the Quad
Winter 2018
Dear Readers, SENIOR EDITOR: Anne St. Jean JUNIOR EDITOR: Noah Gould SECTION EDITORS Poetry: Casey O’Brien Delaney Martin Bryce Lowe Erin Balserak
Short Stories:
Caitlin Salomon Michael Martin Josiah Aiden Ashley Wright Brook Sorenson
Creative Nonfiction: Abby Opst Hannah Spatz
Book Reviews:
Jenna Shallcross Josiah Aiden
These last few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas are notoriously hard on a college student’s motivation. Unfortunately, this is when we most need to buckle down and focus on our work. The other morning I woke up to someone in another room playing Christmas music, the snow falling outside, and very little desire to get out of bed for class. But the Holiday season becomes more bittersweet every year. Grace Tarr in “Christmas” explores the feeling of growing older and realizing the Christmas traditions you once took for granted are numbered. Not to mention that song “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” which was apparently written as a direct attack on the delicate emotions of college students. Do we dwell on the sadness of fleeting joy, or live in the present and appreciate what we have?
I hope in the midst of exams and final projects that you feel moments of peace and joy and that snowfall reminds you of the transitory nature of life, not in a way that makes you depressed, but makes you appreciate the beauty of every moment bringing us nearer to the new year.
Happy Reading,
LAYOUT & DESIGN EDITORS: Nicole Mingle Leah Day CHIEF COPYEDITOR: Hannah Spatz COPYEDITORS: Hannah Spatz Katherine Frazier Sarah Ramsey Josiah Aden COVER ART: Courtney Moletz ADVISORS: Dr. Joshua Mayo Dr. H. Collin Messer EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD: Dr. Joseph D. Augspurger Dr. Daniel S. Brown Dr. Joshua F. Drake Dr. Michael F. Falcetta Dr. Charles E. Kriley Dr. Julie C. Moeller
Anne St. Jean Senior Editor
Volume 11, Issue 2 Winter 2018 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, but leave off your name on your submission. Times New Roman, 12 pt, single spaced in Word Document form is preferred; 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 Volume 11 Issue 2
For Bobbie... Pearl Scalzo
Homecoming 2018 Josiah Aden
Catcalls Michael Martin
Battlefield Syllogism Josiah Aden
Place Michael Martin
* Alumni
Contents 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14
Christmas Grace Tarr
Valley Run Michael Martin
The Rugged Enlightenment James Lagaras
Lattice Christie Goodwin*
One Thousand Wells Jenna Shallcross
Shortcut Through Red Run Michael Martin
The Quad
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Christmas Grace Tarr
The smell is a combination of Christmas dinner and the slight mustiness that comes when a house holds the time of lives lived long. The dinner was abandoned an hour ago, but the stray biscuit or pie is still cradled in the hands of young children and laughing uncles. I sit on the green, carpeted stairs that have a slight telltale slump indicating their age. The lights on the tree give a gentle light to the room as the sparkle of snow outside recedes into darkness. The stairs look out on the living room which is a mass of laughter and wrapping paper and the odd toddler who has wandered on an exploratory mission to investigate the tree and perhaps score a candy cane. Uncles and aunts have lost their inside voices on this day and laugh together like the young children. No one is in the mood to be quiet. Except me. I have removed myself to the stairs to observe the activity. I want to see the full picture; I’m trying to grasp and hold the scene and wrap it tight so that some Christmas, far in the future, I can pull it out from under my memory and slowly unwrap it. I don’t know how many more Christmases I have at my Great-Grandmother’s house. She is ninety-four and still insists on cook-
ing Christmas dinner, even though she asks whether ham is meat and if it conforms to her dietary restrictions. Her momentary lapses of memory are laughed away. There is good humor that comes with the age of a life that has been long and well loved. I wonder what the first Christmas will be like without her. I don’t remember what it was like that first Christmas without Papa; I was too young. I wonder what it was like for them to celebrate their first Christmas after Great Aunt Nancy, the baby of the family, died. For now, I am young. I have the innocence of seeing all my loved ones at Christmas. In a few years, I will know how it is to look across the room from those stairs and no longer see everyone. Cousins will grow and leave, elders will pass on, and someday I will also miss this scene, maybe because my flight was delayed, or perhaps I will be looking across a living room full of little faces that slightly resemble mine. For now, I’m wrapping this memory tightly in paper of gold and red. Someday, perhaps when a smell wafts by or I see twinkling lights, I will open it to find the gift of a momentary memory wrapped in the hush of the past.
Grace is a sophomore history major from Maine.
