Object of Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .R.G. Evans

also been unhappy, and that child still lived in her, lived to choose the elegant, odd, inappropriate things she gave me. Fairy Flowers, I think, represented her ambitions for me—to love beauty, to become a reader, to become educated, to become the artist she hadn ’t had the chance to be.

The pictures in Fairy Flowers were so powerful that, for the next two years, I struggled through the text, as if that were the fee I had to pay to earn the pictures. I don ’t remember my mother reading me the book, but she probably did, or told me the meaning of words when I asked. The diction was florid, the vocabulary way above our second grade text books. “The Legend Of The Purple Dahlia ” described the main character:

As his name implies, Monsieur Rosette was a most formal and methodical servitor, precise and punctilious in his duties, which he performed each day….Indeed, he was an exceptional gentleman, a paragon of etiquette, whose only desires and pleasures in life were in the service of his sovereigns.

I might have figured out that he was a good servant, but the line drawing that illustrated the story showed me that he was silly as well as noble, a serious man, admirable yet quaint.

The most enthralling illustration was the one for the water lily legend. In it a young woman was floating underwater, naked except for her long hair and a few cleverly placed wave swirls. I’d never seen a naked person in a book before. I stared at the woman ’ s breasts. According to the words, she was a princess who ’d drowned while foolishly clutching gold she ’d found at the bottom of the pond, a gift she would give to the prince she loved. Sinking into the mucky floor of the pond, unable to drop the gold or pull her feet free, she ’d been transformed into a water lily—the very first water lily. Reading the words, I felt the suck of the mud, the weight of the gold in her hands. Terrifying. The story had a moral, maybe a few of them: 1. Don ’t be greedy; 2. Stay close to home; 3. You are not the equal of the prince you love; 4. Expensive gifts and swampy ponds are dangerous.

Such plot lines (bad behavior/death/ transformation/lesson) were frequent in the book, though some ended the way “ proper ” fairy tales did, happily ever after. But the words, the plots were beside the point—Pogany seemed to have his own interpretation of the legends, and the illustrations whispered his version: that perfect servant was an ass, the naked girl wasn ’t weighed down with gold—she loved the water, look, her hands were empty, as if yielding to the element that embraced her, luscious blues and greens blending from gentian to palest aqua. She was ecstatic, erotic, full of the joy of her body. And she could breathe under water. Why not?

Of course, I wasn ’t, at the time, consciously aware of this disjunction between the text and the pictures, but I was enthralled by their uneasy balance. Perhaps the book, in a dream-like way, reminded me of the gritty child life we were experiencing and the noble, con-

Object of Life By R.G. Evans

The butterfly had loved being a caterpillar, growing fat on tomato leaves, the sun warm as forever on its back.

Some days the job is simple: mistake dying for living. Master this, and the next thing you know, you have wings,

crave food insubstantial as nectar, feel the pull of migration like gravity pulling along the Y axis. The butterfly forgets

how the caterpillar loved the caterpillary life, the way a man forgets that sublimate begins with sublime—

it doesn ’t end there— as any monarch could tell if it weren ’t lost in a black and orange cloud

of longing.

R.G. Evans ' s book Overtipping the Ferryman, won the 2013 Aldrich Poetry Prize. His poems, fiction, and reviews have appeared in Rattle, Paterson Literary Review, The Literary Review and Weird Tales, among other places. Evans ' s original music, including the song "The Crows of Paterson, " was featured in the 2012 documentary All That Lies Between Us. Evans teaches Language Arts at Cumberland Regional High School and Creative Writing at Rowan University.

JByronSchachner

Has it really been TEN YEARS PHILADELPHIA STORIES? Why, I can remember when you were just a baby...Congratulations for what you have always been and for what you will continue to be...a gem. Hugs and whiskers, Judy Schachner

Judy has been illustrating and writing children ’ s books since 1992 and has given numerous presentations in schools and libraries.

fusing, abstract words we were supposed to live by— “transubstantiation, ” “indulgences, ” “ purgatory. ” It reminded me of the harassed, overworked, fallible, at times cruel nuns and priests my father worshipped and the sensuous experience of the high mass, incense, music, and the hypnotic litanies filled with strange metaphors: Mary star of the sea, Queen of heaven, pray for us.

