Grove City College Winter 2015
The
Quad
The Quad
Editors’ Note ‘Miracles occur, If you care to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait’s begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.’
Senior Editors Laura Egan & Julia Connors Junior Editor Grant Wishard Department Editors Creative Nonfic. Adeline Ferguson Ruth Finley Poetry John Hermesmann Alicia Pollard Austin Zick Essays Dan Chapman Kathleen McAlister Book Reviews Mary Leone Peter Herman Short Stories Dan Rzewnicki Allie Bimber Art Director
Rebekah Fry
Art Assistant
Victoria Zulick
Design & Layout Editor
Nicolas Giorgi
Style Chief
Tucker Sigourney
Copyeditors Hannah Dunlap Rachel Reitz Conundrumer Tucker Sigourney
Sylvia Plath Dear Reader, Sylvia Plath’s poem, “Black Rook in Rainy Weather” captures the Advent season, but not without remembering how hard it is to wait for hopes to become realities. I’m so thankful for ‘that rare, random descent’ that comes after a period of waiting, without much back-talk from the sky. As we prepare for the semester to end, to return to our homes for Christmas (wherever that may be), I hope we can celebrate this Advent season, and the spasmodic tricks of radiance called miracles, no matter how small they appear. These days nearing the end of the semester, we are a little tired and empty headed, so full of studying that real thoughts have no chance to make it out of the fog that is finals week. We hope, with this winter issue of the Quad, to share something with you that your creative fellow students made, and provide a short respite from all your work. Rachel Reitz’s story, “Malley’s Market,” captures the charm of a small town business owner that cares about the little things, and Kathleen McAlister describes nature interacting with a cityscape in her poem, “I Walked Through the City.” Thank you for reading The Quad. Best of luck on all your finals, and Merry Christmas! Peace,
Marketing Director Rachel Reitz Faculty Advisor
Laura Egan Senior Editor
Dr. H. Collin Messer
Editorial Advisory Board Dr. Joseph D. Augspurger Dr. Daniel S. Brown Dr. Joshua F. Drake Dr. Michael F. Falcetta Dr. Gillis J. Harp Dr. Charles E. Kriley Dr. Julie C. Moeller Dr. Jennifer A. Scott Dr. Kevin S. Seybold Cover Art
Rebekah Fry
Julia Connors Senior Editor
Grant Wishard Junior Editor
Q Volume 8, Issue 2 , Winter 2015 The Quad is published quarterly by students of Grove City College and funded by the college. The works in this magazine, however, do not necessarily represent the views of Grove City College, the editors, the advisor, or the editorial advisory board. The editors are responsible for the selection of articles; responsibility for opinions and accuracy of facts in articles published rests solely with the individual authors. The Quad grants permission for any original article to be photocopied for local use, provided that no more than 1,000 copies are made, are distributed at no cost, and The Quad is properly cited as the source. Anyone may submit to The Quad. Pieces are selected by a blind submission process. Submissions must be sent to quad.submissions@gmail.com. Include what department you are submitting to, year, campus mailbox number (or address) with your name and use 12 pt Times New Roman font, double spaced; when citations are necessary, use Chicago style. Any rejected submissions which are not returned will be destroyed. Accepted submissions may be withdrawn at any time. Anyone interested in writing a review should contact the editors.
The Quad
winter 2015 volume 8 issue 2
Contents 3
Bare Trees
Chris Koster
Poem
4
Redeployment
Jan Frederic Dudt
Book Review
7
The Crossroads of the World
Abby Opst
Creative Nonfic.
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If You Saw Me Fail
Hayley Klinger
Poem
9
To Be Vulnerable
Dabney Glover
Poem
10
New Blessings in This Day
John Anastasio
Book Review
13
Walk Through the City
Kathleen McAlister
Poem
14
Malley’s Market
Rachel Reitz
Creative Nonfic.
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Secrets of the Sidewalk
David Hindman
Poem
21
Water Drop
James Moore
Poem
22
Location, Location, Location
Grant Wishard
Short Story
29
Spelling & Grammar: (Year 1)
John Hermesmann
Poem
30
Artist’s Reflection
Bekah Fry
Conundrums
Spellsweeper (Wizard Conundricles, Part II)
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Bare Trees
The Quad
Chris Koster
Just as the weather-worn chimney stands naked, after its dress caught fire; bared to the elements like the trees of winter, So does my love stand, solitude amongst the ashes left behind from the destruction that your apathy has wrought. Soon that chimney will crumble, as no one watches, for we were born to do the same.
Chris Koster (’16) loves punk-rock and cats and he thinks that the strongest empirical proof for the existence of God is black coffee.
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Redeployment Phil Klay’s highly-acclaimed new book recounts the experiences, responses, and reactions of U.S. military servicemen, especially Marines, who have been deployed and redeployed into the combat zones of Iraq. Phil Klay is a Marine veteran who served as a public affairs officer in Anbar Province, Iraq, from January 2007 to February 2008, during the time period referred to as “the surge.” Phil Klay was raised in the New York City area by a family that valued public service. He attended Marine officer candidate school while at Dartmouth College. He graduated in 2005, joined the Marines, and received a commission as Second Lieutenant. During his 13-month deployment in Iraq, he was part of a team charged with communicating the mission and interests of the United States Marine Corps to various stakeholders such as the media, local communities, and internal military personnel. In a combat situation, the assignment contains considerable risks. For example, the month before Klay’s deployment, Major Megan McClung (34), a public affairs officer, was killed in Anbar Province when her Humvee hit an IED. At first, Redeployment reads like a first-person autobiography, but after a chapter or two it is evident that the book is a collection of fictional short stories based on the author’s perception of the lives of individuals. It is expected that the author, as a communications expert dealing with a wide range of military personnel, would get his facts right. However, in a quote in a Q and A at PhilKlay.com, Klay indicates that authenticity is not his first priority in literature any more than it would be if you were reading the Iliad and assume it to be
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authentic regarding Greek warfare. This might have a disappointing ring for readers looking for factual history. However, literarily it enthralls the searcher with insightful impressions of people, and the wartime and post-combat psychological landscape they are crossing. At that point, one realizes that these are impressions, insights, and perceptions based on the personal philosophy of the author, gathered through his experiences and his background. That background undoubtedly includes his Catholic faith, his Ivy League education, his military training and experiences, and his training in communications. Redeployment includes twelve firstperson short stories. The identity and rank of the main character in each story is not always obvious. However, his role is clear. Some are noncommissioned officers, sergeants, lance corporals, privates in Mortuary Affairs or responsible for handing out war compensations. Characters include a Foreign Service Officer charged with providing financial support for restoring Iraqi infrastructure; a Catholic chaplain on deployment; a former psychological operations officer back in college at Amherst; and a Marine vet of undetermined rank finishing law school at NYU. Some of the stories take place entirely in Iraq under combat or less dangerous conditions, and some transition between Iraq and returning home. Others take place completely stateside. In all cases the stories recount the situations, interactions, and adjustments in which characters find themselves. The struggles, desires, and uncertainties that the characters go through are full of the insights of one who has had intimate association with these types of
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Q soldiers. What struck me as I read the book is that it is written by an insider who does not seem to be interested in whether or not his readers understand all of the details of the particular account. Military acronyms are thrown out regularly without explanation as if their meaning has already been given. If you are recently discharged or currently enlisted you may not have to Google all of them to know what the characters are talking about. It is hard for a civilian to believe that even military personnel know them all given the diverse set of characters and their duties. The language of the book, especially the dialogue, is realistically crude. The sensitive reader should beware. However, it does strike the reader that this military world involves a rough crowd, or perhaps characters that are so roughened that the course language is the obvious way to express themselves. At times, the sexuality of the soldiers, especially those in combat or those recently returned from it, is dealt with graphically and explicitly in terms of both their thoughts and actions. Again, the sensitive reader should beware. The course descriptions and casual dialogue is the stuff seldom encountered by many of us once we have left the expressive denizens of junior high or middle school. The reader does get the sense that normal attractions and desires are distorted and exaggerated by the stress of the experience, the hyper-masculinity of war, and the desire to be comforted and released from deep disturbances. On the present American scene there is widespread desire to support the troops even if the war is not supported or if it fails to intimately touch the lives of the average citizen. Hence, there is a huge disconnect between the citizen on the street and oft-deployed volunteer soldier. For example, in one of the early chapters, the main character was on leave in the states
