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Moderator, Editor, and Staff wish to dedicate Folio 14 to Sister Mary Francesca Onley, C.S.F.N., Fourth President of Holy Family College

Folio 14 The Folio is a belles-lettres journal of contemporary art1st1c expression. The magazine encompasses in words and visual graphics the thoughts of the faculty and student body of Holy Family College. Student-Faculty contributions from other institutions as well as creations from area artists are welcome.

Printed by Schumann's Press

CONTENTS Page(sl An August Man Remembers Rhodes ........................... 1 by Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D., Department of English The Lemon Moon ............................................. 2 by Dorothy Driban The Mountains of the Sky ..................................... 2 by Dorothy Driban Yesterday and Today .......................................... 3 by Mary Alice Whelan Honesty ...................................................... 4 by Robin Ray My Precious Lord ............................................. 6 by Angela Gillis Sethsong ..................................................... 7 by Angela Gillis The Princess of Kensington .................................... 8 by Gerri Seravalli Requiem .................................................... 11 by Anne Carlisle April Afternoon in the City ................................... 12 by Tom Cordivari Django ...... ............ ..................... ............... 13 by Kathleen Pappas No Beach To Walk Upon ..................................... 14 by Angela Gillis What He Saw or The Wood Nymph .......................... 14 by Mary Alice Whelan A City Snowfall .... ......................................... 15 by Bernice Lisicki Autumn Song ............................................... 15 by Dorothy Driban The Visit ........... .................... .. .................. 16 by Maria Osvald ("Aftermath" - a foam print by Maria Osvaldl A Walk on the Roof ......................................... 19 by Kenneth J. DePinto, Editor of Folio , 1982-83 Dreams for Tomorrow ....................................... 24 by Theresa Owczarzak ("The Well" - a cardboard print by Dorothy Dribanl Looking ..................................................... 24 by Tom Cordivari "The Sunrise" ............................................... 24 by Mary Alice Whelan

An August Man Remem6ers Rhodes An august man remembers Rhodes -- not Rhodes -- his Rhodes. His personal viewpoint filtering through the heat, transcending August's noonday castanets, or evening's whistle, cicada cop. The summer's end, foretold by strumming katy-dids, Combine to orchestrate the sweet American afterthought, Rhetorical native rhythms beyond earth's holy book. And so he sits atuned within his California wood, remembering ... Apollo's Rhodes, in the Dodecanese, made by Zeus, Once compass to both East and West, both heaven and hell: Prouder, more strategic once, than New York Bay, Stage of great Colossus, ghost of Ozymandias.Harbor. Where water runs beneath his mind's invisible legs -Now only windmills stand, quixotic, guarding phantomesques ... A time near Lindos, he was told, a little ship had washed ashore As wild Paul struck down the ancient gods of golden Greece, He thought.And yet he thinks: "How history shrinks with time, Then disappears ...as parents are to children in old age." And he recalls the long impenetrable medieval walls, The church towers and the minarets in ugly confrontation, Grand Master's Palace looming in the mid-day sun, Down whose cascading steps still echo-echo handsomely King Richard's strategy and short-lived victory. The crash of armor, shouts of men, the chant of priests, The holy Hospitalers singing gayly on the cobbled streets. Empire re-created for him by conquering fascist feet, And pure Italian hands carve restless dreams anew. His Rhodes -- that somehow lay as if for him within his mind, Somewhere at starting point, at top, at A, or 1, Whose armies paused before their wars to rescue Christ, Or was it gold or booty, empire, greed, or fame? His education told him these, perhaps, and more, much more. "A world once stirred, for good or bad," he yawns, "More good than bad. Yes, that's it," he breathes ... A new world born to England, Germany, and France: An ancient world fell tragically to repose, And shoppers sail to Rhodes to navigate those streets of lies. He sleeps and in his dreams remembers sunny sailing days, The windswept shore, now filled with populations nude Beneath the sky, while others, without faith, without distinction, Zero destination, gawk and gawk: too rich, too fat, And much too dead to embrace valleys filled with butterflies. Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D.

