Folio 17 by HFU Folio

fOlilO

TENEOR VOTIS I am bound to give of myself because I have received

Printed by

Friends of Folio The Holy Family Business Office The Careers Center. Family Mr. & Mrs. Robert Clothier Mrs. Terri Cristofaro Mr. & Mrs. Michael Custer The Four Humors Mr. & Mrs. Scott Heidemann

H.F.C. Security Team Mr. William Kellagher Dr. & Mrs. Thomas F. Lombardi Cletus McBride Dr. Thomas McCormick Mrs. Loretta Mucci Mr. & Mrs. James Pointkouski The Purchasing Department Mrs. Anna M. Raffaele The Riley Family Risen Christ Prayer Community Ms. Terrie Schlitsey Ms. Colette Shields Mrs. Eleanor Wiegand

Advisor, Editors, and Staff wish to dedicate

Folio 17 to

Dr. Bronislaw C. Sadnicki Professor Emeritus Economics In recognition of his faithful years of service to the College

CONTRIBUTORS Joseph Brizzell is a New Zealand poet. He resides in Christchurch, New Zealand. Judy Conowall is a senior and an English concentrator at Holy Family College. Tina DeMasi is a junior at Holy Family and an English concentrator. Theresa Gauthier is a senior and an English concentrator; she is editor-in-chief of Tri-Lite and co-editor of Familogue. Elizabeth Gregory contributed an illustration to Folio 16. Kathleen Ingerson is a student at Holy Family. T.S. Joseph is a senior and past contributor to Folio. Barbara Leary is presently attending Holy Family part-time. Dr. Thomas F. Lombardi is a professor of English in the Humanities DepartÂ ment and Folio Advisor. Deborah Macchia is a senior and is concentrating in Elementary Education. Patricia A. McGrath is a faculty member in the Department of Nursing at Holy Family. Brian McLaughlin is a graduate of Holy Family. He concentrated in art and is currently employed by the College. Denis Natoli is a Philadelphia poet who has formerly contributed to Folio. Ann Nuxoll is a senior and Humanities concentrator at Holy amily. Christiane Odyniec is a senior, an English concentrator, and recipient of the M. Von Rosenstiel Award. She was a contributor to Folio 16 and is a coÂ editor of Familogue. Donna Pointkouski is a senior and an English concentrator at Holy Family. Henry J. Tokarski, Jr., is a student at Holy Family and contributed poetry to

Folio 16. Michael P. Toner is a playwright, poet, and instructor at Holy Family. He is a former contributor to Folio 16. Mindy Yatsko is a student at Holy Family.

CONTENTS The HFC Experience ... ........................................... 6 Ancestors .......... ........... ..................... ............... 9 The Visit .........................................................11 Stirred Not Blown ................................................. 14 Falien Angel ........... ...........................................15 My Point of View .................................................. 17 Dual Reservations and Multiple Revelations ............................ 18 Faith .............................................................23 The Crescent Street House ..........................................24 October's Orange-headed Children ...................................27 The Banquet ......................................................28 Cicada ...........................................................32 A Door Once Open ................................................3 2 Too Close for Comfort ..............................................33 The Falklands .....................................................38 A Bad Start .......................................................39 I, True to the fact of you ..............................................44

Folio 17 The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expression. This journal encompasses in words and visual graphics the thoughts of the stuÂ dent body and the faculty of Holy Family College. Submissions are welcome from contributors beyond the Holy Family College Community. Submissions are to be sent to the following address: Folio, Humanities Department, Holy Family College, Grant & Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19114. All submissions are to be accompanied by a SASE.

THE H.F.C. EXPERIENCE "I really don't want to do this! Seriously. Let's go back. Please!" My compa nion's eyes were wide with fear as we entered the dimly-lit room. "I mean, look at this place! Don't tell me you feel altogether safe in this torture chamber!" I must admit, the smell of the place was enough to make me apprehensive. It was a clean smell, but frightening all the same. The empty room was so quiet it was almost eerie, but I could sense that it had once housed many moans of sheer pain. Nevertheless, I trudged onward, shifting my eyes nervously from one bleak object to another. I glanced at my friend. "Well, we're here. Let's do it." With mock bravery I stepped toward the opening in ·the wali. "Yes? Who is it?" snapped a voice from inside. I gave him my last name. Coldly he acknowledged my meek answer. "Oh, yes," he replied flatly. "Wait here. I will let them know you have arrived." My friend and I neither spoke nor looked at each other as we sat in a cor ner. We were deep in our own thoughts, anticipating the painful ritual that was waiting for us beyond the thin wooden door. It was a ritual I had to undergo every so often, against my will, at the urging of others. I could hardly look for ward to this day of agony, but I agreed that it had to be done. I would endure the pain and humiliation because it was expected of me. The thin door opened and a girl about my age shuffled out. She looked as though she had been sobbing. She regarded my companion and me pitifully. "You, too, huh?" she asked weakly. We nodded unhappily as she sighed and left the room. The man to whom I was speaking previously poked his head out of the opening in the wall. "DeCarlo," he smiled politely. "Three o'clock appoint ment to get that back tooth pulled, right? Dr. Bernofsky is ready for you now." I bade farewell to my companion, who remained in one of the impersonal green chairs which dominated the waiting room of Ors. Bernofsky and Mon teyne. Dr. Monteyne, my friend's ever-popular dentist, had been armed with a fully-loaded semi-automatic drill and was taking action against the cavity seated in front of him in the examining room. He was out of sight but, unfor tunately, not out of earshot. I made my way along the hall, silently cursing my afflicted molar. As pro mised, Dr. Bernofsky was preparing his tray full of exciting tooth-pulling devices. He greeted me with a smile. I jealously regarded his pearly whites. "Probably all caps," I muttered, half aloud and half to myself. The dentist and I exchanged false pleasantries as I settled myself in the chair. He then left the room to examine my X-rays from the week before. As he did, Nancy the friendly hygienist entered. I loathed Nancy. I considered her much to� happy (bubbly, even) to work in a dentist's office. "And how are we today?" she chirped. 6

I didn't answer. I only thought, If all were well with the world, I sure as hell wouldn't be here. She continued her friendly hygienist chatter, and every so often I acknowledged her presence with a monosyllabic response. "You know ... " she began and then paused. While waiting for her to go on, I could actually feel her tone shift.Her smile faded, and Nancy suddenly grew serious for the first time in the year I had been seeing Or. Bernofsky. She went on: "I can sense your fear, and I only assume it's a fear of the pain usually associated with dental work. You know, an English professor I had back in col lege once said that dentistry, with all its new findings, is virtually painless nowadays. Naturally, I disagreed with him--but he was, and remains, correct." She held up the syringe that Or. Bernofsky had set on the tray. "Do you know what this is?" she asked. "Of course. It's novocaine," I replied curtly, not wanting to appear stupid. "You're wrong." She placed the syringe back onto the tray and took a deep breath. "You see, I'm not supposed to tell you this. It's actually a newly approved drug that will most likely replace novocaine in a year or two. It's call ed hydro-flouride-chloride...H.F.C. Or. Bernofsky doesn't want any of his pa tients to know they're receiving it--part of the experiment, and all..." "Experiment?" I was dumbfounded. "You mean, he was going to give me this weird new drug and not even tell me?" "But this is different. HFC is n,,c just a painkiller... it's a... "Her voice trail ed off as Or. Bernofsky reentered the examining room. Nancy suddenly became the friendly hygienist again. "It's a miracle! I actually found that gold bracelet. My mother gave it to me, and..." "Nancy, I believe Or. Monteyne needs your assistance," Dr. Bernofsky said coldly. The look on his face and the tone of this voice implied that he did not want Nancy in the room. Suddenly, I found myself begging her with my eyes to stay and protect me from whatever was in that syringe.However, she gave her well practiced friendly hygienist smile and was gone, leaving me crestfallen. I eyed the syringe ofHFC as the dentist peered into my mouth with a long mirrored instrument. I longed to say something about the drug, but I realized that I was not supposed to know anything about it. Or. Bernofsky reached for the syringe. Here it comes, I thought glumly. I hate this part. I closed my eyes and began to count mental raindrops. I had gotten as far as my eighth raindrop before I felt the jab of the needle and the stickiness of the medicine in my mouth. Once it had been administered, I relaxed, keeping my eyes closed, and waited for the painkiller to take effect. But didn't Nancy say something about HFC being more than a painkiller? Wonder what she meant by that, I thought. I felt someone touch my arm, and I panicked. "Wait!" I wanted to say. "Don't start yet! I can still feel it!" But the words would not come. I forced my eyes open.