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from his deployment with Mortuary Affairs. He commented, “Everybody thanked me for my service. Nobody seemed to know what they were thanking me for.� It appears that Klay desires both to make that point and to help the reader understand the gap. Although Klay does not often come right out and say it, the tone of the stories suggests that the only ones that can really understand the experiences and reactions of these combat soldiers are those that have gone through it. On one hand, the book addresses the civilian’s desire to know and understand, but it is revealed that such a desire is largely a lost cause. However, there is a camaraderie and an empathy that is shared by those who have been there. The telling of the stories is cathartic to both the teller and the listener. This disconnect between civilian and soldier, especially combat soldiers, seems to characterize our modern military involvements, at least since Viet Nam. It has left many military personnel frustrated. Many, if not most, of our average citizens are disconnected from, and rather untouched by, the events of the conflict. Many have no relationships with people in the military. The progress of the war is not followed closely nor are the objectives widely understood. The result is that military personnel acutely sense the disconnection. Contrast this with the postWorld-War-II experience. Many years after the war, veterans and their peers from that generation often recounted how returned combat soldiers on the GI Bill would openly discuss their war experiences and exploits in student lounges and other student hangouts. These vets were heroically received, and often felt understood and appreciated. The war objectives were clearly understood by the civilians who culturally participated in the war and appreciatively sympathized with the vets. Everyone remembered gasolineand butter-rationing and victory gardens. Extending this to our present context, it is
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rare for a college student to have contact with a combat veteran and equally rare for him to have culturally experienced the war at any level. The rare veteran may try to explain and recount their experiences. But the vet sees the seeds of the narrative falling on unfertile ground. Klay does a masterful job of expressing this in his fictional short stories. One disturbing aspect of the stories is the gnawing sense of the meaninglessness of war. Perhaps this perception is contributed to by two trends of our day. One is the liberal tendency to fail to clearly identify the enemy and evil. The Ivy League culture has been criticized for this since the days of the cold war. Too often they have bristled at ideas such as the “Evil Empire” and “The Axis of Evil.” As a Dartmouth grad, Klay may be more affected by that influence than by his Catholicism may suggest. Conservative Christians who know that evil exists are more likely to embrace the concept that there are people and regimes that are evil. As a result, they have often supported the military efforts to confront what they see as evil, while those with a liberal disposition more readily see the confrontation as meaningless. In addition to this, the government and the military in many recent conflicts have not been especially good at clearly articulating the objectives of the conflict. For example, was the Second Gulf War about confronting an evil regime’s use of weapons of mass destruction, grabbing oil, or establishing a republican form of government in a historically totalitarian country? By extension, how many people can clearly articulate the reasons for “the surge” that precipitated these stories? Can soldiers do much better at articulating the objectives? Perhaps they can. However, communicating this to a home culture that is uninformed or, at best, divided is bound to create frustration and a sense of futility among the combat soldiers. Klay strikes this chord in these stories.
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Perhaps Redeployment is a protest against the culture of the day that favors an overdeployed volunteer military while at the same time remaining aloof from the service, sacrifice, and meaning that is too often denied our soldiers. C. S. Lewis points out that the soldier should not be denied the glory of his service. Because he is a wounded-in-action World War I veteran and a Christian thinker, his admonition should be heeded. Phil Klay’s stories in Redeployment are a descriptive clarion call to us as a culture to understand what our combat soldiers are going through. Redeployment Penguin Press, 2014. 304 pages. $17.96 cloth
Jan Frederic Dudt, a Grove City College Biology professor, while never having served in the military, comes from a family with a long tradition of military service. Family members had fought in many American wars including The American Revolution and The Civil War. His father was deployed for nearly 3 years in the Jungles of New Guinea during World War II, served with valor and earned The Bronze Star. His brother is a Marine combat veteran of the Viet Nam War. Presently, his son Jake, is a reservist USMC Lance Corporal trained as an assaultman.
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The Crossroads of the World
The Quad
Abby Opst
Vibrations reverberated through my body. But they were of quiet sounds, somehow. The whispersof night wind. The rapid beating of my own heart. The incoherent chattering of a thousand people. The noise tickled my ears as more people condensed at the crosswalk, awaiting the permissive green hand. Each person weaved along in his own direction, glancing every few seconds at a phone or wristwatch to check the time and then quickening his pace. Faceless individuals bumped into me as they passed, but apologies were either carelessly abandoned or forgotten. No one had time to stop and think of another. Each was consumed in his own schedule. Icy December air filled my lungs. The immenseness of the city overwhelmed me. Lights flashed as words danced across buildings and signs. Illumination. The electricity was palpable. Waves of energy penetrated my body. “Mama Mia!” cried one sign, a laughing Mexican woman beside the words. Disney proclaimed its own name with fancy letters that promised a world of magic. How had these dull, gray streets—cluttered by newspapers flittering in the breeze—transformed into an inspiring clash of colors and lights, people and cars? And all after sunset? Soft melodies from Phantom of the Opera floated through my mind, reminding me of night’s mysteries. Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor; Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day… The Moon assumed power, her flowing cape of brisk air tied around her neck. …And listen to the music of the night. The Sun would have been ashamed to witness the lights here; but he brightened the other side of the world now—self-consumed and shining light on those he assumed had so desperately missed his presence. Little did he know of the fantastic amazement brought on by the Moon—one he considered so lowly, only a reflector of his fiery composition and magnificence. Little had I known of the Moon’s magic. Yet she was not so grand in her own mind, either. She had never ruled boldly. Her countenance proved serene and delicate—graceful. She contentedly looked upon the activity bustling beneath her. And I stood watching with her, amidst the sparkling lights and chaos. I groped for my iPhone in my backpack. My fingers met the cold glass screen and plastic case and I soon held it up, camera ready, wide-eyed, and mouth slightly ajar. I knew I looked like the tourist I was, but I didn’t care. I wanted something tangible—as a reminder. Yet my numerous attempts to properly focus the camera resulted in a dozen either over- or underexposed images. Apparently night lights aren’t photogenic. But I was soon dismayed, realizing that my camera never could have captured this. The ability simply didn’t exist. It couldn’t take in the crowd’s constant, fluid-like movements or the flashing lights. It couldn’t absorb the delightful senses dispersing through my body—the unrelenting feeling of freedom and amazement. It couldn’t, as it had now, unleash my soul to embrace the universe. Nothing tangible could remind me of this night. Now, lying in bed and snuggled under blankets, darkness consumes my exhausted figure. My mind slowly phases into the utopia-like symptoms of sleep. My muscles relax and the bed conforms to my body. But my thoughts rush back to that night. Exhilaration. Flashing lights, flowing people. Exuberance, anticipation, awe. I can still feel the frigid air against my face and in my lungs, numbing my nose and fingers. I remember the security my scarf and coat provided. I am turning in circles, dazed by the neon lights—the lights that so strongly contrast the blackness of the empty sky and its lovely ruler, the Moon. I can’t speak. I don’t want to. Abigail Opst (‘19) dreams of England travels, tea shops, and her darling cat.
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If You Saw Me Fail
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Hayley Klinger
If you saw me neglect the curfew, come back at two, you would know I was going through a stage; and if you saw me obsessed over a poor grade, a mistake you would remind me: the past is over, life is not. If you saw me mourning the circumstances of a friend you would let me cry suddenly to you, ease the pain to your shoulders; if you saw me carelessly drive and dent the new car you would walk me calmly through the process. Oh if you saw my love for arranging words on paper you would pull your old stories from the attic— crinkled, typewriter text you would reveal your complicated history to me in pieces letting me digest each startling, redemptive bit. If you saw me leave for college or career you would pack the car meticulously and slip me several twenties; and if you saw me stumble home, sick with liquor and disgust for myself you would get on your knees with soapy water to wash vomit from the carpet; and if I lost a year choked and controlled by mental demons you would hold me even though you couldn’t fathom my thoughts. If I quietly slipped from the world’s good graces, or gave up a thousand times, if failed to become the person you prayed me to be you would claim until your final breath that no father has ever had a daughter finer than me.
Hayley Klinger (‘16) is a senior business major who has a love for creative writing and the way that it can inspire others to think.