When we moved to Camden two years later, the book disappeared. My mother had various excuses: my sister had donated it to a school book drive, the box containing the book had fallen from the truck, or maybe it was in her brother ’ s attic packed with some odds and ends left there during the move. I probably nagged her, harangued her, until she told me to never mention it again. For years I mourned the book, though I could still vividly see the images and remember sketchy plots of a few stories. My whole life I talked about the book and longed to find it, but it wasn ’t until my own children were grown that I decided to search in earnest, calling and writing to dealers in rare children ’ s books. I began to learn more about the author and illustrator. Willy Pogany had been famous for his children ’ s book illustrations. A prolific artist, he ’d worked on movie sets and for the Metropolitan Opera. The book dealers had seen Fairy Flowers long ago, they said, once sold one, knew of a copy that had recently sold for $300. Would I be willing to pay that much? Yes. But no dealer could find

a copy

Wearing white gloves, I was carefully copying in pencil passages from a 19th Century children ’ s book, taking notes for a graduate class assignment. I was working in the Free Library of Philadelphia ’ s Children ’ s Book Collection. The librarian who had been helping me brought a copy of Little Lord Fauntleroy. ”Would this interest you?” she asked.

“Very much, thanks. ” It was a great place to work. I asked how many books the research library owned.

“Over 65,000 children ’ s books, published between 1837 to the present. ”

“I had no idea. ” I paused. I asked her if she ’d ever heard of the Pogany book and described it to her.

“I’ll look, though it doesn ’t sound familiar, ” she said. I could tell she was the kind of librarian who enjoyed a challenge.

In about 15 minutes she returned. “We have two copies. ” The librarian was smiling when she handed me the book; I hadn ’t seen it for more than 40 years. Hands shaking, I opened it, half expecting to see my name in large black crayoned letters: Dorothea Freiermuth. My maiden name, my aunt’ s maiden name. But there was no name inside. A more careful child had owned this copy. I was afraid that nothing would be the same, that somehow I’d only imagined those images, or that they would now seem banal. But there was the cart, the water lily lady, the leapfrog. Some pictures I’d forgotten, the golden boy, the tulip lady in front of her tulip cottage. Other I’d misremembered, or conflated, but all were as powerful and lovely as the first time I’d seen them. I didn ’t have time to read the stories, but I didn ’t need to, the illustrations were enough. My hands were shaking.

The librarian was still standing there. “Sorry to be so foolish, ” I told her, fighting back tears. I thanked her again.

“Glad to help. ” For half a second, I thought of stealing one of the Library ’ s copies of Fairy Flowers. “You can put the books on my desk when you leave, ” said the librarian and the impulse passed.

My daughter Mimi, a jewelry maker, has inherited Aunt Dee ’ s talent for gift giving. Last Christmas she presented me with a lumpy package. Inside was a gold and emerald locket she ’d made, and a 1950s patent leather clutch purse to replace the falling apart one I’d used for years and years. She ’d found it on e-bay. She ’d also found a really battered copy of Fairy Flowers. The book dealer, going out of business, sent a note saying she ’d loved the book herself and kept it for years, because it was too damaged to sell. The spine was cracked, some of the brittle pages were torn and stained. The cover was different than the edition I’d owned and there was no sleeve. But someone had loved the book and poured over it again and again. At $25, it was a bargain.

All the glowing illustrations—the ghostly Indians, the Iris fairy—were still there, pasted on heavy stock. None were missing or damaged. And now I’d finally have time to read and understand the stories. It was the perfect winter gift.

