Perspectives - Dec 2018

Perspectives Magazine Where animals and inanimate objects have their say | December 2018

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 1

Contact Info

About the Magazine

ISSN: 1920-4205 Frequency: Biyearly Founding Editor and Designer: Monique Berry

 : http://1perspectivesmagazine.blogspot.ca  : perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com

INANIMATE OBJECTS 3

Door

4

Rock

5

Tree

6

Money Box

7

Shoes

9

Imaginary Friend

11

Guitar

The Door by Christopher Woods Of The Ages by Diana Engel Westerwood Park Tree by Diana Engel Christopher Woods

Christopher Iacona

Daun Daemon

Diana Engel

Lisa Mase

Paul Bluestein

The Beauty Shop Money Box by Daun Daemon

Trust Your Shoes by Pat Lapointe It’s Me, Your Imaginary Friend by Christopher Iacona

La Guitarra by Terry Seville

ANIMALS 18

Kitten

19

Lioness

20

Turkey Vultures

21

Dog

23

Dog

24

Robin

Kittenpants by Virginia Amis Africa by Tobi Pledger The Turkey Vulture Convention by Ruth Starr Thanksgiving by paul Blustein Dog Days of Autumn by Sharon Frame Gay Ruth Starr

Sharon Frame Gay

Tobi Pledger

Robin by Lisa Mase

Photo Credits

Special Notice

Front cover courtesy of Jose|adobe.stock.com. See individual pages for other credits.

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 2

All rights revert to individual authors.

NO PHOTOCOPIES ALLOWED

Door

The Door

By Christopher Woods Nothing I can say you don’t already know, or haven’t passed through. If you have heard this, know this, don’t let on. I need to hear a sound, the very noise of my voice.

And the noise of my thoughts.

Tell you of winters so long and bitter that frosted trees gathered close to me, begging to come inside. The frozen blue breath of firs spoke of every sadness there is in this world, and maybe the next.

Listen, my hinges sing of lost, wandering words that still echo on the path outside.

Hum grey, creaking tunes of things broken down, departed, disappeared.

But it is the haste of hands I remember best. Their touch, flinging my heart open wide.

However time is, however it must be, I know the only lasting thing is silence. It does not leave, or even breathe.

It only rages, either side of me.

© James - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 3

Rock

Of the Ages

By Diana Engel Time-scraped, lopsided, potato-pocked.

I, weapon of choice for David's slingshot, had my circumference increased by time and ice into boulders, canyons, mountain ranges.

Sediment layers my rugged history quilt. I have served as fortress block and good neighbor wall.

Let beauty compete but to what avail? Attic lace yellows into dust. Stiletto heels splinter, tumbling women to bruised bottoms and twisted ankles. Vases break. Even time-worn brass and silver tarnish. Lesser metal necklaces, rings turn moss green. My gritty imperfections refuse to lead you on.

In river streams, I’m the cool stone against summer-fevered skin. Death-hammer of riots and public stonings, I also chant to the wheelchairbound, city movers: "I will hold the door. Walk through.

Use me to build your house. I will shelter your brittle bones."

I am the quick-fix to hold open your latch-broken windows. Breezes, sun, birdsong enter a fractured mind. When you die, I will mark your memory.

Š Sherry - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 4

Tree

Westerwood Park Tree

By Diana Engel

A mother sprawling in sunlight, I luxuriate arms and legs into cool pools of grass across park ground to cradle small children in my boat-deck wide branches, shoot barky-leafed fireworks into sky, create crooks to hold those playing hide-and-seek.

When air spins into rocket-velocity currents, hurls knives of water thrashing landscape crews, tail-wagging chocolate lab, grandmother lifting local news over her head as a bonnet, John and Lily climb to the lowest V, hearts beating rhythm with the downpour, wrap arms around me, listen to my windchime leaves receiving rain.

I become their umbrella until the drops slow to a whisper, sun shines again and Lily insists on playing tree-house, races home to retrieve her baby doll as John, sudden astronaut, captains a moon mission, scales skyward to my star-reaching arms.

This is when I love being a tree.

Š TheVirtualDenise - Pixabay.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 5

Money Box

The Beauty Shop Money Box

By Daun Daemon

On the day she closed the shop, she emptied me of everything: the few bills and coins, two checks scrawled by elderly hands. Her own hands are now slow and liver spotted, no more with nimble, perfect fingers that whipped hair into beehives and snipped dead ends into a precise bob. For 46 years she opened and closed me five days a week, trusting me with her precious money, the precious money of cotton mill workers, school teachers, and housewives who came to her home shop to feel beautiful.

Oh, happy were those days I was so stuffed with cash she could barely latch my lid, those days of women filling every space in the shop — the styling chair, hulking hairdryers, love seat stacked with magazines— women whose laughter cut through the hairspray fog, her laughter clearest of all. I ache for her touch again, to see her young and bustling as she juggled a perm, two shampoo and sets, and a frosting at once; but now she sits on a sofa in the house, an old blind cat on her lap as she watches television, slipping into the mists of sleep and memories. I have been retired to a dusty countertop in the abandoned shop, my finish dull and rust splotched; my hinges would creak if only I were opened and filled again.

© Mariamichelle - Pixabay.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 6

Shoes Trust Your Shoes

By Pat LaPointe

Me: “I think I’ll wear the black 2-inch heels today. Are you OK with that?”

Shoe: “Why should I care? If you want to break your neck, it’s your choice”.

Me: “Well you don’t need to be rude”.

Shoe: “Not rude. Realistic. You chose those “stilts” over my comfy, memory foam, rubber heeled, particularly chic and beautiful tan flats once before. Really.

Think about the last time you made that choice.”

Me: “You are always bringing that up”.

Shoe: “Duh. Remember? Memory foam??”

Me: “I thought that was just to help me walk more comfortably.”

Shoe: “You can be so clueless sometimes.

Are you forgetting the snapping sound your right ankle made when you fell? The painful ride to the emergency room? The nasty smelling cast they put on you? Or how your leg began to itch so bad you were using a hanger to get under it and scratch? How about how you had to go up the stairs on your butt?”

Me: “Must you remind me of every detail?”

Shoe: “Memory foam.”

Me: “Yea, right.”

Shoe: “So, put those shoes on.”

I put them on.

Shoe: “Now walk across the room.”

Me: “I don’t know what’s your point, but I’ll do it anyway.”

I wobble across the room, trip on a rug and hear my left ankle snap Shoe: “Told you so. When you leave for the emergency room remember to bring just my right one.”

© Africa Studio - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 7

Š Stuart Monk - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 8

Imaginary Friend It’s Me, Your Imaginary Friend

By Christopher Iacono

Dear Joey, What a great day we had! I love playing cops and robbers with you. Sure, I’m always the crook, but that’s okay: we have so much fun playing in the woods next to your house.

I love how you hide behind the trees and wait for me to rob the bank. Thank you for being such an awesome friend.

Love, Oliver Dear Joey, I hope everything’s okay. I was surprised that you didn’t want me over when your friend was at the house today.

It’s great that you’ve made a lot of new friends in first grade, but lately you’ve been spending all your free time playing with them or doing other things like drawing or building LEGO sets without me. Other Imaginaries had warned me that as we got bigger, we wouldn’t have as many playdates. All I ask is that we have one every once in a while.

Your friend, Oliver Dear Joey, The head of the Imaginaries told me I’m no longer able to go to your house. “Sorry, Oliver,” he said. “Joe doesn’t want you there anymore. He’s in middle school now.” He said I could still write letters to you—his assistant will make sure they get delivered.

