one day give her life to perhaps this driver and his family. The forest remains eerily quiet during the feeding as if it, too, is paying its respects to this generous source of life.

My Jaundiced Eye

These shoes are made of satin

Wendy R. Kilcollin

The Hunt Faux Falkner

My father died when I was eight and my brother was three. A boy’s loss of his father at age three is Freud’s sweet spot. The whole Oedipal thing supposedly kicks in and his life goes all to hell in a mental hand basket. That was a spot-on prognosis in this case. Any who, we were fortunate enough to be raised by a wonderful nurse with only the occasional maternal intrusion to screw things up. My brother loved nothing more than clanking around the house in our mother’s high heels, you could hear him for miles. Her collection made Imelda Marcos look like a slacker. The specialty was outrageous styles purchased in bulk at the annual Krauss Department store shoe sale. One might even say that she loved her shoes to an unhealthy degree. One time when we were on what was euphemistically billed as a “family vacation” some of her shoes flew out of a suitcase strapped onto the roof of our car. Without a moment’s hesitation, she careened off the highway, slammed on the brakes and dispatched all of her offspring onto Interstate 10 to retrieve them. Apparently, she was of the opinion that children come and go, but shoes are forever. So, back to the boy, time came for my brother to start kindergarten and he had to take some wacky test to be admitted. One of the questions they asked was, “What are shoes made of?” And he responded entirely appropriately “satin, of course.” Instead of fast tracking him to the Fashion Institute they declared him too immature for school. My mother was never more proud.

It was his fourth season. He went on foot now. He was hunting right, upwind, as Cal had taught him. He was already a better woodsman than Cousin Beck, and he had been initiated five years earlier. He had left the gun: by his own will he had accepted not a relinquishment, not a challenge, but an abrogation of all the inviolable balances of hunter and hunted. But he was still tainted. He had left camp four hours ago. He circled wide and found the log beside the cedar where he had first spotted the rack that morning. He could still feel the exhilaration when he counted twelve points. “Tainted,” he thought. He had already relinquished, in calm and humility, the gun; but he was still tainted. Then he gave himself over to it. He unlooped the leather thong from his compass and placed it inside the log. “Maybe this is balanced.” He proceeded through the freckled gloom of sundown. When he got to the mesquites, a gray drizzle settled in. That’s when he found fresh tracks. “Not more than hour,” he muttered. He followed them to the bluff and saw gray streaking out of the ravine. He lunged down the bank and surged up the other side. “I ‘ve got to turn him from the creek,” he thought. He followed him to the cane break and doubled back. The rain was thinning. He plunged into the underbrush and headed towards camp. The snapping and hissing of breaking branches filled the gloom. He broke out at the live oak and there he was. They were face to face. The buck froze. Quietly, the boy slid his knife up his thigh. He stole up to the buck, picking his way through the leaves. He reached around his neck lover-like. The blade gleamed as he drew it across his throat. They collapsed to the ground in one movement. His leg was pinned. He placed his opposite foot on the buck’s back and strained to free his leg. Again. He could feel his heart racing. He pulled a flannel from his pocket and wiped the rain from his forehead. Then he went back and turned out the headlights.

[sketch by MJE]

Wendy Kilcollin - Reverie ll

Laura Aronstein

Mean Girl I was very taken with a boy in college. He was hip. I felt very square. But he longed for a winsome hippie named Emilie. She was a manic sylph, a lively beauty in a long white Indian dress and thong sandals. She had a voice like an angel and a beatific smile. Later, when I saw the movie “Forrest Gump,” I recognized her in the character of Forrest’s true love, Jenny, a beautiful doomed creature who marched on Washington perhaps for no larger purpose than to wade in the Reflecting Pool at the Washington Monument. I, of course, knew that I had a larger purpose. I worked on a suicide crisis hotline. When I look back on it now, what in the world could I have known about people who could contemplate a deliberate end to suffering? The stream of desperate calls was mindboggling. I had one caller who was in an extremely abusive relationship. Her husband had, I realize now, an extreme personality disorder coupled with a violent temper. He flew into jealous rages over imagined betrayals, an urban Othello with a desperate Desdemona trapped under his roof. I, of course, urged her to flee; go to a relative, go to a convent, jump on a Hudson Line train and go where it took her, but she had never been out of Poughkeepsie. The project was beyond her. Her husband ruled with an iron fist. Her trips to the store were timed and he counted the change. Every once in a great while she managed to amass 25 cents, which she would scotch tape to the back of the dresser in case she could ever take flight. At some point she stopped calling. I don’t know whatever happened.

It was a Saturday night. I had on my shimmery nylon velvet miniskirt and tied a new silkstriped sash around my waist. I thought I looked great, or at least as great as I was capable of looking. I went down to the hipster’s room. He was vaguely intrigued. We messed around on his bed for a while. I was a virgin and pretty innocent. He was not pushy, but he was opinionated. He thought a number of my friends were super uptight preppy girls. It was a Seven Sister’s college, what can I tell you? There were boarding schools girls galore. (Including the hippie sylph he was so crazy about.) The place had just gone co-ed and the guys were really a mixed bag. I had one preppy friend that I really liked. She was from the Midwest. She dated guys from the Ivies and seemed to have a vision of where she was going and what she wanted that I—very immature—totally did not have. She also had one of those names that would later be immortalized in The Official Preppy Handbook. She was called Bunny, though her given name was Eleanor. “Call Bunny,” my hipster urged me. “Call her and ask for the recipe for a Cosmopolitan.” “Oh, gosh, I couldn’t do that! That would be mean.” “What’s mean about it? They are probably all upstairs right now mixing up a batch in someone’s trash can. C’mon, it would be funny.” Needless to say, alas, I caved to the request. I picked up the hall telephone in Hipster’s hall and called the phone on the seventh floor. Someone, a guy I think, answered in a sort of blurry voice. Yes, Bunny was there. He would go get her. Bunny came to the phone. I awkwardly blurted out my request. She did not seem suspicious and I felt a heavy pang of misgiving. She began listing off the ingredients: vodka, triple sec, cranberry juice…Hipster started laughing, which made me laugh. “Thanks, Bunny,” I said merrily, and rang off.

Half an hour later the hall phone rang on my dorm floor. It was a floormate and friend of Bunny’s. “Well, I just want you to know that this darling girl is up here crying her eyes out because of your bitchy phone call.” This gal was an excellent avenging angel. Though I hated her call, of course she was right. It had been a mean-spirited act on my part. Goaded on by a boy I was trying to impress, I had been unkind to my friend. I felt ashamed. And I realized as I undressed for bed that the lovely new silk sash had gone missing. Search as I later did the Hipster’s bedroom, it never did re-surface. Ah vanity! Ten or fifteen years and a hundred worlds later, a lingering guilt disturbed me. I arranged to meet Bunny for a drink at a bar on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. We both lived in the neighborhood. On a bar stool, drinking cheap white wine in a dark-lit room, I apologized to Bunny for my shabby prank. She was gracious, but she didn’t not remember. I can’t recall her exact response, butshe let me off the hook from which I had been hanging since that college night.

Russ Sillery - Lady in Lace

That was the real beginning of a friendship that I will always treasure.

“She did not seem suspicious and I felt a heavy pang of misgiving ”

But I did not feel merry. I felt bad. I jumped up from the desk chair in Hipster’s room and left.

Jeff Haas

Gabe, who was the most athletic of the three, asked if they could go swimming. Grandpa said sure, “Go change into your swimming suits.” All three changed and got in the red Jeep convertible parked in the driveway. Grandpa had two jeeps, the red convertible and a big white SUV that was used like a bus to get people to and from the airport. Since Spring Island was very private, with hardly anyone living on it, Grandpa allowed the kids to ride without their seat belts. Of course, he drove slowly and carefully.

Treasure Quest An adventure story about pirate treasure, written for the Haas grandchildren.

The roar of the engines signaled their plane had landed at the airport. As they left the plane and entered the terminal the musty smell of rotting marsh vegetation hit them. They were in Savannah, Georgia, the whole airport of the grandma and grandpa -- and the start of a great adventure.

Grandma and grandpa had built two houses in the woods; one for themselves and one for visitors, especially for their children and grandchildren. Every Thanksgiving or Christmas the entire family of aunts, uncles and cousins would come together to play and have fun.

Gabe, Theo and Emi had waited for months to go on vacation. Every year they looked forward to visiting their grandparents home on Spring Island, located off the coast of South Carolina. The island was called a nature Island. It was a wild place with deer, turkey, squirrels and snakes. The island was covered with ancient forests of live oaks and pines. It was surrounded by a marsh and tidal creeks that eventually ﬂowed into the nearby Atlantic ocean.

This time it was different. It was just the three of them and their dad. They were on summer vacation and their dad had two weeks vacation over the Fourth of July. It was hot that time of the year but there was a beach near the island on the Atlantic Ocean. Grandpa had a small ﬁshing boat docked in the creek that ran behind the house that they could use to go to the beach.

For centuries people had lived off the wildlife on the island and in the surrounding sea. Thousands of years ago the ﬁrst Indians camped on Spring Island because it was so easy to ﬁnd food with all the wildlife on the island.

It was getting toward evening and Dad and Grandpa had to start the grill for the burgers and hot dogs. As usual the food tasted great. After dinner, the three kids went to their bedroom room, tired because of all the afternoon activities. Emi and Theo read books while Gabe played Angry Birds. Around 8:00 Dad came in the room and asked which book they wanted him to read. This was a ritual they had every night before they went to sleep. Tonight they wanted Dad to read a story about animals, probably because they had seen so much wildlife on the island. They were all asleep before Dad ﬁnished the second page of the story. The next morning Grandpa had an adventure planned. He asked the boys and Emi if they would like to go ﬁshing and then visit some ancient Indian ruins. They were all for it.

Grandma and Grandpa met them at the airport when they arrived. It was raining outside so they drove to the island with the car windows up and the air-conditioner on. In the car Gabe asked Grandpa tell them a story about the Indians that lived on the island. Grandpa said he would but it would have to wait until after dinner. Dad had the kids unload the car and take their suitcases to their bedroom.

Gabe was the oldest of the children, followed by Theo and Emi. They lived with their dad in Boulder Colorado. Coming to Spring Island was very special and something they look forward to every year. They packed for the trip taking swimming suits, shorts and T-shirts. They brought along their electric gadgets to play on the plane especially Angry Birds, their favorite game.

Theo and Gabe helped carry all the fishing gear to the boat docked behind the house. There were fishing rods, tackle boxes and two big nets: one for catching fish, the other for net-ting baitfish. Grandpa steered the boat away from the dock. Grandma shouted from the shore, “Bring back some big ones so we can have a fish fry tonight.” Off they went.

They arrived at the pool which was on the opposite end of the island from where Grandma and Grandpa lived. Because the island was fairly small it only took a few minutes to get to the pool. In the pool were ﬁve or six kids playing what looked like water soccer. Theo asked if they could join the game. One of the boys said OK but they would have to be on opposite sides to make sure the teams had an equal number of players on them.

They made their way through the narrow tidal creek until they reached a small river. Grandpa steered the boat to the shallow water and got out the net for catching baitﬁsh. The net was round with lead weights all along the edge. In the middle was a line that was connected to Grandpa’s wrist. Grandpa folded the net in a special way and threw it toward the shallow water. It opened up in a perfect circle and landed in the water. He carefully pulled back on the rope connected to his wrist and pulled the net to the edge of the boat. He told the kids to get ready. With that he lifted the net into the boat.

They played for over an hour before Grandpa said it was time to get out and rest for a while. As they were drying, out came the cookies which everyone wolfed down. Cookies, swimming, fun and games... this is why they loved coming to stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s. What was there not to like? They all got into the jeep and started for home. Along the way three deer and a big buck ran across the road in front of them, stopped and turned around to look at them as they drove by. This wasn’t unusual on this island. Grandpa said there were a couple of deer that slept every night in the woods right next to the house. He said they were pests, every now and then eating Grandma’s shrubbery. They were pretty to look at but just the same he wished they would stay away from the house.