What I saw when I opened my eyes made my heart skip a beat or two. Dr. Bernofsky held a shiny instrument in his right hand. In the instrument was my molar. Nancy was there, too, smiling and handing me a piece of gauze to cover the new hole in my mouth. All I could think was, did I miss something? As Dr. Bernofsky left to dispose of my tooth, Nancy leaned forward. "Didn't I tell you HFC was great?" I suddenly developed a new respect for Nancy. The dentist returned and gave me instructions as to how I should care for the gap in my mouth. "That wasn't too bad, now was it?" he asked with his perfect smile. I gave him some general answer, but my thoughts were on that miracle drug. I had to find out more about it. I rescued my friend from the novocaine-weilding clutches of Dr. Mori.teyne, silently vowing to convert her to HFC. "Hi," I said. "How'd it go?" "Not bad," she said softly, "but not great. You?" ''I'll tell you later," I smiled. She cocked her head, puzzled, but said nothing else. We paid the receptionist and walked out to the lobby, occupied only by a lone teenage boy, nervously leafing through an old Reader's Digest. "Carson!" bellowed the receptionist. "Dr. Bernofsky is ready for you now." I smiled as he rose from the green chair and slowly lumbered toward the hallway. My companion regarded him sadly, but I reassured, "He'll be just fine. He's got m:v dentist!" Her disbelieving eyes told me to let her in on the secret. "Come on," I said. "We've got to talk. Let's go split a hot fudge sundae or something." -Tina DeMasi

ANCESTORS

A song of old men. wandenng, old women h ummmg to themselves their dreams:

Old Michael plants his tempered spade deep into Derry turf and rock, hands blackened by Shanmullagh's hills; he covets daylight like a family heirloom. Sinews twist earthward, stack winter's fire on burnt August downs. Aunt Mary's treason-ridden teas: "Sure, if the sassenach wanted us to adopt his tongue, he should've banned it. We'd be fluent in English by morning." Grandfather dressed and regal, newÂ coffined King of CasheJ; whiskey routes itself down rows of nodding mourners. "The Beggar's Reel" taps loud upon the kitchen floor. Can he feel my childhood hand tug his granite arm goodbye? For years after his wife mused, her dark tales bansheed to solitude: The Death-Coach, Changelings, Tir-Nan-Og: our schoolfree faces plundered her bounty, agespun myths, unwritten genealogy. Mother nightbundled in old movies, bingo, long word games; a spry, anxious newsreel: neighbors dying, world catastrophes; who's been bedding who-and why? A dying Father, eyes bolted from the modern stream; he whose voice wove lullabyes that swam us into morning, now gathers singly to his dusk. A hymn of old men wondering, old women dreaming death hello: and in Âˇtheir song, their legacy. -M.P. Toner

The Visit "What are you doing here?" asked a shocked Tracy. "Trying to stop you," answered a calm Joe from the armchair he had just appeared in. "But you can't be here," said Tracy unbelievingly. "You just can't be." "I am," answered Joe matter-of-factly. Tracy, dressed only in her black, silk slip and stockings, sat on her black dress, which was laid out on the bed. She stared incredulously into Joe's blue eyes. He was wearing the same raggedy Lee jeans and Billy Joel concert tee-shirt he had been wearing the last time she had seen him. This is crazy, she thought silently to herself. "No, it's not," answered a smiling Joe. Tracy placed a pale hand over her mouth and stared wide-eyed at him. She could not think of a single thing to say. "Drink your tea before it gets cold," advised Joe. Mechanically, she rose and crossed to her somewhat cluttered desk where her tea sat cooling. She raised the china cup to her lips and took a sip. With shaking hands, she replaced the cup on its saucer and returned to her place on the bed, once again sitting on the black dress she had just ironed. "So," began Joe, "are you ready to talk to me now?" "Sure," Tracy responded, readying herself for anything. "I'm here to stop you," he said calmly. "Stop me?" questioned Tracy. 'Stop you," affirmed Joe with a nod towards Tracy's bureau and the razor that lay on top of it. Suddenly Tracy understood the purpose of this visit, and it made her furious. "Stop me?" she almost screamed. "Who the hell do you think you are trying to stop me?" "I knew you'd react like this," Joe said more to himself than to Tracy. He sighed and went on, "I'm trying to stop you from making a big mistake. I know, I've been there." "Did you know l tried to call you?" asked Tracy as if she had not heard a word that he had just said. "But your mom told me that you weren't home yet, so l went looking for you. And you know what I found? A gaping hole in Jameson's bridge and a bunch of police pulling your car out of the water-that's what I found." Tracy was crying. She rose and began to pace the floor as Joe looked on sadly. "And when they got your car out of the water, they wouldn't even let me near you because I was stupid enough to let them know that I wasn't your next of kin, whatever the hell that means." Tracy stopped in the middle of the floor and stared at Joe with a face wet with tears. A few seconds later, she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and quietly asked, "Do you know why I called? Because I was sorry and I wanted to make up."

Joe opened his mouth to say something, but Tracy stopped him. She was pacing and screaming again. "And now they tell me that it wasn't an accident, that your brakes didn't fail and the road wasn't slippery, but that you drove your car over the bridge on purpose. So now, I not only have to go through the rest of my life without you, I have to go through the rest of my life feeling guilty for your death. And you know what else?" She stopped short and stared into Joe's eyes. "I almost hate you for it." "I don't blame you for that," he said, averting his eyes to his hands resting comfortably on his lap. "But that's no reason for you to kill yourself." "I don't believe you just said that," said Tracy, shaking her head. "That's like the pot calling the kettle black." "I know it's strange ..." "Oh, strange is not the word," interrupted Tracy, who was starting to feel as if she were becoming unhinged. "Strange does not do this situation justice. I mean, I find out my boyfriend committed suicide, and then he comes back from the dead to tell me not to kill myself! This goes beyond strange. Shouldn't you be off playing a harp on some cloud right now?" Joe smiled in spite of himself and looked up to meet Tracy's gaze. "That's not the way it works. I had to come back and try to stop you from making the same mistake I made." Tracy heavily sat back down on her black dress and asked in an even voice, "Why did you do it?" "Because I didn't want to go on without you," answered Joe slowly. "But I was wrong to do it. Can't you see that? It was no way to solve a problem; you wanted to make up." A tear formed in the corner of his eye. "If I hadn't driven off that bridge, we'd still be together." "But we can be together," she said gently, leaning forward. "That's why I'm doing this, so we can be together." She reached out her hand for his, but he quickly rose and walked to the other end of the room. "No physical contact," he said flatly. "It's not allowed." "Why?" queried Tracy, withdrawing her hand. "I don't know," Joe returned in an annoyed tone. "I don't make the rules." "You're angry because I'm making sense." "I don't know," he said, turning to face her. "I'm here to stop you, but I want to be with you so much it's tearing me apart." He ran his fingers through his curly, sandy hair and stared at Tracy. "You're so beautiful, and I'm so sorry." He began to cry. She was about to go to him when she remembered the rules. Joe picked up the razor, turned, and through the tears said, "I have to go now. Don't do it." "Where do you have to go?" asked Tracy as she rose. "I love you," was all he said. "Tracy, are you ready?" called her mother from the bottom of the steps. "We have to go soon." 12

"In a minute, Mom," Tracy called back. She turned to stare at the black dress she was about to wear to Joe's funeral. It was not wrinkled. Then she turned to look at Joe, although she knew he would not be there. "He had to go," she said quietly, looking around her empty bedroom. Giv ing herself a mental shake, she put on her black dress. Probably a figment of my imagination, she thought to herself as she retrieved her shoes from under the bed. Probably a figment of the sedative the doctor gave me, she thought as she put her shoes on. Tracy crossed over to the bureau; the razor was still there. "How nice of him to leave it for me," she muttered sarcastically. She held the razor in her hands for a few seconds as if she were weighing it, and then she left the room and attended Joe's funeral. That night, as she lay in bed, Tracy thought she heard Joe crying. You're really losing it, she thought to herself. Visitors from the grave who come to read your mind in the morning and cry you to sleep at night. No problem. But Tracy soon discovered that she was crying, too. "I miss him so much," she said softly as she felt her life slowly slip away from her. -Christiane Odyniec

r�

1 1 ,·

I•

II.

. '\' . ; ;

r I\

·. i;

---ďż˝

STIRRED NOT BLOWN Spring grass blown by cars passing remind me of people in their death convulsions. Spring grass stirred by spring breezes remind me of people in the dancing motions. The soft wind, first nudges, then slows, then blows steady, then slows, then steady once again. Little twisters shake through the bent blades. Then the wind stops and the grass, like dancers, at the end, stand straight. -Henry J. Tokarski, Jr.