Since then, I’ve noticed some changes: my skin is wrinkling, and some of my hair is turning gray. Sometimes I get a cold, but it doesn’t last long.

Now that I can’t visit you, I spend all my waking hours wandering Imaginary City. There’s really not much to do there because other Imaginaries I know are either spending time with their children or feeling sad because they’re no longer wanted. Sometimes I hang out with other Imaginaries, but we just talk about our kids and end up feeling worse.

Anyway, how are you doing? Please write back soon.

Warm regards, Oliver Dear Joey, The head of the Imaginaries tells me you prefer “Joe,” but you’ll always be “Joey” to me. Anyway, I’m getting weaker all the time. Now, I’m only up for a few hours before I’m back in bed and sleeping the rest of the day.

I’ve been catching colds more often—and they stick around longer, too. I’ve been wanting to write to you more, but there’s nothing to write about, and I didn’t want to keep complaining.

I spend a lot of time thinking about our days together.

Back then, we never wanted to sleep. We just wanted to play all day and night. After your parents put you to bed,

we’d still be playing cops and robbers. You would jerk your invisible steering wheel and make car sounds and announce where I was going. “He’s going left. Now he’s climbing up the ladder. Now he’s getting on the helicopter.” What did your Mom and Dad think about that? Did they think you were just talking to yourself? Or did they know about me?

With appreciation, Oliver

Dear Joey, Lately, it’s been hard getting out of bed, so they assigned me a younger Imaginary to help out. His name’s Walter.

He’s a good guy, but his child didn’t want him—these days, kids start playing with electronic devices while they’re still little—so he’s with me now. It’s humiliating how he has to take me out for walks, but at least I’m getting some exercise. I started to tell him about the time we ran from ghost pirates while searching for buried treasure in the woods, but he snapped at me. “I’m so sick of hearing about Joey. I don’t care!”

At least you and I had some good times together. We could have more. I know—college graduates aren’t supposed to have imaginary friends, but would it be so bad to play one game while no one’s looking?

Best wishes, Oliver

Dear Joey, The head of the Imaginaries told me that you and your wife just had a baby, and his name is Aiden.

Congratulations! I know you’re going to be a great father.

Soon, he’ll be assigned an Imaginary, and I’m sure they’ll have a lot of fun together for a few years.

As for me... my health isn’t good. I have trouble eating these days, and my skin has turned gray and started to cling to my bones. Walter, who’s losing all his hair, says it’s only a matter of time before I’m gone forever.

But don’t be sad for me. Enjoy the time with your family, and be happy.

Yours faithfully, Oliver

Dear Aiden, I had so much fun with you at the playground today. We must have gone down that slide a hundred times! And you looked like you had a blast on the swings. When your Daddy was pushing you, he had such a big smile on his face.

I can’t wait for our next playdate!

Love, Oliver

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 9

Š miriristic - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 10

Guitar La Guitarra

by Terry Sanville

M

y first owner, Gary, brought me home from a music store in Long Beach. The Japanese had just bombed Pearl Harbor. Compared to war, nobody thought playing an instrument was that important.

He bought me cheap.

Gary worked as a winch operator at the Port of San Pedro. At night, he’d return exhausted to that tiny house, to his pregnant wife, and to me. He’d slump into his easy chair and down half a quart of Pabst that Marge set out for him. Then she’d take me off the wall and hand me over.

He’d twist my push pegs to tune me, pull dog-eared sheet music from under his chair and finger the notes to Red River Valley and Streets of Laredo. I got so damned tired of those songs I almost snapped my gut strings in protest.

My Maker, Jose, built me for flamenco, not for cowboy chords and bad yodeling. As Jose pieced me together, he’d told stories about the Spanish masters and I dreamed of being cradled in the arms of Rámon Montoya, or maybe Juan Moreno, filling a Madrid café with my rapid-fire falsetas as the beautiful bailaoras clacked their heels and danced.

But Gary treated me with respect. Every night after practice he’d wipe down my blonde cypress back and sides, buff my French Polished face with a soft piece of flannel, then carefully place me on the wall hook. From there I gazed onto the harbor and watched the freighters come and go, mostly gray Liberty ships loaded with war machines and military supplies. I wondered when he’d get his Greetings letter from the draft board, feared the day when they’d take him away from me.

As Gary’s playing improved, my attitude toward Laredo and Texas also improved and our nightly concerts became the day’s highpoint. One evening after practice, he sat with Marge on the tattered sofa and talked.

“I’m gonna join the Merchant Marine,” he said.

“Why? They need you at the port…and your bosses can get you a draft deferment.”

“I don’t want them to. Everybody’s going and I wanna do my part.”

“What am I supposed to do…now that the baby’s coming?”

“Your Mother and Sheila can stay with you. They’ll wanna get the hell out of Stockton anyway, and your Mom’s got plenty of experience with babies. You’ll have fun.”

“Fun? Really? How’d you like it if I made you live with your Mother?”

Gary grinned. “Yeah, she’s a real pistol.” He hugged Marge.

She began to cry. “What…what about me? Why do you wanna leave me?”

“Believe me, I don’t…but I feel I’ve got to go.”

He took me down from my hook and played chords softly. They continued to talk and cuddle.

For six months Gary trained to be a merchant seaman, in Avalon, on Santa Catalina Island just off the coast from San Pedro. Marge pored over his letters and read them to her mother and sister, leaving out the bedroom parts. She sat outside on the tiny patio that overlooked the harbor and

stared offshore. Meanwhile, I gathered cobwebs and became home to a colony of dust mites while hanging on the wall, forgotten. The house held little music – none of the women sang, and their old Motorola radio crackled and hummed and made hardly any sound. All their money seemed to go toward food and rent.

Gary came home from Avalon. After a good cleaning, he played me one last time before he departed on a Liberty ship bound for the Philippines. I felt like weeping and tried to make my music come out clear and sweet. After he left, the days dragged by. The mother and sister had gone to work for Douglas Aircraft, building bombers. I collected more dust. Marge grew large. One night, the moon shifted from behind the clouds and cast her pale light on my wall. Marge let out a scream that rattled my strings. A neighbor owned an old Motel T and had enough gas to drive the three women away. After four days, two women and a baby girl returned.

The new grandmother and aunt huddled together on the sofa and sobbed. I wanted to console them, but knew no one who could stroke me to make soothing sounds.

They hired a neighbor lady, Rosalina, as a wet nurse and housekeeper and went back to work. When the baby fussed and couldn’t be quieted, she’d pluck my strings and sing Mexican songs. She had a wonderful voice, but was no guitarist. She broke my high E-string tuning it too tightly and never played me again. But she’d sing during the hot days with all the windows thrown open and the sea wind breathing new life into our somnolent home.

Gary returned from the Philippines. The Japanese had attacked and sunk his ship, leaving most of her crew stranded on Luzon during the invasion. It had taken him weeks to recover and find a berth on a freighter bound for the West Coast. When he arrived in San Pedro, he stayed drunk for the first few days, too late for Marge’s funeral, but soon enough to mourn her death. It wasn’t long before Gary and the women began fighting. They reminded him that he had thirty days to find another ship assignment or be subject to the draft. They wanted him to pay more money to help raise the child. They had wrapped their lives around providing for the tiny girl and saw no need for an itinerant father. They wanted him gone.

The night before we left, the women and Gary argued loudly. The ruckus sent the baby into a high-pitched squealing fit, in the key of B-flat. The next morning, Gary packed his duffel bag. He replaced my snapped string. At the base of my body he drilled a small hole and inserted a wooden peg. He fastened a strap made from an old leather belt to the peg and tied its other end to my headstock with a shoelace. Slinging me over his shoulder, he picked up his bag and we headed out. I felt free, wanted him to play me as we plodded northward along the coast road, with Gary humming Red River Valley all the while.

