Folio 19 by HFU Folio

Folio 16

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

Editorial Staff Ron Vitale Laurie Palaia Tara Cooke Susan Mercer Suzanne G. Hoch Regenna Babcock Diane Frantz Christine Fink Eugene Szostak Florence McFadden Kathleen McFadden Theresa Donnelly Jennifer Drew Michael Szymborski Elaine Murphy

Advisor Thomas Francis Lombardi, Ph.D. Professor Humanities Department Special thanks to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi and Dr. Thomas McCormick for their expert proofreading.

Advisor and Editorial Staff wish to dedicate Folio 19 to

Dr. Dora Pruna Professor Humanities Department Holy Family College For her dedicated service to the College since 1969 and her generous and on-going support ofFOLIO

CONTRIBUTORS Cy Bielek is a student at York College, York, Pennsylvania. Suzanne Bradley is a pediatric nurse and a senior at Holy Family College. Robert Burkhauser is a student at Holy Family College. Joseph Burns is an English concentrator at Holy Family College. Jennifer Drew is an English concentrator at Holy Family and is appearing for the second time in these pages. Rita Durrant is a former instructor of Holy Family College and currently resides in Williamsburg, Virginia. Kathleen Ebert is a 1992 graduate of Holy Family College. Diane Frantz was an English concentrator and a 1992 graduate of Holy Family College. Robert Gaffney was an English concentrator and a 1992 graduate of Holy Family College. Christopher Gidley is a part-time student at Holy Family College and appearing for the second time in these pages. Dr. Arthur A. Grugan is a professor of philosophy at Holy Family College and has published and translated several scholarly articles in the field of philosophy. Susanne Hoch is an English concentrator at Holy Family College. Beth-Anne Hoch-Glassman graduated from Moore College of Art with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. She teaches art to school children and adults in a studio environment. Cecelia Johnson is a former student of Holy Family College and a past contributor to Folio. She has recently published a Civil War novel entitled The Watch Fires. Dr. Thomas F. Lombardi is a professor of English and advisor of Folio. He has appeared previously in these pages. Sr. Eileen McGovern, C.S.F.N., is the Humanities Chair at Holy Family College and was a close friend and associate of the late Sr. M. Immaculata, C.S.F.N., the College's former academic dean. David McGrath is a Continuing-Education student at Holy Family College. Laurie Palaia was an English concentrator and a 1992 graduate of Holy Family College. Eugene Szostak is an English concentrator at Holy Family College. Ronald Vitale was an English-French concentrator and a 1992 graduate of Holy Family College. Jennifer Ward was an English concentrator and a 1992 graquate of Holy Family College. Carolyn Wismer was a visiting student at Holy Family College in 1991 and a graduate of the University of the Arts, Philadelphia, Pa. 4

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Sister Immaculata ........................................................................................... 6 Bucky and Anastasia ....................................................................................... 8 Mama, Say "Yes!" ............................................................................ ; ........... 10 The Trinity ................................................................................................... 13 Campanology ............................................................................................... 14 First Date ................................................................................. :.................... 15 Deja Vu ................................. : ...................................................................... 17 Tia

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Love Song .................................................................................................... 21 Daisies .......................................................................................................... 22 Regrets ........................................................ :................................................ 23 and still ......................................................................................................... 26 The Thin Purple Scar .................................................................................... 27 Sam's Barber Shop ........................................................................................ 28 The Hardest Good-Bye ................................................................................. 29 Mojo Medley ................................................................................................ 31 My Favorite Object ....................................................................................... 32 Hear How I Pray .......................................................................................-.... 33 Clam Chowder .............................................................................................. 34 Reflections on Autumn'91 ............................................................................. 36

Sister lmmaculata She came among us quietly her step unhurried her gaze untroubled serene frequently silent her brown eyes eloquent she was mistress of many realms from which she passed in easy commerce and we who witnessed her passing came to know her love of beauty hers the gift for tongues Latin French Italian Spanish all were hers and piano organ harp rejoicing quickened at her touch Debussy her teacher and she ours glimpsed through her words that tapestried the classroom walls Paris Orleans Chartres these came to us left-handed notes white-chalked against blackboard mapped out our travels quaint little step left leg crossing behind right outdistanced ages while loveliness fell from her lips in measured cadences accenting the wonder of times and places once foreign smilingly she waited "N'est ce pas?" and we followed not so far nor so effortlessly while patiently she pointed until we glimpsed with sudden.wonder what she saw luminously stretching to match her vision we traveled centuries and continents climbing Mont-Saint-Michel glimpsing Lisieux and Lourdes we went on pilgrimage Moliere Racine 0

La Fontaine Baudelaire Pascal Claude! came to us at her bidding we hear them speak if sometimes we could not reply the words too slow to match the journeying as on we moved approaching worlds traj�toried from within the page which suddenly engulfed us through the magic of her giftedness touched by her alchemy the dross was gold the hour an argosy not translating but transforming words to worlds she taught us language and after classes lectures and the rest she taught us God her life a prayer · infinity's distances she walked in quiet assurance and in the end the fiery pain she hid from us not wishing us to glimpse without her faith her private Calvary where wasted body hung this side of death now resurrection hers to teach eternity her world she calls us yet to walk with God even as she our teacher· Merci, ma soeur, Adieu. --Sr. Eileen McGovern, C.S.F.N. 7