FALLEN ANGEL Angel fumbled for her keys as she made her way up the long narrow steps that led to her house. Without much success, Angel tried to keep her mind off what was waiting for her beyond the door. Wonder what kind of mood she's in today, Angel thought. Life had not been easy since her father walked out six months earlier. The tension and hate between Angel and her mother was growing worse. Apprehensively, she took a deep breath and turned the knob. As Angel entered the dimly-lit living room, she peered to the right to find her mother performing her daily ritual, lying on the couch, her eyes shut, with her handmade granny square blanket pulled up so severely around her neck that it appeared she had no body. "It'd be nice if she'd stay asleep forever," Angel whispered to herself. Her mother opened her eyes as Angel walked past her towards the kitchen. She could feel her mother's eyes watching her, watching for Angel to do something wrong, just as a lion stalks its prey. Upon reaching the kitchen, Angel heard her voice, the voice that was so familiar to her. As always, Angel's body became tense, and a sick feeling sud足 denly overwhelmed her. "Your father called for you today," her mother screeched. "Doesn't he know what time you get home from school? You know how much I hate to talk to him. Christ, you teH him everything else that happens in your life. You think that one day he'd actually listen to you." Out of the corner of her eye, Angel noticed on the counter a wet knife glistening from sunlight that came through the window. As Angel focused on the knife, her thoughts blocked out her mother's voice: Wonder what it would be like without her? Just one day, I could come home from school and not get yelled at. "Angel, do you hear me?" her mother screamed, as her voice broke through the silence of Angel's thoughts. Clenching her teeth and taking a deep breath, Angel walked towards her mother. "Yes, I heard you!" Angel shouted. "I don't think it matters that he called. I just don't think you like the idea that I tell him everything!" Tears began to fill Angel's eyes as she turned towards the stairs and suc足 cessfully made her way to her room without allowing her mother to see she was crying. For as long as Angel could remember, she and her mother had not got足 ten along; but since her father left, it seemed to get worse. Angel often dreamed how wonderful life would be without her mother's interference. Sometimes at night, Angel would pray to God to make her mother die. "Please, God, just so I don't have to hear her yell anymore," she would say. Angel knew that one day things would be different. But when? she wondered. A few hours later, Angel went downstairs for dinner. As Angel stepped in足 to the kitchen, her mother again began to yell and complain. "Why don't you ever talk to me anymore? All you do is sit up in your room and talk to your father on the phone telling him what a rotten person I am. Can't you see he doesn't want to be bothered with you? If he did, you'd be living with him right now. ,,

Momentarily forgetting about dinner and blocking out her mother's voice, Angel walked over to the sink and began to wash the silverware that had been left in the sink from lunch. Again her thoughts d rifted off toward how happy she would be without her mother around, nagging. Suddenly a sharp pain shot through her hand and brought her back to reality. Without thinking, Angel pulled her hand out of the dishwater only to see a stream of blood oozing from her finger. Quickly grabbing a towel, Angel wrapped her finger up to hide the cut from her mother and unconsciously ran out of the kitchen towards her room. As she climbed the stairs. Angel wished that her mother had been the one who had been injured instead of herself. That night, Angel sat in her room, trying to keep her mind off the throbÂ bing finger. As she listened to her mother make her way up the stairs, Angel realized that she still had not had dinner, so she waited for her mother to go to bed and then hurried to the kitchen. After eating some leftover spaghetti, Angel carefully washed the dishes and silverware, trying to avoid wetting her freshly cut finger. Instead of putting the last knife away, Angel looked at it. "Amazing how such a simple object could cause such harm," Angel said aloud. "Angel, what are you doing down there?" Her mother's voice cut through the silence of the house. "I'll be up in a minute," Angel snapped back. "Well, hurry up. The light is keeping me awake!" her mother screamed. Without thinking, Angel picked up the knife, shut off the light, and walked upstairs. "Took you long enough!" her mother's voice pierced the darkness again. Ignoring the remark, Angel sat on her bed and stared at the knife. This could be the answer to my prayers, Angel thought. The idea had crossed her mind once or twice, but now the thought seemed more appealing. I wouldn't have to hear her bitch anymore, she thought, because I would never have to see her again. As Angel's mind drifted, she turned to the clock on her dresser. "10:42," she said to herself. "She must be asleep by now." Angel glided her finger across the knife. "Yes," she said. "You are the answer to my prayers." Clenching her fingers around the handle of the knife, Angel could feel her heart beating and the blood rushing through her veins as she quietly got out of bed and made her way to her mother's room. Angel moved towards her mother who was now sound asleep. Her heart was beating so fast that Angel was amazed that the sound of it did not wake her mother. Everything else does, she thought. One by one Angel positioned her fingers around the knife to make sure of her grip. Angel watched her mother sleep, resenting every breath she took. A thin film of sweat began to form over her upper lip, and as she licked it away, she could hear her heart begin to beat faster.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Angel said quietly. "All I ever did was try to make you happy, and you never were. I have to do this. I can't take you anymore." Things would be different now, she thought. No more screaming fights and no more tears. As a tear rolled down Angel's face, she turned the knife on herself and crumpled to the floor next to her mother's bed. -Judy Conowall

MY POINT OF VIEW You don't want to kill me, Just prove your point. But the point of your knife,

HURTS! -Barbara Leary

DUAL RESERVATIONS AND MULTIPLE REVELATIONS "Teach me to go to the country beyond words and beyond names." ---Thomas Merton, The Seven Mountains of Thomas Merton (p. 528)

(Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) On the Feast of the Nativity of Our Lord The mighty engines revved and hummed and roared Peaceful greenpeace Eden far from Peachbottom, Far beyond a continent submerged in snow, Beyond the melt along Pacific's golden edge, Beyond the ghostline of Tahiti's warmth, Voluptuous, promise of New Zealand, new and kind Belligerent Italy turned upsidedown, kicking At Australia's dusty heart, which, uninvited, Like America's skull and bones, now softly Settles on the snowtops of the Southern Alps.

(In Flight, Approaching Kentucky) Below the flat Kentucky hills, dark green fold. The line of definition, like a whale's protruding hump, To the north Midwestern corn; to the south blue grass. Beyond below the cold Kentucky hills, deep snow. - Behind my eyes yawned memories that woke, And I could see them march and hear them shout (To be_ sung)_ Your left; your left; your left-right-left! Your left; your left; your left-right-left! Oh, you knucklehead; oh, you knucklehead, Walking down the avenue; walking down the avenue! Your left-right-left; your left-right-left Hep-toe-hop-toe-hip-toe-dee-hop-toe-hip-toe-hop-toe H�� Tough soldiering high on misery hill, Fellowship, the midnight march, forced, The cadence cadence in the night's hot drill. Guns, reverberation, pounded hearts. 18

The pup tent spiked, mite canvas ziggurat. Sharp focus on July's big yellow moon, Washed down pink palaces in Khaki bloom.

(In-Flight, Over, Kentucky)

I flew above the gf'!� · ere he new rests, , Near one who,3·'.�d:;,', structed Lincoln'in. his youth. Emancipatiq<· ; . e to each in life, then death. The office chaKrrreverberated in the vale , When Nor��d South emboweled the nation's:-soul. 1 � Below the{� Kentucky hills spread white. The.,need'JifgGard against the woodland wars. 't--' T);iJ l\rrun{i:e '6f a life on call with one report. \ I flew /)bo·'�:tntucky on a plane, 1 . . And ic.,1e" i'.9,'.ttl.e- e__of trains that nosed ' ,. J.. �-�h 1'.'.J �nona,s.._, , Therr cur,ve, l-'at.11 if,r;, );!'.w/.n ' Thuough v�i8�,·��/�&l�n to ,, . I rJrA . . '"".k)1'>3. �; / C, 9'Azl - . f'rarn, V I C<)l11ld rr9:. r sold1e c.:_ ,·:· � My cqnrtuti � ,o'.i;(y t .� bombs1 tltat-�vered silence(, . Th�t bro;ke the �edi,ltion of Gethsemane's white life, . I � '7'·/ Wc;mld ree�erge i ,.y,,e�r-s to cotne, my war. 1 _ ' .(, �· l/ ( '

..: !,/c<:.:?-:,.·,,,

(T-vJo Flighfi',·��J��htucky)

The distance frorn;···J=:Qrfr Knox to Olivet, ,J7_.:."\.J. �' ) One inch, perspefti'v'etfrom7 my nose, to shrimp� ,.,. I Sardines, crunched s'e!1t:-s-i front, behind, bes{de, Beyond the portal:;pil 9w down-Sbelow while snowy hills I could not know t!i'e�ring r�ge I c:3(led, Beneath the meteores tracers rn the eye, \ Were factors in his fie':?e-:;;ursui('�su(pe? ','-.. In quest of ideal p,lace and jdej!l ,pe:'ice. � The booms that rattled· wihd�Whis;/hermitage, . \", .,, ./I� / That brarned the, rn.sits q5f,_ ewly pJanted trees, , /"J ,.,. -,.... 111-1 That drove him fro his-niaaen life in God, Toward civil rights, concupiscence, unseen Alaskan wolves, toward tigers, fevers, bandits in Nepal; I could not know that as I hiked the low Kentucky hills, my noise sent him toward Everest In search of isolation in great God's Om... I helped to part his quilted world in mist. I sent him toward Samutprakarn to find In Christ electrocution in burnt men.

