Folio 21 by HFU Folio

Folio

Folio 21 The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic ex� pression. The journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family Col lege Community. Submissions, however, are welcome from con tributions beyond the College Community and are to be sent to the following address: Folio, Humanities Divisior -i.:r ,,1y Family _College, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylva nia 19114.

TENEOR VOTIS I am bound to give ofmyself because I hai;e received.

Printed by·

Editorial Staff Jason Fox, Chief Editorial Assistant Evelyn Ricci Kimberly Laskowski Richard Kupka Kathe Sobczak Florence McFadden Christine Fink Megan Clements

Freshman and Junior Readers: Lee Ann Carey Dalva Marra Christopher Blizzard Paul O'Connor Sean Murphy John Scafidi Moderator Thomas Francis Lombardi, Ph.D. Professor Humanities Division Special thanks to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi for her valuable in-put and expert proofreading.

Dr. Lombardi and the Editorial Staff wish to dedicate

Folio 21 to Sister Eileen McGovern Assistant Professor Humanities Division Holy Familiy College

for Her Dedicated Service to the College since 1988 as Lecturer, Instructor, Assistant Professor and Humanities Division Head 1992-present and for her support of artd participation in Folio

Contents The Genesis Circle ......................................................................... 5 Nine White Raisins Every Morning .............................................. 6 As It Is ............................................................................................ 9 My Beloved .................................................................................. 10 Sunday Afternoon ........................................................................ 11 Spontaneity is the Spice of Life .................................................... 12 Immigrant Kitchen ....................................................................... 15 Sunflower Woman ....................Â·................................................... 17 The Big-Girl Ride ..............................-........................................... 19 The Breaking Point ...................................................................... 21 Ready for Boot Camp .................................................................. 23 Totem in My Roorn ..................................................................... 26 Every Archaeologist's Dream ...................................................... 27 Foreign Land ................................................................................ 29 The Question ............................................................................... 30 Brothers in Exile .......................................................................... 31 Adagia .......................................................................................... 35

The Genesis Circle

-Thomas Marks

Nine White Raisins Every Morning Ellen came home from her high pressure job at the public relations office feeling tired. She walked into her apartment, ready to change irito more comfortable clothes and relax. The apartment felt a little cold, so she immediately went to the thermostat and turned up the temperature. Ellen cherished her independence, though her apartment seemed lonely at times. The stillness of her surroundings accompanied the quiet solitude that befell her the moment she walked inside. As if deliberately to avoid the confrontation with loneliness, she conÂ tinued straight to her bedroom to check for messages on her answering machine. Only one message. She proceeded to find out who it was. While waiting for the ribbon on the machine to wind, Ellen looked at herself in a mirror on the wall and noticed that most of the curl in her hair had fallen. At that point her answering machine went on: "Hi, El. It's Marie. Give me a call when you get home. I just found out that our church is having its annual bazaar this Saturday night and thought you'd like to go." The idea sounded interesting, but she hesitated to return her call because Marie had a peculiar habit of canceling plans at the last minute. Marie always sympathetically acknowledged her predicament only to renege on arrangements again afterwards. Ellen turned off her machine, then proceeded to change into more comfortable attire. While pulling her dress over her 1ďż˝ďż˝,rl the phone rang. Rats, she thought. Why does the phone always ring when I'm in the middle of something? She shrugged off her dress and dashed to the phone. "Hello," she said, a little out of breath. "Hello, Ellen?" a voice returned. "Yes, this is she." Ellen thought she recognized the voice but couldn't quite place it. "Hi, this is Joe Ryan. Remember me?" "Of course, I remember you. How've ya been?" "Great," he replied. "How about you?" "Hangin' in there," she confessed. "My arthritis bothers me at times, but other than that, I'm okay." Ellen had been friends with Joe for many years and began to think of the times they worked together at an insurance company. Almost a year had passed since they last saw each other, and meantime, Ellen had been diagnosed with Lyme's Disease. She refrained from telling Joe, fearing his reaction. Then, Joe's voice broke Ellen's train of thoughts. 6

"Arthritis? You know I recently heard that if you soak raisins in gin overnight and eat nine every morning it'll help arthritis." "Nine raisins soaked in gin? Are you kidding?" "I'm not kidding. It worked on my aunt and my cousin. Try it. You should notice a change anywhere from one to six weeks," he enthusiastiÂ cally replied. Ellen anxiously wondered if it could possibly help her. "As a matter of fact," Joe continued, "I have nine raisins every morning. Sometimes I even have them m:ore than once a day." "But you don't have arthritis," she replied. "I'm into preventive medicine," he laughed. Ellen laughed, too. "That sounds just like you." It felt good hearing from an old friend again. Just then she heard a sound through the phone that indicated Joe was calling from a telephone booth. "Joe," she said, "are you calling from a pay phone?" "Yea," he answered, "I start classes in a couple minutes and thought I'd try giving you a call first." "I'm impressed. Well, Joe, I'm glad you called." "Same here," he responded. "By the way, you feel like catchin' a movie on Saturday night?" Ellen immediately thought she had better make an appointment to have her hair trimmed this week. "Sure," she answered. "Sounds great." "Well, I'll check the newspaper and see what's playin', and I'll call you sometime later in the week. Okay?" "Okay," she replied. As soon as she hung up, a feeling of elation replaced the loneliness she had felt when she entered her apartment. She was almost ecstatic about hearing from Joe and her upcoming date on Saturday night. She danced to her freezer to take out a frozen entree for her dinner. Just as she put dinner in the microwave, the phone rang again. Now who could that be? she thought as she picked up the receiver. "Hello," Ellen said enthusiastically. "Hi, dear. How was your day?" "Hi, Mom," Ellen responded. "Just feeling really tired and achy, that's all. I had a tough day at the office." "Hmmm. Maybe you're coming down with a cold. Are you taking your vitamins every day?" "Yes, mother," she answered. At this point Ellen would say anyÂ thing to reassure her mother that she was taking care of herself. "But guess what? I'm even going to try taking nine raisins soaked in gin eve ry morning for arthritis." 7