W

e traveled slowly those first days, Gary walking with his back to traffic, his left thumb extended.

He’d grumble and curse, then sob quietly. I tried to focus my thoughts – play me, Gary, play me.

But he must have been thinking about Marge and the suffocating loneliness that seemed his fate. He ducked his head against the north wind, leaned forward and trudged up the coast.

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 11

We got a few rides, mostly from men involved somehow in the war or from local merchants. They spied his ragged pea coat and took him for a Navy sailor. When a fat old guy found out that Gary served in the Merchant Marine he frowned.

“Ya know, Walter Winchell thinks you guys are a bunch of slackers and draft dodgers. He says you refused to unload ships at Guadalcanal…says your bosses are all Commies.”

Propped up in the back, I watched Gary’s ears turn red. He twisted sideways in his seat and glared at the driver.

“You’ve got it wrong, buster. We got bombed, strafed, and torpedoed by the Japs…lost a lot of good men hauling supplies to our troops. You…you should be ashamed.”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’ what I heard.”

We got out of that car at the next intersection on the Coast Highway, somewhere south of Ventura. I could feel Gary tremble all over. But that idiot had snapped him out of his stupor. For a while, anger replaced sadness.

Camping on the beach that night along the Rincon Coast, he soaked his blistered feet in the cold Pacific, built a driftwood fire, and strummed me hard, like a flamenco master using the Rajeo technique. The silver surf glowed in the moonlight. He wrapped me in an old pillowcase to protect my body from the damp fog that rolled onshore. It helped, but not much. My wood swelled with moisture, only to shrink again when daylight struck me. My internal braces loosened, my face grew tight, and I became afraid.

After hitchhiking most of the next morning, we got a ride from a produce hauler. We spent what felt like forever bouncing along in the back of his truck, stuffed between boxes of cauliflower and peas, and rolled into Santa Barbara late that afternoon. The driver dropped us off near a white beach lined with Palm Trees. A freight train rumbled north on an inland line that bordered the boulevard.

The driver leaned out his window. “Now look, you’d better stay off the streets and the beach at night. The cops or shore patrol will nab ya.”

“Got any ideas where I can sleep?” Gary asked.

“There’s a hobo jungle in them trees.” The driver pointed toward the railroad. “The lady that owns the land lets tramps camp there, but she comes around to make sure everything’s kept clean, and she don’t allow no drinkin’.”

“Thanks for the tip…and the ride.”

With a grinding of gears and billowing blue smoke from its tailpipe, the truck pulled away. Gary faced the beach, buffeted by an onshore wind. He shivered then turned and walked inland through the trees. We came to a clearing. A dozen low shanties, built of scrap wood, doors, and window frames, surrounded a garden and a blazing fire pit. Weathered men with hollow cheeks sat in rickety chairs outside each shack. They eyed us suspiciously as we approached. A skinny man forced himself up and hobbled toward us.

“What you want, mister?” he called.

“I’m just looking for a place to sleep. I don’t mean to bother anyone.”

“You got any booze?”

“No sir.”

“That’s too damn bad,” the old guy said and the hobos laughed. “My name’s Joe.”

“I’m Gary.”

“You some kinda deserter or somethin’?”

“Not me. I’m in the Merchant Marine.”

“What the hell you doin’ here? They’re not shippin nothin’ outta Santa Barbara.”

“It’s a long story.”

“You’re not some damn spy for the cops, are ya?”

“No, I’ve got no use for them.”

“That’s good ta hear. You play that git-tar ya got there?”

“I’m just learning. I know Red River Valley and Streets of Laredo real well.”

Joe flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Good enough. We’ll teach ya some new tunes.”

“Thanks.”

“You can sleep in that shack next to mine. Ole Larry up and died last week so you’re in luck. They call me the mayor of this place. Do as I tell ya and you won’t get in no trouble.”

“I’m not looking for trouble, Joe.” We stayed in the camp for two days, Gary eating beggars stew with the rest of the men and scrounging for food and firewood during the day. At night around the fire, I got passed between rough hands. Crooked fingers formed simple chords that accompanied their high squeaky voices…mountain music they called it. One of the men cradled an ancient banjo in his lap and strummed along.

My humble stringed sister seemed happy enough with her lot but kept trying to show me up with fast and loud playing. Gary struggled to keep the beat while the grinning crowd clapped their hands. But in the end, my sweet tone won them over and sets of envious eyes followed Gary’s every move. I was glad when we left that place.

Near dawn on the third day we waited next to the railroad, just north of Santa Barbara’s depot and the huge fig tree. Joe had given Gary tips on how to jump a moving train. So there was little drama when he heaved his duffel bag into an empty boxcar of a northbound freight and dove headfirst into the opening, with me strapped to his back.

He crawled to the front of the car to keep out of the wind.

We had the place to ourselves. As the sun came up and the air warmed, the countryside became a blur of golden hills backing up a white-cliff coastline. The sky had cleared and the offshore islands stood out sharply across a glassy sea.

Gary spent the morning writing in his journal, a present from Marge before he’d left for seamen school.

The more he scribbled, the more the sadness overtook him.

We rolled northward all day, only slowed when passing through San Luis Obispo, then up the Cuesta Grade and onward toward Salinas. At sunset we pulled into a freight yard near a series of wharfs crowded with gray Liberty ships. A huge orange bridge crossed the mouth of the bay, its cables glowing like harp strings in the waning light. We ditched our boxcar and hurried from the yard. In a shabby warehouse district Gary found a tavern and ducked inside.

Mariners and longshoremen filled the place. I felt his muscles relax as he moved among his own kind to a corner table. He slumped into a chair and ordered a beer, then another.

While living with Marge, Gary didn’t get drunk at home. But that night he looked determined to push the conscious world, including me, far away from him. Two sailors and a civilian sat at our table.

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 12

“You mind if we play cards while we wait?” the skinny sailor asked.

“Suit yourself,” Gary said.

“You a mariner?” the round sailor asked.

“Yeah, I’ve just come up from San Pedro.”

“You got a ship assignment?” skinny sailor asked.

“Nah, not yet.”

“You should try to get on with us. We’re on the Daly.

She’s got a good skipper and crew…not a spit-and-polish bunch.”

Gary yawned. “Yeah, I need to check in soon.”

“We’ll take ya to the office after we’re done here,” round sailor offered.

“Thanks.”

The bartender delivered a bottle and four glasses. The civilian held out his hand to Gary. “My name’s Eddie Fulton. I own this bar. Have a drink on me.”

“Thanks, Eddie. Ah…nice place.”

“Who’re you kiddin’? This place is a dump…but it’s my dump and you boys keep me in business.”

“Happy to oblige,” skinny sailor cracked.

Eddie poured a round of drinks and they started playing stud poker, using matches to bet with. As the night wore on, the room filled with smoke and got hot and stuffy. My strings slackened. The card players emptied the first bottle and had nearly finished a second when Gary ran out of money, right when it looked like he could win big. He held a full house, aces over eights, but didn’t have enough to call. The other mariners had folded. I knew about poker from the San Pedro women; they used to play for pennies while Gary was away sailing the Pacific.

“Look guys, I’m broke,” Gary complained. “Can somebody lend me enough to finish this hand? I’ll pay ya back, promise.”

The other men stayed quiet. Finally, Eddie cleared his throat. “Throw in that guitar of yours and I’ll call it good.”

Gary pushed his chair back and stared at Eddie. “I…I can’t do that. We’ve been through a lot. She…she helps me through the day.”