. (.._ / Jeff (

(In-Flight: Transport around the world) And we were travelers on continents and countries Beyond time and words, on journeys, courses Parallel in transport toward some point, Where at some time we both arrived, Not knowing each was there, As on one rainy August day I traveled Toward Li.sieuďż˝ and followed sunny roads, Along which little flowers grew; Through redwood forests hugged by fog, Adobe hamlets nonchalantly perched upon Great cliffs of sunbaked sand in tan New Mexico, Beside fat sheep, like ladies' ivory pins, at rest Upon the slopes of Omaru within the view of boys, Young shepherds having old and playful minds. We traveled fast on byways without names, Apart yet in one car, one plane, one train, One lane, one space, two tracks of interTwined emotions wise but sad with age. Sevillean pageant charged with purple hoods, We walked, our faces gone, in slow procession Down the Santa Fe that ends, at last, Where we, without intention, first began.

(Takaka Hill, New Zealand) I looked up in Motueka, in a place of ripened fruit, And saw your shining face and recognized too late How close in ignorance I'd passed to find That God in his omnipotence had fashioned a design I failed to comprehend until dawn's light Had filled my darkened room with sight.

(Bucks County, Pennsylvania) And then it seemed as though my solitude, Like his, was shattered on a mountain Where albino fawns still danced, The guns of autumn cocked to blast the Animals of spring into man's blood-soaked laugh. The roar of cars that killed his peace, Then vanquished all my fluttering doves, Birthed final tractors that plowed under fields Of corn and wheat and no one seemed to care. Ended was a way-of-life, life-styles emerged, As if our mother, shorn and mauled, beyond her death, Indentured slave, still called to us, her young, Beneath her days of wrath through all her life, Kept summoning us to heavenly bliss. And in my sleep I dreamed of Venus sparkling On a summer night, dangling like a jewel Below the crescent moon, I dreamed, Of multitudes of fireflies .in silent June, The only sounds the songs of frogs That croaked along the edges of the sky. Surrounded by the stars I looked into the night, Then stepped across and through A universe of honeysuckle scent below The promise of New Zealand-bright-Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D.

I ! I

---

FAITH Her name was Faith, and she hated it. It seemed as ill-fitting as the too short, too-tight, dark denims that covered her stocky legs, and the oversized gris-grey sweatshirt that hung from her shoulders. Nothing fit Faith:.._not her name, not her clothes, and certainly not circumstances. Faith shrugged, took off her knapsack and sat down. She began to place her tattered guitar case in the chair beside her but decided against it. Holding her guitar shielded her from loneliness, making her feel less isolated. Faith could hear the hum of the huge white clock that hung above the ticket counter at the Cleveland bus terminal. She shifted her two hundred pounds cautiously as she leaned back to check the time. Faith can move moun tains, she thought, almost smiling. Let's hope she doesn't break any chairs. Faith self-consciously studied the other travelers. In her mind's eye she could actually see the metal bolts ripping away from the cement tile floor, sending her and the entire stationary row of orange plastic chairs crashing backwards and sending laughter through the bus station. Faith looked at her reflection in the smudged windows that stood facing her. The great panes which made up the station's face were not flattering. Faith closed her eyes and turned away from the stranger she saw. Opening her eyes again, Faith found herself studying the long black case still tightly held in her hand. Soon, Faith was lost in memory, traveling from grade school where she had learned to play through years of growth and change. The early years had been a happy melody. Faith had succeeded at nearly everything she had tried. In high school she had been an honor student, cheerleader, foreign exchange student, band and choir member. Her parents had sent a thin, confident over-achiever to college. What had happened? Why all this discord now? The only time Faith felt confident now was when she sang. Ah, the music was magic. When Faith finally pulled her eyes away from. her guitar case to look at the clock again, she was surprised to find that only an· hour had passed. It was odd to think that she could mentally scan her entire life in one hour. It was midnight, just four more terminal hours. The station was still awake, blinking with intermittent activity, shifting from Departure Side to Arrival Side. The glass doors yawned open as an arrival from Erie sent another rush of cold air and overcoated humanity inside. Faith shivered. She gripped her guitar case even tighter, pulling it closer to her as if somehow its worn black cover, held together with multi-colored bumperstickers, could warm her. Actually, it could, but only when it was open. Faith fondled the cold metal clasps, then undid them. She gently lifted the sleek, tan Yamaha guitar out of its resting place, resurrecting her true self. Faith played quietly at first, then steadily stronger and louder. As she sang she noticed heads turning towards her ·a,nd felt eyes focusing in on her. She smiled, knowing that they were seeing her music, and it was beautiful. Her fingers danced over the frets and stroked the six strings that tied her life together. Faith laughed and thought, I'm going to make it. Faith is still here, underneath. Smiling with a novice songwriter's appreciation for words, she thought, that's what Faith is. Without fanfare, Faith changed chords and began to write a new song. -Kathleen Ingerson

The Crescent Street House Nanny cut the springerle molds on the floured table in that kitchen. Her daughter, my grandmother, rocked out stories from the rose chair in the living room. My mother grew up there with the two of them. And yet, it has remained fo� me a lifeless house. More precisely, it hid the life in it, hoarding, inhaling it into its walls, and never releasing. All the houses on the street were set shoulder-to-shoulder, with only an alleyway between them. Many days I clip-clopped in my mother's heels up and down our cement path, listening to the crisp echoes of my steps. Next door to us was Keller's Market, a small corner deli. For a long time I thought it was part of our kitchen. Everyday at suppertime, I was dispatched to pick up some item missing from our own pantry. Inside the market everything seemed to glow a golden yellow-the cheeses, the bread, the soft pretzels under glass, and the pale pine floorboards. A few doors down on the other side of us was the candy store. For a nickel I could flatten my nose against the glass bubble and watch Mrs. Fizano drop the penny candy into a paper bag. I walked home digging "Red Hot Dollars" out of my molars. Cater-corner from the house was the fire station, which hosted the Fourth of]uly fair. Colored lights, strung from stand-to-stand, bobbed in the night air. My father would lift me over the wooden rail to pitch pennies onto a gold and black lacquered board. Even after I was put to bed, I could hear the trill of the carnival wheels. Our house never seemed to embrace the delicious jibber-jabber of the neighborhood. The porch windows of the house stared straight to the street, like a stranger whose jaw is set against intrusion. The lead glass door was heavy and unyielding, and it closed with a resonating click. Inside, the porch was cram med, with oversized wicker furniture that still smelled of salt from the shor�house. The next doorway led into a dim living room with black oak floors that reflected nothing. Two half walls, topped by pillars, jutted out from either side of the living room, which was where my grandmother's candle-trimmed death bed had been set up years before. We never ate in this room. The moldings around the floor were thick and high. Immense windows, hung with weights, cut out the long sides of the house. The sills were deep and hung out over ornate radiators. Throughout the house bulging door knobs, made of lead crystal or porcelain, wobbled in their sockets. Below them were huge Alice in Wonderland keyholes. Dead center in the house, at the foot of the stairs, was the bathroom. The enormous fixtures were white and cold. I remember being lifted up and then down into the cavern of the cast iron tub. We would leave the house before I . could ever reach to see in the mirror above the pedestal sink.

Outside the keyless bathroom door was a straight staircase with a frighten ing pitch, which tunneled to the top floor. The risers were braced on either side by bearing walls; there was no railing and no light.The top step widened to a small landing; and immediately, to either side of it, were the only two bedrooms. For the short time that we lived there, my parents occupied the front room; three cribs and a bed for myself were squeezed into the back room. Downstairs, Nanny's kitchen, as it would always be called, ran the width of the house. A back porch, which served as a pantry and a laundry room, had been added to the original house.It looked out on a small backyard with high, shaved hedges.Within the hedges at the end of the property was a small dirt floor tool shed. It was here that the rats nested. The schoolhouse down the street, where my mother and her brother had gone, had been torn down. The rats had scattered and infested the neighborhood.I watched my father stand in the doorway of the shed, raise the · shovel up over his head, and bring it down with a thud onto the seething dirt floor.There were too ma.ny of them, and, despite his efforts they eventually tunneled into the back porch. In the evening they would scratch at the back kitchen wall.I could hear them clearly when my mother would open the oven door.Loads of diapers had to be washed, and she would send me out to drag them, wet and heavy, from the washer to the dryer. I didn't know to be scared, but I could feel her fear on my back as she watched me through the window of the closed door. Every night, after the babies finished their bottles, my mother wiped their mouths and fists and the slats of their cribs, so that the rats wouldn't smell the milk. Now years later, watching my mother drip warm milk into the well in the flour to make Nanny's cinnamon buns, I thought again of the rats, and the house, and the women who lived there. I was fingering a crocheted doily that was laid under the centerpiece on the dining room table. At one time it had been starched with sugar water into the shape of a basket with fluted edges.Now it was limp and flat.I was embarrassed by its shabbiness, but my mother said that it was the only thing her mother ever gave her, and it was going to stay. When I looked up, I could tell by her stillness that she had been watching me. "Do you still think it's ragged?" she asked. "Didn't she ever give you anything else?" I answered "No." "Did you ever ask her for anything?" "No." "Why not?" "We were never that close." "What do you mean 'you were never that close'? She was your mother." "Yes .... She was." 25

