Spring 2013

April - July 2013 PRICE: $8.50

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Sky Girls

by Bruce McAllister and Steve Wilkinson

In every issue, we feature books written by up-and-coming authors, in the hopes that our readers will check out their work.

Without My Toothbrush & Mama’s Pies Two Novellas by Bonnie Wheeler Two delightful and whitty tales!

Without My Toothbrush - Nancy allows a con artist to strip her of her inheritance. Confused and alone, she escapes to rebuild her life and reclaim her sense of self-worth . How she makes her way depends on her ability to lie. She’s good at it, but she hates knowing if her past is discovered, the life she has created will be ripped from her. Mama’s Pies - Clara’s life is turned upside down when her husband walks out and leaves her with seven children to raise alone. She vows to find a way . Her only talent is making pies. How many pies will it take to raise a family? With God’s help she begins to find out.

Available on amazon.com.

Impressions: From an Ordinay Person of Famous People I've Never Met

by P.K. Allen A humorous and sometimes serious look, done in verse, at some famous and not so famous people of the 1990's who I have never met. Many of these people are still around today. So have yourself a chuckle or two over these impressions from my mind or maybe even some deeper thoughts as to how they affect mankind. Then try to remember or guess just who these people are.

While one may have been of short-lived fame, another is a famous star. Available on amazon.com.

From the Heart: Poetic Reflections on Growing Old in Maine

by Ken Nye This collection is everyman, speaking for all. From the Heart is a collection of poems to linger with, a companionship with Nature and with the nature in each of us. In all of its melodies, it’s a song of wonder for us all. Available on amazon.com.

A high-flying tribute to the lives, careers, and legacies of stewardesses, this book answers questions and debunks misconceptions about the first ladies of the sky—from the first days of flight to today's mammoth Airbus 380s.

Featuring more than 200 photographs, which document the early days of the job when stewardesses were registered nurses and had to fit certain height and weight criteria, this work showcases how airlines have changed their concept of service over the years. By weaving historical images and documents with first-hand experiences, this book stands as a testament to the immense and lasting influence that stewardesses have had on the world's airlines.

Available on amazon.com

89th Temple

by Charlie Canning The Bullying Novel For Today's World For more than fifty years, William Golding's classic Lord of the Flies has been the default book on bullying for the language arts classroom. While that is unlikely to change in the near future, The 89TH Temple, set on a Buddhist pilgrimage in Japan, is an updated multicultural look on the subject of bullying complete with school sports and field trips, cell phones and blogs, reform schools and electronic surveillance. Whether you are working in an office or studying in a classroom, you will find plenty to identify with here.

Available on amazon.com.

Reflections: Some Thoughts on Life and Love

by P. K. Allen

Yet another lovely collection of poetry and preponderance based on thoughts and experiences of which you might relate—about life, love, and happiness— all the aspects that make living so very great. So when you come to a poem that sparks a memory or two, take a moment to reflect a bit to bring those feelings back anew. Available on amazon.com.

Do you have a published book or e-book you would like us to promote in Book Look?

Email us the details at ideagems@aol.com.

Writers’ Tip Jar

Inside this Issue

Self-publishing. I am sure we have all heard and weighed the pros and cons of going there. On the one hand, by self-publishing, an author dodges the bullet of rejection and editors’ heavy-handed license and demands for rewrites if the work is accepted. (Recall the story of A Confederacy of Dunces? If not, read it and weep— http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Confederacy_of_Dunces) On the other, the author faces the daunting challenge of promotion and marketing to get people to purchase the book. Here’s what I have learned about doing it right. · Make sure your work is professionally edited. All too often I read self-published works that suffer from sloppy syntax, poor punctuation, and content continuity. · Learn the formatting specifications required for putting up ebooks. Amazon, Smashwords, Lulu, etc., all have their particulars. · Avoid vanity presses at all cost because they will cost you. There are plenty of ways to post your books online for no fee, and with print-on demand services, you won’t be stuck with 1,000 printed books that you have to sell and distribute. · Investigate what’s going on in the world of self-publishing. Read authors’ blogs and articles on the topic. Here’s one site where authors post their experiences: http://www.shared-selfpublishing.com/ · Gear up for the long haul of marketing your book via social networking, blogs, “vooks” (video books), and good old fashioned pounding pavement to bookstores and libraries.

Some authors have done well with self-publishing (take E. L. James 50 Shades of Grey) which has resulted in their work being picked up by main stream publishers, largely due to their prolific presence on the World Wide Web and sales, sales, sales. But if your sole ambition is to see your work in print for the purpose of telling your story, sharing your voice, or leaving a legacy for those you love, then by all means, explore your options in the self-publishing world.

-- Laurie Notch, Managing editor

OUR STAFF

Writer’s Tip Jar—The Editor

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Prehistoric Pompeii

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Walking Spirit Way

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Native American Expressions

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VAWA and How it Impacts Indigenous Women

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Excuses and Regrets

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An Evening of One-Acts

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v Little Sister v Harriet Tubman Visits a Therapist

Fiction in a Flash

Mary E. Regan, Public Relations To contact, email: meregan4@gmail.com

Now Boarding

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Four Poems

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v Cokking Soup v Search for Yellow v Emptying v Identities

Cherry Blossoms

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Thoughts From an Octogenarian

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Hats Galore!

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Short-‘n-Sweet

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v Hair’s the Dilemma v Walking With My Angels

The Old Brownstone

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Spandrel

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Writing Prompts

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v As the Rain Fell v Forgetfulness is Like a Song

Unexpected

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Town Crier

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Poems of Tragedy, Hope, and Renewal

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v The Tragic Shooting in Newtown v Circle of Hope v Sam’s Renewal

Poetic Perspectives v A Lost friend v A Woman’s Image v The Tiny Room

Special thanks to Paul Karwowski, Contributing Editor Extra-special Sponsors: Dan Mesnik, Aase SeidelinAlexander, Helen Iversen, Susan Chen, and Rosalie H. Contino, Ph.D

Advice

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Face Art

© APRIL – JULY 2013 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. THE UNAUTHORIZED DUPLICATION OR DISTRIBUTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

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Authors’ Page

Back cover

Cover art by Linda Kent

VOL 8, ISSUE 3

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v The Zoo v The Question v Six and a Hal v The Juxtapose

Laurie E. Notch, Managing Editor To contact, email: ideagems@aol.com Claudia Aragon, Associate Editor To contact, email: caragon.TheWriteTime@gmail.com

Inside cover

Book Look

IdeaGems Publications P.O. Box 4748 Portland, ME 04112-4748

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Prehistoric Pompeii When The Dust Settled 12 Million Years Ago Ashfall Fossil Beds State Historical Park

by Claudia Aragon It never fails to amaze me where my story ideas come from. A short while ago I spoke with a gentleman named Richard regarding Yellowstone National Park. We talked of how magnificent the park is and how fortunate we both were to have seen first-hand a volcanic hot spot in action and all of the visual wonders the park has to offer, like Old Faithful.

During the course of our conversation, Richard asked if I’d ever been to Ashfall State Park. I’d neither been to, nor heard of the park before and as he provided the details about Ashfall my interest was piqued.

Approximately 12 million years ago, there was a volcanic eruption of a ‘hot spot’ similar to Yellowstone, in southwestern Idaho, which spread a blanket of ash as far east as Nebraska. There is evidence that approximately two feet of the glassy dust covered the flat, savannah-like grassy plains of northeastern Nebraska.

A geological analysis of the ash in Nebraska revealed the same chemical components as the Bruneau-Jarbidge Eruptive Center, an extinct volcanic caldera in Idaho. The ash was dated by two methods:

by Uranium fission tracks and by the single crystal Argon of the source material.

Evidence reveals that most of the fossilized animals excavated survived the initial ash fallout, but as the animals continued to graze across the grasslands, they inhaled the harsh, abrasive ash, filling their lungs with the glassy powder. After time, their lungs became severely damaged and the animals began to die. Some of the best preserved fossils of rhinos, camels, horses, turtles and birds have been excavated at Ashfall. It is estimated that the smaller animals died in the first few days after the initial ash fall, and the larger animals, like the rhinos, perished within a three to five week time frame.

Petrified wood, plus the skeletal remains of alligators and large fish were found at a base cliff near Ashfall. These finds date back to 14 million years ago, a time when Nebraska was a subtropical jungle.

At the point in time the volcano in Idaho erupted, Nebraska had already become a savannah.

Pristinely preserved for millions of years, hundreds of prehistoric animals have been discovered buried beneath the soil of the northeastern Nebraska farmland, safely cradled within the volcanic

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ash beds. Paleontologists credit the three dimensional fossils found, to a quick burial beneath the falling volcanic ash. The articulated lifelike skeletons allow the paleontologists to reconstruct facsimiles of life appearances and the habits of these prehistoric species with more accuracy than ever before achievable. Clues to the climate conditions from 12 million years ago are held within the soil, the vegetation and the animals themselves buried beneath the ash.

The smaller animals died first, due mainly to their smaller lung capacity. Their bodies were quickly buried beneath the particles of the drifting, blowing ash. The fossilized animals lay perfect in death formation, skeletons undisturbed, except for those carried away by meat eating scavengers. Some fossils were complete with evidence of their last meal in both their mouths and stomachs and a few housed the skeletal remains of their unborn young. The procession of the death march to the watering hole can now be seen, the footsteps preserved forever in the layer of sandstone uncovered below the thick layer of volcanic ash.

Nebraska opened its newest state park, Ashfall Fossil Beds State Historical Park, on June 1, 1991. The park is a joint venture between the University of Nebraska and the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, and is located 6 miles north of U.S. Highway 20 between Royal and Orchard. To date, only two buildings have been constructed: the Rhino Barn, which covers a portion of the fossil bearing ash bed, and a visitor center, with a working fossil preparation laboratory and interpretive displays.

In 1969, paleontologist Mike Voorhies first visited Melvin Colson’s farm as part of a long term geology and paleontology study of the Verdigre Valley. Initially Voorhies and his wife Jane were excavating a 100 foot high cliff of sandstone on Colson’s farm, known to geologists as the Cap Rock.

It wasn’t until two years later in1971, after torrential rains swept debris and soil away from a deeply gullied hillside, that Mr. Voorhies discovered a baby rhinoceros skull on Colson’s farm. The skull was embedded into the side of a ravine located on the edge of a cornfield. Voorhies’ afternoon of prospecting turned out to be a once in a lifetime discovery and adventure.

On first examination, the rhino appeared to be perfectly intact. As an added bonus, the remains of several more animals were buried deep into the hill as well, covered by ten to twenty feet of ash and sandstone. The skeletons were always found in the same order. The rhinos were found first, and then the horses and camels, followed by the birds and turtles. Proving Voorhies’ theory, all the smaller animals did indeed die first.

Voorhies was eager to begin a full scale excavation of the site, but lacked the necessary funds to begin a project of that enormity. In order to receive his funding, he had to prove the rhino head was not just an isolated incident. He returned six years later with a group of students to start excavation of the area. That’s when he hit what he refers to as “the mother lode.”

The initial excavation was done between 1977 and 1979. During those three years, over 200 skeletons were unearthed from an area that was once a prehistoric water hole, including one hundred complete rhino fossils, of the genus Teleceros, along with a multitude of horses, camels, birds and turtles. The museum was originally named, ‘Poison Ivy Quarry.’

According to Gregory Brown of the Division of Vertebrate Paleontology at the University of Nebraska, by the mid 1980’s, Voorhies and his crew had returned to Ashfall to continue his exploration work and assist in the preliminary plans and development of a new state park. The approach was simple; they would not collect and remove all of the fossils discovered, but would expose them and leave them in place within the volcanic ash to enable people to see and share in this magnificent find.

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Mural of Miocene Age. Photo from www.tripadvisor.com The discovery has since given forth data concerning diet, the disease processes of each separate genus, the population dynamics between the species, and clues to social behavior like no other discovery before. Paleontologists have been given an astounding snapshot of life in Nebraska as it existed over ten million years ago.

Where else can paleontologists and anthropologists get a rare glimpse of evolution at work? At Ashfall they have been given just that, most notably regarding the evolution of horses as they adapted to environmental changes.

When the Ashfall area was moist, the horses had three toes. One large central toe was flanked on each side by two smaller toes to aid the horse’s traction. Evolutionary changes in horses are the most clearly documented in fossil records. While some prehistoric horses had three toes, others had only one…the precursor to the modern day hoof.

There is a multitude of preparators at Ashfall, like Greg Brown, who was given the task of doing detailed preparations on Sandy and Justin, a mother-baby pair of rhinos, preserved in death while touching noses. Several more discoveries were made of young rhinos dying while nursing. One can only imagine the helpless despair and agony these animals suffered as they watched each other die.

Another preparator, Ellen Stepleton, worked on the remains of an adult female rhino given the name Amy. She is one of the rhino fossils found housing the skeletal remains of her unborn calf in her pelvic cavity. Her stomach and mouth contain the remnants of her last meal of grass seeds and leaves, and her shoulder harbors the wound of a carnivorous scavenger. ‘Amy’ is one of 25 permanent fossil residents in the ‘Rhino Barn’ on display for visitors to the park.

In close proximity to ‘Amy’ in the barn are the remains of a small deer–like animal (Longirostromeryx), a camel, numerous other scattered bones, and a three-toed horse coined with the name, ‘Dr. Marie.’ The fossil was named after the person who first described the association of abnormal bone growth in relation to severe lung damage or disease. This condition is called hypertrophic pulmonary osteodystrophy, and as the animals inhaled the abrasive dust, they would have experienced high fevers and swelling. This condition is usually found in living animals and humans, but until the discovery of Ashfall, it had seldom, if ever, been seen in fossils.

Evidence of the same abnormal pathologic bone growths found in modern day animals who have suffered from oxygen deprivation and lung failure, were found on the bones of every fossil at Ashfall. It is highly likely that all of the animals experienced lung damage caused by breathing great quantities of the highly toxic and abrasive volcanic ash.

