Impressions 1990 by Dickinson State University

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CONTENTS Maude, the Weed Tree by Margaret Barnhart .••.••.•... 3 * Lino Print, "OWls" by Jim Schneider •. 4 * "Untitled Short Story" by carmelle Bjurstom ........... 5 Woodcut print by Gary Link .•........ ll "The Babbling Brook" by Mary Ellen Nelson .........•.• l2 Chimney by Arlyss Rude ..•........... l4 +Ink Drawing by Joyce Binstock ....... l5 + Listen to the People by PatFerryman ........ l6 Lino Print by Debbie Jeannotte ....... l7 +God My Father by Constance Walter ... l8 Line drawing by Wanda cassenzza ..... 21 Split Pea Soup by Mark Seyler ......• 22 BfW photo "HOT •• " by Carmen Dolen ••• 25 The Director and The Actress by Yvonne Seifert •..••••... 26 Fable of The Apple People by Margaret Barnhart ....••. 28 Making Of an Athiest by Elizabeth MacDuffie ••... 32 Ink Drawing by Sean Pavlicek ...•.... 35 *Money by Yvonne Seifert ...•••....... 36 + BfW photo by Beni Privatsky ......... 38 FEAST OR FAMINE by Dr. Dave Solheim.39 BJW Photo by Carmen Dolen ....•...•.• 40 Memories by Pat Ferryman ..........•• 41 An Unmistakable Melody + Storm of Emotion by Roberta Thompson ..•..•.. 45 Sketch by Gary Link ..•......•..•.... 46 +Emotions by Edith Ehness ......•..... 47 Aftermath by Margaret Barnhart •••..... 50 Waking At Night by Dr. Dave Solheim ... 51 * Denotes first place winners in the student contest. + Denotes Runners up in the student contest.

impressions

Editorial staff Mary Ellen Nelson Gary Link carmen Dolen

Editorial Advisor--Dave Solheim Cover Design-- Gary Link

Copyright 1990 by the editors of Impressions . All future rights to material published in this journal belong to the individual authors, and any reproduction or reprinting of this material may be done only with their permission .

MAUDE,THE WEED TREE by Margaret Barnhart

"Some are born great Some achieve greatness Some have greatness thrust upon them " - William Shakespeare She wears a memorial plaque On the stump of a missing limb Proclaiming her the grandest of her kind Siberian Elm-- the weed of trees Her grandeur is in stature Her greatness in girth Silent and proud she stands Progenitor of weedlings That tenaciously tap their roots Into lawns and gardens Seams of streets and window wells Proving greatness in the simple verb " to be " And magnificence in mediocrity .

LINO PRINT By Jim Schneider {lst place--Visual Art)

UNTITLED SHORT STORY First place--Prose by Carmelle Bjurstrom

The short, angry man looked rather comical as he shook his fist in the air, raging at the group of men outside . Scram, you lazy dogs! You're scarin ' off my customers! " he said, then spat at the sidewalk . Some ignored him, some laughed, but others shifted slowly to the shaded side of the shiny metal building. A fat, black labrador bitch slinked past him, circled a shady spot and lay down gingerly. She watched the man drowsily, panting from the heat. The man cursed , threw up his hands in disgust, and marched inside. He brushed the tiny beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Squeezing behind the counter, he plopped on the torn vinyl stool and turned on an old rerun of "Lassie" . He'd seen them all before . He glanced outside. A few men crouched on the sidewalk; others leaned against the building smoking, talking and staring at the passing cars. "What a life, " he muttered . It was always the same scene, every season of every year. Ten years! Sam had come to the desert ten years ago . He had big plans then . He'd make it big. The store and gas station was a gold mine! Not another one around for thirty miles! And the price was right . Hell, it was a steal! If he worked alone, from opening to closing, he had expected to be retired and fishing in Colorado in three years . But something didn't work . His plans 5

went screwy, shot to hell by them. He glared through the window. A previous owner had named the place the Alamo, and the name just stuck. Maybe the name hurt his business; he didn't know . White folks seldom stopped, but superstition wasn't the deal . It was that hoard of Mexicans that hung around outside. They were always there, waiting ... for someone or something. At first, he had pitied them . They had nothing to do, nowhere to go. He'd even tried to talk to them; to get along. That was a long time ago; before they'd wrecked his plans. Now, to make matters worse, they were his sole support . He couldn't thank them for that . A man had to make a living. The dog, Lady, whined at the door and a tall, dark boy let her in. He asked for matches Sam charged him a dime and thanked him for his business. The boy only laughed and sauntered back outside . Outside, a Greyhound bus roared along the flat highway. it was like clockwork. One would pass three times, every day. It was loaded with illegals heading back to the border . How the hell they all got through puzzled Sam . What they wanted here puzzled him even mote . Oh, he could tell them a few things about paradise ; this God forsaken desert wasn ' t it. The bell rang and a small Mexican family shuffled into the store. The short, pretty woman spoke sharply in Spanish, to two dark little girls, who were fingering the stuff from the candy shelf . "Eh, Carlos!" Sam greeted the man. He looked dusty and tired . He moved to the counter . You been working those grape fields? 6

