The Wayfarer 1999 by Edgewood High School

Fiction is like a spiderâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. -Virginia Woolf

Published by the students of Edgewood High School 2219 Monroe St. Madison, WI 53711 Volume XIV Spring, 1999

Staff

Editor:

Jennifer Schultz

Assistant Editor:

Margie Duwe

Technical Assistants:

Aaron Bryden Andrew Durst Allan Pearlman

Editorial Board: Carrie Backman Adam Dunn James Kleckner Colleen McHenry Meghan Miller Angela Olson Amanda Otradovec Thaddeus Thaler-Schultz Heather Waldeck Jayna Warden Helen Wirka Artists: Robert Camacho Anna Cianciara Gabrielle Cummings Robin DeWitt Kate Drea Claire Dunlap Nate Fose Laura Jansen Carlos Jaramillo Amanda Sorge Sara Spengler Rachel Tumerman Tom Washbush Michael Wilker

Cover Artist:

Laura Jansen

Advisor: Ms. Diane Mertens 2 Editor: Jennifer Schultz Assistant Editor:

Margaret Duwe

Table of Contents Octagonal World: Julie Bulgrin.........................................................................................................5 My Shepherd: Adam Dunn................................................................................................................ 6 Pale Silver: Kathleen Mandeville...................................................................................................... 8 Loveless: Antonette Glenn................................................................................................................. 9 Alone: Angela Olson........................................................................................................................13 Live It: Michael Harlowe.................................................................................................................14 Frozen Dream: Shane Andrews.......................................................................................................15 Return: Will Smiley.........................................................................................................................23 Barrier: Aaron Bryden......................................................................................................................24 The Orange Artist: Brett Keintz.......................................................................................................25 Autumn: Anna Cianciara.................................................................................................................. 26 In the Shadow of Thoreau: James Kleckner.................................................................................... 28 Geese: Carlos Jaramillo................................................................................................................... 32 The Determined Runner: Sara Wimberger...................................................................................... 33 In My Sorrow, I Am Comforted: Kim Jacobson.............................................................................. 34 Grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Last Gift: Michael Harlowe...........................................................................................36 My Lady, My Love: John Walsh......................................................................................................39 Spaghetti Sauce: Meghan Randolph................................................................................................40 A Familiar State of Mind: Colleen Curtin........................................................................................ 43 Improv: Amy Washbush...................................................................................................................44 Unexpected Success: Margie Duwe.................................................................................................46 Poem: Nick Braus............................................................................................................................ 51 3

Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner

Octagonal World

Inspired by Chagall’s “Paris through a Window” Monsieur Chagall paints a picture, A psychedelic world of scrambled entities. Of Mary Poppins and her Amish friend, Slipping, spinning like a pinwheel Through the murky fog. Of a train that boils, steams, Striving, Struggling to arrive at its destination, Perhaps the Arc de Triomphe, the Hotel d’Opera. But no! Its actions will not suffice, Deceiving its passengers. Inverted trains do not move. Chagall’s city of triangles, Its knife-like corners, Cutting through the silence, The monotony of life Screams to be different Shrieks to be heard Over the pains of the distressed train. As the creator’s beady-eyed Cheshire beckons To the velvety, flowery moss, “Get off! Get off!” The moss taunts its furry friend By weaving its way Into the crevices of the wood Framing the open window, Ripping through in triangular paths. As Chagall’s city weaves its triangular world Into the depths Of the stretched canvas of my soul. Julie Bulgrin (12)

My Shepherd The sun, a cooling crimson disk, slowly sank behind the mountains like a cowering child as the old traveler wearily drew near the jagged spires of ebon rock which marked the entrance to the dark valley. He slowly turned and looked back for the last time at the winding paths that he had walked, at the mist-veiled roads that he had seen but not taken, and at the rewards and hardships that had graced and sullied his journey. Fear clutched at him with icy fingers as he turned and faced the dusky night that awaited him, but he knew the road led nowhere but forward, and he must go on. The smothering sheet of darkness thickened as the traveler descended; he could see nothing, not even his own hands. Then he heard voices soft and horrific, a dire cacophony of moans and sobs, sorrows and regrets, which seemed to emanate from every possible direction. After a time, he heard his own voice joining in the anguish, yet he could do nothing to stop it, only bear the dreadful din. Nevertheless, some force, whether inner or outer, he could not tell, kept pushing one foot in front of the other to whatever end awaited him. The darkness surrounded him as a choking cloud; then suddenly it was gone. The old traveler looked around in puzzlement at the new sight before him. The impenetrable darkness was receding behind him, and before him stretched a vibrantly green pasture, as far as his eyes could see. The sun, which earlier had been nothing but a fond memory, now shone warmly from above, and clouds like soft pillows were scattered in the azure sky. The old man then noticed the pond, a large crystal-clear basin of still water that softly shimmered in the light. It was not until he saw the pond that the traveler realized how parched his tongue was. He ran to the pond like a young boy. But child he was no longer; age had taken his body into its hands and molded it into a ragged shadow of the past, so his vigor gave out just a few feet from his goal, and he toppled face-first onto the soft ground in disappointment. The old man rolled over so that he might die with the sun on his face, closed his eyes, and prepared for death to take him away. Soon after, he felt a brimming cup propped up to his mouth, and the life-giving waters of the pond flowed into his parched throat, restoring his strength and his soul. The old traveler opened his eyes and saw a young man kneeling 6

beside him, daubing the tired wanderer’s face with oil and then washing it clean with water. The traveler endeavored to stand on his feet, but he was still too weak to rise from the ground. The young man picked up a wooden staff from the green grass by his side and laid its crooked head upon the old traveler, whispering, “Rest, my child. Yours has been a long, hard journey, but at long last you have come home. Soon we shall go to my house where you shall dwell for all the days to come.” Adam Dunn (12)

Pale Silver Ghosts of the night Haunt the mists of my mind As I wander through this evening’s twilight. The dusk’s coolness wraps me in the promise That night will soon arrive. The last slants of orange Scatter in the blue And vacant branches dance With the arms of wind. I walk a gravel path Of scuffed-up hearts and cobbled dreams. A road, I fear, will never end. Weaving my mind between the trees, I recapture the memories Concealed within the shadows. The charming scent of loneliness Is losing its appeal. I feel that as soon as I sit And breathe in this world, I will never be seen again. Noises have ceased Except for the pond And my footsteps Which stop, And I stand and listen…

Kathleen Mandeville (10)

Loveless

Once there was a little girl. She lived in a house on top of a mountain with her evil parents. They were always cruel and played nasty tricks on her. Sometimes they would walk across the floor with dirty shoes after she finished mopping it. Other times they would tell her to chop wood for the fire. When she finished chopping wood, she would come inside and see her parents sitting by a warm fire laughing. Except for chopping wood, she never left the house. One day her mother told her that her father was sick and needed special herbs from a medicine man who lived at the bottom of the mountain. She did as her mother wished and went to see the medicine man. When she arrived at the bottom of the mountain, she was confused. She saw a house but it had many lighted signs and people around who could barely walk. When she entered the house, she saw her father sitting on a stool next to a counter. She ran to her father and asked him if the medicine man had already healed him. Her father looked at her and laughed. He told her she fell for her mother’s trick. The little girl was crushed and started to run out of the house. Just when she got to the exit, she saw her mother standing by the door. She yelled to everyone that her stupid daughter fell for one of her tricks again. Everyone in the medicine man’s house started to laugh. Then she asked the little girl if she really thought she was in a medicine man’s house. The little girl ran to her house mortified, promising that she would never leave again.

