The Library: A Child’s View By Linda Starkey

The Library: A Child’s View

By Linda Starkey

When I was a little girl, going downtown to the library was a wonderful treat. I loved the smell of the books, the cool air and hushed voices. The sound of the date return stamp machine at the frontdesk. The library held a unique kind brand of adventure.

I escaped long, hot Winston-Salem summers via word time travel to watch and listen in my imagination, people far away in castles, explorers of exotic lands, and wild west heroes, or southern tall tales about a rabbit who loved to be thrown in a briar patch. I eagerly sought out the latest “Highlights for Children” and remember being highly aggravated if another kid thoughtlessly marked the “hidden pictures.”

I thought the newspaper holders, rather like quilt racks with newspapers draped over the slatted rolls, were totally fascinating. Men in the business suits sat at large tables, with their newspaper choice spread out like wings before them.

Opening and closing card catalog drawers immitted an organic wooden sound as patrons looked up availability and location of the needed book for research or pleasure reading. Sometimes, I stood before an open drawer, simply reading the cards. All that knowledge in one place! So much I didn’t know and never would. But the lure of the pursuit of knowledge is still as strong for me as ever was even if the medium and means have changed.

45

The internet, while powerful and holding far more information at the tips of my fingers, can never provide the same aesthetic, comforting feeling as holding a book in my hands. While awe inspiring, it fails to provide the wonder, the smell, the quiet excitement of possibilities I remember experiencing as a young child in the 50s.

46

SNAKES ALIVE!

By Martha Wilson Rowe

It is early morning in late March, 2020. I walk into the laundry room to get Sandy’s bowl and dogfood for his breakfast, and something catches the corner of my eye. It appears to be one of the white glue pads I had put behind the washing machine to catch and trap mice. I caught one on it just a few weeks ago. I wonder how it got all the way over to Sandy’s crate. I bend down to pick it up when I notice something seems to be stuck on it, and is moving. Egad! A snake. A black snake. A closer look and I see that there is a dead mouse stuck to the glue pad as well. That is probably what the snake was after when he got himself in trouble. How in the world did a snake get into my laundry room? How in the world am I going to get him out of my laundry room? He is curling around the wires of the crate and trying to get himself unstuck. Inspiration. I close the interior door to keep Sandy away and open the outside door and roll the crate out into the yard. Sandy and I can watch through the windows from the safety of inside the house. Sandy is barking nonstop. Even though it seems impossible for anything to manage to free itself from a glue pad, eventually this snake does. As we look on, that snake in the grass slithers away and I breathe a sigh of relief, and Sandy stops barking in my ear.

My husband had a close encounter once. He had gone over to our barn trying to find my grandmother’s black iron cook pot that we remembered storing in one of our moving boxes. There was a stack of several boxes, and

47

rather than lifting each box down to the floor to look inside, he resorted to just sticking his arm in and feeling around to try to identify a big round heavy pot. In one box, he put his right arm in, and he drew his right arm out, followed by a big black lunging snake, and he turned himself around. It was lucky he was nimble and quick, or he surely would have been nursing a snake bite.

Another snake escapade. This one was in Yellowstone National Park. We were exploring the trails and the thermal springs and fumaroles. My husband and the older two boys had gone on ahead and around the bend and out of sight. In trying to follow them, my youngest and I stumbled upon a very large rock on which lay a rhumba of rattlesnakes. We were almost paralyzed, afraid to pass. When myhusband missed us and turned back to find us, he immediately saw the problem. He had to literally talk us around that rock that was blocking our path and separating us from him. Once past, we felt like celebrating with a snake, rattle, and roll.

Snakesare part of the territory, any territory. I identified the snake in my house as a rat snake. It was black with a white belly. It and blacksnakes are very similar and fairly harmless, although a blacksmith will bite if cornered or frightened. They also will emit a foul smell, which I can attest to. Pugh! Their diet consists mainly of small rodents such as rats, mice, voles, chipmunks, and even bird eggs. I have seen a few copperheads and rattlesnakes around here as well, though not often. None isever welcome inside my house, ever again!

48

I’ll wager every one of you has a snake story or two. It’s like that with dogs too. Everybody has a dog story. Be alert. We tell what we have experienced, but Sakes Alive, let’s hope it doesn’t include bats. I have enough bats in my belfry as it is.

49

Only in a Place

where the rules of the game remain fixed long enough is there time for butterflies to evolve, to feed on the shit of birds that evolved to follow ants.

By Janet Joyner

50

Can We Endure COVID-19 and Survive?

By Bill Gramley

No one welcomes crises, deprivation, illness, or injuries. I’ve never heard anyone say, “Thanks, I needed that broken bone.” I don’t hear anyone saying, “This COVID19 pandemic is a good and welcome testing of our souls!” It might be a testing, but it’s not a welcome one and few people look at it like that. It ismore of a challenge to find out if we human beings in our various nations have the stamina to endure the restrictions as well as the patience to wait for a vaccine in order to stop the spread of this deadly, silent killer.