I hear harvest is almost up . Good thing, too; too damned hot for that. " Sam offered him a cigarette, but he refused . " One hundred and sixteen degrees . .. in the shade. Genna be worse tomorrow , I hear. No sir, they couldn ' t pay me enough to work those fields!" Carlos only shrugged and stared through the window uneasily . " I need boots today ." He spoke quietly, with short pauses between each word. " Boots? Yes , Sir! I saved you a pair . They ' re going fast, I tell you. They ' re in the back. Come and see . Hey how 'bout a pair for the esposa? They ' re all on sale, you know !" Sam laughed heartily, clapped a hand on Carlos' shoulder, and pushed him towards the back of the store. The woman followed silently with her girls . Sam lift them in the back to browse . " Nice fella, " he thought, but winced and scolded himself. " You ' ve been here too long, Sam ol ' boy , Gettin ' soft." The heat was getting to him; the back of his collar was damp with sweat . Even his fingers were swollen as his body fought to reserve all the moisture it could. The heat stifled . Even now, with the sun drifting into the surrounding mountains, the flat grey desert below seethed . The worst was the stench that the easterly wind carried from the irrigation run- off. The smell, much like sewer, was overpowering. When a person first came to it, he ' d be plagued with queasiness for weeks . Sam started as the old dog gave a yelp from the corner. Her ears pricked forward as the distant howl of coyotes echoed from outside. " Go get ' em Lady!" 7

Sam laughed. She was too smart for that! Desert coyotes are desperate characters. Half the size of coyotes anywhere else, they had to fight like hell to stay alive . Most of them lived on lizards and an occasional rabbit, but the smart ones ... the smart ones ran in packs. Sam had heard their story . They worked with a plan too . They would have a leader. He was the one that approached a man ' s house. He ' d howl; enough to lure a man ' s dog into the desert . If a dog wasn ' t careful, he ' d follow too far. The pack would attack and he wouldn ' t have a chance. Sam shivered. The thought of canine teeth tearing canine flesh .... Sam watched the approaching Bronco. It was red and grey ... Boarder Patrol! He drew in his breath. They usually stopped once or twice a day . They never stopped at night. Now what's the deal? He grimaced . He sure didn ' t need any trouble . Two lanky, uniformed men stepped out, exchanged a few words, and walked slowly towards the store . Sam hurriedly dropped away from the window and opened a magazine . They entered and strolled over to the counter. "What can I de for you boys?" Sam smiled . " You ' re out a bit late, aren't you? " "We're looking for this man, " the older of the two men said . He dangled a small black and white photograph in front of Sam's face. "What 's the guy done? Is he illegal? " Sam asked carefully. " No, he ' s a citizen. " The younger man spoke, his excitement barely controlled . You see, we have word that he ' s been 8

taking some of Them across. You know, for the right price .... You seen him? He's been spotted around here." "Well ... I ... "Sam stopped. He glanced quickly to the back of the store. "Thank you." The older man 's eyes twinkled with appreciation. He loved his job , Sam was sure . Both men turned and walked slowly, warily through the aisles to the back. Sam hadn ' t noticed her there before. Across the room, holding a half a gallon of milk which she'd taken from the cooler, was the woman. He felt the color drain from his face. A chill ran through him, causing the hair to stand on his arms . As he turned away, he heard the thump. He swung around, but she still stood there. She had dropped the milk. The carton had exploded, splashing her bright blue dress , running down her legs and into her shoes . He stared at her, unable to speak or to move. That pretty little face showed no contempt, no anger; no emotion at all . The officers led the handcuffed Carlos, shaken and confused, through the store. The two little girls, their dark eyes shining with fear, ran to their mother, and clung to her wet skirt. Carlos was taken outside and shoved into the back seat . The Bronco sped away. The woman carne to the counter. "How much?" She motioned to the milk, which had settled into puddles around the cooler . Sam was taken by surprise "No, you never mind that ... r ... " he stammered nervously, but she stopped him firmly. "Hmv much?" He shook his head in 9

protest . By God! She ' d have to pay for it! He took her money, returned her change, and thanked her for her business . He watched as she urged the two girls into the old blue car. A hell of a woman. No fits. No tears. These people sure were strange . He guessed he ' d never figure them out. Well, too bad about Carlos . Sam sat back on his stool. That one was no better than a lowdown drug pusher . Far worse! He was pushing the American Dream. Sam reached over and cranked up his television. The old dog walked tenderly to the spilled milk, sniffed it, then padded out the back door. She sat there for a few minutes, listening . She yawned and scratched her ear . She got up, and walked slowly, deliberately,too far into the dark .

