Folio 18 by HFU Folio

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

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Dr. & Mr. Pruna The Careers Center Family The Holy Family Business Office The Purchasing Department Mrs. Loretta Mucci The Riley Family Laurie & Ninalee Palaia

c4dui6-o'L, Edu:oli, and ataff wlih to dd.wate

Folio 18 to Sister Mary Aloysius Sabacinska President of Holy Family College 1959 -1971 Elected to the General Council of the Sisters of the Holy Family of Nazareth -1971 Assistant Superior General to the Sisters of Holy Family - 1977

Alicia Cafolla is a Nursing concentrator at Holy Family College. Stephen M. Capriotti is a student at Holy Family College. Tiffiny Cooke is a senior and English concentrator at Holy Family College. Jennifer Drew is a student at Holy Family College Christopher Gidley is a student at Holy Family College Janice Jakubowitcz is a student at Holy Family College; her major is Social Work. Thomas F. Lombardi is a professor at Holy Family College and past contributor to Folio. Brian McLaughlin is a graduate of Holy Family College and is responsible for the cover illustration. Dennis Natoli is a Philadelphia artist who works and resides in New York. His poetry previously appeared in Folio 17. Laurie Palaia is an English concentrator at Holy Family College. Maria Savini is a student at Holy Family College. Colette T. Shields is a graduate of Holy Family College and was an English/Education concentrator. Carol (Latchum) Smith is a graduate of Holy Family College and a former English concentrator. Henry J. Tokarski, Jr., is an English concentrator at Holy Family College. He has contributed to past editions of Folio. Michael P. Toner is a freelance poet and playwright and instructor in the English Department and a past cqntributor to Folio. Ron Vitale is an English/French concentrator and an associate editor of Tri-Lite, the student newspaper. Catherine Walter is an English concentrator at Holy Family College. Carolyn Wismer is a visiting student at Holy Family College and a full-time student at the University of the Arts, Philadelphia, Pa.

Content1,., Short Shelves (A Cajun Fai ry Tale)........................

7·

Midnight Understanding .............................. ..

Tears ................................................ 11 By Way of the Woods ..................................

One Shine Too Many ................................... 15 Emily Dickinson ....................................... 18 Child Abuse........................................... 19 Fighting Fear of Women ................................

Up the New Lodge Road ................................ 21 Confessions of a Cereal Killer ............................ 25 Rain Dance ...... ...... ............................... 27 Daydreaming, Night Driving ............................. 28 Communion Day ...................................... 30 The Last Warrior. ... ................................... 31 The Gospel Transfi gured in a Forsaken Place ................ 32 Confusion ................ ............................ 35 The Pedal Pusher .. ....... .................. ............ 36 Metamorphosizing a Comfort By Way of a View .........•.... 40

9-oflo 18

The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expression. This journal encompasses in words and visual graphics the thoughts of the student 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.

I Short Shelves (A Cajun Fairy Tale)

De library had de short shelves, all de books fall out. Dese was cheap short shelves, so y'all had to stick de books side ways and up side down and backwards. You can't see de spines, thank God. Dey all hunched over from does ol' short shelves. Got de bookworms all confuse, And de spiders, dey webs out in dat crazy short shelf draft. So de spider king, he fed up, so he say he give his crown, and de spider princess, too, to de fella who find some decent shelves, where you don't bang you fool head. Den he come round, and leads all de spiders right on into Jerusalem (County Library) An dey live happy after dat. -J. Drew 7

Midnight Understanding It was dark in the upstairs hallway. A dim light shone in the living room below. Martha stood at the top of the stairs trying to hear if anyone was moving around. All was silent. She suspected her parents had probably forgotten to turn the light out when they went to bed. Suffering a mild case of insomnia, the young girl decided to go downstairs and have a late night snack. As she approached the living room, Martha was surprised to find her grandmother sitting in a chair by the window. Her hands were folded on her lap. The old woman was not startled by Martha's entrance into the room, but looked up and smiled. "A little late, dear. Can't you sleep?" her grandmother asked in a hushed voice. "I was tossing and turning, so I decided to come downstairs and have something to eat," Martha replied. "What would you like? I'll fix it for you." Her grandmother began to rise from her chair. "Don't bother. I can get it myself," answered Martha. She was just about to go into the kitchen when she noticed a strange look on the old woman's face. "You're so self-reliant," her grandmother said. ''I remember when your mother was your age." She settled back into a chair, looking out the window as she spoke. "She was such an independent child, never asked for much help." Martha's grandmother shook her head as she spoke. Martha went over to the sofa next to her grandmother's chair. It seemed as if she wanted the company. "Well, I'll be fourteen in a couple of weeks, Grandma. I'm not a kid anymore, and I'm happy to do things for myself, too." Her grandmother breathed a long deep sigh and gazed out the window at the darkness. A tear trickled from her eye. The street lamplight gleamed through the glass, and the tear sparkled. "Gran, what is it? Are you crying?" Martha leaned over and touched her grandmother's wrinkled hand. She noticed for the first time how different their hands were. Martha's were smooth and ivory toned. Her grandÂ mother's fingers wrinkled and crooked from arthritis were marred with brown spots on the once lovely skin. "Nothing, dear, it's just my own foolishness." She pulled a worn handÂ kerchief from her bathrobe pocket and dabbed the tear from her cheek. "Remember when I was little, Gran, and would come out to the farm and sleep over?" Martha touched the woman's hand again. "Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night, crying." Martha tried to comfort her as she spoke. She wasn't used to seeing her grandmother crying. "You