BUCl(Y and ANASTASIA The grass was covered with the confetti of autumn at the entrance to the park. Golden leaves from stately oaks had fallen, and many still fluttered to the ground. Bill Clark left his Grand AM on the street and approached the blacktop path, running. Stress had jangled his nerves during the day. He wanted to run off his frustrations and let the silence of the park soothe him. He took long strides down a hill, passed through dense woods, ran up a hill and sprinted when the path straightened. When he began puffing hard, he slowed to a steady jog. In a clearing around a bend, he spotted two deer. Their tan fur blended with the fallen leaves; their brown eyes looked like walnuts. One deer was smaller than the other. Both had spindly legs. Bill slowed to a walk and stopped before the deer could see him. Knowing deer were skittish, he inched closer, quietly. What he saw and what he heard made his knees buckle. He looked up and down the path to see if anyone witnessed the incredible thing that was going on in front of his very eyes. Not one person was in sight. The lips of the larger deer were moving, although it did not seem to be chewing. The smaller deer looked at the other with unswerving attention. The big deer said, "There's one of those danged fool joggers in his underwear." "Oh, Buck. Don't get upset. Stand perfectly still. You know this is a People Crossing, " said the doe. "Who's upset? I'm not upset," Buck said out of the side of his mouth, not wanting to disturb the jogger. It was hard to get joggers to stand still. "Look at his big brown eyes," the doe said. "Nice legs, too." "Can't you get interested in more serious things, Anastasia?" asked Buck. "Like what?" "Well, gun control, for one thing. They want to let the crazies come into the park to thin out the herd. Thin out the herd, ha! We were here first." Even though Bill Clark was dumbfounded, he felt privileged to be at the unusual scene. He watched the deer lower their heads to nibble on grass. He, however, could not move. His legs were sticks. He raised his left foot to shake some feeling into it when the deer's mouth moved again. Helowered his foot and listened. "It's not like the old days," Buck said to Anastasia. "My grandfather told me that the Leni Lenape Indians were good neighbors. They spoke to the deer all the time--said we were related to them--them to us. I like that idea, but it's not that way now." "No, it is not. These people-with-shoes-on-feet are not friendly, not at all. They chase our Bucky and little Tapioca out of the vegetable gardens. Mean, that's what the shoe-feet-people are. Mean." Bill saw the larger deer turn his head as if to look at the black trunk of an oak tree on the edge of the clearing. 8

"The Indians will come back," Buck said. "I go to the tall pin-oak over there every morning. That's the one where the Indians' arrowheads are buried. I talk to their spirits and keep them alive that way." "Do they answer? What do they say?" "They say, 'White man run himself out. White man smoke himself out. Bad air. Indians take over someday'." "Hmph. I hope I'm around to see it," Anastasia said as the two deer turned and lept into a grove of maples. Bill Clark hurried to the pin-oak and dug in the ground with a chunk of wood. He dug until his back ached and sweat dripped from his chin. At last, the wood scraped pieces of stone: arrowheads, blade sharp. He clutched them, ran to his car and sped home. When Bill's wife heard the screech of brakes, she ran to the window and then to the door, swinging it open. "Betty, I just had a fantastic experience." Bill was out of breath. Betty listened with some doubt. She had had difficulty relating to Bill's deeper level of consciousness most of the time. But, when he opened his hand and showed her the arrowheads, dirty and damp with sweat, her chin dropped, and her mouth hung open. She stared at them and at Bill, saying nothing. She went to the table that held the phone and tapped a number. "Hello, mother, it's meďż˝ Betty." "Hello, dear, how are you?" "Mother, remember the therapist you told me about?" "Yes, dear, he's supposed to be very good. Have you finally convinced Bill to visit him?" "No, not Bill, mother. Me. I want the therapist for me." -- Cecelia Johnson

Mama, Say "Yes!"

"Just one more kiss,one more,please, Phoebe." Allan begged for a kiss the way a dog begged for a bone. "No,not now.What if your mother walks in on us?" "She won't.She's getting ready for her own date, tonight." Allan looked at his mother's picture on the mantle and grinned a huge smile. "No,believe it,honey," said Allan. " I think it's a good thing and about time. It will get her mind off her arthritis." . "Well ... like, who is she seeing?" "His name is Joseph Goldberg ...a really nice guy.He's a retired banker and lives upstairs in his own apartment." "Well,that's convenient," replied Phoebe. "He's been over here several times ...they talk,play Monopoly, have lunch, but nothing special has happened.They're good friends as far as Ma is concerned, but I ďż˝ow he wants to be more ...he already asked me for my blessing.And I told him to go ahead and ask her out." "Well... where are they going?" Inquisitively,Phoebe had to satisfy her curiosity. "To the Temple,I thinls .. . for a bingo game." "Oh,that's nice.I'm happy for her.Now, forget'ab0ut your mother.Where were we, darling?" "Now you're talkin',finally! Forget it.Here she comes." Quickly they scurried to opposite sides of the loveseat,and Allan's mother, Mitsy,nonchalantly sat down between them. "I'm not going," she yelled adamantly. "Come on,Ma.You have to go.Now,go back in the bedroom and get ready!" Allan got up and stood in the middle of the living room,with his index finger pointed toward his mother's bedroom.Mitsy never moved. "Oy vey,didn't you hear me?/ told you: I'm not going. I told you once.I told you twice.I'm not going.I'm your mother and that's final.Besides,my arthritis is acting up." "Oh,arthritis,schmitis. Ma,he's really a nice man.Don't you let him down. Can't you think of this date like ...like ... well,like you are going out with one of the girls and having a nice time?" "No,it's different this time. I can feel it,and it scares me.No, I can't do it. I tell you, I just can't do it, enough already!" "Hello, Mrs.Greenberg, it's nice to see you. How are you cloing?Hello!" Phoebe said. She was ignored.She picked up the magazine that was next to her and flipped through the pages. "Ma, O.K.,then,if you aren't going,don't you think you should call?" With his finger Allan gestured in the direction of the phone.Suddenly there was a knock at the door. 10

