The Earl Vol. 1 Issue 2 Spring 2011

The

V olum e 1  I ssue 2  Spr ing 2011

 BREW Review rOY PITZ  Cultural Calender pAGES 20-21  The Amani Festival pOETRY BY LOCAL STUDENTS  aND...Poetry, short stories, Movie Reviews

What is

Post Now PA

?

Post Now PA

Board of Directors

Frank Cressler President & Business Director

Who we are A community based contemporary art organization located in Shippensburg, PA

Our Purpose

Aaron Treher Vice President & Artistic Director

To produce contemporary & modern art events in South Central PA.

Mission To renovate and restore the former Beistle production facility in downtown Shippensburg, creating The Thought Lot, a 10,000 square foot contemporary arts center.

To administer The Thought Lot which provides space for studios, gallery exhibits, classrooms and a wealth of art and cultural events.

To facilitate further growth of the arts in South Central PA by producing Waking Giant Film Festival and publishing The Earl E-Magizine.

Ray Cressler Secretary and Editor of The Earl

Tony Diehl Assistant Business Director & Marketing Director

Darin Robillard Volunteer Coordinator

Matthew Grove Archivist, Librarian & Street Team Coordinator

www.PostNowPA.com www.Facebook.com/PostNowPA

Justin Rowles Security Coordinator

The Spring 2011

TABLE OF CONTENTS From Post Now PA........................................................................... 4 From the Editor............................................................................... 5 Sequoia ............................................................................................... 6 A Poem by Brian Hammond

C

r

e

d

i

t

s

The Love Warden ............................................................................ 7 Fiction by Tamara Diane Lewkowicz

Gray Days .........................................................................................12 A Poem by Laura B. Hans

Ray Cressler Editor

Excerpts from Somewhere Else .........................................13 A Poem By Matthew Grove

Justin .................................................................................................14 Non Fiction by Vincent VanBuskirk

Cece Serino Design and Layout

I Remain Common.........................................................................18 A Poem By Renee Kelly

Kedzu ..................................................................................................19 Fiction by Matthew Furman

Brooke Coover Research

Singapore ........................................................................................24 A Movie Review by Lucas Primac

Biscotti Review .............................................................................25 Restaurant Review By Steven Brenize

Roy Pitz .............................................................................................26 Microbrew Madness Has Struck Chambersburg” a Brew Review By

Online Viewer?

See This Symbol.

Click the Link.

CULTURAL CALENDER................................................................21-22 Area Events and Happenings

Amani...................................................................................................28 Amani Poetry Festival Winners

A Collection of Poetry..............................................................31 Poetry By Dan Schuchman

giant Sequoia..................................................................................32 Photo Essay By Keely Kernan

Udder Despair: Memoirs of a Lactose Psychosis .....33 Non Fiction by Katie Dempsey

Keep up with the latest...

and look for the announcement of our next release date!

There’s a Road on South Mountain....................................38 A Poem by Ray Cressler

Photography Credits.............................. Inside backcover

On The Cover 2011 Shippensburg Memorial Day Parade Photo by Cece Serino

www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│3

A Message

From Post Now PA I am pleased to announce Post Now PA will be reopening The Thought Lot just a few weeks from this publication. Think Again on July 16 2011 is our first exhibit since fall of 2010. Think Again, a grand reopening exhibit, will highlight key artists who helped with efforts in establishing The Thought Lot.

For those who dont know The Thought Lot is a contemporary arts center renovated from a vacant and dilapidated building by Post Now PA. Post Now PA’s focus with the center is on contemporary art and confirming its role in south central Pennsylvania. Dissemination of The Earl has a key role in fostering development of the arts in our region. The Earl and The Thought Lot bring fuel to our mission of advancing arts and culture in South Central PA

Vice President of Post Now PA

4 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

Welcome

The Spring 2011 A Message From the Editor Hello and welcome to The Earl, Spring 2011, the magazine’s second issue. Once again, it features a variety of talented local writers who want to share their work with YOU. As the Springtime rolls along, the obvious thing is to think about growth, but first we must get through the rainy dreary death throes of a winter that must slowly melt. It starts like William Carlos Williams’ “Spring and All,” “...the/waste of broad muddy fields/brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen,” and slowly becomes hot, sooty and grimy like Allen Ginsburg’s Sunflower Sutra, where it is realized, “You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!”