WOODCUT

by Gary Link

THE BABBLING BROOK by Mary Ellen Nelson

A brook is like a good friend in whom you can confide and be sure he will keep all your secrets . He will never give you any unwanted advice or criticism and, although his moods change with the seasons, he will always be available when you need him . In the wintertime, the brook is cold, silent, and indifferent--yet, somehow inviting and peaceful . As the frozen surface sparkles in the sunlight, the banks--covered in a white blanket of snow--snuggle close to the icy edge of the brook. The icy surface of the brook glistens like diamonds, and where in spring and summer, the water tumbled over a rocky ledge to form a miniature waterfall, there is now an exquisite frozen sculpture with prisms of colored light . In early spring, when the snow and the ice are melting and our little brook is over- filled, it is as though he is suddenly angry. The rushing, roaring stream takes the place of the quiet, peaceful solitude of the frozen brook and he now seems to be scolding whomever will listen; he has been awakened from his long winter's slumber . Soon our friend, the brook, reconciles himself to the new season and he gracefully eases into summer. Now he becomes a gracious host, welcoming all who come to his banks for refreshment. The deer, rabbit, birds, and other wildlife, as well as the farm animals and 12

the nearby plant-life, all thrive on the glistening clear water of the brook. He gives freely of himself and does not mind if his guests wish to wade or swim for refreshment. This is a nice time to visit the brook, because he seems to talk to you. You can talk about anything and his babbling, whispering answers can be whatever you imagine them ~o mean. He is a vital, life-giving force that is beautiful to gaze upon. Surrounded by wild rosebushes, green grass, and other plants, he reflects the blue sky and sparkles in the sunlight; Yet, on a cloudy day, he is equally appealing as he flows cloaked in a mist which gives a dream-like appearance. The brook is friendly, mysterious, ever-moving, everchanging. As autumn arrives, the brook slows down, as though tiring of his endless motion. The plant life around him is also changing, to the rich gold, red, orange and brown shades of the season. The surface, which is not moving as rapidly, now attains a mirror-like quality and reflects all the surrounding colors and providing a kaleidoscope of shimmering color. Our little brook now plays host to the southbound geese, ducks, and other water fowl, providing a place for them to stop, rest, and feed before they resume their long flight. This little brook, hidden away behind the hills and surrounded by wildlife, once again enters winter. we know that he carries many secrets and dreams with him as he enters his long winter-sleep.

THE CHIMNEY by Arlys Rude The desolate eerie feelings of the night airWhispering through the trees of winterThe moon shining so so brightly the chimney wavering slightly Everything is at rest & unfeeling during the night . Sitting there so desolate like that of winter . The chimney stands there quivering while everything else is shivering . The wonders of the nightly dealings of moments for everyon e to share The year almost at an end with the coming of winter . This chimney is so old though it stands here proud & bold .

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INK DRAWING by Joyce Binstock (Runner Up--Visual Art) 15

LISTEN TO THE PEOPLE by Pat Ferryman

There is work to be done No time to run and play There are wars to be won Don't care what people have to say . We elect our leaders, They meet in Washington, D. C . To make the laws that rule us all. Don ' t care what people have to say. There ' s no limit to raising our taxes, They vote themselves raises in pay. Slashing right and left with their axes Don ' t care what people have to say. Cuts in welfare and education The ax get sharper each day. Out leaders take exotic vacations. Don't care what people have to say . It's time we stand and shout Lets vote again this day -Our leaders must be taught To care what people have to say . No more raising our taxes No more cuts in education this day. Take the edge off their axes listen to what people have to say .

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GOD MY FATHER by Constance Walter At the tender age of five, I looked upon my father as the God of all living things. He was a benevolent but firm creator who permitted no serious transgressions to go unpunished . The very idea of being punished by this God invoked a fear in me tantamount to believing that monsters actually lived under my bed. While God ' s judgement was swift , his punishments were never admin istered in an impulsive fashion ; he much preferred organized discipline to a random swat here and there. Nor did God believe in using his bare hands when asserting his authority , and because he was a just man always offered his children a choice as to which instrument of penance would be used in the tanning of our fannies . I remember when a small amount of money had disappeared from my mother ' s purse . God questioned each of us about the theft--of course we all vehemently denied having any knowledge of the crime. He watched us closely for a few moments, then unbuckled the belt he always wore--the one with the words " MOOSE LODGE 302 11 printed boldly on the strap--and laid it across the arm of his favorite chair . He stood before us, a giant, with his hands on his hips, and stared thoughtfully down at us . He shook his head, then walked to the hall closet where he retrieved a short, but deadly looking extension cord which he folded twice before placing it next to the belt . 18