"Oh, my God, it's too late. He's already here." Phoebe jumped out of her seat and threw the magazine on the table. "See, Ma! Now you have nothing else to do but go! You have no choice!" There was another knock at the door.Allan signaled Phoebe to answer it. Joseph Goldberg was at the door standing with a single daisy in his hand. "Mitďż˝y, you did your hair blonde?" "No, no, Mr.Goldberg, Mitsy is over there.I'm Phoebe." "Well,it's a pleasure,Phoebe.Hello, everyone,hi,Mitsy.I'm sorryI'm early, but are you ready?How are you feeling?" Mitsy grabbed Joseph by the ann and led him to the loveseat. "Oh,well ...that's what I wanted to talk to you about,Joseph." "Maaa." "Alright,already, hush yourself, Allan ... you see, Joseph, I'm not feeling too well.My arthritis is giving me a little trouble." Joseph sighed trying not to show his extreme disappointment. "Oh,well .. .umm, umm,is there anything I can do for you while I'm here?" "No,Joseph,go back upstairs and find someone else to go with you tonight. We'll have lunch tomorrow, O.K.?" "O.K.," said Joseph,with his head lowered.As Joseph moved towards the door to depart,he suddenly remembered the flower he held in his hands. "By the way this is for you.There is nothing better to give a person not feeling well than a flower.Lunch is fine tomorrow,Mits.I'll see you tomorrow.Hope you feel better.Good-bye all.Have a good night." Joseph quietly left. "I can't believe you did that,Mother.The poor guy is heartbroken.You might make him have a heart attack any minute now." "Allan,several years I sent you to Hebrew school, and you still talk to me with no respect.Didn't you learn anything there?You can't talk to me,your mother, like that.Never once have you picked up aTorah since.Why don't you take a course in Bible?It would do you good." "I won't say another word about it.I'm forty years oid.I do not,do not have to listen to this abuse,you yenta!I'm trying to make you happy.You need a little happiness in your life.But you want to be miserable.Why?I'm leaving.Come on, Phoebe." "No,tell herfirst," Phoebe pleaded. "Tell me what?You breaking up?" Mitsy asked enthusiastically. "No,Ma,we're getting married." "Oh, King Solomon, tell me it isn't true! Haven't I been a good mother all these years?Oh!where did I go wrong?Oh, I'm dizzy.Call a doctor!" "Ma, don't do this to me. You always do this to me,whenever you're losing an argument." "Quick,get me something ...a drink.I need a drink!" Mitsy wailed. "You can't drink with your heart medication," Allan shouted. "Tell me!Tell me, when did you decide this?" Mitsy frantically pulled at her son's clothes. "Last night," Phoebe answered her question. 11

"Well, you do not have my blessing.I'm sorry.This, this ...she's not good enough for you, my son!" "Oh, that's it!I've had it!Mrs.Greenberg, I'm leaving this place, but you can still count on me marryin' your son!I love him!" "Ohhh, Allan, how could you do this to me?" Mitsy began to sob. "She's young enough to be your daughter. If your father was alive, he'd kill you.I won't hear of this, I tell you!" "Sorry, Mom, but I'm happy.Maybe you can be happy,too.Let's go,Phoebe. Good night, Ma." "Allan wait, Allan, oh, God." Allan and Phoebe walked out.Mitsy was alone.She went over to the mantle and picked up her late husband's picture and kissed it. "Tell me what to do. You always knew what to do. Give me a sign.Send me a little luck," she quietly whispered to the picture.There was a knock at the door. "Al ...Joseph!Who is it?" Mitsy hesitated before opening the door. "I'm sorry,Mitsy,I had to come down again and see how you are," Joseph said politely once Mitsy had opened the door. "Actually,I'm glad you're back.Come in and talk.I think we ought to have one." "It's about time," said Joseph. "My son tells me he's marrying what's her name?I won't allow it; she's too young for him. I wantto know what you would do,if you were in my shoes?I mean, she's half Gentile, for God's sake." "Listen,dear,I think you have to let go and let him make his own mistakes, zf he is making any. You don't know that for sure.They might really love each other." "Oh,Joseph,I can'tthink aboutit any more.I'll go crazy.How about a drink?" "Well, what are you having, dear?" Joseph was surprised she had asked. "Brandy." "From dust we come and go, but in between a little drink comes in handy. Pour," said Joseph with anticipation. "Oh, you crazy old fool, you.Never change." "Oh,you don't have to worry about me changing, but maybe you will," said Joseph. "A toast to the bride and groom." "That tramp!I will never drink to her." "No,dear, not them, us. I know you don't love me, but maybe in time you will, so forget about your arthritis for a change and give me an answer." "I--1--1--1--" Mitsy had a hard time telling Joseph the truth. "Forgive me,you need time to think about it; I understand.It has been fifty years since I've done this. I'm a little rusty," Joseph said nervously. "No,Joseph,I don't need any more time.Yes!Yes!Yes!I will marry you. Joseph Goldberg,I will be your bride!" "Oh, God,you will?Hotdoggie!" Âˇ "I've been thinkin',and since my arthritis has kicked in,I've been doing a lot of it.I've been running away from you,from my son,but, most of all myself.You 12

are a wonderful man. Joseph, and that's what I've come to realize. Although I let everyone think that we could only just be companions. But the truth isl love you, you old fool, and I will marry you." Mitsy looked up at the mantle piece once more; her husband's picture smiled at her and his spirit whispered, "Mazze! Tov," in her ear. "You �ow, you look sixteen sitting there with that sparkle of excitement irt your eyes. Mitsy, baby, I love you! Let's dance." -- Laurie Palaia