Darcy Cummings recently completed the MFA in Non-Fiction at Rutgers, Camden. Her book of poetry, The Artist As Alice: From A Photographer ’ s Life, won the Bright Hill Press Competition in 2006. She completed an MA in poetry from The Johns Hopkins Writing Seminar, and has received fellowships from Yaddo, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the Dodge Foundation and a poetry fellowship from the New Jersey State Commission on the Arts. She lives in Laurel Springs, NJ

CONCHA ALBORG

M E M O I R I S T

Concha Alborg PhD is the author of two collections of short stories: Una noche en casa (Madrid, 1995) and Beyond Jet-Lag (New Jersey, 2000) and a novel, American in Translation: A Novel in Three Novellas (Indiana, 2011). She is a longtime supporter of Philadelphia Stories and was kind enough to sit down and discuss her experiences with the magazine over the last ten years, as well as offering some insightful details into her process and craft.

Congratulations on the recent publication of your memoir, Divorce AfterDeath: AWidow ’ sMemoir. The material dealt with in the book, covering your late husband’ s passing from esophageal cancer and your subsequent realization of his prior affairs, is to say the least, extremely personal. While writing the book, did you find that re-living the tragedy was cathartic, or painful, or both?

Thank you so much. Writing the book was very therapeutic. From the moment I wrote the letter to my late husband that titles the book and I saw myself on the page, I started to heal. Lately, with the actual publication of the book, I’ m re-living some of the events and I have contrasting feelings. On one hand I feel liberated because I’ m no longer wearing a mask, but at the same time, I feel somewhat exposed.

When conceiving a new project, do you have a place where you tend to start? E.g., with a character, a theme, or an image you wish to express?

Usually I envision the narrative arc first. I’ m a structure-type of writer and I love titles. One of the first things I do is make a titled list of the book’ s components.

How does your childhood in Spain and cultural heritage affect your writing?

My bi-cultural condition is one of the most significant markers of my life and my writing. Although I’ m perfectly comfortable in both cultures, a tell-tale accent marks my speech as well as my writing.

Have you and your family lived in Philadelphia since emigrating from Spain?

No, my father was a well-known writer and a scholar and we came to this country under the auspices of the Fulbright Program during my last year of high school. I came to Philadelphia years later to attend graduate school. I received my PhD from Temple University and stayed here since then.

Were you writing yet at this point in your life?

I was too preoccupied with my academic career at Saint Joseph’ s University at first, although I had published extensively on contemporary women writers and Spanish film. I began writing short stories in the early nineties.

What made you want to become a writer?

I’ m a born story teller and I was conscious of the unusual facets of my background. Most of my fiction has autobiographical references.

For some time, you ’ ve been a major supporter of Philadelphia Stories Magazine, as well as a participant in the magazine ’ s sponsored workshops. Has your experience with Philadelphia Stories, through workshops etc., affected your writing?

Very much so. I don ’t subscribe to the concept that being a writer is a solitary occupation. I thrive on being part of a community of writers and Philadelphia Stories has been crucial in fostering this. I like to work with writers ’ groups and attend writers ’ conferences. I remember very well the workshop by Steve Almond, “Humor the New Deep. ” I wasn ’t sure about the tone of my memoir on widowhood at that time and after working with him, I decided that I would use humor to make this topic more palatable.

What role, would you say, does Philadelphia Stories play in the local arts culture?

Philadelphia Stories is a wonderful resource for writers. The publication itself is beautiful. I love the way it incorporates the visual arts and poetry. In addition, the Push to Publish yearly conference is one of the best in the city. It’ s a wonderful opportunity to meet agents and publishers. I met Donna Cavanagh, of Shorehouse Books, my current publisher, at the Philadelphia Writers ’ Conference—another local venue. She was there teaching a workshop on humor that I attended and I ended up pitching my book to her.

What’ s next for you? Any upcoming projects?

Yes, two years ago, while I was going through my father ’ s books after his death, I found over eight hundred letters between my parents during the Spanish Civil War. I’ m presenting them as an on-going project at a symposium to honor my father in the centenary of his birth next month in Spain. After the sad discovery when my late husband died, this has been such an extraordinary gift for a writer like me. Right now I believe in poetic justice. I’ m hoping it will become another memoir. Besides, I already have a list of titled chapters written up—a very good sign.