My mother handed me a warm stick of butter to spread over the spongy dough that was now rolled out onto the counter. She poured syrup into the pan and began to tilt it back and forth. "What about Nanny?" I asked. "What about Nanny?" "Were you ever close? You said she was the one who really raised you." "She did what was necessary. She braided my hair in the morning, and she was there when we came home." I ran my hands under hot water to cut the butter, and then I dried them on the comer of her damp apron. My .mother cut the dough and put the swirls turned on end into the pan. I heard the oven door squeak open and then shut. "The only thing my mother ever showed any love for was you." I waited a minute before answering. I didn't want to scare her off. "Were you jealous?" She looked at me, surprised. "No. That was the only time we ever had anything in common." ... I was finally quiet. I sat down at the table and weaved my fingers in and out of the shapeless holes in the doily. It was as if that piece of cloth had become the embodiment of their lifeless relationship. My thoughts again returned to the house on Crescent Street. I could not remember or imagine light or life in that house. "No wonder I didn't like living in that house," I said. "Neither did I," said my mother. "It was ju.st a place to pass the years." -Debora Macchia

OCTOBER'S ORANGE-HEADED CHILDREN OF THE FIELDS

Autumn's wondrous explosive gallery display Of coy beings crayoning hinterland's placid landscapes. The silent guardians, innocent in repose Like misunderstood sculptures Planted as necessary angels To the higher art of the land. Though, I remember one sitting fat like buddha in an austere formation With its followers all around Grandstanding the gentle flow of Bucks County. Where farmers pure, father fall's fat babies, Preparing October's orange-headed children For their unfortunate ultimate face: The end of the month's carnivalesque masquerade And onward for the greedy culinaires' tastes Of their distinct delicacy. As an anxious periodical These awkward roadside attractions Announce the deep grey /blue of the upcoming season, Without them, something valid would be missed, Empey ... Like a void between summer and winter. Pumpkintime. -Denis Natoli

The Banquet "We are here to celebrate a time of great importance in our history." Gor足 don paused and looked up from his speech. "How does that sound?" he asked Laura. "Yeah ...great," replied Laura. She was not really paying much attention, but Gordon was too involved with his papers to notice. He asked her opinion out of habit--not from any desire to know how she felt. "Listen to this part, honey," Gordon commanded. "Sure," she replied disinterestedly. Gordon read from his prepared notes in what he hoped was a dignified tone. "Twenty-five years ago, the scientific team led by Dr. Herbert Weiss made the now-famous discovery that has made our way of life possible. It was Dr. Weiss' team..." Beep ... beep...beep. Gordon stopped, confused. He listened carefully. Beep...beep ...beep. Gordon's wristwatch demanded his attention. Looking at the watch, his expression changed from annoyance to sh_ock. "Oh, no, I'm late!" he exclaimed as he frantically ran through the apartment gathering notes and trying to get into his coat Without either putting them down or wrinkling them. As he shrugged into the coat, he told Laura, "Gotta go, hon. I'll see ya there. Remember--7:30. No later. Bye." With that, he ran out the front door, slamming it behind him. Laura silently read her book for a few minutes and then said to the now empty room, "Yeah, right, see ya." Gordon Fischer walked into the lobby of the Grand Hotel and was im足 mediately greeted by the very man they were honoring that night--Dr. Weiss. "Gordon, glad you could make it," he said jovially as he and Gordon shook hands. "I have so looked forward to your speech," he said devilishly, his eyes gleaming. Gordon's booming baritone laughter filled the hotel lobby causing more than a few heads to tum in his direction. "I bet you have, Doctor. You just love being the center of attention, don't you, sir?" "Nonsense, my boy. I hate these silly banquets," Dr. Weiss said in a tone that suggested quite the opposite. Excitedly, he grabbed Gordon's wrist. "Come along," he said, pulling Gordon down the hall and into the ballroom. "We've got to find our seats." Dr. Weiss shuffled into the ballroom. He did not pause until he reached their table. Gordon did not make the mistake of trying to help the old man to sit down. Nothing angered him more than to be treated, in his words, "like a feeble old man." "Quite a spread, Gordon, wouldn't you say?" he asked as he slowly lowered himself into the chair. "Oh, yes, sir," agreed Gordon a bit too quickly. He chided himself for try足 ing too hard. Impress him, he thought, but never look like you're trying to im足 press him.

Soon, other guests had seated themselves at the table. As the room filled up, more and more people came by to congratulate Dr. Weiss. Gordon took the opportunity to soak in the surroundings. The carpeting was a deep red. The tables were elegantly set from crisp, clean white tablecloths to sparkling silverÂ ware and long-stemmed champagne glasses. The centerpieces were simply two slender red candles already aflame. Gordon's observations were interrupted when he felt a familiar presence behind him. "Laura," he said, getting up quickly, "you made it." He stopped when he saw her. "You look great," he whispered as he pulled her chair out and gave the introductions. Laura wore a black silk dress with a hemline that reached just below the knee. The neckline was modestly high, and a diamond choker completed the effect. Her long dark hair was pushed to one side by a diamond barrette shaped like a butterfly. She wore no other jewelry. After the initial pleasantries had been exchanged, silence fell on the small group. The silence made Gordon feel increasingly uncomfortable, so he took it upon himself to inspire conversation. "Dr. Weiss, Laura has been reading your book. She hasn't put it down since she bought it," Gordon said, knowing that Dr. Weiss would not be able to resist that topic. "Oh," began Dr. Weiss in a congenial tone, "and what do you think of the team's discoveries?" Laura hesitated. "Actually, I'm more interested in why your team did what it did--not how," she admitted. "Really," he answered somewhat taken aback. "I'm sure you're aware of the extensive droughts that had plagued the world. My team was asked to find a way to stop those droughts." He pounded the table lightly to emphasize his last three words. "I am aware of that, Doctor. However, I think your actions were a little exÂ treme," she responded, curtly. Dr. Weiss paused briefly before replying, and Gordon took that moment to interrupt. "Dr. Weiss, I'm sure Laura understands the complexity of the probÂ lem. She didn't mean to insult you." He turned his attention to Laura, "Right, darling?" he pleaded. "No, of course, I never intended to insult him," Laura said, intending to make amends before things got out of hand. The Doctor, however, never gave up on an argument. "Just a minute," he began, slightly pacified by Laura's apologetic manner, "the dear girl wanted to know why my team acted as it did, and I think I should tell her." Suddenly, Dr. Weiss was all business. He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table and lowered his voice. "The droughts had gotten out of control. The team and I ran several random equations through the computer and tested the best of them. The results were not quite what we had expected--I've admitted that much before- but I've always thought it was a blessing in disguise," he amended, pleased with himself.

"Blessing?" Laura repeated, appalled. "You caused a permanent change in worldwide weather conditions and you call it a blessing?" She had given up all pretense to quiet conversation. "You are directly responsible for the deaths of thousands of people." "I killed no one," he replied indignantly. He cast a warning glance in Gor don's direction. Laura did not give Gordon a chance to speak. "What about all those peo ple killed in the storms? Torrential rain in Egypt. Snow in Tahiti and Hawaii. People in Tahiti lost limbs to frostbite. People in Alaska were killed by the ex treme heat. Are you trying to deny you caused all of that?" Her anger had caus ed her to lean towards him and point accusingly. Her face was flushed and her hands shook. Gordon again tried to restore the pleasant tone the evening had started with. "Look," he reasoned, "this all happened twenty-five years ago. The debates have gone on since then. This is a social occasion. We should be trying to enjoy ourselves." He knew from the look on Laura's and the Doctor's faces that the argument was not over. They glared at each other across the table. "My dear child," began Dr. Weiss condescendingly, "you couldn't know any of this firsthand. How old are you?" he asked bluntly. "Not that it's any of yo�r business, but I'm twenty-three," she told him. "I was born in 2000," she added helpfully. 'There, you see." He addressed the entire group, leaning back and smiling as if he had proved his point. "No, I don't," she replied. "I wasn't talking to you, child, and, of course, you don't see," he stated calmly. "What!" Laura fumed. She had had enough of his condescending manner. "What has my age got to do with anything?" she demanded impatiently. Dr. Weiss scowled. "Please, dear girl, learn to control yourself. You are young--inexperienced. You've obviously been reading too many silly novels," he explained, dismissing her protests as nonsense. "Nice weather we've been having," said Gordon feebly. Laura inhaled, ignoring Gordon and focusing on Dr. Weiss. "I may not be old enough to remember what the world was like before you changed it, but I do know that you went too far, Doctor Weiss," she spit the title at him distastefully. She went on. "There are some things man should not try to con trol. Why can't you see that? This i�n't the way the world was supposed to be. You've changed the nature of the planet," she argued. "Nonsense, child," laughed Dr. Weiss. "If, as you seem to think, it wasn't meant to be--why, then it wouldn't have happened. We are scientists," he said, gesturing around the room. "We know what we're doing." "Meaning that the rest of us don't, right?" Laura responded, her voice dripping with resentment.