I used to have nightmares every night. Actually, it was the same nightmare that haunted me. The lighted signs, the house, even the laughter coming from the crowd’s mouths seemed so real in the dream. I think it was my parents’ voices that were the most real. After so many years of hearing how stupid and useless I was, I suppose their words sank deep enough that they were haunting me in my sleep. Every morning I would tell myself it was just a dream and that I would never let anyone hurt me anymore. Saying that was my protection from the nightmare, but the nightmare was not what was hurting me. 9

I decided that I could protect myself by not letting anyone in. It worked for many years. I had friends, but they did not really know me because I would not let them. I trusted no one; therefore I remained alone with no companions and no love. At first it was hard to live without that special bond between people. Some people might call it love, but since I had never felt love I would not have known. I tried to kill myself once in the beginning because I was tired of being alone, but it did not work. I told no one about what I tried to do and promised myself I would never do it again; I could not let anyone, especially my parents, see my pain. Dying was the easiest way to let them know how much they hurt me. After my failed suicide attempt, life became easier. I learned that a way to protect myself was to be as quiet as I could so no one would know I was there. But I found myself opening up to someone. I do not know how it exactly happened, but one day he just appeared and changed my life forever. His name was Franklin. He came up to me when I was sitting alone on a bench in the park. He was new at school. He said that my face was too beautiful, and he needed to see what it looked like with a smile. From then on, I suppose we were friends. He made me laugh and smile, and he looked me in the eyes when he talked to me. He trusted me, but I could not trust him. So I put up my wall and only let him get as close as I wanted him to be, but he broke it down. I found myself telling him things about myself such as how I wanted to be a writer. Still, I could not let him in that easily, so I hid in my shell. He yanked me out. He made me laugh when I wanted to swim in my misery from being loveless. I was losing my fight for protection. Finally, it came down to one last battle. It was the day he kissed me while we were sitting on the park bench where we met. “Why did you do that?” I asked as I jumped away from him. “I don’t know. Why, you didn’t want me to?” he asked. “No. I mean, yes, I didn’t want you to.” “I don’t believe you. Are you telling me you felt nothing?” “Yes, I didn’t feel anything. You know me; nothing affects me,” I said softly.

“I don’t believe you,” he said shaking his head, “you can’t play your little feel-nothing game with me. I know there are some things that seep through the wall you put up. I know you felt something.” “Please stop.” “No! I’m sorry if someone hurt you in the past, but I’m not that person!” “You don’t understand,” I said softly as tears rolled down my face. “You won’t let me understand,” he said as he held my hand. “I can’t. If I get hurt again I’d crumble. Don’t you understand? I’m too fragile.” “I can’t understand if you don’t give me a chance. Give me a chance.” “How can I give you a chance? Do you know how hard it is for me to trust people?” “Why? What happened? I promise you, you can trust me. I’d never even dream of hurting you.” “I’ve been hurt too much already. Do you know how many times they have hurt me? The people I was supposed to trust since the beginning have always hurt me! Do you know how much I hate them?” “Are you talking about your parents?” “I have no parents. I live with two drunks who wouldn’t care if I die tomorrow. Do you know how many times I’ve prayed for them to die of alcohol poisoning? Why do people have kids if they aren’t going to love them? Why do 11

people have kids if they say they can’t stand the sight of them? Why? I did nothing but be their child!” I cried as I fell into Franklin’s arms. Franklin did not say anything while I wept on his shoulder. He was there for me that day and the days that followed. He helped me move out of my house. He was there when my father died in a drunk driving accident. I refused to go to his funeral and my family disowned me. I knew things were going to be all right at the time because Franklin was there for me. Five years later I was there for him when he asked me to marry him. I owe everything to Franklin. He let me smile, become angry, and cry. He helped me move on. He helped me feel.

Once there was a girl who stayed in the house to protect herself from getting hurt. One day a stranger knocked on her door, wanting to warm his hands and feet from the bitter cold. Her parents were at the medicine man’s house, so she let him in. He asked her if she wanted to dance. She told him she could not dance. He told her that everyone knew how to dance. She told him she had no music. He told her they did not need music while they danced; the music was in their hearts. Finally, the little girl agreed and danced with the stranger. At first she thought the stranger was odd; he was dancing as if actual music was playing. But as they continued to dance, something miraculous happened; she actually heard music, beautiful music. And the little girl and the stranger danced out of the house, down the mountain, and away from her evil parents. They danced and danced and never stopped, for the music was too beautiful. Antonette Glenn (12)

Alone A sad word that stands by itself But has so many meanings it cannot. It’s when you’re in a group of friends And suddenly are not welcome, When a smile turns to a frown, A laugh turns to a whisper. It’s when you look around And realize you don’t belong. It’s when you have finally found the right person, But that person does not feel the same way. When the last pieces of your tattered heart Are dropped into the palm of your desolate hand. It’s a rejection from people you love And thought you knew. When nobody understands you And hates you for what you’ve become. But most of all, Alone is when a teardrop rolls down your cheek And is ignored by everyone but you. Angela Olson (11)

Live It Calmness lingers in the air. Plain and simple are the only words echoing in the stillness. The sun could set, a bright crimson beacon slowly being devoured whole by the velvet waves of the rolling hills. The snow could fall, chilling white sprites dancing upon the delicate wisps of thin wind. The lover could cry, a soft lonely tune clawing its way from a sour stomach, tinting the breeze with a melancholy note. I could write, fingers slowly punctuating each letter with a determined tap, slowed only by an occasional strike on the delete. The mood is neutral but slightly enjoyable like the subtle turn on a stern teacherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouth when it gently veers upward. That is the way life happens today, so live it for awhile. Michael Harlowe (11)