One of the big problems we have in the United States is the deeply rooted belief in the rugged individual: the maverick, the rebel, the hippie who listens to no one except his or her own inner voice and inclinations. The pioneers who went West in the 18th and 19th centuries suffered over prairies and mountains day after day and could circle their wagons if the Native Americans threatened them with their war chants and arrows. These explorers were tough, and the joint community of tightly tethered wagons could win out some of the time. For Custer and his army, it was a different story. Clearly, we face uncertainty in our efforts to find immunity protection from this virus, especially since we don’t know how long antibodies created from the virus infection last. There ismuch more to discover, and the battle is ongoing with no end in sight.

Other countries, like China, some Asian, and most European nations, have less of a rebellious tradition. They have united under the advice of epidemiologists and political leaders torestrain their socializing and to

51

wear masks. They have had pretty good success at stopping the spread of the virus. Some of these people, like the Italians, do a lot of hugging and it was for them to restrain themselves. But they have done so, and it has helped.

When it comes to the United States, I think of the biblical story of Jonah. He was a very reluctant prophet, but he finally went to Nineveh and said, “Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” And the people of Nineveh believed God; they proclaimed a fast, and put on sackcloth, from the greatest to the least of them.” When the king of Nineveh heard about this danger, he removed his robe, and covered himself with sackcloth, and sat in ashes and then told everyone by decree to fast and put on sackcloth and turn away from evil and violence in the hope that God may repent and turn from his fierce anger so that we perish not. (Jonah 3: 4-9 tells this story.)

The threat was about an attack or locust plague against Nineveh, I suppose, and not an impending COVID-19 virus attack. But the point of the story is the response of the people and their leaders in a time of crisis. We aren’t asked to put on sackcloth, just masks, and we aren’t asked to fast, but we are asked to wash our hands every time we come in from a store or a place where danger lurks unseen on surfaces we touch. And we aren’t asked to circle our wagons and get close together for this battle. Just the opposite! We are to do everything we can to stay apart at a social distanceof at least 6 feet.

In an article about Treasury Secretary Steven Mnuchin in The New Yorker on July 20, 2020, page 43, the author,

52

Sheelah Kolhatkar, says, “The Administration has fostered chaos, with Trump suggesting that maskwearing is a partisan act and leaving state authorities to impose their own rules on lockdowns. Americans are grappling with existential fears about the future, both economic and health related. The US. now has more known cases of COVID-19 than any other country does, and the worst record among wealthy nations of controlling its spread. Since the Administration pushed governors to reopen their economies in order to get people back to work, infections have spiked in two dozen states, including Texas, Florida, Arizona, and Oklahoma.”

Our President, finally on July 21, recommended we wear masks (our mild version of sackcloth) as did Vice President Pence, chairman of the Administration’s Task Force on the virus, on June 29. Both of these leaders set poor examples for four months by not wearing their masks on visits to various public buildings and gatherings and later at political rallies and failed to show the value of doing so. In addition, they have offered unscientifically verifiable treatments for the disease and have not listened to epidemiologists like Dr. Anthony Fauci throughout most of 2020 as the pandemic grew and deaths mounted.

Until we have a reliable vaccine (from diligent and patient science) and a reliable Administration (with good leadership) and a willingness by those rugged individuals (to stop flaunting their disrespect for sensible and patient restraints), we will continue to suffer from the ongoing spread of this virus. These ingredients have to be put in place before we can get people back to work, students back to school, rest

53

homes open to visitors, stadiums and related venues open to spectators, restaurants open to normal seating, and churches or places of worship open to the fellowship of believers in the God who created us and redeemed us and wants us todo things that show our love for one another.

Sackcloth and ashes and protective masks with limited in-person social mingling have made and will make the difference in our battle, and it would have helped if the King had paved the way, but our particular King doesn’t know what self-discipline and restraint is all about.

54

Autumn Banquet of 2020

By Annette Martin Collins

The invitation comes on a fleeting summer breeze

You are, again, the flawless hostess

We… your humble guests

There

Spread before our hungry eyes

An ostentatious feast of color

My soul

Overwhelmed

As I inhale your freshness

Soon

Your icy winds will clear away

This banquet

And you will rest

I thank you

Once again Earth Mother

Something is different

This year

Your harvestincludes

Many souls

55

Portrait of an Artist

By Arlene Mandell

In the late 1960s, I was a young kindergarten teacher in New York City. To unwind in the evenings, I started sketching the leafy plants on the windowsill of my midtown Manhattan apartment. Wanting to draw them better, I called the nearby, renowned Art Students League to sign up for a still-life class.