The Trinity An American, traveling vertically, At times horizontally, naturally Along the belly of the earth, Saw annadillos in Arkansas, And tornadoes in Oklahoma. An American read his Hamlet In Helsing�r's grey dawn. In Oresund a harbor's light Blinked between the morning rain. An American ate hamburger in Kobenhavn, served from the hands of An Eastboumer, whose bard Wrote the drama he read. America, England, and Denmark In convoluted intercourse -The style of language and travel, The sun and moon and stars - Dancing on the head of a pin. -- Thomas F. Lombardi

Campanology The Angelus tolls, Ancient bells pealing ancient sound In ancient competition With buzzing weedwackers sweeping arcs from sweating . groundskeepers. The Angelus tolls, while dedicated professors Hunched tirelessly over piles of final examinations Scratch incarnadine tracks From blazing red pens. The Angelus tolls. The statuesque secretary, Eyes trained on original copy, Taps steady sound From self-correcting typewriters. The Angelus tolls, For reverent interruption, For pious turn, To penetrate the noise of the everyday And slow the rush of the marketplace. But the rev and roar of the automobile engine Drowns it out. -- Arthur A. Grugan

First Date He saw her: At sixteen, her reed-thin body Not yet matured by the years to come. But so lovely when she moved. He saw her: Amused by shrill voices, squeals of joy. Watching children at play, At simple pleasure enjoyed. He saw her: An exquisite cameo, an elfin-like doll. Tousled red hair, burnished by sun, A splash of freckles 'cross her face. She saw him: Not quite a man, but inanly with muscled arms, A deepening voice, a lopsided grin. Large, calloused hands (how would they feel?) She saw him: As he sat in class, a faraway look, Perhaps of the stream on his farm. Or dreaming of another place -- or perhaps of her? She saw him: Stripped to the waist, sweat trickling down. Laying a furrow of corn, heaving a bale of hay. And she stirred within. So shy, her face reddened at the glance of his eye. Her voice tremulous to reply when he spoke. "Would you like to go to the Fair tonight?" "Why, yes, I'd love to!" And their eyes embraced. -- Cy Bielek

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Dejďż˝ Vu

A field of tan houses stretched across the landscape as our bus entered the capital. Much of the scenery reminded me of America except f or the advertiseÂ ments hanging on the walls of buildings, which were written in French.Tired as I was, I hardly recognized the differences. There were no majorlandrnarks in sight, and my mind wandered across the earth searching for something. . Various thoughts danced through my head as our bus came to a quick halt at a red light My face brushed against the window's glass, momentarily blurring my vision. When my eyes focused, I saw a young girl standing on the street comer across from me. She was ofaverage height and slim build.She had raven black hair. From her physical appearance, I judged her to be thirteen years old, possibly younger. She stood with one bare foot skimming the top of the gushing sewer waters that moved along the crest of the curve. Her other foot was placed firmly on the sidewalk. Her only clothing was a tattered orange dress.Her hair blew in disarray from the summer wind. Slowly she raised her left hand to her sweating forehead to shade her eyes from the sun. In her right hand she tightly held a squeegee. My eyes shifted to the bucket ofwater beside her, and suddenly I realized that she was cleaning car windows for a living. The bus jolted forward as the light turned green.While the bus moved away, the young girl turned towards the bus, and I saw full into her face. Her eyes burned like black hot coals as I caught her worn and tired expression. At that instant she reminded .me of another woman, faraway, on another continent, in another city. I never lost sight ofthe young French girl. While the bus moved through the city streets, I began to feel a gnawing guilt in me. I had felt this way once before. I did not feel this guilt solely for the young French girl, but rather for another whose memory was painful to recall. No matter how hard I tried to forget the incident, it always returned.I closed my eyes ... Once in Baltimore, Jeffrey and I drove through the slippery sidestreets, in search ofa restaurant It was pouring, and rain flew down in streaming fits ofanger. I shivered in my overcoat, watching the reflected street-light shine on the passenger's window. I stared out across the street, hypnotized by the tiny rivulets of water flowing down the tinted window.The steady drumroll of rain hitting the car's roof increased my dreamy state until I noticed that my breathing had fogged up the window before me, and I could no longer see through it.After clearing the window with my hand, I sighted three figures heading toward the car. They huddled close together, desperately trying to protect themselves from the downpour. I realized that Jeffrey had seen them, too. But before either ofus could react, the three figures had walked in front ofthe car, and the headlights lit up their faces. In front of us stood a black woman who held two small children by their hands. Their ragged clothing and a thin sheet of plastic were their only protection from the rain. A mist floated eerily from their mouths, reminding us ofthe cold outside. Without pausing, the family moved forward and passed the car's headlights.Jeffrey and I followed their movements until the woman lifted her smaller child in her arms 17

and with the plastic sheet tried to protect him from the rain. I could see the tired expression on her face and could only describe it as one of world-weariness.She embraced her shivering child while she stood, sentry-like, posed for action. The older boy ran back across the path of the headlights and approached my window. My heart beat rapidly, and I watched my window sliding downward so I could greet him. A blast of cold air struck my face, and rain began dripping from the top of the car onto my arm. Before me stood a young black boy, no older than five or six.His face was dark as the night, and his eyes were white spheres with black holes for irises. His short brown hair was dripping wet, and his nostrils flared as he breathed in the frigid air. A look of innocence lit up his face, and for a second his suffering seemed hidden.The boy licked his chapped lips and said, "Sir, my mam wants to know if ya got any spare money ... " His pleasing voice took me by surprise.Automatically; I reached into my back pocket and, with some difficulty, procured my wallet. I opened it as the reflection from the red street light changed to green. I turned toward the young boy--as in slow motion--and beheld his expression of helplessness. I sat motionless. Abruptly the car lurched forward, and I was thrown back against the car seat, helplessly watching the boy fade away in the distance.My wallet fell into my lap, as I realized what had happened. Turning towards Jeffrey, I caught his expression, and it was an answer to my confusion.He had not trusted the boy and decided to leave when the chance arose. I said nothing, sat back, and thought of restaurants and New Year celebrations and ... When I awoke from my sleep, I was back in Paris, still reliving the incident in Baltimore. Then as well as now, when I close my eyes, I often wonder about that Parisian girl and that black boy in Baltimore, knowing our paths would never cross again but that I would see them both in the suffering eyes of others. -- Ronald Vitale