ofie .Cemon Moon The moon is a lemon slice Shimmery, silvery, pale. A lacy collar surrounds her Mistily, like a veil. Concealing her straight line As well as her curve. Her shape is a half With another to go. Yet she looks like a quarter Of that lemony glow. A plane flies by Looming larger than that moon, High in the sky. Dorothy Driban

olie Mountains of the Sky This morning I saw the mountains of the sky. Emerging from indoors: I was greeted with a colorful display on high. Billowing, fluffy, triangular forms floating softly into a changing mirage. Blue, gray, white, pink, and purple superimposed on a background of palest blue, blending into berry: Indian Arrowheads formed their own colorful patterns, a montage. Rays of sunshine swept out from beneath, radiating warmth and unity. Dorothy Oriban

yesterday and ooday After 42 years in construction work, my father retired in November 1979. Since that time he has devoted himself to his beloved crossword puzzles and reading. Regally ensconced in his over-stuffed papa bear chair, he wordlessly defied anyone to disturb or dislodge him. At first, it seemed somewhat strange to see him leaning intently over books all day and far into the night. But now it seems like the most natural thing in the world to me -- especially his puzzle books, since my father is such a puzzle himself. Despite his 64 years, his tousled sea of black wavy hair still provides a challenge to any sturdy comb. A gray and weathered face is redeemed by iridescent blue eyes. His standard Gaelic pug nose sits above a hardÂ lined mouth entirely occupied by his own teeth. Though bent by recurring back pain and years of hard work, his body is lean and muscular. (Last winter he came across a beaver skin coat he had purchased in 1938--it still fit him perfectly.J His hands, though huge, powerful, and slightly gnarled, retain a worn, suede-like texture. No job has ever been too great or too small for those hands, whether joining steel beams, fashioning cradles and dollhouses from spare wood, or repairing the catch on a frail sliver of gold chain. His thick brogue, loud and fright-inducing, is the single reminder of my lingering childhood awe of him. Although his voice is loud, he has a curious, almost monastic, quietness of manner. He walks quietly, works quietly, and, as I have come to see, loves quietly. My father immigrated to this country in 1937 from Newfoundland. During his subsequent travels along the Eastern Seaboard states, he developed a myriad of deep and finely-tuned instincts that still serve him today. His vivid memory and discerning eye breathe life into his every description. Through his expert abilities, boarding house acquaintances, faces in crowds, old work buddies, and subway eccentrics, all seem so real that you could reach out and touch them. One of his more involved tales concerns Atlanta during the world premiere of Gone With The Wind. His senses, as well as ours, take on added life in the retelling. Tact never was or will be his forte. Only in light-hearted matters does father expound. In all other areas he is as simple, swift, and direct as a guillotine and honest to his core. As abrasive as his negative comments can be, his favorable judgments sparkle like jewels in the snow. For many years my father and I were like strange knights on a jousting field. His armor was forged by years of hard work, physical stress, and a semi-regular haze of alcohol. My adolescent angst, predilection for losing myself in books, and hyper-sensitivity meshed together a chain mail suit that nearly killed the two of us. Since his retirement, however, my father and I somehow shed most of our respective armors. Though we still engage in an occasional skirmish, our verbal broad-swords are dulled from overuse, so they don't wound as deeply any more.

Anyone who knows the two of us will tell you--my father and I never did get along. When I found out that he was retiring, visions of daily, even hourly, confrontations chased each other through my imagination. My mother, the eternal Good Will Ambassador between my father and me, always said the reason we fought so much was because we were so much alike. Years ago that statement would have been enough to swamp me in waves of indignation. Today, I'm glad he retired: otherwise, I would never have known the man behind the armor. And as for my mother's statement, she's wrong. I see now that I'll never hold a candle to my father. Mary Alice Whelan

Honesty Although a few have borne it, Plenty have hid it. Some minds have never worn it, Others have just begun. Those who think it sane, Protest it again and again. The few who think it profane, Look about it as vanity. Although some have ruined it utterly, The least have worshipped it sacredly. Understanding this, what might it be But the mere thought of honesty. Robin Ray