Gordon stopped the doctor from replying. "Doctor, Laura, please. Can you both stop long enough to see you're going in circles?" he queried. "Laura, dear, you're being unreasonable. Everyone knows the doctor's discoveries sav ed the world. You're condemning him." He looked at her silently for a few . minutes and then turned to Dr. Weiss. "Doctor," he began, "remember why we're here. These scientists have gathered together to honor you. Can't you try to understand that some non-scientists might not agree with you?" Once again, Gordon was unsuccessful in his attempt to be the voice of reason, but the com batants were forced to mask their disdain for each other since the speeches honoring Dr. Weiss had started. Gordon watched them glare at each other all night. He knew that, intellectually, Laura knew the argument had been futile, but she could never stay silent about such things for long. He considered Dr. Weiss' position. He had no choice but to defend his actions. He had always preached about the blessing that had been bestowed on the world when his team had brought about the changes in climate. No one knew if the old man truly believed that or if he had simply managed to convince himself of it over the years. The disastrous evening finally drew to a close, and Laura and Gordon shared a taxi home. "I'm sorry, Gordon," she admitted. Gordon laughed, "Oh, no you're not. You love to argue. Especially with scientists." He paused and then continued, "... and politicians, and lawyers and doctors and...Ow!" he exclaimed when she poked him in the ribs. "Stop! I feel terrible. Can he make your life difficult?" she asked, genuinely concerned. "Naw, he's just my boss ...Ow!" She had poked him again as he laughed over her question. They rode in silence for a few minutes, enjoying each other's company. Laura suddenly looked into Gordon's eyes, "Y'know," she began, "I was so mad at him, I didn't hear your speech. Did it go O.K.?" Gordon laughed again. "Yes, it went O.K., but I had to cut part of it because of the time," he admitted. "Which part?" she asked curiously. Gordon sat up straight and began to recite his speech from the begin,ning, "We are here to celebrate a time of great importance in our history..." He stop ped and joined in with Laura's laughter. -Theresa Gauthier

� �

-------···---

<31

CICADA In summer sun, the cicada attends the business of loving and living, receiving from the Spirit of love and life, Caressing blades of grass and scuttling among the flowers. Dusk. The close of summer. ChirrChirrChirrÂ Insistent, consistent, into the air; Responded to by those who care. The chirr is quiet now. Planted in earth the cicada quietly attends the business of becoming. New Birth! It is 1-7 or 13 years? 0, eternal time. -P. A. McGrath

A Door Once Open is Now Closed Tight A door once open is now closed tight. Through a crack at the bottom can be seen only light. What is locked behind it no one will see. It is lost forever along with a key. A faded smile, a stolen day, Echoes of laughter hidden away. All dwell in yesteryear, Leaving the present to drown in a tear. -Mindy Yatsko

Too Close for Comfort Our luggage-laden white Chevette crawled along the mountain road. I had been driving for about an hour, and I silently hoped we would soon arrive at our destination. A weekend off was a rarity, and I was anxious to spend time with close friends in our rented mountain chalet. Cathy, Tom, and I were goÂ ing early in the day to prepare the house, and Bill, Eileen, and Mary were to meet us later. It was Bill who had acquired the house, and he had assured us that it was the perfect place for a relaxing weekend. In the''silence of the car I eagerly wished our vacation would be as perfect as he had promised. Tom leaned forward from the back seat and broke the silence. "Shouldn't we be there by now?" he asked. "You said the first house on this road." I glanced across the front seat at Cathy. "Well, navigator, is this the right road, or what?" Cathy looked perplexed. "I'm sure it is," she said. As if to justify her answer she unfolded a road map which began to overtake the front seat. "It should be up ahead," was her muffled response as she squinted her eyes and buried her head in the map. All three of us looked forward in anticipation. As if in answer to our wish, a lone house came into view. As our small car slowly climbed the hill to reach it, the house seemed to grow larger. I drove off the road a.nd parked the car at the bottom of the path leading to the dreary house, and we got out and stared at its neglected facade. "You've got to be kidding," I said in dismay. "ls that it?" Cathy frowned in confusion and looked at the crumpled paper in her hand. The directions were scrawled in Bill's large handwriting. "Well... it says the first house... " Her voice trailed off. "He wouldn't," she said with a look of disbelief. I exchanged glances with Tom. "Don't even think it," I said. "Bill may joke around sometimes, but he wouldn't try to hoax our vacation." Torn nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Besides, he's corning, too, remember? Who cares what it looks like! Let's just unpack." Cathy unlocked the trunk and we each took our bags out. As we climbed the gravel path to the house, I noticed paint peeling from the outside walls. "Now I know why we got it so cheap," I muttered under my breath. Our key was not needed as the front door was unlocked, so I stumbled in and dropped our bags in the foyer. Although it was sunny outside, the house was dimly lit. I peered into the large room to our right. "Don't look like much furniture," I said. Cathy shivered. "It's a little cold in here," she remarked. "Let's find the thermostat." As we began to explore our hideaway, we became dismayed, for it was not the drearnhouse we had anticipated. The living room contained only a dusty old couch, one rickety chair, a table with a lamp, and a large rug with a stain in the middle of it. I looked at the couch apprehensively. Torn headed towards it.

..--·�_.:;· .. . .> ,,.

�.�

"A place is what you make of it," he said with a smile. As he sat down a cloud of dust enveloped him. "I'm glad you like it. I don't expect elegance for $275, but this is ridiculous," I said as I cleared the air with my hand. Cathy walked towards the chair, and as she touch'edit the arm fell off. She glared at me. "This isn't amusing," she said as she shook her head. I leaned on the dusty sofa. "Well, I've stayed in worse. But if we don't find the heat, we're gonna freeze to death," I said. "I'll find it," Cathy volunteered and left the room. Tom saw the look of discontent on my face. "Don't worry. It's OK. It'll be all right," he reassured. I raised my eyebrows and looked at him questioningly. "Tom, look around," I said. "We're in a dump." Tom stood up, shrugged his shoulders, and threw his hands up in the air. "OK, so it's a little dirty and there's not much furniture. You fust said yourself it could be "':'orse." Before he could comfort me any further on the redeeming merits of our predicament, Cathy interrupted as she bounded into the room. The look on her face was not encouraging. Her eyebrows furrowed downward, and her lips frowned. "Guess what, guys?" she droned. "It's worse." I opted for the filthy couch rather than hearing the news standing up. Although it was only midafternoon, I felt exhausted. Cathy continued her explanation and became more emotional with each word. "I just checked. Not only do we have no heat, but, but, we have no elec tricity and no water!" She emphasized the last point by raising her hand dramatically in the air. Tom quickly moved to Cathy's side. "Look, it'll be OK. We just can't lose control," soothed Tom as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Lose control? Ha!" Cathy responded. "I can't take it any more! Our vaca tion is doomed from the start!" Her face suddenly relaxed. "I think," said Cathy, matter-of-factly, "that I'm going to have a nervous breakdown." "No you're not. Don't say that," replied Tom, waving his hands in the air. I lifted my aching head from my hands and stood up. "Yeah, we'll all have a nervous breakdown later, OK? Let's just figure out what to do. We handled yearbook deadlines and comps. We'll handle this." Tom stared at me blankly. "Well," he said, "you're right, but what do we do?" "I don't know. At least, let's figure out our situation," I began. Before I could continue, Cathy interrupted. "Our situation--we're all mentalty and physically drained," she complain ed. "Right!" I answered and cut her off. "So we're up the mountains to relax. No school, no worries..." "No heat, no water," Cathy continued, "you're right. This is better than Club Med!"