Silently we began praying for a confession from the culprit. I nudged my brother, who was always guilty of something, to step forward as my saviour. But to no avail . He just pushed me and stuck out his tongue. God sat on his throne, took the cord in his left hand and the belt in his right, then commanded us to line up in front of him- -oldest to youngest. I was number four . " Which one do you want," the voice of God thundered, " the belt, or the cord? " I sometimes wonder what he would have done had one of us replied; " Can I think about this for awhile?" or maybe, " Is that all I have to pick from? " or " Gee, Dad, can I have both? " But of course we would never have said anything like that as we had been taught to be reverent in his presence. The oldest child gestured meekly toward the belt, then dutifully bent over God's expansive lap . The first crack of the belt brought forth muffled sobs from the penitent and cries of serious distress from the fourth child in the lineup. With every subsequent smack across each child's bottom, the wails from the end position escalated. When finally it was my turn, I had been reduced to a simpering, quivering mass of hysterical humanity. God was indeed an equal opportunity disciplinarian, but he was not without mercy. Seeing the sheer terror of this wretched child, God grippe the tools of instruction less firmly, and with seeming regret asked, "Which one Freckles? " Because the belt seemed to have caused such extreme pain to my siblings, I opted 19

for the cord . God shook his head solemnly, " No Kiddo, not that one. " He lifted my trembling body and gently placed it across his knees. One soft swat on my behind lift me wondering what everyone else was howling about. But, it was not long after that I experienced the true wrath of God, and in the process learned a very valuable lesson. For you see, the severity of God ' s penance, which was normally two or three firm swats on the bottom , increased two - fold for the child who approached God with no fear whatsoeve r and actually smiled when she said , " I ' ll take the belt Daddy !"

LINE DRAWING by Wanda Cassezza

"SPLIT PEA SOUP? " by Mark Seyler My senior year of high school played an important role in a difficult transition from adolescence to independence . That year my grandparents, with whom I had been living, permitted me, or rather, invited me, to abandon the family home, and find a residence of my own . The opportunity excited me, but it also brought apprehension concerning one primary inadequacy on my part; I couldn ' t cook. The extent of my culinary education consisted mainly of helping my grandfather flip a few burgers on the barbecue grill or whipping up a batch of macaroni and cheese when I was home alone. Thoughts of starvation or even worse, eating macaroni three times a day, haunted me for weeks . Fortunately, I was saved by a 65-year-old widow, Helen, who agreed to rent me her basement as well as her cooking for the nominal fee of $160 a month . Finally out on my own, with the prospect of endless months of pasta con chest' fading behind me, I began to move my belongings into Helen ' s basement . Not long after, she invited me to my first lunch . I will never forget the meal that followed. I was so moved by the cuisine presented to me that day, that later I chose to devote a creative writing project entirely to that ill - fated first lunch. I ran across that paper recently and was surprised to find that the words still bring back an extremely bad aftertaste . Split Pea Soup? I sat staring at the freshly killed 22

vegetable which lay bleeding on my plate. My stomach churned as I watched the bloated seedlings mingle amongst the thick red juice oozing out of the slabs of over-ripe tomato. I quelled my instinct to run, and contained my revulsion for fear of offending my new landlady . "How about a little split pea soup? " she inquired . "One of my favorites, " I replied quite honestly . I should have held my tongue, for Helen ' s idea of split pea soup was quite different from the canned variety I was imagining. I stared with mounting horror as my freshly acquired personal chef dumped overripe garden peas, (They're good for nothing else," she explained), into a blender and "split" them using chop and then puree . She poured the remaining olive mixture into a plastic bowl and placed it in the microwave. After my "soup" had been properly warmed, Helen added a little milk, and we watched it slowly seep into the stringy green mush. My stomach began a loud rumbling, which I unsuccessfully attempted to conceal by stirring by stirring the concoction with a spoon and making the universal culinary pleasure sign, "Mmmm . .. " A bitter bile rose in my throat as the main course came into view . The contrast of florescent orange squash meat against the drab khaki color of its wrinkled skin shocked my eyes; I feared for my taste buds as well. Rapid attempts to hide the burnished glare with rigid clumps of pale butter failed, as the waxy substance melted away only to form oily cesspools 23

of grease among the woody stumps of microwaved gourd. As a defense mechanism against a rapidly rising tide of Cornflakes, I seized the glass of milk before me and raised it to my lips. However, as the drink neared my face, I observed a miniature oil slick on its surface. Helen must have noticed my frightened reaction. "I always put a little lectin in my milk," she explained, as if I was supposed to know what lectin was. The only word that reminded me of lectin was laxatives, and that didn't make me feel any better. I choked back tears and managed a brave, "Oh." The most unbelievable detail about that meal was that I managed to choke down every disgusting morsel, and even smile while doing so. I will never again complain about the quality of the food kids receive from the school hot lunch program . In all honesty, after that first meal, the food improved considerably. In fact, I don't think I have ever eaten better than that year I stayed with Helen. Eventually, I did learn to cook, and I even enjoy cooking; but I still manage to get back to Grandma and Grandpa's place for some real home cooking every once in a while . Grandpa doesn't even have to ask me to flip burgers any more, and sometimes I even help make lunch . Soup of course, split pea ... from a can.