-C. Wismer 9

would always make meÂˇ feel so much better. I wasn't afraid after you'd sit with me and talk about the wonderful things!" 'The wonderful things?" The old woman leaned her hand under her chin. "The sun, the moon, the rolling fields at daybreak, a flower in the spring and true love," Martha said. She never forgot those words. Although it had been a long time, she cherished those late night conversations. "Yes, yes, I remember. You'd be so frightened. But after we would sit together, you'd be back to sleep in no time. You were just a tiny girl." Her grandmother smiled and touched Martha's hand. "I never forgot the things you told me." Martha leaned over and gave her grandmother a light kiss on the cheek. "Maybe you can't sleep because you're not used to being here in the new house." Her grandmother tried to hold back the tears. "It's all neďż˝ dear, too new and unfamiliar." She stroked the handkerchief across her eyes to wipe away more tears. "Our farm was such a comfortable place with many, many memories," the old woman recalled with fondness. "But we have so much more room here," Martha tried to be reassuring. "When you decided to come and live with us, Mom thought it would be better. Aren't you comfortable? Your room is nice. Isn't it?" Martha searched her grandmother's face and was confused by her unhappiness. "Don't you like being here with us?" "Oh, dear, don't get the wrong idea. I love you all and it's hard for you to understand because you are so young. You were so annoyed the other day when I asked you to lower the phonograph." Martha was surprised her grandmother had noticed that. "It's just that life is different for all of us, and I..." She stopped to take a deep breath and compose herself. "I lived all my life taking care of my home and family. I had my life. It wasn't always easy, but the hard times passed. Now so much has changed." Martha tried to understand the sadness her grandmother was feeling. Her mother spoke often of their life on the farm and the three generations of her family who worked the land. Martha then recollected the comments she had made to her parents. Life for both Grandma and the family would be uncomfortable. Her parents had tried to explain to Martha and her younger brother that her grandmother was ill. It was difficult living alone, isolated from her family. It would be much better for everyone if h_er grandmother sold the farm and came East to live with them. "You know, Gran, I wasn't happy when Mom told me you were coming here. I thought it would be just another adult telling me what to do. Some of my friends have grandparents living with them, and they don't like it. But I'm so glad you're here." Martha was suddenly aware tears were filling her own eyes. 'Thank you, Martha, but you see, it is difficult. You're independent and so am I." The old woman dabbed her eyes again. "You can be independent here, too, you know. We can learn together," Martha said.

'Tm a lucky woman to have such an intelligent and sweet grand daughter. Maybe we can work together and make this new life good for all of us. How about I make that snack now?" Martha's grandmother stood up and walked toward the kitchen. "Gran, how about we do it together?" Martha put her arm around her grandmother. They squeezed each other tightly. "I love you, Martha." "I love you, too, Gran." They both turned around suddenly as they heard someone enter the room. Martha's mother was standing at the doorway looking perplexed. "Is everything all right, Mother? What are you doing up so late? And Martha!" Martha did not like the look on her mother's face. "Everything is fine, Louise. We were just having a little talk, right Martha?" Her grandmother looked at Martha and smiled. 'That's right, Morn. Would you like to join us for a late night refrigerator raid?" Martha hoped her mother would agree. "I don't know what's been going on, but how about I fix you both some cocoa?" Before Louise could say another word, Martha and her grandmother looked at each other and in unison said: "How about we fix it for you?" -Janice Jakubowitcz --c:o---..�...o>--

A T I � ... 0

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Crystal droplets wet with emotions pain, fear, sadness or devotion. Slowly rolling gently without a sound Eagerly falling, bitterly down Tears are the washcloth and soap of the soul Bottled inside emotions will be but tears that fall will set them free. -Alicia Cafolla 11

By Way of the Woods The woods that sprawled behind our grandmother's house was our childhood playground. My younger sister and I were living with grandÂ mother when I was ten. My aunt and her children lived in the house next door to us, and our cousins were our constant companions. Both houses stood in semi-seclusion on the edge of the neighborhood. We felt separated from neighborhood society; we did not play with any particular group of kids, and no one troubled us. We had built our own little world in the woods that was our backyard. We felt safe. The greatest fears we had were imagined-ghosts and villains were created for the many games we played. At night, we ran through the cool and pine-scented woods, our fantasies of goblins pursuing us down the dirt paths. We scared one another with fantastic tales of strange people who inhabited the woods and kidnapped little children to lock them in cages. These frightful creatures of fancy were, after all, simply that-fancy. In the comfort of the woodland smells and sounds, we had little to fear, except poison ivy. We learned nothing of what there was to fear in the world. Perhaps childhood should ideally be filled only with games, but when reality finally managed to penetrate our childhood fancy, it was shattering. After school, my cousins stayed with my sister and I at our grandÂ mother's house until their mother arrived home from work. We usually left the house to spend the afternoon playing in the woods, or splashing around in the brook that contoured the edge of the woods. On one such occasion my sister, my eldest cousin-who was my age-and I were searching for odd rocks in the brook. I could see the basement door at the back of my aunt's empty, locked house-only a few feet from where we were playing. As my sister and my cousin worked diligently on our project, I found my gaze drawn more and more often to that basement door. Something did not seem right. "Did your mom forget to lock the basemen.t door?" I asked my cousin. He was busy trying to catch a salamander that he spotted beneath one of his rocks. He ignored me. "I think it's open." My word drew no attention from my companions, so I decided to take a closer look. I left them in the brook and approached the door. I found it standing slightly ajar. My aunt might have forgotten to lock the door, but a tugging feeling in my stomach suggested another possibility. Intrigued with the idea of something to investigate, I pushed the door open and entered. Once .inside the dark basement, I poked around with the carelessness of a ten-year-old girl whose life had been spent making games of the dark. I discovered nothing out of the ordinary in the basement. By the time I satisfied my curiosity, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and saw my sister and my cousin, who had entered the basement to search for me.

"See, guys, I told ya," I remarked smugly. My cousin insisted his mother would not have neglected to check the basement door before she went to work. He suggested we move our inÂ vestigation upstairs in search of another answer. My sister and I agreed. Playing detective, we cautiously mounted the creaky wooden steps that led to the upper level of the house. After we made a seemingly eternal climb, the steps opened up into the kitchen. As we entered, my cousin's two small parakeets-Batman and Robin-were. twittering in their. cagďż˝ by the 13

refrigerator. Nothing seemed out of place in the kitchen or in the living room, so we turned down the now foreboding hallway that led to the bedrooms. I was the first through the door of my aunt's bedroom, and the sight there halted me in my tracks. I barely felt the presence of my companions at my back. My eyes were glued on the room, which was torn apart. Drawers were pulled froin the dresser, and contents emptied on the floor. Clothes were strewn everywhere, as if some wind had stirred them up, then died down to leave them stranded in random places throughout the room. The scene struck me in a succession of separate images. A moment's time drew my eyes to the bed where my aunt's small wooden box of baubles had been thrown. I stared at the spilled contents and knew that the money she had hidden in the box was gone. The first words I uttered were, "They've been robbed." From behind me my sister screamed, turned, and fled down the hallway. The excitement I had felt earlier was gone. It might have been the sound of my sister's frantic cry rather than the sight of the ransacked bedroom that . caused fear to overwhelm me. Suddenly I felt the need to flee. I shouldered past my cousin to run after my sister, then heard his footbeats pounding after me in panic. The distance we traveled between that room and our grandmother's house became more than a space of yard: it represented the distance I traveled away from my youthful innocence, and the lesson was not to be forgotten. Once the police had been summoned and the excitement had died down at our grandmother's house, we were scolded. Grandmother warned us that we should never enter a house if we believed something was wrong. I unÂ derstood what she meant; I supposed I instinctively knew it in those moments of panic in my aunt's burglarized house. The possible danger of the situation left a cold feeling in my stomach and haunted me later in a nightmare. Grandmother had been home all day and did not have a clue as to what was happening next door. The burglars had entered through the basement door. They could have easily slipped up to that door unseen by way of the woods _:_which ended only a few feet from the door. I felt almost betrayed, as if our woods had shielded the intruders. Our woods had shielded more than the people who had stolen from my aunt; it had shielded us. In those woods we grew up playing games. We entered the house as if were playing a game. When we discovered the ransacked bedroom, we realized it was not a game. It had been a potentially harmful situation, and it was my first lesson in caution. Even our semiÂ secluded homes by our fantasy-filled woods were subject to invasion by the nastier elements of the real world. I was ten-years old, and for the first time, I had been given a true glimpse of what realities lay beyond the woods we had adorned in fancy. -Tiffiny Cooke 14