Tia Vapid eyes roaming; looking at no one She offers her bundle Bloodless and ashen to weary footJnen. a throng of greens responding, surrounding, assuming, supplanting, they whisk their charge to sterile chambers -- where it's business as usual behind closed doors, actions and motions facts and figures. Only the sky is respectfully grey the morning a mother resigns her tiny bisque vessel to umber chasm -- while back in OR a pristine brilliance relentlessly clouds the hue of death -- Suzanne Bradley

Moth of Amherst, Drawn to my candle flame, Alight on me, inspire me .:_ I wish to call his name. Silken lips eyes of lapis sculptured calves entwined branches reaching, stroking faces -Â Sweet-Torture -- Sublime! Clear as dew drinking through a sieve that cannot capture, a singing touch that stirs the soul and fills my heart with Rapture! Limbs that quiver as leaves do shiver in a whispering gentling breeze, lapping waters rolling, tossing, high upon the seas! Never Ending, still Ascending, Higher in the mist. Reaching, falling, ending, blending -sensuously Blissed! Calling, Love, to you, to me, And said sweet grey ghost Emily -Â "Might I but moor -- Tonight In Thee!" -- Susanne Hoch 21

Daisies

Gather me in your anns and hold on tight. Never let me go -Please -- chase away the fright that circles my heart, and leaves my head spinning --

Bring me closer, -- closer into your web of love and wannth --

Let me curl up in your anns -like a bundle of yellow daisies thatlay blowing in the fields -wann, wild, and lazy. -- Diane M. Frantz

The basement was slightly damp from the heavy rains that had fallen over the last few days.A faintly musty odor pervaded the room, the smell clinging to the room's heavy drapes, dark rugs, and old saggy couch and arm chair.The clock on the wall ticked loudly, breaking the silence of the setting rhythmically. Megan sat on the couch alone, shivering as she waited. She pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her hands and folded her arms across her chest in an effort to get warm. Every now and then the soft thudding of feet and low murmur of voices could be heard from overhead, one male, one female.She knew it was Nick talking with his mother, saying goodnight. The door opened, and she heard him on the steps--the swish of his arm as it brushed the wall, the crack of his toes as he descended.The blood rushed in her veins in nervous anticipation.She clenched her hands inside her sweatshirt sleeves tightly, pressing her folded arms against her chest firmly.Oh, God, he's coming, she thought with something akin to dread. She turned her head and saw him walking down the last step and moving towards her. He wore blackjogging pants and a thick sweatshirt that had seen better days.His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and the shadow of a beard dusted his cheeks.With a stab of painful longing, she thought of things that would never be, could never be. He dropped heavily onto the couchbeside her, sighing as he sank into the old faded pillows.Without a word to her, he grabbed the colorful afghan from the back of the couch and, opening it to its full width, spead it across both of their laps. "Now what did you want to talk to me about, Meg?" he sighed as he raked his fingers through his hair. Now that the moment of truth was upon her, Megan was both apprehensive and reluctant to begin.She thought he sounded annoyed with her.In a rush of panic she wondered if she could just make up an excuse and leave.Afterall, it was late, and ... "Meg?" he interrupted.His eyes slid to her knees, bouncing up and down beneath the afghan in nervous agitation. He wondered distractedly what was wrong with her. 23

"I ...I ... "Megan stammered,blushing hotly.She wondered if she looked as much of an idiot as she felt.But she had to talk to him,had to get things settled between them.Trying to calm herself,she took a fortifying breath of air before confessing. "I've been waiting to talk to you,really talk to you,for a while.I don't even know where to begin." Biting her bottom lip indecisively,Megan lowered her gaze in embarrassment. "The beginning might be good," he yawned loudly. Startled by his bluntness, she looked up at his face. She thought that this exchange definitely wasn't going as she had planned. "Well?" he said, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in what looked to her like an obvious gesture of impatience. "I ... maybe, we should talk another time.I don't think now is a good time for you.You're probably tired,"Megan suggested.Inside she was disappointed by his apparent unwillingness even to try to look interested in what she had to say.She frowned. He looked at her with blue eyes glassy from lack of sleep. Faint circles marred the skin beneath his eyes,and tired lines were etched around his mouth. He noticed her pique and relented. "Look,Meg,I'm sorry I'm being so miserable.I'm just tired. But I do want to hear what you've got to say. Really. So go ahead." She nodded warily, swallowing nervously before continuing, "O.K., well, you see,Nick,I've been thinking lately ... " "That's a first," he interrupted, grinning. He loved riling her. Megan glared at him noticing he was awakening now that he had a target for his verbal abuse.His mood swings were as unpredictable as the weather. "Anyway, as I was saying," she sighed in exasperation. "I've been thinking about us,and I think ...I think we shouldn't see each other like this anymore." She let those words sink in for a moment, briefly resting her eyes on his face before dropping her attention back down to her hands folded atop her lap. Whatever Nick had expected her to say,it certainly wasn't that. Suddenly, wide awake, he felt the heavy pounding of his heart. She didn't want to see him anymore?he thought in disbelief.The idea of never seeing her again made him feel very sad. "I mean I can't see you behind your girlfriend's back anymore.I just can't do it." She looked up at his face again after she had finished speaking,waiting for his reaction. He watched her face intently for a few seconds before asking finally, "What do you mean?" "I don't think it's right.In the beginning,I thought you'd break up with her. But now ..." she let the sentence trail off,glancing quickly away. She missed the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. "Now?" he prompted, forcing his voice to remain calm. A sinking feeling was settling in his stomach; his throat felt tight. "Now it's wrong.I don't feel good about myself.I wish I could ignore my conscience, but I can't." She searched his face for some small glimmer of understanding. 24