My Precious .Cord My precious Lord, my precious Lord, Has it really come to this? Your own disciple friend-turned foe Betrayed you with a kiss. For a sum of thirty silver coins He surely would not miss. Alas, my Lord, alas, Indeed 'tis come to this. My precious Lord, my precious Lord, Have your friends all gone away? Why, just last night you ate with them. They can't be found today. They've denied you; they've abandoned you. There's nothing you can say. Alas, my Lord, alas, You cannot make them stay. My precious Lord, my precious Lord, Is it true you're going to die? Pilate says you've done no wrong. The Jews say that's a lie. He's delivered you into their hands. They shout, "Crucify!" Alas, my Lord, alas, They sentenced you to die. My precious Lord, my precious Lord, Are you going to that hill? The hill that they call Calvary Where criminals are killed? Will you be nailed there on a cross And die, lost in the still? Alas, my Lord, alas, It is your Father's will. My precious Lord, my precious Lord, Is that your blood on the ground? Soldiers mock you, laugh at you, You utter not a sound. You lilt your eyes up unto God No freedom can be found. Alas, my Lord, alas, Your spirit is held bound. My precious Lord, my precious Lord, Is it you they lay to rest? They take your body from the cross You've done your Father's test. They lay you in your mother's arms Your head against her breast. At last, my Lord, at last, Angela Gillis You've ended your great quest.

Setfisong You can dance The dance of innocence When the world around is cold. You can see The world through infant's eyes Though the path you take is old. You can wonder At life's simple things Though they're nothing new to you. And you can Fly among the silver clouds Like all free spirits do. You can send Your song into the night And cause the stars to shine. You can take what's yours, and only yours, And somehow make it mine. You would give Your heart to anyone Who asked a gift of you. And if they asked you for your soul You'd let them have that too. You can cry And keep your dignity Though others tend to stare. You would stand up For a cause that's just When no one else would care. You can light A world that's always dark So that all mankind will see, How special You are darling Seth To them, and, yes, to me. Angela Gillis

ohe Princess of Kensington Penelope was the heartthrob of the household. Born in 1930, she provided my Greek grandparents with a sweet diversity from their three rough-and-tumble sons. Unwittingly, they had named her well. Her beauty, truthfulness, wisdom, and faithfulness were qualities also attributed to her mythological namesake, the wife of Odysseus. These virtues prompted the attention and the doting not only of her parents, but also of her older, adoring brothers as well. It isn't strange, therefore, (having lived in my grandparents' home for my first few years) that Aunt Penelope would become an intimate part of my life. My aunt communicated in her parents' native Athenian dialect long before she learned much English. On mastering the English language, the trace of an accent gradually disappeared. A striking countenance and engaging manner attracted many admirers. Her features were emphatically Mediterranean: high cheekbones, a slender, well-defined nose, and a full lower lip. She had the olive complexion pre-destined by her heritage. Round, expressive eyes with ebony-colored irises were enhanced by nicely shaped, dark eyebrows. Nearly black, heavy hair gracefully curved onto her shoulders. A spontaneous smile reflected her easy-going nature. Her external attributes were exceptional, it's true, but I am certain that her benevolence contributed even more to the lavish affection people bestowed upon her. My earliest memories of my aunt were of her caring for me with a tenderness that even a mother's love had not shown me. Most of what I recall, however, took place during my childhood and early adolescence, during which time I whiled away many happy summer months in that Kensington row home. It was at this impressionable time of life that I realized what good fortune I had to be loved by such a magnificent lady. An early riser, she would chat with me each morning while I, in pj's, sat Indian-style on the big double bed's rumpled quilt as she readied herself for work. Busily she'd move from drawer to drawer to closet in the large pink floral room, conversing effortlessly while she dressed. My flair for high fashion was valued, and my apparel selections for the day were always considered extremely helpful. Down the stairs I would quickly follow, not wanting to waste any of the precious time before her inevitable departure. Sitting in the warm sunlit breakfast room, we'd discuss my scraped knees or the sad end my doll had met the day before, as we waited for the daily staple to appear. After consuming scrambled eggs with feta cheese, toast, and pineapple juice, I would watch Aunt Penelope trace her lips carefully with red lipstick, adjust the contents of her handbag, and rise to leave. Bending down, she'd offer a few parting words, hug and kiss me, and then I'd be left standing on the top step waving good-bye until I lost sight of her.