"Nine''rais1ns in gin? I never heard of that. Are you sure it works?" her mother questioned. "No. But it can't hurt to try." Ellen quietly laughed to herself, thinkÂ ing, how could taking gin every morning reassure her mother that she was taking care of herself! "Where did you hear about this, dear?" "From an old friend," Ellen revealed. "Joe Ryan, and he claimed it works." "Old friend? Is he nice? How old is he? Is he single?" "Yea, Mom. He's single, but we're just friends." I think, Ellen thought. "Oh, darn. That's too bad. Well, anyway, honey make sure you dress warm when you go to work tomorrow. It's starting to get cold out." "Okay, Mom," she responded reassuringly and said her goodbyes. By this time the microwave had finished cooking her dinner, and Ellen looked forward to the enjoyment of a quiet meal. About halfway through her dinner, the phone rang again. Now who could that bďż˝? Ellen thought. She got up from her chair and reached for the phone. "Hello" "Hi, El. It's me, Marie." "Hi." "Did you get my message about this weekend?" "Yes, I did," Ellen replied. "Well, how come you haven't called me back yet?" "Are you kidding? I've been on this phone all night," Ellen said. "My ears are falling off." "I really wish I could," Ellen returned a little insincerely, "but, you see, I have a date this weekend." Ellen felt good, for this time it was her turn to have plans for the weekend. "You're kidding. Tell me about him." Surprisingly enough, Ellen expected Marie to feel disappointment and instead found Marie wanting her to share the good news. "Well," Ellen explained, "you wouldn't believe what happened..." She then proceeded to speak of her conversation with Joe that evening. They hung up on a cheerful note, only half-promising to see each other the following weekend. Before Ellen retired she wrote herself a memo to buy some white raisins and some gin the following day. But only one thought occupied her mind before going to doze off the night-what on earth am I going to wear this weekend? - Rose Vosbikian 8

AS IT IS Time is not a fugitive running along like an insomniac river on an unsmooth bed. Time does not fly. The fluttering you hear is the stirring of calendar pages thrown to the floor, disturbed by the passing of heels. Time waits for all men, sitting like Wednesday on its hump, for time is the entire substance of patience. Time does not march on, solemn as a month of Sundays. Time is not money; you cannot change it. Time is relative-and that is why it has such a resemblance to you. Time brings nothing to !-'ass. It bears nothing away. You cannot kill time. You cannot kill time. And time will not be saved. - Jennifer Drew

My Beloved My Beloved, In visions frequent I glimpse your shining helm Far away in that savage land; Under war-dark foreign skies Do you dream of me? The long days I pass at my loom And my wheel, spinning. Never could I spin a thread Long enough to reach you In the midst of that holy clash Of sword and cross, and wind You back to my hearth. Tonight, behind thick stone walls I labor at the frame Weaving a garden, the two of us Inside, where never is heard The call to arms. - Christine Duffy

Sunday Afternoon It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The trees in the park were just starting to take on the colors of autumn, and a chill in the air heralded the coming winter. A couple sat on a blanket spread over the grass, pe rusing the overstuffed Sunday paper. The woman put down the section she was reading and stretched out on her back, clasping her hands under her head. "Do you think it will be this nice all week?" she asked. The man looked up from the Review and Opinion section. He blinked dazedly and glanced around him. "Ah, I don't know," he said, "That would be nice/ he smiled. The sun shifted at that moment. It might have gone unnoticed ex cept that the shadows grew longer, and she was no longer bathed in warm light. "I'm cold," she said. "Let's go home." "Now? OK." She gathered the trash from their lunch into a bag and standing up began to fold the blanket. He shoved the paper back together and catch ing it under his arm they began walking across the grass. "Look at that kid," she said. They laughed at a small boy chasing pigeons from the grass. He ran· straight at them, and they fluttered into the air like a dark cloud. The boy would circle around and repeat his maneuvers until... "Jimmy, get over here!" his mother called. The couple continued, now watching two squirrels chase each other around the trunk of a tree. He made clucking noises with his tongue, calling to them. "Don't do that Now he thinks you have food. Look at his face." "How come I never remember to buy peanuts for them?" he asked. "I don't know. I never remember, either," she answered. "We were even in the store." She pushed the trash into the can they were passing and linked her arm through his. "What should we have for dinner?" "How abou�spaghetti?" he said, grinning. "Again?" she rolled her eyes at him, laughing, and they walked out of the park towards home. - Lauren McDougall 11

Spontaneity Is The Spice Of Life It was twenty-five years ago today, and I remember it like it was yesterday. The exhilarating feeling of the wind whipping through my hair and the thunder of the engine roaring between my thighs. I recall the breadth of his shoulders as I buried my head into his back and how I clung to his slender waist so I wouldn't fall. Who would have thought that a girl so devoted and unassuming as I would have accepted such an offer? I remember it was a Tuesday morning; Philip had left for work just fifteen minutes earlier, and I continued with my morning routine and went outside to fetch the mail. The mailbox, located at the end of our driveway, stood about two hundred feet from the house. In the winter, retrieving the mail was quite a chore, but in the summer it was a treat. Summertime was my favorite time of the year in Cabot County. The air smelled of sweet honeysuckle; everything seemed so alive. Everything, but me. After five years of marriage to Philip, I grew accustomed to the life of devoted wife and mother. I learned to live with Philip's passiveness, his unwillingness to do anything out of the ordinary. I stopped arguing over the absence of candlelight dinners, flowers, and last minute week end excursions. Philip wasn't a romantic, and I couldn't make him one. A good husband, very stable, and a good provider for myself and the children. That's why I married him, because everyone said that Philip would make a perfect husband. "Stability, security, cen�: . That's what a girl looks for in a husband, Rebecca," Mama used to say. What hap pened to companionship, passion and spontaneity? Not in this lifetime, I came to believe. So I forced myself to believe that Mama was right, that I should be happy with what I had. Accepting things the way they were, however, seemed to snuff out a flame that burned deep within my soul, and a part of me died. The flame was rekindled for a single day twenty five years ago. I recall that there wasn't too much mail that day, just a few com puter catalogs that Philip had ordered and the telephone bill. As I closed the mailbox, I heard the rumbling of a motorcycle about a half mile down the road. I watched the rider approach. In the distance, I could barely make out whether the driver was a male or female, but I could detect the rider's sense of confidence, independence, and freedom. It must be an incredible feeling to take to the road on a whim, with nothing between you and your destination but chances. I wondered, I could break out of my mold for one day to experience that freedom, to rekindle that flame that had died so long ago. 12 ••