"O.K.," he said simply. He kept his face carefully blank, hurt at the ease at which she could put him off. "Do you understand, Nick?" "No, not really." And he didn't. He believed she cared for him. Wasn't that all that mattered? he wondered. Meg_an stared dumbfoundedly at him. What was there not to understand? she thought. Was he so free of remorse and guilt that it blinded him to hers? "Don't you feel guilty?" she asked, incredulously. "Why? It's not like I have a ring on my finger," he answered lightly. She shook her head, at a loss for words. How could she possibly tell him how she really felt? He continued, trying to affect a confidence he did not feel, "Meg, I don't think you mean what you're saying." "Oh, yes, yes, I do," she whispered, feeling the sudden bite of tears. He appeared so cold, unfeeling to her. "I meant it. Every word." Noticing her overly bright eyes, he tried to interject some humor into the dark situation, "Come on, Meggie, you're like ...like my mistress!" He grinned, hoping his words would make her smile. "God! How can you say that? It's not even funny!" she choked, staring in growing horror at him. The whole situation was so absurd it was almost humorous. She felt herself bordering on the edge of hysteria, and any moment she would either laugh or cry. She just wanted to leave. Sensing her growing agitation with him, Nick reached for her. "No!" she hissed, throwing the afghan off and jumping from the couch, away from him. She grabbed her jacket and fumbled through her pockets, looking for her car keys. "I can't talk to you about this anymore, Nick. Not tonight," she cried. "Maybe not ever . .. " Tears were falling unheeded down her flushed cheeks. Nick stood up. Too many unspoken words lodged in his throat. Âˇ She backed away from him. For just a moment she thought she saw pained regret lighting his eyes from within; then it was gone. He watched her with a shuttered expression, his eyes heavy-lidded, conveying his indifference. "Fine," he said flatly. "Go." With a muffled sob, she turned quickly away from him and fled up the stairs. He heard the soft click of the door shutting behind her and closed his eyes against the pain. Outside, it began to rain. -- Kathleen M. Ebert

and still ... I call out for Him I hear no reply And still the infirm cower in their pain I curse His name But fools reverence And still my child bloats with hunger I kick His head and blood hits the pavement He does not moan And still the poor suffer under affluent heels I rise up and murder Him He offers no resistance And still the war tribe wages on Is He there? I slit my own life Violence more love-like than His indifferent neglect And still a child is born And still I call out for Him -- Joseph Bums

The Thin Purple Scar I remember your hands, Father, the thin purple scar, short thick fingers, workman's hands, your nails grease-stained, hands that struck without warning, sparing no one, even Mother. I was twelve, filled with strange new yearnings. Would I be pretty like my sister, her lips like wings, perfectly arched, startling when she smiled? So I stole her lipstick and tried it on generous lips. "What did you smear on your mouth?" you aSked, and before I could answer, suddenly violent, red welts, shaped like your hands, Father, on my breast, back, face ... -- Rita Durrant

SAM'S BARBER SHOP

In this ever-changing world, it is nice to find something that remains the same. The twirling red and white pole outsideSam'sBarberShop has been a fixture on Frankford Avenue for fifty years. I step inside, like my father before me, sit down, then browse through the Police Gazette, waiting my turn to sit on the black carousel chair that will pump me up and down and spin me around. In ten minutes it is my turn. As Carmen, my barber, pins a white bib around my neck, he croons along with a Frank Sinatra song issuing from a well-used portable radio. "The usual?" he asks as he combs my hair. "Take a little more off the sides this time and trim my mustache, please," I reply. Handing him my glasses, he places them among the shaving mugs, scissors, and men's toiletries, which are neatly lined along the brightly lit mirrored counter. A small boy watches intently as another barber clips his older brother. When it is his tum, he starts to cry as a worn-out booster stool is placed in the imposing chair. "It's his first haircut!" The proud father beams. The electric razor hums through my ears as baseball scores are announced from the black and white TV, sitting unnoticed in the back comer beside the two pedestal sinks, which are so antiquated they have re-emerged as collectors' treasures. The spicy scent of Old Bay Rum infiltrates my nostrils. A man, perhaps in his sixties, who, until now, has beenreclining backwards with his face hidden under mounds of lather, views his freshly shaven jowls in a small double-faced, cracked, handheld mirror. "There's nothing like a close shave!" the satisfied elderly gentleman says. "I agree," the other barber replies as he sharpens a shiny straight-edged razor on the leather strap. "It's so quiet and peaceful here. I hate to go home. My wife drives me crazy with her noisy nagging," the man says through the din of the radio, television, and crying child. The air is cool but the atmosphere warm while Carmen clips my overgrown eyebrows and mustache. A redolent aroma fills my nose, and a fine white residue settles over my relaxed countenance as Carmen gently brushes my face with some Gentlemen's Talc, signaling the end of my haircut. Standing in front of the cash register, I once again notice the pictures of Joe Dimaggio, Marilyn Monroe, Pope Pius XII, President Kennedy, and Mayor Rizzo, which I have looked upon many times before. Handing Carmen eight dollars, I realize the charge is modest when I consider the rich tradition that I have just absorbed. -- David McGrath 28