ONE SHINE TOO MANY For Jack, it was a feeling for the first time of being grown up. Jack, who on occasion was considered a tag-along by his older brother and three cousins, had been given permission to go out with them at night. No longer would there be cries of anger, which accompanied his frustration at having to stay behind, of watching his brother Bob and cousins, Donnie, Thomas, and Carl, heading out at exactly six o'clock every evening to seek out the night spots of Wildwood, New Jersey, places that were full of men and women enjoying the sounds of black bands as they danced, ate dinner, or maybe simply talked and drank with one another. Jack was about to enter the adult world he had heard of only through the seemingly reliable stories he had overheard discussed by the others. For Jack, this night, August 5, 1959, would be special. On this night, Jack received his own shoeshine box. It had not been purchased in an ordinary store but was given to him, specially made by his grandfather. What a beauty it was, tool It had a full-sized footrest, was stained dark and shellacked revealing the natural grain of the wood. An adjustable strap allowed Jack to hang the box from his still narrow shoulder, which would enable him to carry the box without having it bang against his knee as he walked. Jack was thrilled. Yeah, look out! The new kid is gonna clean up, he thought. Doubtless he would be rich before the summer was over when they all had to return to school. Jack's brother and cousins were all around thirteen years old. They did nearly everything together. They played in their own band, were old enough to play baseball in the summer league. They were even allowed to go crabbing in the bay. However, Jack was four years younger. He was not musically inclined, nor was he old enough to be part of a baseball team. Since Jack could not swim, he was forbidden to go near a boat without adult supervision. Until now, it was obvious to Jack that being younger had its disadvantages. However, being young tonight should be an advantage, he thought. How could anyone refuse him? Man, wďż˝th me along, the five of us will be an unbeatable team, he pondered. Another one of us to grab a hot corner and hold it for the family. Jack was convinced the big guys would be happy that he was going along. Sure, his grandmother had warned them to see that nothing happened to him. "No big deal," he told them. He could take care of himself, nothing for any of them to worry about. So off they went towards the center of town in columns of two's. Jack was doing his best to keep up with them and did for awhile, that is, until they were about three blocks from home, and they all began to run. Now, Jack knew where he stood, and later he would find out where he could not stand. As they neared their destination, Thomas pointed at Jack and just said, "The GlasÂˇs Bar is mine." Bobby had the corner of Atlantic and Wildwood Avenues, and so it went, all threatening punishment if Jack and 15

his shoebox showed up anywhere near their territory. The threats continued in spite of the fact that they knew someone had to keep him in sight or risk getting killed if they had to go home without him. It was Donnie who agreed, after more intimidation, that Jack could work the club located on the corner opposite him: The Bolero Club. Jack had heard it mentioned many times. Now it was his. Alright, he thoughtÂ now to business. Full of excitement, he took up his position between the main and side entrances. Immediately he began shouting, "Shine, Mister?" to any man who dared walk within a hundred feet of him. Even men who were wearing sneakers or sandals were not spared his incessant hawking. "Shine, Mister?" he asked. "Okay," came the response, seemingly from nowhere. Jack was somehow surprised. The man was dressed casually, and Jack didn't expect him to be worried about the condition of his shoes. But, he it was his first customer - marveled. "How much does it cost?" the man asked. Jack thought-how much? Oh, man, how much? He could not remember what the other guys had charged, so Jack thought he had better begin with a low price. "Oh, aah, it'll be ten cents." "Okay," the guy said as he casually leaned back against the wall. Almost at the same moment, Jack was experiencing a feeling he had felt only once before in his life: that Monday morning when his teacher was collecting a weekend assignment he had forgotten to do. It was panic! He realized he had never opened the new shoeshine box, and he imagined the worst. There would be nothing inside. Quickly, with a pale face, he looked over towards Donnie's corner. Donnie was nowhere in sight. Jack was on his own. Slowly he unclasped the top of the box and lifted it. To his relief he saw two brushes, two dabbers, two buffing rags, and two cans of Kiwi shoe polish-one can black and the other brown. Jack was back in business. "Put your foot right up here, Mister," Jack said with renewed conÂ fidence. The man unexpectedly replied, "Give me a spit shine. I really want to look good tonight." What did he say? Is he for real? Jack thought. I don't know how to spit shine or, for that matter, what a spit shine is. He was beginning to feel nauseous. He had to tell the man he could not spit shine his shoes, fully expecting to lose his customer. "Alright, kid, just do your best," the man stated, matter-of-factly. When Jack had finished, he waited nervously while the man quickly examined his shoes. Satisfied, he reached into his pocket and handed two coins to Jack-fifty cents! The guy gave him half a buck and said, "Keep the change." Jack knew right then and there that the day of the dime shine was past. The next customers would have to pay at least a quarter.