Winter 2018
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For Bobbie . . . Pearl Scalzo
She told stories of men In Navy uniforms Jiving Hum de dum de de When sundowning happening She confused shadows With her husband Hum de dum de de Passing by her door She mumbled of Horrors in the war Hum de dum de de When her toe Folded over the next All she grimaced was Hum de dum de de Knocking on her door She wearily fluttered An eyelash Hum de dum de de Yet still had strength To encourage a young reflection To wear the scope Hum de dum de de It was a snow-globe day With white sky And cold sheets Hum de dum de de When she lay there Chanting her last Hum de dum de de I saw a young woman In a white cap Hum de dum de de Staring back at me Hum de dum de de
Pearl is a senior biology major and Chinese minor and works at an elderly home. She wrote this poem after the passing of a sassy lady whom she loved dearly.
The Quad
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Valley Run Michael Martin
The lowland of the valley blankets itself before me In the way of the Hudson River School. The heavy air sticks And curls my hair.
Michael Martin is distantly related to Martin Freeman. Uncanny, I know.
Winter 2018
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Homecoming 2018 Josiah Aden
It rained before Homecoming weekend:
It was Heaven’s cleaning for the multitudes Of laughing families arriving on campus.
The brook, like the psalmist’s cup, overflowed
It rained the day before Homecoming weekend:
Pure white tents blossomed like lilies
The river rose muddy, grey, and brown.
With joy at seeing old friends reunited. And complemented the crimson leaves Carpeting the green trimmed grass. Colored by Fall and sparkling eyes, Bright as the rich yellow sun.
A dreary, disgusting, and wet kind of rain.
Hordes of people descended upon campus
Leaving no breathing room and upsetting all. Large white tents swallowed the ground, And covered the leaves that had fallen, Decaying on the wet, sodden grass.
A grey day as crowds clawed to remember Halcyon days lost to children and money.
Josiah, Senior History & English majors. No bio because time is short and paper season is long.
The Quad
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The Rugged Enlightenment James Lagaras
His fire was burning low now, as was the sun. The boy on the mountain tightened his blanket around his back and poked at the waning flames. He let out an audible breath, the first sound he had made in hours, and watched the mist from his lungs dissipate. The movement of the flame, the sound of the exhale, reminded him that he was utterly alone. He smiled to himself as one would remembering a loved one at a funeral. So few men had the chance to run, as he did. Civilization was him now. It was his bones and sinews and the thoughts in his head. It was in the grime that clung to his boots, and the space between the hammer and his gun. He knew he’d miss the comforts of his home soon: artificial heating, processed foods, the lack of dampness in a bed. But right now, on top of this mountain, in front of this low fire, he was the right hand of God. All the oppressors and tyrants and fathers of the world could not stop that. Not now, when he was at the cusp of this rugged independence. Not when he was so close to Knowing. A heat snap of the fire woke him from his dreaming. It would need more fuel soon. He stood, taking in hand the ax from his belt, and walked into the brush. The cold started nipping at him, raving for his warm blood.
It was only a few minutes until he saw her. A woman clothed only with the flowers in her hair. She flickered briefly in his
sightline, then fled away between the trees. The boy froze as a man shot down. He had glimpsed a woman out here, on the mountain. He could still almost make out the faintest of glows from where she stood, like the stars that flicker at Orion’s belt. He did not speak. He could not. Words were the farthest thing from his mind. He stepped swiftly through the brush to where she stood. There, again, she leapt through the air and disappeared again. Was she running from him? He spoke the only words that made sense then. “Are you cold?”. There was no answer. He stepped, slowly this time to where he last saw her. She was nowhere to be found.
He sighed, thinking himself delirious. He gathered what wood he could scrounge and tucked it under his arm, but with the first step he took back to his lonely camp he saw her. She stood there, shimmering in clean white light. Her skin smooth, and her figure full and gentle. Her hair danced in a breeze that was not there. And in that moment he knew all the ancient words of Solomon to be true. She lifted her arm so elegantly, and pointed westward towards the dying orange light. He looked and saw the sunset as a child would, and knew what it was to be blinded and then restored. He turned and she was gone. He nodded in Understanding, and went back to his ember-smoke fire and tasted salt on his cheek.
James is a writer, poet, and explorer. A sucker for a good forest, and beautiful ideas.
Winter 2018
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Catcalls Michael Martin
The catbird struts in the raspberry rows. Lifting his heather-gray head; mimics, mocks, and japes I can’t help but feel like the target of his well-tuned squawk.
The Quad
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Lattice Christy Goodwin
I speak of sin as if it is an interstitial defect an imposter in my atomic order an invader in some crystalized perfection And yet, it is woven deep a vacancy left raw. For all our efforts, We cannot smite out or replace The molecules which comprise our very being For I, I am the imposter In need of endless grace.