Her trim figure sported the latest fashion of the day with shoes to complement every outfit--marvelous shoes!--high heels that entertained my pygmy feet during the long hours she was gone. They hung in dozens of small, quilted plastic pockets on the inside of each of two mirrored closet doors. Out of the pockets I would draw forth one pretty pair after another: black suede, brown suede, alligator and snake skin, and leathers in assorted colors. Shoes accented with gold adornments, grosgrain bows, with straps that fastened around the ankle, straps that slung around the heel, and classy slip-ons with no straps at all transported me to the land of makeÂ believe. In my fantasies, acted out in front of the mirrored closet doors, I became Cinderella in the clear plastic slippers with shiny silver trim. With each pair I would take on a new personality. I'm sure I must have disturbed the contour of a shoe more than once by my continual parading around in them, but Aunt Penelope never mentioned it. On my aunt's long mahogany dresser sat a beautiful mirrored tray with a railing of delicately carved gold metal around it. It housed a myriad of glass bottles, all sizes, shapes and colors, whose atomizers sprayed forth the most heavenly fragrances. Not one was too precious for her young niece. At the other end of the dresser lay a smaller tray laden with vivid, alluring nail enamels. After picking from reds, pinks, or purples, I would separate my fingers to their utmost while Aunt Penelope carefully unscrewed the cap to paint my blunt, rectangular fingernails and then her long, well-shaped ones. "Now hold them out until they dry, sweetheart, so you don't soil your dress," she'd caution softly. Clad in cotton sundresses, we spent warm summer evenings strolling along the nearby avenue. Past the four-story brown brick factory encompassing a square city block, we'd walk and then turn right at the Acme Market. Stretched out before us were shops in an unending row. Interesting sights, distinct smells and attracting sounds floated out of clothing, record and candy stores, 5 & 1 O's, ice cream parlors and bakeries, furniture and appliance stores. and grocery stores displaying ripe fruits and vegetable on open-air stands. Pleasantly assaulting my senses, these impressions combined and made the Kensington Avenue marketplace one heady experience. Hand-in-hand we'd investigate each shop, leaving one free hand to touch anything of interest in my reach. Aunt Penelope would recommend articles that I might enjoy until I selected a plaything of some kind. CutÂ out dolls, a coloring book and crayons, a magic slate or a puzzle might be in my dangling brown bag.

The years raced by, and when Aunt Penelope became serious with one man, together they took me on outings to the shore and the lakes. A big handsome man, I found him amusing, and I could see that he worshipped her. Never was she more splendid than on her wedding day. Surely Princess Grace had looked no lovelier, and he, too, had the bearing of Rainier. Nevertheless, their wedding day was a sad day for me. With cheeks wet with tears and an aching throat, I looked down at her hemline, waiting to see a shoe peep out from under her full white gown--pure white linen slip-ons with high tapered heels. No, my feet would never sample them, the shoe pockets that hung on the closet doors were already gone, the perfumes were gone, the mirrored trays-Â gone. Nothing remained but my grandparents and the furniture. All too soon another little girl filled my aunt's life. A baby I could rock and fondle and love. A small girl who would chat with mom, clump around in her mother's higb heels, help herself to exotic fragrances, smudge her wet fingernail polish, and excitedly pull treasures from packed counters in local 5 & 1 O's. Gerri Seravalli

Requiem . Stark and ghastly gray-brown limbs reveal their heights against the threatening sky. It is no longer their duty to shelter the birds of summer since the leaves have fled with the coming of the wintry storms: the birds, themselves, have gradually vanished in the direction of the southland. The ravaging wind has shrieked across and beyond the distant fields, leaving in its path desolation and ruin. Everywhere it has left its marks, and it is difficult to recall the glory of the garden in June: the profusion of rainbow hues which beckoned the butterflies and bees to partake of a nectar fiesta. A solitary leaf or two quiver where once numberless ones danced in an ecstasy of warm joy. The remnants of a single bud remain which dared not unfold, being warned by a frigid breeze that winter was enroute. How inconceivable the dauntless blossoms of mid-summer in contrast to these colorless remains! The sky takes on a tinge of sadness as it veils itself in a gray cloak which seldom reveals the lovely blue beneath. It, too, is in mourning for the passing gladness of the season of youth and is preparing for the advent of the firm and bitter monarch, winter. Startling shrieks followed by haunting moans swirl through the trees as icy hands play summer's requiem. Anne Carlisle