I scowled at her from across the room, but before I could reply, Tom intervened. "Look, we're all a little upset, a little tense..." "A little?" I exclaimed. "But we can handle this if we stick together," finished Tom. Cathy sighed and joined me on the sofa. "You're right. I'm sorry for being so rude." "It's OK," I said. "The way I look at it, we sit and wait for the others to come up, and we either leave then or wait until morning. We're not staying!" "They're not gonna want to drive all the way home after coming here. Remember, they're working all day," said Cathy. "Yeah, but if wďż˝ stay it's gonna get really cold," added Tom. "Well..." I didn't know what else to say. After a moment of silence, I added, "There's one other possibility. If Eileen got off from work and Bill went home early and Mary was ready, then maybe they'll be here soon." "I hope so," said Cathy. "See, now there's a glimmer of hope." Ever-optimistic, Tom smiled as if he were quite pleased with the way things were turning out. "Yeah," Cathy continued. "I hope they get here soon so we can all kill Bill. He's the one that got us this dive!" I once again looked around at our shabby surroundings. "You know," I mused, "this doesn't fit the description at all. I mean, I know he exaggerates a little, but this is a genuine dump. You could film a horror movie here." "Oh, thanks!" For the first time since we had arrived, Tom looked upset. He was not a great fan of horror films, and despite his muscular physique, he would jump at the slightest loud noise. "You had to say that. What if we have to stay here tonight?" he groaned. "Sorry," I replied and shrugged. "Well," said Cathy, "I guess we'd better just sit here and wait and t,ry and make the best of it." Cathy and I tried to get comfortable on the lumpy sofa, while Tom sat cross-legged on the floor. We left our bags by the door, convinced we would have no need to unpack, and we ate the snacks we had brought with us. Hours passed quickly as we passed the time by talking and telling stories. Tom's vivid imagination captivated us as we listened closely to each word he spoke. Tom had reached the climax of his story, and his hand waved frantically through the air. "And then, then, he said we weren't being fair to him!" he laughed. No longer enthralled, I suddenly stiffened. "Did you hear that?" I asked. "Hear what?" answered Tom and Cathy in unison. They were both wideÂ eyed as their hands clutched cookies and soda midway between their laps and their mouths. "I heard a voice or something," I said as I got up to investigate. Before I reached the doorway, Eileen entered through it. "I was right," she yelled over her shoulder. "It is their car!" Bill and Mary followed her into the room, and they all looked quite surprised to see us there. "It's about time," I scolded and placed my hands on my hips.

Cathy sprang to her feet and pointed towards Bill. "We have a bone to pick with you, William, dear." Bill wasn't listening, but was instead wandering around the room shaking his head up and down. "Wow," he said, "this place is wild. How'd you find it? Looks like the Psycho house." He emphasized the last remark by screeching the title track to the movie. "What are you guys doing here, anyway?" Mary asked plainly. "We saw the car as we were going past," she said as she pointed towards the door. "Yeah, what are you doing here and how did you get in?" questioned Bill. "You don't want to stay here, do you? Our 'four bedroom, three bathroom, pool table, jacuzzi, cable TV /VCR, fireplace rancher' is up the road." Tom, Cathy, and I exchanged glances. Tom came to our rescue. "Uh, well, we thought it would be kind of neat to stop here--you know, it looked creepy." "Yeah," I added. "Guess we got a little carried away with the time, didn't we?'' "Well, you know, when you're having a good time...right?" asked Cathy. We gathered up our trash to leave and smiled at our well-concealed secret. Eileen pinched our pride. "What did you bring your bags in for?" she asked. We froze and looked at one another. "Uh...didn't want to leave them in the car," I suggested. "Let's get out of here. Let our vacation begin." As we walked out of the dilapidated house, I chuckled at our mistake. We do need a vacation, I thought. Tom squeezed in between Cathy and myself. "See," he whispered, "I told you it would be all right!" -Donna Pointkouski

THE FALKLANDS

In the evening with the seabirds' calls came sadness in a world of hope that men with dreams still die over worthless rocks; the same old human madness teaches youth to hate and mothers how to cry. Through the roaring southern surf the blood trails glisten, all that's left to show the frailty of the shell. .Is there really someone left who warits to listen to the claims that men die valiantly and well? Does the sun shine bright because their bones are scattered over distant soil a million miles away? Is it really freedom's principles that mattered or is death and war a game that leaders play?

-Joseph Brizzell

A Bad Start Kay heard the sound of a school bell ringing in the distance as she strolled down a country road. She was late, she thought. She ran towards the sound. Small white puffs came out of her mouth as she hurried on her way. The tips of ner fingers were so cold that she had to coil them up into fists. Where is the school? she thought. She could not be late again. Slowly, she realized that there was no school or bell. But the ringing, what could it be? The country scene fad ed. Kay knew what the sound was--her alarm. She stretched out her arm until, groping, she could feel the clock beneath her hand. Without fumbling, she sharply tapped the "off" button. Not yet, please, God. It's only 5:30, she thought, as she rolled over and began to drift back into sleep. A voice, which sounded alarmingly like her mother's, entered her mind. Don't fall asleep, it screamed through her head; get up; go to class! Kay bolted straight up and looked at the clock. It was 6:06. She had only closed her eyes for a minute, she thought. "I hate this," she yelled as she ran to the bathroom. She went to the shower and turned on the hot water. She let it run until steam rose from the tub. By adding a little cold water she made the temperature of the water bearable. As she stepped cautiously into the shower, she whispered to herself, "That's bet ter." She believed that she could stand there all day. The water poured over her as she planned her day. She squirted a small amount of shampoo into her hand and began to create a lather in her hair. She lowered her arms to allow the soothing water to rinse the suds from her short hair. Suddenly, the water turn ed icy cold. "Damn!" she screamed as she backed away from the streams of arctic water and into the cold tile wall. Kay gathered every ounce of courage she had, step ped into the water, and quickly turned the water off. She felt an intense anger growing within her, but it was soon replaced by pain. Her eyes were burning. She tried to force the shampoo out of them with her thin fingers, but it was, as it always had been, a futile attempt. Stepping out of the tub, she groped for her towel. Her hands found the hook where the towel should have been, but it was empty. "I forgot my towel," she whined as she began to turn the knobs on the sink. All it had to offer was cold water. Kay dunked her head under the freezing water and rinsed the remaining shampoo out of her hair. After clearing her eyes, she began to remove her head from the sink and bashed it against the· faucet. Tears filled her eyes. She carefully straightened up and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her brown hair hung straight as it dripped water onto the floor. Her eyes were red and her skin was turning blue. As she stood shiver ing in a puddle, she grabbed her robe. The pain in her eyes and head was sub siding, and the anger grew within her once more. She flung open the bathroom door, ran down the hallway, and pounded on a closed door. "Steven! Open this door! Right now!" she screamed.

The only sound coming from her younger brother's room was that of an electric guitar blaring out of his stereo. "Steven J. Cramer! I know you can hear me. Now open this door!" Kay hollered at the door. Hearing the lock turn, Kay pushed open his door. "What?" he said curtly. Kay stepped into his room. She was so angry that she had to pause before she spoke. As she stood there, she eyed his perfectly ordered room. His bed was made. It looked as if no one had ever used it. HangÂ ing on the wall was an audio tape-holder. The tapes within it were arranged alphabetically, as were the records, which leaned against the wall. Unlike Kay's room, no clothes littered the floor. The posters on his walls advertised great cities: Paris, London, and Rome prominently displayed. His desk was neat and organized. The screen of his computer showed a completed report, a report that Kay knew was not due for weeks. Kay's anger grew as she stared into Steven's deep blue eyes. His thick blonde hair fell perfectly into place. On the side of his head, he had one streak of golden red hair. He cocked his head to one side. It seemed as if he were showing off that streak, Kay thought. "What do you want?" he said casually. Kay's brown eyes narrowed to mere slits. "You used all the hot water, stupid." "So how does it feel?" he asked. "What are you talkin' about? It feels cold!" "Not the water, moron. How does it feel to be the victim for once?" "I have no idea what you're talkin' about," Kay said as she took a step backwards and placed her hands on her hips. "Everyday of my life you get in the shower before me," Steven explained, "and you use all the hot water." "I do not!" she snapped back as her face turned red with rage. "You're the one in trouble here, not me. You use.cl all the hot water. I didn't." "Yeah, I know. I did it on purpose," Steven said as a smile came to his face. "On purpose!" she screeched. "I had to teach you a lesson." "Why, what did I ever do to you?" "I already told you. What are you deaf or just dumb? You use all the hot water everyday." "Do not!" Kay yelled. "Listen to this, dear sister. Sometimes there is so much steam in the bathroom that I have to clear the air with my hands." He demonstrated by waving his arms wildly in front of himself. "I actually tripped over the toilet last week because I didn't see it." "Stop wavin' your arms!" Kay demanded. Steven dropped his arms.to his side. "I could've broke my nose that day. Then you would've been in big trouble." "Yeah, right. I would've been in trouble because you can't walk yet. Anyway, you didn't break nothing. I'm gonna tell Mom that you used all the hot water. Then we'll see who's_ in trouble. You'll probably have to pay the water bill."