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To Be Vulnerable
The Quad
Dabney Glover
Don’t listen to Webster when he says To be vulnerable is to be “open to attack,” open to “harm,” to “damage.” Don’t let the synonyms slip passed your guard— helpless, powerless, weak— Don’t listen. To be vulnerable is to be a bleeding heart unwrapped— not for claws to shred, but for the salt of tears to sting and heal. To be vulnerable is to pound typewriter keys. Fingers take the plunge, painfully aware of the inerasable ink—no backspace, no re-writes, permanent—yet forgiven. To be vulnerable is to walk even when others run, is to speak up and say, “Enough is enough,” is to be broken, but not weak.
To be known, yet free. To be imperfect and loved— This, this is what it means To be vulnerable.
Dabney Glover (’17) loves collecting antiques and one of her favorites is a typewriter that used to belong to her great grandfather.
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New Blessings in This Day I’ve lived near large cities for the majority of my life, and at this point I can’t imagine growing up in any other environment. It’s what I’m used to, it’s where I feel comfortable, and it’s where I’ll probably continue to live in the foreseeable future. With that in mind, I hope you’ll recognize my problem when I say that I hate cities. I hate their noise, their stink, their pollution, their traffic, their ugliness, their uncanny ability to foster complacency and impatience, and their habit of dulling my senses, rendering me incapable of appreciating God’s creation. Most of all, however, I hate the fact that I’ve grown so accustomed to them. I, like many Americans, am familiar with the fast pace of cosmopolitan city life. As a Christian, however, I’m concerned that I’ve become a mindless consumer. (You might ask why this is such a bad thing.) The answer, I’m convinced, is that big cities and Christianity hinder each other, rather than cooperate with one another. I struggle to believe that God had modern cities in mind when he created Adam and told him to “fill the earth and subdue it.” At the very least, the methods mankind has used to build its marvels of architecture struggles against a Biblical view of good stewardship. I’m able to express my feelings about this issue is because of the writings of Kentucky native Wendell Berry, specifically his collection of Sabbath poetry entitled This Day. Berry considers Sabbath poetry an invitation to retreat from work and spend time reflecting on the outside world. He writes poetry in order to document outdoor experiences “in silence, in solitude, mainly out of doors. A reader will like them best, I think, who reads them in similar circumstances—at least in a quiet room” (xix). I made sure to read as much of the
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John Anastasio
volume as possible outdoors, and I hope anyone else who explores this book does the same. All you need to know about Wendell Berry himself is that he is an environmentallyminded, God-fearing farmer that has worked the same plot of land for the past fifty years. I hesitate to call him an environmentalist because Berry himself would not appreciate being shoehorned into any particular category. He is his own individual, though he would likely take umbrage with even that description. Unlike secular environmentalists, his poetry clearly prioritizes the commands of God above all other concerns, but unlike many modern day Christians, he does not allow that priority to override his appreciation and care for God’s creation. While exploring his poems, I’d occasionally stop reading and reflect that I’ve never heard any pastor preach the same message that Berry writes, and that reflection genuinely concerns me. After finishing this collection I’m convinced that the world of Christianity, indeed the world in general, needs more men and women like Wendell Berry. Speaking more specifically of the collection itself, Berry has been adding poems to it nearly every year since 1979. Reading through the entire book in succession gives the audience a fascinating look at Berry as a farmer, a Christian, and a poet. For example, once I reached the sections written after the year 2000 I noticed that his poems sound more desperate for heavenly relief than his earlier poetry. He has gone from fairly hopeful and idealistic poetry speaking of an ideal, but imaginary, Edenic community (16-17) to fatalistic and cynical laments for a simpler, less technologically-focused time (349-350). It seems as though this 81-year-old man
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Q realized at some point that his life is going to end soon, and his message of good stewardship and personal responsibility has been ignored. Perhaps Berry did not intend to express this particular subtext, but that idea nonetheless came across in his poems. Moving away from the poet himself and speaking more from a literary perspective, I found much to appreciate in This Day. By the midpoint of the collection, I noticed that Berry’s command of the English language had evolved considerably. His vocabulary and sentence structure were not more complex; if anything, his poems become easier to understand as the years go on. Yet small details about his writing style indicate stylistic and theological evolution. In his prose introduction, Berry writes that he “resolved, first, to avoid [using the word] ‘spirit’. This was not because I think the word itself is without meaning, but because I could no longer tolerate the dualism, often construed in sermons and such as a contest, of spirit and matter” (xxv). Berry wants to reflect the Bible’s equal respect of both spirit and body. For the poet, both aspects of humanity are equally important in the Lord’s eyes because, despite the fact that they have been corrupted by original sin, God still created both of them. All of God’s creations warrant some respect, and in order to respect creation we must preserve it, not exploit and destroy it. The theme of preservation comes up often throughout This Day, and the poet does not shy away from emphasizing the human responsibility to tend to the earth. In the second poem of the 1982 section Berry speaks of two healings: the healing performed solely by nature itself and the healing performed by nature and humanity both. Berry argues, “nature’s [healing] will come in spite of us, after us, / over the graves of its wasters”, but the healing belonging to both humanity and nature “will come / if we are willing, if we are patient, / if we know the way, if we will do the work” (42). The work he mentions is the
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work of a modest farmer tending to his or her own land, and allowing that land to lay fallow when it is not in use. Berry’s opinion of current farming techniques and machinery is highly unfavorable; at one point he refers to machines as “metal moved by fire” (50), a startling and frightening image that you’d certainly never read in the latest issue of Popular Mechanics. He would much prefer a world made up of small farming communities to our current landscape of industrialized superpowers. How different these values are from our modern industrial society! It is precisely because of that opposition that we need writers like Wendell Berry. He offers us a minority report on the dangers of industrialization, lest one day we wake up to a world devastated by climate change, wasted food, and most of all, unwillingness to accept responsibility for our mistakes. By then, Berry argues, it will have been too late to change anything (87). Industrialization will have reached its awful logical conclusion: self-destruction of the environment through overuse. But Berry writes this poetry not just to document his experiences in the country. He also seeks to persuade readers that his sacramental conception of the environment is the only truly Christian response to modern industry. In terms of argumentation, however, I don’t think he fully succeeds. I doubt Berry’s poetry would have convinced me if I hadn’t already been familiar with his work, specifically his 1990 compilation of essays and poetry What Are People For? I read these two collections back to back, which ended up being a wise choice, if an unintentional one. Going straight from What Are People For? to This Day caused me to first be persuaded by his prose essays, which are far easier for the layperson to grasp, and then be emotionally moved by his poetry. I say this in order to admit my own bias regarding Wendell Berry’s work, and to stress that not every reader will necessarily find his poetry convincing. Still, I don’t
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believe that the emotional and theological strength of a work is diminished by the audience’s unwillingness to accept the work’s argument. I suppose the main problem readers could have with Berry’s poetry, other than its radical message, is its occasional lack of subtlety. In the past, Wendell Berry has been described as a curmudgeon. According to naysayers, he’s a crotchety old man who refuses to keep his mouth shut. I’d argue that although he certainly is counter-cultural in his thinking, and he certainly doesn’t hold the modern day economy in very high esteem, those critics are oversimplifying Berry’s argument somewhat. Nevertheless, I will admit that some of Berry’s poems would benefit from some revising. One particularly irksome piece was poem XIV from 2012, a bitingly sarcastic attack on stereotypical American ideals. “Praise ‘family values,’ / ‘a better future for our children,’… / Praise ‘our country’ and oppress / the land with poisons, gouges, / blastings, the violent labors and / pleasures of the unresting displaced, / skinning the earth alive” (389). The usage of quotation marks really goes too far, and what was intended to sound sarcastic instead strikes me as whiny. Regardless of whether the reader agrees with the argument or not, the extremity of Berry’s rhetoric is hard to swallow in large doses. This poem becomes particularly harsh at the end, when Berry sardonically characterizes the modern economic state as “the way, the truth, and the life” (390). On the one hand, such powerful language left me shocked and impressed by Berry’s conviction, which was surely intentional on the poet’s part. On the other hand, it’s undeniably harsh and over the top. Undoubtedly, the poem achieved its purpose, but Berry’s method struck me as overdone in this poem and others like it. Nonetheless, despite an occasional lack of subtlety, I have to admit that this book of poetry pushed me, both intellectually and emotionally, toward Christ. While I was
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reading, I often felt a powerful urge to close the book, take out my Bible, and revisit the creation narrative, savoring the perfection of God’s plan. The fact that This Day nudged me toward God’s Word is the highest compliment I can give it. There are certainly far more themes and images to discuss in this collection, but my intention, my hope, is that you’ll read it for yourself. I can’t promise it will change your attitude about environmentalism, nor do I claim it to be a flawless work of literature. But This Day is a wise, convicting, and encouraging work, and I’ll surely return to it often.