An April Afternoon m the City Cool, gentle rain has fallen upon our skin, There appear lucid rainbows of color, Sun sparrows flying from our eyes within Now arrive to sing with one another. This moment captures fine airborne dancers, Luring us down from a tin flowered hill to dock. Where thirst dies, we turn enhancers Composing soft music of our own will. We have found enchantment in sacred sleep That never seems to be what we intend. Grass is our precious bed. Where friends we meet, Water forms mystical spirals that bend. Blue-green sky sinks in liquid formations As our laughter parachutes languid bay. Perception pushed awkward in elation, we drift! Motionless, in silence we prayAn April afternoon in the city. May will soon follow. What a Pity! Tom Cordivari

Django* Gypsy lies are like no other lies And some are more believable than truth To the untrained ear. You trained your ear to earth. You under eiderdown and under you The measure of all our music The movement of her rent and mended bowel. While outside over eiderdown along the wind You heard the sweet dissembling The moment distilled and burning (The candle is not wax, but flame, they say) Your kin making meaning on guitar and violin. Above all this, the only other definition You allowed, the firmament, the black and Fire-flecked underbelly of empty. Paris must have been for you a room In the niggardly house that man built. Through stagnant smoke pools, peering Eyes and drivel of encapsulated people Drove you out of doors to seek a privacy That no doors can bestow. Then along the Seine The night-long encampments, treating That stately effluence like all other rivulets Racing through the camps of your life, too Numberless for even your dreams to recount. No pots to hang. No clothes to dry. For fire, Only your cigarette. You are the protege of earth, rehearsed In rhythms older than ancestral gold. Of water, Earth's blood, whose moment is change. Of wind, That through you swirled emotion into melody. And of the fire that one night melted you Into a dazzle of invention. Kathleen Pappas ")ďż˝ Django Reinhardt, a gypsy jazz guitarist of the 30's and 40's, acclaimed for his highly individual technique, who, at age 18, suffered mutilation of his left hand in a kerosene fire.

No Beach

Walk

Upon

You stare with open longing At the untamed, restless sea, And in your eyes there is the pain Of what can never be. There is no sand beneath your feet, No wind to kiss you hair, No waves that lash but cannot touch The man that's standing there. You chose this lonely life you lead, Yet, now you wonder why. There'll never be a hand to hold, No shoulder when you cry. Your journey calls you faraway, You're forced to play the pawn, No room for tears, no time for love, No beach to walk upon. Angela Gillis

What

He Saw or ohe Wood Nymph He first espied her walking through the woods, fair and fragile, the very bud of May, looking as lovely as ever a maiden could, far more fair than the distant dawn of day. Clothed in a cloak of sea green mist and blue, her hair in sunlit disarray, her lips the blushing rose's hue, far more fair than the distant dawn of day. Fleet of foot and lithe of form she travelled faster than the norm and in a moment-she was gone, fair and fragile, the very bud of May, far more fair than the distant dawn of day. Mary Alice Whelan

A City Snow{all The first snowfall of the year transforms the center city area into a magical_ wonderland. The trees along the streets hold onto the snowflakes so as to enhance themselves as if with precious jewels. The wires overhead become silver threads criss-crossing the streets. The familiar sound of traffic is replaced by almost perfect silence, interrupted only by the occasional whisper of the wind. The falling snow swirls about in the wind, performing a complicated ballet for all to behold. Many of the windows of the towering edifices are glazed with intricate patterns of ice. Icicles bedeck myriad canopies, windowsills, and automobile fenders. The few passers-by are bundled up against the elements and walk hurriedly as the flurries cling to their eyelashes. Most of the hustle and bustle of the city is curtailed as the snow persists in falling. Bernice Lisicki