B/W PHOTOGRAPH by Carmen Dolen

THE DIRECTOR AND THE ACTRESS

BY Yvonne Seifert Hi. . . . said he Hello .... said I Deserted gym shadows enfolded we two . A play to cast He the director Did interview I (Oh God! .... the silent groan He could have picked me .. . . Weeks went by Weeks all do My heart halfway his . One party came A dream house Husic as liqueur Couples together clung He there sat Look did I (Oh God ! .... the silent groan) He could have held me ... . Carne opening night Closing night went My love all his. Audience seats emptied A success the play Tears as blessings

Cast members hugged He there stood So did I (Oh God! .. .. The silent groan) He could have kissed me . .. . Good bye . . .. said he Good bye .. . . said I Dim bar lights Separated we two. A hand held out He my director Did leave me (Oh God! .... the silent groan) He could have loved me . . . .

THE FABLE OF THE APPLE PEOPLE by Margaret Barnhart

At one time there was a huge valley where apple trees of many varieties were cultivated. There were fifty orchards in the valley . In each orchard many families worked with their favorite kind of apple tree . They kept the trees well pruned and fertilized so that the best fruit might be produced to nourish all of the apple people . The people made their living by selling their apples to each other . Families who raised big red juicy sweet apples in one orchard sold them to families who raised tart glossy green apples in another orchard; those who raised pale red crabapples bought larger apples or sweeter apples or apples of a different color . All the apple people survived in this way. As time passed the people learned new ways to grow bigger, better, juicier apples and to keep their trees living longe r . They worked very hard implementing their new ways . Sometimes modern equipment or training of special technicians or studies in sc i entific advances cost the families a little extra money, but the wonderfully improved apples that resulted from the extra cost made up for the initial financial sacrifice . All year long t he people tended their orchards , tilling the ground between the trees and mulching to preserve moisture. They watered the trees regularly, kept 28

the orchards free of weeds, sprayed away harmful insects, and lured helpful insects and birds. The people watched the trees closely from the moment the tiniest bud appeared on the branches to the moment the last leaf fell. They loved their trees. At harvest time all the hard work and sacrifices paid off . Spending many hours of the day high up in the limbs, or down on the ground shaking the trees, the people reaped the most beautiful apples the world had ever seen. There were big apples and little apples and middle-sized apples; there were red ones and green ones and yellow ones and even pink ones. Some were sweet and some tart and some were tartly sweet or sweetly tart. Some were juicy and others were mild and still others were firm and crisp . There were times when a terrible blight swept across the valley. All the orchard families worked hard pruning the diseased branches from the trees. The pruned trees were less beautiful and produced a little less abundantly, but they were saved from the blight. Other times the orchards were threatened by a deadly frost . Again all of the people banded together working hard and spending money on ways to fight the frost . Through cooperation, hard work, and constant learning, the apple people kept the orchards blooming and producing. But one day some families in one orchard decided that they had spent enough time and money improving their apples and learning new ways to keep their trees healthy. They wanted to stop buying the apples and implements from other orchards and simply live on the 29

things that they had . After all, " they said, " We have been raising apples for centuries . In the past we didn ' t need all these new implements and methods and the orchard still produced plenty of apples . " " Wait a minute ," argued other families in the orchard, " If we don't keep working toward improvement and advancement, then we may suffer i n the long r un when all the other orcha r ds sell better apples than we do ." " But if we keep paying more and more money and time to so- called improvements, the demand will never end, " one of the family grandfathers insisted . " Let us keep our money in our pockets and our time to ourselves and live simply as we used to do in the earlier times . Since the grandfather was respected and influential among the orchard people, most of the families listened to him . But there were those who protested and so the issue had to be decided in a judicious manner . Many of t he people grew fearful of what they saw as an eternal demand for more labor, money, and sacrifice . After a particularly busy year, they were tired and simply wanted to sit back and rest and count their profits. And so it was that in their judicious and fair manner in which the wishes of the majority prevailed , they decided t o stop . During the winter when they lived on the bounty of the previous season they lived comfortably a n d felt very wise and very prosperous . But when the winter passed things began to change. The trees in their orchard began to look weaker than the trees in the other orchards . 30

Since they spent no more time and money in improvements , their trees grew more and more suscepti ble to new blights and infestations and drought . In the next harvest the apples this particular orchard marketed were smaller and paler and fewer. No one bought them. "It ' s okay," they rationalized, "We can live on these apples for a long time to come . We don't need such super strains . We didn ' t need them in the earlier days and we don ' t need them now ." And so they filled their barrels with apples. During the next winter they lived comfortably, but not quite as comfortably as before . They still felt very wise and sort of prosperous. The following spring a great many trees in that orchard died. The ones that lived produced only small and mealy and worm-infested apples . The families continued to survive on their shrunken crop, living without comfort and feeling only sort of wise but not at all prosperous. Eventually all of the trees in that orchard died. The people had nothing left but the stored barrels full of withered apples . The families in all the other orchards missed the wonderful apples they used to buy from the one orchard . But they still rejoiced in their own super- abundant crops of superb apples. The people in the unsuccessful orchard crept silently into their apple barrels . Ever after they lived in darkness and supped on the dregs of yesterday .