We are somewhere in between those two points as I prepare to walk downtown to catch a glimpse of the bands marching on in the Shippensburg Memorial Day Parade, and to take in the air of excitement before everyone gets tired of the heat.

My biggest hope is that there is a work somewhere in this Magazine, that will reverberate in your bones like the drums of a marching band as it passes you by.

Thank you Ray Cressler, Editor of the Earl

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│5

Sequoia

By Brian Hammond

Can you look at the sapling and see the Sequoia inside?

I do, even though they think I’m deluded I can see you, a couple years older, And the way you walk into a room The way you carry yourself, and hear the way you speak Feel the strength in how you stand on your feet Like you believe the wisdom in your words And what you say will be felt, and heard I see you, blossoming, in all your majesty Powerful, and beautiful, as a Sequoia tree And I also know that’s only one possibility Because I can’t look at the ocean and see stagnation I can’t look in your eyes and see the possible, future self who never tried And maybe I’m just the irrational optimist, the irrational exuberance The Panglossian Polyanna who never learned to quit dreaming But I look at the sapling that I was And the one in a million shot I’d be even half what I am And miracles seem not just possible, but unavoidable So can you look inside yourself and see the Sequoia sleeping?

Dreaming of climbing its branches to the skies Can you look inside and see that Sequoia rise, rooted to the ground yet stretching so high?

And recognize that that is you?

Can you feel its dreams, nurture its yearning, With gentle sunlight, coaxing rain And whispers of what you will become?

Can you look inside and see the Sequoia sleeping, And know that it is you?

Listen to its voice, and hear its whispers, And know that they are true

Brian Hammond Originally from Chambersburg, Brian Hammond left for 12 years, during which time he worked as a teacher and in the finance industry in New York and New Jersey. He recently returned to the area to pursue a master’s degree in psychological science at Shippensburg University.

6 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

Photo by Lisa Rhinehart 

The Love Warden Fiction by Tamara Diane Lewkowicz

I’m surprised the neighbors complained about the smell. Very surprised. You don’t know how much I love that scent. It’s a striking combination of cleaned cotton warmed from the dryer with a mix of nature’s finest aromas. It’s called Mania, I believe. But perhaps this fragrance overpowered my senses, making me oblivious to what was it? An ‘unruly stench,’ I think is how they described it in the report? I have to laugh at how absurd that is.

It all began due to my unique line of work. It’s more like a business. A business for the pathetic. As far as labels go, I’m known as a Marital Detective. Really I determine fates. It’s a risky job that I used to take very seriously. I saw it as a way to help the jaded stop looking foolish, pick themselves off the pavement, and move on.

Through the years, I gathered a particular disgust for my clients that sits in my stomach like mordant bile, even as I speak to you now. The clients who have loyal spouses don’t deserve them because they’re jealous and damned for their outlandish suspicions. I can’t be blamed if something should happen. As for my clients married to cheaters, they deserve each other. Sometimes I’d play with them. Fib here or there, until I was calling the shots on who stayed together and who I intended to split apart. It was for the significant other’s sake, not my own. That’s kind of how it worked out with the Gannons. Which is why you’re here after all…

Guy called me late on a Tuesday evening. I had just finished grooming my dog, Margo. He talked quickly in bursts of loud whispers. His anxiety intrigued me and I had nothing to do the following afternoon, so we arranged a meeting to have lunch at Café J’aime. It’s a personal favorite. An extremely young hostess sat me at a table by the terrace window. I believe she was too little to work, but who knows. Women look younger each day with all those beauty products on the market. Guy was late. I ordered a drink for my absent guest and myself, hoping the gesture would mask any crude comments I found myself muttering. I have trouble holding my tongue when aggravation sets in. Ten minutes passed until I saw a tall man. He was tan with a mop of curly brown hair blowing around his face. A blue blazer smothered his stick-figure arms. His tie was pumpkin orange and dangled so low that it tapped at the waist of his white pants when he walked. My attention turned to a quarter-sized mustard stain that sat above his knee. A rather careless look for Café J’aime, but he wasn’t a respectful guy.

“Jade? Jade Brobson.”

“The one and only,” I said with the best smile I could conjure up, while presenting him with my sturdy right hand.

“Guy Gannon. Thank you so much for taking my case,” Guy

said, offering a passive grip around my fist for the stupidest handshake you’d ever imagine.

“Your parents must not have liked you much.”

He smirked, looking a bit confused. But tell me, would you want a name like Guy? “Never mind. Let’s just get down to business. Why are you hiring me?”