Frozen Dream

Leroy Graham, for the sixteenth time since waking, groggily shook his head. From the moment he got up, he had been unusually tired and worn out, quite the opposite of what he had expected after sleeping for such a long time. To be precise, Mr. Graham had been asleep for 120 years, 23 days, 14 hours, and 17 minutes, give or take a few seconds, or so his wristwatch informed him. Actually, to his own internal sense of time, it seemed as if both very little time had passed and quite a lot of time had passed. Such were Mr. Graham’s thoughts after waking from biostasis aboard the giant, featureless cylinder that was the Bennu II. Passage on the Bennu II, to Graham’s way of thinking, despite its astronomical cost, represented the cheapest way he could think of to buy his passage into history. This was because Bennu II was the first working inter-stellar ship to be constructed. Physically, the ship consisted of miles upon miles of circuitry and cables and more complicated machinery than Graham cared to

wonder about. He knew he would only be frustrated by his inability to comprehend the engineering aspects of the matter. What Graham and every other passenger, and probably most people on Earth, knew was this: housed inside the center of the cylinder, only about 30,000 square feet large, as opposed to the dozens of miles composing the ship and its resident Artificial Intelligence (A.I.), was a chamber containing nearly 200 steel coffins. Of course, they weren’t coffins in the strictest sense of the word. Their purpose was to contain live bodies rather than dead ones. That distinction was largely lost on Graham who had resided inside one for the ungodly number of years his watch registered as passing, bio-stasis slowing his metabolic processes so greatly that for all intents and purposes they were stopped. This bio-stasis was absolutely vital in traveling interstellar distances, as the old pipe-dream of faster-than-light (FTL) travel had never come into being. Biostasis is achieved by pumping the subject to be “frozen” full of tiny robots called nanoma15

chines, controlled by equally tiny, molecule-sized computers. The machines, permeating the subject’s entire body, physically hold the metabolic processes in check while providing the subject with the necessary life-support. The effect is that, while full of nanomachines and immersed in a fluid solution containing them, the subject does not age at all, or so very little that no aging is detectable. In this state Leroy Graham resided some 120 years, which explains entirely his sense of missing very little time. What it failed to explain was the sense that uncountable ages had passed since his bio-stasis. Mr. Graham had been explicitly told that the stasis process would render him entirely unconscious and unaware of the passage of time. Leroy Graham, a very wealthy man and heir to a sizable amount of money from a rich uncle’s biotechnology firm, was not a man accustomed to being inconvenienced in the least. He greatly resented the weariness it appeared would plague him for the remaining twenty-four hour period before his ship would be entering orbit around Tau Ceti. (Graham could never remember 16

which numbered planet they were going to land on; he had the faint impression that it might be III.) Leroy used his share of his uncle’s inheritance to buy passage aboard the ship since he believed it would assure him a place in the annals of space-flight history. Leroy sat in the lounge that had been provided for the passengers’ comfort, which was large enough to accommodate about fifty passengers at a time. Someone sitting beside him asked, “Excuse me, but do you think it will be very long until we reach orbit?” Leroy turned his head to look at the speaker. The voice belonged to a slender, brown-haired girl in her mid-twenties. She was fairly attractive, Leroy thought, so he did his best to smile and answer her. “Um, about twentyfour hours or so until we get to Tau Ceti. If the ship had any windows, we could probably see the star as a sun now.” “Oh. Thank you, Mr...” “Graham. But,” he said smiling, “you can call me Leroy.” The girl smiled at him and reached out a small hand. “Thank you, Leroy. My name is end of the lounge and placed his palm against the black, smooth surface

Phoenix. I guess you’d call me, generally, a computer specialist. What do you do?” “I used to write. Articles mostly, but I’m independently wealthy so I don’t have to bring in a lot of money with it.” Suddenly a thought occurred to him. “Is Phoenix your first name or your last?” “First.” “Is that a family name?” Leroy asked, as he thought it a very unusual name. Still smiling, Phoenix nodded. “I guess you could call it that.” Then changing the subject, she asked, “How are you feeling, Leroy?” Leroy almost answered an automatic okay but changed his mind and said, “Actually, I’ve been feeling a little tired since I came out of stasis. Do you feel it too? I mean, a sort of sense of weariness?” The girl didn’t say anything at first, and Leroy thought he had offended her. Her smile wavered noticeably, but finally she said, “I think the term you’re looking for is deja vu. The sense that you’ve done something or been somewhere before, but can’t quite place it. That’s what I feel, Leroy, deja vu.”

Despite her efforts not to show it, she seemed to Leroy to be genuinely upset by the question. He feebly tried to reassure her by putting a hand on her shoulder, which she promptly shrugged off, saying, “I, uh, think it’s an aftereffect of the bio-stasis.” Then somewhat belatedly he added, “Phoenix.” To this she made no reply, but merely looked at him quizzically. They continued in silence for several minutes, watching the other passengers trickle in and out of the lounge. None of them said anything to the two of them nor made any signs of recognition. In general, they acted more or less as weary as Leroy Graham himself felt. Phoenix said nothing to Leroy but eventually leaned back against the plush couch they both sat on and drifted off to sleep. For his part, Leroy had been mulling over her name, which he still thought was rather unusual. He didn’t have the slightest idea what “Phoenix” meant, so while she slept he decided to ask the ship’s neural-net A.I. Gingerly he got up, avoiding waking her. He walked to a terminal set in the wall at the far

of the neural induction pad that was the only visible manifestation of the computer. Leroy, like everyone else, was used to this sort of direct, mechanical, quasi-telepathic contact with computers; the neural induction field displayed the computer’s response directly into the mind of the user, thus avoiding the need for a clumsy keyboard or monitor. As soon as he had done this, he queried the computer, “What is the meaning of the name Phoenix?” Immediately the computer spewed back a stream of gibberish and high-pitched whining directly into Leroy’s mind, sounding something like an old analog tape played at too high a speed. Distraught, Leroy yanked his hand from the induction field. Could the computer be malfunctioning? If so, it meant deep trouble for Leroy and the other passengers; the landing on Tau Ceti couldn’t be done without the computer’s control and calculations. More than that, if the computer decided for some insane reason to cut the fusion engines, they’d be set adrift in space until they starved. Or what if it turned off the drive shields in the mo-

tors? They’d explode in a fusion reaction... But, Leroy thought, we haven’t malfunctioned yet. I’d have felt a shift in course, and the engines are still roaring along. Maybe it’s only a malfunction in the neural induction field. Those things are finicky. Finally he decided to ask the computer for a print-out of both the answer to his query and a status report of its condition. He wouldn’t be able to comprehend it, but if Phoenix was any kind of computer specialist at all, she could, he reasoned. The computer promptly spat out a couple of sheets from its output port, one in English and one in computer code. He grabbed them both and headed back toward Phoenix. On his way, he glanced at the answer to his query. It read: Phoenix – Greek. “The heron or eagle” or “the rejuvenated and reincarnated one.” The legendary bird that lived 500 years was consumed by fire and rose again in youthful freshness from the ashes. Alternate forms of this name: Old Egyptian, Bennu... Leroy’s blood ran cold. Phoenix awakened to Leroy Graham shaking her roughly. He 19