In the net were dozens of silvery fish wiggling, turning and twisting to get loose. There was also two big crabs and lots of mud. Grandpa told the boys to grab the fish and put them in the bait well which was under the front seat of the boat. Everyone was grabbing fish. It was fun. Dad carefully grab the crabs from the back of their shells and threw them back in the water.

cont’d from page 25 Grandpa guided the boat along the river until they came to a large bay. To the west was a bridge more than a mile long. Grandpa powered the boat under the bridge next to one of the concrete support peers. “This is where I want to start to fishing” he said. He then showed them how to attach the live bait fish on their hooks. Once that was done he cast the bait just in front of the nearest concrete pillar. He then helped each of the kids do the same. Dad figured out how to do it for himself. They fished for about 20 minutes before anything happened. Then Theo’s line started to twitch and move sideways. Grandpa told everyone else to quickly reel in their lines so they wouldn’t get tangled. Theo was just about to pull hard on the rod to set the hook when Grandpa yelled, “Not yet! Wait a few seconds and then just start reeling in the line.” As Theo did this all of a sudden line went straight out and whizzed off the real. Theo had a hard time holding on. Grandpa said, “You have a big one Theo. Just hold on. If any slack occurs in the line reel in like crazy.” Theo fought the fish for over 10 minutes before he could get it close enough to the boat to see it. Grandpa was right. It was big. Just as Theo thought that they could net it, the fish took off again but this time not quite so far. He tried again and brought the fish close enough to the boat that Grandpa was able to get the net under the fish lifting it into the boat. It was a big redfish, almost 3 feet long. Theo was super excited until Grandpa said,” Theo I hate to tell you this but we have to let it go.” Theo responded “Why Grandpa? After all that work and I have to let it go?” “Yep you do,” said Grandpa. “You see here in South Carolina there are rules about fishing. Redfish over 24 inches long have to be released so they can reproduce and make little redfish.” Theo didn’t understand the rules but put the fish back the water with a little help from Dad. He

said, “Grandpa, I caught the first fish of the day and I bet it will be the biggest.” Gabe looked back at Theo with a scowl, clearly envious. While they continue to fish, Grandpa told a story about a discovery he and a friend had made while fishing.

“You mean the shell midden?” “Yea, that’s it,” said Gabe.

“We were drift ﬁshing in a small creek not catching much. The gentle current took us under some palm trees near a small island when I spotted a large shell midden along the shore. I knew about middens because there is one located behind our house on Spring Island. Long-ago, from about 1200 BC until 1600 AD, Indians lived on many of the small islands off the coast of South Carolina. One of their favorite food was oysters which they found in abundance in the tidal creeks. They would bring them back to the island by the baskets full and eat them raw or cook them over campfires. After eating, they would throw all the shells into the water just offshore. Over hundreds of years the shells would mound-up until they became part of the island. Because the oyster shells are very hard they don’t dissolve in the seawater. Of course, the Indians threw all their other garbage in with the shells. This included broken pottery, animal bones and anything else they didn’t want. So you when you dug into a shell midden you never knew what you might ﬁnd.”

They packed up their ﬁshing gear and carefully stored Emi’s ﬁsh in the ice chest they had brought along. Grandpa started the motor and off they went.

Grandpa said, “The midden I found is close to where we are now fishing. It is only reachable during high tide because the creek leading to the island will dry up. The island can’t be reached because of the dangerous pluff mud. If it if you step in it, you get stuck. It can just swallow you up.” Just then Emi’s line went taut. Like she had been told, she slowly tried to reel in. Sure enough just like what happened to Theo, the fishing line went straight out whizzing off the reel. Emi pulled with all her strength and reeled like crazy. After a few minutes she had the fish alongside the boat. In the net it went. Grandpa said, “Emi, you just caught supper.” The redfish was 23 inches long, a keeper!” Gabe was sad and bored. He hasn’t caught a fish and it was hot sitting out in the sun without any shade. He asked Grandpa, “When is high tide? Grandpa said, “It should be in about one hour.” Gabe responded, “Could we go see the shell thing?” 26

Grandpa asked, “How about the rest of you, are you up for some exploring?” They all responded, “Yes,”

They were in a wide bay that led to the ocean which was close enough to see. On the left was the mainland, on the right a series of islands, each surrounded by marsh. Because it was almost high tide there were tidal creeks leading to most of the islands. Grandpa steered the boat toward the right side of the bay. It was a beautiful day with the sun shining and a near cloudless sky. Sea birds were ﬂying everywhere. White egrets were in the marsh standing perfectly still waiting for an unsuspecting minnow to swim by. It was their mealtime.

The smaller island was only a couple of hundred yards across in width and was covered with palm trees. The undergrowth was a combination of ferns and small shrubs. The stream went under the overhanging palms. There in front of the boat was a huge white shell bank. It was about 3 feet high and 30 feet long. Some parts of the shell bank were undercut by the stream to make it appear like a small cliff. Grandpa pulled the boat up beside a fallen palm tree that extended out into the water. Dad got out in the shallow water and tied the boat to a nearby tree. Everyone got out. Grandpa said he discovered the hidden stream several years ago but had never visited the island. The kids could tell Grandpa was excited to be able to explore the shell midden and look for Indian artifacts. The shells extended into the island for about 10 feet from the edge of the creek. Grandpa said the Indians probably set up camp in the middle of the island and used the creek as their garbage dump to put the oyster shells. They must’ve lived on the island for a long time given the large size of the midden!

All along the sides of the bay it looked as if there were mounds of sand. When they got closer they saw were broken-up sea shells that reminded the kids of white gravel. “You have to wear shoes to walk on those mounds,” said Grandpa.

Dad said, “Let’s start searching in the middle of the island where they lived.” “Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Gabe. With that they all spread out looking for anything that looked unusual or out of place.

As grandpa steered the boat up the bay, he carefully watched the boat’s depth ﬁnder. There were many underwater shoals that came to within a foot of the water’s surface. He would need to be extra careful so the boat would not get stuck on one of these shallow sand bars. If that happen, they would have to radio for help.

They motored about two miles from where they had been ﬁshing coming to two Islands, one long and narrow, the other small and tucked away behind the big one. There was a break in the shell bank and a small stream appeared that went toward the larger island. Grandpa steered the boat into the creek. It was only about 10 feet wide with seagrass on each side so tall it made it appear they were going into a tunnel. The stream went past the large island and turned toward the small one.

“As grandpa steered the boat up the bay, he carefully watched the boat’s depth ﬁnder.”

cont’d from page 27

on this side of the coin.” He turned the coin over and there on the edge of the doubloon was a date, 1688. The coin was over 400 years old!

Theo found the ﬁrst thing; an arrowhead made from ﬂint. It was about 2 inches long and had two notches in the widest part. Dad said that the notches were used to secure the point to a wooden arrow.

Dad gave the coin to Emi and told her to hold it by edge so her sandy hands wouldn’t scratch the ﬂat surface. Emi turned the coin over to see both sides. She passed the coin around so everyone could see it.

Gabe found the next artifact. With a broken piece of pottery with squiggly lines on it. It had a lip on it that looked like it had been part of a large pot. Gabe was thrilled.

Grandpa said, “This is quite a ﬁnd. We need to take everything home so we can determine what’s written on the copper scroll.” With that, grandpa went to the boat and gathered up all the towels. He carefully wrapped each item separately so they would not rub against one another.

Grandpa asked Gabe where he had found it. He showed them. Grandpa said, “I wonder if the rest of the pot is around here? If we could find it we could take it to a museum and have it repaired. It could be quite valuable.” They all searched in earnest. Emi started digging in the sand with her hands in the same location where Gabe had found the broken piece. She dug down about 6 inches and hit a hard object. She yelled for everyone to come and help her. They all joined in a frenzy and soon all had the sand removed from around the pot. They were afraid to touch it for fear it would fall apart. Grandpa and Dad worked their way into the hole and each carefully put both hands around the pot lifted it out of the hole. It was unusually heavy. Dad thought there must be something inside. They carefully put the pot down and Dad started inspecting the in-side with his fingers. He scooped out some of the sand and saw what looked to be a metal box. It was all corroded and just about fell apart when he lifted it out of the pot. The lid was still intact but it was frozen shut with rust. Everyone was excited about the find. It sure was unusual and they all expected the box to contain a treasure inside. Between the two of them, Dad and Grandpa pulled off the top. Inside was a roll of bluish copper with some writing scratch on it. Dad lifted out the copper and beneath was a large gold coin. Dad, who collected coins as a boy, immediately recognized it. He said, “It is a Spanish doubloon. See the cross

It was two hours past high tide and grandpa said they had to get going or they would end up being stranded. They all got into the boat, untied the anchor rope and started for home. On the way they all talked excitedly about their day’s venture. Their minds raced, imagining how the coin had gotten on the island. Only grandpa thought about the copper scroll and what was written on it.

for some supper. Grandpa ﬁlleted the ﬁsh and gave it to Grandma to cook. Grandma had prepared a potato salad as well as her famous cherry pie. It would be a feast long remembered along with the fabulous day.

next to it.” They all immediately thought an “X”! Isn’t that what pirates used to mark the spot where they buried their treasure? Dad said, “That’s what all the stories tell us. What would they be burying on Spring Island? What’s this word mean? It looks like it is spelled: “CASCADA.”

After the meal, Grandpa brought out the copper scroll. With the utmost care he and Dad slowly unrolled the scroll until it was fully open. It was about 4 inches wide and twice as long. Scratched into its surface appeared to be a map. They took the scroll into Grandpa’s ofﬁce and left at it under the high-intensity desk lamp.

Gabe said I have an idea. I’ll Google the name to see if I can get a ﬁnd out what it means. He turned on Grandpa’s computer and typed in the name: cascada. Back came the translation: it is Spanish for waterfall.

Sure enough, it was a map all right. It showed a large island surrounded by several small ones. Grandpa leaned over Gabe’s shoulder and said, “You know the big island sure looks like the one we live on. See here, it has the same shape and the river looks exactly like the one on the south end of the island.”

The word didn’t make sense to anyone. How could a waterfall be located on a low-country Island? There are no fresh water rivers or and the highest land on the islands is only about 20 feet above sea level. Then Grandpa recalled a story he had once read on the history of Spring Island. It said there were many springs on the island hence the name. Indians and early settlers highly valued the island because it offered freshwater to drink. Grandpa had heard from some old-timers who lived in the area that there was a spring that came out of the ground and rippled down into a small pool. Perhaps that’s what the pirates called a waterfall?

Theo said, “Boy Gabe, I can’t wait to tell Grandma what we found. What are we going to do with the gold coin?” Dad replied, “We will have to get it appraised. Any coin that old with a recognizable date is very valuable. After we ﬁnd out how much it’s worth, we can then decide what to do with it. For me, I would like to keep it as a memory of our wonderful time together.”

Grandpa had never been told where the spring was located. He told them he would make some telephone calls tomorrow to see if he could ﬁnd out more about this mysterious waterfall. Everyone went to bed early that night tired from the day’s exciting activities.

They got back home after about an hours ride. The kids were so excited they jumped ashore and ran to tell Grandma the news. Grandpa and Dad got stuck with the job of carrying all the ﬁshing tackle up to the house including the ﬁsh Emi had caught. As they ran into the kitchen Grandma asked, “What is all the excitement about?. “Without saying a word Gabe pulled the gold coin out of his pocket and laid it on the counter-top. It shown a deep yellow color. Grandma said, “Oh my gosh you found a treasure.” Dad and Grandpa came in from the garage and joined the rest of them. Grandma said it was time 28

The next morning, Dad decided to take the kids for a walk. One of their favorite spots was a small freshwater lake next to Grandma and Grandpa’s property. It was called Gator Pond. It was a spooky old place surrounded by trees that hung out over the water. At one end of the pond egrets had made a rookery nesting area. Sometimes there were so many birds that the entire end of the pond turned white.