As the bike drew closer, I could see his rugged sun-bronzed face which was protected by a pair of sunglasses. His shoulder-length chest足 nut-brown hair had been pushed off his face by the wind. I looked at his body-what a body! His well-defined torso was accented by a white T足 shirt. Dumbstruck by his beauty, I felt like a school girl. "Good morning, Ma'am," he said as he dismounted his motorcycle. "Good morning," I said meekly, barely able to get the words out of my mouth. "I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere, and I was kinda hopin' you could tell me how to get to Fairfield County?" His chocolate brown eyes penetrated my soul; he knew my thoughts and feelings. He scanned my face in search of an answer. I somehow managed to muster one up. "You're not too far off track," I said with a smile. "Fairfield County is just about ten miles from here." I grew self-conscious because he just kept looking at me as if my face were a road map that he was trying to study. Then, I felt ashamed. Where were my manners? This man must be parched. Surely, I could offer him some lemonade, but what would the neighbors think if they saw me, Rebecca Carraway, escorting a young handsome stranger into my hou_se when Philip wasn't home! Oh, the hell with the neighbors! There was something about this man that attracted me, some kind of connection, and I had to find out a little more. "You," I started to speak before I knew what I was about to say, "you look awful thirsty. Would you like me to get you some lemonade?" He looked up at me from his knapsack where he was trying to lo足 cate his road map. "That's mighty nice of you, Ma'am, but I don't want to put you through any trouble." "Really, it's no trouble at all," I could feel myself becoming anxious. "Please, I wouldn'<: feel right if I let you go on your way without at least offering some hospitality." "Well, all right, then, lemonade it is." We proceeded up the driveway toward the house. A surge of guilt and excitement rushed though me simultaneously, and I glanced around for a moment to make sure the neighbors weren't looking on. The coast clear, we moved into the kitchen. As I poured two glasses of lemonade, the stranger asked, "Do you live here all by yourself?" "No, I have a husband and two children," I said somewhat reluc足 tantly as if I didn't want him to know that I was married. "Oh, that's nice," he said, with a half-smile. "I always wanted to get 13

married, settle down and have a home in the country, but my lifestyle won't let me stay in one place for too long." "Really? I'm surprised. I would have thought. I mean," I felt myself stumbling over my words. I put my glass down and sat straight up in my chair. I leaned in closer. This time, I studied his face as if it were a road map. I was trying to figure out where he was coming from. "I guess I don't understand. I envy you, in a way." I paused for a moment to con sider whether or not to tell this perfect stranger what was in my heart, but I felt as if he already knew. "When I saw you riding earlier, you looked so independent, so confident, so free. Just watching you stirred up feelings in me that I haven't felt in ten years." I stood up from the table and stared out the window down the driveway towards his bike. I could feel his eyes penetrating through my spine. I continued, "Feelings of wanting to break free-even if it's only for one day." I whipped around from the window to find him standing right in front of me. I could feel his hands gripping my forearm, and he looked deep into my eyes as if he understood. I looked right into his eyes, "Do you know what I mean?" "I know exactly what you mean." His touch was so gentle and his words so reassuring. "I know how it feels to want something so badly you can taste it, but you wake up one day and find that life just hasn't dealt you that hand of cards." He moved away from me and began to circle the kitchen table in a rather somber fashion. "So you reside within yourself and tell yourself that things just can't be the way you want, and 1 you choose to accept things the way they are." He gla. 1.round the room and said something that I will never forget. "Then, suddenly, one day, you realize that things ain't so bad the way they are and maybe, just maybe, there's a guy out there wishin' every day that he had what you have." He looked at me and smiled. His smile lit up the room. I said noth mg. He began walking toward me, and I could see a devilish look in his eye. I took a step back not knowing what he was about to do. He took my arm in his hand once more and said, "That doesn't mean those feel ings go away." Then he popped a question that changed my life forever. "How would you like to break free for a day, or at least an hour, and let me take you for a ride on my motorcycle?" I was dumbfounded. All those years of planning and predictability, and here was a perfect stranger offering me a chance to throw caution to the wind, to be spontaneous. How could I refuse? 14

- Anne Leonardo

Immigrant Kitchen The people, Ghost voices in stews and gravies long in the pot..... Morning souls hosting their particular sunrise bake Nurturing families in abstract allure, as a childhood scent Revives subtle delicious beauties, poetic and possessive. Family Italian tales recognized in pastry and coffee talk, Angry, perplexed, happy, sad, the private opera Romantically transfixed under kitchen intoxication. Dried peppers hold the air still in basement moratoriums And quaint house appendages extending fantasies, Preserving memorial minds sometimes lost In somber weekend relaxed airs, sadly thinking... A humorous offhand remark made during an eccentric explosion (probably the wine): "From the mall to the morgue!" Families entangled in particulars as awkward wit and benign social expression reflect child pictures on refrigerator doors, Their world gallery, the fortune still life... Old ladies crumbled in housedresses, . Bowed humble beauty - God's reality Passing enchantments - Easter days over memory arbors Wrapped in archaic leaves and rich vine grapes Representing old land standards.