“Suit yourself,” Eddie said. “So I take it you fold?”

“What...what if you promise to keep the guitar here until I get back from my next assignment. If I lose this hand, I’ll buy it back from you then.”

“Sure, son.” Eddie grinned. “That’s fine with me.”

Eddie had two queens showing. When he turned over his down cards, four ladies stared up from the table. The color drained from Gary’s face. He grasped me for the last time and fingered the notes to our familiar songs before handing me over.

“Sorry, son. But you can buy it from me anytime.”

“Don’t you worry. Keep her safe and put new strings on her every once in a while. I’ll be back.”

Eddie hung me from a hook on the wall in back of the bar. From there I could see the entire room and everyone coming and going. The two sailors helped Gary to his feet.

He stared at me with teary eyes, a big goofy smile splitting his face. They half lifted him across the room to the heavy front door and pushed outside into a foggy night. Keep warm, friend, and come back to me humming Red River Valley.

M

y life as a bar guitar swung from boring to frantic. When the merchant fleet was in, the mariners and longshoremen packed Eddie’s

Place and the booze flowed like water until closing time.

Other nights, Eddie and Donald, the bartender, played a lone game of blackjack in a quiet corner. Neither of them ever took me off my wall hook to play. My strings deadened. I felt my neck warp from the steam heat. Every few days, Donald passed me to some drunken sailor who wanted to impress his buddies or a local whore, and I’d suffer his coarse handling. My face became scratched and dinged and a long crack formed just west of my soundhole. My interior braces continued to loosen; they’d rattle when somebody struck my strings hard.

On a hot August day, the bar filled with yelling and screaming mariners and women, more broads than I’d ever seen in that dive. The San Francisco Chronicle headlines shouted “Peace! Japan Surrenders Unconditionally.” The sailors kissed their girlfriends and did more, right there in the bar. The next day, word filtered in about the riots on Market Street: windows smashed, businesses looted, and scores of people hurt. But nobody seemed to care – the war was over!

Not a day went by that I didn’t watch every patron coming through the tavern’s door, hoping that Gary’s pink boyish face would appear, that he’d rescue me from that underbelly of city nightlife. In the dark barroom after Eddie had locked up and left to join his wife and baby son, I’d think about San Pedro and Gary’s hands cleaning me after every practice session. But those memories felt too painful and I shifted my thoughts to being discovered by some famous flamenco player and whisked away.

The years flowed past, along with another war in some place called Korea. The bar patrons became a texture of faces. I stopped noticing their particular natures and struggled to hold onto a mental image of Gary. Eddie installed a jukebox against the far wall, a chrome and glass Wurlitzer, and the quiet hours that I’d learned to appreciate disappeared. A while later, he moved me aside from my spot, built a sturdy shelf and installed a television for the bar patrons to stare at. In the afternoons, they’d sit on their stools and gaze vacantly into the flickering blue light, muttering under their breaths to the imaginary characters on its screen. I got played less and less and knew my days as a bar guitar were numbered.

During all the years, Eddie changed my strings only once, had fastened the top three to their tuning pegs backwards. He replaced my old gut strings with nylon ones, the bottom three wrapped with silver wire. I sounded wonderful, but hardly anybody played me and I collected dust. Finally, my strings went slack from age. Eddie cut them off, wedged a clock in my sound hole and plugged it into a wall socket. The clock hummed in C-sharp, never changing. I thought I’d go crazy with the noise and die from the shame of becoming a mere wall fixture.

The music from the Jukebox changed. The sound of big band jazz and torch songs gave way to fast-tempo tunes with loud drums and strange-sounding guitars – and ballads like “Love Me Tender” sung by a guy with a vibrato you could throw a cat through.

One morning before opening, Eddie took me down from my wall hook, removed the clock and we left the bar, the first time I’d been outside since the War. He placed me in the back of his car, a long swooping machine with pointed tail fins, and drove to a tiny shop on a side street.

A man dressed in a leather apron came to the counter.

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 13

(Continued from page 13)

Eddie cleared his throat. “I know your sign says violins, but do you repair guitars?”

“That depends. Let me see what you have.” The man grasped me gently by the body and gave me a shake that dislodged dust balls from my dirty insides and made my braces rattle. He sighted down my neck and fingered my cracked face.

“I’ve had this thing since ’44,” Eddie said. “My wife insists that our boy learn to play an instrument. So I need it repaired.

The man frowned. “It sure has led a rough life. It could cost a pretty penny to fully restore it.”

“Yeah, well, what would you recommend?”

“I’d glue the cracked top and braces, add new strings, and clean it up a bit. It should be fine for a beginner.”

“All right, let’s do that. How much?”

“Thirty dollars plus the cost of strings.”

“Jesus, I could order a brand new one from Sears and Roebuck for less than that.”

“Maybe, but those things don’t sound as good as this one will…if it’s fixed properly.”

“Is it worth anything?”

“Sorry, I don’t know enough about guitar builders to tell you.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“It’ll be finished next Thursday.”

I felt nervous. Would this guy repair me or destroy me, give me back to Eddie a crippled wreck never to be played again? The man took me to the rear of his shop and laid me on a workbench. I prepared myself for the gluing and restringing process, but not for what happened over the following week. He removed all of my fret wires and heated my warped neck with a blistering hot iron, then clamped a vice-like machine to my neck that straightened it. He sanded my fingerboard until it was perfectly level, installed new nickel silver frets, glued my face cracks, cleaned my body, and rubbed new shellac all over me until I shone like clear glass.

When Eddie came to pick me up his mouth dropped open. “What the hell did you do?”

“I decided to do more work than what we talked about. I need the practice. I have a feeling guitar repair is going to become a lucrative business.”

“So how much is all this gonna cost me?”

“Thirty dollars plus two bucks for the strings.”

Eddie grinned, his once-smooth face now spiderwebbed with wrinkles, and reached for his wallet.

“You should buy a case for it. I don’t have any here, but there’s a place on Van Ness that sells them, very reasonable.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.”

Back in the car, I felt like I’d just come off my Maker’s workbench. My whole body rumbled in sync with the vibrations of Eddie’s Chevy. We drove across San Francisco to a neighborhood with two-story houses set back from the street and overlooking a huge swath of trees and grass. Eddie’s boy, Pete, met us at the door, grabbed me and ran upstairs to his corner bedroom. A window looked out onto what I would learn to be Golden Gate Park and the bay beyond.

I hadn’t been around children much so I didn’t know what to expect. Unlike his father, Pete stood maybe five

feet tall in his tennis shoes, with a skinny waist, slender arms, and small hands and fingers. He’d have difficulty playing barre chords on me. Pete shut the door to his room, sat on the bed and fingered my strings, his touch clumsy but light. By the time his mother called him to dinner, he’d figured out how to tune me and to finger a G and E-minor chord, all without help from sheet music or books. I had a good feeling about him when he took a clean T-shirt from a drawer and wiped me down. It reminded me of Gary so long ago. I could feel Pete’s excitement of discovering music as a performer. I felt wanted again and reveled in the sounds I made, as if hearing myself for the first time.

I

n the years that followed, Eddie bought his son guitar instruction books by Mel Bay and others. One of the books included Red River Valley. Pete learned it quickly and sang the verses in a sweet tenor voice.

Hearing that song, I almost felt that my life would repeat itself and half expected the boy to leave home on a hitchhiking adventure along the coast.

Pete practiced every day for at least two hours and often longer. He learned to read notes and chord symbols, and liked music books filled with folk tunes where he could fingerpick and strum me while he sang. But as he got older, his musical tastes changed and he tuned in rockand-roll stations on his radio, bought record albums, and used me to play along with that raucous noise. He learned barre chords and figured out how to finger arpeggios. But I wasn’t built to make that kind of sound. I knew something would change, and not in my favor.