Graduation.It was only four days away,but that excitement was dampened. In four days Brian had to say good-bye to his dearest friend--Katelyn. The world around Brian was alive,but Brian felt as if he were dying.It was the first Sunday of May,and spring was in the air.Flowers were in bloom, trees were budding, and birds were singing. "Come on. Let's go for our last official walk," Brian said with forced words as he and Katelyn got up from the cafeteria table.She nodded in agreement,not knowing that Brian's well-rehearsed plan was in motion. They walked out the main entrance of the school and headed toward their spot at a playground off-campus. Almost every Sunday they would sit on the swings and talk about everything and anything that came to their minds. "Hard to believethis is the last time we'll talk as college students," Brian said to Katelyn as they crossed the street. "Yeah. It's kinda depressing," she responded as she picked up a dandelion from a front lawn and shook it. "We've come a long way together, haven't we?" "We sure have. It seems like only yesterday that we became friends." "I know it does," Brian began as he nervously bit his fingernail. "I just want to thank you for everything that you did for me these last four years." "You don't have to thank me, Bri. Friends help friends and they don't look at it as an obligation. You do it because of your friendship," said Katelyn. "But what you ...did for me is ...different." "How?" "Well ...you made me part of your family.The Sunday dinners at your parents' home helped me cope with being so far away from my family. And the birthday parties you had for me at your home.They meant a lot to me, and ... I can't thank you enough," Brian said softly. Little children were playing on the monkey bars as the two reached the playground.They sat in their usual swings and glanced at the young boys playing basketball. "I didn't realize," Brian began, "how difficult it was going to be to ...say good-bye to you. I rehearsed it in my mind thinking it would be easier.I was wrong. And I know it's going to be just as hard saying good-bye to your mom,dad and brother tonight." "What ... you ... you think it's easy for me to say 'good-bye'. Well,you're wrong.It's just as hard for me,but we have to remain positive.Don't look at it as 29

saying 'good-bye'.'Good-bye' means you'll never see each other again. I know we'll stay friends, and we'll see each other,just not as often as we're used to. I'd rather say, 'See ya soon'," Katelyn said philosophically. Brian kicked the sand under his swing,then looked into her blue eyes. What an optimist,he thought. She always accentuated the positive, and that's what Brian liked most about her.Katelyn never got depressed about anything for as long as he could remember.Two weeks earlier, her boyfriend of almost a year unexpectÂ edly broke up with her, yet she still found a way to smile. "Kate, if either of us had a problem,we ...we would ask the other for help, right?" asked Brian. "Of course," Katelyn responded. "Since this is our last meeting,I was wondering if ...if you could help me?" "Like you need to ask," she said as Brian threw the basketball that rolled toward them back to the young boys. Brian sat back on the swing and said, "Well, I've been friends with this girl back home since grade school.Her name's Kristen,and we used to do everything together.We went to our Senior Prom together, we vacationed together, and we went to almost all our high school functions together. We were inseparable. Anyway,she's been writing to me faithfully since I've been away at college.The other day I found out she was moving. We'll keep in touch, but we won't see each other all the time like we did during the summer. She ... she means a lot to me and I ... I think I love her.Do you think I love her?" "Well, yeah, it sure sounds as if you do," said Katelyn in a confident tone. "Do you think she loves me?" "I think she does, but maybe she just won't admit it." "But do you think I should tell her?" "Yeah.I think it'll make her feel better knowing the truth.This way, you two won't have to hide your feelings for each other." "I guess ...I guess you're right.But ... what if you were in a situation like this! Would you want to know?" "Yes, I would," said Katelyn. Then Brian's heart began to pound like a drum. "It would take a lotta nerve to do something like that." He started to perspire. "But I would be happy knowing that someone could have the guts to let his feelings and emotions for me be known." Now he was shaking and fidgeting.Don't wimp out, his conscience said. Brian took a deep breath. He looked down at his Reebok, and swallowed hard. His eyes were starting to get teary, and he said, "To be totally honest, Âˇ Kate--" Kate smiled, "I'm Kristen." -- Robert Gaffney 30

Mojo Medley Ye' Ye' Ye' Me meRomba Ye' MeMajik! Rene gris-gris! Romba Ye' me me majik Me bomba ye' Ho! Conjure the snake, Demon-style. Mississippi, changed to Nile. Conga in the Congo, Demon is a no-show, Much voodoo 'bout nothing. -- JenniferOrew

MY FAVORITE OBJECT The "dog days" of July are in full swing. While people swelter through the summer, searching for ways to attach the least possible amount of clothing, I think of a winter coat hanging in the closet. I realize that it's poor timing, but I can't help it. My Philadelphia Eagles jacket is something special to me. Green wool with silver and white trim and lettering on the back that spells out "Eagles Football." There's also a patch of an eagle on the front clutching a football in its claws. It may sound a little strange, but when I think of it, the jacket seems to have led a life of its own. It has seen good times, bad times, and in betweens. It has been rained on and snowed on. It has felt the wind against it. Its home is my home, and it goes where I go. It has been places: different cities, different states. Its value cannot be assessed in terms of money; there is no place for a price tag on memories. I wish I could make it last forever, but I know it probably won't. There is nothing I would enjoy more than rummaging through a box fifty years from now, finding this jacket, and remembering what it meant to me, recalling the images of a youth gone by. I'm not sure why it has such an effect on me. It's not the football part. Sure, I'm a fan and I like the Eagles and all that, but that's not what it is. It's something else. Maybe it's knowing that summer won't last forever, and when it ends, I'll open the closet, reach for the jacket, and it will be there, just as it's always been. It's colder now. The temperature is dropping, and so are the leaves. The days are shorter. Autumn has arrived again, quiet and golden. -- Christopher Gidley