Shouts of "Shine, Mister? Shine, Mister?" were heard almost lyrically as they blended with the music from inside the club when the doors were opened and slowly closed. It was a busy night. "Shine, Mister?" Jack said to a big man who was.stepping out of one of the doors. Hesitantly, he said, "Sure, why not?" "Put your foot," suddenly Jack realized the man's shoes were tan. Quickly, Jack thought, well, tan is almost brown, and I'm not about to lose a customer. I will just use a little brown polish and buff the shoes lightly. "...right up there, sir." Jack went about polishing the man's shoes, and when he had finished, he stared down in disbelief. He thought, uh, oh, man. He felt beads of sweat rolling down his face. He felt sick again. All the seams and stitches of the shoes were noticeably darker. They now had the appearance of a coloring book page whose lines had been outlined with black crayon, pressed down hard. Maybe if I brush a little harder, he thought frantically. Oh, man, he's gonna kill me. Maybe he won't look down. Maybe he'll keep reading the newspaper. Maybe he'll just hand me the money and say, 'Thanks," and walk off. Maybe I should tell him there is no charge and then I... His thoughts were shaken from his head with a"What the heck did you do to my shoes?" Stammering, Jack started to explain: ''I'm sorry, Mister. I thought they were brown. I thought it was the same color. I thought-" What Jack really thought was that he was going to jail and that the other guys would laugh their heads off because now they could tell their grandparents, "We told you he was too young to go shining." Worst of all, Jack knew he had done it to himself. He thought of having to spend the rest of the summer walking under the boardwalk looking for change that the people had dropped through the cracks, while they paid for the amusement tickets and played their games in order to pay for this guy's two hundred dollar shoes. SudÂ denly, the man reached into his pocketWas it a gun? Could it be a knife? A quarter? Jack thought. He pulled out a quarter, handed it to Jack, folded up his newspaper and walked away. He had spared Jack's life. Oh, boy, he thought..I did it. I got a shine, a customer, without even having the right color polish. No one else could ever have pulled that one off. Oh, man! There's no stopping me now. I am just a natural-no doubt about it. I'm going to be the top shoe-shiner in town-a legend. The sun had set but Jack still had an hour or so until the 9:30 deadline. That was when the five were to meet up for the walk home. Jack knew for sure that he had made the most money shining, even though, he continued shouting, "Shine, Mister? Shine, Mister?" Amazingly, as the night progressed, he was still raking in business. Let's see, he thought. I would only need to spend a little of what I make to buy more polish. Both cans that Jack had were noďż˝ showing signs of use. Light was reflecting from the center of each can. "Shine, Mister? Shine, Mister?" It seemed no one could refuse. The sounds of struck deals filled the air. 17

"Shine, Mister?" Jack called to a man with his date. "Sure. Why not," he replied. "Shine, Mister?" to a man walking alone. "How much?" "A quarter?" "Do you do a good job?" he inquired. "You bet I do," said Jack. "Okay, then, go ahead." The business kept coming and seemed endless. It was more than beginner's luck. The shoes, the styles, the colors, the voices, the money- all became a blur to Jack. It was incredible. Determined to become rich, Jack kept hustling. "Shine, Mister? Shine..." "How many pair of my shoes do you want to ruin in one night?" came the unfamiliar reply in a voice he had heard before. "Oh, man!" Jack said out loud as he recognized the voice of the man who used to have tan shoes. For Jack, it was time to go, nine-thirty or not. -Stephen M. Capriotti

Emily Dickinson Up in a little room, Looking down, People seem to be passing time Like me. The world is colorful but slow, And things are changing as I go. How much longer must I sleep, Wake to race, Wake to the feeling of empty space? 0 pillow! Look at me ... Remove the pain. My life's to blame.

- Laurie Palaia

A plastic doll with golden hair Lies by the sidewalk, cold and bare. No one to love her, no one to care, She waits for someone to see her there. A lonely child looks for her babe Tom by a mother in furious rage. Tears on the sidewalk, Cries in the dark Two missing souls taken apart. -Janice Jakubowitcz

Fighting Fear of Women With a strong left I jab out retorts to my accusing boss Hoping she will see Because, with a stronger right I will turn and punch-out a hello Hoping it will knock her out But if she is not looking, with my feet, I will dance away Hoping she did not hear Then I will creep closer, bobbing and ducking the stares and jeers of those who heard--all the while gathering strength Hoping she does not notice And when near, with a final effort I will windmill my wish to take her out Hoping to lift her off her feet -Henry J. Tokarski, Jr.

UPTHENEWLODGEROAD

The sun was breaking through the clouds as the plane slowly descended over Ireland. Excitement and curiosity rose in me as the aircraft circled the Dublin Airport. Seven hours earlier I had boarded the Aer Lingus wide body at Kennedy Airport in New York. Having never traveled alone before, I was apprehensive about flying yet still anxious to arrive at my destination. Looking out of the plane window, the Irish song "Forty Shades of Green" took on a new meaning. The lush fields, dotted with peacefully grazing black and white cows, grew larger and larger as we approached the runway. It seemed as though each broad acre, separated by stone walls, was a difÂ ferent hue of green. The magnificence of the countryside made it easy to understand the reason for the name "The Emerald Isle." For years I dreamed of returning to my birthplace. Correspondence with friends and maternal relations living in Ireland made the country seem closer than three thousand miles away. Comic books sent by my aunt with names like "The Beano" and "The Dandy" amused me for hours as a child. In later years The Belfast News held my interest with chilling stories of mass searches and street riots. Pictures of Irish school children dressed in dark Catholic uniforms darting past armed soldiers made a lasting impression. I was interested in both sides of Ireland. I couldn't wait to plant my feet on Irish soil. Finally, after a smooth landing, I gathered my belongings, left the craft and headed towards the door leading into the Dublin Airport. My eyes scanned the crowd standing behind the iron railing. Will I recognize him? I wondered to myself. Finally I spotted Joseph, my mother's older brother. Calling his name, I approached a tall, thin man with a long bony face and aquiline nose. "Joseph," I called excitedly. He turned and looked at me in disbelief. Striding towards me warmly, saying, "Twenty-five years cerÂ tainly makes a difference!" Taking my luggage, he talked non-stop as he guided me to his tan Volvo parked outside. He explained that Belfast was two hours away from Dublin and that he would start my tour of Ireland by pointing things out along the way. During the ride to Belfast, my eyes drank in every detail. Gaily painted homes, quaint pubs, and little shops graced the narrow streets of small towns with unusual names. The cathedral spires gleamed in the bright sunshine as we passed through Drogheda. Mountain-tops peaked above the trees as we travelled the hilly terrain towards Belfast. Several times we had to stop and share the road with a herd of lumbering cows and mischievious donkeys that had the audacity to look right into our car window! At last we approached the border of the Free State and entered Ulster. Despite the seeming peace and tranquility of the countryside, it was unnerving to see police barracks looming ahead of us. Although forewarned about the checkpoints, I was unprepared for the sight before us. Barbed wire surrounded the barracks. Signs were posted