Now over forty years later, that same Nebraska cornfield is the Ashfall Fossil Beds State Historical Park. Every year during the five month field season from May to October, the park visitors have the VOL 8, ISSUE 3

rare opportunity to watch as scientists and interns sweep away the soft, gray volcanic ash to discover more new fossils while working under the protective canopy of the 17,500 square foot Rhino Barn, The newest barn was constructed after a generous donation of 1.2 million dollars from the Theodore and Claire Hubbard Family Foundation in 2007. Since Voorhies initial discovery, 17 separate vertebrate species have been uncovered and cataloged, and more than 200 fossils from the 12 species of the Claredonian Land Mammal Age have been discovered on the site.

The youngest fossil from 1.3 million years ago is of a Stegomastodon from a site in Hitchcock County near Trenton, Nebraska. The Stegomastodon was the last surviving member of the ‘gomphoteres’, the primitive tuskers, lineage. The ‘gomphoteres,’ first entered North America over 15 million years ago and were replaced by a newly arrived immigrant…the mammoth, precursor to the modern day elephant.

Once again, Voorhies and his wife Jane were on site to lead the excavation process along with University of Nebraska State Museum staff and a plethora of volunteers from Trenton and surrounding areas. Within a two week period, Voorhies had over 1,000 volunteers to assist in the fossil removal.

There are only approximately half a dozen enclosed fossil sites in North America. Of those, Ashfall Fossil Beds is the only one that continues to unearth large intact skeletons that resemble real animals. In addition, Ashfall Fossil Beds State Historical Park is the only site in the world where large, prehistoric, three-dimensional skeletons are preserved.

Since its opening, the park has hosted between 20,000 and 30,000 visitors annually. Over 150 University of Nebraska students have gained practical field research experience working as interns at Ashfall. At any given time, six to eight university students/interns can be found working the site.

The park is open to the public on Tuesdays thru Saturdays, from st th May 1 thru October 13 . The admission fee is $5.00 per park visitor ages 3 and up. In addition to the entrance fee, visitors must have a valid Nebraska Park Entry Permit, which is either $5.00 for a daily permit or $26.00 for an annual permit.

After researching Ashfall, I can’t wait to see the park in person.

Excavating fossilized rhinos. Photo from www.rareresource.com The research and information noted in the article is from: The University of Nebraska State Museum, the Smithsonian.com, University of Nebraska, Lincoln, Wikipedia, and the Ashfall Fossil Beds State Historical Park.

Claudia Aragon lives in San Diego, California. Her poem, “You Move Me” was just published in the 2013 Magee Park Poets Anthology and her writing has been featured in The San Diego Reader, The Paper and The Sacramento, Chico and Tahoe News and Review papers, as well as The Adventures for the Average Woman, Tough Lit, IdeaGems and Green Prints magazines. She loves poetry and is inspired to write every day.

WWW.IDEAGEMS.COM

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Walking Spirit Way: An Encounter with Elder Brent Allaire, Medicine Man

by Laurie Notch A Dunkin’ Donuts shop may not seem the best setting to meet with a Native American medicine man, but that is where I sat with Bear Clan Elder Brent Allaire to learn about his spirit way.

As an anthropologist, I have encountered many indigenous healers and shamans in traditional cultures throughout the world, but I had never explored or encountered Native American practitioners. What good fortune to meet Elder Brent who would start me on my journey into the realm of traditional beliefs about body, mind, and spirit.

Elder Brent is a card-carrying Métisse.“Métisse means mixed blood,” he explains, “European blood and Native blood. I have more Native blood than European.” Elder Brent’s impressive tribal genealogy includes Huron, Iroquois, Black Feet, Cree, and Abenakee.

Moreover, he hails from the powerful Bear Clan.

Elder Brent has straddled two conflicting worlds. On one end, he was born with the gift of seeing, hearing, and communing with the spirit world. On the other, he served 17 years in the U.S. Marine Corps, having fought in the Vietnam War as part of an elite group of raiders. “I used to look up and down my line and I could tell who was going to die that day,” Brent explains, adding that the military used his talent by recruiting him for “projection” in the U.S. Army’s experimental paranormal program, (popularized in Jon Ronson’s book The Men who Stare at Goats). “I could be here and I could be someplace else at the same time.” Brent claims he was able to travel in time and space to see enemy Elder Brent Allaire in traditional dress locations and operations.

Brent was aware of his special gift but hadn’t truly “awakened” until attending a talking circle led by a Lakota Sioux Grandmother.

During her chant, a pair of hands landed on Brent’s but no one visible was touching him. As he was trying to figure this out, the Lakota Grandmother said, “You can see.”

Brent replied, “Grandmother, everyone in this room can see.”

“But not like you. The Old Ones just laid their hands on yours.” She then handed him her card and said, “Here’s my phone number. You give me a call and bring tobacco and we’ll talk. No tobacco, no talk.”

It would be 3 months before Brent went to meet her. She was teaching a group of people, but she told Brent to sit next to her (the place of honor). She then told the group, “Don’t let this old boy fool you. He knows you before you know yourself.”

Brent claims that his gift of “seeing” is like punching up a computer screen. All of a sudden, all the information about a person is there before him. The time came when he could no longer deny his gift and his mission. He became a full-time spiritual advisor, following in the footsteps of his father who knew he would come around eventually.

Brent spent years training in the detailed rituals of the sweat lodge, fire keeping, ceremonies of the sacred pipe, and the talking circle. One day, another Elder medicine person called him out as 4

“Elder.” This now certified him as a full-fledged medicine man. His reputation became so renown that the producer of the popular show Paranormal State contacted him to be one of their consultants. He appeared on many an episode.

Elder Brent explained the nature of his gift, which is used for healing and guidance and which he cannot deny using. It is improper to profit from it. “There are some who claim to be healers who charge thousands of dollars for doing a medicine wheel.” According to Brent, this is not true spirit way. He explains that the proper protocol is to approach a medicine man or woman with an offering of tobacco wrapped in red cloth. Then the spirit work can begin. If the person seeking guidance wants to show more appreciation, then a cash “donation” or “tribute” may be offered, but the gift of tobacco is a must upon arrival. When the session is over, say “owakonee,” which in Algonquin means “until we meet again.” Never say “goodbye,” as this is considered improper.

On the first Sunday of every month, Brent hoIds a talking circle at his home. Native Americans believe the circle puts everyone on an equal level. In a circle, everyone must face one another. A talking stick is passed around. Whoever has the stick in hand has permission to speak while everyone sits quietly and listens. The stick is passed to each and every person. Brent states that this is the way he helps families work through their issues. He points out, “It’s surprising what they actually hear from others when they have to sit quiet and listen and wait for their turn.”

At the talking circle, sage is burned in a bowl made from shell.

Elder Brent uses an eagle feather to “brush” the smoke over the center of his body, then over his head, up and down his arms and finally his legs. The same procedure applies to smudge everyone in the circle. The act of smudging clears the heart, mind, and body for better healing and reception to spirit. People come to the circle to learn about the sacred hoop of life as represented by the medicine wheel.

When I asked about the belief in healing through spiritual guidance and rituals versus modern medicine and psychotherapy, Elder Brent replied, “As my father used to say, ‘All medicine’s good. It’s all how it’s being used.’”

Elder Brent Allaire reminds everyone that everything begins and ends with the Creator, that the world of the Old Ones (the ancestors) is constantly interacting with the world of people. We need to listen more to the voice of trees, animals, and spirits. Otherwise, we fall out of balance and into chaos.

To learn more about spiritual guidance, medicine wheel, and talking circle, find Brent Allaire on Facebook or call 207-850-4040.

Laurie Notch has been the Managing Editor of IdeaGems Magazine since 2005. In 2010, Laurie made Google’s Top Ten Paranormal Writers list for her short story Death’s a Bitch and Then You Haunt. In 2012, she was featured in The Infinite Facets of Sphere, a European anthology.

SPRING 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Native American Expressions

by Ron Phillips Prévoir

Detail from painting of Indian ponies.

Ron Phillips Prévoir with Thunderbird wood piece Ron Phillips Prévoir is a Native American artist in the rural community of Shapleigh, Maine. He graduated from the Massachusetts College of Art with a B.S. in Education. He went on to receive his Master’s degree in education from Assumption College. He also studied at the Boston Museum School and the American School in Rome, Italy. He has taught art for 37 years at both the highschool and college levels, including the University of Southern Maine and St. Francis College.

Ron has been past president of the Art Guild of the Kennebunks.

He is still a member. He has judged the Ogunquit Chamber Sidewalk Show for five years. He is Shapleigh’s Artist in Residence.

Ron also owns and manages a farm in Shapleigh, Maine. His flock of chviot sheep is one of only twelve flocks left of this breed in Maine. Argyle, his prize ram, was the star of a national awardwinning children’s book. The flock has been nationally registerd since 1970.

Ron combines his life experiences to create works that educate and inspire. As an active artist and educator, he prefers watercolor for its fluidness, oil for its patina and texture, and wood for its natural state as found in nature.

Ron’s inspiration is drawn from nature’s creations and his native American background.

To contact Ron about his work, go to www.framersfineart.com or call 207-247-6948 or visit the Framer’s Workshop & Fine Art Gallery, Route One, Wells, Maine 04090.

Whale’s head carving (unfinished)

Dancing Eagle wood and feather sculpture Ron’s work is well-represented nationally through awards by the USDA and in private collections in sixteen states currently.

VOL 8, ISSUE 3

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VAWA and How It Impacts Indigenous Women

by Bright Star Being an Indigenous woman can be a dangerous thing especially on a reservation. Native American women are murdered at 10 times the national average rate. 34% of them are raped in their lifetime. Think about that for a minute. Imagine if for every three women you met one of them had been raped. The non-Native average for female rape victims is 25%. This number is abysmal but still lower in comparison to the rate for American Indian women who total less than 2% of the total US population.

A lot of the violence against Indian women on reservations are caused by non-Indian perpetrators. Tribal courts up until the current passage of VAWA could not prosecute them. So basically someone could walk on to a reservation and beat, torture, rape and murder Indigenous woman and get away with it. If you thought that state and federal law enforcement was going to do anything about it, forget about it. They lack resources and will to help out a reservation two or more hours away from them.

Believe it or not, until 1978, tribal jurisdiction could prosecute nonNative miscreants. That all changed when the Supreme Court ruled against it. Coincidentally, 67% of declined criminal cases sent to the DOJ (Department of Justice) were sexually violent in nature.

The Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) was first signed in 1994.

It was reauthorized in 2000 and 2005 by Congress. VAWA provides approximately 1.6 billion dollars towards the investigation and prosecution of violent crimes against women. It also provides automatic and mandatory restitution from the convicted. Male victims of domestic violence, dating violence, rape, and stalking are also covered under VAWA. The Violence Against Women Act provides programs and services such as: · The Federal Rape Shield law · Various community violence prevention programs · Protection for females evicted from their homes due to acts of violence · Legal aid for the survivors of violence · Funding for victim assistance programs and other beneficial services In February of 2013, the Senate and House of Representatives passed an extension onto the law. It is because of this extension that now tribal authorities can prosecute non-Natives for criminal behavior on the reservations. We here at Eagle Speaks hope that this will make members of the reservation community feel a bit safer when walking down the street.

Bright Star is from Havertown and spent her childhood growing up in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. Those experiences, as well as the adventurous life she leads, has made her the person that she is today.

She is of Cherokee heritage and belongs to the Eagle Medicine Band of Cherokee Indians. In her spare time, she enjoys volunteering, reading, spiritual pursuits, creating new products for her business, and spending time with her friends and family.

Bright Star created “The Wholistic Artisan” line in February of 2013.

Since then she has worked tirelessly to make innovative products such as orgonite, medicine wheels, dreamcatchers and a host of many other spiritual artifacts designed to help humanity. She has gotten positive feedback on all of her items and she hopes that they will continue to heal and help people. To contact Bright Star or place an order email tearz4humanity@gmail.com.

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Medicine Wheel

Rouge Bird dreamcatcher

Excuses and Regrets

by Bright Star In the evening during the last rainfall, when the irony of the day has slid down the window sill, she sits and ponders in the autumn of her years about the times past and regrets never absolved.

They often say when people get older, it’s not the things they did that they regret, it’s the things they didn’t do.

She thinks about the time she should have told her one true love that she loved him too (oh well…).

The arguments that she had with her mother… (it happens).

How about that time she should have smacked her son in the back of the head with a rolled-up newspaper for taking the Holy Lord’s name in vain… (hmm).

Or that time the neighbor’s dog took a dump in her driveway and tried to act like it wasn’t her when it wasn’t cleaned up.

She sits and stares at her reflection in the empty martini glass…shaken not stirred… (oh well, maybe tomorrow…)

SPRING 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

An Evening of One-Acts

by Carolyn Gage Carolyn Gage is a playwright, performer, director, and activist. The author of nine books on lesbian theatre and 65 plays, musicals, and onewoman shows, she specializes in non-traditional roles for women, especially those reclaiming famous lesbians whose stories have been distorted or erased from history. She has won the Maine Library Award in Drama, and her collection of plays, The Second Coming of Joan of Arc and Selected Plays, won the Lambda Library Award in Drama, the top LGBT book award in the U.S. All of her books and plays are available online at www.carolyngage.com.

Recently, two of Carolyn’s one-act plays, Little Sister and Harriet Tubman Visits a Therapist, were performed at the Acorn Studio Theater in Westbrook, Maine. Here are Carolyn’s comments about these works.

In 2010, Amnesty International published a report titled, "Maze of Injustice: The failure to protect Indigenous women from sexual violence in the USA." This play was inspired by a desire to respond, as a playwright, to the situation documented in that report, by my personal experiences in witnessing stories from Native American women within my Twelve-Step recovery community, and by my ongoing commitment to the cultural reclamation of lesbians and so-called masculine (or "butch") women who have been erased from history.

According to the Amnesty report. Native American women are at least 2.5 times more likely to be sexually assaulted in their lifetimes as other women in the United States, and at least eighty-six percent of reported rapes or other sexual assaults against Indigenous women are committed by non-Indian men who are rarely prosecuted or punished.