John Anastasio (‘17) is a junior Secondary Education major. You’re not his supervisor!
This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems, Counterpoint, 2014. 400 pages. $16.20 cloth
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Walk Through the City
The Quad
Kathleen McAlister
As I walk through the city The winding streets are flooded with silver water– A raging river amongst the buildings, Concrete mountains Rising up from the asphalt plains, Street sign and traffic light forests Crowd around their foundations; Cars splash through puddles, Racing against time and the red light Like charging bulls against red capes and their own demise; Parents herd their children across the street, Like shepherds a small, sticky flock. I turn the corner and the roar of traffic dies And the steel high-rises of the city turn into a woodsy neighborhood. The rain quietly falls on the cozy brick homes, sensible cars, and swing sets, Their chains jingling in the wind. The river shrinks to a brook, Gurgling in gutters, Babbling and laughing like the children waiting anxiously to splash. Indecision leads me on to a dead end Leaving me to wander Like a leaf floating in the gutter Meeting its end in the busy downtown flood Rushing through the dirty streets, insignificant and anonymous; Trapped in a puddle, Trampled by yellow rain boots and Honda tires; Or maybe, just maybe, Floating out of the city, obeying the whim of a tempestuous river or divine providence.
Kathleen McAlister (’18) loves fall, but has secretly been listening to Christmas music since October.
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Malley’s Market
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Rachel Reitz
Herman Malley refused to retire until he was certain that Malley’s Farmers Market would be left in good hands. His wife June was starting to badger him about picking someone soon, because she wanted to begin a leisurely life with him before either one of them began having health problems. He was approaching seventy-three, after all. He needed to stop lifting all that produce before he sprained or pulled something. Herman knew she was probably right, but it just wasn’t that simple. See, the farmers market had belonged to the Malley family for three generations now. It was a staple of life in Clover. Almost everyone from the small town stopped in at least once a month because everyone knew at least one of the famers selling his crops there. They would go to buy cucumbers from the Lintons’ farm or some apple cider grown and pressed by the Johnsons. And going to Malley’s also meant there was a good chance of running into Hugh, the banker, or his wife, Molly, who sometimes dodged out of church early before anyone could catch up with them. It was a modest place, even though it was big. It harbored five giant aisles that ran the length of the store in addition to the back wall of refrigerators with glass doors. Handpainted signs hanging from the walls announced what the specials were, but the inventory was always changing. Of course there were pumpkins in the fall and potted poppies in the spring, but sometimes they would sell Mike’s handmade wooden birdhouses and sometimes they would sell Marcy’s quilts. They sold whatever Clover needed them to sell, so the aisles never looked the same. Every week there was something new and something missing, but the honey sticks were always right up front next to the register. There was no air conditioning in the wooden building when it was constructed, and Herman never saw a need to add it. The customers didn’t mind because of the giant fans up in the scaffolding that turned by a pulley system. They created a comforting buzz, quiet enough that you could still chat with your neighbor on the other side of the eggplant bin. Plus, once summer began the workers always gave out freshly-squeezed lemonade. And Malley’s lemonade is the kind that’s not so sweet that you feel sticky afterwards. June firmly believed that if lemonade is too sweet, it just exaggerates the humidity. She fiddled with the store’s recipe until it was just right, and it didn’t take long to become a customer favorite. And June was right: if lemonade is just sweet enough, even South Carolina heat in July is bearable without air conditioning. Herman and June knew that the town was full of great people, but not many had the right priorities for running the store. They needed someone who knew what was important. They employed about fifteen folks from the town, two managers and thirteen cashiers, many of whom were high schoolers at their first job. The most obvious choice would’ve been the manager Ryan, who worked there for the past ten years. He was an eager employee who performed his duties happily and with a dedication that was rare in today’s age. He and his wife were expecting their first child, and Herman really wanted to help them get off to a good start by giving them this opportunity. He was bright, too. Herman put him in charge of keeping the books, ordering new products, and filing the business taxes every year. But one day before the store opened while Herman checked the produce aisles for spoiling vegetables, Ryan approached him with the ledger in hand. “Mr. Malley, I noticed something that you might want to take a look at,” he said. “What is it, son?” said Herman. He grabbed a tomato that was a little too soft and tossed it in his bucket for compost.
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“I know you want to keep selling the honey sticks for five cents,” he said. “I get it. But you’re actually losing money on them, sir.” He started to hand the portfolio over to Herman. “Yeah, that’s right,” Herman said, without taking it. He didn’t need to look at the numbers, he already knew. “You already know? Why haven’t you fixed it?” said Ryan. “I don’t need to make any more money, Ryan. It’s the little things that add up,” said Herman as he found another tomato and placed it in the bucket. “Yeah, losing a little money on all those honey sticks is adding up” said Ryan, looking at the ledger in disbelief. “You’re losing about $2,400 a year.” Herman stopped sorting the produce and turned toward Ryan. “That’s a hit I’m willing to take, son.” “I know your main focus isn’t money. And that’s a great thing, that’s what makes this store so charming,” said Ryan. “That’s why I like working for you. But we should sell the honey sticks for a quarter.” “That’s not going to happen while I’m around,” said Herman. “I know it’s kind of a big price jump, but a quarter still isn’t very much to ask of the customers. It’s only a quarter, that’s almost nothing today,” he said. “I did the math, and you would make up for the loss—plus another grand—each year.” “I don’t care, son,” said Herman. Ryan looked up from the ledger. “What do you mean you don’t care?” “Look Ryan, you’ve been here a long time. You already know why I sell the honey sticks for five cents. It’s not a huge amount that I lose; we do well overall. So I keep the price steady. It’s important to me and June. Do you understand?” said Herman. “Yes, I understand.” “Now if you were me, what would you do?” Herman asked. He didn’t want to, but he had to know the answer. “Honestly? Business isn’t personal. I would charge a quarter for them,” said Ryan. “Thank you for being honest, son,” said Herman. Herman resumed checking the vegetables and Ryan returned to the back room while shaking his head at the ledger. That was the end of that idea. Clover had witnessed Malley’s Market change over the years. It was a light beige when Herman’s grandfather built the place, then painted green when his father took over, and now a bright apple red under Herman’s care. That was June’s idea; she thought it would make the place more welcoming. Malley’s had gotten bigger, too. Herman’s father built an addition in the spring of ’77 that almost doubled the size of the store. And in ’98, June and Herman added a children’s playset outside. The market had changed quite a bit over its lifetime, but one thing remained consistent: honey sticks for a nickel. One day before Herman took over for this father, he came across an old receipt from when his grandfather owned the place—pumpkins back then were two dollars cheaper, syrup was five, but honey sticks only cost a nickel. His father kept the price the same, even though he should’ve been charging a dime at least. Ever since Herman could remember, the most colorful display in the store was the one for honey sticks. It boasted at least twenty five different flavors, each one delicious. Almost nobody walked into Malley’s without grabbing a honey stick to suck on when they carted their box of produce back to their vehicles.