everywhere commanding us to slow down. "No picture taking!" one sign threatened. I wondered why anyone would want to include such an ugly sight in their vacation pictures. Slowly, a khaki-clad soldier approached the car and asked to see our identification. Feeling a pang of terror, my hands shook as I handed him my American passport. We were then politely asked to step out of the car, and another British soldier inspected our belongings. After what seemed like hours, we were told in a deep cockney accent, "Go'ed." The reality of the "troubles" in Northern Ireland struck me full force. I was amazed at my uncle's calmness and said so. "Uncle Joseph, doesn't it bother you to be stopped and searched like a criminal?" I asked indignantly. Pausing for a moment, he looked out at the rich countryside rolling past us. With a sigh, he turned and softly answered in a lilting brogue, "0-Aye, but you just become accustomed to it, love, and live your life whatever way you can." "When do you think it will end?" He looked at me from under heavy white brows. There was an air of dismissiveness about the way he explained, "Not any time soon, dear. The Brits have been trying to knock the love of Ireland out of us for a long time. It started centuries ago with King Billy crossing the Boyne and Cromwell planting his own on Irish soil. Thatcher only perpetuates all this nonsense. Now be a good girl and just enjoy the view." "Okay," I agreed reluctantly. "Just one. more question. What about Thatcher's re-election this year?" "Good God, girl! You don't give up," he replied with a wry smile. "To tell the truth, I'm sick to death of seeing that bitter pill's face on the front page. Looks like a layin' hen so she does, one that had a cold hand stuck under it! No good a tall, she is. No good atall." Joseph deftly maneuvered the car onto the main road leading into Belfast. He pointed out little whitewashed cottages standing alongside modern stone homes. "See, Ireland is more than thatched cottages and peat bogs. We move along with the times as much as the States. A little more slowly perhaps, but we move all the same." I was aware that he was trying to get my mind off political topics. 'There's the Belfast Zoo. Beautiful view of the city from the top of it," he re:r:narked as we sped past. "And there, over there behind Alexander Park is where Mary, the kids and I live." We turned down the Antrim road only to be greeted by two British jeeps manned with armed soldiers. "Pay no attention to them," he admonished, noticing my fascination. Hard not to, I thought. Approaching my grandÂ mother's house, I felt as if I were visiting a city under seige. The center of Belfast was even worse. Nearly every main road had a barricade that people had to walk through and stop when they reached an armed guard of their own sex. The guard frisked each person and examined packages. In a department store a security person ran a metal detector along the length of a customer's body. One of my cousins explained the futility of

this endeavor since the IRA constructed incentiary devices so small as to be undetectable. Great! I thought. Nothing like giving me something else to worry about! After several experiences at security checkpoints, I had actually become accustomed to the soldiers. My nonchalance was shaken, however, by a trip to my cousin Anne-Marie's house. She, her husband, Brendan, and three small children lived in a section of Belfast called Polglass, a small Catholic enclave in the heart of an anti British area. Sinn Fein murals and slogans such as "Up the IRA!" and "Brits Out!" adorned the walls along the New Lodge Road. Many of the hunger strikers, notably Bobby Sands, came from this area. There was not a cloud in the brilliant blue sky when Brendan picked me up to have afternoon tea. He delighted in driving me through the Shankill and Falls Road--both hotbeds of staunch nationalism. I was scared but at the same time curious about the "troubles." Brendan, a tall, good looking man, with a long, pale face and clever blue eyes, asked me if I wanted to go into the Sinn Fein shop on the New Lodge Road to buy souvenirs made by the political prisoners held in Long Kesh prison. 'They make good Christmas gifts," he said with a smirk. Although he seemed a reckless devil, he had a way of saying things with an air of intense gravity, and I wasn't sure if he was kidding or not. "No thanks," I said. "Let's just keep going." The remainder of the ride was uneventful, and we spent a lovely aft ernoon at my cousin's house. The peacefulness of their housing develop ment belied the tension of the area. Meticulously tended flower gardens were in bloom. Children played in the streets as mothers protectively watched them. Yet British soldiers patrolled the area constantly.

It happened on Âˇour return to Belfast. Winding our way down the New Lodge Road, I was searching for something in my handbag when I felt the car suddenly stop. Looking up, it was shocking to see a military jeep looming ahead. Blocking our path, four soldiers in full military gear got out of their jeep and approached us with rifles poised. The tall baby-faced driver walked over to us in a stocky portentous way, advertising that he was a man who would take no nonsense. "What are you doing in this area?" he demanded in a superior manner. Poking his head out of the car window, Brendan nonchalantly told the MP in a broad Belfast accent. 'Taykin' me American cousin on a wee tour of Belfast." "Where is she from?" the driver asked, glaring at me. "Do yousens not speak English in that black hole of a country? She's from America, the U.S. of A. Does that suit ya now7" Sensing my panic as I looked pleadingly at him to keep quiet, Brendan mumbled, "Don't worry. They're nathin but a bunch of bloody monkeys!" Clutching the sides of my seat, knuckles white with fear, I thought, thank God I became a citizen this year. I didn't fancy being taken into police headquarters for questioning. "Both of you, get out of the car for a check," the one with the sullen ruddy face demanded in a clipped English accent. The perspiration gathered on my forehead, and I sniffed back tears as the other soldiers watched us while baby-face and Reds searched our vehicle. Eventually satisfied that we were not smuggling contraband or weapons from the South, the MPs waved us on. Turning onto the Ml highway, Brendan began to laugh, and his face became that of an ingenuous boy. "See, I told you they were a bunch of bloody idiots!" he said gleefully. "They didn't as much as ahsk for me driver's and registration." After arriving back at my grandmother's, Brendan let me in on a big joke. Not only had he no driver's license, but the MPs had failed to find cartons of cigarettes and bottles of liquor he had smuggled in a secret compartment under the seat I had been sitting on! No wonder he had laughed so hard! An hour after arriving home, myÂˇcousin Patricia called. "There's a great club on the New Lodge Road," she said excitedly. "Why don't you come and have a wee drink with me and my mates? It'll be brilliant!" she said convincingly. "Patricia, I've been up the New Lodge with Brendan today." "Say no more. Should have warned you about that bugger. He's a divvil, so he is. Loves to needle the Brits. Are you sure you won't come?'' No thanks," I softly said, looking down at my still shaking hands. "Had enough excitement on the New Lodge for one day!" -Colette T. Shields 24

-C. Wismer In the past twenty-five years, I think I've eaten every type of breakfast cereal known to man. I have to say that I've enjoyed most of them, the exceptions being several "healthy" brands which tasted something similar to the colored stones yoďż˝ find at the bottom of a fish tank. Along the way I've learned to distinguish between and categorize the wide assortment of cereals that usually manage to fill an entire supermarket aisle. Let's take a stroll down the cereal aisle of life and have a look at these different groups.