"Go ahead. See if I care," Steven said as he slammed his door shut. "Mom!" Kay screamed as she ran down the steps and into the living room. "I was in the shower, and the water turned cold, and I still had shampoo in my hair, and-" "Kay, I don't have time for this now. Your father is waiting for me in the car," her mother said as she dug through her purse. She pulled out a small mir ror. "But, Mo·m, the shampoo got in my eyes, and I smashed my head in the sink." "Kay," her mother said sternly, "what are you babbling about?" "Steven used all the hot water," Kay said as she slumped in a chair. "I can't believe you're here yelling about water. It's 6:30. Your bus is at 7:30, and you're not even dressed yet. And look at your hair. It's a mess," Kay's mother said as she put her purse down. "But, Mom, it was horrible, and Steven won't even apologize. He said he did it on purpose." "It's hectic around here in the morning. You are supposed to get a shower at 5:30 and Steven at 6:00. If you miss your turn, you pay the price," her mother said as she checked her watch, "and obviously, you overslept for the se cond time this week, or Steven would not have been in the shower before you," she said as she checked her make-up in the hand mirror. "But, Mom, I go to work, go to school, and pay board. Steven just goes to school. Don't I have more rights than him?" Kay said as her voice rose two oc taves. "You're nineteen years old. Steven is fourteen. Of course, I expect more from you. As far as work and school are concerned, I know people who work twice as hard as you and have more classes. As for the $25.00 a week, you dare to call board! You're welcome to find an apartment for that price. Maybe it would help you grow up a little," she said as she placed the mirror in her purse and slid into her coat. Her long blonde hair was trapped beneath the collar. She was forced to flip it out with her hands. "Mom," Kay whined. "Don't Mom me, Kay!" her mother said as her blue eyes bulged out of her head. "I can teach you a little lesson right now. You know it's not what you say. It's how you say it. You whine to me and complain to me. You know sometimes your voice cuts through me, like when someone uses the chalk the wrong way. I don't have time to deal with your grade school antics. Try to grow up a little." They both heard a car horn sound. ''That's your father. Now he's going to be upset with me," she sighed as she picked up her purse. Kay stared at her mother. Her face was pale and expressionless. Her mouth hung open. She stood up slowly and headed for the steps. When she reached the stairs, she began to run, taking two steps in every stride. Tears filled her eyes as she reached the top of the stairs and ran into her room. "Kay," her mother called from downstairs, "honey, I'm sorry J yelled at you. Just promise to think about what I said. I'm late now. I have to go. See you tonight!" A horn sounded again. "I'm coming!" her mother screeched. "I don't

know where she gets it from," she said as she opened the front door. Kay heard the door close. She sat on her bed with her arms wrapped around her stomach. Across the room a small cat slept in a full laundry basket. He was completely white, except for a stripe of blackunderneath his pink nose. "Oh, Ret Butler! You shouldn't sleep on my clothes. But at least I know that you still love me." She crossed the room, picked up the cat, and held him tight ly in her arms. Then she looked at the clock. "6:45! I gotta get dressed, Ret." She dropped the cat onto the bed, slammed the door shut, and began to brush her hair. "Looks like a rat's nest, doesn't it, Ret?" Kay asked. "Sure does, Kay," she answered herself in a squeaky voice. Kay opened a drawer and searched through it. She found a pair of pantyhose and threw them on the bed. She turried her back on the bed and opened her closet. Inside, hanging apart from the-other clothes, was a dark green dress she had ironed the night before. She slipped into the dress and looked into the mir ror. It was loose fitting at the top, gathered at the waist, and full at the bottom. "I love this dress, Ret. What do you think?" She turned to face the cat. Ret sat on the bed, entangled in a web of what used to be Kay's pantyhose. She opened her drawer and frantically rummaged through it. "My last pair," she said and stared at the cat. "How could you? You stupid, stupid cat." She raised her hand and brought it down sharply, but Ret was too fast for her. He ducked out of the way of Kay's hand. She grabbed him, opened her door, and tossed him into the hall. "Stupid, stupid cat!" "Lowered yourself to insulting lower forms of life?" Steven asked as he pass ed by her room and gently lifted up the cat. Kay ran to her bed, picked up the remains of her pantyhose, and returned. "Look what he did to my last pair of pantyhose." "Oh, and I'm sure he did it on purpose." Steven shook his head from side to-side. "People like you shouldn't be allowed to have pets," he said as he walk ed away from her. Kay watched him go. Although he wore only jeans and a sweatshirt, he looked good. He's growing up fast, but he's still a jerk, Kay thought. "Shut up, you don't know anything!" Kay hollered after him. "Good come-back," he said under his breath. Kay slammed her door shut. She took off the dress and dropped it on the floor. She grabbed a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Her eyes went to the clock. "7:15," she said to herself as she struggled to remove a knot from her laces. Abandoning the knot, she ran out of the room and down the stairs. "Steven! Do you know where my pocketbook is?" she yelled up the stairs. "I'm in the kitchen," he hollered back. Kay ran to the kitchen. "Do you know where it is?" she_ asked. "Where what is?" he asked between bites of toast. "My pocketbook!" she said as she clenched her fists. "No," he answered. "Thanks," Kay said with dripping sarcasm. She wildly searched the dining room and then the living room for her bag before she remembered that it was in her room with her books. She ran up the stairs and into her room. Grabbing 42

her books and bag, she turned to go downstairs. She took one step and tumÂ bled to the floor. She peered down at the knotted laces. "Stupid laces," she said to herself. After standing up, she pulled open a drawer and removed a pair of scissors. She bent down and cut off the laces. "See if you trip me again," she said as she smiled at her feet. She picked up her books and bag and headed downstairs. Catching a look at herself in the mirror in the living room, she whispered, "I hate what I'm wearing." She went to the coat closet in the living room. Her coat was being held captive by a maze of hangers. After freeing her coat and struggling into it, she glanced at the clock on the VCR. "7:25," she shrieked. She grabbed her books and pocketbook, ran out of the house, and slammed the door behind her. "And good morning to you, too," Steven said as he opened the door to begin his walk to school. Kay raced up the street. As she ran she felt the first drops of rain on her face. "No," she moaned as she turned the corner. She lowered her face from the rain and forged ahead. When she came to the corner, she raised her head to check for oncoming traffic. What she saw made her stop in her tracks. The 7:30 bus raced past her stop. A look of total defeat came to her face. She turned slowly and walked calmly down her street. The rain began to pour heavily on her. She fumbled for her keys at the front door. Once inside, she sighed and dropped her belongings on the floor: She climbed the stairs slowly. As she entered her room, she saw Ret sleeping on her bed. The cat woke up and watched Kay closely as she walked towards him. She pet him gently. "I'm sorry, Ret," she said. "You're a good boy, baby." The cat purred as she stroked his back. She lt:ft the cat and took off her soaking clothes. "You know breakfast might have been nice, Ret," she said wistfully. "Well, it's too late now." She wrapped her robe around herself. "Make room for me, Ret." She crawled into bed and pulled the covers around herself so tightly that she looked like a mummy. "We'll try again tomorrow," she said to no one. Kay's breathing became deep and even, and again she strolled down a country road. -Ann Nuxoll

I, TRUE TO THE FACT OF YOU I, true to the fact of you. A crazy .race were Israelites their childish ways, and faithless days, using Âˇcarpentry tools to kill the carpenter. The death of a friend is sad - the loss The hammer has fallen. The march of the hammers has driven the spikes through him, with him, in him. Piercing our hearts with a deadly cry. Oh, bansh e, come scream in my ear and secure my vision of the und trworld. The nails ďż˝ at bind. The driven spikes were pulled by man, Kept souvenirs of man's good deed. ls it possible to pick the lock to the gates of heaven? A tree grows in the forest, with roots running deep, molesting the soil. Listen . . . listen for footsteps of a man, searching high and low, for flowers that grow. Their bulbs are blue, their petals white. They're only found.where there is light. Running on the shaded grass, the flowers glow and watch him pass. Listen ... listen to the sounds of a tree's limb being strained, but it is man who feels the pain. The sounds of his sins, the forest now haunts; ended with rope, dry and taut. The tree will die in the hands of the carpenter. -T.S. Joseph

(215) 345-1155

0 DOYLESTOWN

DENTALâ&#x20AC;¢ GROUP

Richard R. Cavanaugh, D.D.S. Don G. Garver, D.D.S. Board Certified Prosthodontists

800 Airport Boulevard Doylestown, PA 18901

Now HiringÂ Men & Women

ROSE BRIER INN 8828 Frankford Avenue Philadelphia, PA 19136

(215) 333-8800

Closed Mondays

FISHER'S

A SEA FOOD EXPE.RIENCE

1858 Street Road Bensalem, PA 19020 244-9777

(ID

THIRD FEDERAL SAVINGS "Your Good Neighbor"

(Q 289-1400

4625 Frankford Avenue • Orthodox at Almond Street Roosevelt Blvd. at Unruh Street • 2330 E. York Street Knights and Woodhaven Roads • Buck Hotel Complex, Featervllla

f0Ullll0US1NG

LENDER

Staff Editori�l · Staff Theresa Gauthier Marie Kozlowski Merle Melaro Ann Nuxoll Christiane Odyniec Donna Pointkouski Ronald Vitale

Contributing Artists Elizabeth Gregory Brian McLaughlin

.;=:=='>=-@;..zc;. !:!!"==�=::--2'..... . -.......__--· Special thanks to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi and Dr. Thomas J. McCormick for their expert proofreading.

Advisor: Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D.

I ®�613-M