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When Herman was young, he and his parents would go into the closed store every Sunday after church. They would each get a glass of whatever the seasonal beverage was: apple cider in autumn, wassail in winter, sweet tea in spring, and lemonade in summer. Then they would each pick out a honey stick. His dad always picked lemon, and his mom always picked peach. Herman tried to rotate flavors weekly, even though cinnamon was his favorite. Sometimes he just had to pick cinnamon, even though it should’ve been mint or raspberry, but he would always resume his rotation the following Sunday. And every Sunday, his dad would place exactly three nickels in the tip jar for Monday’s first shift cashier to keep. “Little things add up, Manny,” he would always say as he dropped the coins, one by one. Herman would never forget the way he said it, either: “Little-” clink, “things-” clink, “add-” clink, “up.” When Herman and June started seeing each other, he would place a nickel in the tip jar and bring her a different honey stick on every date. By the time they started going steady, he learned that pink lemonade was her favorite flavor. By the time they got engaged, June became part of the Sunday afternoon ritual. But his father’s motto became slightly modified: “Little-” clink, “things-” clink, “add-” clink, “up” clink. Herman knew the extra clink from an extra nickel meant that he had his father’s approval in his choice of wife; but he knew himself that he had made the right choice when June insisted on honey sticks for the wedding favors. That was fifty years ago. They came to love many people from the town over those fifty years. There was Jack, Tom Dailey’s son. June had taught Jack in Sunday School class when he was in grade school, and he had worked at Malley’s all throughout high school until he went off to Connecticut for a few years and returned with a fancy MBA degree. Tom Dailey was an old childhood friend of Herman’s, who really wanted to see his son take over the business. Tom came into the store one day to pick up some lettuce and catch up with Herman. They went to Herman’s office in the back to exchange life and fishing stories, and the conversation inevitably turned to Jack once Herman expressed his frustrations about finding somebody to run the store. “I can just see him taking care of it, you know?” Tom said, reclining in his chair. “Jack’s a good kid, Tom. I’m sure he would take good care of it,” Herman said while he sat up a bit straighter. “He’s got so much potential, just like this place!” Tom said. He looked out the open door of Herman’s office and gestured towards the aisles. “He just needs something small, you know? Something like this. Then he could turn it into something big.” Herman’s gaze settled on the aisles as well. “I think it’s already something big, Tom.” “Oh, big to you or big to Clover, sure. I meant big big. Like opening up a few other locations big.” Tom’s hand gestures got more animated and he continued, “Jack thinks he could even turn Malley’s Market in to a regional chain. How about that! That would be something, huh?” “What’s wrong with having just this store?” Herman said while settling his hands on his desk. “Well nothing, Manny. This here is a fine place. Finest place in all of town, if you ask me. But part of you has to wish that it could be bigger, right?” Tom said. “I guess so . . . we did add that playset outside.” “No no, not bigger here. This one is fine, it doesn’t need anything. I mean bigger like, more stores,” Tom said.
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“Oh no, Tom. There’s only one Malley’s,” said Herman. “But why stop here? You could expand and have a bunch of Malley’s all over the Carolinas! Don’t you want that, Manny?” “No, Tom. I don’t. I think that usually little things add up more than big things,” Herman said. Tom sat up straight and shook his head. “You’re talking nonsense, Manny. One and one is less than ten and ten.” “Well, if you’re only talking about numbers, that’s right,” Herman said while he rolled his chair away from his desk a few inches. “But I mean something a little different.” “Business is numbers, Manny,” Tom said. He inched forward in his seat towards the desk. “And Jack only focuses on numbers. Ever since he could count, he never stopped. He loves to make numbers bigger, and he’s good at it. I’m telling you, he could really do something with Malley’s Market.” “I’m sure he could, Tom,” Herman said. “Malley’s might not be the best place for him, then.” “I wish it was,” said Tom. He settled back into his seat. “Me too, Tom,” Herman said. And he really meant it. “Say hello to your son for me, June wants him to come over for dinner sometime soon.” “Will do, Manny. See ya on Sunday!” Tom said as he left Herman’s office. June and Herman’s plan was having children of their own. They would take over the farmers market once Herman reached sixty-five or so. The business that the family had taken care of for three generations now was to be equally loved and cared for by a fourth. Their kids would grow up around the store and have a happy childhood and drink sweet tea and eat honey sticks, just like Herman did. Then one day, they would meet someone special who loved the place just as much, who balanced out their weaknesses, who knew the value of little things, just like June did. But years of letdowns and one devastating doctor’s visit later, June and Herman knew that having children of their own could not be their plan. When they first learned this, June didn’t want to speak much. For two days, she just looked shocked and unresponsive to any of Herman’s attempts to reach her. She didn’t leave their bedroom. Nothing he said could get a response out of her. So on day three, he entered the room with a pink lemonade honey stick. He said nothing; he just laid it on the end table next to the bed where she could see it and sat down next to her. That’s when she cried. And cried. And then she grimaced. And then she hugged him. And then she began to heal. And then they formed a new plan together. And then eventually, they were okay again. Step one was building a playset outside the store instead of outside their kitchen window. After that, Herman watched her more closely. He noticed things about June that he probably already knew but never appreciated before. She always straightened up and re-stocked the jars in the market, even though they had clerks for that. She always threw a piece of hard candy in the bag when she rang up a customer, and if she had to cover a shift, she never took her tips from the jar. She always stopped for a moment to look when there was a bird or a rabbit nearby, which amazed him. How did she always spot those little things? Herman would have just walked right by without noticing. June was all the kids’ favorite Sunday school teacher. She was famous for bringing in miniature cinnamon rolls or sticky buns each week for her class. She was nice and loving but didn’t let the kids walk all over her, and they appreciated her for it. Their parents appreciated it even more. Thirty years ago when June got the flu and missed a Sunday,
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the kids in her class wanted to make her cards and the teacher filling in couldn’t say no. Herman brought her thirteen little handmade cards. She read each one twice. One of the happiest days of their life together was twenty years ago when Malley’s Farmers Market was named Best Small Business of the Year at Clover’s annual Chamber of Commerce meeting. The mayor hand-selected Malley’s for its old-fashioned charm and endearing customer service. He said business owners like the June and Herman were what kept small town spirit alive. Funnily enough, June and Herman believed just the opposite. They were unable to raise kids of their own, but they sure could raise a good store and take good care of its customers. They already knew the town treated them far too well, but their suspicions were confirmed at the big reception at the town hall after the ceremony. There were baskets full of honey sticks for everyone to eat. Over the years, the business had grown immensely. Many people passing through Clover wanted to see the store they had heard so much about. The Malleys spent no money on advertisements, but everyone who entered Clover seemed to know that it was the place to be. The store was successful; profits increased modestly but steadily throughout the years. June and Herman never had any financial troubles. He could’ve easily retired ten years ago if money were the only problem, but he had not anticipated that finding a person to protect their business and their good name would be this difficult. June recommended the other manager, Charlotte Flynn. She was young, only twenty-three or so, and had been managing the store for a little over a year. Charlotte was great with the customers and great with the other employees too; that’s what made her stand out. Herman’s father always said that a good employee will treat the customers well, but a good person will treat her coworkers well too. June had Charlotte in Sunday school fifteen years ago, and June said Charlotte was always one of her favorites. June said she always really listened. There’s a difference between listening and really listening. And not only in class – June got lunch with her every few months to catch up and Charlotte really listened then, too. Herman’s only concern was that she didn’t have enough experience in the store to run it. He was worried that her eagerness would be short-lived, that if she took over, she would cease to love the place. The ones who were too sweet fizzled out. He had seen that countless times before. They put all their heart into it for about three years, and then they stop caring. But June was a good judge of people; she could tell if they’re just sweet enough. And June thought Charlotte Flynn was something special, so Herman gave her a shot. Charlotte was dutifully dusting the shelves one day when Herman walked in. Usually only the clerks straightened up the store when their registers were getting slow, never the managers. He walked up to her and asked, “Mornin’ Charlotte. How are you doing today?” “Oh, I’m pretty good Mr. Malley,” she answered, still dusting. “Mind if I ask you something kind of funny?” Herman asked. “What’s your favorite product in the store?” “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I love Mike’s woodwork when we sell that, those pieces are beautiful. And they make the customers happy, too. But honestly I’ve always had a soft spot for the rock candy. I know it’s nothing fancy, but ever since I was little my family and I would always get a piece when we came in here.” “Is that so? What’s your favorite flavor?” he asked.
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Q She started to dust the next stack of shelves and answered, “I like them all, but I think cherry is the best.” “I’m partial to the honey sticks myself,” Herman said. “Want to know something odd about them?” “Well sure,” she said. “I actually lose a little bit of money on them,” he said. She stopped dusting when he said that. “You’re kidding.” “Nope, I’m serious. I don’t lose much, but it adds up by the end of the year,” he said. “Why haven’t you adjusted the price?” she asked. “You see, I think some things are more important than numbers. That’s why the honey sticks are a nickel and that’s why we give out the seasonal beverages when customers come in. Obviously you can’t have a successful business if you lose money on everything, but sometimes a little sacrifice is worth it,” he said. Herman braced himself to hear her response. “I know what you mean,” she said. “It’s the small stuff that really matters.” And with that, she resumed her dusting. Herman watched her performance for another year. She was still sweet, but stuck up for herself when an issue arose. She still treated the customers well, she still treated the other employees well, and she still cared for the place after time had passed. Five years later, June and Herman walk into Malley’s Market on a Monday morning to pick up some fresh apple cider. The store is now a light blue on the outside, and on the inside the aisles have been rearranged into eight shorter aisles that run the width of the store. There are no customers inside yet since it’s early, and Charlotte is dusting off one of the displays. She turns around to greet the Malleys and gives June a giant hug. After browsing for a bit and a nice conversation, Charlotte checks out the Malleys with a gallon of apple cider, and of course, one cinnamon and one pink lemonade honey stick. After they left, she noticed the tip jar held two nickels.