Pete grew his hair long, something his father detested but his mother tolerated. After pleading with them for months, his parents bought him a cherry-red Gibson electric guitar and a tweed-covered amplifier. The Gibson had a broad face, f-holes like a violin, lots of chrome knobs and switches, and a long skinny neck with pearl inlays. He’d play her for hours, practicing fast arpeggios, but still playing finger style. A neighborhood boy with a bass guitar joined him and they’d play and sing until Pete’s mom banged on the door and screamed at them to keep it down.

Pete propped me in a corner of his room. I felt unloved, and despaired that I’d ever compete with the Gibson and the blasting sounds coming from the amps.

But his mother kept me dusted and cleaned and away from direct sunlight. The room felt cool, but not cold, so my neck and body didn’t shrink or swell like it had in Eddie’s Place. One day, Pete and his mom packed suitcases full of his clothes and boyhood treasures. Eddie brought home a guitar case and slipped me inside its plush burgundy interior. From arguments between Pete and his parents, I’d learned that he’d be living in a dormitory on the UC Berkeley campus across the bay, and that the school didn’t allow electric guitars in the dorm rooms. So I would be accompanying my owner to college.

Pete studied architecture. But every chance he got, he walked Telegraph Avenue and played me in storefronts for spare change. The country was involved in yet another conflict, this one in a far-off corner of Southeast Asia. He became one of the many protesting Vietnam. Unlike my first owner, Pete had no interest in doing his part to support the war. His part became that of a protester, and I

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 14

© Engin_Akyurt - Pixabay.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 15

helped voice his discontent. He carried me everywhere and sang raw-edged songs that berated the ‘masters of war.’

On a blustery day in May, we moved toward People’s Park to join a throng of students railing against the University for ripping out landscaping and preparing to construct buildings on the land. I thought it strange that Pete would protest since he studied architecture, the art of building stuff. But I’d learned that humans are anything but consistent.

The crowd continued to swell. Pete slipped my strap over his shoulder and sang a Dylan song. A horde of Police advanced on the students, firing gas canisters into the crowd that made the kids choke and vomit like drunks on a three-day binge. The officers wore helmets and masks and carried shields. They pushed into the throng, swinging their clubs and chasing the protesters down Telegraph Avenue.

Pete slung me across his back, turned and ran toward the junior high school several blocks away. People streamed past us, screaming, holding their bloodied heads. The police raised guns to their shoulders and fired. A boy running next to us dropped, the right side of his shirt shredded. Pete picked up speed and dodged and weaved.

Others near us were hit and staggered into the neighborhood. An officer ran after us with his gun held before him, his shoes slapping against the pavement. He pulled up short and raised his weapon. Pete glanced over his shoulder then turned to face the officer, protecting me with his body. The man fired. The blast caught Pete in the left arm, from his shoulder to his wrist. Bits of hot metal pierced his flesh and broke through my back. I felt his warm blood flow into my body, staining my wood.

The blast spun Pete around. He took off down a side street, gripping his arm and groaning. Pete found a pay phone and called his parents, who whisked us to a nearby hospital then across the bay to their home. I rested in my old corner of his bedroom while he recovered. The doctors encouraged him to play me as a way of strengthening his muscles and tendons. At first, fingering the simplest chords caused him great pain. But as the weeks passed his dexterity and confidence returned.

One day, his father watched him practice. “That old guitar looks like hell. You want me to get it fixed?”

Pete rubbed his fingers across the holes in my back, the wood splintered and stained by his blood. “Hell no. I want people to know what those pigs did to us. They can’t kill my axe or me. She’s too strong for them.”

“Yeah, well they came too damn close. You have to stop hanging around with those hippie rabble-rousers.

You’ll get yourself killed.”

“The Army will get me killed if I drop out of school and get drafted.”

“You’re right about that. But you’re probably 4-F anyway, with that arm. I wouldn’t worry about going to war anytime soon.”

“Maybe not. But there’s always the next one, right Pop?” Eddie ran a hand through his gray hair and nodded.

I

n the autumn of 1969, Pete returned to college and took me and the Gibson with him. We avoided protest rallies. He ignored me, spending all his time hunched over a drafting board in his backstreet apartment with psychedelic rock blasting from huge speakers.

In two years, he graduated with honors. He landed a job with a large Oakland firm, met a wonderful woman named Joyce and got married. We lived in the hills overlooking the San Francisco Bay. The Gibson and I occupied our own spots in a wall-to-wall carpeted living room that opened onto a protected patio. Pete played me every night after work, just like Gary had done in San Pedro so many years before. But instead of guzzling cheap beer and playing Red River Valley, he drank scotch, studied classical arrangements by Andrés Segovia, and struggled to master Brazilian jazz with all its damned finger-cramping chords.

I never felt ignored or unloved. But that didn’t stop me from becoming shamefully jealous of my sister guitar, the Gibson. While Pete used me to study music, he played the electric for the power and energy that she gave him. I wanted to feel that energy, that emotional sting from the music, but knew I couldn’t compete. My envy increased when they began playing electric blues, songs with lots of string bending and vibrato. Somehow those sounds struck at my flamenco soul and I wept inside while the Gibson seemed to revel in her raw magic.

Joyce gave Pete two children, a hulking son named Erick and a shy daughter named Lily. As they grew, I expected them to mess around with the Gibson and myself.

But they and their friends seemed content with being listeners rather than performers. They liked the chickachicka songs of some British band with a funny name that sounded like The Heebie Jeebies. Then there was a tune where screaming voices melded perfectly into a screaming guitar solo – sounding like the high shriek from a freight train’s brakes. I knew the Gibson loved that crap, which made me despise her, but not for long. I suppose my own mellow music rankled her down-and-dirty sensibilities.

The children left for college, somewhere back east.

One night, with the fog smothering the bay with gray cotton candy, Erick returned. He wore a camouflaged soldier’s uniform. Joyce cried when she saw her son, but left the two men alone to talk.

“Didn’t I teach you anything?” Pete demanded. “The ’60s wasn’t just some damn aberration, ya know…and you could have become anything you wanted. But a soldier?”

“It’s different now, Pop. We have to do something or that fucking Saddam will do more than just invade Kuwait.”

“You know, it’s all bullshit, all about oil, don’t you?”

“No, it’s about doing the right thing. If we need to be the cops of the world, then so be it. Better us than the Russians.”

They argued over multiple scotches and beers. Finally, Erick left the house to join his Army buddies at a local tavern. Pete went to a hall closet and dug out all of his old songbooks. We played Dylan, Donovan, and Buffy SaintMarie songs until Joyce came in and helped her drunken husband to bed. My strings vibrated all that night with the sudden infusion of energy, and with the sorrow of knowing that history would indeed repeat itself.

Desert Storm ended quickly, Erick survived unscathed, and the books full of protest songs were again squirreled away, only to be retrieved on nights when Joyce attended Art Guild meetings and Pete had the house to himself. His fine tenor voice stayed strong throughout middle age and into his graying years.

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 16

After three decades of work, he and Joyce moved south to San Luis Obispo. He took a teaching post at Cal Poly University. Myself and the Gibson had our own airconditioned music room with a huge window looking out onto the broad Edna Valley. Pete and Joyce became involved with the University’s La Guitarra Celebration.

This past year he drove to the airport to pick up a flamenco guitarist who would stay at the house during the festival.

Rámon would play that night at the Performing Arts Center. My strings tightened with excitement.