The following week, I walked into the League, picked up my receipt and went to the room listed. A naked woman named Mimi stood on a platform. I turned abruptly to walk out. "Where are you going?" the instructor asked. "Sorry, I'm in the wrong room." Checking my receipt, he said, no, I was in the correct room. "But where's the still life?" I asked, "I came to draw plants." "Your receipt says LIFE CLASS he explained. That means drawing from the live model."

I confessed I didn'tknow anything about art schools and had made a mistake. Arthur, the instructor, extolled that nothing was more exciting than drawing a live human form. Curious about the class, and about him, I stayed; and, after that three-hour session, I was hooked. I told him I couldn't wait to return. For homework, Arthur told me to trace the photos of football players in the newspaper's sport section to better understand movement and gesture. I did just that, every night, covering my large, oak dining-room table with sports pages and sheets of tracing paper, under the light of my colorful Tiffany lamp. No more plants for me; now just people. This would turn out to be the BEST mistake of my life!

56

I loved Arthur Foster's class. Although he'd been the League's president for years, he had returned to teaching. In class, students' chairs encircled a model who took various poses. Mimi, the League's longtime, popular French model --a woman in her 70s with a vivacious, elfin manner and pixie-cut red hair --posed for us often."No, no, Mimi," Arthur would tell her in his amiable manner, "that's too difficult for them. They're beginners. Give them an easy one." I was intrigued by Mimi and the variety of models; hard poses, easy poses, I wanted to learn them all.

While in session, Arthur moved around the room quietly, seamlessly, sitting and talking with each of us. If someone needed help, he ALWAYS asked permission before drawing on the student's pad; and, even then, he would write a comment or pencil-sketch a correction way off to the side of your pad. "Treat every page like a masterpiece," he said. I learned to respect my work from its very beginning.

One day when I was struggling, Arthur corrected my drawing with a few easy strokes. "I wish I could do what YOU do," I said with admiration. "No, I wish I could do what YOU do," he declared, then spoke the words that became the cornerstone of my life from that moment on. "Thousands of students pass through my classroom," he said, looking me in the eyes. "Only a few are born artists,and you are one." Then he wrote the word "artist" on my pad; I still have that page. He urged me to attend more often, and said I stood a good chance to get a full scholarship. I was thrilled! But life can change in a heartbeat, and mine did.

57

As I was coming home at 11 p.m. after art class one night that week, a teenage male with a butcher knife followed me into my building to rob me. Then he pressed his lips onto mine repeatedly and told me to open the buttons going down the front of my sweater. I told him my (non-existent) husband was expecting me home and would be looking for me. "SHUT UP," he shouted, and pushed the knife blade against my throat. I knew I was going to die!

Being right-handed, I automatically pushed the knife away with my right hand. We struggled. The blade sliced through my palm. I shrieked a blood-curdling scream and scared him away. The lobby door locked shut behind him; I was never so grateful to be alive. Blood pooled on the floor; tendons hung down from my hand like rubber bands. Neighbors poured down the stairs. Somebody called 9-1-1. A friend made a tourniquet to stop the bleeding; she rode with me to the hospital.

In the ambulance, I rambled on about learning to draw with my LEFT hand. She stared at me incredulous: "I'm waiting for you to pass out and you're babbling about art classes." My brain kept repeating "born artist, born artist." I was not letting go. An emergency-room doctor sewed the nerves together, but not the tendons; those would require a specialist.

My parents flewin from Colorado to stay at a nearby hotel. Once out of the hospital, I joined them. In between appointments with hand specialists, and with my hand wrapped in a huge bandage, I returned to Arthur's class, intent on drawing with my left hand. In time, as I got the

58

hang of it, Arthur said the drawings done with my left hand were better because they were looser; however, if I regained the use of my right hand, he said I must choose between them and put all the knowledge into one hand only.

An expert hand surgeon said he could repair the shortened tendons, but I should expect little or no movement. I had hoped for a better outlook, but my parents and I warmed to him right away after having seen a myriad of doctors, and chose him. After surgery, I returned withmy parents to Colorado; I had to get out of New York, I was seeing Death everywhere. Determined to overcome the doctor's prognosis, and working through excruciating pain, I forced my hand to do as many normal things as possible. When we returned to see the surgeon a year later, he was astounded to see how much movement I had.

A decade later while living in rural New Jersey, I signed up for an adult-education, portrait-painting class with instructor Lillian Dong, born and raised in Canton Province, China, who then emigrated to Vancouver, Canada, and then to Brooklyn, New York. Lillian had taken a full program of courses at the Art Students League with the very teachers I might have had. OMG...here was life, giving me a second chance!! I studied with her for years, taking copious notes I still refer to today. I loved Mrs. Dong; the letters she wrote when I moved away are still treasures to me. Uncannily, she passed away on the same day as my mother; the two most important women in my life at the time.