First and foremost are the "children's" cereals. This category includes Trix, Lucky Charms, Apple Jacks, Fruit Loops, Frosted Flakes, and what seems like a million others. These cereals are produced for no other reason than to light your ten-year old up like a nuclear reactor. Give little Johnny a sizeable dose of Fruit Loops and watch him defy several laws of physics by breakdancing upside-down on your dining room ceiling. Try it on your own. The next time you wander downstairs early in the morning, still halfÂ asleep, pour yourself a bowl of Lucky Charms, and when you're finished eating, you'll swear that NASA uses the stuff to get its space shuttles off the ground. This type of cereal has also been known to furnish various dentists with large vacation homes in the Carribean. Further down the aisle, we come across the "adult / healthy" cereals: Corn Flakes, All Bran, Total, and Special K belong to this fraternity. Grape Nuts also belongs here. How bad are Grape Nuts? I'm friendly with a large family of squirrels that wouldn't eat Grape Nuts if you promised them a lifetime of playing on telephone wires. But this group of cereals does have redeeming qualities. They're nourishing, fortified with vitamins and minerals, and they're high in fiber. I'm not quite sure what "high in fiber" means, but I like the commercials for cereals that are "high in fiber." They're the ones that show some money-crazed yuppie in a sweatsuit slamming a racquetball around as though it were the last thing he would do before being sent to prison for insider trading. If it's good enough for the young urban professional, it's good enough for me. Some cereals fall into smaller sub-divisions. Raisin Bran is a wonderful cereal until you pour milk on it; then it turns into brown Play-Dough. Frosted Mini-Wheats disguise themselves as an "adult I healthy" cereal. On one side they look like a big piece of Shredded Wheat, but flip them over and you'll encounter a white frosting that will send your child to a place where they don't allow sharp objects, and you can only visit on weekends. Wheaties are supposed to be the "All-American" cereal, until you taste them. Then they're All-American boring. The sames goes for Cheerios. I like the cereals that turn your milk different colors, such as Cocoa Puffs, Count Chocula, Fruity Pebbles, and FrankenBerry. It's a pleasant surprise when you finish your cereal, and there's more to it than you originally thought. I could go on and on. The next time you're in the supermarket, and you find yourself perplexed about which cereal to buy, think about what your mother would say; then look for the Cream of Wheat. -Christopher Gidley

A sweet chill of excitement explodes within me as I watch the dark sky ahead pulsate with flashes of light and shake with low thunder A cool draft of wind turns the leaves around and they shimmer in rhapsodic anticipation of rain The leaves seem to reflect my inner feeling So in the empty street I begin to dance A cloud of multicolored flying leaves envelop me, and for a second it is dark, then there is a flash of cloud-splitting electricity and a boom The heat of my anticipation is then sweetly cooled by the overflow of gratitude falling from the tree I find myself under While under the tree a fog rises up From the tree and my arm it emanates; The wind blends it into a cloud which is lit by the moon now showing Some of the water within us, and imbued with the essences of each of us is pouring from us into a rising cloud. When we feel the need again we will dance and in the clouds overhead the droplets of our souls shall also shimmer and shake with the electricity of life. -Henry J. Tokarski, Jr. 27

Daydreaming, Night Driving Alone, at night, I drive down the road. Angrily, I press the gas down-hard. My emotions shift as often as I change lanes. First, I am amazed that he has not called to apologize yet. In the three years we have been seeing each other, he has always called me first. Soon disbelief gives way to worry. What if he is hurt? What if he got in an accident? I wonder, as I swerve around the gigantic sinkhole in the road. "Well, it'll be no accident when I run him over," I whisper under my breath. I let out a low chuckle, and the anger dissolves into a mist of remembrances. Flashing back to... Ahh .. .last weekend! He came to see me! I start with a shy, "Hi, how was your week?" And he ends my sentence with a kiss. To keep me from babbling, he often has to keep my mouth busy. Talking is for af terwards. Later, we snuggle deep in the covers like bees in the petals of a flower. In this warm cocoon, we intertwine our limbs and our minds. We reveal secrets, · share stories, tell jokes. Hours pass, as we enjoy the sweet after-nectar of our love. Sometimes, we are as silent as fish, swimming in a sea of feeling. Then, the bed cries, "Creeeak." My senses are heightened, and I feel not only on top of the world, but miles above it, floating in space. Eyes glazed over with ecstasy, I watch him intently as he begins to dress. It seems to me he is Michelangelo's "David" come to life. Teasingly, he leans over and strokes my cheek and asks me if I am happy. As if he could miss the huge ridiculous grin on my face. Tender is the world. I caress him back with a familiarity that comes from time and monogamy. For he is the only one... Jolting forward, I stop for the red light ahead, but the red in the light becomes the red of my lips descending along his face. Then the world explodes into green firecrackers. A rude reality check occurs. It is a harsh horn from the car behind me. Oh, shut up, buddy! Weren't you ever young and dreamy? I wonder to myself. Why according to the newspaper, the average person daydreams about sex every day. I am just getting my requirement in tonight. A mere three minutes later, another redlight appears, and I stare at it to make it change faster. An eternity later, I am cruising the back roads and whizzing around the endless double yellow lines at an amazing speed. Then my mind throws me for a loop. What if he is tired of me? Nah, couldn't be that, I laugh, expertly navigating around the black cat in the road. It's accusing, demonic yellow eyes blink in the blackness. "Sure, he cares. That's why he called ya!" it seems to purr mockingly, before dashing off, as quickly as its four furry legs can go. Further on down the now deserted road, I glanced up at the white orb that is, the moon. Dark clouds close in, but the moon stays pure. I feel primal. I reach for my favorite cassette. I pop it in. The wild, high-powered electric guitar

work screams into the darkness. I wrench the volume knob to the right and drive-faster. A deep holler rises from my nether regions and escapes from my throat. The wind whistles through my teeth and slaps me awake. My hair streams behind me. I am mobile. I am Queen of the night and of the road. I am in command of my steed. Why worry about him, a mere mortal? A guy, not a god. I remember to lift my foot from the gas pedal and drive slowly around the ancient cemetery up ahead because a red hexagon and a yellow triangle float by me, ghost-like. My headlights cast a lurid light upon the gravestones, eerily illuminating them. The dead, too, must have loved once. However, I am concerned only with the pain of living. My mind goes in circles, back to thoughts of him. I am close to where he lives. I become upset and do not even realize that the forest behind me is lit up by weird red and blue flashes. I do not even have to force the tears when the police car pulls me over. Too surprised to think up one puny excuse, every idea sinks to the pit of my stomach. I can only watch with horror as the cop's dark profile blocks out the wild moon. I just know he is going to write that $100.00 ticket to add points to my record and make my insurance sky-rocket. "Miss, step out of your vehicle!" says the cop in this angry, authoritative voice. "Do you know you were going 85mph in a 35mph zone! What were you thinking of?" he bellows. "Give me your license, if you still have one!" And he goes for his ticket pad. First, I begin to grovel, yet my submissive mood evaporates. Rage and humiliation replace shock as he hands me back my driver's license, plus a ticket. I bite my lip and swallow back down my bitter comments. Nevertheless, a sarcastic "Thanks" slips out. "See you in traffic court," says the cop over his shoulder. I sit for a moment with head slumped over the steering wheel. I start my car and drive slowly, defeated. The Queen will lose her license. Approaching another red light, I look to the left lane out of boredom. I see the car next to me is a black Datsun 280ZX with the 'T' t-ops off. Âˇ"Hot Car," I say. Inside, I spy a couple "going at it." "Lovers," I moan. "Just what I wanted to see." Still I watch, entranced. The young woman driving has her arms around the passenger. The guy, having felt the glare of envy from my eyes, turns and looks my way. My eye zooms in, not on the girl any longer, but on the guy. The only oneÂ my one and only. Shock and horror register on my love's face. We peer at each other. Our mouths drop open, and we gape at each other, like fish in a bowl. The blonde, puzzled, harps, "What's wrong?" At that moment, the light goes green. Realizing it is time to move on, I press the gas down hard. Angry and alone, I drive down the !)ight. Fast. -Catherine Walter 29