seemed to be in a state of severe agitation. Gently she pushed him away, which stopped the shaking but didn’t make him go away. Anyway, such was not her wish. “What? What is it?” she asked him, as he thrust a sheet of paper at her. “Here. You’re supposed to be a computer programmer. What does this say?” The sheet he gave her was in code. She glanced at it briefly. “Essentially most of this code is junk. The only parts that mean anything are coded for letters. It means ‘feeling fine,’ basically. What is this? Hey, and what do you mean by ‘supposed?’” As calmly as he could, his voice breaking very little, Leroy said, “You’re the A.I.” Phoenix regarded him calmly for several seconds before saying, coolly, “That’s right.” And then she said nothing more. “It was the meaning of your name. I got it from the computer.” Leroy trailed off weakly and looked expectantly at Phoenix, the Artificial Intelligence. Rationally, soothingly, she spoke. “You’re right, Leroy. I am the A.I. I did choose my name as an alternate form of Bennu, which

is the name of the ship, and thus my name too. But let me explain. Leroy, the computer, me, was not malfunctioning. What you probably heard was a speeded up response to your question. It wasn’t a malfunction.” Leroy stared at her dumbfounded, saying nothing. After a brief pause, the A.I. continued, “You see, Leroy, nothing you see here is really happening. It is true that you are on the Bennu II placed in biostasis, but beyond that...” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “While en route to Tau Ceti, a micro-meteor punctured the hull and injured me. My computing process is uninhibited, but my ability to interface with anything but the people in bio-stasis is gone. I cannot move the ship or radio for help. All I can do is communicate with you. Without me to monitor your life-support, all of you in bio-stasis died of suffocation when oxygen stopped flowing to your brains. However, the bio-stasis nanomachines still function properly. “Normally, when a human dies, his or her thoughts and mind deteriorate quickly, dwindling into nothingness within a few

hours. However, the bio-stasis slows everything down enormously, so your last few hours of life become, potentially, centuries, maybe even millennia. This also explains the malfunction of the computer. Its response was normal, but your perception of the outside world is distorted; since your time is slow, the computer’s normal response seemed to be very fast. “What you are seeing here is just the projection of your mind. This world exists only inside your mind; it’s your expectation of what waking up from bio-stasis should be like. The same goes for these people; they are just projections of you, which is why they seem so hollow and distant. It’s hard to imagine complete personalities.” Phoenix paused, waiting for Leroy to say something. Finally he did. Hollowly he asked, “So I’m stuck here forever? What about the trip to Tau Ceti? What about you?” “You’re not stuck here forever; just until your brain finishes deteriorating. As to the trip to Tau Ceti, I don’t know. I suppose that’s up to your subconscious limitations. As for me, I assume you’re wondering about

my appearance. That’s simple; whether you know it or not, my appearance is the manifestation of your expectations of the perfect woman.” Stonily Leroy gazed at her. Then wordlessly he got up and walked toward the lounge exit. Phoenix looked at him as he went. She called after him, “Wait, Leroy! You need me! I’m the only one who really exists here! Without me you’ll go insane.” Leroy paused. Phoenix continued, “I need you, too. You’re the only one whose brain wasn’t badly damaged; the others are vegetables. You’re my only means of contact with another. Before you do something rash, consider the alternatives. I think we can manage an existence that won’t be too bad.” She made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Woodenly Leroy shook his head. “I don’t want to wait around while my brain rots, Phoenix. I’m going to step outside.” “Step outside? Into vacuum? Leroy, it isn’t real vacuum! It only exists in your head.” “So what happens if I go out into it?” “I...don’t know. Maybe you

really will die if you expect to. Maybe you’ll think you’re stuck out there forever in interstellar space for millennia while your brain rots. Maybe it’ll cause a break with this flimsy reality in your mind and you’ll become psychotic. Leroy, don’t do this!” Again, he shook his head. “I believe you when you tell me I’m dead, Phoenix. It makes too much sense to ignore. I want to die fully. I can’t stand the idea of waiting out millennia in a hallucinatory world.” With that he stalked to the airlock at the end of the lounge, cycled it open, stepped in, and locked it. Ignoring Phoenix’s protests, he keyed the outer door open, leaned back, and waited for the vacuum to boil his blood away. Leroy Graham, for the seventeenth time since waking, groggily shook his head. From the moment he got up, he had been unusually tired and worn out, quite the opposite of what

he had expected after sleeping for such a long time. Someone sitting beside him said, “Excuse me, but do you think it will be very long until we reach orbit?” 22

Leroy turned his head to look at the speaker. The voice belonged to a slender, brown-haired girl in her mid-twenties. She was fairly attractive, Leroy thought, so he did his best to smile and answer her. Deep inside the belly of the Bennu II, Leroy Graham slept on and on and on. Shane Andrews (12)

Return Standing at the Belgian crossroads, the aged veteran didn’t appear to be a pilgrim. He looked like any other seventy-year-old grandfather on an overseas vacation, except for tears flowing from his eyes. He was neatly attired and looked, aside from his tears, like a person at peace with himself. This impression was deceiving. He was not at peace. His clothes were as much a uniform as those he had worn more than five decades before when his hair was still brown and he had thought nothing of running five miles a day. The field jacket had been replaced by a light blue windbreaker. Khaki slacks took the place of olive-green cargo pants, and sneakers replaced combat boots and gaiters. His steel helmet, which had protected him from He could see the muzzle flashes, smell the gunpowder, hear the screams of pain and terror... countless shell fragments, was gone. Instead he wore an olive-green baseball cap bearing a simple decoration: the black outline of a shield, inside of which was a red 1, the insignia of the United States Army’s First Infantry Division, the unit to which he had belonged fifty-five years earlier. Though he was proud of his service, proud to have taken part in the salvation of Western Europe, a knot still formed in his stomach when he thought about this small crossroads. He could see the muzzle flashes, smell the gunpowder, hear the screams of pain and terror, taste fear and death, and feel the concussions of mortar shells. Billy had been killed by one of those eighty-one millimeter “Moaning Minnie” shells. The pilgrim changed from the green young corporal he had once been. He had become a carpenter, and was considered by his friends and relatives to be a hard worker and a good husband, if a little distant from his family. Yet he was forever marred by what happened at this Belgian intersection. He was plagued by guilt over not warning Billy to stay out of the open crossroads and felt there was no way to make amends without coming here. Externally, he seemed normal and undisturbed, but on the inside he still mourned his best friend. Will Smiley (10) 23

The Barrier Reflections on “Wisconsin Wildeworld” by John Wilde Concrete runs beneath my feet A crisp suit and brown leather briefcase pull me forward An invisible spell fixes my neck straight ahead Continually surging forward with confidence The edge of the sidewalk and the street encage me Until I reach a bright patch of grass cut to perfection, A neatly shaped hedge, and my house with number 4752 on it. The next day I open the little door with its polished brass handle And by direction I glide to the bus stop Stand at attention until the T bus slides into place at 8:47:38. At 5:17:23 on the same corner the door of the bus opens with a hiss. I step out and mechanically march back to my flawless house. A large obsidian black rock catches the far edge of my eye as I turn to my house. I change maneuver mid-step and face the other side of the street. A jagged, imperfect rock stands only a hundred yards off And beyond a speckled sky and no sidewalks, no perfect lawns. My feet move toward the giant rock and I feel a strong pull slice at my ankle But I fight; every step is an enormous battle requiring all my strength The pull proves too strong as my body twists back around from the feet up I succumb to the force and am drawn back onto the concrete sidewalk. I turn, mount three smooth, sterile steps, wipe my feet on the mat, Turn the doorknob with cold precision, step in, And the door closes without a thought of the other side. “Honey, you’re late for dinner; we’re having meatloaf.” Didn’t we have that last night? Aaron Bryden (12)