[a rendering of the Treasure Map]

Theo stared intensely at the map. He pointed to one part on the map and said, “What’s this mark? Dad replied, “It looks like an ”X” with some writing

After breakfast, Dave and Theo got on their shoes. Emi said she didn’t want to go to the pond this 29

cont’d from page 29 time. Grandma asked if she would like to join her for a trip to the grocery store. Emi asked, “Could we stop off some place and buy some batteries?” She needed them for one of her electronic games. Grandma said, “Sure and while we’re at it, let’s pick up a movie to watch tonight.” The boys started out the door but Dad called for them to come back. He said, “We can’t go to the pond without putting on insect spray. The mosquitoes move in clouds in the woods. Make sure you spray your socks and shoes too. There are chiggers and ticks everywhere on the way to the pond.” The boys remembered their encounter with chiggers from last year’s trip. The two of them were covered with red welts where the chiggers had burrowed into their skin. It took weeks for the red welts and intense itching to go away. They doused themselves with the insect spray, vowing that it wouldn’t happen to them this time. To get to the pond, they had to follow a deer trail that started at the back of the gravel driveway. The boys and Dad made their way as quietly as was possible. They knew if they made much noise, the alligators sunning themselves on the bank would get spooked, run into the water and submerge out of sight. They snuck through the underbrush next to the pond. Sure enough about 20 feet away was a big alligator. It was about 8 feet long. Everybody stayed real quiet so they could watch without scaring him. After about 10 minutes Theo got bored and asked Dad if he can go back to the house. As soon as Theo started talking, the alligator’s head came up and he scooted into the water. With that, they heard splashing all around the pond as other alligators slid into the water. Everyone walked out on the bank and looked in the pond. There were eyes everywhere looking back at them. The kids moved back away from the edge of

the pond. After a few minutes, Gabe asked, “Dad, what do gators eat?” Dad replied, “Mostly fish, frogs and crustaceans. See that path over there? It’s what the gators use to get to the marsh where they can find their food. Alligators can’t live in the marsh because it contains salt water. If they spend too much time there their skin starts to dry out and they die. The gators only spend a couple of days in the marsh and then they have to return to the pond which contains freshwater.” Theo said, “Can we see them going from the pond to the marsh?” Dad replied, “They mostly go at night. While I’ve been here at night several times, I never saw one out of the water. What is neat is to take a flashlight out at night and shine it at the pond. All of the alligator’s eyes shine back at you. It’s real cool. We’ll have to do that sometime, maybe later this week.” When they got back to the house, Grandpa came outside and said, “While you were all at the pond, I telephoned two of my buddies and asked about the waterfall. Only one of them had heard anything about it. He said he did not know where it was located. He said if anyone knew, it would be Warren Williams. So I called Warren but no one answered the phone. I’ll call him back later today.” Everyone was disappointed. They had all hoped they could hunt for treasure today. Now they would have to wait until tomorrow. They all trudged into the house to eat lunch. At least some of Grandma’s wonderful cherry pie was left. After they finished eating, the kids went to their bedrooms to rest. Grandpa and Dad went out on the porch to have a serious discussion about what they would do if there really was a waterfall on Spring Island. Dad said, “It depends on where on the island the waterfall is located. If it’s on someone’s private property, we will have to get permission from the owner before we can search. If it’s located in one of the public areas, then I think we should just go look for ourselves.” 30

Grandpa agreed. He said, “More than three quarters of the land on the island is owned by a private trust. If we ﬁnd something, we will have to decide what to do with it. After all, there are treasure trove laws that give some legal rights to the ﬁnders. “Aren’t we getting way ahead of ourselves”, said Dad. “I think the gold lust has affected the two of us just as much as it has the kids.”

Gabe was the ﬁrst one up from his nap. He never did sleep. He had too much energy for that. He got his brother and sister up and the three of them went to the kitchen. Grandma ask what they wanted for supper. Theo said, “What choices do we have?” Grandma responded, “You have three; ﬁrst, macaroni and cheese, second, jacket potatoes and a salad or third, Grandpa’s special pasta.

“Hi Warren, do you have a minute? I recently heard a far-fetched story about there being a waterfall on Spring Island. Do you know anything about it? ...So it’s true?... I have my son and grandchildren staying with us and wondered if we could go see the waterfall... Sure, just a second, I need to ﬁnd a piece of paper to write down the directions.” With that Grandpa started writing and ﬁnished by thanking Warren for the information. He put down the phone.

They all shouted, “Grandpa’s pasta.”

Dad came into the room and asked, “How would you all like to go to the plantation ruins? “Emi responded, “What is that? “

Grandpa knew the kids have been listening to his conversation. He turned around then with a big smile said, “Well apparently the story is true about the waterfall. I have directions to its location. We can check it out tomorrow.”

Dad answered, “About 200 years ago and man from Charleston purchased this entire island. His last name was Edwards. He used the island as a farm and his main crop was cotton. He owned over 300 slaves who did all the work, making him one of the richest men in America.”

Dad arrived in the office just as Grandpa was telling the kids about the plan to search for the waterfall. Everyone was exited about the news.

“About 150 years ago, just before the American Civil War, Edwards died and his magnificent plantation house fell into ruins. There are still parts of it left on the island.”

The plantation ruins were not much to look at. Only the outside walls of the main house remained. There was no roof or ﬂoors even though the house was two stories high. It was getting late so Dad said, “We need to get back to the house so I can make dinner.” They got in the Jeep and headed home. Everyone enjoyed Grandpas pasta. Dad and Grandma cleaned up the dishes since Grandpa had done all the cooking. Grandpa went into his office. The kids crowded around the door to listen.

“I’ll make that call to Warren after supper. Depending on what I learn, we can then plan what to do next,” said Grandpa.

like ghostly old trees that are shown in scary movies. The trees had been planted by the original owner so they were all over 200 years old.

Grandma said, “The movie Emi and I picked out will be perfect for watching tonight. It’s called, Treasure Island. It’s a story about how a young boy ﬁnds a treasure map and sets out to ﬁnd it. It should be a good warm-up for tomorrow’s search.”

“Okay, let’s go,” said Gabe. After watching the movie, everyone was psyched. Theo summed it up best, “Treasure found, but watch out for pirates.” With that everyone went to bed to dream about pirate gold.

Dad drove Grandpa’s red Jeep. They went around to the opposite side of the island and turned into a sandy lane lined with giant oak trees. The trees were covered with Spanish moss that made them look 31

cont’d from page 31 The next morning everyone was at breakfast early even Grandma who planned to photograph the expedition. They took both cars since they could not all ﬁt into one. They brought along shovels, insect repellent, snacks and a gallon jug of water. Who knew how long they would be gone. After a short drive, the cars pulled into the deserted trail head. It was located in a large wooded area with moss covered live oaks and tall pines. Off in the distance they could see the marsh and beyond that the ocean. The sky was clear with a few white puffy clouds. “Great day to ﬁnd a treasure” said Dad. Everyone gathered behind the SUV to load up the gear they had brought. Grandpa led the family down the path for a couple hundred yards. The path was sandy with tree roots standing proud above the surface. He stopped to consult the notes he had taken. He said to the group, “I think this is where we have to leave the path. See that large sand dune? The waterfall is supposed to be just beyond it.” They all charged up the hill and stopped to rest at the top. Gabe and Theo strain their ears to see if they could hear the sound of running water. After all, every waterfall they had ever seen made a lot of noise. Neither heard a thing except for the cry of the seagulls. They looked in all directions but no water was in sight. Dad said, “Are you sure these are the correct directions?” Grandpa responded, “That’s what he said. It’s supposed to be right here. Let’s spread out and search the under-brush. It has to be here somewhere.” They spread out about 20 feet from each other and started through the thick weeds and grapevines. It was like a jungle. Shortly everyone lost sight of everyone else except for Dad and Gabe who walked where there was a gap in the vines. Gabe was slightly ahead when he lost his footing and just about fell into a large crevice in the ground. It was about 10 feet deep and 40 to 50 feet long. In the side of the bank was a spring coming

out from under a ledge made of natural clay. It ﬂowed down the side of the gully forming a small stream that disappeared into the underbrush.

dark brown to a reddish color.” He then walked to that side of the hole and pointed down. “Right about here,” he said.

Gabe yelled for Dad and the rest of the family to come look. In a few minutes, they all gathered at the edge of the gully and looked down. Grandpa started laughing and said, “This is what people call a waterfall? They must be joking or maybe people from around here have amazing imaginations. No one would ever call at this a waterfall from where we come from.” Dad said, “This hole must’ve been made by the ﬂow of water from that little spring over thousands of years. It’s no wonder early settlers and pirates called the island Spring Island. There probably isn’t a spring like this around for miles.

Grandpa said, “That could be an important clue. The color of most of the clay in this area is dark brown. If some of it looks reddish, it could be coming from rusted metal. Why don’t we start digging in this location and see what we can ﬁnd?”

Grandma, who was taking pictures of the spring said, “All right guys, so where is the treasure?” With that everyone put down what they have been carrying and started searching. Gabe and Theo climbed down the side of the crevice and immediately sunk up to their ankles in mud. Dad saw what happened and said, “Kids don’t bother searching in the stream. I don’t think anyone would bury treasure in the water. There is too much risk that whenever they buried would be washed downstream and lost. While you’re down there, look at the walls where the water comes out. Is there anything that looks man-made or not a normal part of the sand and clay?”

He and Gabe got down on their knees and started digging with their hands. They unearthed what look like a metal corner. It was totally rusted and crumbled when they trying to pull it out of the ground. Everyone was standing next to the hole watching. Grandpa said, “Boys we don’t want to damage whatever you have found more than it already is.” Gabe widened his part of the hole so he was further away from the exposed corner. He slowly cleared the sand and found another corner. It immediately was apparent what they were uncovering. It was a chest with metal corners. It had originally been made from wood but now nothing was left of the wood but black dirt.

Theo got two shovels and gave them to Dad and Grandpa. They started digging and after about 20 minutes had a hole about 2 feet deep. Both were covered with sweat. They asked Grandma if she would fetch the water. They shared the gallon jug and put it down to go back to work. After 10 more minutes, they were out of breath and climbed out of the hole to rest.

Gabe carefully brushed off the black dirt. Underneath was a dark mass of metal it looked like metal springs. Theo reached over and tried to lift one of the springs but it fell apart in his hands into round ﬂat disks. Grandpa and Dad knew what Theo was holding...silver pieces-of-eight...! They were stuck together with corrosion so they looked like a tight spring. Dad got down in the hole with the boys. Together they excavated all the dirt from around the chest.

Gabe said, “Can Theo and I help with the digging?” Dad said, ”Sure. Here is the shovel.” Gabe and Theo climbed down into the pit. They started digging and soon Theo’s shovel hit something hard. “What do we have here?” he exclaimed!