Some children remember being dressed in impressionistic colors playing under the arbor in preparation for their memories... The Easter Italian Arbor, Part of an old world mind to a grandiose passion land. The ancient parents thriving in aspirations to a new world. Now, Somewhere in notebooks, postcards, old picture frames, walls with conscience, and, yes, maps to places where a dreamer father will never go, a pnvate museum rests In the olfactory wake of the simmering music and perfume of the obligatory Sunday gravy The medicinal magic elixer - the cure-all methodically holding death at bay in mirror to Arbors for the sentimental mind with fated leaves and grapes that should pass to wine. Immigrants of immigrants as grapes - the wine waiting. Ghosts in future picture frames timeside by their gallery refrigerator door, the many trinket arrangements about them, still-life passage holding onto kitchen time pot memories Mesmerized in dream of that particular Sunday scent, An intimate sequence to the final kitchen's wait... -Dennis Natoli 16

Sunflower Woman The first time I met Maude, it was a dreary September afternoon at a funeral, and I just knew we were going to be great friends. Our paths crossed during a year I would otherwise liked to have forgotten, and the resulting friendship forever altered the course of my life. I noticed her resplendent in a sequined beret of vivid lavender hue, sitting two pews ahead of me in the church. Maude stood out amongst the respectful dark garbed funeral-goers; from my vantage point, she looked like a glittery evening star surrounded in a wash of oncoming night. Her choice of headgear would seem to some not appropriate for such a somber occa sion, and her style was a concrete indication of Maude's irrepressible sp1nt. I caught up with her later at the cemetery; it was easy to pick out her yellow umbrella from the wake of black ones following the casket down the rows of granite markers. Before I could properly introduce myself, she interrupted, asking if I cared for some licorice. By the end of that afternoon, after I had given her a lift home, we were talking like old friends. Maude was so personable, so full of energy and presence; she was definitely the coolest 79-year old I had ever met. I had made a friend, indeed. In the days and weeks that followed, Maude and I enjoyed many visits together. We would sit at the massive kitchen table and talk, and sometimes we would eat meals that consisted entirely of foods I had never even heard of before. Maude would tell me of her past involve ment in fighting for the "big issues," as she called them: peace, justice, freedom, human understanding. But primarily she led the cheers for life. I experienced those and other days vicariously, cozily tucked away among the remnants and mementos of Maude's long and interesting life. Sur rounded by Maude's paintings, a work of art in �ood sculpted by Maude, a cabinet of musical instruments played by Maude, I realized that I hadn't really lived. Maude lived and the evidence was on display in every nook and corner of that eccentric little house. Music was definitely a part of life for Maude. And it soon became one for me. Music, as Maude put it, was the "universal dance." Often during my visits, she would have me sing along to some crazy tune that she enthusiastically banged out from the upright piano in the corner. The smile on her face during these impromptu recitals communicated her joy in creating something on the spur of the moment, however dubi17

ously musical it seemed at the time. To me that feeling was totally infecÂ t10us. In Maude's yard one early evening, after an "organic" repast of oatstraw tea and ginger pie, we picked seeds from the late-blooming sunÂ flowers that grew up against the house. Maude told me that these flowers were her favorites, that she even wanted to reincarnate as one. She told me that she saw life as a giant sunflower, that the seeds were life's fertilÂ ity and accomplishments, and that the petals radiating away from the center represented the joy and energy derived from even the tiniest taste of life. Life, Maude continued, has to be "consciously lived." "Don't cheat yourself out of life," Maude would say. Standing with the brilliant huge sunflowers all around me, I knew I could never settle for less, not after Maude had shown me how wide those horizons were. - Christine Duffy

The Big-Girl Ride The sights and sounds of the Pennsylvania State Fair filled the night air. Throngs of people strolled the walkways among the vast array of pitched tents, amusement rides, and carnival games. Children scampered about excitedly, carrying cotton candy and stuffed animals. Rhythmi cally clicking, the spinning wheels of chance mingled with the monoto nous humming of the mechanical rides. I stood at the front of a line with my twin daughters, waiting to board the ferris wheel. "I'm not scared!" exclaimed Kimberly, trying to sound convincing. "Me either!" declared her sister, Kelly-Anne. Secretly, she clutched my hand tightly. The girls were four-year veterans of the small carnival that had in vaded our neighborhood annually. There, the rides were pint-sized and the girls fearless; here, the rides were colossal and the girls timid. None theless, they both had pleaded with "Daddy" to take them on a "big-girl" ride. "Next!" The rough-featured attendant, a cigarette stub glued to his lower lip, opened the steel safety-gate of a bright red gondola. As we ascended the wooden ramp, I handed him our tickets and sat between the girls on the hard metal seat. Kimberly, her head on a swivel, sur veyed the scene at ground level, while Kelly-Anne glanced skyward, peer ing through the network of steel. They appeared to be undaunted, eager for the ride to begin. Suddenly, the car lurched forward, glided backwards and up, and stopped abruptly, rocking to and fro. The girls froze. "Is this a long ride?" asked Kimberly, now sucking her thumb. "I hope not," replied Kelly-Anne, snuggling closer to me. We repeated the start, stop, and sway motion several times, allowing new passengers to fill the seats below. Each stop caused the girls to be come slightly more anxious. Soon, we paused at the top, illuminated by the multicolor bulbs that flashed in sequence from the frame of the giant wheel. I was thrilled by the bird's-eye view; the "big girls" burrowed their heads in my chest. "Are you okay, girls?" I asked trying to sound reassuring. No re sponse. The silence changed to crying as we started to move downward. The wheel spun continuously now, gaining momentum, and the girls' crying 19

grew louder. "I want to get off!" wailed Kimberley, tears trickling from her reddening eyes. "Tell the man to stop!" Kelly-Anne seized my arm in a death-grip and closed her eyes. Pangs of guilt shot through me, as the wheel continued on its circu lar path. I should have known my babies weren't ready for this adven ture. Would they hate me? Would they be afraid of carnival rides? Above all, would they tell their mom? After an interminable five minutes, the wheel slowed and we de scended to the ramp. The attendant unlatched the gate, and we climbed off the seat. Kimberley, still crying, wiped her eyes as we walked from the platform onto the grass. Kelly-Anne stared icily ahead and refused to hold my hand. Feeling like a villain, I walked them to a concession stand and or dered two ice cream cones, hoping to redeem myself. I handed one to each of the girls, and we sat down on a brightly painted bench. As they enjoyed their treats, my thoughts wandered back to the amusement parks I had frequented as a boy and the wonderful rides I had been on. I remembered the feelings of awe and apprehension that had over taken me as I sat cringing in the lead car of a roller coaster, approaching the nearly-vertical first drop. I recalled the sense of panic I felt when I discovered first-hand that the salt and pepper shaker inverted the rider upside-down. "Daddy!" Kimberley interrupted my musing. "Yes, baby?" "We want to ride the ferris wheel again." -Robert D. Konczyk