The failure to pursue justice in such cases is due to a number of factors, the report noted, including chronic underfunding of police and health services, and a "complex maze of tribal, state and federal jurisdictions that is so confusing that it often allows perpetrators to evade justice entirely." While tribal governments have substantial autonomy over their internal affairs, the federal government has

steadily eroded their justice systems, particularly in areas that involve non-Native individuals or interests.

There is frequently reluctance on the part of all victims of domestic and sexual violence to report to authorities, but Native American women have valid reasons for their fear of retaliation and their lack of confidence that the authorities will take allegations of assault seriously.

According to Sarah Deer, an attorney with the Tribal Law and Policy Institute, "American Indian and Alaska Native women are living in a virtual war zone, where rape, abuse, and murder are commonplace and sexual predators prey with impunity.

In many tribal communities, rape and molestation are so common that young women fully expect that they will be victims of sexual violence at some point." In February 2013, Congress finally passed an extension of the Violence Against Women Act, which included provisions extending tribal jurisdiction and offering greater protection to Native American women.

The N'dee (a.k.a. "Apache") culture includes the Sunrise Ceremony, a four-day communal celebration that marks the first menstruation of an N'dee girl as she enters puberty. I was interested in the contradiction between this empowering heritage and the disempowering "expectation" described by Sarah Deer.

In Little Sister, I attempt to incorporate the conflicting views about the use of histories recorded by white people, and also the problematic nature of ascribing a lesbian or butch identity to a historical, indigenous figure.

The Two-Spirit tradition has by no means eradicated homophobia in Native American communities, and I wanted to write a play that celebrated the "out" lesbians in these communities and that addressed the prejudice they face where the traditional values of the Catholic Church have become woven into the fabric of Native life. * * * Both plays were directed by Stephanie Ross, who earned her BFA in Acting from NYU. She is currently the director of drama at Massabesic High and Middle Schools, and she also teaches acting at Acorn.

IdeaGems Magazine interviewed Director Stephanie Ross and Actress Alfine Nathalie about their experiences and impressions of these two very powerful women-driven plays .

Stephanie, tell us about the play that you are directing--what is it about and why is it significant?

These 2 plays tell the stories of healing in the face of oppression of moving forward through barricades.

We see Harriet Tubman' s struggle for freedom as she contends with a modern day therapist who tries to teach Harriet how to accept her fate as a slave by using therapeutic techniques to block out reality. Harriet has no use for anything or anyone who refuses to fight for what is right. She fears nothing, not threat of pain or death.

She knows she should be free and she simply won't stop until she is free or she will die trying.

Little Sister is a play that brings to light the many results of the history of Native Americans. It is a modern-day story of a family that is living on an Apache reservation in the Southwest. A family that has been torn apart by alcoholism, prejudice, and sexual child abuse.

The characters in this play are survivors. They deal to the best of their ability. This is a story of healing within while crimes persist. It is a story of doing what is necessary to give hope and protection to the most vulnerable, the children.

The significance is that example that both plays set in regards to continuing to pursue justice, to fight for what is true and right, and to never give up no matter how hard times are. To know yourself and

Actors Angela Moline and Beth Chasse VOL 8, ISSUE 3

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be proud of your history and to realize that the only chains that can hold you back are the ones in your own head.

What more would you like to say about your career in the performing arts?

I have been involved in theatre since I was a very young child. I can't remember ever making a decision about it. I only know that I loved it and that I wanted to be a part of it. I acted in school and community theatre until the time I graduated high school and took my chances in New York City. I attended the American Musical and Dramatic Academy and later graduated from New York University. There I studied acting with Pulitzer prize winning playwright David Mamet, William H. Macy and Felicity Huffman. (David later cast me in his film The Spanish Prisoner.) I had the opportunity to perform with the Atlantic Theatre Company. I left New York abruptly after my dad had died in 1995.

My mom was not well and needed care.

We moved from Rhode Island to Vermont and was able to continue to perform as an actor at many different companies. Finally it was in Maine where I had my daughter Angela Moline (who plays Onawah in Little Sister). When she was two, I started directing plays at Massabesic Middle and High Schools and quickly discovered Acorn Productions and its artistic director Michael Levine . Here I was given more opportunities such as directing at The Maine Play Festival, teach acting classes, and became an actor in the Naked Shakespeare Ensemble. Through Acorn's exposure, I have freelance- directed at many theatres including the St. Lawrence Performing Arts Center, Lucid Stage, and the Samuel Beckett Theatre Off Off Broadway in NYC. I am a member of all the acting unions, AEA, SAG/AFTRA. My career has been extremely rewarding for me. I love what I do, plain and simple. There is never enough time in the day to get everything done, So boredom is never an issue.

What advice/words of encouragement do you have for women striving to manifest their creativity?

My advice to women in manifesting their careers? Look inward and LISTEN to your inner voice, your gut feeling... it's not about money, don't focus on money... if you are doing what you love, you will have happiness... focus on that. If you don't know what you want, ask yourself, and I mean REALLY ask yourself out loud, "How do I achieve my hearts desire?" I am POSITIVE that you will take steps, subconciously as it may be, to make your own dreams come true.

Study what you love, learn everything you can, ARM yourself with information, become an expert at your craft. Nothing is easy, and being a woman doesn't make it any easier. That's why it is so important to prepare yourself and become knowledgeable in your field. Knowledge is power… it really is! Listen to people when they talk, give them your attention...there is always more to learn, be respectful to people's feelings in your disagreements, treat people like you want to be treated and you will get respect back. If you truly love something and you make it your life's work to be the best you can be at it, the only thing that will stop you from achieving success, is giving up trying. Never give up. If you love it, study it and NEVER GIVE UP.

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Alfine Nathalie (who plays Harriet Tubman) was born in Nairobi, Kenya and was raised in Portland, Maine. She is a newcomer to the acting world, having only taken several acting classes and dabbled in school productions. In her free time, Alfine can be found frolicking in nature, writing her latest epiphanies or capturing memorable moments on her new camera.

Alfine, why is this play important for women?

April 2013, what a time to be alive in. While I awake each day with the intention to see the beauty and wonder in humankind, it doesn’t take long to be met with the harsh negativity that still dwells on our planet. Carolyn Gage’s two one-act plays seem to capture this same sentiment.

The stories told by the various women in the plays juxtapose the dark, pained wounds of their societies alongside the hope and inspiration that emerge as a result. For Harriet Tubman, the inspiration behind one of Gage’s plays, it’s clear that she utilized spirituality, faith, and her connection to the unseen as tools to help her overcome the atrocities that flooded her daily life. Leaning upon only that which she felt with her heart and knew with her soul, she was able to escape slavery and make freedom a reality for herself and hundreds of others. The performance of this piece comes at a time when humanity is in peak desperation of the courage and soul demonstrated by women like Harriet Tubman. The only difference is that instead of looking to one person to save us, more of us agree that we are faced with the collective task of transformation.

Transformation – this word adequately describes the metaphorical “special of the day” in realities past, present and future. In Tubman’s time, she used the iniquitous torture as fuel to spark the rage that transformed into heroism and bravery. As the actress portraying this revolutionary spirit, I am continually faced with the duty of morphing into a strong-willed, defiant woman whose acts are born from the belief that insists, “I got two rights – de right to freedom, and de right to die!” As a global community, if we hope to see our tomorrows on this planet, it’s imperative that we use inspired action to make the changes that will spark a worldwide transformation.

Though much of Gage’s work emphasizes the importance of women, we must also acknowledge the role that men play.

Ultimately, it’s not about men versus women but instead recognizing the necessity of balance between the masculine and feminine built within us all. For women, we must use our natural gifts of intuition and sensitivity to know when it is appropriate to exercise a more logical, left-brained, linear way of being. On the other hand, it’s crucial that men cultivate their emotional, feeling-based, rightbrained side to better serve the needs of those who look up to them for guidance.

As citizens of this world, we are currently faced with a unique task: one that requires presence, compassion, faith, and most importantly, willingness. It was pure will that moved Tubman from the chains of slavery to the life of freedom in Pennsylvania. Will is what Gage uses to write pieces – often controversial— that tickle society’s mind.

With the will to transform, humanity has the potential to shift from a world built on cold-hearted greed and fear, to one of love, compassion and equality – traits we can’t afford to overlook much longer.

SPRING 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Six and a Half

The Zoo

by Bonnie Wheeler

by Vince McDermott

I had been to the zoo often when I was a child. On many occasions I had been thrilled by the exhibits. But, as time progressed, I had lost interest in the same old sights. As I grew older, I visited the zoo less and less.

Then I became intrigued by the announcements that a new exhibit was being shown. I went to the zoo with some misgivings. I was not impressed by the entrance and by the first cages I passed. There had been no change. I had almost decided to leave when I noticed a banner which proclaimed that the new exhibit was to be found ahead. I hesitated, but, since I was there, I went on.

I passed under the banner and approached the cage. I was really disappointed. What a disgusting exhibit! A pale, thin being with no outstanding features. All it did was eat, expel, scream, and crash against its cage. As I left, I looked back at the sign identifying the species. It read…

HOMO SAPIENS

The Question

by Vince McDermott The book collector approached the door. It was a plain door, painted in white, set in a white frame. It was surrounded by a whitish haze. It had a white doorknob. It seemed as if he had no choice but to open it.

He grasped the doorknob and turned it. It moved easily, silently.

He opened the door and stepped into a room. His mouth opened in complete awe. It was the most sumptuously decorated room he had ever seen. A cheery fire was burning in a large fireplace. A table was in front of it, with two comfortable armchairs nearby. He saw that the table was laden with a selection of the finest food available. Bottles of the greatest wines of the world had been placed on the table.

Then a door opened. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen walked in. She walked over to the table, poured two glasses of wine, and handed one to him. He was dumbfounded. He took the glass and was about to drink when he noticed something. In this magnificently furnished room, there were no bookcases!

He couldn't understand that. He asked the woman why there were no bookcases and no books. She pointed to a small table in a corner.

There was one book on it. The book collector hurried over to it, completely ignoring the woman, the food, and the wine. It had to be one of the greatest, most treasured books in the world.

The book was very, very old. The cover of battered leather was flaking. He opened it and began to read. He read a few pages, then hurried on to others. He was flabbergasted. He looked up in horror.

It was the only book in the room - and it was awful - complete drivel possibly the worst book ever written. He sank down into one of the chairs. What is going on?

QUESTION: Was he in heaven or was he in hell?

(See Vince’s bio. on p.25)

When we are in grade school, we love to tell people we are sixand-a-half or ten-and-a-half. We look at the junior high kids and want to be that age, turn sixteen, get our driver’s license. Look out world! We can’t wait to be twenty-one when we will own the world.

No more parents’ interference. We have control—until we don’t. Life has a way of slapping you in the face when you lose your job and can’t pay bills. When you are up all night with a sick child, you discover your parents did understand and gave you good advice, and you still need them. Twenty- one did not have all the answers. You push through your 30th and 40th birthdays. You survive your own marriage, teenagers, young love, weddings, divorces, and grandchildren, at last understanding and getting paid back for making your folks crazy.

You are so surprised to be 50—half of 100. How did that happen?

By 65 you are looking at happy retirement—or maybe not. Maybe another ten years’ working will make your future more secure. By then you will have figured out that money in the bank is not your security. One major illness can rock your safe world. When someone asks your age now, you never say, “71-and-a-half” or “84-and-ahalf”. Probably, like me, you mumble, hoping they do not catch your true age. Today, people are living to be over 100. They are so proud to tell you they are 102-and-a-half—full circle! By the way, my age is uh…uh…and-a-half.

(See Bonnie’s bio. on p.25)

The Juxtapose

by Gregory A. Andrews

From the top of the tree it was much easier to see the North Star.

Lost in the middle of nowhere was not exactly how I thought this day would end. Of course, waking up this morning in my ex-girl friend’s bath tub is not how I pictured beginning my day either.

At least this breeze feels nice, especially on the cheek she smacked yesterday, now that I remember! It must have been before the blackout... She smacked me! She invited me over to “talk,” and next thing I know, pow! Right on the jaw. Then bathtub, then woods, now tree. I need to stop drinking, then maybe everything wouldn’t be so juxtaposed. I’ll stop tomorrow… if I ever make it out of these woods.

What did I say to Tabby to make her so mad? Or maybe it was what I didn’t say, I just don’t know anymore. Now here I sit, in this tall and gnarled tree, grateful for a little wind. Maybe, if my head wasn’t so lost, I would care a little bit more about my physical location. Maybe, if I had some more booze, I would care a little less.

North Star... Right. I have my bearings now, I suppose. At the very least, I have a direction for my march. Perhaps I could just stay here, well, maybe not here in this tree, but here in the woods where no one can find me and I can’t find reception for this stupid cellular phone. Damn text messages! Damn voicemail! I can’t help but wonder what kind of sound this thing would make if I just tossed it as far as I could right now. Now there is a thought, if a cell phone rings in the woods and no one is around to hear it….

I could use a drink. I could use a nap and a bag of ice for my face. I could use a better memory from my days as a boy scout.

(See Greg’s bio. on p.25)

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Now Boarding

by P.K. Allen P.A. ANNOUNCEMENT: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to U.S. Airways Flight number 3194 from Philadelphia to Portland, Maine, departing at 11:00. The aircraft is now ready for boarding at Gate C31 at this time. Please have your boarding passes ready.”

My thoughts: Yeah, right.

I landed at Gate B20 at 7:25 and finally got off the aircraft about 7:45 and had to hustle from B20 to A4 for an 8:25 boarding. When I got to A4, the gate had been changed to A7. When I got to A7, the sign read “Providence.” I asked the ticket attendant if I was at the right gate. She replied that I was, but the flight to Portland had been delayed till 10:33. While I was waiting, I found that the woman sitting across from me had been there since 3:00. Her 4:00 flight to Portland was cancelled. It was about 9:20 when someone shouted that the gate had been changed again. It was now Gate C31 for a 9:43 departure. Let me tell you, that was a long way from A7.