Theo and Gabe looked carefully at the dirt sides. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Both were getting cold feet from the spring water so the scrambled back up to the top of the crevasse. Dad asked, “Well what did you see?” Both shook their heads, “Nothing that looked like treasure,” said Gabe. “Everything looked normal. There were no rocks, just red and brown clay.” “Red and brown clay?” questioned Grandpa. “Tell me more about the red clay.” Gabe said, “Up near the top of the cliff where the water comes out, the color of the clay changes from 32

[“Pirate coin”: a Spanish silver piece-of-eight]

cont’d from page 33 Grandma leaned over and asked, “So how are we going to get this home?” Grandpa responded, “I will drive the car back to the house and get a couple of suitcases and towels. That way we can carefully wrap the coins so they won’t scratch each other. This is important because coins are worth much more to collectors than the silver they contain. I’ll be back in about half an hour.” Grandpa left. Dad said to the boys, “Let’s stop digging. We will just scatter the coins. Until grandpa gets back, let’s eat some of those snacks. “ Grandma and Emi passed out peanut butter crackers. They shared the water jug until it was empty! The three kids finished eating but couldn’t sit still. Who would blame them, with a pirate chest sitting right beside them! It felt like hours before a sweaty, exhausted grandpa finally return lugging the suitcases through the underbrush. Dad, Gabe and Theo got back in the hole and placed the towel on the ground. Each carefully grabbed a stack of coins, laid them in the towel and folded it over them. They continue this until they had five or six stacks of coins in the towel. They then handed the towel to Grandpa to put in the suitcase. They did this until about half the coins were in the suitcase. They then switched and started filling the other suitcase. Coins are heavy. They had to split the chest’s contents into two parts so they could carry all the coins to the car. When they finish packing all the coins Dad said, “We need two people to carry each suitcase. Gabe you take one end. I’ll take the other. Let’s go slow. If you get tired let me know and we can set it down to rest.” Grandpa and Theo did the same with the other suitcase. Grandma and Emi carried the shovels and the empty gallon jug back to the car.

They drove back to the house with a feeling of excitement that’s usually reserved for Christmas morning before the presents are opened. They carried the suitcases into the house and put them on the dining room table.

“What do we need to do now?” said Dad.

Grandpa responded, “A couple things. First, I think we should check out what we have, like counting the number of coins and ﬁnding out their age. After that we need to make some telephone calls; one to a lawyer who specializes in treasure trove law and another to the antiquities office in Columbia South Carolina.” Gabe said, “I would like to do the fun stuff ﬁrst, let’s take a few of the coins and try to get rid of the black coating so we can read the date they were minted.” Grandpa said, “I know how to do that. Grandma, would you please get us some white vinegar from the kitchen.”

Gabe said, “What’s the vinegar for?”

Grandpa said, “Vinegar is a mild acid. It will dissolve the black oxide that is on the coins. It won’t hurt the underlying silver. Theo, would you and Emi, pick out three or four coins and we can experiment with them.” Emi picked two and Theo did the same. They placed them in a cereal bowl and poured vinegar over them until they were fully submerged. Grandpa said, “This will take a while. Let’s start counting. Just be careful not to scratch them.” For the next hour everyone concentrate on counting. By the time they had ﬁnished they all had black hands from the coating on the coins. They ended up with 1286 coins. Quite a pile. They went into the kitchen to clean their hands and check on their experiment. 34

and took it to the sink to washed off. The black came off revealing the underlying design. The date on the coin was 1715. Gabe and Theo washed off the other coins. One was dated 1704, the other two were dated 1715. Dad said, “ From this small sample the chest must’ve been buried in the early 1700s. As I recall from history, that period was called the Golden Age of Piracy. One the most famous pirates who sailed the Carolina coast was the notorious Blackbeard.” “Wow,” said Gabe. “Do you think this could be part of Blackbeard’s treasure?”

“Grandpa, what is going to happen to the treasure,” asked Gabe. Well, we have agreed with the Authorities and the Trust to divide it up. We will get to keep half of the coins. The gold doubloon goes to the State Historical Society. The real prize is that we get to keep the copper scroll. Your Dad, Grandma and I agreed to lend the scroll to the University of South Carolina Archaeology Department for a few months. They are going to do some research to try to ﬁnd out who might have buried the treasure chest. Theo ask, “How much is the treasure worth? “

“Could be,” said Dad. “We would have to turn to an expert ﬁnd out.” Grandpa went to make some telephone calls and came back about an hour later. He called a lawyer friend of his to get in contact with the antiquities department at the University of South Carolina and a lawyer to represent them. He made an appointment for them to come to the house tomorrow morning starting at 10 o’clock. With all the excitement of the treasure hunt it was hard for the kids to get to sleep that night.! People came and went throughout the next day. Meetings were held in the living room. Later that day the TV people showed up with their cameras. They asked to interview the family on how they have found the treasure. They spent much of time interviewing the three children. As TV crews were leaving they said for the family to turn on tonight’s 6 o’clock news. At 6:00 they turned on NBC News. This was a nationally broadcast program. To everyone’s surprise the featured story was about how the family had found a pirate treasure. It mostly showed the interviews with Gabe, Theo and Emi. The program portrayed them as heroes. After the program was over Grandpa said, “Well I guess we are all going to be famous.”

Dad responded, “We won’t know for sure for a month or two. From what we were told it will be more than enough money to pay for each of you to go to college and then some.” Emi pipped up, “Grandpa can we go back to the shell midden? There might be more pirate and Indian stuff to ﬁnd.” “Emi,” Dad said, “I am sorry to tell you, but we have to leave tomorrow. I need to get back to work. I’ll tell you what. In a couple months we will be coming back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for Thanksgiving. Your cousins, Luke, Anna and Evan will be here too. We will all go looking for more treasure and have a good time doing it. How’s that sound?” All three were disappointed that they had to leave but they understood. The next day as Grandma and Grandpa we’re seeing them off at the airport, Grandpa leaned over and whispered in Gabe’s ear, “You know, your Dad and I never told anyone where we found the treasure map. Maybe there is more to ﬁnd on that little island.

Grandpa carefully picked out one of the coins 35

My Jaundiced Eye

We-solation

Gail Olson

MJE is sick of being trapped in paradise. Trust me; I love seclusion, but with the OB&C right here, right now it’s not really isolation, it’s we-solation. BIG difference.

Daddy Screech Owl It’s a windy day, trees whipping to and fro My daddy screech owl leans into the blow. Faithful guardian by day, shopper by night Feeding his family is his constant plight. In the tree hole he goes when days are cold Protecting all within, warm feathers enfold. He naps when he can, but soon evening comes Out he goes again to fill his broods’ empty tums. Such strength I behold in a creature so small Duty, fortitude and patience in a bird 8 inches tall. Day after day his family comes first None would know his heroics without my verse. Gray as tree bark, keenly observant and still He ignores the jays and their cries so shrill. He knows dark will come and he’ll take to wing Tiny family awaits to see what he’ll bring.

Helen Wagner - Maples

I keep telling him to go somewhere, anywhere. Take a walk, go fishing, go canoeing, chop down something, clean the gutters, power wash the house, organize the garage, I don’t care as long as you are not right next to me. But you know what I get in response, a goddam guilt trip, why don’t you ever go canoeing with me, why don’t you want to go fishing, why do you always want to walk by yourself…hmmm, I don’t know…maybe because you are driving me insane. And when I manage to extricate myself, tell him I have a doctor’s appointment (which is occasionally true) and am a bit late, just as I’m getting into the car he’ll stand at the front door and scream, which doctor, where’s his office, how long do you think it’s going to take? Can you pick up 8 bags of mulch and some swiss cheese while you’re at it. Oh, and I have some scripts ready at the pharmacy could you grab those too? And we’re out of 75-watt light bulbs, and toilet paper. And, it looks like we might be getting low on coriander seed so you might want to breeze through the spice aisle and stock up. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, I sat in one of those flimsy antique French dining room chairs you had to have and the damned back broke off, so grab some gorilla glue. When he isn’t stuck to me like a limpet, he loves doing manly potentially dangerous things, like bushwhacking up some mountain with absolutely no idea where he’s going (and in one case ending up on an entirely different one than he thought he was on), or digging oysters and sinking 3’ deep in pluff mud without a pole, or diving into an alligator infested pond to retrieve someone’s 8 iron. Stuff like that.

The other night a small tree fell on the house during a storm, he practically wet his pants in excitement (or an enlarged prostate). He evaluated the situation every which way from Sunday and came up with what he considered to be the best possible plan; first he would put a ladder under the tree base to hold it up so it wouldn’t crush the shrubbery when it fell, then he’d climb the ladder and saw off the top part that was resting on the roof with a chainsaw and then grab that part with lightning speed (while still holding the chainsaw) before the branches could go through the kitchen window. I listened patiently and said no, that is not what you are going to do. You are going to get on the horn to our pal Manfred and see if he can come help you. He mulled that over and grudgingly conceded that it might be a marginally better idea. Later that day Manfred arrived with a hand saw. And they managed to get the thing down without anyone sustaining mortal injury, breaking any windows, or crushing the shrubbery. As Manfred was going back to his truck, mission accomplished, he said that in his experience with risk assessment, not using a chain saw always seems like a smarter move. Good thought. Only thing is that the OB&C literally does not know what risk assessment is. It’s just not something he thinks he needs to waste valuable time doing when he could be going balls to the wall on some hair brain scheme. It’s like the joke about what a redneck’s last words are. “Hey guys watch this!”

[sketch by MJE]

Paula McGilly

01. Karen Penchuk

A New World

And then it happened: we went to sleep and awoke to a nightmare. We found ourselves shaken to our very core having to come to grips with the realization that the world we knew was no longer. Our sadness overwhelming, our fears consuming, our certainty vanishing, our survival in question, we fretted, we grieved, and we whined. And then it happened: they showed up out of the shadows from all over....not the ones of recognizable celebrity status but the unknown selfless ones that emerged from the comfort of their homes and loving families to offer us protection from the Covid beast. Volunteering to risk their own lives and toiling endlessly on the front lines, they must have held tightly to the belief that by exposing themselves to be surrounded by the menacing dark clouds, that their accumulated efforts could be the vehicle for the rest of us to get a glimmer of a future rainbow.

Meditations on a Country Road Have you ever walked down a dirt road rutted with wear leaves overhead dappled with sunlight that seems to drip softly onto the tawny lane as you make each quiet step.

02.

It is not a road less traveled but a road well traveled albeit secluded, quiet and seemingly yours alone.

So, as we tip toe into the realm of our new normal, it will interesting as to how we will proceed. Will we choose to live our present lives in reverse, or will we have taken seriously the valuable lessons that this virus tragedy has afforded us, and create a positive healthy new world reality?

Suzn Stewart - Lowcounty Marsh

Our skies now are finally clear, our cities and oceans less polluted, our forests and their inhabitants blossoming and our compassion for mankind flourishing. Beautiful unexpected blessings came to us after our world was upended with great losses during the Beast’s regime. But moving forward, will we remember how forgiving our planet has been towards us, and how our human compassion soared? Or will the veil of forgetfulness shroud our remembrance and we give ourselves permission to return to our previous selfish and disrespectful ways? It’s been said that adversity is a traveling professor of opportunity, it knocks on one’s door and doesn’t leave without teaching a valuable lesson. Hopefully, humanity paid attention and refuses to settle for anything less than A+. 38

With the soft rustle of leaves the chirp of birds chatting tracks worn into a history all its own.

01. Elizabeth Macgregor - Morning View 02. Laura Robinson - Tree Trouble

A sense of peace calm abandoning everything but the moment. Each stride continuing the story the beauty the journey.

As the sun was setting, Pat returned home, through the field again, and kept a wide berth of the place that she had crossed before, for she did NOT wish to encounter Oscar again!

With a loud snort, her horse bolted. She hung on for dear life, while being carried madly through the grass , no control whatsoever of her horse, stopping suddenly at the fence, with his head over it and legs braced, and Pat literally kissing its ears, but luckily, still on its back and unharmed! Oscar returned to his nest, plopped down, and gazed at the rolling hills, and I am sure, must surely have asked himself: Where has Ona gone? He was not too happy, for a woman should certainly NOT shirk her duties!

Lorraine Griffin

Ona lay approximately twenty-four eggs, left the day after, never to return! Oscar visited the nest, found her gone, kicked a few eggs out, and sat and sat for forty-five days on it. No complaints whatsoever, so intriguing what nature will do.