The Breaking Point Sitting at the red light I can't move forward, I won't move backward. I must move forward. The light is green now. Here I go now. The light is daring me. I want to hit the gas I want to move ahead Far ahead of the other drivers. Do I have enough gas? No, I don't think so. I want to get more gas. I want to have a full tank. But my tank is near empty. I am afraid I won't have enough gas. I am afraid of driving too fast. I am afraid of being ahead. I am afraid of driving too slow. I am afraid of being behind. Yield! Yield! Does no one yield? An accident ahead! Will that be me? Will I be at fault? I am afraid of being at fault I am afraid of crashing. Crashing so hard that it can't be fixed, Crashing so hard that I won't get up, I won't be able to drive again. 21

So much traffic around me Whizzing by me so fast. I see all the faces, like mine. They are driving forward, all of them And their faces are just like mine Their faces are afraid of crashing But they are driving forward. Their faces are afraid of crashing But they are driving forward And their faces - they are just like mine. - Thomas Marks

Ready for Boot Camp A trip to the barber shop was a vital routine in the male development process, right up there with getting your body in front of a ground ball, searching/or buried treasure, and not eating your vegetables. His name was Bob. No last name, just Bob, the barber. His shop was situated a few blocks from our house, and when that given Saturday morning rolled around, when my father decided my hair was not quite fit for the United States Military Code inspection, he would wake me, and together we would march to Bob's in order to make my head accept足 able once again to God and country. The early stages of our missions were basically uneventful until, from a half-block away, I would spot the barber pole. More than the lawnmower, the inside straight, and a good running bar tab, nothing symbolizes the American male more than that red, white, and blue fix足 ture outside of every true barbershop. Bob had an ancient version that spun around slowly on the inside so that its stripes were in constant, winding motion. Amazed by that barber pole, I would stare at it each time we approached the shop, hypnotized by the way its stripes would continually curl around and around. When I asked my father how it worked, he told me-straight faced--a little man inside kept it running. I wanted to meet that little man. There were no appointments; appointments were for doctors and dentists. When you walked through the door of the barbershop, you entered into a time honored gentlemen's agreement that stated you were next in line behind however many people waited in the shop at the time. There were never any disputes. You understood your place in the order and waited patiently until your turn came around. During the waiting period, you could choose from two sets of reading material: a rack of comic books and other magazines suitable for the general public sat among the row of waiting area seats, while the other set-more ... mature in na足 ture-was concealed slightly over by the cash register. While I lost my足 self in the comic books, becoming the long-forgotten fifth member of "The Fantastic Four," or lending my much-needed assistance to Spiderman in order to break up a ring of jewel thieves, my father would invariably make a selection from "the other rack." Unlike the barber pole, this ritual was a matter I never questioned him about. 23

My father knew at least one other customer in the shop. They would chat about general topics-sports, their families, the sonofabitch guy they worked for-men's talk that I could not quite grasp, jokes with punchlines that sailed over my boyish head. Although I was too young to add any thing to the conversation, the fact that I was about to climb into that soft red leather throne and participate in the ritualistic sacrifice of hair cut ting solidified my membership in that unique fraternity. I didn't have to speak; I was simply accepted at face value by virtue of being nothing more than my father's son. No dues, no expectations, no criteria. I just belonged. Bob never said anything when your moment came up. He would snap a towel across the leather of the empty barber's chair, turn it around to face you, lean on one hand on the back of the chair, and look your way as if to say: "Can I make this process any simpler for you?" Too short to sit in the chair normally, I was supplied with The Board, a rect angular piece of wood that rested firmly across the arms of the chair, elevating me to proper cutting height. Once in place, the tissue paper was tucked into my shirt collar and the crisp white cotton cape wrapped around me and snapped shut at the neck in one fluid motion. I knew of only one hairstyle at the time and, considering the crewcut was the only fashion risk my father would permit, I lost no sleep at night troubled by the limits of my knowledge. The crewcut was a simple, all purpose arrangement, acceptable in all of my social circles requiring no lengthy explanations or awkward introductions. This -wc1� me; this was my crewcut. Any questions? More importantly, from my father's point of view, my crewcut stood for something. It mean:, among other things, that he was a veteran, went to church on Sundays, voted Republican, for the most part, paid his taxes, and never called out sick from work. There were no limits to the symbolic ripple effect of having a six�year-old with a crewcut. Styling decisions laid to rest, the ceremonial rite began with the in cessant clipping of the scissors, the steady, rhythmic snapping of those two sharpened slivers of metal joining in a perfectly coordinated union of purpose. Clipping, clipping, my yellow hair falling to the floor, Bob circling me, turning the chair around for a better angle, clearing the ex cess hair from my tickled face. I would peer into the seven different mirrors surrounding me and see seven different collections of bottles on the counter with colored, manly-smelling liquids inside of them, seven different reflections of my father observing the progress, more of my yellow hair falling to the floor. The electric clipper buzzing away in my 24

ear, shaving the back and sides and top of my head, the minty aroma of Clubman powder filling the room as it was brushed onto my neck, a green liquid being combed through at the finish, the cape loosened and pulled away with one jerk, (the new man was fully exposed) the remain der of my yellow hair falling to the floor. Bob always closed the proceed ings with the same remark: "Ready for boot camp." Our mission successfully completed, my father and I would step out into the bright Saturday morning and stroll up the avenue, his hand resting comfortably on his youngest recruit's stubbled head as he made some obscure reference to a cue ball. I was busy carefully unwrapping the sugary pink piece of Bazooka Joe that Bob had slipped me on the way out. "You're looking pretty handsome," my father would say. "Bet ter watch out for the girls around here." I would nod my head in agree ment, not fully understanding the elements of "pretty handsome-ness" or why the normally well-mannered female population of the neighbor hood would now pose some sort of threat to me but confident that my father knew what he was talking about. He always did. I refuse to change. I now get my hair cut by an old man with a barber pole in front of his shop who complains about his wife and tells me stories about his days in the army during "the Big War." I like him. He has Clubman powder, he shaves the back of my neck with a straight edge razor, and he combs that green tonic through my hair at the end of the job. Although I hardly know anyone in his shop, I always leave there with the warm feeling that I've been among friends. I feel like I belong. I feel like a piece of Bazooka Joe would hit the spot. I feel like I'm ready for boot camp. - Christopher Gidley

Totem in My Room

I came across a curious date, 2-8, '88 Ticket punched to eternity Rescuscitation Failed. Res-cus-ci-ta-tion... Does that mean Mere doll of herself Reduced by half? Sick?