“My wife Renee and I have been married for five years. She’s always been very much involved in my life. You know, home with dinner ready when I’d return from work, keeping the house tidy, even picking out my best outfit for the next day. Well she’s recently gotten a job as a kindergarten teacher. She’s great with kids, and her work isn’t the problem. It’s just that I know a school day lasts until about three in the afternoon. She says she comes home to ‘clean’ and ‘wind-down,’ but leaves before I get home from work at seven.

Many times she’s out as late as ten o’clock. She says she’s working her old hobbies and interests into her new schedule. I’m beginning to wonder what those hobbies and interests are. I want to trust her, but in this day and age people are rarely faithful. Well I’m sure you know that.”

“Right.” Guy struck me as a child. What grown man can’t pick out his own clothes? I eyed Guy’s navy blazer. After noticing a copper patch pressed into the fabric that read Ralph Lauren I responded. “I’ll take your case and follow Renee for the next couple of days. You’re asking me to invade her privacy, which is risky. The cost will be hefty.”

“I’ll pay anything. I don’t want to ruin what we have by voicing my suspicions, but I need to settle my nerves. I can’t sleep at night these days. I’d give all the money in the world to just get a good sleep again.”

“I’m talking two to three thousand a day based on the delicacy of the situations Renee should put me in.”

“Done,” he said with a sickening new optimism shining through the glow in his eyes.

Now Guy may have been a tad rude, and clearly not a businessman in the least, but I went into this case wanting to deliver the perfect evidence that’d confirm or deny his fears. That Wednesday night I grabbed my black trench coat, camera, voice recorder, and a bottle of water. It was time to work. I hurried to my grey Honda parked outside my rather deserted town house. Poor Margo probably always felt so lonely when I had to work on a case.

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com │7

I’ve often wished she could be with a companion during those hours I wasn’t around.

I pulled onto Strawberry Lane, a cobble stoned street with skinny planted trees lining the sidewalk every few yards. The Gannon’s resided in one of the apartments here. This is the first time I saw Renee. She was significantly out of Guy’s league on appearance alone. Her long brown hair blew in the chilly gusts of wind that circled around the narrow road among rows of apartment complexes. She slapped her hand over a black beret that sat on the top of her head.

This gesture nearly knocked her off balance. She almost toppled down the stairs. She climbed into a red Solara and proceeded to drive away. I wondered where she planned on going at six on a Wednesday evening. She pulled left into the parking lot of Saint Joseph Catholic Church. Confessing our sins are we? I wondered while I planted my boots onto the holy parking lot. At a distance, I followed her in.

The building had a tall ceiling rimmed with silver, gold, and copper pipes. A long, narrow aisle sat before me between the pews, lined with a deep purple rug. A collection of singers in white robes stood staggered on the stairs leading to a stage that held a podium and a crucifix draped in purple silk. Their voices echoed in a low drone to the door where I stood. I couldn’t make out any words.

Sneaking behind a thick pillar nearby, I watched Renee pull a robe over her head, and squeeze in the front between two hefty animals. Her chorus practice felt like an eternity. I fidgeted at one point when my right foot took a turn for the worse. Pins and needles grew up my leg like ivy. I found her comical. She’d sing with her eyes closed, and sway left and right, moved by the music that no one understood. One gentleman tapped her on the shoulder between songs. He stood behind her. She lifted her hymnbook up for him to share. She had a gentle grace in the way she showed no interest. The older man must have been a mere church friend, no enemy of Guy’s.

This went on until about nine o’clock. Renee stayed and chatted with some older women after her practice ended. She had a rather radiant smile. She flashed it at the ladies as I caught the final words of her conversation, “We’ll start a book club soon, Ethel. I think it would be fun. We can make tea sandwiches and get Sandra’s pie recipe. It’d be a delicious addition.”

Returning to Strawberry Lane, I could see Guy through the illuminated kitchen window. He was scratching his head. The other hand squeezed firm onto his hip while he meandered around in circles. When Renee walked into the door, he dropped his hands and darted out of view. A couple minutes later, they both entered the kitchen. Guy sat down at the table in the center of the room, while Renee shuffled things around in the refrigerator. I went to my trunk and found a small microphone that I then placed on the outer edge of the windowsill.

“Honey, I don’t understand why you couldn’t have just warmed up the dinner I left for you on the plate,” Renee said.