Communion Day (For Bridget Walker and Jaclyn Golden) Share a First Communion smile On this gentle Jesus morn; Hopscotch-saunter down the aisle, Celebrating our newborn Christ-child nestled in your heart; For this Springing of the year Blossoms love through every part: Creation's witness, Hope's fare. So pray we, remembering Past Communions' fervent dream; Whitened souls braved Winter's sting, Welcomed God by snow-blessed beams, Rose-hued faces, Faith to spare: Keep us, too, who laud you here. -Michael P. Toner

The Last Warrior (for Chuck Robinson) Gibbon, Tacitus, Thucydides were boon campanions, Catton's silenced Appomattox filled rainy winter nights. More Vercingetorix than Caesar, the mad Celt in him contended with brute reason; lone woodsman with family man. His fractured German titillated Berlin cabbies; at Checkpoint Charlie border guards detained him, cigarettes his contraband. "Uberhauptfuhrer" of the forest, wet powder in his musket, treetop archer, airborne infantry, "Grandpa Teddy Bear." Most at home in shaded hollow, new-cut pine for bedding; his quilt a constellation, thrush's song for serenade. Biker-King, "tres bon vivant," banqueting on venison-and-ale; proud hunter, father, adventurer, fair-to-middling spouse;Âˇ Last of a noble breed: A warrior. His bonfire greets the Leesport dusk beyond fading Old Glory-Â midsummer ritual prevails. Wild geese dream among the rushes; black cygnet's birth-cry company, a solitary angler in canoe drifts westward for Avalon. -Michael P. Toner 31

The Gospel Transfigured in a Forsaken Place What did you go out to the desert to see ? A reed shaken by the wind 7 ---Matthew 11:17

What did I go out to see, high in Mountains, rock-strewn, between two Peaks, vineyards, a red village, laced green, Out from sunbaked Mostar, distant From my native land and its ideals? I went out, a traveler, wired up With technology's new faith, infallible, Ears-plugged, mind set, eyes blank, On whose screen I was taught To read psychology's new testament, With all its ponderous cures, like Lourdes. I went out from point to obscure line: Belgrade, Sarajevo, narrow street, Minefield: footprints caught in wet cement. Yugoslavia. Tito's runt. Could it be7 Out of the least of thee, 0 Medjugorje! In all Croatia! In all the world! The sky convulsed, heaved, billowed quietly. Fat clouds, tumbled; a yellow sun, winked. I looked up and dropped my eyes. Could it be7 I went out, like millions, In quest of alchemy that turned silver, Plastic, wood - to gold, black beads! Lead coins! Hallucinatory saintly suns, Fatimized angelic spins -- Could it be7

I went out to climb a hill, seeking, And when I reached the crest I stood As if in Roman Palestine: huge crosses Dragged from Germany, Slovakia, and Spain, The fires beneath, the prayers of Multitudes ascended in whispering smoke And tears welled up in sun-filled eyes. Some travelers did not care. Ho-hum. I gazed up, then looked away. Could it be? I went out one day and saw a woman's face, A sunrise painted on the eye, A virgin's peasant smile, magnified, A young man's sunset countenance, Ordinary, one, it seemed, who had Never seen beyond his place or time. But what did I expect to see? A youth transfigured, clothed in fire? The holy tomes returned again, the doubts, The handsome face within the church, The lovely face beneath the vines, Translation of a moment parting time. Between two vast and unexplored eternities. And with the world's insistence to move on, Glancing back I rushed to catch the bus, The sky tight at my back. The tires burned both hot and bald, Rolling toward Dubrovnik's light.

What was it that, on leaving, I chanced To see above within the gossamer: The yielding clouds -- the wafered sun, At 2, small, dime-like, pale, white, Luminous disc, patina into which I looked (A store-front, image chalice Host) Deliberately unthinking? And did not know until I'd left That what I'd done I could not do Or thought I could not do, Or did not do. But afterwards, yes, afterwards, In depths of contemplation I was certain that I knew. What was it that I saw above the bus, The violent shifting of the clouds, The time of day, the heat, a sign? And as we moved down from the dusty hills The sky collapsed; the sun dipped low And as the Adriatic night called forth The hamlet lights I gazed into the August moon and wondered ... My thoughts, radiant as the face Of Moses once he'd seen God's light! Blind, like Paul, Damascus-bound, Once Christ nad cast him to the ground ... -Thomas F. Lombardi

Darkness' frigid touch reaches out to me. Ridicules me.Troubling thoughts Cascading down a waterfall Beckon to me ... Thunder rattles windows. Timeless face, searching, groping ... Steady fall of the summer rain-Darkness surrounds me.A person speaks ... The pain of the past is a wall of steel. I sing and dance, Without fear, without anxiety. And I am alone ... Her lips touch mine As a dew-filled rosebud kisses the morning. Thoughts settle and solidify. A voice calls out to me-I see the flower blossoming in the garden And I reach out to find Emptiness -R.M.Vitale

The Pedal Pusher The morning I almost met the mayor was, well, almost memorable. I caught a glimpse of his back, and I think I saw the top of his head. I'm almost certain he was wearing a raincoat, but, then again, it might have been a topcoat. His bodyguards loomed over him--he was very short--and the only portion of him I clearly saw was the top of his head. The very top of his head. I had hoped to welcome him. Or to say goodbye to him. I was, after all, receptionist for the day. But Lieutenant Jackson, chief of security, herded him onto the elevators so quickly that I was left with an open mouth. Lieutenant Jackson, him I saw too clearly--and too much of--that morning. It was Christmas week, and more than half the law firm staff were on vacation. The firm was short-handed. Everyone worked on two, sometimes three, projects simultaneously. File clerks became secretaries. Paralegals typed, one finger at a time. Attorneys actually learned how to plug in the Mr. Coffee machine. I, however, drew the most dreaded assignment of all: I became the receptionist for the day. Placing me at the reception desk was a serious judgement call from our office manager, June. I was not receptionist material. I was neither docile nor patient. I detested talking on telephones. And I didn't believe in using the "hold" button. If too many lines rang at once, I'd disconnect each caller, one at a time, into AT&T oblivion. I was not a nice person at the recep tionist desk. I think I was simply bored. As receptionist, I was entitled to two fifteen minute breaks: one early in the morning, with the other late in the af ternoon. If nothing more, by 11:_00 a.m., I had learned to develop ex . traordinary bladder control. As receptionist, I was not permitted to read while sitting at the desk. To amuse myself, I invented little games. Disconnecting callers was a favorite. I also learned how to intercept five, and sometimes six, callers, cueing them all together, resulting in one huge, entangled conference call. I also became expert at locking the lawyers out of the firm--accidently, of course--on purpose. Underneath the receptionist desk �as a pedal that controlled the lock to the doors. The legal logic behind this pedal was that if an escaped, crazed client screamed past the downstairs guard, I, with my foot pressed to the pedal, could halt him at the corridor doors. Never mind that these identical doors were of glass so sheer that a sneeze could make them tremble. My foot pedal and I were designated guardians against the chaos of the outside world. We were the protectors of the orderly one of the law, inside. That foot pedal nearly lost me my job. I was tidying the desk, by sweeping all unclaimed messages into the top drawer, when the elevator 36