I see a totem In my room This murky day Swamp baby Hands, large Goblin eyes, no teeth She does not see Mama alligator Keeping her population down. (Swamp monsters, are in the swamp... They are In the swamp.) But we, We swamp kids made it throug11. Past the slippery vamp Through the hairy canal Overhung with moss Green, Misty Blacktea, Mirror Life Smog, Grog Fog,Bog No air God . . . Dog. Who sees That totem in my room? Totem...Tot-em ... Tot.. Em ...em.. m ...o...m ...

-Victoria P. Lombardi

Every Archaeologist's Dream On her eighth day at Montclaire Plantation, Kate made two of the most astounding discoveries of her not yet existing career. The first was about 10:30 in the morning at her dig. In uncovering a broken piece of clay pipe, she had mistakenly gone lower than what would have been the floor of the hut by about an inch. She noticed that the earth to the side of the small nook where the pipe had been was much darker than the dry dusty tint of the surrounding soil. Acting quickly, but with care, she dug away another two inches of the floor and saw that the discoloration was laid in a definite line. FolÂ lowing her hunch, she dug away more along the line and began to scrape away out over the dark dirt. When she had a square foot cleared, she called Rob over. He had been helping Julie uncover a large iron pot. "Whatcha got?" he called as he neared her area. Katherine just sat back and gave him a raised eyebrow. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw the area of deep brown earth. Kate met his questioning look with a crooked grin. "Ya think?" he asked. "One way to find out," she retorted with an eager look. "Go!" With an energetic cackle, Kate continued scraping away the packed clay floor. Rob called Julie and Tony over, and the three scraped and brushed away with equal fervor. Rob ran up to the house to summon Sarah. The veteran excavators bombarded Katherine with unanswerable questions and unverified praise. "Way to go Kate!" "You don't really think...do you?" "You lucky bitch." "But, why wuuld they?" "This'll be so cool." "How did you know?" Kate just laughed and gave mocking thanks. "Just dig," she finally said. By the time Rob returned with Karen, the three had uncovered a rough corner in the discoloration. By lunchtime they had about three square feet exposed, revealing the corner and about two feet of a side. Rob had to order the enthusiastic workers to leave the dig and eat. They ate like ravenous animals and returned to what they were calling "Kate's baby." 27

Three hours later they stood and admired their handiwork. A rec足 tangle of soil, roughly four feet by seven feet, lay in the open sun and air after untold years. They had scraped away one foot, almost two feet in places, of the telltale box when impatiently called to dinner. Assured by Rob that the ground would be there in the morning, they retired for the night. Katherine lay in bed that night pondering her find. She could not wait until morning. The portable fans that were clipped to the girls' beds buzzed in a futile attempt to cool their occupants. The still oppressive heat that hung over the house made sleeping difficult; with Kate's enthu足 siasm it was impossible. Who was it? Why there? Julie was right; she was a lucky bitch. Kate's thoughts were interrupted when the three fans simultaneously clicked off. Must have blown a fuse, she thought. The now totally stagnant air went from oppressive to unbearable. Kate resigned to find that fuse box, since no one else was awake. Before she could get out of bed, she heard the sliding of the bolt on the bedroom door. She froze amazed, staring at the bolt as it moved, unaided, to leave the door free to open. Katherine, completely still, was awestruck at the impossibility she witnessed. The door gently opened without a sound. Kate wanted to yell, warn her roommates that some足 thing horrible was going to happen, cry, shake, anything. But she just lay there unmoving. A rickety crash jarred Kate's attention to the wim' -- - The shutters had closed. Her companions moaned and Julie rolled over. The door flew shut. Sarah looked up. "Whassat?" The shutters opened halfway and again snapped shut. The door an足 swered the motion with a lower and louder response. Sarah sat up and looked at Kate, "What are you doing?" Kate just sat there. Her mouth was moving. She tried desperately to form a sentence, a phrase, a word. She pointed to the window. The louvers swung freely. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. With every movement, the hinges squealed. Their protests stopped, momentarily, when the trembling slats met the side of the house. Sarah turned to see the door flying wildly, threatening to break free of its steady frame. Kate covered her ears as the portals' din increased in volume and fury. Sarah sat, agape, blinking involuntarily with every crash. 28

Julie sat up in her bed situated.beneath the flailing shutters. Without opening her eyes, she beliďż˝wed, "I'm hot. I'm sweaty, and I'm tired. Now shut up!" and flopped back into bed. The shutters flapped once and silently opened. The door gave a muffled thud and stayed shut. The bolt slid quickly back into place. The fans clicked on and resumed their monotonous drone. Sarah and Katherine stared at each other. Julie began to snore. - Gene McDonald

Foreign Land A migration of sorrow undertaken, Clinging together, as one, slowly to The steel container that holds their son, This final destination in this Foreign land, he, who is of them, the boy And the man, courageous and warm, now still, A cold shell, motionless in a chilled box. Sickened by the blooming altar of the Dead, blood, blood red in its false flowering Spring, weakened by this journey, damaged upon Arrival, they ask: How can life flourish In such a land? And they are diďż˝inished; For none too soon is repair. - Maria Seamans and Joe Burns 29