59

Another topsy-turvy but necessary life-change into an office job, to support my mother and myself in Florida, took away the next ten years of my life. However, paintbrushes and bright-yellow tubes of paint I kept stashed in my office desk drawer kept the artist dream alive. I returned to the art world in 2001 and a dozen years later was accepted into the prominent Carlton Gallery in Western North Carolina, with the words of Arthur Foster still echoing in my head: "born artist," an inspiration, yes, but a reality hard-borne.

“Portrait of an Artist” first appeared on the Randell Jones” “6-minute Stories” podcast as “Artist Borne.”

60

I Will Survive…

By Annette Martin Collins

As I sit in my bedroom, I am remembering life as it once was. Not long ago I was actively engaged in all the activities many of us octogenarians were doing. The Shepherd’s Center in town offered so many classes and groups in which we could belong. I could hop into my car and drive to the center where I would meet my new friends and enjoy the camaraderie of like minds. Church was a Sunday morning must but first came bible study. This was another set of friends. Once a month we gathered for breakfast and a sing-a-long before church in the fellowship hall.

Who knew that our world would change as of January of 2020. That was when a new virus originated in Wuhan, China. Silently this killer struck down people on the other side of our world and the news trickled out slowly. Our President announced it on the evening news and commented it was no big deal. Not to worry.

By March, the virus had reached our shores and settled in the state of Washington, where six people in a nursing home died. Our Presidentsaid “We have it under control. It will blow over and be gone before long.” Passing the responsibility of our well being on to the Governors of each state rather than taking charge to subdue this deadly threat was a mistake. The Governors were not unified in their reactions and each handled the situation in their own way. Some not taking the threat seriously, as the President kept voicing his opinion that the virus would disappear as quickly as it began. Not to worry.

61

I am a survivor. I survived eighty plus years using the common sense given me by my creator and surely He will get me through what is now called a pandemic. As of March we were told to stay in our houses, do not congregate in groups, wear masks, and stay off the roads as much as possible, churches closed down, stores were closed, businesses were closed, and all the things deemed “not necessary” no longer open. Gyms, beauty parlors, night clubs and bars were considered places where the virus could spread. I paid attention and stayed home.

I am one of the lucky ones. Being home was not isolation for me, as I live with my two daughters. One still working in the emergency room of a local hospital and the other, a former truck driver, home on medical leave from her work. I am not alone. We have three dogs and two cats. They are family too. My room becomes my headquarters where I send out cards to people with messages of encouragement. After all, we are all in this situation together. Everything is changing. The news alerts us people are dying all over the United States, more than any other country. I have COPD so I know to stay away from people. I use my computer a lot to check my email. I was not quick enough to realize I opened something that I should not have. There are crooked people out there just waiting for the opportunity to scam us old people who are not as computer smart as they are. Well, it happened. I was scammed and it hurt. My daughter had to accompany me to the bank on three occasions to get the mess straightened out. I was crushed, and for two weeks refused to talk to anyone. I felt so stupid and old.

62

I decided that since I am not as quick witted as I once was, it was time for me to give over the responsibility of my finances to my girls. Still looking for things to occupy my hours I take to crocheting. I gathered up all the scrap yarn and created a huge ball of crocheted yarn which I said represented the world. The colors were all the people of the world. I used a little bit of it to cover two of my canes I use for walking. They are so pretty, with wooden beads dangling from the top, and I hardly ever go out to show them off!

My bones are getting cranky. My joints hurt. Getting into a car is a challenge. I am thinking about giving up driving as I am thatold lady driving 35 mph in a 45 mph zone. Highway driving terrifies me, but only if I am driving. I do not drive in the rain. I stay home and watch CNN. I once loved that station as it was so informative and current. Now every day it is negative, reminding me of the fairy tale “The Sky is Falling!” I feel safe in my room.

It is a treat going on an outing to WalMart with my daughters. Two of our dogs are as old as I (in dog years) and they seem to have decided to keep me in their sight every moment of our days. Benji is a grouchy little cock-a-poo who has taken up residence under my bed. I call him my under-bed gremlin. He growls whenever Sam, a big black lab, enters my (oh, excuse me, OUR) room. I sit in my big brown comfy chair in the corner ofthe room and daydream on how the future generations will live. Because of the climate changes we will need to have electric cars, some driverless, as smart computers will take over many things. I create a new world in my head.

63

It is predicted things will get worse before they get better. Back in February, I thought about leaving my daughters something to remember me by, just in case. Having written poetry and stories as a hobby for fifty years, I chose a few and had them bound into a book dedicated to my daughters. It was published at the end of March by Amazon. I feel my work here is finished and I will relax and enjoy my room and my chair and my dogs who watch over me as I watch over them. I will survive for as long as God allows. I know my memory will live on within the pages of my book. It is finished.

64