The Orange Artist Inspired by John Wilde’s “Wisconsin Wildeworld” The Artist of Orange Waits Thinks Sketches. In his mind the world is Green and Blue He sees the present Jumbled with the past Yet separated by craggy shale. The animals A chameleon, a butterfly, a rhino Closer to the past Like a link in the iron chain That is the course of history. He sees the Ancients, the people of the past In their simplistic wisdom Naked, going nowhere, yet knowing where they are Like the zebra People of the present, Moderns Strolling, ambling down the sidewalk Going somewhere, not knowing where. Both the Ancients and the Moderns Are inexplicably linked, Bound to one another by a pair of Jagged iron handcuffs Forever into the future. Brett Keintz (12) Brett received a fourth place award for his poetry in the Greater Dane County Youth Poetry Festival.

Autumn trees are bare their branches rattle in the wind like old bones, dry and brittle, as the cold wind flows through them, they shake and shiver like an old beggar with nothing to protect him from the cold. clouds hang low, an atmosphere of growing dark. the sky is grey. the clouds rush by in a frenzy, trying to escape the tireless wind that pursues them.

the air is silent save the cheerless moaning of the ever-present wind. all life has retreated back into the earth from which it came. the world is barren, a lifeless realm of emptiness where even creation has despaired of itself. though all of life seems lost to the dark depths of a death-like sleep, a promise of a new beginning rests in every seed, in roots of trees, in holes and burrows, a hope which all the world treasures through this season of death, waiting for new life to begin. Anna Cianciara (11)

In the Shadow of Thoreau Monday, December 22, 1997 A cold rush of chill air reminds me that I am no longer in the confines of a warm, heated building. I look up at the two 175 foot tall pine trees that welcome me in their silent yet powerful greeting. One of the trees extends its arms to me, and I gladly and nimbly work my way up its time-worn body. About fifty feet from the ground I stop in a nest of branches and needles which is just waiting for me to find it. A strange calm envelops me as I nestle myself into the seat, a position from which I cannot see anything but the glistening green needles of the tree. This loss of sight increases my other senses, waking my nose to the subtle scent of fresh pine, and my ears to the soft whistling of the wind through the branches of the tree which has welcomed me into itself. I lay back, close my eyes, and let the peacefulness of the world surround me. Wednesday, December 24, 1997 Christmas is all around me as I sit back and observe Nature preparing its celebration. An ant rushes past me carrying a huge chunk of food, getting ready for the feast to take place tomorrow. The wind sings her gentle carols as she passes through my hostâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s branches, echoing her melodious tunes to anybody and anything willing to take time out of busy schedules to listen. A single fly buzzes by and lands on my shoulder. It is the first one that I have seen this winter, and I notice in it the tenseness and business that seems to pervade this time of year. Yet it takes the time to stop and listen to the quiet, redemptive music that Nature has to offer. Perhaps we can learn something from this fly. Friday, December 26, 1997 The icy wind whips around me and bites with its sharp sting at my cheeks as I climb up the arms of my once again gracious host. As I climb into my seat, however, I notice that the once furious wind has subsided and 28

that my cheeks are no longer cold. I look at the branches of the pine and see them whipping in the wind, protecting me from the icy cold. The tree is a perfect example of how to handle adversity. It bends at the trunk and doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stay rigid, for if it did it would surely fall. It keeps all of the outside pressures on the outside, giving a flustered and out of control appearance. However this flustered outer appearance does not let adversity affect its inside or its core where its soul remains silently in peace.

day, December 28, 1997

Sun-

A slow drizzle is starting to fall as the morning melts into the afternoon. I wore a poncho today, but I realized after a few minutes that there was no need. The mighty branches of the strong pine absorb the frigid liquid, keeping his new-found resident dry and warm. The pine tree bears no hostility to me, the intruder who has made his abode in his branches, but rather does everything in his power to encourage the newcomer to continue coming and to make the most of his humble offerings. The tree is a willing host, one who has always waited for me to come to him, but I have always been too busy to look and have passed him by. Friday, January 2, 1998 29

Relaxing and at peace in my hostâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gracious embrace, my mind starts to wander. I think of my pine and of all that he must have experienced during his amazing tenure on this earth. I try to guess at his age, but I have no way of knowing. If he could talk, I wonder what he would say. How many people have confided in him their deepest secrets and fears? How many people like me has he seen grow up and eventually go away? When he was a small tree, did someone come to relax in the shade of his branches? What a legacy this ancient and wise pine must have - a legacy of which I am proud to be a part. Sunday, January 4, 1998 As I sit back and think about how peaceful life can be, a car buzzes down the street and screeches as the driver takes the turn too tight, breaking the peaceful calm and silence. I realize how, like the car, I often rush through life, without taking the time to stop along the way and enjoy the moment for what it is. I think about how much I have enjoyed the peaceful moments inside my pine tree. I realize that it is often through isolation that I find something worth slowing down for, some hidden love or a buried talent that was not previously visible. These talents got covered up by the smoke when I sped down the road of life without ever looking back to see what I might have missed. Sunday, January 11, 1998 The world lies spread out before me, my mind forming a chessboard as I observe. Nature mobilizes her pawns softly, as the seemingly harmless wind advances into the soul of humanity. Society poses a subtle yet powerful counter-attack with its stealthy and deceptive knights, the hands of clocks, schedules and deadlines around the world driving away the time to appreciate the weaker wind and preventing the soul from enjoying the graceful pawns of nature, thus rendering them forgotten. Seeing her front line so easily overcome, Nature brings out her knights and even more powerful bishops, the animals of land, air, and sea, and they conquer the knights of time, causing people to stop and look at the 30

wonders around them. The powerful rooks of Progress, however, are Society’s quick and merciless reply. Nature’s pieces stand helpless as they are overcome and captured, caged in dungeons for all to see, no longer allowed to roam free, for Progress is being made. Society is on the offensive, and nothing can be allowed to stand in the way. Nature is crippled and brings out her queen, the majesty of Nature in all her beauty. The insurmountable beauty of the rolling hills, bubbling streams, and verdant forests are all embodied in the blanched wooden Empress. The queen fights valiantly and sways the hearts of the less powerful pieces. But the queen is no match for Greed, Power, Money, and the American Dream, all swirled together into Society’s ash Queen. Nature is stripped of her beauty in the name of Progress and Power. The queen falls, and Nature stands defenseless before the onslaught of Power, Progress, Money, Greed, Schedules, Deadlines, and Time, and there is nowhere left for her to turn. Checkmate. James Kleckner (12)