8 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

“Renee, you know as well as I do that me and the kitchen are a bad combination. Remember? You even banned me from cooking after last Christmas when I tried to fix the microwave.”

Renee unwrapped a plate of cold turkey, mashed potatoes, and corn. She stuck it in the microwave. Punching in some numbers she said, “I didn’t think you’d take me so literally.”

“I didn’t think my wife’s days would become this long.”

Flopping to a chair across from Guy, she rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “I’m tired.”

“As am I. As am I,” Guy said while he stared at his wife. The microwave timer intruded the silence that they sat in.

Renee retrieved Guy’s meal. “I’m tired,” she repeated as she walked out of the room.

Now you see? Right there you could tell Guy was a pest. His neediness was draining Renee. Over the next few days I gathered up enough evidence to properly decide how to handle the situation.

I followed her to work. She taught small school children who loved her so much they’d hang around her during their free play time. She did have a loving quality about her. Her tan skin looked warm among raw winter days. Her touch seemed tender, especially when one of those impish boys ran on the blacktop with an untied sneaker. She blotted his knees with disinfectant formula and covered them in bandages. Renee, the incredible wound healer.

I’d have cut myself just so those petite fingers could patch up my nicks and bruises. Of course, I didn’t. I still found myself deep in an assignment.

Two days later on her way home from work she made me laugh.

I parked my car across Route 300, near that Sunoco during rush hour, of all times. It’s because she caught me off-guard. She veered into the parking lot so quickly; I had trouble keeping an eye on that lively woman. She wore modest heels to work that day. She also had on a pair of coffee colored stockings, a knee length navy skirt, and a white blouse. She looked so professional for teaching kindergarten. After parking, I saw her nearly sprint into the gas station. She ran back out and zipped around to a door on the side of the building, but it was locked. Renee began to dance around with an urgency about her, locking her knees inward together. She folded her hands over her thighs. I thought she noticed me at one point because she eyed the scene, probably hoping to avoid attention to her embarrassing display. But the door opened up and she promptly forgot about anything besides hurrying inside. You’d never see another woman so cute when she’s panicked. I’m sure of it.

In any sense, her daily routines, that attitude, and that striking personality just left me perplexed. I needed something to report to Guy. I couldn’t shake the images I had of her giving an old man a quarter to help him pay for his parking meter. Or the time she locked her keys in her car and muttered the word “damnit” as she yanked at the door handle. Or when she drove all the way into the busier part of the city just to deliver Guy his nice loafers after the idiot walked out wearing the wrong pair. Her perfection could give you chills. She deserved someone more than Guy. Someone

nurturing who could help her dress, or feed her dinner, or supply her with shoes.

I remember sitting with Margo, discussing if she were better off without Guy. Loyal Margo. The only reason I even come home at night. She died about six years ago. You’d be impressed by my taxidermy skills. I took a class after the incident. I couldn’t lose her, so I immortalized her. She now sits on my mantle with that same, perky expression I’ve grown accustomed to over my fifteen years with her. Margo was a show dog, so I like to keep up with her grooming out of habit.

We decided the marriage took a particular quality away from Renee, and that Guy should not be a part of her life. I called him to arrange a final meeting.

I went for coffee the next morning. Guy showed up after the drinks were already served. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“I’m sure.”

“Well? What have you found?

Anything?”

I took a sip from my mug. “She’s cheating on you.”

“What? How do you know? Who’s the guy?”

“I’m sorry to say it’s true. I saw her on three different occasions sneaking up to some handsome fellow’s apartment on the corner of Park Way and North Main Street.”

“Well, did they kiss or anything? Maybe he’s just a friend…”

“No. No. Definitely not. Unless friends embrace in that sort of sensual way and share long, closed-eyed kisses.”

“Closed-eyed kisses? When does she see him?”

“Usually during school lunch breaks, or around seven after work.”

“Do you know how they met?”

“I gather they work together. He seems like a great guy though. Perhaps you two could use some space and see if you’re really meant for each other.”

“Oh.” Guy pushed his coffee toward the side of the table. His stiff, expressionless

face made me know for sure that I was doing the right thing. He didn’t care. If I lost a girl like Renee, my eyes would be plagued with instant tears. “I’m going to go,” he said. Without glancing in my direction, Guy handed me an envelope filled with cash. “Thank you for your help.”

“Sorry for your loss,” I called after him.