Christie works in Budapest as an art, history, and English teacher, a combination which somehow makes it acceptable for her to be a total nutcase. She wrote this poem during a physics lecture she attended in Munich.
Winter 2018
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Battlefield Syllogism Joiah Aden
If love is a war
And if war is hell,
Then love will be hell.
The Quad
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One Thousand Wells Jenna Shallcross
Grove City College just finished its first Kingdom Week 2018, an annual mission’s conference that will take place each October. Many Grove City students have joined in the movement of building the global church, while also meeting needs such as ending world poverty, human trafficking, and other societal issues. There is, at times, a flaw in the approach of many Christians seeking to make a difference in their world. The American church has formulated the idea that if we work hard enough, give enough, or sacrifice enough, we will somehow change the entire world of our own volition and strength. There is nothing wrong with thinking big. God’s power is huge, and He is capable of doing anything through the people He calls to serve Him. The Church should never put God in a box when it comes to that. Still, in mobilizing to make world change, there is always the danger of allowing pride to take control. Jena Lee Nardella writes of her own experiences in coming to realize this fact in her book, One Thousand Wells. Her story starts at the beginning of her interactions with Christianity, a real testament to how God continually works in the lives of the ones He calls from the start. She is refreshingly honest about her spiritual growth from youth to adulthood. It is clear through Nardella’s story that the journey of faith is just that: a journey — one where God molds and shapes us through experiences, people, and the work of His Holy Spirit. She writes about these moments and changes of heart openly to readers, even in her failings and struggles. Nardella also shares, even from her youth, how important it is to listen to the passions that God gives us. Everyone has a desire to change the world, but everyone’s way of doing that looks different. The majority of the book focuses on Nardella’s discovery of her calling through her creation and involvement in the organization,
Blood: Water. Nardella writes of the valuable lessons she learned through the process: making missions personal, avoiding the “white savior” mentality, accepting grace in failure and trial, and allowing God to move in big ways even when it seems impossible. Nardella learns and shares all of these lessons with readers. They are ones we should know, especially if raised in a church, but often Christians need to be reminded of them when we step across the border of our comfort zones into the places where Jesus calls us. Nardella quotes Frederick Buechner’s famous words on the subject, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” While this book is a worthy read for anyone, I would especially recommend it to young adults and college students. The focus on calling and motivation behind the calling are two of the biggest takeaways. Nardella did this with a clear purpose. She knows the stress of trying to find a vocation that both satisfies the self and honors God. Nardella’s continued work with Blood: Water is a testament to both God’s incredible grace and her own desire to be used by Him. The organization works with local African communities that are looking to end the devastating effects of poor sanitation and dirty water supplies in villages across the continent. Sometimes the work is slow, but as Nardella learned when she was just starting out, change takes time. It is much more beneficial, in the long run, to love and sacrifice instead of looking to do all the saving alone. The impossible task of being a savior is not meant for us. To the Christian who wants to make a difference and change the world: read this book. One Thousand Wells shares the story of a girl who had the dream and the drive, ultimately learning that letting God mold hearts to really love and know the world is far better than any effort done alone.
Jenna Shallcross can be found living it up at Civil War battle reinactments.
Winter 2018
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Place: A Found Poem Michael Martin
The fading, dappled brightness of late-afternoon Meets the lingering shadows of the arches to dance. Autumn makes himself known through the chill from the windows A moth unfolds its wings on the sill Warm in the sun’s surfing waves The room is still
The Quad
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Shortcut Through Red Run Michael Martin
Alfalfa, Corn, And soybean Turn the plot into A peninsula, humble and unembellished. The sparse grass is like a horse’s flank. It darkens and thrives Where plots are new. Dirt at the bases Of the chess piece headstones is red from the soil’s clay. Graves are stooped and tired. Moss and lichen consume the names, Local names, familiar to me. Watching from above, A squirrel perches on the shoulder Of a disdainful tree of heaven. The canopy sky is sheened a pensive pink and orange Behind the low hung sun, poking at my eyes with his golden fingers, Light casts against Guardian Oaks and stretches long Shadows across the aureate grove. The sweetness of solitude hangs in the air of this Lethargic yard. Its meek, white fence seems at odds With the coldness of its dark iron gate. A trodden path through the fields ends at their far side Tarnished by muddied sneaker prints Convicting evidence of my thief ’s entrance. The plots welcome me. My mother told me she would like To be buried here. I think I might be happy Here, as well.
Hearts & Minds Bookstore Dallastown, PA heartsandmindsbooks.com
the Quad The Quad c/o Anne St.Jean GCC# 470 200 Campus Drive Grove City, PA 16127
Winter 2018
VOLUME 11 ISSUE 2