Geese Geese, Peculiar, to say the least. Their necks, A dim bulb on one end, A football on the other. Geese, Not the quickest of all. A dull pearl for a brain Priceless yet useless, Leaving them thoroughly, geographically lost. Geese, Geese, With their pitiful honk, They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get it right, They go left, Then they go back to the right. Silly geese, North is straight up ahead. Carlos Jaramillo (10)

The Determined Runner The runner was dripping wet from head to toe but still had a look of fierce determination on her face. Rain slid in tear-shaped drops off the tip of her nose and from the end of her rhythmically swinging brown ponytail. Her ponytail fell down toward the nape of her neck. Its side-to-side swish was in perfect syncopation with the quick strides of her long legs. Her face scrunched together in an effort to keep the rain from flooding into her dark brown eyes that were fixed on the road ahead. Squishing with every forward step, her once white shoes had become gray. The socks under the shoes were plastered to her skin and with every movement chafed her feet even more. Numb with cold from the rain, the muscles in her legs pulsed and showed through the black leggings that clung tightly to her legs. Her cheeks were scarlet. They pulled tightly over her gritted jawbone muscle. The long-sleeved teeshirt she wore was soaked through and clung to her slight frame like a second skin. Once light blue, the shirt turned black in the rain. Her thin hands were gloved from the cold in knit-black thermostat

gloves. Her hair was plastered to her head. Usually impossible to control, the normally bouncy brown curls had now succumbed to the rain and had finally been pushed down to fit like a hat on her head. The runnerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nose was flushed bright, rosy red from the cold afternoon air. No hat was on her head, and her ears showed how cold they were by turning scarlet at the tips. Although her body was weighted down with rain, her mind was not. The woman had decided to run through the rain, and the tenacity showed on her pale, wet face. Running today was an uphill battle, but she was determined to continue running. The personality of the runner was like salmon going upstream. As the salmon head upstream, the runner would continue on even when the running felt like a chore, continuing until the elusive objective had been reached. Determined to keep on, the runner pounded through the rain to reach her goal.

Sara Wimberger (10)

In My Sorrow, I Am Comforted He’s in my arms, I hold him tight, In my sorrow, I am comforted. He has long whiskers. When he comes close, They tickle my nose. I have never seen eyes As beautiful as his. Bright, Shining like the reflection of the sun in the ocean. In my sorrow, I am comforted. “Hello Dear, Did ya miss me? I had a rough day. I wish you could have been with me.” He knows I am upset. He studies my every move. Watching, He moves closer, He sits next to me. In my sorrow, I am comforted. No need to say a word, His eyes tell more than I could ever hear. Nuzzling his head Into my shoulder, He tries to make me feel better. Whenever things go wrong, I know I can come home. He will be waiting at the door. In my sorrow, only he can comfort me.

I hold him tight. I close my eyes And make a wish. “I wish you were a real boy Instead of my CAT!” He sees I am upset again. He rubs his head against my cheek. His whiskers tickle me. In my sorrow, I am comforted. Kim Jacobson (12)

Grandma’s Last Gift

I had always been an inquisitive kid. When my mom instructed me about the law of gravity at eighteen months of age, I replied with one word of my limited vocabulary, “Balloon?” My mom was stunned; a one-and-a-half-year-old boy had just challenged her logical lecture on physics with a single question, a single word. As I progressed through the years, I developed an ethereal set of beliefs. These were quickly changing and easily swayed. I continued this way, not really questioning my beliefs, until in a single childhood encounter with a neighbor, my beliefs were shattered. Later I found that a strong, emotionally-jolting experience can solidify and advance a person’s philosophy. I was in first grade when my beliefs altered drastically. I believed that everything possessed a spirit and that when something died, its spirit would go to God. During my first week of public school, I was sitting in my front yard, which is surrounded by eighty-foot pine trees. A kid who lived down the street was hitting the trees with a baseball bat. I

told him, “Don’t hit my trees. You’re hurting them.” He said, “Trees can’t feel pain.” “Yes they can. Trees have spirits...tree spirits.” “Oh, yea? Prove it!” At that moment, a rush of energy coursed through my whole body. I realized in an instant that I could not prove that trees have spirits. In that instant, I also knew that I could not prove that humans have spirits. If I couldn’t prove that, then God might not exist. This led me to fear that there was no life after death. I plunged into an agnostic depression. After that, I no longer was able to sleep and I was constantly obsessed with death. I floundered in this stage for many years. My parents tried all sorts of things to get me out of it: movies, books, religions; they even had my grandfather (on my mother’s side) explain St. Thomas Aquinas’ logical proofs of God. None of it worked. I remained agnostic until the beginning of fifth grade. Then my paternal grandmother died. She lived with my grandfather in Levittown on Long Island, New York. When she died, it seemed as if she had tried

to be as unobtrusive as possible. There were no warning signs or long drawn-out crying sessions; she just had a heart attack and died in the kitchen one day. We were visiting my mother’s parents in New Jersey at the time, which put us close to the actual incident. Memories of it come back to me in bits and pieces. I remember that the notification of her death interrupted my interest in an unformed model car still in the box. We left for Levittown that day, leaving that model car untouched and unnoticed. I still can see that model car for some reason, not the style or make, just its essence. It sits in my memory like it had on the shelf, a symbol of my way of being before confronting the death of a loved one: an unused piece of childhood. My younger brother and I reacted to the death very differently. Matt obsessed over getting Grandma’s favorite candy, Milky Way Dark, to put with her in the casket. I found that to be an odd, childish sentiment, but it reduced the tension in the air. I became very quiet and introverted. Something was happening in my mind that I don’t remember now. We arrived in Long Island to

find all of our relatives crying. It was really the first time I can remember a family get-together that was sorrowful. Since my father is of Jewish descent, the service was in Hebrew. Both my brother and I were very sure that we wanted to see the open casket, and, after some deliberation, my parents decided that it would be okay. I still have a strong impression of my grandmother in the casket, devoid of life. I remember the pale white face in contrast to the dark blue dress. She wasn’t wearing an overpowering shade of lipstick, but she did have on blue eyeshadow. I never cried that day. There is something about a body without a spirit. You can see what is missing. It was Grandma’s body, but Grandma was gone. It was my grand-mother’s final gift to me. My agnosticism vanished through the realization that she needed a spirit to have one missing. In reflection, I find that such a crisis can serve to be the vehicle of growth from one stage to the next. For me, my grandmother’s passing brought me into a rebirth. I lost my fear of death as I watched my family continue to relate to her. Even though we could no longer touch 37

or see her, we could still feel her and talk to her. Her gift is still with me.