The Lives of Two Ostriches. Oscar and Ona. South America.

Ostriches are very dangerous because they chase and kick forwards rather like a Karate kick. And this, folks, is a true story!

The eggs started to hatch, slowly but surely. Those chicks were simply adorable. They roam the purple hills of Uruguay, the fringes of the Atlantic Ocean, the vast flat Pampas, the rolling foothills of the Andes, in fact, everywhere. Nothing deters them from running freely, their dexterity in passing swiftly through fences is truly amazing. Their speed even more so. They are the largest bird in existence that cannot fly. Their feathers were sought after to make “plumeros” (Dusters), in days gone by. They are edible, although I do not recommend it! They lay HUGE eggs. One is the equivalent to a dozen regular eggs.

Maternal instincts seem to jump to the fore for Oscar, thank goodness, and he proceeds to care for them with great expertise. Remember the eggs that he kicked out of the nest at the start? He has now broken them with his beak! Insects are now attracted to that fact, and subsequently, he now has an unending supply of food for the hatchlings. Smart guy!

heard a WHOOSH of wings, and Oscar came hurtling out of the Pampas grass. ”

For the next TWO YEARS Oscar is seen roaming the land with all his kids in tow, a sight to behold. A true sight for sore eyes, babies, youngsters, teenagers, all the way to adulthood!

So, Pat, decided one afternoon, to ride over for afternoon tea with her sister who lived on a ranch nearby.

Oh, and Ona? Nowhere to be seen, must have gone ‘walkabout’ with the rest of her frivolous gender!

Saddled, and ready, she rode rather sedately through a large field, crossed a narrow shallow stream, and was trotting up the hill towards the front gate when suddenly she heard a WHOOSH of wings, and Oscar came hurtling out of the Pampas grass.

Pat and Aunty Peggy enjoyed their paper thin cucumber, and egg sandwiches, scones, chocolate cake, and umpteen cups of tea. The conversation was scintillating, as well! She was famous for her teas, and well deserved, I may say!

“...when suddenly she

JJ Keyser

Book Review: Brilliant Blunders By Mario Livio

Standing here listening to Joni Mitchell singing “We are Stardust” on my “pocket universe” iPhone and contemplating string theory, I wonder if I’m up to writing this review. Mario Livio has friended us with a lucidly written refresher course in the history of science treated with a deeply human understanding of the personalities involved, specifically the five blunderers – Charles Darwin, William Thomson (Lord Kelvin), Linus Pauling, Fred Hoyle and Albert Einstein. Why these five men? They are the heavies in Livio’s main theme of elucidating the evolution of Earth, man, and our universe. They demonstrate that science doesn’t always progress in a straight line of successes; rather, “the blunders of genius are often indeed the portals of discovery”. To quote Pauling, “if you have a good idea, publish it! Don’t be afraid to make a mistake. Mistakes do no harm in science because there are lots of smart people out there who will immediately spot a mistake and correct it.” Charles Darwin (1809-82) published The Origin of Species in 1859 not understanding “the implications of a faulty biological mechanism”, one where blending heredity of a “sport” i.e., mutation would end the existence of one of the “factors,” i.e. genes in the first generation – a black gene and a white gene combined would give a new “grey” gene, leaving no black gene for posterity. Fleeming Jenkin pointed this out in his anonymous review of the fourth edition of The Origin in 1867. Eventually Darwin came up with the idea of “pangenesis” where the entire body was supposed to issue instructions to the reproductive cells – the wrong direction!

Wm. Thomson, Lord Kelvin (1824-1907) waded into the ocean of Earth’s age a century after Benoît de Maillet had come up with 2.4 billion years by studying natural processes (sea level had declined by about 3 inches/century he calculated, not knowing that land could rise), instead of the usual anthropocentric biblical way, e.g. John Lightfoot, vice chancellor of Cambridge in 1642 figured that Adam had been created at 9 a.m. 3928 BCE. (I don’t know which day.) Kelvin, mathematician, thermodynamic guru and physicist, held geologists in disdain. By measuring the temperature in mines and wells, he knew that heat was moving from the earth’s center to its surface with a gradient of approximately one degree for each 50 feet of depth. His calculations put the earth’s age at 98 million years. He assumed the temperature at the center of the earth was constant “unless sources now unknown to us are prepared for us in the great storehouse of creation”. Radiation was discovered in 1896 and Pierre Curie (1859-1906) showed that this was a new source of heat energy, but Kelvin ignored it. Was this due to cognitive dissonance or a “know it all” personality, where Certainty Generally is Illusion (Title of Chapter 5)? Livio opines on this but gives Kelvin’s brilliance credit for identifying the problem that had to be solved, even though he was off by a factor of 50. Chemistry virtuoso Linus Pauling (1901-94) published the 3-D ball and stick model of his famous α-helix in 1950, after 13 years of work. Two years later he published his “triple helix” molecular structure for nucleic acids after about one month of work. He had forgotten that he’d said in 1948, “if genes consisted of two parts that were complementary to each other in 42

structure, replication was relatively straightforward”. And he forgot or ignored, because of a personality conflict, Erwin Chargaff ’s (1905-2002) 1952 paper detailing how, in nucleic acids, the base pairs cytosine and guanine units were equal to each other, as were adenine and thymine. His oversight with the triple helix triggered the final lap of the DNA race won in 1952 by Watson and Crick. How could Pauling pull off such a blunder? Was he a victim of his own brilliance and competitive spirit? Was his inductive reasoning and previous success with the α-helix a trap? This illustrates Livio’s central theme, “there are many insights that can be gained from analyzing such blunders by brilliant people.”

predicted correctly that oxygen would NOT have a resonance that would attract α particles (helium) away from carbon. How did Hoyle mess up? Whether from scientific isolation, denial, or his usual dissent from the mainstream, he never gave up on his steady state universe, even in the face of all the scientific facts on universe expansion. Albert Einstein (1879-1955) screwed up by renouncing his own cosmological constant in1931. He had come up with this constant “lambda” (Λ = the energy density of empty space) just after publishing his theory of general relativity in 1917 to support what he thought was a steady state universe. At that time, the “universe” was thought to be only our galaxy. Belgian Jesuit Priest Georges Lemaître (1894-1966) and Edwin Hubble (1889-1953) discovered the expanding universe in 1927, but Einstein was not convinced – he told Lemaître, “Your calculations are correct, but your physics is atrocious.”

Fred Hoyle (1915-2001) casually used “big bang” in a 1949 BBC radio lecture to compare the opposing theory on universe creation to his year-old theory of a steady state universe. For a quarter of a century he was the leading figure in astrophysics and cosmology. [Here Livio provides primers on cosmic expansion and on the Periodic Table, atomic structure, and quantum mechanics.] Hydrogen with 74% and helium with 24% are the most abundant elements in the universe. Where did the heavier elements come from? George Gamow (1904-68) et al. figured out that in the initial moments of the “big bang” matter consisted of highly compressed neutron gas. As the neutrons decayed as usual in 15 minutes into protons, electrons and anti-neutrinos, heavier nuclei could appear by capturing one neutron at a time. Big problem - “…God made a blunder”! There was no atomic mass 5 (or 8). Acquiring one neutron at a time seemed impossible. And God Said: “Let There Be Hoyle” (sub-chapter heading). Where did those heavier elements come from? - from the billion-degree nuclear furnaces of stars. Then, as stars mature and explode as supernovae the molecules are released – indeed, we are stardust. Hoyle figured that for carbon to be as abundant as it is, the fusion of helium and beryllium had to be facilitated by a resonant state in carbon nucleus. He then calculated this had to be 7.68 MeV above the lowest energy level of the carbon nucleus. In1953, this was proven in the Kellogg Radiation Laboratory at Caltech! And to top it off he 43

Once he accepted that the universe was expanding, he felt Λ was “excess baggage” – antithetical to simplicity. Today, more than ever, since it was discovered in 1998 that the rate of cosmic expansion is accelerating, the negative pressure of Λ seems necessary. This repulsive force is proportional to distance. How can empty space have any energy? At the sub-atomic level in quantum mechanics there is plenty! “Einstein’s failures remind us that human logic is not blunder proof, even when exercised by a monumental genius.” – Mario Livio. Stubborn opposition to new ideas is part of human nature. Here I stop at the place where physicists are hung up – unifying general relativity and quantum mechanics. You, reader, can finish this fascinating treatise.

Gary Nordmann

Until now, almost all of the causes for extinction have been the result of Mother Earth going through some catastrophic change or an impact from a visitor from outer space. These events could be considered to be of a natural cause. Some took a long time to manifest themselves and other were immediate (e.g. the asteroid that eliminated the dinosaurs). None of these extinctions eliminated all life forms but did wipe out up to 90% of living species. Afterwards, life that had managed to survive seemed to have been able claw its way back, as well as creating new forms to take advantage of empty ecological niches.

Extinction Recently, several books and articles have come out suggesting that our world may be entering into another period of extinction. One of the books written by Richard Leakey, titled The Sixth Extinction, has suggested that there have already been five “mass” extinctions where we have lost more than 50% of Earth’s species For several fairly obvious reasons, these predictions have spiked my interest. Contemplating a 6th extinction just around the corner requires learning a lot of different things in order to create the framework for piecing it all together. I have done some poking around and I thought that it might be helpful to pass along to you what I’ve uncovered, thinking that like me, you may have also wondered about extinction.

While scientists like to talk about there being 5 mass extinctions, there have actually been other “major” events that did, or would have, caused extensive loss of life. These events occurred early on in Earth’s history, before complex life forms covered the planet. These early major extinction events included: • The “Great Oxidation Extinction”; extreme high levels of oxygen killed all aquatic organisms that constituted life on Earth at that time (2.3 billion yrs. ago)

• The “Cryogenian extinction”; combined snowball earth episodes stopped photosynthesis; life on land and seas died out (650 million yrs. ago)

Advances in science have been so amazing in our lifetimes and seem to be accelerating every day. Today we know with some confidence how old our sun is, when it is going to run out of fuel and how all this is likely to play out. We know that the Earth formed approximately 4.6 billion years ago as a result of debris flying around the sun being pulled together by gravity and being helped in gaining mass by a collision with another planet about the size of Mars. After formation, Earth was a glowing ball of molten rock, later covered almost entirely by water and three times a complete snowball. Early on, Earth was either too hot, too cold or without an atmosphere capable of supporting life. Life probably existed 3.8 billion years ago, but was only in the form of bacteria, not life as we know it today. By studying rocks and fossils, and using complicated methods for dating everything, scientists have invented the “geological time scale” to help organize everything. I find the geological time scale confusing and will be using years whenever possible.

• The “Ediacaran extinction”; moving animals eating everything in their paths, ravishing the slow-moving microbic lands and oceans (540 million yrs. ago) • The “Cambrian of SPICE extinction”; short term carbon burial and surging oxygen levels killed marine invertebrates in a series of smaller extinctions (480 million yrs. ago) This leaves the more recent big five mass extinctions (loss of between 50% and 95% of living species):

• The “Ordovician Mass Extinction”; wholesale loss of tropical species brought about by rapid cooling (wobble in Earth’s axis) (450 million years ago) 44

result of a natural cause. The Ediacaran (540 million years ago) was the result of the life form (Ediacarans) devouring all editable life on the planet.

• The “Devonian Mass Extinction”; first greenhouse extinction impacting animal life in the seas (350 million yrs. ago) • The “Permian Mass Extinction”; release of hydrogen sulfide from sea bottoms resulting in a land and sea greenhouse extinction (250 million yrs. ago)

• Most of the recent extinctions seem to have included the impact of a greenhouse dynamic, with changes in the mix of oxygen, carbon dioxide and methane.