THE QUESTION "Ma'am, you are not answering my question," the man said. "Did Dr. Church tell you not to come back?" The woman shifted in her seat, her face flushed. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, making her uneasiness apparent to everyone in the courtroom. "I'm not sure I understand. Can you repeat the question?" "Of course," he answered. The attorney slowly walked to his desk and picked up a yellow legal pad. "Mrs. Angelo," he began, "you have testified today that Dr. Church told you not to return. That he dismissed you as a patient. Is that correct?" The attorney directed his gaze at every member of the jury as he waited for the response. The woman hesitated before answering. "Dr. Church told me that it was healing, and I only had to come back if I had a problem." "But my question was, Ma'am, did he ever tell you not to come back? Did he ever say that he no longer wanted to treat you as a patient?" His voice was beginning to sound frustrated, but his facial expression had not changed. Mrs. Angelo began to look agitated. Her face looked extremely tense as a muscle began to flex in her clenched jaw. "I already said that he--" "I am aware of what you already said. I am interested in what you have not yet said. Was the phrase 'don't come back' ever said by Dr. Church?" "I don't recall the exact words he used. But the idea was that I didn't have to come back anymore unless there was a problem." Mrs. Angelo looked pleased with her response. The lawyer nodded his head. "A problem," he repeated. "Didn't you consider it a problem when you started swelling and bleeding? Wait, that was a rhetorical question. Don't answer it." the lawyer walked toward the jury box, never taking his eyes off the jury. "Yes or no, Mrs. Angelo, did Dr. Church ever tell you that your treatment was finished, and he no longer wanted to see you?" She looked down at her hands folded in her lap, then to her attorney seated in front of her. He nodded to her as a sign for her to answer the question. "Well," she started, "no, he didn't say it like that. He said that" "Thank you, Mrs. Angelo. That was all I needed. No more quesÂ tions, Your Honor." He turned from the jury and walked triumphantly to his chair. -Helen Lee 30

Brothers in Exile Despite the advance of night, Adam remained awake. Though the Psychiatric Division of the hospital maintained strict rules regarding ris ing and retiring hours, it had a special policy for insomniacs. Adam had obediently followed the suggested course prescribed for people with this affliction, drinking hot milk and even taking a sedative, but since his daily routine consisted mostly of wandering about the East Wing of the ward, he still had nervous agitation hindering his sleep. The psychiatric staff did its best to help this fairly common ailment. They encouraged early bedtime hours. No phone calls could be made or received after nine-thirty, and within the hour all lights were expected to be turned off. Several activities planned throughout the day would fos ter, theoretically at least, an effortless and unbroken sleep. These included the dreaded group therapy. Adam detested this daily occurrence more than anything else. Not feeling particularly inclined to share his inner most thoughts and feelings with strangers who were no more mentally sound than he, Adam quickly adopted the practice of sitting in the com mon room in silence with an air of detached observation. Adam now sat at a large table at the far end of the common room, which served as the dining hall, the group therapy room, and the arts and-crafts workshop, all in one. He reflected upon his tenantry in the ward over the past five months. The following day he would have his exit interview, and, if all went according to plan, he would soon be dis charged. He glanced out the bolted windows and humbly thought of all the matter that must have been hurling through the solar system. By some grim chance or fate, the earth always steered clear of such desultory de bris. Slightly alarmed by this negativity, which had been uncommon of late, Adam dismissed the thought as merely the vision of an exhausted mind, abandoned his astrological musings and, making a valiant final attempt at sleep, walked back to his bed just before dawn. He had lain awake all night, which technically was punishable by further imprison ment in the ward, but since the staff seemed cognizant of the reason for the tractable veteran's excitement, they politely ignored it. Morning made its arrival gradually at first, then with a relentless rapidity. About an hour after Adam had drifted off to sleep, he heard a nearby beckoning him-the voice of a woman. "Mr. Donat, you'll have to get up now," she said, rather tentatively. 31

Adam pretended the command only a fragment of a persistent dream and did his best to ignore it. He buried his head in the pillow and tightly shut his eyelids, crying to dream again, attempting to make the owner of the voice vanish. "Adam, you'll have to get up now. Group therapy begins in twenty minutes." Adam didn't think he had to do anything, considering how recently he had fallen asleep. However, it was apparent that this person would not quit his bedside, so he forced himself to break the weak bond of sleep that had fastened him to the bed. This nurse had sounded unfamiliar from the start,· so Adam made further inquiry, even though he thought he knew precisely why he had been called. "I was under the impression that the purpose of a hospital stay was to regain my strength," Adam said, blinking his eyes. "Well, the purpose now is to get up and go to group therapy." She continued in a decidedly militant tone. "It is now 9:42. You only have eighteen minutes to get ready. And you've already missed breakfast," she added triumphantly. After her exit, Adam considered that he had to shave, shower, and clothe himself. In the past when he had tried to shave, the razor, seem ingly of its own volition, had gravitated more often towards his wrists than his facial hair, so the staff had, predictably, confiscated his blades and made him shave only in the presence of a staff memher. Though he had shaving privileges now, he preferred to have something in his stom ach before contending with the relentless growth. He realized that he wouldn't have time to complete all the cumberso_ne tasks of morning and make a prompt arrival at the communal therapy session anyway, so he opted only to dress. Later, before his exit interview, he would per form his ablutions. Brushing his unkempt hair with his fingers, Adam hurriedly walked from his room to the therapy session. Though a furious winter storm raged outside, he had donned only a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, which didn't match. His perpetual physiological workout always kept him warm. The room, filled with people who looked as if they too had spent a restless night, resembled a gallery in a wax museum. Adam reflected upon his former similarity to these corpses. Though the physician's job con sisted of breaking the masks of internal defenses, Adam believed, like Lady Macbeth's physician, the patient really was the only one who could extirpate any obsessional neuroses weighing upon the heart.