When Pete and Rámon arrived at the house, there was a huge commotion with much wailing and anguished cries from the men and Joyce. They entered the music room.

Pete placed a mangled guitar case in the middle of the floor and backed away, shaking his head. Rámon had set the case down in the airport’s parking lot to help Pete load the Mercedes’s trunk with his luggage. A neighboring car had backed over it. Rámon opened the case and let out a sob. The devastation sickened me and I think the Gibson also felt it because her strings quivered for a moment. The car had crushed the body and splintered the neck, destroying the flamenco instrument.

Rámon slumped into a chair. Pete fixed him a drink.

He downed it and asked for another. “I’m supposed to play in two hours. How will I ever find…”

“What about some of the other performers? Could one of them lend you–” “I doubt it,” Rámon snapped. “They won’t like the way I tap on the face of their guitar. Besides, they play classical instruments. Most of them sound too muddy to me.”

Rámon took a long pull on his drink, leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he scanned the room. His gaze came to rest on me, sitting in my stand.

His eyes narrowed.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing.

Pete grinned. “That’s my old college guitar. We’ve been through the wars.”

“No, it’s more than that. Those friction tuning pegs haven’t been used for many years.”

“You want to look at her?”

“Yes, please.”

Pete picked me up, adjusted the tuners and handed me over. Rámon stared into my sound hole. His eyes grew large.

“Do you realize what you have here?”

Pete chuckled. “Yeah, a beat-to-shit guitar with buckshot holes in her back. You can still see my bloodstains inside.”

“This…this is a very fine instrument…built by José Ramirez…probably in the 1930s.”

“Really? I knew she was old but–” A rapid-fire arpeggio interrupted Pete’s question.

Rámon leaned forward, his fingers flying over my fingerboard then tapping my face in the style my Maker had built me for. Every part of my body shivered. Pete left us while Rámon learned all my idiosyncrasies, and I had plenty. He affixed a capo to my neck and played high notes, listening as each rang true to pitch.

I wasn’t used to someone beating on my face with his hard fingers. But the drumming awakened images of slender women in bright dresses, arms curved, moving

slowly in a circle, heels striking the floor to a fast clapping beat. I could feel my entire body sing.

Rámon neither ate nor drank anything more. Pete drove us to the concert hall and left us in the dressing room. A low rumble from the assembling crowd jangled my nerves. A troop of three women squeezed into the room. Each hugged Rámon.

“We heard what happened,” one said. “We’re so sorry. That guitar was your pride and joy.”

“Yes, yes she was,” he answered. “But I have a new friend, at least for tonight.” He removed the soft cloth that he’d draped over my body.

The women gasped. “Look at the poor thing,” one said. She fingered my face gently then ran a hand with polished nails over the holes in my back.

“She looks wounded,” said another.

“Yes, she’s no beauty. But she plays and sounds–” In the background someone spoke in a booming voice.

The women checked their makeup in the mirror and hurried out. Rámon tuned me one last time and followed them. We waited off-stage while the announcer finished his introduction. The house lights dimmed and burning white spotlights lit the glistening stage. Rámon moved toward a lone chair, to thunderous applause. He lowered his slight body onto the seat and began playing me immediately. The women followed, two clapping and one dancing.

I struggled to keep my friction pegs in place. I’d be damned if I’d let myself go out of tune. A firestorm of notes echoed throughout the hall. I heard gasps and moans from the audience. As we played, each dancer took her turn: back arched, head held proudly, hands twisting at the wrists, fingers caressing the air slowly, then the quick turns, the gown raised, and the drumming of Spanish leather heels against the hard stage.

Yet in all that emotion and grandeur, with my life’s dream fulfilled, I couldn’t help but remember the Red River Valley and Gary’s boyish face grinning with each imperfect note.

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 17

~ The End ~

Kitten have used a good brushing about now.

Something moved in the crepe myrtle next to the deck. I flexed, ready to pounce.

Why had they let the stupid child taunt me?

Hadn’t I purred loudly when the woman scratched my head? Weren’t my soft leg rubs appreciated anymore? Who was he anyway?

Why did they let him near me? He didn’t have the manners of a field mouse.

We’d been having a tolerable time on that summer afternoon. I’d been content to allow the adult strangers to pet me and comment on Kittenpants my glossy coat, while the child demanded

By Virginia Amis attention of his own. No one else seemed annoyed that the boy ran around with his arms flailing, acting like a lunatic. They didn’t even scold him when, as I ignored him, he nudged me with the toe of his dirty shoe and said the vile name.

“Kittenpants. That’s what he looks like.”

Everyone thought he was so cute, even laughed and ruffled his blonde hair when he lisped that abomination.

Kittenpants, indeed!

They must be wondering where I’ve gone, I thought as I groomed myself in the cool night air. Maybe I’d come back if they’d take down the stupid signs! Kittenpants lost! Good Lord!

My name is Sebastian!

My running away I’d meant as a statement when they laughed at the little boy’s gaffe. It didn’t even sound like my real name. Other © Carolyn Franks—stock.adobe.com children, whose mouths were not yet able to sound out all the letters, called me “bastion.” I padded my way deftly across the damp grass, onto the tolerated that. But, not the stupid nickname the boy slick flagstone path that led toward the cedar deck thought was so funny. where they’d left my food and water bowls. Late-night I’d show them, I’d thought. I’ll take a hike for a day. revelers at the house next door laughed at some joke I Make them miss me, suffer for their blunder. It was a didn’t understand, their voices spilling through the screens breeze. They left my food and water on the deck, hoping on the open windows. Crickets chirped, but I ignored I’d return. How easy to sneak back at night and fill my them. No one noticed my soft approach. stomach. I enjoyed making them pine for me so much, I Eating the food they’d left as enticement after their extended my plans. voices grew hoarse from calling me, I listened for A day turned into a week, and into three weeks. I’m a movement inside the house, ready, at the approach of my wild animal. I can live on my own, especially when they human family, to dash into the darkness underneath the leave me food. cushioned chairs where I used to lie in the afternoon sun. I Now, the fleas were chewing on my tender skin and loved those days, when, with a full belly, I stretched first, my eyes itched from the poison ivy I’d brushed against then curled into a circle to sleep, a fly or two buzzing while running from a fox. Oh, that had been fun! overhead and a lawnmower droning in the distance. My “Hey, Kittenpants, I saw your photo on the telephone eyes grew heavy at the memory. It had been a perfect life. pole. Nice name! I’ll bet all the other cats scatter when Then, that snotty little boy gave me a hideous nickname. you come around!” the fox’s cackle taunted me. “Come Sebastian. I’d always been Sebastian. Regal and out and play, Kitten britches!” respected. Even in a baby voice, used when I first arrived I’d slinked into a hollow log lying on the forest floor, and they adored my soft fur and blue eyes, my name surrounded by vibrant green ferns, only to startle a family demanded reverence. Embroidered on a collar, which I’d of raccoons who did not appreciate the intrusion. just managed to lose in the low undergrowth of the The bush rustled again. On pointe, I saw the snake, wooded acreage a quarter mile away, even strangers could black and sleek, shining eyes watching me. I hated snakes. pay homage. Sebastian, they’d say. Lifting my chin “Meow,” I said in my loudest voice. proudly, they would stroke me underneath.

The deck lights came on in a flash. “Oh,” the woman I’d scratched a bare spot on my neck next to where said as she banged opened the slider. “You’ve come hair had matted so tightly it would have to be removed home!” Turning, she shouted into the kitchen. “Everyone, with a razor. In the three weeks since I’d taken off, I felt he’s back! I told you he’d be back.” She held out her sure my grooming appointment had been cancelled. Could arms. “Come here, my beautiful Sebastian Kittenpants.”