doors opened. I smiled in their direction, a big, toothy "receptionist" smile. Out strode Lieutenant Jackson, the most massive man I had ever seen. The lieutenant's stomach alone weighed at least three hundred pounds, and it all lay just above his belt. "Missy," he said. With a lisp. "Please stand, hands above your head." "Excuse me?" 'Tm going to have to frisk you." My smile vanished. "Are you carrying any concealed weapons?" he demanded, scratching his stomach. "And iet me check your pocketbook." No grenade or .44 magnum could be more deadly than the inside of my pocketbook. "Trust me," I said. "The only deadly weapons I'm aware of are the two staplers in the top desk drawer." His dark eyes narrowed. He had the tuft of curly hair that stuck up like a lopsided horn. "Lady," he said, his lips trembled, "Just stand up." In answer, I folded my arms. There was a principle here. Just because I was the cog in the great law firm wheel did not mean I had to abandon my dignity and self-respect. Glare at me he might, but search my pocketbook: never. A disembodied voice from his walkie-talkie asked whether or not he had secured the perimeter. "You're not going to frisk me," I said gently. "But you can inspect the desk." He nodded. He said, 'The perimeter is secure. Send the mayor up." I stood and stepped to one side while he cautiously opened each drawer full length. When he picked up the Tylenol and Excedrin bottles, I wonÂ dered if I had given him a headache. I was tempted to ask, but thought better. When he was satisfied that no grenades lurked beside a deadly stapler, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "Let me check under the desk." He was really too large to fit under the desk. His backside stuck out like a ripe watermelon. When the elevator doors opened, he was still feeling the floor for boobytraps. At long last, the mayor was here--at least, I think he was-Â hiding somewhere within his protective cluster of personal bodyguards. They moved, a majestic flotilla of suits, toward the double doors controlled by my foot pedal. "Lieutenant," I said. "Hit the pedal." He mumbled something under the desk. 'The pedal, Lieutenant. The mayor--I think he's in there, somewhere-Â can't get through the double doors unless you hit the pedal." The hands of the boydguards began grabbing the doorknob, attempting to yank it open forceably.

-M. Savini

"Lieutenant," I said, niy voice rising. "Hit the pedal!" The heads of the bodyguards turned to me, one after another. They were not feeling friendly. Oh, yes: I was going to be fired. I dropped to the floor. "Hit the pedal!" I screamed into Lieutenant Jackson's backside. I heard the clunk as his mighty fist slammed down, releasing the spring lock. The door was finally open. The mayor (was he really here?) and his men could--thank Godl--keep their appointment with the law firm partners. My knees wobbled. I sat on the floor and lay my head against the wall. Lieutenant Jackson began to maneuver out from under the desk. Then the telephone, with malevolent timing, began to ring. One line, then two; then all eight lines lit up, at once. Their little red lights blinked at me like slitted monster eyes. Obviously, the Lieutenant, like me, had had quite enough. He reached up over his head, and, with unerring accuracy, in just one touch of his Kielbasa-like finger, he disconnected all eight lines. All became wonÂ derfully, marvelously quiet. His head popped out from under the desk. "I don't agree with all your methods, Lieutenant," I said. "But I have to hand it to you. You handled those phones like a real pro." He almost smiled. And looked, well, almost human. Larger-than-life human, but clearly, almost human. An hour later, the mayor--it had to be he; who else could cause such trouble?--his mission accomplished, still surrounded by his bodyguards, quickstepped out the glass doors to await the elevator. His men were atÂ tached to him like electrons bound to their atom. Lieutenant Jackson stood importantly and redistributed his weight around his belt. "Lieutenant," I whispered. "Quick! Introduce me to the mayor." As the elevator doors opened, I smiled a big receptionist smile and prepared to call, "Have a good day, Mr. Mayor!" But you know, I really wasn't disappointed when the Lieutenant ignored my request. So what if I didn't meet the mayor. I watched as Lieutenant Jackson attached himself, just another electron, to the mayor. Becoming one with the flotilla, he orbited onto the elevator. When the doors closed behind them, I thought: what else could I expect--really--from an almost memorable day? -Carol E. Latchum Smith

Metamorphosizing a Comfort By \;Vay of a View The breadth and smile, of perhaps, utopia looking down at me-all over me. Staring at me with a great big look of absolute lush fascination ... I am fondly recalling a two hour walk with humanity as the guide along roads wrapped around a strange perfection. Strange, because a particular countryside managed to survive. (Lucky for those that know this secret.) I am recalling a metamorphosizing house; a holiday home, nestled quaintly as a still life, within the God-like blink of a beauty undisturbed. -The quiet comfort of the proprietors to that houseÂ They are part of that particular countryside postured in serenity. against the angry scream of the outside world. A house growing within its serenity. A house dreaming on, away from the practical; an impractical voice of civility, faraway from the angry scream. Metamorphosizing a comfort by way of a viewÂ a big child view, innocent, clean; the real of a reality, like the outlying mold to a big dream of a perfect life.

A life whe.re the shade of a tree within the mold actually provides a few degrees cooler in comfort than that beyond the big view. An abstraction? ... Perhaps ... A view to an abstraction where things could be ... That two hour walk, whereas I was without age, whereas a modest mountain called, Jericho, spoke softly to me, and proud to show me its survived history, of once upon an early nation. Colonial spirits; Indian spiritsÂ singing in the fields; ethereal keepers to the inspired land. Voices untouchable stimulating an imagination thrilled in the still life at hand. Ageless, and free, as a view holds the everything together for a momentary lapse within the sight of a particular countryside's metamorphosizing comfort. -Dennis Natoli

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