Everyone moved as fast as they could. When we arrived, the ticket attendant said the pilot was on his way from Cleveland, and the estimated departure time was 11:00. It was now 10:30, and we were finally ready to board. But the pilot wasn’t there yet, and not only that, they had downsized the plane. So now there were not enough seats for everyone. They had to get volunteers to stay overnight and take the first flight out in the morning.

“Will all wheelchair and handicapped passengers and those in need of assistance please board the aircraft through gate C31 at this time using the blue carpeted aisle?”

“Will all first class passengers please board the aircraft at this time using the blue carpeted aisle?”

Let’s see. My ticket says “Group 4.” I think it’s going to be awhile.

“Will all military personnel and passengers with children two years old or younger please board the aircraft at this time using the blue carpeted aisle?”

“Will all U.S Airways preferred customers and air miles customers please board the aircraft at this time using the blue carpeted aisle?”

“Will all Visa-preferred customers and air miles customers please board the aircraft at this time using the blue carpeted aisle?”

A few minutes had gone by and the ticket attendants had moved about four feet over to the main counter.

“Will all passengers holding tickets for Zone 1 please board the aircraft at this time, using the red carpeted aisle?”

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Hey, wait a second, I puzzled. Passengers are still going through the same gate and down the same ramp. They’ve only moved over four feet so they won’t walk on the blue carpeted aisle. What’s that all about?

“Will all passengers holding tickets for Zone 2 please board the aircraft at this time, using the red carpeted aisle?”

“Will all passengers holding tickets for Zone 3 please board the aircraft at this time, using the red carpeted aisle?”

Well, I guess I’m next. I must be. I’m the only one sitting here. The other passengers are at the gate waiting to be called. I’ll be the last to board.

“Will all passengers holding tickets for Group 4 please board the aircraft at this time, using the red carpeted aisle?”

Well, that’s me. I finally made it. I’ll proceed to the red carpeted aisle and make sure not to step on the blue carpeted aisle as I may be guilty of a carpet aisle violation and be subject to a fine or penalty. I can see it all now. I step onto the blue carpeted aisle. An alarm sounds and here come the Carpet Aisle Police. “Sir, would you please step out of the aisle. May I see your driver’s license and boarding pass?” I can see he’s checking everything on a computer. He hands my license and boarding pass back to me.“Sir, since this is your first offense, we’re going to let you off with a warning. However, in the future would you please use the designated carpeted aisle when boarding the aircraft? Please step onto the red carpeted aisle and continue boarding.”

“Thank you officer, it won’t happen again.”

Boy, was I lucky.

As I approached the ticket attendant I couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Could it be, I hope he doesn’t touch me. I might catch something, or more likely, Good, the last freaking passenger. Now I can go home and go to bed..?

After being checked in, I made my way down the ramp and board the aircraft and As I strut down the aisle Basking in all of my glory I just hope that last seat Isn’t in the lavatory.

I do have a couple of final notes about this flight. The pilot arrived at 10:45 and apologized for the delay as there were problems in Cleveland. To his credit, we arrived in Portland just 49 minutes after takeoff. Wow, that was fast! However, when I looked to my left across the aisle, I saw an empty seat.

SPRING 2013

(See Paul’s bio. on p.25)

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Four Poems

by Margie Kivel

Cooking Soup

Emptying

For years I have teetered on the edge of the learning curve of life lessons that extend beyond the known balancing acts.

Dig deep and reach for gold; it holds the story of this life and its final resolution, metaphoric heart mind lifting up a final gift.

The “ahas” have been replaced by “I knew that, so what’s new?

Why revisit over and over…?”

No answer needed.

Think of the weightlessness of light, drifts of honeysuckle that travel across continents with the purpose of westerly winds.

I would say I suffer from a profound stubbornness that keeps the split pea pot boiling on a continuous flame.

Act with the kingfisher’s dive for fish that feeds the soul, eyes wide open as you break the surface of your quest.

I refused to believe things wouldn’t change without lowering the heat or adding water to open up

Then be that which you desire, perfected one bearing treasure, spilling jewels of other worlds until there comes the final emptying.

the space between the peas, allowing things to float up so they can be read like the patterns of tea leaves.

Identities

The breaking point is near when refusal produces scars on the soul, black bottomed pots that have lost their use for soup.

I am not country, I am humanity.

I am not old, I am timeless.

I am not sect, I am part of circle.

I no longer resist but yearn to be burned away, so new beans may be washed and set to simmer on spirit’s stove.

I am life, I am love, I am hope.

Search for Yellow It is the pause in the music where we hang on the last note with such hunger for the next; this time of waiting for winter dreams to issue forth, blind to the luminance hidden beneath bodies arched form, stretching between worlds.

(See Margie’s bio. on p.25)

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Cherry Blossoms

by J. Patricia Henkin-Bookman

They had known each other as children. They played in each other’s gardens and cherry blossom orchards, collecting and throwing the variegated pinks and cherry-colored petals at each other, as American children threw fallen Autumn leaves and dived into piles of them raked by their fathers in their backyards. Her hair was long and silken, opal black, shining and shimmering, reflecting the sun’s long-reaching rays. His jet-black hair was her equal, but his eyes were piercing like a smoldering ember in a night-dying fire on the hearth.

They enjoyed secret games and silly jokes like any other children.

And then, one day, when they were teenagers, he made her a collage, all from the rainbow petals of pinks and reds and whites in the form of a cherry blossom itself. He selected the rarest of the cherry blossom trees in her backyard to search out his mosaics, since there was only one to be had and her father had procured it. It was rare because running down just one of the delicate flower’s veins, almost invisible was a hidden stream of deep blue. If you blinked, you might miss it. He had often heard her father speak of this rare hybrid and how proud he was to have been given it as a wedding gift from one of the monks at their temple.

He signed his name in Kanji, “Prince of the Garden,” and he gave it to her, the “Cherry Blossom Princess.” In the meantime, their parents watched them surreptitiously, from behind tall thin windows, grow and mature, secretly hoping their beautiful children might one day become husband and wife, but betrothals were no longer the fashion in their ancient culture. Instead, their parents planned an elaborate eighteenth birthday party at her home.

There were many guests scattered amidst the intricate Japanese sculptures and statues and other priceless artworks, sampling the evening’s fare. His parents, secretly aware of the underlying purpose of the celebration, brought the unsuspecting suitor and, even as he entered the modernized Japanese humble but elegant home, his eyes met hers and stayed locked for that necessary only one instant, yet securing the already existing bond between them. They were across the crowded room, but no one could ignore the mystical enchanting gaze they exchanged. Then, something someone nearby said caught her attention, eliciting a lilting chime-like laugh, coquettish yet seductive, and she traipsed around the room, the fabulously long golden dragon embroidered on her blood-red kimono swirling and twirling with her in a big circle.

And so the official courting began.

Of course, they were never left alone. The art of being chaperoned was not yet obsolete. Of course, they were well suited, each family wealthy in its own right, each child schooled in the ancient Japanese customs of the art of wooing. Of course, the courtship was carefully and skillfully planned out in time and cultural obligations, and in the end, the happy couple were united under a canopy of cherry blossom trees at the nearby Buddhist temple.

The wedding gift: a trip to America to attend a long-planned wedding celebration to be hosted by their American relatives in New York. It was held at the Waldorf Astoria, one of the most historic and prestigious hotels in America known for its art-deco style, also known for the now unused and mostly unknown railway station underground serviced by an elevator big enough to house FDR’s private car when he wished to use it. It’s said that priceless objets d’art have been discovered in these hidden bowels, some as identifiable as FDR’s own dinner plates with his presidential seal and initials.

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SPRING 2013

When the happy couple arrived, they were greeted by a reception worthy of the Emperor Hirohito himself and his Empress. Their honeymoon suite, the best the hotel could offer and for which special provisions had been made, had cherry blossoms carpeting their room and their matrimonial bed.

While their celebration, filled with joy and many wishes for good luck, proceeded as planned, in the grand ballroom (a full four stories high), another meeting, of sorts, was being experienced in Peacock Alley downstairs. This was not exactly a celebration but also an ancient cultural event, its purpose: a Vendetta.

A group of men entered, dressed in recognizable Famiglia attire.

They frequented the Waldorf numerous times and while not unnoticed, usually without incident. The families were famous for visiting this locale. In the old days, gangsters such as Frank Costello, Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel and the notorious Charles “Lucky” Luciano even lived in the Waldorf Astoria for a time. This evening, the serenity of previous gatherings was missing and took on a different tone.

The families had been negotiating for years, power shifting from one to the other whenever the head of a major family died or was removed from command. There had been the death of Don Luigi, head of the second largest family last month and the not-unexpected power play between the new don and the ruling family had the police of the city on guard, watching and waiting for what was surely to come: the war.

The meal started quietly enough, first with some libations in the Bull and Bear’s Wine Library, then moved subtly back to the Peacock Alley Restaurant, which once connected the original two hotels, the Waldorf and the Astoria. O Sole Mio could be heard in the background, played on Cole Porter’s Steinway & Sons grand piano in the lobby. Ordering was standard and the chefs were well prepared for the customary menu. Course after course skirted the grandiose table specially prepared for the most important members of the clan.

Without warning, shots rang out.

They were too close.

Having just come down from the grand ballroom to snatch a slip of fresh air outside, she immediately beckoned to her love to get down behind a big upholstered chair and he did. She hid beside a long circling staircase.

Shots continued to ring out and hardly seemed real. They pierced the chair behind which her husband hid killing him instantly. The stark whiteness of his tuxedo shirt was splattered with blood. There were shadings of pink, but only from the way his blood leaked out of his shattered body; most of his wounds were cherry red. She draped herself over his body, covering him with her long silken shawl of shimmering violet and red flowers, embracing him with the flowing arms of her matrimonial kimono and sobbed hysterically.

She remembered nothing else until she woke up again in Japan.

Back in Japan, the “princess” sat in her room, unable to fully comprehend the cruel twist fate had thrown at them. Winter was now upon them and the gardens and spirit house she erected for her “prince” sat covered in snow from top to bottom, the opening for the spirit to come and go barely visible.

One morning, she awoke to the singing notes of the harbinger of spring sitting on the front lawn. Still, there was nothing to raise her spirits, except the melting of the snow on her true love’s spirit house, the opening now visible through and through. She had tied the customary red ribbon around the monument and it fluttered ever so gently in the morning breezes.

The tree he had cherished, as did her father, was showing signs of coming into bloom. Baby white buds appeared sporadically on its arms reaching up to the heavens. It was the first time since his death that she allowed herself to smile ever so slightly, remembering his collage which still hung in her bedroom. But happy memories elicited IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

tears as did the not so happy ones and a tiny tear ran down her porcelain skin. The slip of a milk-white hand brushed against her cheek to soak it up and caress it, like a newborn diamond is caressed by the coal that surrounds it.

She had, of late, at least gone down to the family dining room and although she didn’t feel totally committed to this nuance, she dressed and made her way slowly downstairs. Her parents looked up, half expecting to see a white sea punctured by two reddened windows on the world. But this morning, there was something different about her. She greeted her parents in customary Japanese fashion and took her seat at the end of the table, crossing her legs in front of her.

Morning meals were simple and there was always green tea, a favorite of hers. She sipped at it slowly, savoring it, as she now savored those few short days of her married life. It ran down her throat like viscous honey, heavy and sweet, just as her honeymoon had almost been. She ate little and responded with uninterested sounds and nods to her parents’ poor attempts at light conversation.

They wondered how long she could go on like this, eating little, barely communicating, all foreshadowing a terribly long mourning period. But they also prayed… prayed for a sign from their creator, a sign to reawaken the beauty that although was still there, remained truly captured in his cherry blossom collage.

As both gardens came into full bloom, she watched the trees from the windowsill of her room. Whites and pinks and reds everywhere.

Soon the ground would be carpeted in their beauty, the tree trunks their only separation.

The rare tree with the blue river hidden within it had budded as well. But mysteriously, this Spring there were no little blue streams anywhere to be seen on any blossom. And so, she finally ventured outside, curious now, as to what had happened to her father’s prized tree.

When she walked over to the tree, she found her father already there. He was gently massaging one of the closest blooms between his fingers. He turned to look at her and his face told her he was sad.

She looked up at him lovingly, assuring him that it wasn’t important anymore, that all that had been important in the world had died like the blue river running through the petals of his tree.

Neither of them noticed the tree by her window, a tree whose blossoms had always been more like snow drops, almost void of color. The wind blew to catch their attention and both turned to the older tree. One single petal swirled and circled and finally settled gently in her waiting hand.

In the middle of the single solitary petal ran down a startling discovery. She could almost swear she heard his voice whispering through the blossoms telling her how much he loved her, how he would never leave her. And there, not one, but two sliver-thin blue lines ran separate paths, joining in the middle to form one single, solitary tributary to the edge of the palest white petal. There wasn’t any other blossom on the tree to confirm what she had seen.

In years to come, the tree would bring forth only one such blossom and it always fell at her feet. She looked up into the heavens, knowing she would never be truly alone ever again.

Thoughts from an Octogenarian

by Donna G. Sciascia You can do it!

You can do it!

So just do it. Do it. Do it.

Don’t listen to those who say you can’t.

Can’t.

Can’t.

Taste it.

Taste it.

Go ahead and taste it.

You may find you hate it.

But if you find you like it You’ll be glad you took the chance.

Relax.

Smell the roses And other kinds of posies.

Why else do we have noses?

Don’t be the walking texter Who missed a gorgeous view.

Keep your standards And your values.

But fear not To hear another’s point of view.

We do not learn while we are talking.

Shut your mouth and listen.

Hear something new.

Shoulders back.

Head up high.

Look your neighbor in the eye.

Sidewalk cracks are really bleak.

Forget your feet.

Open up.

Risk the loving.

Risk the pain of losing.

If rejected? C’est la vie.

Move to another pond and cast again.

The fish you catch may be better Than the one who got away.

(See Patricia’s bio. on p.25)

VOL 8, ISSUE 3

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(See Donna’s bio. on p.25)

13

Hats Galore!

by Carole Christman Koch In the early 40s, like most children, I enjoyed dressing up in Mom’s dresses and the few hats she owned. At 70, I’m still enamored with hats, whether it’s today’s fashionable ones or the vintage kind.