I

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 18

Lioness Africa Tobi Pledger

I

am supremely happy, basking in the sunshine after enjoying a midday meal with my family. The heavy air barely moves, as if the atmosphere holds its breath.

I look into the distance, hot air making the grasses of the plains shimmer, the slopes of Kilimanjaro a mirage. I never tire of gazing at the mountain that represents the beauty of my country, my birthright, the mountain that is my solitary companion, the mountain that rises above the Serengeti. It pleases me to think of the permanence of that majestic peak. It will be here for millions of years, and generation after generation will gaze upon it as I now do. I feel a spirituality, a connection to something larger than myself.

Flies buzz around my head, landing on my blonde hair. I ignore them. The flies are only interested in feasting on the blood covering my face.

Earlier, I killed a Thompson’s gazelle, a large male, more than adequate to feed my entire pride. We ate our fill and now lay contented, drifting in and out of sleep in the African sun.

A thin but persistent sound rouses me from my stupor. I jump to my feet, looking toward the noise, scanning the grassy expanse for trophy hunters. My breath quickens, my muscles tense. The sound comes from a permanent tent camp to the west. As I listen, I can make out the familiar rhythm and the words of Toto’s “Africa.” I’ve heard it a million times. The safari companies like to set the mood for their customers, and, for their part, the tourists seem to love the nostalgic cliché. Lion hunters come silently, quickly, bringing death. They do not play music.

I relax and lay back down.

Then I doze, and dream of rain. © 4055480 - Pixabay.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 19

Turkey Vultures

© ondrejprosicky - stock.adobe.com

The Turkey Vulture Convention

Mermaid. I pummeled that person/fish with questions and the Mermaid told me she didn’t have the time to

By Ruth Starr discuss her life. Damn, not enough time!

Then I drove to the center of town sniffing in all This is not a rehearsal!’ I yelled to the facilitator of the good chocolate smells as Podunk was known for the group. making great chocolate candies. I parked my car on a “What - I can’t hear you”. side street and walked to the main corner in town. On “My friend Myrna’s butcher told her that it was one corner was a restaurant, across from that a not a rehearsal.” clothing shop, then a jewelry store and on the last “What?” corner a bank.

The bank had a huge clock hanging “Life, don’t you get it?” I’m getting exasperated. from the corner of the building.

Standing there I’m trying to make sense with a bunch of Gobblers. gawking, I noticed a turkey vulture with a high The invitation to attend the Turkey Vulture powered rifle who aimed it right at the clock on the Convention in Podunk, MI on the shores of Lake bank. Oh, my, I thought, there’s gonna be trouble.

Michigan was quite a surprise. It was a great honor, In another moment, he shot the clock that came but I was not getting a message across to these “turkey flying down in what seemed like a million pieces. vultures”.

People and turkey vultures were everywhere. It “But our convention is all about time”, one of the became chaotic. People were on their cell phones vultures said. dialing 911.

The bank president came running out. His Well, of course, it fits right in. Rehearsals and face was the color purple. A guy came running down time. If we are busy rehearsing and never get to the the street from the local radio station with something point, we’ve waisted our precious minutes. strapped on his back and a microphone in his hand.

One of the turkey vultures jumped out of his seat “Hey, You, Turkey, why you do that? Are you crazy exclaiming in a loud voice, “I’m planning on throwing or something?” The turkey vulture looked him square my hat in the ring (excuse the cliche) and run for in the eye and said, “thanks for asking, but I don’t Congressman in this district”. have time to talk with you. I’m going on vacation.”

“You’re out of order, throw the beast out”, said Where were the police and what would happen to the facilitator. that turkey vulture. People around Podunk will always Out of time - there was an incident that happened relate that story as the great turkey vulture caper. at last years convention. I drove my new Chevy Since I watched this event I thought it was just a convertible down by the lakeshore. You may not rehearsal. believe this, but I saw a mermaid come up to the shore. I quickly parked my car and ran over to the

‘

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 20

Dog Thanksgiving

By paul Bluestein I bark … and the sun comes up.

Morning.

He fetches his coffee, my biscuit.

Toast and a treat.

He’ll read the newspaper, I’ll dream of slow, inattentive cats.

When he reaches down to ruffle my fur, his hand feels like the afternoon sun.

This must be what he calls Thanksgiving.

I’ll dream of slow, inattentive cars.

© paul Bluestein

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 21

Š Anastasiia - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 22

Dog Dog Days of Autumn

By Sharon Frame Gay

T

his is the time of year when all things seem possible. Mornings are misty, filled with promise, brimming with delightful scents on the breeze. I catch the trace of a female fox, cutting across the creek on the way to her den, a musty smell mixed with mother's milk, quick little prints across the muddy bank, then up into the woods, disappearing like a ghost trail. Scents stay longer on the lower notes near the ground, held in place by dew. I feel frisky, almost like a puppy again.

Almost, except that there is something missing.

Sometimes I still gaze down the road, looking for him.

My name is Razz. Short for Razzmatazz, a name my people gave me when I still had my milk teeth, torn from my mother's teat and carried home in a cardboard box. Those early days with my litter are cloudy in my memory. I belong here now, to these people, the boy and girl, the woman. My family.

And I belong to him, strong and kind, smelling of male sweat, pressed shirts, mints and tobacco.

I am a Golden Retriever. Proud to wave my tail like a flag, proud to serve and protect. I remember him saying something just like that, when he left one day, duffle flung over his shoulder, tears in his eyes, the long blast from the waiting train down by the station mournful and foreboding. The woman cried hard and held him for the longest time on our front porch. Then when he stepped off on to the sidewalk, she threw her arms around me and cried some more.

I was already an older dog then, but stood as tall as I could, supporting her weight, head up, stoic, standing for her as long as she needed me. I was there for the children, too. When he left, he said "watch over all of them, Razz", and I did.

I don't know where he went, but many men around here went with him. I heard words over and over again that sounded like "Dubiya Dubiya two" and strange names like Italy, Germany, France.

Letters tumbled through the slot in our front door, smelling foreign, exotic, inviting. They crackled under my nose, and it was tempting to rip them up and eat them but I know the woman wanted them, waited for them. Somewhere deep under the envelope, beneath the ink, I smelled him. I wagged my tail and looked out the window for him. I whined and scratched at the floor until the children called me away.

"Come Razz, come play fetch" and we raced out the door and into the alley, tearing down the pathways after an old tennis ball that had seen better days.

The seasons went by, but I never forgot him. I missed him, wanted to play with him, feel his strong arms around me, the woman, the boy and girl. I have now taken it upon myself to raise the children.

Patient and kind, I sleep beside them on the bed, licking their faces and cuddling so they stay warm during the cool nights. I growl at the postman, the delivery boy, anybody who enters the yard and walks to our front door. It's my duty, and it's to be taken seriously. I am the man of the house now. Me, old Razz, keeping it safe.

One day I growled at a young man on a bicycle as he pedaled up to our garden gate. He smelled of sadness and stress, office buildings and the oil of old typewriters.

"Down boy" he said, reaching into his bag and pulling out a yellow piece of paper. "There's a good dog now," he murmured as he sidled past me. I sensed no danger on him, and allowed him to pass, walk up the stairs, knock on the door, speak to the woman. "Telegram," he said gently, and the woman fell to her knees, reaching for the door jamb.

My hackles went up as I stalked up the steps, bristling. What was this person doing to her? She was crying, reaching for me. "Oh Razz, he's gone missing! Missing in action"! I don't know what that meant, but I know that her heart was beating hard as she wrapped her arms around my neck. The young man backed down from the steps away from us, and I barked ferociously at him.