MAKING OF AN ATHEIST by Elizabeth MacDuffie

We were outside playing. It was a crisp fall day and dried leaves littered the backyard. My brother and I swept them into a large heap with our hands and leapt into the delicious pile we'd made, again and again. I was glad that I was in the backyard where no one could see me since I was all of eleven years old and there I was playing like a little kid. The back door slammed and we heard our Mother come out onto the porch. We cast a quick glance in her direction and returned to our play. I thought I saw something shiny drop to the ground, but I wasn't sure. "Stephen and Rebecca!", she bellowed. We knew that she meant business and reluctantly left our play to run her. "Where are my keys?", she asked us. We looked up at her face and saw that she was not herself again. "Find those keys or I'll kill you." We half believed her and ran down the stairs to scrabble desperately through the leaves, her shrieks echoing in our ears all the while. Just when I was sure we were a couple of goners, Stephen lifted up his hand. The keys were in it. "I found them!"' he said triumphantly. He had saved our lives after all, or so he thought. Mom still had that look in her eyes; that not-quite-right expression. Her breath smelled funny too, but we were safe for the time being. I wished I was still living with 32

Daddy. Things were so nice and peaceful there . I never would have left if it wasn't for that last visit I had with Mommy . Mommy already had custody of my brother and my baby sister, Michael and I were in my father ' s custody . My aunt, my grandmother, and a lawyer were all at my mother ' s house when I got here. My aunt and my grandmother started asking me all kinds of questions. " How could you desert your mother this way? " "What kind of a daughter are you anyway? " How can you stand living with a terrible man like your father? " " If you ' re a good girl you ' ll sign these papers. " My head was spinning and I didn ' t know what to say at all. I was so afraid that if I went back to stay with Daddy, none of these people would like me anymore. I was sure that they probably wouldn ' t even like me enough to get me birthday and Christmas presents . I didn ' t think Daddy was a bad man at all, but I signed the papers anyway . Presents were really important to me then . They ' re not such a big deal now. Things got really exiting around Mommy ' s house at Christrnastirne, but not in a Christmassy way. There were empty Michelob bottles everywhere and it was time to go to the liquor store with Mother again. I wished she wouldn't take us, it was always so embarrassing . This time the man at the store wouldn ' t sell her anything . I guess he saw that look in her eyes too . She was really pissed and we were sure that things would be bad for us when we got horne. 33

We were right. That night the house was full of angels. It really was ... Mother said so. I got slapped around for walking right by one without seeing it. I wondered if the angels were really there and if I was just too sinful to see them. Mom said our baby sister saw them, but I wasn't so sure . She couldn't even talk yet. Stephen said he saw them, but I knew better. He just didn't want to get in trouble like I did . We also had wings, according to Mom. This idea scared me as much as it intrigued me. I hoped she wouldn't want us to try them out, since we were on the second story . I started praying to a God I only half believed in . Sure enough, she brought us to the window, calling me a doubting Thomas all the while. Something distracted her though, and she abruptly asked us what love is . I was twelve and my brother was nine . We knew this was going to be a tough one . " Everything? ", I said . "Happiness? ", said Stephen . "Wrong, wrong, all wrong .", thundered Mother . We tried a few more guesses; nothing we tried was right. I knew we were in for it. "Go outside on the porch until you can tell me what love is.", she ordered . So out we went, in the snow, in our pajamas . I didn't try to answer her question anymore. I looked at all the neighbor's houses to see if we could go for help. No one was home. It was Christmas time. I don't know what we said to get back indoors that night. God wasn't the right answer; I do remember that. 34

INK DRAWING by Sean Pavlicek

MONEY

(1ST PLACE POETRY) BY Yvonne Seifert A frown creases my brow Amazement expands my iris The rectangle green stains As it slides between my fingers and thumbs. Can this thin paper's supremacy be true? This the ultimate god--money! Brain boggling value this olive pulp. Dwell imagination on this currency's worth . It purchases nourishment for one man And lack of it starves the next. It delivers prosperity to one man And lack of it poverishes the next . It furnishes education to one man And lack of it illiterates the next. It distributes justice to one man And lack of it prisons the next. It earns master label for one man And lack of it slaves the next. I caress the bill, Creasing it in spots. Incredibly this ordinary grass-inked paper Itself creates nothing, Neither bones nor petals. Yet buys them all!