As a teen, having been raised on a farm with nine siblings, hats weren’t an “in” item in my young life. White attending high school, my peers and I wore scarves for a head covering. Even if cute hats would have been in style, my parents wouldn’t have been able to afford them.

Before I was born, in the 30s, my older sisters told me Mom insisted they wear sunbonnets when working in the garden. They were made of pretty calico prints and were worn for sun protection.

Mom told them, “I don’t want you to look like “city” girls with a tan.”

Mom has a favorite hat when I was growing up. She raised peafowl. Every year the male lost its feathers. Mom tucked those gorgeous, colorful plumes in one of her head hugging “chapeau” hats that were popularized by Lucille Ball on the I Love Lucy show. It actually did look quite nice on Mom. Another hat was made famous by First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy in the 60s. It was the pillbox hat, with a flat crown, straight upright sides with no brim. This is the one I mainly wore as a young mother to church and always with gloves.

I may not wear hats to church any more, but I have an infatuation with all kinds of hats.

Soon after I was married, my husband and I had our first trip west.

The first thing we purchased was a symbol of the American West—a cowgirl/cowboy hat. We wore them on two other trips west, too.

Of course, I got to wear the first vintage hat I accumulated. The second honor went to the mannequin in the guest room. The grandkids, when younger and sleeping over, loved wearing them. I too joined in the fun of wearing them when we walked to the nearby mini-mart for ice cream. At Christmas time, for the family gathering, my basketful of vintage hats were brought downstairs. Both adults and children wore them.

On New Year’s Eve, if we had adult company, instead of paper hats, I brought down my vintage hats for all. My husband also had his own collection of derbies, baseball and golf hats, even a “beanie” from high school days, for the men.

Before my husband’s mother died, she lived in an assisted living nursing home. They had a Victorian decorated room for “special” family celebrations. We once held her family birthday gathering in this room. In the room was a tree rack filled with both men and women’s vintage hats. My husband and I were the first to grab a favorite to wear through the festivity.

I found a 1982 photo from a birthday party at Mom’s house. The sisters were all asked to create a hat for a contest. I, myself, had gift bows surrounding a straw hat. My creative sisters had gorgeous flower decorated hats. One sister, Mary Alice, got the prize for the most creative. Somehow, on a large brim hat, she had a real pineapple on top surrounded in a slew of fresh grapes. As she paraded around the room she ate the grapes.

Another party the six sisters had for Mom was after her stroke. We all wore hats we found in Mom’s closet. Mom, in her child-like manner, was tickled with her “hat” birthday party.

14

In 1984, my five sisters and I started the Christman family reunions.

One of the traditions we started was an adult and children’s hat contest. The photos bring back a lot of memories. There’s one of Anita with a hat surrounded in bridal wreath. Dorothy had an immense 20 inch paper top hat surrounded in musical symbols. Me, since the ten children were born and raised on a farm, I created the best farm scene I knew how. I attached a flat piece of cardboard to a sturdy hat. On it I placed a Christman road sign surrounded in manure I obtained from a friendly farmer. In the middle of this manure sat a vase with a fresh rose—to offset the “good-smelling” manure.

Of all the photos that I felt was the most creative and in line with farm life was the one of my daughter Tina’s hat. She went to a butcher for her supplies. On part of the brim she had a beautiful array of pink flowers. Protruding on both sides of the hat were “real” and immense pig ears! Tina had kept them in a cooler until the hat parade got started. Actually, she didn’t keep the pig ear hat on a length of time. She was swarmed with flies.

Alas, after about 10 years, the reunions with the hat contests ceased, but not hats in my life.

In 2004, I started a Red Hat group, called the Red Hat Dutchies.

Some girls are my high school classmates and friends. We wear anything from red baseball hats trimmed in feathers or flowers to the broad-brimmed floppy hats. I now have a variety of 15 red hats to choose from for our monthly gatherings.

One of my Red Hat outfits was purchased on a vacation with my husband. We were walking around a village with lots of gift shops.

We had been heading for the car when I spotted a beautiful floppy red hat in a store window. My husband said, “Go in or you won’t rest. I’ll give you 30 minutes then I’ll pick you up at the corner.” In no time, I was at the corner, dressed in a new purple dress, red boa, and a large floppy red hat.

There was a time my sister, Dorothy, and I spent entirely too much for a hat. We had gone to an arts and crafts festival one Saturday.

We saw this neat reversible, patchwork hat. We bought it. We decided to wear it to the next sisters’ party and make them jealous.

We did just that. The sisters were drooling. They really loved our hats. By the end of the day, Jannetta begged to have my hat “just for a weekend.” She promised to return it. I assumed she wanted to wear it to the Senior Citizen meeting. She did return it to me within one week. But guess what? She figured out how to make a replica of the hats Dorothy and I paid big bucks for. At our next gathering, she presented the other sisters with a reversible patchwork hat she made. And she didn’t even charge them. Life just isn’t fair! th For our 25 wedding anniversary, my husband and I decided to go to New York City, where we had spent our honeymoon. We had checked the weather beforehand. It was going to rain one of the days. So on the day it was supposed to rain, I put the 2 ponchos I brought along in my purse. When I opened my so-called poncho, it turned out to be a shower hat for the bathtub. Somehow, in our moving to a new city, the shower hat got mixed in with the ponchos, hat, and gloves drawer. That didn’t deter us. We improvised. My husband’s head was at the right place in the poncho, while mine was in one of the arms with my shower hat on. We had a few good laughs from other tourists while walking the streets. We didn’t care.

In our last move I decided to “lessen the load.” I got rid of my collection of vintage hats and gave them to family or friends.

To all who enjoyed my hat stories, I say “Hat’s off to you!”

(See Carole’s bio. on p.25)

SPRING 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Short-‘n-Sweet

by Melodee K. Currier

Walking With My Angels

Hair’s My Dilemma I’ve been searching for a hairdresser since 1982! That was the year I moved to Florida and had my last haircut with Bill the Scissor Wizard in Toledo, Ohio. I was always thrilled with my hair when he cut it. It’s been nearly thirty years, and at least 200 hairdressers later, and I haven’t found anyone that compares to him yet.

There are five things I consider when going to a hairdresser: skill, price, location, personality and ambiance of the salon (in that order).

My first criteria—skill—is a must. They must have the skill to give a great cut or the rest doesn’t matter – it’s a deal breaker. Some hairdressers may know how to cut hair, but the price is prohibitive; whereas with others the price is good, but nothing else makes the grade. And then there are many variations of the five criteria – good personality, no skill, etc.

My friends think it’s weird that I rarely go to the same hairdresser twice. Perhaps they’re more patient than I am or have fewer expectations or a larger bank account. Whatever the reason is, it’s my quirk and I’m sticking to it. I believe I’m a quick study when it comes to analyzing hairdressers and their ability to cut hair.

After just the first haircut, I can tell if a hairdresser has promise.

Unfortunately, I’ve found that most hairdressers are very limited in what they can do. They may be able to do one style or type of hair pretty good, but everything else is just so-so. And because it can be expensive (as well as a waste of time) to give a hairdresser numerous “tries,” I always cut my losses early and move on to the next hairdresser – in search of the perfect haircut.

I have a second haircut next week with “Michelle.” I am already feeling leery about it. Here’s why: When she cut my hair last month, the price was within reason. In addition, I like her personality. But the location is over 20 miles one way (which seems like forever in the winter) and the atmosphere in the salon felt phony and uncomfortable. I was happy with my haircut but not truly WOWed. Unless I’m thrilled with my next haircut, I will be looking for another hairdresser. It’s a Catch 22 with me. The only way to stop it is to lower my expectations, but I’m not planning to do that.

Most of the time, I choose a hairdresser based on recommenddation. I’ve been known to stop people in line at the post office, grocery stores, cosmetic counters, concerts, classes and work to ask who does their hair. I have even contacted local news anchors whose hair I admired on TV. I keep a running list of hairdressers, but if all else fails, I’ll check Angie’s List and Google.

My biggest fear: what if I finally find “the one” and then something happens? What if my husband is transferred to another part of the world, or my new hairdresser stops doing hair, or I suddenly realize that having the perfect haircut isn’t all that important in the great scheme of things? Then I’m back to square one. So, just in case, I’d better keep that running list handy!

VOL 8, ISSUE 3

One of my favorite things to do is to take a walk in the park. Although it appears that I’m alone, I’m really not. A number of angels are always with me. I don’t remember when I first started having conversations with my angels, but it was at least ten years ago while taking a walk. I started by mentally asking the universe a question and was surprised to get an answer back. I continued on a sporadic basis and always got answers, but not always the answers I was expecting. It didn’t take me long to realize it was my angels who were speaking.

The park I like to go to most has a sidewalk surrounding it. A normal paced walk takes me about a half-hour from start to finish. I begin with a prayer of gratefulness to God, Archangel Michael and Archangel Rafael, all my other angels, spirit guides, runners and helpers. Sometimes I won’t ask any questions and will just walk, appreciating my surroundings. Other times I will silently talk about a challenge in my life. For instance, I might say, “My sister recently sent me an email that when she dies she’s donating her house to charity. I am disappointed because I thought she would will it to me, her only family.” An angel will then respond saying, “Your sister can do whatever she wants with her house. It’s not your due. It may not be right, but get over it.” I’m always satisfied with the angels’ advice as I know it is based on the truth.

Like humans, the angels have different personalities. One angel in particular is very sarcastic. I kid with her a little when she talks to me. She’s been with me the entire time I’ve been communicating with angels. There are softer, sweeter angels too. I don’t have names for any of them, but that doesn’t seem important as their voices tell me who they are. I know it’s an angel responding to me and not my own thoughts because I can hear or feel their voices. They use words I don’t normally use and they often interrupt me.

As I walk around the park, I might talk about several things. My next question might be, “Did I do the right thing by changing doctors?” and the response from one of my angels is, “Yes, absolutely.”

I can also ask for help from my angels relating to a specific situation, and the right angels will be sent. If I’m nervous about taking a test I will ask and get help with that. They also give me ideas on things I could do to improve many aspects of my life.

When I want to know how my son and his family are doing since they moved to Georgia, I’m usually told, “They’re doing fine.” Or I might ask why my mother was so cruel to me and get the reply, “Your mother didn’t feel loved as a child and did her best for you even though it wasn’t good enough in many ways.” No question is off limits.

There is a certain place in the park toward the end of my walk that beckons me to stop and say a special prayer. There are several large, beautiful trees there with the sky peeking through. On a beautiful autumn day, there is nothing more beautiful. On a dreary day, I remind myself that there is bright blue sky behind the gray clouds. I always get such a peaceful feeling there and say another prayer of thankfulness before walking on.

My angels are asking me to tell you that I’m not special when it comes to angels. Your angels are with you too and you have the same ability as me. You just have to take the first step and then continue to talk with them. It’s like anything else, it gets easier the more you practice it.

This morning I asked my angels if I should get a manicure when I get my next pedicure in a few weeks and they said “Go for it!” So I think I will. What a great excuse!

(See Melodee’s bio. on p.25)

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15

The Old Brownstone

by Jeanne Mineo

The old brownstone house stood stately and tall, four stories high, on the street where it had been standing for a hundred years.

She was located in a fashionable neighborhood not too far from a main avenue where the city bus ran downtown daily over old trolley tracks that could still be seen under the Cobblestones.

From her rooftop there was a broad view in all directions of old Brooklyn, New York and one could see all the way up to the trees that bordered Prospect Park.

In front, she boasted a matching brownstone stoop for the convenience of family and friends to gather and chat or gossip while their children played in the nearby area way.

The steps led up to an elegant entryway with a towering glass door etched around its borders and its shining brass doorknob. Once inside, there was an ornate antique mirror and carpeted stairs all the way up to the top floor with dark mahogany banisters that were kept highly polished.

The brownstone was home to a large and growing Italian family who had come from "the old neighborhood.” For all of them, it was a proud step up in their new country.

It filled her with pride that the eldest son, a medical doctor, had his private practice and waiting room right on the parlor floor. His professional shingle stood out in front for his patients and everyone to see.

There was a lovely garden in the back of the house bordered with tiny red roses and Lilies of the Valley running along its paths. Here Grandpa lovingly tended his grapevines which ran overhead and provided the sweet purple grapes for his very own homemade wine.

His prize fig tree regally stood guard in the center of the yard year in and year out.

It was a home filled with warmth and the familiar aromas of Grandma’s homemade recipes and baking delights that had been

handed down through many generations. Everyone was welcomed here, especially on holidays when the entire house was filled with aunts, uncles, and cousins by the dozens who happily came early for each feast and stayed long into the night.

There was a deep basement in the old brownstone where the children went on rainy and snowy days, creeping down the wooden stairs to play in secret hiding places. Far over in one dark corner, there was a great coal bin where hard black coals were poured down a long chute from outside when the coal man made his regular winter deliveries.

It was the job of the older boys to shovel coal into the huge furnace that heated the brownstone from top to bottom.

Over time there were many memories, like the war years in the 1940s when the brownstone dimmed all of her lights during the regular city blackouts and the air raid drills that were required at that time. She was honored that there were gold stars hanging in her two front windows, one for the Army and one for the Navy when the older sons served bravely in the Pacific.

And later, too, she had watched outside as the entire street held a huge block party with American flags, colored streamers, food and music, and everyone danced all night long from one end of the street to the other. They all celebrated with joy, relieved and thankful that the war was over at last.

She witnessed many milestones too: looking out as a young bride in white satin walked down her front steps on her wedding day, and there were sad funerals with the family dressed in black. But there were new babies welcomed too, as life and a generation passed through her doors. The Brownstone watched over them all.

I cannot go back again to visit the old brownstone where I was born. She no longer stands on that corner in Brooklyn. Her time had come and gone when the family that once cared for her so lovingly was made to move away. The City of New York had taken over the entire block to build a new neighborhood school there. It was the "Right of Eminent Domain."