Autumn Song The cloudless day Of morning gray, Has given way To skies of blue, Of heavenly hue And sunshine, too. November chill Is on the hill, Crow's caw is shrill It did not show, But yet, I know the Winter wind doth blow. The leaves are deep To ankles creep, Fall colors leap, They swirl around, The leaves abound On campus ground. Dorothy Driban

ohe Visit No one was at the nurses' station when Nadia arrived at the hospital. She saw one nurse scurrying in and out of patients' rooms. She stopped her and asked, "Excuse me, please. Where can I find my husband?" Startled by the sudden interruption, the nurse stared at the women for a moment and asked, "Just who is your husband?" "His name is Vitya. Vitya Kachanov," she replied. "Where might I find him?" "Room 438," she snapped. "Thank you. Thank you very much," the woman called out, but the nurse was already gone. "Hmmm. These Americans!" She opened the door and met with a surge of cold air. Immediately, she made the Sign of the Cross as she entered the room. Moving slowly towards her husband, she whispered, "Vitya." Again she called out his name but more urgently, "Vitya. Are you asleep?" she asked. "Vitya?" He didn't respond. Forcing a smile upon her face, Nadia came closer to the bed. She gently touched his large, rugged hand. Reassured by the warmth in that familiar hand, she kissed his cheek. While watching him for several minutes, Nadia chuckled to herself now and then. She began to reminisce about some of the carefree days they had both experienced as children in their native Russia."How Vitya loved to run through those sunflower fields," she thought. Looking down at his face, Nadia was amazed how he still looked like a schoolboy with his dark tousled hair and his slightly puckered mouth. Patting his hand, she pondered how this same hand could be so strong and yet be gentle, too. "Vitya was strong as a horse in his beloved Russia. He still is today," she whispered to herself. "Vitya will always ..." "Hmmm?" Vitya asked. "What? I have taken my medicine." Nadia quickly made the Sign of the Cross. "Thank God! Vitya, it's Nadia. Your wife!" "Hmmm? Nadia?" he asked while rubbing his eyes very slowly and carefully. He squinted as he looked at her. "Why are you here?" "Why am I here? I've come to see you: that's why. Do you think I would leave you here with all the pretty young nurses?" she laughed with her hands placed on her hips."Besides, you are here to rest. You must know that you're a very sick man. You shouldn't get too excited." He chuckled and then started to cough. "Oh, please stop, Nadia. I can't laugh," he pleaded. "You always were such a jealous woman." "I am not jealous!" she snapped and looked away. Nadia knew that if she looked at him now, his warm brown eyes would manage to get the truth out of her.

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"Nadia, you have nothing to worry about." He tried to sit up but fell back upon the pillow. "Nadia, listen to me." With difficulty he whispered, "Do you remember, when we were back home in Russia? We would run through the s-s-sun-flo-wer fields? We spent hours. In and out of those fields, calling to each other. Letting our voices touch the s-s-sky." "Yes, Vitya. Those were very happy times. But they now just live within our hearts." "Our children must not forget their her-i-tage. Promise me, you will not let them forget," he pleaded. Nadia sat down on one of the folding chairs in the room. "Yes, I promise," she sniffled while periodically dabbing her nose with a crumpled old handkerchief. There was silence in the room then. No one spoke for several minutes. Vitya's body began to writhe in agonizing pain and a profusion of sweat covered him. He said something but it was barely audible. Nadia came closer. She placed her head close to his. "I dreamt about s-s-sun-floÂ wers-s-s to-day. I think I will see them s-s-soon again-n-n." Nadia sprung to her feet and shouted, "No! You will get better! You'll see," she quivered as tears rolled down her cheeks. Vitya frowned and turned onto his side. "Nurse!" Nadia screamed. "Nurse!" "Look how beau-ti-ful the sun-flo-wers-s-s are. Do you s-s-see them?" Vitya closed his eyes as the medical team rushed in. It was too late. "He is home. He is all right," Nadia reassured everyone in the room. "God will take care of him now." Maria Osvald