Moments after he had taken his customary seat at the table, yet an other new nurse entered the room and publicly requested Adam's pres ence elsewhere. Adam rose from his seat, feeling a relief mingled with irritation. He felt glad to have been publicly exempted from the present procedure, but he also suspected that his exit interview was imminent, which he hadn't anticipated until later in the day. Some of the other veteran patients, smirking enviously, watched Adam exit the room. The newer, sicker arrivals didn't notice his departure and indeed appeared insensible to all external happenings. Some of them had silver ointment on their heads near the temples, evidencing recent shock treatments. The woman directed Adam to the nursing station, where he was told, much to his chagrin, that his conference would be convened mo mentarily in one of the private offices lining the psychiatric corridor. Adam's request to postpone the meeting until after he had shaved and showered proved unavailing, for the doctor had numerous other appoint ments to attend to that day. Adam followed two nurses down to the end of the corridor. As soon as he entered the room, his face registered an expression of stunned out rage. Twenty separate eyes glared at him. Adam quickly scanned the premises and, though so many people in one room made him more than a little dizzy, concluded that besides himself, only his doctor and his chief nurse had a right to be present. Most of the unnecessary guests looked like medical students.. Adam realized that they were hoping for a spectacle of huge entertainment value. He should have expected it, since medical students were legion in the psychiatric ward. However, he couldn't help feeling their superfluous presence nothing more than a tactic designed to unhinge his composure. His doctor seemed to anticipate this adverse reaction. "Now, Adam, please don't keep silent just because several people are here. I know it's di+ficult-it's difficult for many people-but they need to be here for observation purposes." Though indignant, Adam smiled faintly at the doctor and unprotestingly submitted to the conditions. "How did you sleep last night?" his doctor began. "Well, I had more trouble than usual," Adam replied meekly, "but that was because I kept thinking about this interview. I don't know why I was so nervous. I guess I shouldn't have been, but I thought the confer ence would be held later." "Yes, I see you didn't have much time to fix yourself up," his chief nurse joked, and everybody laughed. After this subtle physical evaluation, it occurred to Adam that he 33

was the very picture of consummate dissipation, with his abundant growth of facial hair, excessively casual clothing, and generally jaded appear ance. However, his unusually calm demeanor seemed almost sanguine in appearance, which would no doubt please the medical staff. Humors were evaluated and judged in the ward. "I know I look like a derelict," Adam apologized, "and I wanted to take a shower, but I didn't have time." "Well, never mind that. We all know the purpose of this interview." The doctor smiled at him with a detached warmth. "Do you feel you're ready to leave the hospital?" Adam responded promptly. "Yes, I do. I feel I've gotten all I can from the therapies of this hospital stay," he said, remaining intentionally vague. "And you're sure you're sleeping better?" "Much better. Before I came here, I couldn't sleep at all, except with drink. And, as you know, we've tapered off the sedative now so that I'm able to fall asleep with a very small dosage. Medication therapy was help ful that way. I was permitted to take a larger one last night, but, as I've said, I was very excited and wanted to be well-rested for this." Adam took a deep breath. "Do you have any questions for us?" "Not really, except the obvious." "Yes, of course. Well, Adam, I must tell you that we are very pleased v ,ur mood with the progress you've made over the last several mont is better, you're sleeping better, and I feel you're ready to be discharged." Adam suspected that his anxiety about the con£erence had been all in vain. Though the notion had been forming iu his mind for weeks, it suddenly occurred to him that he might not have been the iniquitous person he typically thought himself. He felt practically reconciled to his imperfect existence. "I talked to my father last night," Adam blurted out, as if to affirm his feelings, "and he said he forgave me for my impetuous action ... " The doctor listened to Adam recount his experience of the past months, gave him a clean bill of health, and had a nurse fill out his dis charge papers. As he departed, Adam felt as if his fall from health may have been fortunate, after all. Could sin, with subsequent repentance, actually be beneficial? He left the ward after wishing well to his hopeless comrades, confident that he could now willingly opt to remain healthy rather than be so in a state of blind untroubled bliss. -Jason Fox 1

ADAGIA It is cleaner to erase than to correct. The vigorous but foolish accomplish more than the passive but wise. It is easier to rip out a weed by the roots than it is to teach it to be a flower. The sting of a slap says more than a word of advice. My burned fingers are worth more than any book on fire. Those that don't hear the command feel the whip. Nine times out of ten, the Goths will undo the Romans. All the books in the world will not uncreate the bomb; one day we'll have a bomb that will uncreate every book. Beware of the enemy, for you already fear him. A virus can kill an artist. When you can think of nothing to say, hit someone. Man hates, but lives; he loves, but dies. Without war, there would be no Homer. Without sin, there would be no Christ. Satan was the first democrat. Books kill paper. The roar of one is louder than the "Nay" of many. When you understand Evil, Goodness becomes easy, for Evil makes no sense. If every man were Reasonable, Anarchy would be the rule. Justice is Hell. I am optimistic that my pessimism will prevail. Death to extremists! - Jennifer Drew

Contributors' Notes Joseph Burns' poetry appeared in Folio 19 and Folio 20. He is a Holy Family graduate. Jennifer Drew's poetry has appeared in Folio 18 and Folio 19, a short story in Folio 20. She is a graduate of Holy Family. Christine Duffy is an English Concentrator and a junior at Holy Family. Jason Fox is currently an English Concentator and junior at Holy Family. He has been awarded the Dorothy Covone Turner Scholarship (1995-96). Christopher Gidley is an English Concentrator and a junior at Holy Family. He recently published an article in The Philadelphia Inquirer. "The Railroad Man," another creative work, appeared in Fathers, Brothers and Sons. He has also been named the recipient of the Marion Von Rosenstiel Award for 199596 Robert D. Konczyk, a Philadelphia policeman and detective, is currently enrolled as a part-time student in Nursing studies at Holy Family. Helen Lee is a Communications Concentrator and a senior at Holy Familiy. Anne Leonardo is a former Holy Family student. She is currently enrolled in the College's senior citizen program. Victoria P. Lombardi is a graduate of Holy Family and ass1,Ls Jlio as a proofreader. She was awarded the 1994 Excellence Award for Part-Time Instruction. Her poem "Thanksgiving" appeared in Folio 20. L

Thomas Marks i.s an English Concentrator and graduating senior at Holy Family. Eugene McDonald is an English Concentrator and a graduating senior at Holy Family. He has been the recipient of the Marion Von Rosenstiel Award for 1994-95. Lauren McDougall is a Communications Concentrator and a senior at Holy Family. Dennis Natoli, a Philadelphian, is an artist who resides in New York City. His poetry previously appeared in Folio 17 an·� Folio 18. Maria Seamans is an English Concentrator and a iresru•.., ..... at Holy Family. Rose Vosbikian is majoring in English Communications and is a junior at Holy Family.

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