How tragic, the creation Is mightier than the creator. Ah yes, Does man forget The supreme god money was idoled by him! Laugh ridicule at yourself man, you ' ve played yourself the fool . Money has only worth humanly bestowed . And worth shared with this rectangle sheet Is in return but lost Rendering the bestower worthless

B/W POTOGRAPH by Beni Privatsky (Runner up--Visual Art)

FEAST OR FAMINE

by Dr . David Solheim In our fat cells, The Great Depression continues . We fill our gas tanks As if we're joining a wagon train To cross an endless desert Searching for waterholes where dinasaurs drowned our bodies ready for seven lean years, The larders of the middle class settle Over our silver belt buckles.

B/W PHOTOGRAPH by Carmen Dolen

MEMORIES by Pat Ferryman The funeral was over; the quests had gone. All the family had returned to their scattered lives . Jan sat in the middle of the threadbare rug, her mother ' s life spread out around her . Jan had to decide what to do with the pictures, the quilts, the letters, and the souvenirs that made up the memories, the tangled threads of her mother's life. With each photograph carne a new wave of tears . The pictures of the family at Disneyland, the Grand Canyon , and the ones of the trip back East . All brought a wave of joy, warm feelings clouded by tears. Jan sat looking at the picture of her mother ' s mother, her mother, herself , and her daughter Carol . The memories of the family reunion carne racing back; that was the last time she had seen her grandmother. It was the last time she had seen her greatgrandrnother also. She remembered running through the woods at Flaming Gourge Darn . She remembered falling out of the raft into the icy frigid waters. Jan did not know the name of the river; she had only heard it called the river. Jan finally put away the photographs . She wasn ' t getting anywhere looking through all the pictures. With a sigh Jan picked up the carton of quilts . The one on top was made out of scraps of all Jan ' s elementary school dresses. There ' s the blue one I wore for 41

the Christmas party. That square is the red dress Mom made for Valentine ' s Day. Jan slowly went over every square in the quilt remembering each occasion, each dress, each day . Mom always told me one day I would have this quilt. This quilt that would trigger so many memories of childhood . Jan tearfully put away the quilt of memories . She then took out the quilt of her mother ' s memories . The squares on this quilt were all out of her mother's life. The striped square was her favorite maternity dress - the yellow one, the dress she wore to Jan ' s wedding . The last quilt that Jan looked at was the genealogy quilt. Her mother had written thousands, well hundreds of letters anyway, gathering information from all the family. She wanted to make sure each name was spelled right, each birthday was correct, and each spouse was included on the quilt . After she had spent many months gathering information, cutting squares, designing a pattern, Mom finally put the quilt together . This quilt represented five generations of the Miller family. Starting with Jan's great great grandmother, the quilt told the story of each birth and death in the family right down to Jan herself . This quilt should be in a museum, she thought. There is over one hundred years of history on the squares, the squares were all hand sewn with threads of love, and breaths of life . Finally, Jan folded the quilt and put it in the box with the rest of the memories . She could no longer deal with her emotions . Jan hoped that some day her daughter Carol would understand and preserve the love and family history that was in these boxes . 42

Carol stood looking at the mess. It was hard to believe that one woman could collect so much garbage in one lifetime. Well, she thought, she would just call the Salvation Army to come get all of it, then she wouldn ' t have to deal with it. As Carol shut the door to the room, something was nagging at her. She couldn't quite put a finger on what it was so she shrugged it off and went on. Carol never quite got around to calling someone to pick up the things that her mother had left . Something kept nagging at her, until one day she resolved to get that room cleaned. When she entered the room, the first thing that she saw was the braided rug that her mother had kept in the kitchen; it seemed to her that Mom said Great Grandma had braided that rug. Well, we'll just throw that old thing out, she thought, and she started a throw-away pile. Eventually, Carol found the pictures of herself as a baby at the last Miller family reunion. Carol took time to look through a few of these pictures, giggling here, crying there. With these she started a keep pile. Finally, Carol found the box full of quilts and started going through them. Carol found her square on the genealogy quilt and wondered which one of these people had given her the green eyes . By the time she had finished looking at the different quilts, the throw away pile was gone, the give away pile was gone. Everything was in the keep pile. Carol remembered her mother crying after Grandma had died and how she kept all these things because they were a part of her mother ' s life. Suddenly, Carol realized these things were a part of her 43

life also . A part to be handed down to her children . With a shudder , she realized how close she had come to de stroying the memories of her heritage . It was time, she thought, to share the memories instead of hiding from them . By hiding from them she had tried to retain her youth; it wasn ' t working . In twenty or thirty years, Carol thought, Diane will be sitting here . With that thought, Carol went to find Diane and share the memories s o that they would never again be in danger of destruction.