• The “Triassic Mass Extinction”; sudden rise in carbon dioxide, coupled with low oxygen levels led to a land and sea greenhouse extinction (200 million yrs. ago) • The “Cretaceous-Paleogene Mass Extinction” (K-T); combined greenhouse and impact (Chicxulub asteroid) extinction (65) million yrs. ago. Since this is the most recent, and also the one that wiped out the dinosaurs, it’s worth explaining that there was a one-two punch; before the asteroid hit, the Earth was already in the midst of one of the most extraordinary periods of flood basalt volcanism known during any time in history, warming the Earth quickly and leading to several greenhouse extinctions. Effects of impact include the burning of most of the planet’s forests in the first few days and subsequent acid rain, followed by six months of darkness, cold and starvation. The estimated loss of species is approx. 90% on land and in the seas. I think it is helpful to understand what has happened on our planet, and to the extent possible, know the causes and effects. The conclusions I’ve arrived at from my studies include:

• Yes, there have been extinctions; some more extensive than others • Extinction has generally taken a long time to fully manifest itself, and also a long time for life to emerge with mostly new and improved forms. • Causes of extinctions have been varied, as Earth has gone through it’s growing pains to get where we are today. But you can’t say that all were the 45

• Life forms have recovered and adapted into more complex entities, becoming more interdependent on the rest of the world and vulnerable to changes to their environment. Is it likely that we are in fact slipping and sliding into another greenhouse extinction? No one knows for sure what is going to happen in the future. What can be said is that history is usually a good early warning system. If it’s all about the composition of our atmosphere, we can be pretty sure of the answer. Keep your eyes on the carbon dioxide content. Also watch some of the key “tipping” points, ( the release of methane from the permafrost and the health of Earth’s forests). If this is really happening, can anything be done to change our course, and how much time do we have? Timing can be debated. These events usually take lots of time, but conditions have already been changing for quite a while. Mitigation will involve getting most of the 7 to 8 billion humans living currently living on the planet to make some painful short term sacrifices.....you can answer this one. As it has done in the past, the Earth will eventually fix any problem with an imbalance in the complex array of geophysical and biological systems that sustain us today, but sadly most of our existing and beautiful life forms could be lost forever.

Charlie Wagner Grandson of Helen & Whit Wagner

Terri Lodge

Have you ever watched a cloud grow?

Do you...

Anna Aldrich Granddaughter of Jeff & Pam Haas

Natural Art

Do you see my eyes? Do you know my thoughts? Have you ever watched a cloud grow? H2O pulled from the sea Spun around, formed like cotton Candy

Do you know my story?

Pushed by wind across the sky Shape shifting to all, in the minds eye

Do you know my heart’s desires?

A dinosaur, a seal, an eagle or a bat Sometimes a rabbit jumping out of a magic hat

Do you care?

A dark belly and humans are on the run White and wispy, and a dad looks at a son “let’s play a game, it’ll be fun... Yes I am listening

...Have you ever watched a cloud grow?”

01.

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Neen Hunt

01. Deb Ward - Wyoming Gold 02. David Patterson - SI Foxy 03. Michelle Borzillo - My Best Friend Patty

Scent Dogs

I searched for a large rock, or a thick stick, or a discarded tool that I could carry with me on my walk to the elementary school in Sapwalap, a village on the island of Pohnpei in Micronesia. I felt afraid of the many feral dogs that wandered the main road in search of discarded food bits and barked menacingly at newcomers to this tribal community. In my role as Peace Corps Education Specialist, I walked in the very early mornings to prepare my lessons in the school office because it had the most consistent electricity. A pack of mangy looking dogs of different sizes and shapes, baring teeth and lurching as if to attack, was a daily threat. My walk on the main road took me past a thatched roof dwelling with a square opening for a door. The rusted, windowless shell of a car served as a home for a straggly bush. A naked infant played and ran with a raggedy shoe when an older boy, busy shooting rubber bands, turned toward me as the dogs came running at me. Afraid to move, I looked to him for help. “shie! shie!” he screamed and hurled stones from his place. Backing off, the dogs slunk into the shade of a drooping palm branch. The dogs looked surprisingly similar with long snoots and pointed ears; a wiry tail and short fur were marks of beauty on bodies so thin, so bony. Many traveled alone; they were homeless and seemed lost as they meandered the roads in search of scraps, a marking spot, or a female to hump. 48

In time, I improved my search for “weapons” against the marauding dogs. Along my walks, I could always locate a throwing rock or sturdy stick; I now knew how to yell at the dogs so they would back off; I would keep moving even as they nipped at my heels or scooted ahead of me to block my path; I crossed the road when a strange dog moved toward me and shouted “shie!” if it came near and then raised my arm as if to toss a boulder, or strike them with my wooden spear. Then the day came when, beginning my walk to the school and preparing myself to fend off the canine foes, they did not approach me. I saw them in their usual spots--- on the sides of the road pissing and sniffing; stretched out in fatigue under a leafy tree; sitting with perked ears in front of a favorite home. I remained alert to an encounter as I walked steadily forward, but I was ignored. My “strangeness” was gone: I was recognized as a Pohnpein.

I only knew one dog that had a name. Lady, a short-legged mutt with a long torso, lived with Elizabeth, the mother of the Lukner family whose members had Clan status. With a torso the length of a Mexican sausage, and a belly misshapen and sagging under the weight of rows of stretched nipples, Lady made sure there was a steady supply of puppies that were all destined to land on a family’s dinner table. Lady snapped at her pups when their search for milk did not suit her timing; she growled at strangers; she howled melodiously at the sounds of roosters crowing in the early mornings; she followed on the heels of the women preparing food so she could feed on the garbage, her only meal; she growled and snarled at stray dogs invading her turf. Lady, always dragging and tired, ambled around searching for coolness and often stretched out on the cement step at the front door to my small house. She was a guard of sorts. 49

Jim Kothe

This fanciful trip back in time to when Spring Island was a hunting preserve is dedicated to Lucile Walker Hays (whose book Spring Island Plantation: A Remembrance inspired the story) and to honor her family. The Walkers not only owned the island, they created the vision of preserving and protecting this special place. Elisha and Lucile Walker were Long Island residents who shared many interests, including a passion for bird hunting. It provided a real change of pace for Elisha, who headed a family investment business on Wall Street. Their hunting trips had become a much anticipated annual event for both of them. But by 1964, Elisha decided he wanted to stop being someone else’s guest. He wanted to buy land for his own hunting plantation, so he hired a land broker to find a suitable property. The broker found a 3,000acre island in the Lowcountry of South Carolina that had been uninhabited for many years. The vegetation was over-grown and wild pigs were roaming all over it. It had no bridge, the only access was by boat or barge. It was called Spring Island, and after seeing it, Elisha, who had a creative mind, decided it was perfect! The island was being sold at a sealed bid auction. The Walker’s bid was accepted as the highest offer and in November 1964, Elisha and Lucile Walker became the proud owners of what they called “Spring Island Plantation.” Their oldest daughter, also named Lucile, then a 25-year-old living and working in New York City, told her friends: “My daddy just bought a jungle.” It took several years of hard work and investment to turn the island into a working hunting preserve. With no bridge, new docks were built to

The Invitation allow passenger boats and construction barges to go back and forth across Chechessee Creek. Roads needed to be built on the island. A main house, called Walker House, was designed, and built. A manager’s house was built, as were kennels for hunting dogs. Fields were cleared for crops to attract birds. Ponds were created to attract ducks. And the wild hogs had to be caught and taken off the island. Perhaps one of Elisha’s most important tasks was to find and hire someone to not only be the manager of the property, but who could also train the dogs and coordinate the hunting. It would be a rare individual who could do all three, but Elisha knew he had found his man when he interviewed Gordon Mobley in 1966. It took a few years before the island began to look like Elisha’s vision, but Gordon Mobley helped him remake the island into a successful hunting plantation with an active farming and timbering business. After the completion of a couple guest cottages on the island, the Walkers were able to establish a routine, inviting couples to spend a week at the island during the hunting season, but they always blocked out a week for each of their two daughters, Lucile and Elaine, to entertain their friends. Mrs. Walker was in charge of the handwritten invitations. It was a coveted invite for sure. Barbara Neville could tell it was something out of the ordinary. The handwriting on the envelope was bold. It just looked important. Addressed to her husband, she felt uneasy opening it without him, so she waited for him to return that evening from his office in San Francisco to their Mill Valley home in Marin County. 50

“You could have gone ahead and opened it,” Drew Neville said as he slit the envelope open with a letter opener. The card stock was thick. It was perfectly written with a fountain pen. “You won’t believe it, we’ve been invited to spend a week hunting at Elisha and Lucile Walker’s plantation down in South Carolina in October.”

“There’s the Gobbler all ready for you,” he said as he pointed to the boat with the funny name on the side. “I’ll take care of your bags,” he said as they climbed on board.

“But why us?” Came Barbara’s immediate response. “Well,” answered Drew, “you remember, he’s the fellow I met during my trip to New York last May at that Choate School Reunion. There’s quite a difference in our ages, he’s class of ‘29, me ‘59, but we discovered we’re both in the investment business. I was able to help him out on a deal he did this summer with a clothing manufacturer down in LA. He called wanting to know if I knew the management, and it turned out that I knew someone who knew someone, and they went ahead with the deal. I guess this is his way of saying thank you.”

“We have some great fishing here,” said the driver. “I’m sure you’ll find time to cast a line.”

“That’s my fly rod in that tube,” said Drew. “Just want to make sure it makes it across.”

On Monday morning the island seemed quiet to Drew and Barbara as they drank coffee sitting on the small, screened porch of their guest cottage, which they shared with a couple from New York. “What time does it all begin?” asked Barbara. “We’re supposed to be up by that big flagpole by 9 A.M. for the quail hunt,” he replied as he pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. The watch was uniquely different from all the wrist watches that most people used. It was even more special to Drew because it had been a wedding present that Barbara had given him on their wedding night back in 1965.

“But hunting!” she cried out, “What a scream. I’ve never even shot a gun.” “Well,” he replied, “you have a month to learn, ‘cause we’re going!”

“We have 15 minutes,” he said, “we better start heading that way.”

The tradition the Walkers had established was arrival on Sunday, five days of hunting and then departure on Saturday. The Neville’s flight arrived on-time in Savannah Sunday afternoon. A car and driver were waiting for them at the airport. It was mid-October, but it was still warm, especially for people coming from the San Francisco Bay Area. “You’ve come at probably the best time of the year,” said the driver. “You’re just lucky you weren’t here in July. That’s when it’s really hot!”

When they got there, what they saw made them feel like they had walked back in time. There was a supply wagon pulled by two mules. A few fellows, holding onto four already saddled horses, were there to help them mount, and there were two beautiful bird dogs running around, making it clear they were ready to go. Gordon Mobley, the island manager and jack-ofall-trades, greeted them. He would lead them on the quail hunt. “We should run into several coveys today,” said Gordon. “We’ll take turns, two up on horses while the other two are down, shooting. Let’s get us some birds!”

“I’m not sure I brought the right clothes,” said Barbara. “You always say that,” said Drew. “You’ll be fine.” After a thirty minute drive, the driver left the two lane highway 170 and turned down a gravel road which then became a dirt road as he made his way through the Chechessee community, finally stopping at the dock across the river from Spring Island.

As they started out they went down the main road that had live oaks planted on each side. “Are these trees newly planted?” asked Barbara. 51

cont’d from page 51 “Yes,” said Gordon, “these trees were Mr. Walker’s idea and it has been his favorite project on the island. In fact, I’d say he views it as his most important project. Some folks may get to plant a tree, but very few ever get to plant an avenue of trees. It’s called an allée, and that’s all the French I know,” he laughed. “Just imagine what this will look like 50 years from now,” said Drew. By noon, they had already had plenty of action. They stopped at a picnic table out in the woods for lunch. Drew had shot two quail, while Barbara was still in search of her first bird. She had a couple opportunities, but had missed, despite the shooting lessons she had taken back in California. Gordon Mobley spent the morning kindly trying to share a lifetime of his shooting wisdom with her. Sure enough, she seemed to finally catch on to the “lead the bird” concept and in the afternoon, she shot her first quail. At 5 PM the shoot was over. The wagon and horses slowly headed back to the Walker House, once again passing through Mr. Walker’s live oak allée.