"Get off my property!" I howled in outrage.

"Leave my people alone!" Then I turned back towards her and the children as the whole world seemed to grow dim. Something happened. I didn't understand. Where was he? I need him here to help.

I need him to hold us all. Then, I set my tail, held up my head, and got back to the business of raising this family. Just me. Just good old Razz.

Time went by, and with it the seasons. The children and I spent lazy summer days in the creek out back, swimming and catching bullfrogs and crawdads. I sat on the bank in the sun to dry off, my fur smelling like wet wool, watching the kids as they ran back and forth along the rocks, buckets in hand, the woman not far away, sitting on a blanket, staring into the distance. Autumn came again, and I took the children to the school around the corner every day, my tail a plume as we stepped lively along the sidewalk, catching up with other children, all the little kids reaching down to grab my fur, pat my head. I stood like a good dog.

Then came Christmas, my favorite time of the year. There were dog treats, and a new bed too. And cookies that somehow found their way off the plate

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 23

(Continued on page 25)

Robin Robin

By Lisa Mase The way I see it a beak is better for spearing worms saves them for the clamoring clutch that awaits in our nest woven by the same yellow nib that gathered thread fallen strands of hair hay that slipped from farmer's bale and spun them into home.

Rain is our savior brings grass and food for days numbered until brood flies for the first time.

They admire me from inside wood and glass boxes as I hop from blade to stone feet better than wings where grubs are concerned.

Why won't they come outside in the downpour preen their feathers drink in spring?

Š Beigles - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 24

Dog cont’d (Continued from page 23)

in the kitchen. I was stealthy. Took just one or two.

Oh, but they were like happiness in my mouth! The best! The tree in the living room smelled like the outdoors - Frasier pine, sap, birds. When I was a young pup, I lifted my leg on it, spraying my scent, just like I do outside. I got into trouble. The man dragged me out of the room by my collar and pushed me out the door. I was mortified. From then on, I treated that strange tree with respect.

Spring came, and with it baby bunnies for me to chase. I never tried to catch them. Just gave them a little thrill as I escorted them out of the yard. The earth smelled like birth, the sun on my coat felt like it had crept closer in the sky. Still, the woman sat waiting, staring out the window, her hand on my head.

"Good Razz," she would say. "There's my old friend".

I lay down on the floor beside her as she cried. My muzzle is turning white, my bones ache, eyesight not as good as it once was, but one thing I can surely do is cry with her. I'm getting old, and worry how long I will be able to be here to take care of them. I whimper like a puppy.

And now it is autumn again. The air is sharper.

Sounds travel farther through the leafless trees. Even the lonely sound of the train down at the station lingers on the air a bit longer, its whistle piercing the sky .

Something made me feel itchy deep in my soul when I heard that whistle. Not the kind of itch that a flea gives off, but the feeling of unrest when I catch something on the breeze. A scent. Like smoke and mints, only from far, far away, and something else, too. Something else that excited me, raised the hackles on my back. I barked to be let out. I raced across the porch and down the stairs, turned in circles, nose up, sniffing the air. Whining. Ears cocked, eyes everywhere.

And then........ I saw him, walking down the sidewalk. Slower, much slower than he used to walk, limping. The duffle flung over his shoulder, each step bringing him closer to me, to us, to the rest of our lives. The screen door slammed and the woman walked out behind me, peered up the sidewalk, a quick intake of breath, a stifled sob.

"Razz!" he cried. I let out a bark that shook the last leaves off the trees and ran into his arms. It is autumn, and all things are possible.

~ The End ~

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 25

Š Africa Studio - stock.adobe.com

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 26

Contributor Bios Christopher Iacono lives in Massachusetts with his wife and son. You can learn more about him and his works at cuckoobirds.org.

Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Texas. He has published a novel, THE DREAM PATCH, a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. His photographs can be seen in his gallery - http://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/ Diana Engel works as a poet, freelance writer, writing workshop teacher and caregiver. Previously serving as editor and head of two local poetry anthology projects, she has work appearing in Asheville Poetry Review, Flying South, snapdragon, Wild Goose Poetry Review, Open to Interpretation, The Gathering, fire & chocolate, Wordworks and The Visual Poetry Walk 2016. Her first chapbook of poetry, Excavating Light, will be published by Finishing Line Press in March 2019.

Daun Daemon is working on a collection of short stories about four sisters and their hairdressing mama as well as a collection of poetry about her real mama, one of which is the attached poem. Her stories have appeared in Fiction Fix, Southern Women’s Review, The Dead Mule, Literally Stories, the Same, and other journals. Daun has published poetry in the Haiku Journal and most recently in Typishly, Night Garden Journal, and Dime Show Review. She teaches scientific communication at NC State University and live in Raleigh, NC. Lisa Masé has been writing poetry since childhood. She teaches poetry workshops for Vermont’s Poem City events, cofacilitates a writing group, and has translated the poetry of writers from Italy, France, and the Dominican Republic. Her poems been published by Open Journal of Arts and Letters, Wander Lost, the Long Island Review, 3 Elements, Zingara Review, and Silver Needle Press among others.

Pat LaPointe is a past President of the Story Circle Network.She was a contributing author and the editor of the anthology: “The Woman I’ve Become: 37 Women Share Their Journeys From Toxic Relationships to SelfEmpowerment” published in 2012. Her work has been published in several Editing and Ebooks anthologies as well as in Story Circle Anthologies. She facilitates women’s writing groups online and on site and is the editor of the Changes In Life monthly newsletter for women. paul Bluestein is a physician by profession (still practicing), a self-taught musician (still practicing) and a dedicated Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He writes poetry when The Muse calls unexpectedly and rings insistently until he answers, even if he doesn't want to talk with her just then. He currently lives in Connecticut with his wife and the two dogs who rescued him.

Ruth Starr is a storyteller, writer, musician, dog-lover and entrepreneur. Her stories have been published in both print and online magazines with more than 100 stories, including Nightwriters, The Journal, Kind, Simply Clear Marketing and Sagacious Illumination. Ruth lives on the Central Coast of California where she regularly golfs, works out at the gym and spends time with her dog.

Sharon Frame Gay grew up a child of the highway, playing by the side of the road. Her work has appeared in many anthologies and magazines around the world, including Typehouse, Gravel, Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction, Literary Orphans, Indiana Voice Journal, Crannog Magazine, Halcyon Days and others. Her work has won prizes at Women on Writing, The Writing District and Owl Hollow Press. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. You can find her on Amazon Author Central as well as Facebook as Sharon Frame Gay-Writer.

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and one skittery cat (his in-house critic). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, poems, and novels. Since 2005, his short stories have been accepted by more than 240 literary and commercial journals, magazines, and anthologies including The Potomac Review, The Bitter Oleander, Shenandoah, and Conclave: A Journal of Character. He was nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize for his stories “The Sweeper,” and “The Garage.” Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

Tobi Pledger is a veterinarian who finds inspiration in the natural world. She has written several scientific/technical articles, and now prefers to write fiction. She's currently enrolled in a stand-up comedy class at Goodnight's Comedy Club.

Virginia Amis is a fiction writer who loves gardening and practices law to support her writing and gardening passions. An English major before attending law school, she enjoys losing herself in afternoons of writing. She has recently honed her writing skills by studying with Robyn Conley, The Book Doctor, and Sheila Bender of Writing it Real. Ms. Amis has written two novels and is beginning her third in the series.

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 27

I hope you enjoyed the object and animal perspectives.

Come back in June 2019 for more.

Perspectives ~ December 2018 ~ 28