That school PS 321 still opens its doors today where there once stood a noble and cherished old brownstone.

(See Jeanne’s bio. on p.25)

Spandrel

by Laura Rodley The sky poured down, dropping one quarter cup of heaven on my back porch and I wondered where to sit to gather it all, the tiny specks of light that sparkled through the torrent sluicing off the roof, a chandelier that we slipped through to walk the dog, so afraid of thunder, a chandelier whose crystals soon dried up when the rain stopped but the sparkle still shone from the porch light on the hollyhocks like spun sugar; heaven sat on its green patient leaves, caressed its pink blossom and the buds waiting for more light to open.

(See Laura’s bio. on p.25)

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SPRING 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

looking for over a period of many years since her passing. The note read:

Writing Prompts

by Rosalie H. Contino, PhD Every summer, I attend the Ocean Park Writers Conference where we are given one-line prompts from which to compose. Here are two examples.

“As the Rain Fell” As the rain fell, I could feel the tension in my soul. Why do I go through this every time it rains? It wasn’t just the rain; it was the pitter-patter, tick, pitterpatter, tick-tock-tock of the rain on the porch and windows, no matter what room I was in. The sounds were reminiscent of the tall stalwart grandfather’s clock that stood in the hall, the grandfather’s clock that had been silent, unmoving for years. Tick-tock, tick-tock… the rain fell for hours on end. I called Jennie, my writer friend. “So what do you think it is, ol’ pal?”

“Ah, you must be going through writer’s block.”

“How did you know?”

“It takes a writer to know a writer,” she giggled. “What’s blocking you this time?”

“It’s this dreary rain. I want to write about it, but all I can come up with is that it sounds like the old grandfather clock in the hall that doesn’t even work! Unrelenting tick-tock, tick-tock. It should inspire, but instead it’s killing my focus.“ “Rain drops that sound like the tick-tock of grandfather’s clock? How cliché!

Why not an alarm clock on your end table or... or like your car sputtering last week when you took it in for service and the mechanic said there was nothing wrong.”

“I know, nothing major. I just needed an oil change.”

“Speaking of the clock, why doesn’t it work? I know you had the guy come to refurbish it some time ago. What happened?”

“It worked for a while. Then it stopped. I decided it wasn’t the most important thing in this house to worry about.”

“Well, Ms. Writer, maybe the clock wants to be revved up again and the rain is a definite hint to do so. You have nothing to lose. Go to it! You’re capable. Do it!” she kidded.

“Always the wise one!”

“By the way, did you ever find your mother’s brooch that your grandmother gave her, one of the ones to be given to each of her daughters way back when as was customary?”

“No, I have looked everywhere. I don’t know where Mom hid the damn thing.”

“Trust me, try the clock. The rain is telling you.” She giggled.

“You’re really pushing it today.”

“You have nothing to lose. Bye now. I have deadlines like you do.”

I hung up the phone and pondered, Maybe she’s right. Maybe the brooch is in the clock. Ah, fantasy, fantasy. I shall check the clock.

I opened the hall closet and took the ladder to the living room and stood in front of the clock.

“Let’s hope this works.” I opened glass door ever so carefully. The chimes moved a bit. Before getting on the ladder, I made sure nothing fell off or hoped so. This clock was a real antique at over a hundred years old and was in good shape. It’s original owners, the Gilberts, the family that had resided in this house before me, had no room for it in their new house and were only too glad that I should keep it but only on the condition that I would maintain it. I had indeed had it cleaned, balanced, and refurbished, but the darn thing still fell silent… unlike the rain beating down on my windows.

I took the key out and put it in the winder, turning it ever so slightly. I heard a click. Maybe the clock would work after all. I set the time for 12:00 PM. The chimes began to ring. Wow! What you know? If the clock chimes, the clock will work, I mused. I then reset the time for 2:30 PM. Again the click.

Suddenly, something was sliding slowly down the back of the clock. It landed with a soft thud somewhere at the bottom of the clock’s cabinet.

I got off the ladder and felt around the base of the clock. My fingers latched on to and drew out a small blue, velvet jewelry box, covered in dust, years old. Maybe it belonged to the previous owner. Without further ado, I opened the jewelry box. “What could this be?” I saw a piece of jewelry with a note. I immediately recognized my late mother’s handwriting. I opened the note and picked up the piece of jewelry, which turned out to be the brooch I had been

VOL 8, ISSUE 3

I know by the time you find this special box, I will have been long gone. I know you never liked the brooch, and I was not going to give it away. You always loved this clock, and I figured eventually you would have to take care of it yourself, instead of hiring someone. Now you are ready to appreciate this jewelry. Wear it well, dear daughter. Wear it in good health.

Love, Mom I could not believe my eyes and sat down on the couch to reread this lovely note. I had to call Jennie.

“You found the brooch, right?”

“You knew?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Your mom said not to. She said eventually you would get to your senses.

End of story. By the way, any more incessant, perturbing pitter-patters and tick-tocks on the porch and window?”

I walked to the window and the porch.

“No, you think she conspired with the weather gods. I can’t believe it. Mom left no stone unturned, even in life. Everything had its time and place, including when I would inherit the brooch.”

“You got it! Appreciate the brooch… and the experience in finding it. Talk to you later.”

I put everything away and listened to the falling rain – no ticks, no tocks, only rain.

I put on a blouse that worked beautifully with the brooch. To celebrate, I poured myself a glass of Prosecco and sat quietly. “Here’s to you Mom. Gratia! You never miss a trick.”

“Forgetfulness is Like a Song” We were talking in class and one classmate said, “You know that forgetfulness is like a song.”

“What makes you say that?” asked one young man named Albert.

“If you like the song, you will remember it. If not, you won’t.”

“It depends,” I said, “what the song represents. For instance, I always hated my name, Rosalie, which came from a song.”

“Why? It’s a beautiful name. What could be more pleasing? Try being called Mortimer!”

“Or Albert.”

“You don’t understand. My mother’s name was Domenica. She hated it because the nicknames were Minnie or Minnie Ha-Ha. So she went by her middle name Helen. My sister was Roberta, after the show Roberta. Had she lived, her nickname would have been Robbie.”

“But Rosalie, My Darling is a beautiful song and movie to boot… from the 1930s.”

“Yes, I know that, and whenever I’d meet a guy and we’d go dancing, he would say, ‘Do you know there’s a song named after you?’ I always wound up fleeing the dance floor. Worse yet was the nickname Rosie! UGH! I would cry and cry every time I heard it. How I just wanted to forget that song… and my name! I finally let the trauma go when I went back to school.

“What do you mean? What happened?” asked Albert.

“When did you change your mind?” asked another.

“When I became a costume designer for the NYU Musical Theatre. Those wonderful soprano voices chiming, ‘Oh, Rosalie, darling, where are you?’ made my spirits soar! My name is now full of pure, good memories and a great love for musical theatre.”

“Now let’s see what we can look up for Mortimer or Albert,” said Albert.

“And not Mortimer Snerd,” said Mortimer.

“Nor Fat Albert,” said Albert.

“Let’s go to the musical theatre library and look them up, okay?”

“Sure, Rosalie. Lead the way. You know best. Who knows if we’ll find out if forgetfulness truly is like a song. We’ll have to decide if it’s a good reminder or a boring one.”

The two young men sang on the way out of class, “Rosalie, my darling, Rosalie my love….”

“Please, guys.”

“You said this gives you good memories. I can sing soprano.” Albert giggled.

“Okay, okay, you win.”

(See Rosalie’s bio. on p.25)

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17

Unexpected

by Charles E.J. Moulton

Oh, nice. A free seat. Thank God. I really need to sit right now. Just an old lady there. What is she doing? Packing her bag. Lucky I got the early train. Then I don’t have to run. And I have a couple of minutes to practice my drawing skills before the bus comes. Right. There we are.

I smile at the old lady and she smiles back at me, remarks something about the cold weather. I nod and shrug, knowingly, and she walks off.

I am left to myself.

The cool weather does chill me to the bone. The old lady was right about that. Makes you wish the spring would come soon. No snow, though.

I sit down, glancing at the railway station clock. One o’clock. Good.

Another five minutes. Where’s my sketch pad? It was here a minute ago. Oh. There. Pencil? There we go. Eraser. Now, where were we? I drew the paintings on the wall as well as the table. What’s missing in this picture? We have five glasses on the table. Maybe one glass closer to the viewer? That way, the viewer will feel like he is invited to drink with the rest of the people here. Good. I will draw the ...

What would fit here? A big beer mug, bigger than the other glasses?

The viewer will feel special. Good idea. Three elliptical circles.

Connect them. One handle. Color the lower part for the drink inside.

That’s it. We have a full beer mug.

I look up again. Three minutes past one. Oh, the bus is late. Usually it swings over to the parking place and comes back. Now, it has to come directly here. Okay. Here it is. Take my stuff. Cool down now.

No panic. You will get your stuff together in time to get the bus.

The bus slows down and parks. An older man with a cane gets on before me. I let him go up to the driver and pay for the ticket. Then I dash off past him. That seems like a good seat. I sit down in the bus and as it drives off, time slows down.

A few rows away, right opposite me on the other side of the closing door, there’s a woman. A young woman. I recognize her. But that’s impossible. Old feelings return. Feelings that I thought were dead. That can’t be. Wait. That girl lives two hours away. Why would she be here? Why would she be in a bus in this part of the country?

I look away, feeling a little insecure. Besides, she’s a lawyer with her own practice. I know her. She doesn’t travel much. Why would she be dressed so normally? But do lawyers always dress like lawyers? Maybe not. Maybe she’s here on a visit? My Lord, what if it is her? If it is, she has put on some weight. She looks over at me. Our glances meet. Her eyes meet mine and the gaze doesn’t move. That has to be her, right?

Oh, my God. Those old feelings are coming back. That pain, those kisses, that perfume, the sound of her voice, the look of her dress. I remember our favorite songs, our moonlight kisses.

She is still looking at me. That must be her.

It has to be.

She is waiting for me to speak.

I can see it.

She is looking away.

I didn’t react. Why would I? She didn’t either.

She listens to music on her MP3-player, looking out the window, a sad smile on her lips. God, she still looks beautiful. But that’s not her, is it?

I think, she is also wondering if this is me.

I looked her up on the Internet last year. She is married now, like me.

18

No, that can’t be.

I take out my sketch pad and begin sketching again, making decisions and assessments, adding things, erasing and correcting.

The girl looks my way again. I think she is attempting to raise her hand and greet me. No, she doesn’t. She looks away. There is something there, though. Something strange.

I recognize those dimples. That smile. That hairdo. That skin. I remember making love. I remember feeling so much pain when she broke up. Her refusal to have anything to do with me. Me telling her I loved her. She telling me she didn’t care.

But it wouldn’t be her. Even if it is, she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Still wouldn’t. Gosh, I wouldn’t want to either. Not anymore, anyway. I am a very happily married man with a wonderful wife and a great child. We have a fabulous life and a great job. I wouldn’t want to start anything with her.

These are unwelcome ghosts from the past.

Shrug it off.

That’s in the past, man.

Forget it.

I look back and she is still looking at me.

She smiles, I smile.

Our eyes meet.

Still that electricity.

It is still alive.

Is that her?

Hey, excuse me, Miss?

She takes her bag and stands up.

Oh, if I want to speak to her, I gotta do it now.

She looks at me, giving me a Mona Lisa-like smile again. A smile that is not a smile, maybe something else. Is it a smile? A hint of a smile. Some feeling that wants to smile and doesn’t really dare to.

She looks away and walks to the door.

Say something. Come on.

Are you ...

Wait.

Same kind of hotpants. The same kind of fashion wear. Other earrings, though.

Out she goes.

Wait.

Please, wait.

I have to talk to you.

No, she is gone.

The bus leaves and I see her walk away.

And I am left to wonder if that was her or not.

She disappears around the corner and my bus leaves the bus stop.

Eventually, I don’t see the girl anymore.

I look back on my sketch pad again, feeling the rugged surface of my thick pencil.

No strength or concentration to draw now.

Well, whoever she was, she looked like my ex-girlfriend.

But who cares if it was?

But I wonder.

I do care.

The bus driver drives fast now, so fast it seems he is exceeding the limit.

I sigh, feeling a sense of insecurity. I wasn’t very happy after that relationship ended, was I? I can’t really understand why I was together with her? Who am I kidding? I was crazy about her. Now? No way. I am curious if that was her.

My hands shake.

I step out of the bus out on the sidewalk next to my stop. Still cold out here, but I seem not to care. All I can think of is this woman that so very much looks like a girl I knew. A bicycle rider whizzes by on his bike. He looks at me, suspiciously. Probably, he wonders why this guy

SPRING 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

is standing by the bus stop and looking like someone stole his keys. I am still here, still as a statue, frozen in time and lost in space, wondering who she was. Thinking. Confused. That girl, she looked like Vanessa.

But I couldn’t, could I? Out of instinct, maybe, I pick up my cellular phone and flip through my contacts. I still have the phone number of her brother. I kept contact with him for a while. Then, a year after the break-up, we had a fight and lost contact. What if I...? No, come on. You couldn’t. What would he say after eight years? What would I say? Hello, I just wanted to ask if your sister is on a trip here in the area. Why would I ask him that? I have no interest in this. I love my wife, I adore our life together. I don’t care.

And yet, I wonder.

He would call me a nut case.

I can’t call him.

Not after what we called each other.

I walk on in the direction of home.

But I stop again, insecure, my hands shaking, looking at the phone number, pressing the receiver and the stop button several times.

I can’t decide.

I just can’t...

My heart is beating so fast, that it hurts.

I couldn’t.

And yet.

I want to.

I really want to.

Just to find out.

Okay, here goes nothing.

One ring, two rings. Three rings.

A male voice answers the phone.

I introduce myself, he recognizes my voice.

Tears.

Why is he crying?

Why? What?

Huh? That can’t be.

But I just saw her ...

No, that wasn’t her.

My condolances.

Her car? Demolished on the highway? A truck? When? A month ago?

Oh, when was the funeral?