HEAR HOW li PRAY Hear how I pray! Wishing someone near me -Â Lonely is a dreadful state, worse than death. Hear how I pray, to have myself consoled One look upon the crucifix calls me to kneel Bowed before the ears of God; I plead my prayer of woe For if I pray, God might hear me; If I pray, God might save me -"Lord," I speak to the image of God, "Let me not live lonely, but give me courage; Give me hope for finer fruits; Give me confidence in all I do." With hope, I wait for hope to come. God will listen to my plea. Sadness cannot break me, Not if I believe. -- Eugene M. Szostak

CLAM CHOWDER

They were congregating outside the doors of the dining hall like hungry dogs begging for scraps, Danielle thought. "It's five!" Fred yelled. She obligingly opened the room to the pack. Danielle had been working as a waitress in the dining room of the Lighthouse Point Retirement complex for a month, but in that short time she had grown accustomed to the residents. Everyone was at least sixty-five years old and retired; consequently, dinner was the social event of the day. They entered dragging canes and walkers and speeding to the salad bar in high-powered wheelchairs. Danielle sighed deeply and headed for her table.She had the "big six " tonight--all six of the community's biggest pains in the ass. She managed to fake a smile. "Hello, ladies, and how are we this evening?" The words dripped from her mouth like honey before she had ti.me to realize what she hadjust said. "Well, they took Mr. Silverman away yesterday in an ambulance.He was a feisty old bugger ..." "My knee's been botherin' me again..." "I have my cataract operation tomorrow, ya know..." "What did you say, hon?What did she say, Selma?" "Where's my napkin?Did you see my napkin?I don't think I got a napkin... " "My arthritis has really been actin' up lately ... Just like dogs,Danielle thought,when one starts barking, they all have tojoin in. She felt like screaming.!twas a rhetorical question, you idiots! But instead she inquired if anyone was interested in some soup. "What kind?" asked Mrs. Wobdon. "Clam Chowder." "New England or Manhattan?" added Selma Toth. "Because I can't eat New England. My doctor says I should stay away from milk products." "What's the difference?" chimed Mrs. Leonard. "Well,if I have anything with milk, I--" "No, not that difference.The soups.What's the difference in the soups?" "One's red and one's white," yelled Rose Bakilevich. My God!Danielle thought, did they rehearse this? "It's New England," she answered "Well, then, none for me." "Yeah,what the hell,gimme a bowl." "Two," added Mrs.Leonard. "I'll take some." "Sounds good. What about you, Rose?" "Heh?Whatja say?" Danielle took a deep breath and repeated loudly, "Soup,Mrs. Bakilevich, would you like some soup?" "Yeah, sure.What kind?" 34

Danielle was beginning to lose her patience. "New England Clam Chowder," she said as calmly as possible. "Oh, God, no. That stuff gives me gas." "You, too?" commented Selma. "Okay, so that's four soups, right?" "Yes;dear," said Mrs. Wobdon, "and bring us some of those paper napkins- those old farts are always blowing their noses on these cloth ones." "Sure thing," Danielle replied and tried to hold back a laugh. She picked up her tray and mentally repeated the number of soups. As she entered the kitchen, she heard Fred complaining that they were all out of Clam Chowder. They would have to substitute with Tomato Rice. Danielle turned abruptly and headed to the table, making sure to pick up the paper napkins on the way. -- Jennifer Ward

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REFLECTIONS ON AUTUMN'91 The sky opened with no more than a whisper Jasmine and turquoise were breathing life into the shadow of the dusk ... as the day drew to a close Over the horizon's bend there did lie a vast corridor of fanciful indulgence In the air was a soft sweet presence that if paid homage would suggest pristine visions ... were to come The wind swept the earth as if it were angered by its stillness In the trees hung ambered colored reminders of the fragility and the inevitable Not to be eulogized but to be embraced and to be celebrated Passing on more than copper tones and recognition for a season drifting quietly into the interweaving fabric of "I remember when" Autumn the time that challenges the very essence of our discontent In this period of vibrant discovery and soft remiss for the passing ... we are lulled asleep by the weathered and at times unforgiving breezes that give night a place to rejoice We are children whose laughter will echo into the cold winter nights, that are harbingers of clear magenta skies A clearing, a wide majestic swath, is given to the ethereal light that circles the moon In the skies there is music ... of this world ... that is fit for gods to partake We shall reminisce, be harkened back to childhood memories, of winged goodness that danced in the early morning light just as the fog began to rise

and with it the magic that brings each of us to wherever is home Occasionaly there arises a pleasant angelic cherub claiming to usher in a spirit of goodwill for all men ... shall we listen Wisps of smoke from fractured but statuesque dwellings that dot the countryside offer Melancholy distraction Within reach of the imagination is the thought that all of this will stay the same forever Like journeymen with a job to do ... we believe ... because that is our job Ours is a place of tender and introspective respite Do we dare to invite the season of rapier winds and shades of yesterday into our lives Tall and courageous we stand ... denying nothing ... accepting all that we will ever be Âˇ Take heed to the message that is brought into your heart ... the autumn asks for nothing in return Quiet reassuring colors pervade the spectrum of possibility Haunting and suggestive are the whims and remembrances of passions past We are warmed and chilled by the duality of our very own presence Every day every moment repeated and excelled ... all of this when ... the sky opened with no more than a whisper -- Robert H. Burkhauser

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Yoho 19 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 Depart ment, Holy Family College, Grant & Frankford Avenues, Phila delphia, Pennsylvania 19114. All submissions are to be accom panied by a SASE.

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Beth-Anne and Susanne Congratulations to two talented and loving daughters who share with us the beauty inside them. Love you, Mother & Dad