Rachel Reitz (’17) is a junior English major and an ardent admirer of the bucolic.
The Quad
Winter 2015
Secrets of the Sidewalk
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David Hindman
How do I know that the crack in the sidewalk ends in the cold, packed dirt beneath? Seen from above it vanishes in shadowy depths, hinting at unspoken mystery and beckoning those who seek adventure. If only it were possible to shrink down, smaller and smaller, until the crack in the chipped cement opened up before me, a chasm of immeasurable depths. Might this be the entrance to Hades itself? The very gates of Abaddon, hidden by swirling piles of leaves and broken twigs, passed over and ignored by a careless world? If one followed that jagged fissure, down through earth and stone, past sunless caverns and silent lakes with waters still as glass, what new worlds would open up? As the hidden forges of the earth turned the rock a dull orange, the crack still goes on, splitting rocks, stalactites, and the bones of long-dead creatures. Cleaving all the way to the heart of the earth, turning back the centuries and millennia to the primeval dawn of the earth, wreathed in fire and swirling forms. Perhaps when the fountains of the deep burst open, a passage was left behind, wending its way from the sunlit lands to the fiery meadows of Asphodel. Sadly, I can only speculate, not having the time to walk the depths of Nether Realm nor the courage to plumb the fathomless abyss. I will remain here with the fresh-mown grass, gentle breezes and soft starlight but the unanswered question remains, “How do I know that the crack in the sidewalk ends in the cold, packed dirt beneath?�
David Hindman (‘16) is an unaffected armchair historian in an unending quest for all that is surreal and weird in this world.
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Water Drops
The Quad
James Moore
Witless wandering through world and wonders. Silver steps past youth and over age. Sometimes dirty, but always gleaming. A drop of light has fallen here and made my mind a stage. I watch your speck slide down my crystal picture of the world You the mirror, I the mind, For me the tailored television Threads a story more vivid than my feet may find. I watch, as walking you whittle past, in glittering roughhewn strains. In rocky chalice crafted here From parts both regal and mundane, You rasp away the dreamer’s cuff and miter his refrain. Singing, soaring, broken, braking over rocks. Sun-kissed, seething, wanted, wanting hands too fast Lovers feel your shards cut past. You shatter down and melt again, down upon the rocks. Quarter tones, brooding groans, trance wind-chattered catacombs, Then clamor up and down the crags. The curtained monk-voices slog through flooded air Battered over bedsheets of earless ice, the mountain’s old rags. Dark drops drain on dirty monsters dredging the city deep. Daggers raze down stone, ancient and crumbling, And launder the weary cobbler’s feet. Plashet-snared, the brimming brogans, done and dusted. Now on my picture of the world, you rest your crystal ink. Forever I would watch, with fable flowing on, Would swig your glutted silent song Though not a frame or sound would blink, But now on other things this cloud-strung mind must think. I envy you, eyeless watcher, your vauntless epic spun. I wish that I could witless wander And rush forever o’er the brink And swallow every voice that’s ever sung And never have to drink. But I on other things must think. James Moore (‘16) is a Comm major who is going to live in a large cardboard box after graduation and eat nothing but well-crafted chocolates.
Winter 2015
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Location, Location, Location
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Grant Wishard
“Jack, you and I need a break, a real break, a chance to get away from it all.” Henry delivered this ultimatum for the third time that night while he centered the card table in the middle of the small apartment. Jack stood in the closet sized kitchen, drying glasses with an apron around his waist. “Mhm,” agreed Jack. “Did you clean out that ashtray on the windowsill?” “We could go to Florida, California. I don’t really care where, I just want a real vacation. No, I need a real vacation and you need a real vacation.” Jack stepped out of the kitchen and onto the carpet to find Henry daydreaming in the stuffed armchair with his feet on the coffee table. The room was still a mess. “Clean out the ashtray, please,” asked Jack, waiting for movement in the right direction before he continued drying. “Yah sure. But shouldn’t they be here by now?” Asked Henry, suddenly aware of the time. “No, we told them 7:00. It’s only 7:20.” “Our wives are never on time.” “They’re too good a’ friends for that. They’re probably just held up in traffic.” “God the traffic has been awful,” said Henry, standing with his shoes on the loveseat to dump the ashes out the window, sticking his head out to examine the street below. “You can see it from here. There must be fifteen taxis between the corners,” said Henry. The ashes were caught by the air before reaching the street and floated invisibly in the canyon between apartment blocks. “They’re caught in traffic for sure. Why do you still live here? I thought Nancy wanted to move?” Henry asked. “Because I like it here” answered Jack. “And get your shoes off the furniture.” He had finished with the dishes, but kept his wife’s apron on to face the living room, pausing only to chew his unlit pipe. “If you moved out towards us we wouldn’t have to deal with all of…this,” reasoned Henry, sitting now and waving over his shoulder vaguely to all of it. “Cards would be a lot easier to get together.” “You want us to move so that cards will be easier to organize? Really?” “Well,” hesitated Henry, looking towards the ceiling, “not when you say it that way. But you have lived here too long.” “I’ve always lived here.” “That’s what I’m saying.” “Why should I move?” asked Jack, irritably. Henry began to creep around the apartment, dramatically sniffing the air and feeling the walls, “Because you’ve begun to seep into the walls. You’re beginning to blend –” Now Jack sniffed the air. “My hors d’oeuvres,” he remembered. “Don’t change the subject, you’ve gotten too comfortable here. This couch, I couldn’t help but notice, has conformed to your particular ‘lumbar curve,’ I think the doctors call it. “Here, watch it, they’re hot. Could you put these on the end table?” asked Jack. Handing his friend a tray.
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“Sure, Jack, change the subject –” Jack took a toothpick from somewhere out of his apron and, with a quick stab to the serving tray, aimed a sample towards Henry’s continually running mouth. “How is it? Too hot?” Henry, with his hands and mouth occupied, was silent for a moment while he chewed. “No, its perfect,” he decided. “But –” That moment the intercom buzzed. Henry moved quickly for the first time. “No, Henry, I’m not moving and I’m not going on vacation. That’s them downstairs. Not another word about this in front of the wives. Got it? “But –” Jack aimed another toothpick. “I mean it.” He pushed the intercom to let the girls in downstairs. The chaos of oncoming spouses could be heard immediately, echoing louder and louder as they climbed flights of stairs. They came in with a rush of stringed bags, boxes and colored tissue, laughing about something that was funnier to them than anyone else. “And then I said ‘well I wouldn’t know I’ve never trained one!’” Emily was braced against the door laughing. Nancy kicked off her heels to finish her story and set down the box she’d carried up nine flights of stairs. She moved into the room, took stock of the entire apartment before noticing who had accomplished its cleanliness. “Jack, how are you? Thank you so much for doing the cleaning. And what is that smell? It’s delicious!” asked Nancy. “I just followed the recipe,” he explained modestly, but was already offering her a bite to try. “Hmm well done. And Henry, how are you?” “I’m well. How bad was the traffic?” “It was horrible as always. But our taxi driver was hilarious. He kept asking if Emily trained ‘crows.’” Emily had just recovered from her seizure and had to suppress another laugh at this mention. She moved to join Henry on the Jack-curved couch. “Oh my God it was so funny. What have you boys been up to all night?” “Well I cleaned up while Jack did a little cooking. He stayed in that little kitchen all night. Standing there. Right in that same spot.” Ready to take anything as a joke, the spouses hardly noticed the comment. But Jack leaned his head out of the kitchen to stare over their heads, squinting suspiciously at Henry. They all sat down to eat and decided that, yes, Jack had done a nice job. The hors d’oeuvres, stew, cheap red wine and dessert were all eaten at once. Spouses reached forks across the table to steal bites from their better halves. And after it was all over, Henry actually did help Jack clear the dishes. They all pushed in their chairs and moved to the arrangement around the coffee table. The after-dinner cigarettes followed. Jack relaxed as much as he could on the love seat under the window, between his guests and the outside world. Though, he made a point of sweeping imperceptible dirt from Henry’s shoes from the cushions before sitting down. Lazy curls of smoke briefly screened the room before being pulled out the open windows to the cool night air. Jack finally lit his pipe, tapping the ash into the clean ashtray.