I offer him my time, my attention, my heart, my voice, my friendship, my everything. He talks and talks and I end up standing there for ten minutes on the street, listening. I am dumbfounded.

Vanessa. Dead. A life. She is gone, her soul somewhere else in time.

When we hang up, swearing to keep in touch, I wonder who that woman was I saw.

It couldn’t have been her. She is dead.

And as I walk onwards, my thoughts stray to other dimensions.

That was not Vanessa.

The woman never smiled at me.

I made that up.

That could not have been her.

And yet ...

Town Crier

by Donna G. Sciascia I started to write you a letter last night After putting the baby to bed, But the clatter of hooves and a shout in the street Made me grab for my shawl instead.

We all gathered 'round in the old town square.

The Crier stood on a crate.

While someone held a lantern up high.

It was dark. The hour was late.

The crowd was silent when he started to read.

His young voice loud and clear.

Each wondered if he would be hearing The name of someone dear.

As the list went on and tensions rose.

Someone cried as in pain.

But the boy read on thru that long long list.

And there on the list was your name.

Dedicated to the wives, sweethearts and mothers of all the wars 1776-present

(See Donna’s bio. on p.25) (See Charles’s bio. on p.25)

VOL 8, ISSUE 3

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Poems of Tragedy, Hope, and Renewal

Sam’s Renewal

by Donna Krause

The Tragic Shooting in Newtown, Connecticut December 2012 Week before Christmas Innocent babes of Sandy Hook Ravaged by an evil force Powerful machine guns The young shooter killed his mother first He should have died before his ugly deeds Proceeded to kill innocent first graders Teachers too They showed their bravery Throwing themselves on the children Finding some peace in the after life Hearing the devil’s glee God cried tears of gold Lifting them up in the gates of heaven Precious angels Little glowing faces Sparkling white gowns Youth was stolen from them Memorial at the comforting church Cries of disbelief A father knocking his head on the wall Wanting answers Mothers thought that school was a safe place Parents will crawl, then learn to walk I’ve traveled on this path As I have lost a daughter There is no greater pain Mariel, Mariel…!

I shrieked when she went into a coma What is left?

A useless piece of nothing May he rot in his own blood

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Circle of Hope Kind souls formed A circle of light Arms linked Weaved in and out Sweet empathy Heartfelt and warm Tears trickling down my cheeks Hiding a familiar wall of dismay Light came towards me now Afraid to join them Shock from John’s death Melted away Easier to be alone Fear lurked in my heart Voices calling me still Found the courage to belong Sunlight danced in my eyes Taking in the fresh winter air Enveloped by the circle of living

SPRING 2013

Sam sat on a bench in the park Face had many creases One for each strife He endured in life Hot summer day Sam’s wearing An old tattered sweater In case he had a chill Sam ponders about his life Like a slide show Quickly it flashed by Wants to have it back His hair, his little children And well being Sam remembers his wedding His lovely wife All dressed up with her gown Pearls and satin And me in my dignified suit The children laughed In the park As they ran in and out Of the fountain Our children were our special angels Smiling as they learned how to walk Longing to regain his independence Roles were reversed His little angels became his parents No time to visit Old age had gripped his body Rain was cooling down The pavement Sam gripped his shaky walker Tries to stand Falls down on the pavement Taking his last breath Glowing wife sails down To pick him up Following the blinding light Sam renewed his life (See Donna’s bio. on p.25)

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Poetic Perspectives

by Sheri Hillson

The Tiny Room

A Lost Friend Forgotten in the shuffle like playing cards My moving thoughts Only add to the chaos like A Midwest tornado, And I have forgotten you.

The country night is silent As we picked corn cobs off the ground Lined with the fallen soldiers of the harvest, And I have forgotten you.

We kicked a stone between Us in our bare feet.

Our bare feet are as tough as leather, Much like my heart For I won't be your stone to kick.

And I have forgotten you.

Like sisters we danced to “Stayin’ Alive”, And played kickball with your Brothers in the cow field, But I have forgotten you.

A Woman's Image You painted my full length Mirror with those magazine covers Telling me how I should be Comparing me to a skinny fem So I butch it up And was called names.

You tell me I must paint My face and wear high heels.

To be skinny as a railRoad track I run down, Confused of where to go, For your woman haunted me I'm disconnected My reflection is fractured.

VOL 8, ISSUE 3

I arrive early as always; the hospital demanded it.

Betsy the receptionist asked If I had a living will; a what? But I'm only 28.

It was blue in the waiting area As the ladies from “The View” were on the TV. A little girl, about 3, was climbing Over the chairs in her paisley dress; if only this was child's play.

The nurse called for a few of us to come with her.

She led us to a locker room Where she told us to take everything Off and put on gowns.

I did as she asked Except I left my underwear on; they won't mind.

Then she led us to separate rooms with only three walls, A curtain acted as the fourth.

I sat and waited, I paced and waited For transport to wheel me into The recovery room, Where a handful of patients are Waiting for Dr. Pivey.

I get a gurney So I laid and waited.

It's cold and blue like a meat locker in this recovery room.

When finally they wheel me into The tiny room.

Nurses prepped me Pivey read his morning newspaper.

They stick things to my chest and head.

The anesthesiologist talked me through it As he pumped liquid poison Into my veins.

I felt it burn as it ran through my hand.

He's up Dr. Pivey's turn to volt Me back to happiness.

(See Sheri’s bio. on p.25)

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Advice

by Rebecca L. Monroe

Dear Margaret: My boyfriend wants me to go all the way. He says if I don’t, he is going to break up with me. I love him very much and don’t want to lose him. What should I do?

Lost In Love ‘Lost in Love’. How many times had that handle been used!

Couldn’t humanity be more creative? Margaret shook her head.

She’d been doing this too long. Betsy was pestering her to retire, let the Centennial find someone else for their advice column. Fifteen years was enough to devote to people who couldn’t even come up with original questions.

Margaret turned to her laptop.

Dear Lost: I’m not going to give you the ‘old foggy’ answer you’re expecting. If you want to have sex with the young man, by all means, do so. And it ‘is’ having sex, Sweetie. Going all the way makes it sound like you’re traveling and believe me, if you let him threaten you with this now, neither one of you are going anywhere for about eighteen years.

Margaret That made four; her required amount for the day. She shut the laptop down, the liver spots on her hands contrasting with the new age equipment.

Perhaps Betsy was right. Once she could reel off twenty of these letters and barely give it a second thought. Now four exhausted her but what would she do with her time? Watch game shows? There was the novel. Much of her material for it came from letters such as Lost in Love.

She ought to start a study on how many times people used the same signatures on their letters. ‘Lost in Love’ (or New York, Iowa, Oregon). ‘Frustrated with Lies’, ‘Angry in Illinois’. They all sounded the same after a while. What a pity she so rarely got letters signed ‘Happy in Homerville’ or Marvelous in Montrose’.

“All done for the day?” Betsy poked her head in the doorway, her timing eerie, as always. Five-foot three, steel gray hair cropped short, she had a soft, sweet face which reflected her temperament, most of the time.

“How do you know, my dear?”

“I’ll never tell though you ask me daily.” Betsy came into the room.

“You don’t look happy.”

“I’m not. It’s the same old stuff,” “Then why do you keep torturing yourself? It’s not like we need the money.”

“I know,” “And you have your novel.”

Margaret waved her hand at the laptop. “These are my novel. If I quit the advice column, I’ll lose touch with reality, with what is going on in people.”

Betsy straightened the pens in the cup on Margaret’s desk. “That’s balderdash and you know it. The people who write you for advice aren’t real. Real people go out and solve their problems, or at least deal with them. The people who write you are ‘gray souls looking to avoid life – blame someone else’, a direct quote from you, so reality has nothing to do with it.”

Margaret sometimes wondered if she and Betsy hadn’t gotten their roles reversed. ‘She’ should be pottering about the kitchen while Betsy wrote up philosophies of life.

“Besides, you have enough material for ten novels by now.”

Margaret crossed her arms, resting them on her ample stomach.

22

“Why are you pushing this, Bits? We have this conversation nearly every day now.”

“Because nearly every day you look unhappy and it hurts me to see it. I think the only reason you’re continuing to answer letters is because you’re secure doing it.”

“Did it occur to you I like helping people?” Margaret was angry, that quick.

“Which is why you come out of this office beaming after work?”

“Okay, so I’m a little jaded except,” Margaret frowned, biting her lip. “I don’t want to quit. You’re right, I have enough material for the novel and I am sick to death of letters full of cooked noodle problems. They could all be photocopies of each other! But I don’t want to quit.”

“Why?” Betsy’s eyes were suddenly sharp, her whole attention focused on Margaret.

Margaret thought for a while. Why, indeed? “Because I’m looking for something, missing something.” The same ‘something’ that was absent from her novel.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I feel an, expectation, every time I open a letter,” Betsy sighed, nodding. “All right. I’ll try and remember that the next time you drag yourself out of here crabby with boredom. Lunch is ready.”

Margaret sat completely still after Betsy had left. What was she looking for? Until that instant, in talking with Betsy, she hadn’t realized she was. She reached into the mailbag, pulling out an envelope at random. Normally, after her four, she stuffed the bag in the corner. At the end of a week, the unanswered letters went back to the Centennial and she got a new bag. She hadn’t gone through a bag completely in years, not since she’d become popular. Had what she was looking for been there all along and she’d tossed it out?

Would it be this one? What one? What! The yell was silent but no less vehement. What was she looking for?

‘I am married to the world most insensitive…’

Nope. Definitely not that one. She pitched it aside and pulled out another. ‘My wife is fat’. Nope. ‘Credit cards ruining my…’ nope.

She forgot Betsy, forgot lunch. Even as she ripped open letters, scanning and throwing them in a pile, she knew she was admitting she wouldn’t write another response to an oatmeal problem.

Rip, read, toss.

‘Does life then reflect...’

Margaret snatched back the letter even as it flew toward the growing pile. God forbid she should have to wade through the compost again! She started at the beginning.

Dear Margaret: I read your column mainly because it is in the paper and I read the whole paper every day. I also read two other papers a day, both of which have advice columns. After yesterday’s response to the lady who was thinking of having an affair, I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

You hit the nail on the head when you told her that if she was so frustrated she should get a divorce, take up a hobby, do something constructive with her life; that her ponderings were reflections of a lazy, ill developed soul.

The tone of your letters implies that you are discouraged with humanity, the questions they want you to answer. If I am wrong, there is no reason to respond to me. A lack of response is an answer in itself.

My question to you is: Does the attitude of life reflect the events within it? Or do the events reflect the life that is being led? Your letter to the woman indicates you believe that if one has the fortitude to live the life they want, the events will follow.

I look forward to your response.

SPRING 2013

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

There was an address and Margaret grinned when she saw the word ‘occupant’ above it. She had once commented that with the advent of computers, ‘occupant’ no longer existed.

She turned her laptop back on.

Dear Occupant: At this time, no human being can say which drives the other, events or attitude. I am hoping the latter. If I sound discouraged, it is because there are no questions ever asked of me that the questioner doesn’t already know the answer. What they are truly asking is for me to bless their laziness or confirm their anger, sorrow, or self-pity.

Real life takes real work, which includes growth, learning and change – none of which are easy or comfortable.

I am disturbed by the lack of actual thought in the world today, the willingness to exchange real ideas and real dilemmas. People who tell me they are helpless in their own spending habits, or who can’t resist a pretty face, are the ones who want to deny they are accountable for their own lives.

Readers, I will be publishing this. Write me if you still want to.

Threaten me with death if I’ve frightened you, however, before you kill me, spend day after day, hour after hour reading letters from those who want someone else to blame.

Spending too much money? Is it ruining your life? Quit!

Eating too much? You don’t like your body? Care! If there isn’t someone sitting on you, shoving food in your mouth, you have control! Get off the damn couch! (I am plump, almost fat. I like how I am. I have chosen to look like this). Yes, occasionally I see a pretty top that would make me look like an elephant in a tutu and I wish I were skinny. I’m normal. However, I know I control me. The top is not as important to me as ice cream. And…that…is…all…right!

Affairs? Why? Do you think your spouse doesn’t know? Why are you wasting their time and yours? Get a divorce. You still ‘love’ your spouse, you say? Then quit the affair!

One letter in a hundred has a true problem — a problem that causes me to pause, that doesn’t make me want to reach through the mailbox and shake the writer and shout, “Why are you even asking?” They are out there, I know that. I also know, Dear Readers, that you are smart, thinking individuals. Why do you so insist on denying it? You have willpower. You have control of your lives, if only you would take it. You don’t need me! You never have.

I’m sure my popularity is about to take a nosedive so this may be my last letter. If so, please remember: I have faith in you.

Margaret She printed off the letter. Her editor was just going to love this one.

“That must have been special.” Betsy again.

“Yes. Yes it was. I found what I’ve been looking for. Instead of getting so lazy, I should have taken more time to read all the letters.”

Margaret cringed inside. She could write her own letter: ‘Dear Margaret, I am stuck answering stupid letters from people who know better…’ oops.

Betsy smiled. “Whatever it was, I am happy for you. I haven’t seen such a look of satisfaction on your face in quite a while.” * * * Margaret was surprised. There was no call from her editor and her response was published. Perhaps they were ready to be done with her and this would be the killing blow.

Two days after the letter appeared, the tone of her mail changed.

She’d known it was coming. The first one was encouraging.

Dear Margaret: Hallelujah. It’s about time you gave it to all those whiners who won’t take responsibility! I had quit reading your column because of it. A friend showed me your letter yesterday. I normally don’t write but couldn’t ignore your bravery. I doubt you’ll get through to the whiners, but it was refreshing.

VOL 8, ISSUE 3

Keep up the good work.

Applauding in Seneca Dear Applauding: Thank you for your compliments and your support.

While I regret not a single word of what I wrote, and firmly believe everything I said, I do wonder where ‘I’ get off.

Do ‘whiners’ know they are? I don’t think so. As the old saying goes, when you point a finger, look where the rest of them are aiming. After I mailed off my letter to the paper, I began to wonder.