AN UNMISTAKABLE MELODY (runner up- - POETRY) Roberta Thompson

An echo falls, playing upon my ears . An unmistakable melody to chase away my fears. A tremor, a shake, seeks out a source, trying to power my leg and make it rejoice . A tap, a thump, a jubilee ... my foot rises and falls with the sweet harmony .

STORMS OF EMOTION by Roberta Thompson

I hear the wind whispering . I am no longer it ' s child so it cries in foreign tongue . It has something desperate to say and tugs at me to listen . It swirls about my head but I understand it not. A storm of emotions brews, darkening my skies. I turn away, seeking shelter ignoring the conflict .

SKETCH by Gary Link

EMOTIONS by Edith Ehness

our emotions can sometimes rule our bodies when unexpected events happen-such was the case with me last summer when my husband and I were on vacation in Bismarck. My husband became critically ill with what we learned later was a ruptured large intestine . I still remember the initial emotions that came over me when I was allowed to see him after six hours of surgery. I realized my unconscious fear when I found my hands were with sweat as I entered the small room with its walls of cloth . The anxious beeps and dull tones of monitors filled the air and the smell of antiseptic was overwhelming. The bareness of the room matched my unprotected emotions. In the center of the room, the dim lighting portrayed his figure laying flat on a high, narrow bed that seemed too small for his large body. His body was almost totally covered with what appeared to be the same cloth as the walls. As I walked closer, the grey-colored skin on his swollen face shocked me . His eyes were closed in sleep; his nose seemed like a crowded intersection with criss-crossing brown and clear tubes protruding from his nose and mouth . The largest tube, sucking bile from the stomach, seemed unaware of the crowded quarters as it continued to perform its function. His lips were dry and cracked from lack of moisture. Reaching the side of the bed, I stopped 47

in horror . My heart raced with fear as my hand anxiously searched under the heavy blanket for his familiar hand . The stillness and coldness of his hand made my heart ache with pain. My tear-filled eyes returned to his gray face. I leaned closer and softly whispered, "Darling, I'm here." Slowly the muscles in the eye lids fluttered involuntarily, and I witnessed their painful struggle to open. My entire body felt numb as I desperately tried to read those clouded eyes that could not focus. Then my hand felt a slight squeeze of recognition--the clouded, painful eyes knew I was there . As tears escaped from the sides of his eyes, his swollen, dry lips gently vlhispered, " Darling, you are a sight for sore eyes." I couldn ' t move; I only stood there crying uncontrollably. I was overwhelmed with thanks that the Lord had given me back my husband . I don ' t know how long I stood by his bed holding his cold, heavy hand . Every now and then his eyes would open and I knew he was still with me- - I couldn ' t leave him. I'm not sure when the people dressed in white uniforms came and asked me to leave because they wanted to move him from recovery to the intensive care unit. I stood outside the door fearful that if I went to far away something would go wrong; I felt desperate to remain close to him . Finally, after what seemed like hours, we were together again--alone with the beeps and dull tones of the monitors. Somewhere during this time I had stopped crying, and now I concentrated my strength and warmth into his body that 48

laid before me motionless and cold . Three days passed and I don ' t remember seeing the sun of a new day or the darkness of night; however, I must have, because I never slept. My inner soul demanded that I be conscious and alert in the event that something would go wrong. My husband ' s condition improved . He grew stronger each week, and they soon removed some of the tubes that entered his body . Relief replaced my fear and exhaustion , and sleep finally came . A year later, I still thank God for giving us both the strength and the faith to endure that episode in our lives . Together we greet each new day in happiness and health , and we never lose sight of the unexpected and unexplained .

AFTERMATH by Margaret Barnhart

How is it that the wind still blows And the clouds, unmindful, amass, And the showers of snow grace the ground In unfeeling flurry? Have they not felt the trembling in the rock, Nor seen the sturdy oak That stood against nature's fury Now cracked and fallen? How is it that dawn follows dawn Unstoppable and ungrieving; And night still settles, cold And impervious to the ache of endings? Here the heart pleads for a pause In remembrance of unfaltering footsteps; In piercing awareness of emptiness And loss.

WAKING AT NIGHT by Dr. Dave Solheim

Like dunes drifting Across deserts Your breasts move On your ribs. The surface of sea swells Your belly, breathing . I ' m mindful of these pulses And their swellings , As your rhythms Soothe me back To sleep .

Impressions is published in journal form annually by Dickinson State University. Impressions also has an insert in the western Concept, the student newspaper.

The editors encourage interested writers and artists to submit their original works at any time. Manuscripts should be typed and double-spaced. Visual art must be suitable for black and white reproduction. Self-addressed, stamped envelopes should accompany all manuscripts. Address communications to: Impressions 221 Stickney Dickinson State University Dickinson, North Dakota 58601

A special thanks to the Dickinson State University Student Senate for funding the publication of Impressions.

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