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“Well, what should we play? Hand and Foot?” Emily asked. Henry, who had been picking his teeth with an appetizer toothpick while mildly examining Jack’s neat shelves of paperback books, suddenly said he needed to lay down. “Sorry, I suddenly need to lay down a second,” said Henry. Emily and Nancy were puzzled for a moment, but were quickly concerned and said of course that would be alright. They vacated the couch and moved to the matching armchairs and picked up their conversation where they’d left off, content to just talk and smoke. Henry made quite a show of avoiding Jack’s spot on the couch. Jack clenched his pipe between his teeth and began blowing smoke like a locomotive. A short time later, they suggested they play rummy or something like that. Henry explained he really was feeling awfully tired. They asked what might help. Jack’s eyes narrowed, he leaned just a millimeter forward in his chair, and placed his foot on the ground. Subconsciously, he had assumed an ancestral posture of readiness. Somewhere tribal drums played faster and faster. He was ready to spring. But Henry only melodramatically said, “Nothing could help, except perhaps…oh I don’t know, two aspirin and a Coke.” His sympathizers said they would get it for him immediately and promptly turned to Jack to run down to the convenience store at the street level. The war drums faded. Jack wouldn’t refuse Nancy, but he continued to glare at Henry, lying on his beloved couch with his eyes closed and palm to his forehead, as he moved slowly towards the door. Henry opened one eye to check that Jack was on his way out. Jack moved like a man condemned. Before leaving he turned and pointed his pipe at Henry with emphasis and said “There’s. no. place. like. home.” Nancy started to ask what the hell was the matter with both of them, but Jack had already left. He closed the door calmly, but both women thought they heard running footsteps down the hall. Strange. But it was stranger the way Henry leapt off the couch with a wild look in his eye. Emily stifled a scream. “No, sorry honey, I’m alright. But I want to go on vacation!” “Wha-what? Why?” Emily asked “Because they’ve been tied to this apartment and we’ve all been cooped up in this city for too long. I am tired and I want a chance to get away from it all!” “It all?” They asked. “Yes! It all!” He declared. “Where would we go?” Nancy and Emily asked, bewildered now. “Anywhere we want!” Said Henry, kneeling between his audience in their armchairs and the dark windows, throwing his arms wide. For a moment, the girls leaned to peer past him and squinted at the fading apartments across the street but seemed to have trouble seeing much else. “I don’t know if we need a vacation.” Emily reasoned. “But we do! Don’t you see! I was working it out in my head over dinner and I realized we have not been on a vacation in six years! If you don’t consider that day trip to your mother’s house we all took then it’s been even longer!” Henry was racing now, growing excited. “No that definitely was not a vacation,” said Nancy, shaking her heading with growing amazement. “Just because we haven’t had a vacation doesn’t mean we need a vacation,” said
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Emily, still unconvinced. “We absolutely need one!” cried Henry. “Nancy, my friend, your husband, Jack has started to blend in to this apartment of yours. It’s happening to you too! Look!” He pointed frantically to her dress and then to the armchair she sat in. The patterns were identical. “Oh my…I never knew…” “Then what’s stopping us?” asked Emily with rising panic. “Jack.” “Oh” said Nancy, as the whole problem came into focus. “The poor dear, he’ll never want to leave.” “I have a plan” Henry revealed. ______________________________________________________________________________ Jack and Henry had had this argument before. It started months ago actually as a joke, when Henry had said that Jack only couldn’t go bowling with him because Nancy kept him chained to the stove. They had laughed then, but the joke stayed with Henry, and it caused him to wonder about his friend. Soon after, while taking a godawful taxi to work, he saw a billboard advertising Havana, Cuba. He began to think about his friend, had Jack ever been to Havana, he wondered? Had Jack been anywhere? But then again, Henry realized, where had he been? Then the questions started flying. Jack’s life became much more difficult the night he went to get that aspirin and coke. He returned to find his wife and friends united against him. They were determined to leave and he was determined to stay. Emily would drop subtle hints about far off places, advertisements would appear in the mail, and at work he would get wrong number calls from speakers with outlandish accents. “Hallo, this is George calling from sunny California.” *Click* Jack knew vacations were a normal thing to take and he even had the money. These were not the issues. He worked hard and had plenty of other friends on the outside. The problem is that Jack was content. Simply too content and too comfortable to leave what he loved. He loved the apartment, with its scratched hardwood floors, beige plaster walls, and soft lighting. The tiny kitchen and the large living room. The green curtains alongside the wide windows which matched accents in the rug, the throw pillows on the couch and even, if you were paying attention, a few books on the built in shelves. He knew the apartment almost as much, perhaps even better, than he knew himself. The way he rather it, creaked in certain places and smelled like clean living. “Jack, do you smell something burning? Asked Nancy. Jack said that yes, he did, putting his paper down to check the bedroom, and to look around the living room and the kitchen. “Something is still burning.” He thought he could see smoke in the air. Nancy rushed over to the window, “Jack I think it’s coming from below!” This was the critical part of the whole operation. Nancy needed Jack to come to the window and decide to flee the apartment. She had disconnected the phone so he couldn’t make an errant 911 call. “Nancy, I’m going down there. Everything is going to be fine.” “No, Jack it’s too late and too dangerous. Let’s get out of here!” “I’ll be fine, its not that much smoke. Call the fire department!” He yelled over his shoulder running downstairs to the apartment directly below. Oh no, realized Jack, the door was locked. But the handle was cold. He ran down the hall for a fire extinguisher. It was one of those old enormous copper ones which
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he hefted back to apartment number three. He set it down with a thud. Setting himself squarely at the door, he thought of how he loved his wife, and kicked it in. Quick with the fire extinguisher, Jack pulled the pins and flooded the dark room. He charged through the nearly identical apartment he knew so well. Living room, bed room, and kitchen. No fire anywhere. The foam settled. He realized he had been yelling and stopped. “Henry?” Jack asked, panting heavily and squinting through the gloom at a familiar silhouette. “Jack?’ Asked Henry, calmly extinguishing a bouquet of burning newspaper in a wastebasket. Jack felt the urge to grab Henry and yell something foul. But he heard hardwood clicking behind him, and looked up just in time to see a familiar heeled foot disappearing. Jack ran to the hallway. “Nancy?” Jack called. “Yes, dear?” Nancy responded innocently. But she had changed her clothes and was holding two heavy travel cases. Jack instinctually started to ask “going somewhere?” quickly realized she was. “I’m so sorry dear.” “Is this about going on vacation?” Jack asked, knowing the answer. He looked back to Henry who still sat in a hellfire wreath of smoke, while his wife bit her lip and set the suitcases she’d packed for them a week ago down on the steps. “I’m guessing Emily is in the car with the engine running. And Mrs. James? This is her apartment, is she in on your vacation schemes too? Or did you plan to bury her on the beach when we got there?” ______________________________________________________________________________ A discernable chill settled over the comfortable apartment for the next several weeks. His friends took a break from their efforts but Jack stayed suspicious. He poked at his meals, worrying about military-grade sleeping powders and potions, wishing he had a dog that would taste test for him. He woke up in cold sweats, imagining he was being kidnapped by his beautiful wife and taken on a, God forbid, weekend vacation. He continued to receive enticing long distance wrong numbers, but the voices were becoming increasingly…enticing. He took these calls so often that he began to assume, so that when his mother called he nearly hung up on her. “How are you Jackie?” “Fine Ma how are you? Is Dad okay?” “Yes, of course dear. Look I don’t really have long to talk, the Schmidt’s are coming over in a minute and I have to get dinner on the table” She always spoke too loud into the receiver. But it meant he heard this clearly, “It’s just that your father and I really think you should take a vacation” - Then he hung up. How had they gotten to his parents? Everything was spiralling completely out of hand. He wanted forgiveness, he wanted reconciliation and he wanted to be comfortable again. After a long day’s work he wanted to take a nap on his couch, smoke his pipe, and read a good book. But the days at work were feeling longer. Last Tuesday, his editor had announced to the entire staff that “Mr. Martin here has more vacation days saved than half of you combined. Good boy,” he had said to Jack, and advised the others to “watch this young man close.” At this point, he was sleeping more and more on the couch. He was tired but this was only part of the reason he moved increasingly slow. His feet began to stick to the lino-