Upon arrival, they enjoyed a much deserved cocktail served with appetizers. Elisha and Lucile Walker were consummate hosts, making sure everyone was attended to for beverages, food, and conversation. “Let me have your attention,” spoke up Elisha. “Tonight, we have some first timers to Spring Island, Drew, and Barbara Neville, from Mill Valley, California. And each of them shot a bird today. Now it is our tradition to give a memento of this occasion. I would like to present them with these silver pins with our recently created Spring Island Plantation logo on them. Congratulations to you both!” The pins had an engraved palmetto tree and also a quail, duck, dove, turkey and a crab with the words “Spring Island” on the top. “This is just great,” Drew said, “we really appreciate the entire experience. What a day!” “And what a special place!” added Barbara.

Sandy Stuart

Mier Expedition Santa Anna was determined to defeat these upstart Texians. The battle, which was really more of a siege, began in February 1836. About 100 soldiers commanded by William Barret Travis and Jim Bowie, renowned knife fighter, were garrisoned at the Alamo, a Spanish mission in San Antonio and although Travis sent repeated pleas for reinforcements to James Fannin in Goliad as well as to Sam Houston.... neither man responded. Davy Crockett, a former congressman and frontiersman from Tennessee arrived with a group of volunteers, and others joined to bring the total number to around 187 men. According to legend, with the possibility of additional help fading, Colonel Travis drew a line in the sand with the tip of his sword and asked any man willing to stay and fight to step over. All except one did so.

Texans are known for hyperbole about themselves and their state but here is a story that happens to be true and is not well known. The Mier Expedition is a Texas sized tale of bravery and determination from the first half of the 19th century. It was the last and most disastrous of all the raiding expeditions from Texas into Mexico that took place after Texas Independence in 1836. And as it turns out, I had a personal stake in its outcome. In our family it is known as The Black Bean Incident, and it was one my mother loved to relate to unsuspecting dinner partners. What she would say after the gentleman had seated himself was: “Oh, I see you’ve drawn the Black Bean”... and then explain why. She was most discouraged that the story was omitted from a certain daughter’s wedding announcement in the New York Times not once, but twice.

In a letter written on the eve of the final assault, Travis said; “I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor and that of his countryVICTORY OR DEATH.”

First, a little background. There were skirmishes between the Texians—the preferred name for residents of Texas before statehood—and Mexican forces, but it was the dictator Santa Anna’s assault on the Alamo became the most famous in Texas history.

As everyone surely knows, it did not turn out well for the Texians. The end came on March 6, 1836-- four days after Texas issued its Declaration of

[Spring Island Plantation, SC - October 1970] 52

cont’d from page 53

Mexico, however, refused to acknowledge its status and raiding expeditions continued between the two countries.

Independence from Mexico. After surviving a 12day siege by the Mexican army of 1500 soldiers, the defenders of the Alamo were overwhelmed on the 13th day and massacred to a man. Santa Anna’s cruelty inspired many settlers and adventurers from the United States to rush to aid the Texian army.

One of these was the Mier Expedition, a mutinous outgrowth of yet another raiding party, the Somervell Expedition. A splinter group was so dissatisfied with the order to return home that they disobeyed the command because they wanted to steal more cattle and horses from the Mexicans.

From the Alamo, Santa Anna proceeded to Goliad where he defeated James Fannin and his men. Despite solemn assurances to Fannin of fair treatment for his men, those captured were executed on Palm Sunday, March 27, 1836, three weeks after the fall of The Alamo, in what became known as the Goliad Massacre. From there, Santa Anna continued his march east towards the Gulf of Mexico.

About 300 soldiers moved down the Rio Grande opposite the Mexican town of Mier, crossed the river on December 23, 1842 and occupied the town without opposition. They returned to their camp later that day after the town mayor promised to deliver supplies that the Texans had demanded to their camp.

And where was General Sam Houston, the putative leader of the Texas army, amidst all this carnage? He was in retreat, biding his time, recruiting additions to his meager army, and waiting for the right moment to confront the Mexican dictator. That moment came less than two months after the fall of the Alamo. On April 21st at the town of San Jacinto near the Gulf of Mexico the Texians, numbered around 750, faced at least twice that many Mexicans fresh from their slaughters at The Alamo and Goliad. Houston managed to outwit Santa Anna by attacking during the midday siesta. The folk tale is that a woman by the name of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” was sent to distract Santa Anna, thereby leaving him and his soldiers unaware of impending assault. Santa Anna also neglected to assign lookout sentries so that Houston’s attack was a complete surprise. The Texans led the charge with shouts of “Remember the Alamo” and “Remember Goliad” and within a short time, 700 Mexicans were slain, with another 730 taken as prisoners. The battle for Texas was won in 18 minutes. For the victorious Texans, San Jacinto was the pivotal moment in Texas history. They had claimed their independence from Mexico and established a new Republic, with Sam Houston as the first president.

Meanwhile, Mexican General Pedro Ampudia arrived at Mier and prevented delivery of the supplies. When the rations were not delivered as promised, the Texans re-entered Mier on Christmas day, this time by force. The Texans, outnumbered by about ten to one, lost thirty-one men and the Mexicans lost hundreds. However, the Texan’s rations dwindled rapidly, and they ultimately agreed to surrender. Ominously, as matters developed, the terms of surrender were not well defined. The Texans claimed they had surrendered as prisoners of war and according to the terms, should be treated with “consideration.” Later, in what many veterans of Mier viewed as a cold-hearted betrayal, President Sam Houston announced that the men had acted without the authority of the Texas government, leaving the impression that they were not entitled to treatment as prisoners of war unless the Mexican government wished to treat them as such. It did not. The Texas prisoners managed to escape their captors at the town of Salado but were recaptured before they could make their way back across the border to Texas, weakened by their ordeal and overcome by the harsh conditions of the Mexican landscape. The recaptured escapees, now totaling 176, were sentenced to death by none other than Santa 54

as the black beans failed to depress, so did the white fail to elate.”

Anna. Diplomatic efforts by the foreign ministers of the United States and Great Britain led the dictator to agree to a compromise. Instead of executing all of them, the prisoners would be punished by “decimation,” meaning one in ten were to be executed as determined by lottery. It became known as The Black Bean Incident.

General Greene goes on report on the courage and bravado the soldiers displayed when “the fatal bean” was drawn. Major Cocked “held the bean up between his forefinger and thumb, and with a smile of contempt, said ‘Boys, I told you so; I never failed in my life to draw a prize.’

In Salado on March 25, 1843 the prisoners were assembled at dusk and forced to draw from a wooden bowl, the opening covered by a handkerchief to hide the 17 dried black beans and 159 white beans. Those who drew a white bean got to live, and those who drew a black bean were executed. Frederick Remington depicted this story in a painting that hangs in the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston. Fortunately, we have a record of what happened from numerous participants, perhaps most notably from General Thomas J. Greene, whose journal gives an emotional recounting of the drawing of the beans. His account offers a vivid rendition of this life or death lottery, and the courage of the men who participated in it.

“A manly gloom and a proud defiance pervaded all countenances… The decimation took place by the drawing of black and white beans from a small earthen mug. The white ones signified exemption, and the black, death. One hundred and fifty-nine white beans were placed in the bottom of the mug, and seventeen black ones placed upon the top of them. The beans were not stirred and had so slight a shake that it was perfectly clear they had not been mixed together. Such was their anxiety to execute Captain Cameron, and perhaps the balance of the officers, that first Cameron, and afterward they, were made to draw a bean each from the mug in this condition. Cameron said, with his usual coolness, “Well, boys, we have to draw, let’s be at it;” so saying, he thrust his hand into the mug, and drew out a white bean… Next came Captain Eastland, who drew the first black one, and then came the balance of the men. They all drew their beans with that manly dignity and firmness which showed them superior to their condition…None showed change of countenance; and 55

Or consider Green’s account of Henry Whaling as he drew his black bean and then “demanded his dinner in a firm tone and saying that ‘they shall not cheat me out of it,’ he ate heartily, smoked a cigar, and in twenty minutes after was launched into eternity! The Mexicans said that this man had the biggest heart of any they ever saw.” The drawing of the beans complete, those to be decimated were brutally executed, as Greene recounts, by an officer who “fired at several paces, and continued the firing from ten to twelve minutes, lacerating and mangling these heroes in a manner too horrible for description.” The remaining prisoners were marched to Mexico City where they were transferred to Perote Prison, a highly secure stone fortress east of Mexico City chosen for prisoners from the Republic of Texas. Here, they either died, escaped, or remained until the last of the group was released on September 16, 1844 when Jose Herrera overthrew Santa Anna. One of the prisoners, Henry Journeay, managed to surreptitiously carve a violin which he played to pass the time with his fellow prisoners. The violin is today stored at the Texas Historical Society. I end this tale of heroic acts of defiance and sorrow--and the carving a rather unique violin-with one bit of especially good news, at least for my family and me. We know Henry Journeay survived the Black Bean Lottery not only because of the story and existence of his violin but also because he is my maternal great great grandfather. You see, my mother’s maiden name was Ann Journeay.

01.

02.

Susan Ambrecht

Blue Waters Chapter One 01. Kristen Ward - Toco Tucan 02. Brooke Cragan - Waterfall Tomatoes

This excerpt is Chapter One of a book entitled Damn D’s of Blue Waters by Sue Ambrecht. The story is about a group of 8 older women who live in a special town, searching for friendships with newly discovered time on their hands. Chapter One is a description of Blue Waters.

“When first arriving in Blue

Waters, one could not help but notice that almost every detail was picture perfect ”

look at that one…it is such a deep shade…. almost the color of the raspberries in my back garden…how did it happen?’ Lizzie chuckled, …” maybe it is our Lord’s way of showing us diversity.” She believed she had a way with words, and she did.

This unique town carefully captured the hearts of almost all residents and visitors. Hugh Haskell, the premier and well-known local Realtor, loved to boast, “Look around; there is just nothing out of place here,” and, in fact, he was right on. When first arriving in Blue Waters, one could not help but notice that almost every detail was picture perfect: flowers and palms and mangroves abundant, swooping seagulls, darting crabs, strutting egrets…all offset by blueness. Blue everywhere...the ocean, lakes and rivers reflecting clear skies, even the hydrangeas planted in most yards. Occasionally, a random pink one would appear due to unusual soil, but no one seemed to mind, and it did not interfere with the over-all beauty the homeowners coveted. Elderly Mrs. Lizzie Pope remarked, “Oh,

Was this town too perfect? I once heard a cocky kid say to his friend when they stopped at the Pharmacy to buy two cokes, “This town is a bore… totally unreal. Makes you want to do something to upset the local ‘prissies’…how about I hit one of those perfect little flower boxes lining the sidewalks? Umm…Maybe not…they probably cost a small fortune and might leave a damn dent on my car…. If money was no issue I would do it: the dirty looks and local reaction would be worth a fortune.” On second thought, and, in a flash of rare enlightenment, 57

featuring the best of the best croissants—butter, almond and chocolate …with raspberry and rhubarb and apricot jams and even local mangrove honey—all touted as the perfect complement for the bakery’s perfect pastries. Children learned about special treats and competition early on….and were frequently rewarded with the best-of-the-best ice cream topped with colored sprinkles for an athletic accomplishment or important academic grade. “Brooke got an A on her Art Project; Johnny scored yet another crucial goal.” These parents were proud, and their children’s achievements cast a bit of light on them as well.

cont’d from page 57 he decided to mind his business, drive through the town he considered so weird, and forget this picture-perfect collection of buildings. He totally missed the less obvious and unpublicized Westside of Blue Waters which had an entirely different vibe, and one that might have been familiar to him. This kid was not a happy one and surely not interested in aesthetics; I decided it best to disregard his negativity because the East Side of Blue Waters was, in fact, close to perfection…and possessed a well-deserved reputation for a multitude of reasons. It had a desirable and easily accessible location as well as a thriving economy…new residents chose it for all it represented and offered to those busily climbing. Social friendships would be appropriate and might offer valuable in-roads and introductions. Nicknamed BW by the locals, it was considered THE place to be and raise a family IF one had the necessary funds. Children would make proper friendships here and be safe. No one mentioned these givens out loud, but everyone knew of their existence.