A Walk

the Roof

It rained last night and Eddie awoke to the sound of raindrops splashing on his bureau. It was becoming routine procedure to dash down to the basement and grab a bucket to place under the same steady culprit drip. But this morning, much to Eddie's chagrin, four culprits appeared on his bedroom ceiling. "Aw, not now," he yelped, remembering that this was the morning of the History mid-term that he forgot to study for last night. He placed the red bucket, usually reserved for washing the car, directly under the biggest drip. "One down, three to go," he mused, hurriedly leaving his room to employ the services of some Tupperware he spotted in the kitchen on his way up from the basement. After carefully placing the containers under the drips and sponging up the puddles that accumulated on his bureau, he breathed a sigh of relief. At 8:15 a.m., Eddie knew that the last thing Dad wanted to hear about was a leaky roof. Nevertheless, he thought Dad should know. "Dad, Dad?" Eddie called gently. "Hmmm?" he stirred in his warm quilted bed. "Pop, my ceiling's leakin' again," Eddie called to him, peering into the bedroom. "Jesus Christ," he mumbled. "We gotta do somethin' about that roof," his father replied from his bed. "Pop, look, I gotta run. I'm gonna be late for school," Eddie said. "Just keep your eye on the buckets I set up on my bureau, okay Dad?" "Yeah, alright. Did you wipe up the water and put a couple of towels under the buckets?" his father yelled. "Yeah, Dad, just watch 'em. Gotta split," Eddie said, descending the shag carpeted steps. He headed to the kitchen for the emergency breakfast staple consisting of a mouthful of orange juice from the carton and a piece of toast dripping with melted butter. At dinner that evening, his father mentioned the need to patch the roof and the need for Eddie to assist him. "You're off from school tomorrow. Right?" he asked Eddie. "Sure, Dad." "Well, we'll go to Butens and get the materials-five gallons of pitch, spreading brush . . ." "How about paper, Dad?" Eddie asked in his best professional roofer's voice. "Won't need any. I got some left over from the canopy." "Okay," Eddie said, between mouthfuls of ravioli, "when do we go up?" ''Tomorrow morning."

That next morning, Eddie and his father drove to Butens and purchased a five gallon can of pitch and a spreading brush. "D' you need a stick for the brush, Pop?" Eddie inquired. "No,I got one home in the garage, Ed." They borrowed a neighbor's adjustable aluminum ladder and carried it around front. "Lay it down right here," his father said, pointing toward the patio. A novice to the home repair business,his father instructed Eddie how to open the pitch can properly. "Use the screwdriver and pry open those lips all the way round the can.Atta boy, Ed," he coached as the young man pried. Eddie hadn't really given much thought to climbing the ladder.He knew that he was able to do it,but admittedly was a little reluctant.You see, Eddie had never, in his twenty-one years, been on his own or anybody else's roof before.He was scared. He remembered his childhood days of playing stickball and roofing those pink 290: pimple balls.They seemed to be lost forever upon that two-story void, until somebody's father went up to repair a television antenna and threw the balls down to earth. "Ready to go up, Eddie?" "Huh, oh, yeah," he responded unsurely.''I'm ready,Dad." Eddie began his ascent very slowly,one rung at a time,on that flimsy aluminum extension ladder. "Atta boy," his father called. "Don't look down-just keep climbin', Eddie." He became scared and stopped as he saw the edge of the roof protruding into outer space. "Holee ...!Whatta I do now,Dad?" Eddie asked helplessly. "Keep climbin'-keep gain'." "There's no more rungs, Pop," he yelled down to his father. "Go to the last one and step on it," he advised from below. "No way," Eddie said to himself.He felt with each autumn breeze like he was dangling in midair. Finally, he got up enough nerve and hauled himself onto the roof, stepping on that final rung. "Made it,Dad!" he cheered triumphantly,half scared out of his mind. "Good job.Now hold the ladder for me while I get up," his father bellowed. His father was on the roof in half the time it took Eddie,and he was carrying the pitch can, too. While he went back down to get the tar paper,Eddie stood in awe of the entire neighborhood from his two-story vantage point.