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leum and he lifted them less and less when moving across the apartment’s hardwood. His joints creaked woodenly in some places and he found odd bits of drywall sticking to him in the shower. He was tired and he made mistakes. On official paperwork he put his address where his signature should be, and commas where there should be periods. Nancy felt somewhat guilty and became concerned when she found him brushing his teeth and peering at an empty space of plaster wall as if it were a mirror. She kissed and assured him they didn’t have to go on some silly vacation if he didn’t want to. But in her heart Nancy thought Henry’s most recent idea might be the best one yet. They would somehow get Jack to start gambling. Meanwhile, Henry would disguise his voice and be his bookie on the other end of the phone line. The details needed to be worked out, but Jack would spiral into fake, or maybe real, debt and a threatening phone call about “pay up, or I’ll break your effin’ knee caps,” would convince Jack to take Nancy and leave town. Maybe to Miami or Atlanta, wherever Nancy felt “safe.” As close associates, Henry and Emily would worry about their own safety, chide Jack for his unholy addictions, and seek refuge in the same place. They had wanted their doctor to diagnose Jack with some disease and antiquely recommend “plenty of rest, time off from work and a holiday by the sea.” Henry said he would come down with the same disease. But Nancy was sure her husband was too smart for that, they liked their doctor too much, and nobody called it a “holiday” here anyway. ______________________________________________________________________________ This had become the kind of difficult and unexplainable kind of problem which tends to solve itself. Nature did not intend that man be so content to sit so still. The Universe offered a solution. The apartment took it upon himself to intervene. Jack was napping peacefully, during a rare undisturbed moment, when his hallowed sanctuary addressed him directly. “Jack, wake up!” “Woah I uh what! Who’s there!?” Jack awoke and sat up with a jolt as he was no longer a deep sleeper. “Jack, this is 21 A West 54th Street _________ 10022.” “Oh God no! Do not take me into that eternal rest and relaxation!” “Jack, please calm down.” The voice asked slowly and patiently. It emanated from all around, it spoke in a deep mahogany tone but with a slight crack deep in the central plumbing. Jack immediately pretended to calm down. The brave man crouched low, clutching a well matched throw pillow. “What do you want with me?” Jack demanded. Chest pounding, he looked around the room, the ceiling, and all across the floor, unable to find the voice. “I want you to pay attention.” “I swear, Henry-” “This is not Henry!” The voice shouted, enraged at the accusation. “This is your apartment! Well actually I’m not really yours,” the voice qualified, “the rent is due in two days by the way, let’s be sure to get that paid before you leave.” “Before I leave? I’m not leaving! So you’re in on this too!” Jack yelled. Shaking his fist at everywhere and anywhere as he leapt up with new strength, ready to fight this terrible design.
“Please listen to me.” “I took care of you. We spent so much time together. I – I love you.” He said help-
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lessly, almost to himself, realizing the words were true as he said them. “No, Jack, you love comfort, naps, good food, and soft light. You’re a good man but you’re all mixed up. You love Nancy, Henry and Emily.” Jack fell to his knees as the rage left him. “Where will I go?” “Wherever they want to take you. If they didn’t love you Jack they would have packed up and left a long time ago.” “Yah?” “I know I would have, if I could move an inch.” “But it’s such a, you’re such a nice apartment. I painted and waxed and kept the place tidy. Don’t you like being taken care of?” “I appreciate the gesture, but in the end it’s all the same to me. I’m looking forward to new renters. But you, you need maintenance and upkeep.” The voice said no more. Jack walked slowly to look out the window. The lines of his silhouette became sharper. He was suddenly anxious to see Nancy. But not Henry, not yet. He was resolved now to get out of this apartment as soon as possible, because living in a talking apartment is creepy.
Grant Wishard (17’) is a junior English major. Over Thanksgiving break he will feed his family’s pig, Winston, and trim his beard.
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Spelling & Grammar: Year 1
The Quad
John Hermesmann
I’ve thought that maybe he’s onto something when he disregards the standard pronunciation of “sing-lee-ar” (as opposed to plural) or when he refers to their family friend as “Elevyn,” which sounds awfully close to “elephant,” though I’m sure he hardly realizes that calling a young lady “elephant” is potentially harmful to her self-image. His six-year-old self-image can be found in the bathroom mirror, where his small feet scamper to show me how he can squirt a stream of water through the gap in his front teeth. I’m impressed (I can’t do that), and I know we both find this study break to be well worth it. Once or twice I’ve admonished him (gently) for throwing an uncapped whiteboard marker at me like it’s a dart and I’m the target (secretly asking myself, should I be ashamed to care about my clothes so much?). And last week we learned that a noun is a person, place, or thing, but I chose not to mention abstract concepts like happiness or innocence – not because I thought he wouldn’t understand them, but because I’m not so sure that I do.
John Hermesmann (’16) has never had a verbal exchange with Daniel Chapman (’16). They do not plan to change this.
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Artist’s Reflection
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Rebekah Fry
To see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, draw closer, to find each other, and to feel. -The Secret Life of Walter Mitty To see the world...to see behind walls. To pull back the curtain. To discover. These words, with their simple message, have caused me to ponder what it means to take part in ‘seeing behind walls.’ It challenges its listeners to lean in and peel back the layers of life and discover the deeper parts of existence. When initially approached with creating the Quad Cover Series, I ran from the idea. Time restrictions and the lack of personal visual inspiration made me hesitate. Praise the Lord that our dear editors encouraged my participation. Because those hours in the studio provided a unique opportunity to step outside of my selfish being and experience the grace of our Savior. The series, four linoleum cut prints, birthed from an extensive look into visual communication and its ability to disclose ideas and emotions. I did not, however, initially realize the extent of the project ahead and the certain difficulties that came with the medium. I quickly learned that I would be working with a messy, unpredictable, and fascinating material. The color did not always produce in the way I had envisioned, the linoleum chipped in places I did not intend, and the paint took longer to dry than I scheduled. But it was an extraordinary process. And is that not what we experience in life? Maybe I’m taking a concrete project and reading too much into it. But the process allowed me to experience, once again, life’s messy bits and the beautiful grace that comes with struggle. So I pray that you enjoyed Spring/Fall in the Country and Summer/Winter in the City. Through the layers of paint on print, I hope to have effectively communicated the dichotomous environment in which we live while highlighting its texture and imperfection,giving light to a human touch. Much like linoleum cut prints, life is a bit unkempt. But praise the Lord for His grace. So be encouraged to see this world, things dangerous to come to…and to feel. It has been an honor.
Rebekah Fry (‘16) prefers trading rooftops for treetops and classrooms for trails.
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Conundrum
Spellsweeper (Wizard Conundricles, Part II) You’ve found yourself in a bit of a fix (which you expected, of course, when you turned to the very back of the magazine). You and Glameldor were entertaining Queen Tigby the Querrulous as a guest at the Wizard Tower with a rousing game of extreme chess. If you wanted to know, what makes extreme chess extreme is that it is played on a very large board with animated suits of armor, which take each other out of the game by blasting each other with various spectacular and gruesome spells. On her most recent turn, Queen Tigby decided she was not content to direct the game from the sidelines: she grabbed Glameldor’s spell book, leapt onto the board, and tried to cast a random spell (which is always a very risky business). The spell she read turned out to be an invisibility spell, and now that she cannot see any of the other pieces, she wants nothing more than to be off the board again. You have told her not to move until you and Glameldor can find her a safe path to the edge of the board, since, if she touches any of the pieces, she could die in any of a number of horrific ways. Even after all the excitement, you are certain about the locations of a few of the pieces. To add to that information, Glameldor sent his last few animated brooms onto the board in random places and counted how many different spells were cast at them. Between the two of you, you know this much about the board:
An X indicates a place where you know there is a piece, and a number indicates a space that has that number of pieces in adjacent spaces, diagonals included, but is itself safe to walk on. If a space is blank, then you don’t have any special information about it. Find Queen Tigby a path from E5 to the edge of the board (proceeding one square at a time and excluding diagonals, because Tigby is very bad at jumping) that you’re certain is safe.
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Volume 8 Issue 2 The Quad c/o Laura Egan GCC #466 200 Campus Drive Grove City, PA 16127
Winter 2015