Izzy’s Ice Cream Bar often had a long line, and no one seemed to mind the prices. Blue Waters’ High School soccer hero, Johnny Jay, was often there. He was loved and spoiled by his adoring parents and was, in fact, so revered by his contemporaries that he rarely waited in line but was moved to the front by sportsworshiping classmates. “Hey, Johnny, …. Come here… your game was great today. Those Tigers deserved what they got. They won the Regionals last season…no way this year.” Johnny’s family hoped he would win a ‘free ride’ to college with his soccer skills; the prestige would be wonderful and something to talk about for years to come. It might help define him and his future and give him some slack from life’s daily push. The High School Guidance Counselor inwardly believed this terribly unfair. “Were these scholarships not meant for the disadvantaged?....and not… for a family collecting rent from half of the downtown buildings?” You would rarely see Westside children winning these prizes although they were the ones most in need… and you would, likewise, almost never see them standing in line to buy a pricey treat at Izzy’s; they would go to the local grocery store for their frozen treats.

Houses were grand and not so but all interesting in their own way. The larger homes with manicured lawns and nothing out of place spoke for themselves; they also spoke of their owners’ financial success, and of their gardeners’ expertise. Most smaller so-called ‘starter’ homes radiated charm: picket fences…magenta, deep purple or red bougainvillea draped over arches near front doors… pastel exteriors with coordinated colored shutters…. all of this beauty gladly publicized by the very efficient Chamber of Commerce. Local Real Estate Companies ran photos in the nationwide glossies, and this town became noticed and talked about…it had charisma, it had class, and it would tolerate no crime.

The state-of-the-art newly constructed Blue Waters’ Concert Hall attracted well-known entertainment who, in turn, attracted large crowds. Harry Connick, Jr., Taylor Swift, Jon Bon Jovi and so many more had all graced the stage and delighted the crowds. The diverse talent was compensated generously and often stayed for a re-charge after their performances were concluded. They, too, wanted to enjoy the superb weather and abundant shopping opportunities.

Even the downtown area exuded specialness: no strip malls, no chain stores…. just brick buildings covered with creeping ivy, comfortable benches, and flower boxes strategically placed. Coffee shops with seasonal specialties, fashion-conscious boutiques, choice butcher and cheese shops, a French Patisserie 58

Miss Swift loved the boutiques, and Harry’s wife, Jill, was heard inquiring, “Are there any new antique shops in town or up-coming Auctions? I have had so much fun here …I am looking for special touches for our new home. Last year I found so many interesting pieces and small items that I love and have worked out really beautifully.”

the Blue Waters Hospital. The Hospital, also, had a trendy ‘Wellness Center’ headed by Doctors Amato and Amato. They looked to keep the town healthy and current with regard to what was new in the field of medicine. Diets and exercise became newly important to so many thanks to this team of health-conscious Doctors who believed in precautionary measures. This town also had social causes and benefits for those feeling the need to think further than themselves. The annual Blue Water Hospital Benefit typically raised hundreds of thousands of dollars, and Governor Ripple once described it as “a fund-raising model others would do well to follow.” He was so impressed with this event that he usually brought his wife, Priscilla, and that, in itself, spoke volumes. Governor and Mrs. Ripple found that they needed to be selective with their choice of fund-raisers… requests for their presence numbered in the hundreds each year. There were always too many asks and not enough hours.

Mr. Bon Jovi’s interest was in food, and he visited BW’s only farm-to-table establishment, Earth-to-Eat, looking for ideas for his New Jersey restaurants. Sometimes he visited the Westside looking for normalcy and reality; the Westside locals agreed quite simply that” he’s really great.” Most understood his generosity and were thankful that he felt the importance of giving back. I heard how graciously he treated patrons visiting his family’s restaurants; they operated on a pay-what-you-can basis. Customers pledged volunteer hours if they were short on funds. He never made his thoughtfulness a big deal nor allowed anyone to become uncomfortable; it was just the way he and his wife, Dorothea, wanted it done. Their JBJ Soul Kitchens were well known in the Garden State, and he was about to open a new one in Newark to benefit struggling, hungry college kids. He was interviewed on the local TV station, “These kids work hard to pay tuition so they will not be strapped for years with debt…let’s help them with the food part.” From that cause, he moved on to Jersey4Jersey which aimed to help those negatively impacted by the CoVid 19 situation. So many agreed that he was talented in more ways than one. The Bon Jovi’s wondered if there was room for one of their Soul Kitchens in Blue Waters. They would do their research and make a decision. This town, however, was not just another pretty girl. It was known for far more than frivolous shopping, antique shops and auctions; it offered Blue Ribbon schools and a well-funded hospital recognized for healing as well as research and training …it had attracted a top Cardiologist, Dr. David Kontulis and his brilliant wife, Annabelle, whose expertise was meant for Lab work; she was an epidemiologist capable of discovering what others missed. Might she develop the vaccine so needed these days? Her opinions and work were well-known worldwide. These two Doctors were quite a team and an unbelievable addition to 59

For the fitness conscious, there was Yoga, Pilates, recreational facilities and parks with the Doctors’ Amato team approving design and monitoring effectiveness. … no reason in BW for any discontent IF you lived east of the train tracks…. just no fault to find by any reasonable person although, of course, there was the occasional malcontent who had a need to bask in his or her very own unhappiness. Some were raised with too much time to think about themselves as well as welcoming excessive privileges with open arms… some eventually became totally lost in their world of entitlement. Many parents wanted their children to have more than had been given to them and did not realize that they might inadvertently be creating walking nightmares who would re-visit them down the road for an extra boost or hand-out. This haunting might not have happened yet but, for some families, it was only a matter of time. The downside of Blue Waters was immediately west of the railroad tracks, ordinarily referred to quite simply as the ‘Westside,” and there was little blue water there. Here lived the support people who would make the contented even more content. It was also here that the socially conscious who lived on the East Side would direct their benevolent efforts. Most do-

cont’d from page 59 gooders had big hearts: they wove their magic, tapped all their resources and worked long hours securing items for auctions; they arranged tower shoots and golf tournaments—all to help provide assistance for those who could use an assist. They asked others “to give more, donate more” …. all for the good of the town as well as their own feelings of self-worth. The majority of people who lived on the west side of the railroad tracks, which ran in a north-south direction through Blue Waters, worked for simple survival as well as hopes for upward mobility. Their homes were not ordinarily surrounded by flower gardens as there were too few hours in the day to weed or nourish more living things. Their children were not accustomed to seeing colorful petunias or zinnias blooming just outside their front doors. Flowering shrubs did not define the borders of their property…a chain link fence would often have to do. Even Hank Jones, the well-known gardener in great demand on the east side of town, had little time to care for his own property. He often said that “He wished he had more time for a flower garden for his Clara…or to even grow some tomatoes to make sauce.” His wife, Clara, cleaned rooms in the downtown Grandview Hotel on weekdays and took other extra work as time permitted; their children, Clarissa and George, were often left to fend for themselves. Hank and Clara adored their children; this was not a situation they liked; it was just the way it had to be. Clarissa had safely arrived at a worrisome age, but her future safety was never far from their minds. She seemed to be easily influenced and had a friend named Bess who appeared to be totally unsupervised and stopped by at any hour: she did not seem to have any respect for schedules or appropriateness, and, apparently, had no guidance from home. The girls spent hours in Clarissa’s room discussing who-knowswhat with music blaring. “Was that shuffling sound some kind of new dance?” Clara tried to contact Bess’ parents, but phone calls were never returned, and no one answered their door. Who was watching over her? They even mentioned the situation to Rev. Claude who

There were no grandparents close by for Clara and Hank to rely on for their own children and no funds for a responsible adult to supervise Clarissa and Georgie when they were out working extra jobs. They kept their fingers crossed and hoped for the best. Clarissa, of course, would have hated the idea that anyone might be watching over her. She was a free spirit and wanted no outside intervention nor interference; she thought Bess the greatest and admired her total independence. She did not understand that Bess might be hurting inside. Hank and Clara had a hard time caring for their own no less Bess but…they were good people and thought of others as time allowed. Hank hoped that both he and his wife were teaching their children by example. He needed to believe that, “Hard work would be rewarded.” Maybe not today nor tomorrow but somewhere down the road. Sometimes homes fell into disrepair; Hank, Clara and other parents had choices to make…food or paint. Many of the Westside parent’s long work hours left little time for family picnics or beach time, and this shortage of niceties caused occasional unrest and feelings of social unfairness. Bess and Clarissa thought it “totally unfair that they had no money to attend the local Carnival.” Georgie was usually oblivious to social situations; all he needed was a good book to make him happy. The few funds that Clarissa made would not be enough for her and her friend. They did sneak on the Ferris Wheel and even stole a wand of cotton candy. These were small misbehaviors… and I hoped that these would not lead to larger ones. Most of these children would not spend summers at camp nor toast marshmallows over campfires…they would not be taking tennis or swimming lessons. Disneyland was only a dream. Oftentimes, the parents’ best hope was to keep them 60

not consume his thinking nor capture his mind; Hank and Clara were convinced that his future would hold more than cutting lawns and pruning shrubs. He was ten, not a complicated age, and his motives and actions were ordinarily transparent.

off the streets until they, too, could start working. Jobs meant supervision and structure…exactly what Clarissa needed. She did scoop ice cream at Izzy’s after school which was a good thing; it gave her spending money and a chance to buy herself some new clothes. At fifteen, a flouncy dress or skirt made her feel pretty and important and noticed. Bess might even think she was cool. Her parents often worried about this friendship but believed Izzy’s Ice Cream Bar was the beginning of the development of a work ethic which would serve her well. They did not understand that this same job might foster resentment as she observed others with so much more than she owned. One boy said, “Hey, you…. I said two scoops. What did you not hear?” Clarissa was part of a younger generation who were not necessarily accepting of living on the wrong side of the tracks and picked up on being treated as an inferior.

could find no additional information about who might be looking out for her. Rev. Claude counseled them, “You do the best for your own and then pass along what you might have left over…Let me see if I can find out where Bess’ Momma is.” He never did; it was a strange situation.

At times, Hank thought about asking his employers for more work hours or higher compensation, but his generation had been taught the importance of needing to know one’s place and not pushing one’s luck. He wished he could provide more positives for his family, and his best hope at the moment was for Georgie. He hoped that “Some of the fancy ladies on the other side of town might take him under their wing or make him their cause.” His fingers were crossed; he swore an oath to himself that his sweet clever boy would somehow receive that extra bit of good fortune. No one was asking for any favors; he deserved every good thing that might come his way. Hank would have to figure out how to get this done; it could be touchy; it had to be done correctly.

Georgie, on the other hand, was a homebody who loved reading. He would never be a part of the emerging group of keyboard warriors…he loved the written word and the art of turning pages. Never enough books for him and social media excess would

01. Lorraine G Pardee - Sailing 02. Sharie Maloney - Red Sky Morning