Michael Harlowe (11)

My Lady, My Love My sweet noble heart yearns for the lady with a God-given beauty. Her smile says love with no definition. Her lips melt with the touch, as her cheeks with blush. My sweet noble heart has seen wonders of angels come from the sky to catch a glimpse of her gorgeous hazel eyes. Her words build castles out of the air. Her brilliance humbles me as far as my eyes allow me to see. It is my sweet noble heart that has been embraced with a love so pure. Alas, I have found her, but my heart breaks with no cure. My thunderous passion is my only weakness. For the fair lady abandoned my sweetness. My broken noble heart dreamt a dream too long. My lady, this is where I sing to you a troubadourâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s song. Oh my lady, noble lady be forever. With melancholy and a heart so tender, I say with truth, a new day has come, yet my allegiance still remains with you. John Walsh (10)

Spaghetti Sauce

(The action takes place in a cemetery. Carolyn, a woman in her thirties, enters. She carries a single yellow carnation. She stops at her husband’s grave, puts down the flower, and kneels.) CAROLYN: Hey there. (She pauses, then chuckles to herself.) You know, I was sitting outside at home and realized that the weather tonight is almost exactly like it was the night of our first date. So I decided to visit you so we could relive old times together. (A nervous laugh) Remember it, a gentle breeze, the moonlight beaming down, the crickets chirping? Perfect. Like summer nights I remember from when I was growing up on my farm. (She pauses, then laughs quietly.) You always used to tease me when I became sentimental like that. (A pause) Did you notice the flower? I picked it up on the way over here. Just like the one you gave me that night. Except that one was just…perfect. I mean, every petal, the shape, everything, even the smell was just absolutely perfect. (She fights back tears.) Sort of like you. (She smiles.) No, exactly like you. (Another pause as she lets out a sigh of grief.) You know what? I don’t think I ever told you the exact moment I fell in love with you. You know, some people fall in love during a passionate kiss or an intense glance across a candlelit table, but for me it was the night you came over to my house and I made spaghetti, remember? You were wearing a navy blue shirt and khaki pants. I had never seen you look so handsome. We were sitting across from each other, and you were just raving about my cooking. In your excitement, you got spaghetti sauce on your chin, only you didn’t notice. You went on and on, telling me how wonderful my spaghetti was and how it tasted authentic, but all I could pay attention to was that spaghetti on your chin. Normally something like that would turn me off right away. But instead of being grossed out by your inability to get food into your mouth, I thought it was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. And that’s when I realized that I was in love with you. I loved knowing each and every one of your imperfections and yet, in some strange way, adore you even more for each and every one of them. I can’t eat spaghetti anymore without thinking about that moment, 40

the happiest moment of my life, because it was when I realized I had found what I had been looking for my whole life. I mean, God, you were there for me no matter what. Remember that night I started crying and you couldn’t figure out why? Well, it was because I was so happy. It was a couple nights after you proposed to me, and I finally realized that I was going to spend the

Now and forever, spaghetti sauce and rest of my life with the most incredible man on earth. (She sighs and moves from a kneeling to a seated position.) You know, I’ll never be able to watch “Ghost” again. That was what I was watching that night. The night I lost you. (She rips a petal from the carnation.) You said you’d be home from Chicago by ten, and I told you not to take the interstate in the snow and ice. (She is battling tears. She rips off another petal.) And so there I was sitting at home at eleven-thirty and you hadn’t called; you weren’t home and you weren’t answering your car phone. And I just knew. That’s how close I am to you. I can feel pain when you feel it. I knew something had happened. (Another petal.) Then they called me. I don’t remember specifically what the guy on the other end said. I just remember hearing “car accident” and “St. Peter’s Hospital.” And all I knew was that I had to get to you. (With the following thought, she surrenders to her tears and they begin to fall freely.) You looked so pale. I walked in and saw you in that bed with all the color drained from your face. And I picked up your hand and held it in mine and I squeezed, but it was so wrong because for the first time ever you weren’t squeezing back. I could feel myself losing you and I couldn’t accept it. I kept squeezing and squeezing harder and harder, just hoping you’d sit up and say, “Ow!” (Another pause as she rips yet another petal.) God, Bill, I hope you can forgive me. It’s just after three hours I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. I came to the heart-breaking realization that you were not going to come back. (The tears keep falling; she rips another petal.) And they asked me if I wanted to take you off life sup41

port since there was really no hope anyway. And I just wanted to scream and shout and wonder why they would put such a heavy decision on my shoulders. I wanted to scream “NO!” It couldn’t be over. One of the things I loved so much about you was that I discovered something new about you each day. How could I lose you when there was so much left to discover? (Angry and frustrated, she rips the remaining petals off the carnation.) But as I stood there with your clammy, lifeless hand in mine, I realized that you were already gone. What I fell in love with about you was your inner beauty and immense spirit, and those were dead. And I could feel that they weren’t coming back. This bandaged, comatose figure was not my husband. (She pauses.) Do you see? Do you understand? I hope you do. I hope you know that the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say in my life was that one little “Yes.” But please understand...it wasn’t because I wanted you gone! Wherever your soul is, I hope you aren’t watching me with anger for letting you go. Because Bill, I love you. I will always love you in every way imaginable. And I only did what I did because it wasn’t fair to keep you here when what made you YOU was gone. (She brushes the tears from her eyes.) You changed the way I look at myself. You were the only person who ever made me feel beautiful. I would never have been who I am today if I hadn’t met you, Bill. Nothing, NOTHING will ever make me stop loving you. You will always be my husband. (She puts the carnation stem on the grave.) Now and forever, spaghetti sauce and all. (Blackout) Meghan Randolph (11)

A Familiar State of Mind I am released into a world Where nothing knows me, And I know nothing. The wind cries the howling screams in my ears; The ground shakes with tremendous jolts beneath me; The trees sway to the sound of silence; And the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s piercing eyes just stare at me; I cling to the clouds above hoping they will take me away.

Colleen Curtin (9)

Improv Based on “Three Musicians” by Max Weber Bap. A dull note splinters silence. “Try again, try again,” someone says. Brr-ap! “There, much better.” It’s begun. Three musicians step out on their nightly quest. But music maps its own route. Bip-bap, brr-ap! The instruments wrench and twist in their hands. With each new contortion a sound eeks out. Bippity bap! Bap! Bap! The old walls crumble. Snakes uncoil. The music hikes up the musicians’ crests And encompasses them. Brr-ap bip! Instruments and men are entangled. Limbs and strings mesh into one. Bip bap! Bippity bap! Man’s music revealed. Step aside. Their faces stretch from them revealing anew The flesh and blood of creativity.

Bippity bap bippity! With each new note faces dance, Move and shake, taunting their owners. Brr-ap! Bippity bap-bap! Man’s “laws” are flung away. Rancid note invades. Snakes recoil with sudden repulsion. Exhausted musicians collapse. Bap! A weak note pleads in desperation. “What was that?” someone asks. Bip-bap. “That... wasn’t us.” Amy Washbush (12) Amy received first place for her poetry in the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets Contest and an honorable mention in the Greater Dane County Youth Poetry Festival.