So I asked my roommate…

Margaret’s fingers paused. It had been an interesting conversation. * * * “You don’t whine, dear,” Betsy had been washing the dishes while she dried.

“Oh, okay. That’s a relief.”

“You complain intelligently about many things over and over.”

She’d known it. Truth only hurts when it’s true and one tries to deny it. “Such as?”

“Well, the one I hear most about is the idiocy of humans and their lack of responsibility.”

“That’s not a whine. That’s a fact.”

Betsy gave her a look and shook her head slightly, continuing with the dishes.

“What?”

“I don’t think I should,” “It’s too late. Tell me.”

“You’re very work promotes the thing you say you can’t stand.”

THAT she hadn’t been ready for.

Margaret grinned and paraphrased Betsy’s comment to Applauding.

And so, while it was painful to admit, what she said was true. I am taking a good, hard look at where my fingers are pointing. I’ve started a list of my own whines, the areas I am not taking responsibility for. It’s easy to criticize others. Harder to look at oneself and know it’s what I, too, am guilty of.

Thank you for your support Margaret The next letter simply said ‘f*** you’. She started to throw it away, disgusted, and paused. It was an opinion. That she didn’t like the phrasing was unimportant. Unfortunately, there was no return address so she couldn’t respond to it. She tacked it up on the bulletin board over her desk to remind herself her opinions were just that.

The next letter.

Dear Margaret: I think I am taking responsibility for my life, a painful path to be sure and what I need is someone else to say I’m about to do the right thing because, by now, I no longer know what that is. So many of us were raised not to trust our own knowledge, is it any wonder?

My son is fourteen. He has been arrested for drug use, stealing and vandalism over a period of the last two years. We have been to counseling; I have left him in jail overnight, refusing to pick him up (tough love is right).

He is smart, Margaret. The counselors and psychologists are convinced he is fine, remorseful, and a bit wayward but nothing is wrong with him. He is an angel before them - answering their questions perfectly so the police force me to take him back. Since there is no problem and I am a fine parent, I can’t get him into a foster home or juvenile hall. As a last resort, I threw him out. He broke in when I changed the locks and was very angry. He is not a small person.

I’ve tried to talk to friends and family. Their reaction was less than open. He talks to them too, you see. Now I truly am alone.

Next time I’ll lie to the psychologist. Next time I’ll confess to beating him, giving him alcohol, swear he is stealing ‘for me’. Next

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23

time I’ll tell them whatever it takes to get him away from me. What do you think?

To all those who only have to worry about their own control, I envy you.

Bruised in Birmingham Margaret briefly wished she were back to ‘my wife snores, should I leave her’ letters. Well, she’d asked for reality.

Dear Bruised: What I think is of no importance. You already know that.

I hope it works out for you. I’ve never had to go through anything like you have described and it sounds as though you’ve done your best to care.

Does anyone out there know how to deal with this sort of thing?

How did you handle it?

I have a feeling you are not alone, Bruised. Maybe I can at least find you someone who will listen.

Margaret.

Dear Margaret: My life is over. My boyfriend broke up with me and now he’s telling everyone we had sex…

Trash. Get another life. Margaret tossed the letter.

Dear Margaret: What I wouldn’t give for your black and white life! How many souls have you hurled away with your philosophy, I wonder? There are those who don’t know they have the answers, or believe in themselves enough to listen. There are those that need someone to encourage them and show them their strengths. Fix yourself or be gone? How simple for you.

My wife, when she was twenty, drank heavily. She also gambled.

While both are now recognized as addictions, they weren’t then.

With the drinking and gambling came the other related problems.

She left me many times for someone ‘better’. I focused on raising our children.

She caused me more pain than I ever thought one human could cause another. Yet there were moments, between drinking, casinos and lovers with more cash than I, when she would reappear sparkling bright; the woman I loved to my core. She would sweep in laughter and warmth and for a brief time, there was nothing heaven could offer that would have been better.

Then she would be gone again but I couldn’t leave her. Not wouldn’t. COULDN’T. Why? Because of those moments, perhaps.

Because I knew her potential. Because I knew the possibility of what she could be. Because, dear Margaret, I loved her.

Then something happened. I don’t know what. She disappeared for

eight months and all I got from her was a single postcard. It read: I am not worthy of you. I know that now. I have no right to ask you to believe in me, to trust that this time I am gone for a good reason. If you are there when I return, I’ve gotten more than I deserve. If you are not, I understand with all my love, respect, and warmth.

I was there, Margaret. How could I not be? And so were the children. We never got into the ‘why’ of it, as is so popular these days. In the end, it didn’t matter. There is no doubt we had deep wounds to heal. Some have just begun to scab over. Hers, mostly, for the damage she knows she’s done.

Tomorrow we celebrate our fiftieth anniversary. The last thirty have been worth the pain of the first twenty because I didn’t toss her away. I held the vision of what she could be. Yes, I sought advice: ‘my wife drinks, ignores the children, ‘what should I do’. At every ‘leave’ I dug in deeper, an affirmation of how wrong it was. For us. The banality of the question never stopped me from asking, from searching for a path, an angle, I hadn’t tried before.

I guess what I’m saying is, before you dismiss people as being ‘lazy’ you might want to better understand what they are seeking.

There was no signature. Margaret re-read the letter through blurred vision. Turning, she pulled the letter from the girl whose boyfriend had broken up with her out of the trash. It was signed ‘Reputation Gone’. She wiped her eyes and began to type.

Dear Reputation: I won’t be telling you anything you don’t already know. However, possibly it will help to hear it from an outside source.

The dictionary definition of reputation is: ‘Overall quality or character as seen or judged by people in general.’ Who are these people? Your best friend? Your parents? The clerk at the market?

There is, as you know, only one person qualified to judge you and that is you. You decide your own value and whether your decisions are right or wrong – for you.

A gentleman wrote me about not tossing away souls. Perhaps because part of our own goes with it.

Margaret She printed out the letter and enclosed it with the one from the man who had stood by his wife, attaching a note to her editor to print both. Then she looked about her office. Last week it had seemed dark and closed in. Today the sun gleamed on her desk, warming the friendly clutter of paper, pens, and empty envelopes.

Odd how one can think the whole world had gone stale and it wasn’t the world at all.

She turned to her novel.

(See Rebecca’s bio. on p.25)

73rd Annual Conference August 12 - August 16, 2013 Have you always wanted to write? Do you need the support of fellow writers? Are you looking for inspiration (a visit from the Muse)? Why not plan to attend the five-day 73rd Writers Conference at Ocean Park, Maine? The conference registration begins at 4:00 pm on Monday, August 12. Attendees are weeklong participants.

Workshops start at 8:30 am on Tuesday and continue through Friday until early afternoon. The five-day conference fee of $200 is discounted to $190 if sent prior to July 1. Conference fee at the door is $225. No refunds will be issued. Our keynote speaker for the Writers Conference will address this year's conference participants at the Temple on Monday evening at 7 pm. (THIS EVENT IS OPEN TO THE COMMUNITY.) Poetry writing on the beach is a Thursday morning event, followed by coffee and pastry at the Ocean Park Library.

There are also several writing contests both in poetry and prose that participants are eligible to enter.

Call 401-598-1424 or e-mail jbrosnan@jwu.edu today for more information! Jumpstart your writing career in a supportive environment by joining us this August.

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IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Authors’ Page v Vince McDermott was born in Trenton, NJ, “too many years ago,” he says, and now lives in Brunswick with his wife Joanne. He was a meteorologist for 30 years, serving in the USAF, and working for the National Weather Service as well as in private industry. He wrote many non-action articles on stamp collecting prior to joining Write On! four years ago. Vince writes humorous poetry, and is now concentrating on mysteries and historical fiction. One of his mysteries will feature a murder committed during a meeting of a writers group at a retirement community in the local area. v Bonnie Wheeler has been the facilitator of the Write On! group for the past eight years. She shares her love of writing in a variety of styles: true and fiction stories, plays, prose and poetry. She is constantly writing and has published two novellas. Bonnie was featured on the cover of the National Spiritualist Summit magazine and has had several poems and other writings published in it. She is an Oklahoma native, lived in many different places as a Navy wife, and settled in Topsham in 1977. Bonnie is the mother of three and grandmother of eight. v Gregory A. Andrews has always had a passion for reading, so it only seemed natural that he would give writing a try. After taking an adult education course on writing fiction, he started to put together the stories that had been floating in his head for years. He is also a musician, sketch artist, and zombie enthusiast. He lives in Brunswick Maine, and will be attending SMCC for Liberal arts starting in the Fall of 2013. v Paul Karwowski (pen name P. K. Allen) started writing in the early 90's, but then golf and work took much of his time until his retirement from Bath Iron Works in 2010. He then joined People Plus, where he enjoys the Write On! group and ping pong, along with his golf and family activities. v Maine author Margie Kivel’s background includes visual artist, Spiritualist minister, health food store owner, and teacher. From those paths she diverged into painting with words, and poetry was an important part of her journey through grief and loss. As she tries to hone her craft, so does she hone her life – they are intertwined. Each day is another opportunity to give and receive love. v Originally from New York City, J. Patricia Henkin-Bookman lived in Europe for thirteen years and has visited Japan. Her book, As Long As You Believe was published in 1995 as a Collector's Edition. She served as Rhode Island State Poet for two successive terms in 1992 and 1994 and has won writing awards in fiction and poetry. She also served as overseas Editor for The Entertainer Magazine, published in Italy, and has contributed to European and American national publications as a freelance journalist. She now enjoys her life in Virginia. Visit her blog: http://patspublishing.wordpress.com for award-winning writing & poetry. v Donna G. Sciascia lives in Maine where she participates in the writers’ group Word Weavers. She retired 20 years ago from Bowdoin College and has been a member of the Library's Cataloging Department for 25 years. She was born in 1931 in a sod house on a small farm in northwest Kansas. She is the daughter of tenant farmers. Donna received her MA from the University of Denver. Donna has four children, seven grandchildren, and so far five great grandchildren. v Carole Christman Koch was born and raised on a farm near Kutztown, PA in 1940, the youngest of 10 children. She has 4 children, 5 grandchildren, and 3 great-grandchildren. She is now remarried to Harry, a retired teacher. Carole and her 5 older sisters have traditionally celebrated their birthdays together (No men are allowed. We can discuss their attributes this way.) since their children were raised.

She now resides in Allentown, PA.

v Melodee K. Currier lives in Dublin, Ohio with her husband, Doug, an

IT Project Manager, and their Siamese cats, Suki and Seiko. BesidesWWW.IDEAGEMS.CO Ohio, VOL 8, ISSUE 3 she has lived in Southeast Florida and New York City. She left corporate America in 2008 where she worked as an intellectual property paralegal. Most recently she owned a virtual trademark paralegal service. She began writing poetry and personal essays in her teens. In the past couple years, she has devoted more time to writing and has had articles published on a variety of topics. You can read her published articles at www.melodeecurrier.com. v A native Brooklyn, New Yorker, Jeanne Mineo retired from that great public school system in 2004. She received her Bachelor of Science degree from Fordham University and her Masters Degree in Education from Adelphi University. A proud mother and grandmother, she has always enjoyed writing creatively. Jeanne is currently a volunteer docent for the Huntington Historical Society of Long Island, where she continues to work and educate children. v Laura Rodley's two chapbooks, Rappelling Blue Light and Your Left Front Wheel is Coming Loose, were nominated for a Mass Book Award.

Most recently, her work has received a Pushcart Prize, and will be upcoming in the 37th edition of the Pushcart Prize. v Dr. Rosalie H. Contino is a second-generation Italian-America who resides in Brooklyn, New York. She received a BS degree in Elementary Education from Fordham University and PhD in Educational Theater from New York University. In addition to teaching elementary and junior-high school as well as serving as a teaching fellow for the Program in Educational Theater at New York University, Dr. Contino is a costume designer, consultant, and lecturer for multiple productions and events.

Her plays Transitions in Taking Care of Daddy, Twixt ‘n Teen, and Lights Out! received honorable mention from the Writers Digest Playwriting Contest. Lights Out! made quarter-finalist from Writers Online. Rosalie’s books Born to Create and Bob: As Life Goes On are available on www.amaazon.com v Charles Moulton has been a professional stage performer since he was 11. Charles is following in his father's literary footsteps as a professional writer with credits such as the short story “The Bloodhound & the Magician” in Another Wild West (Pill Hill Press), book reviews and articles for The Battle Cry as well as biographical articles for Vocal Images and Hackwriters. Charles graduated from Stagnelius High School in Sweden. For more information about his career, go to: http://www.reverbnation.com/charlesejmoulton v Donna Krause resides in the suburbs of Philadelphia, PA, with her husband and cat. She is a proud mother of three. Donna attended Gwynedd-Mercy College and graduated Cum Laude, in Sociology and Social work. Donna has experience in the mental health field as a therapist. She is in tune with others’ needs, as she is a spiritual person.

Donna is well-read in psychology and spiritually based books. She writes poetry that centers on what inspires her in life. Donna is also an avid movie buff. v Sheri Hillson grew up in rural Illinois where she always dreamed of becoming a published writer. Writing has been with her most of her life.

It’s a part of her. It’s what she does. It’s what she loves. She graduated from Columbia College in Chicago where she took many writing workshops. Sheri still lives in Chicago where she co-founded and currently facilitates a writing group called Silent Voices. v Rebecca L. Monroe lives in Troy, Montana in a log cabin on a river and has been writing for most of her life. She is owned by a yellow lab and a cat that sometimes lets her use her office chair. Rebecca has published over 80 short stories and also has a book of short stories, Reaching Beyond, published by Bellowing Ark Press. In her spare time, she loves to read and take long walks with her dog, Dodge.

Walk around Portland, Maine and you’ll stumble across some fantastic faces… not in flesh-and-blood but in spray paint. Anonymous artists, including one called “Roam,” ply their visions on the graffiti walls, junction boxes, cisterns, and asphalt that hug the shoreline along the Eastern Promenade overlooking the Casco Bay. Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter—the art never stops! Here are but a few examples to illustrate.

Photos by Laurie Notch © 2013