"I can't believe it up here. Wow, what a view," he thought aloud. His father was back on the roof again, this time carrying six sheets of folded tar paper. "Okay, Ed, this is no big job. We'll be done in twenty minutes or so," his father surveyed. "Grab that pitch can and follow me," he continued, pacing eight feet from our skylight. "Your room is right about here, Ed," he said, marking it with a splash of pitch. "Spread the pitch all over the spot," Dad ordered, almost vengefully. Eddie began robustly, dipping the pitch into the viscous deep black liquid and spreading the syrupy slop all over the quadrant that his father had indicated. "That's it: rub the hell out of it," his father directed. Now it was time to lay the tar paper. What a sloppy business straddling the sticky, slippery, newly tarred surface and carefully interweaving that cumbersome black paper. "Don't step back so close! You'll fall off the back of the roof, Eddie," his father warned. He took over while Eddie scouted the rooftops. He spotted a pimple ball on a neighbor's roof. He picked it up, bounced it a few times, and threw it down onto his lawn. He chuckled. By this time, the sun was center sky. The temperature was unseasonably warm, well into the upper 60's, and this was the end of October. His father finished smearing the pitch and called for Eddie to finish laying the tar paper. "Straighten that seam out and brush that bubble down for me, son." "The sun'II dry this gook up real quick, huh, Dad," Ed said. "We picked a great day for roofin'," he added. Âˇ'Yep," he replied with a cigar clenched between his teeth, "it sure is." "Good thing you wore them ol' sneaks, Eddie. Go over there and walk around now," he instructed. "Get that pitch off 'em or you'll slip off the ladder." "Inna minute, Dad, I wanna finish this last spot here." His father took over again and finished up while the young man walked off the pitch laden sneakers on several neighboring roofs. He was ready to go back down now. Descending a ladder isn't really the easiest part of the job. In fact, it takes some doing. "Lift that leg over the side careful and hold tight to the ladder," his father guided gingerly. "There you go. You're okay. Go down now. Take your time." Eddie just kept looking at the ground coming up between his legs and slowly returned to the comfort of his flagstone patio, one rung at a time.

"Whew, good to be back," he whispered. "C'mon, Dad. Let's go. Your turn," Eddie yelled into the sky. "Not yet. Go in the garage and get the rope so I can lower the buckets down." Eddie sprinted around back and returned in a few minutes with the rope, and he threw it on the roof. His father carefully lowered the buckets down, one-at-a-time, and then descended himself. "I think it'll hold now. Whatta you think, Ed?" "I know it will, Pop. With five gallons of pitch and six ply paper, it better," he said. ''I'm hungry now, boy," his father admitted. "Me, too, Dad. Let's grab some hoagies," Eddie suggested. "Let's put the ladder away first, though," his father reminded. "Throw those sneaks out, too, along with them buckets." "Alright, Dad," Eddie said. They carried the ladder around back and laid it in the yard against the chain mail fence. Eddie was surprised how easily turpentine removed the black pitch from his hands and thought about using it in the wash on his pitch-spotted new flannel shirt. Eddie's first adventure on the roof wasn't so bad after all. He felt proud of himself and actually defied it to rain. Kenneth J. DePinto

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Dreams for oomorrow The darkness spread over the sky faster than the speed of an eagle, The enveloping blackness was a relief to weary minds, The dark was a time of escape like a bum reaching for the bottle, The dark was a kind heart to those who wished to die without pain, The dark was a way to relax and to review the ideas of the day. But as the dark spread its large hand across the sky, A glimpse of purple, red, and orange sneaked in the corner. The sun, our only hope of dreams for tomorrow. Theresa Owczarzak

.Cooking Looking into a mirror, Seeing eyes That try to hide. Looking through a window, Towards an endless mile I prefer the window side. Tom Cordivari

"The sunrise is God's signature on the masterpiece of morning." Mary Alice Whelan

Charlotte • Clearwater Beach • Houston

The Adam's Mark Hotel City Avenue and Monument Road Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19131 (215) 581-5000

First Class Accommodations, Dining and Entertainment

Indianapolis • Kansas City • Philadelphia St. Louis (Spring, 1986)

Editor Maria Osvald Associate Editors Mary Alice Whelan Gerri Seravalli Staff Walter Bell Roseanna Bodner Anne Carlisle Lisa Cirucci Tom Cordivari Dorothy Driban Martin Greenbaum Robert Haas Mark Kehoe Bernice Lisicki Tom Walsh Special Contributors Kenneth J. DePinto Angela Gillis Robin Ray Kathleen Pappas Moderator Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D. Artist Maria Osvald