Unexpected Success Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden, “If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.” In this statement, Thoreau urges a person to follow her dreams with resolve. Following this advice, one will eventually attain worthwhile goals if one diligently keeps working toward one’s hopes and expectations. Perhaps these dreams will not materialize in the way or at the time desired. Discovering the trombone, learning to play it, practicing long hours, and auditioning for the Wisconsin State Music Association (WSMA) High School State Honors Band clearly showed me how following one’s dreams and goals with conviction can bring success at the most unforeseen times in life. The preparation for the WSMA Honors Band audition began with my entrance into fourth grade, seven years before the actual tryout. In this momentous year, I “graduated” from the first floor primary unit of St. James Grade School and became one of the “big kids” on the second floor. I eagerly joined several of my classmates in the mysterious rite of passage into the realm of musical instruments. I had first responded to the trombone when the Memorial High School band director, Mr. Buchauser, expertly demonstrated various brass instruments at a summer keyboard camp. Its sonorous, golden voice mesmerized me. I knew this implement of deep-throated sound was worthy of self-sacrifice. I imagined one day I would charm that unwieldy instrument to sing a beautiful Siren song to enchant and spellbind all who would hear it. Several weeks after signing up to play trombone in the beginning band, Ward Brodt delivered the instruments to school. I eagerly plunged into my first trombone lesson. Before I played a single note, however, I steeled myself against the ugly, discordant “blatts” I heard produced by my fellow musicians. I certainly “blatted,” but in that harsh dissonance, I also caught a far-off promise of melodious and bewitching euphony. This promise nourished my will to practice during the long hours of many succeeding nights. Advancing steadfastly in the direction of my dreams and endeavor46

ing to make music a part of my life, I acquired the basics of trombone playing in school and practiced assiduously at home. I earned first chair in the Musical Youth Honor Band, a Madison area parochial grade school band. Private lessons with several teachers advanced me up the ladder of achievement in trombone study. Preparing a solo each year for the WSMA solo/ ensemble competition, auditioning for the three successive levels in the Wisconsin Youth Symphony Orchestra (WYSO), playing in the Edgewood High School band and pep band, and participating in Summer Music Clinic helped me toward my dreams of making music that enthralls peo47

ple. All of this musical experience has come at considerable expenditure of time and effort, but I derive great joy from it.

With my slide as the spindle and my music as the loom, I wove the gossamer strands of melody into a shimmering cloth of gold. Finally, after seven years of dreaming and practicing, an offhand remark from one of my trombone teachers offered me a chance to apply for a seat in the State Honors Band. With some trepidation, but with lots of determination, I asked for the application forms, painstakingly filled them out, sent them in, and selected a solo to present in the audition. After many weeks of tedious preparation, the momentous day, February 14, dawned dreary and drizzly. The drive to Spring Green High School, which hosted the auditions for southwestern Wisconsin, seemed too short. Upon my entrance into the stifling audition room, the judge instructed me to play the special etude I had diligently prepared. With my slide as the spindle and my music as the loom, I wove the gossamer strands of melody into a shimmering cloth of gold. By the end of the piece, the usual exhilaration of creating a mellifluous work of art with my lips and slide had magnified a thousand times. Quickly pulled back to reality by the blank-faced judge, who instructed me to perform two octaves of the G scale, I stumbled my way from the second G below middle C to the G above middle C. Usually an easy and quick jaunt up and down the scales, my hornâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice suddenly cracked like that of an adolescent boy when I played E for the second time. However, I had toiled too arduously to reach this summit to merely concede defeat. Resigned to the knowledge that I had failed to show the great heights to which I could aspire, I resolved to continue the audition with a flourish. 48

After breathing deeply and emptying the water key, I tensely awaited my next assignment. The judge eyed me circumspectly and requested that I triple-tongue a B-flat. Striving to disregard the fact that the day before was the first time I had been successful at triple-tonguing, I resolutely shouldered my trombone and proceeded to unwaveringly advance another step in my life. I successfully triple-tongued the pitch, earning me yet another poker-faced stare from the judge, who then directed me to my final task, sight-reading. I glanced over the page of unfamiliar music before me, noticing no unusually high or low notes, sudden key changes, or difficult rhythms. The judge sighed impatiently, so I sunk my lips into the warm mouthpiece for the final time and wrapped my horn in a loving embrace. The song flowed by all too fleetly. The judge thanked me for my time and effort, and I exited the room as quickly as possible. I wasn’t optimistic, as I had not performed to the best of my ability. I regarded this audition as a learning experience; maybe I could do better next year. In the rush of tests, essays, projects, and concerts, I soon forgot about the State Honors Band audition and the disappointing rejection I knew I would receive. On the last Saturday in March, I participated in a retreat with my confirmation class at the St. Norbertine Abbey in De Pere. My mom took care of the mail, opening the common envelopes addressed “To the Parents of Margie Duwe” that come so regularly from Edgewood, WYSO, WSMA, the occasional small college, and other groups. By mistake, my mom opened one of those myriad letters addressed to Margie Duwe. WSMA had finally made its decisions as to the members of the 1998 High School State Honors Band. When I returned that night after a long, boring day, capped by a bumpy school bus ride from Green Bay, my mother told me she had some good news and some bad news. Deciding to face the music, I opted to take the bad news first. She told me I had not made the State Honors Band. Relieved to know the results, yet disappointed, but not surprised, I inquired promptly about the good news. She cheerfully announced that I would be spending a few days during the summer rehearsing in Eau Claire as a member of the WSMA High School State Honors Orchestra. This group of high school instrumentalists from throughout the state would present a concert in the fall at the State Teachers’ Convention. This startling information 49

took me by surprise. While the band, not the orchestra, was my goal, I was overjoyed at the recognition and opportunity being a member of the Orchestra represented. Earning a place in the High School State Honors Orchestra exemplifies the truth of Thoreauâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s advice, â&#x20AC;&#x153;If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.â&#x20AC;? My dream to draw melodious tunes from this strange and cumbersome instrument, the trombone, had come true. I successfully made my trombone sing a Siren song that entranced someone who recognized my efforts and rewarded me. I had no real expectation of winning a seat on the State Honors Band and no thought at all of the Orchestra. The result definitely came at an unexpected time in my life. Margie Duwe (11)

Poem And Thus It Unfolds A train of thought a zone of passion Clotted confusion explodes the mind I am stunned without expression Surrounded, surrounded, surrounded by a bind. Fright abounds inside of me Agony in anticipation Hand and face rubbed methodically (Thought is now an infestation) Never have I seen my imagination. In words I commence, steadily I stutter Babel drips down my chin in a downtrodden procession. Ink flows, an attempt to distill a mind which is cluttered And thus it unfolds, my manifestation. Nick Braus (11)