You look concerned. But you heard how Guy treated her. The mere fact that he hired me shows he never loved her. I guess I admit I felt bad at first when I saw Guy leave. He rushed out the door with a small suitcase of belongings. Renee looked like she was crying as she stood at the top of the stairs. She reached out and gripped the back of his shoulder. Guy shrugged her hand off of him and continued to his car. “Don’t touch me.”

“Guy, I promise I’m not lying,” Renee said through heavy sobs. Her arms were folded tightly together at her chest, while she hung her head and stared at the ground, refusing to watch him drive away. To this day it baffles me that she even cared the creep left her.

With Guy gone, Renee and I started to work on our own relationship. I continued to admire her going through the motions of her daily routines that I’ve grown to love so dearly. We had our first date at the supermarket, where I gathered enough courage to follow her inside. She collected a basket of firm oranges. She handled about twenty before choosing the perfect six. She grabbed some cereal boxes from the shelves along with a carton of juice and a pack of Reese’s. I walked behind her into the line, grabbing laundry detergent on the way so I had something to buy. An older woman stood in front of us buying an obscene amount of groceries. Renee eyed up a Homes and Gardens magazine while she flipped her hair out of the collar of her coat.

That’s when I smelled it for the first time.

That luscious fragrance, Mania, made me dizzy with addiction.

She was luring me in with her scent.

She wanted me and I wanted her. But how could we acknowledge the seductive nature of the situation right in the middle of the checkout line? I grabbed a pack of

Altoid mints from the shelf. I looked at her.

Renee was now pretending to flip through the magazine to keep other shoppers uninvolved. Lifting the tin lid, I rolled my tongue along the icy top layer of mints. Just then the line moved forward, so I quickly shut the container.

When the store clerk began ringing up Renee, I slipped the Altoids into her basket.

The clerk said, “That’ll be 15 dollars and 86 cents.”

“Are you sure? When I did the math I thought for sure it’d be no more than 14 dollars.”

“I’m sure ma’am.”

Renee glanced into her bag and discovered the mints. “What the…mints?” she wondered out loud.

It was my moment to shine. “Allow me to help you out darling,” I said. “I’m holding two dollars right here.” I handed the store clerk the money before Renee had the chance to deny my generosity.

She spun around and looked at me with an eyebrow turned up and that beautiful smile on her face. “Thank you so much sir that was very nice of you.”

“Anytime, my name is Jade. It’s a pleasure to stand in line with you.”

She giggled slightly, picked up her bags, and said, “I’m Renee.” Then, pulling out the Altoids, she humbly opened the container and placed a mint on her tongue. Her eagerness to eat the mint showed that she watched me the whole time. She knew and I knew what I had done. It was our little secret. This sacred minty kiss infused our passions and certified our love. “And thank you again, you saved the day.”

Did you hear that? I. Saved. The. Day. Her words made me zealous. Renee became my hobby. I was with her day and night. I slept in my car on many occasions just so I could be there for her when she woke in the morning. She’d never have to be alone again.

Sometimes she left the house in such disorder she wouldn’t close the door all the way. I usually drove away with her, but one particular day the mystery of her inner workings intrigued me much too intensely to www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│9

ignore the sensation. I knew almost everything about her, except the inside. I walked up to her apartment on the first floor after she left for work. The door moaned a tad as I opened it. I stepped inside into a fairly normal, somewhat empty home. Her bedroom had a queen sized bed with a pink floral comforter. I laid down on it, imagining her sweet, fragrant hair slipping between my fingers while she slept.

I sunk my nose deep into the pillow to see if I could gather her scent.

Although faded, it still smelled remarkably delicious.

Climbing out of bed, I went into her closet and put on one of her robes. I’ve seen her wear this when she’d make herself breakfast.

It had a tear in the right sleeve and seemed faded a bit, but she loved it, so I loved it. On my way to the kitchen, I spotted a Homes and Gardens magazine sitting on the living room coffee table. I walked over to look when I saw an orange fish staring in my direction.

The idea of this other creature watching my exquisite Renee sickened me. My face felt hot.

I may have even developed a cold sweat. It knew too much of her business. She probably confided in it. Perhaps it was a fish she had bought with Guy. I walked over to the tank. In one rapid motion, I sunk my hand deep to the bottom, grabbed hold of the orange demon and squeezed my fist so tightly on top of it I began to shake and accidentally severed off part of its head.

You’re staring. It’s rude to stare. Looking back, I admit I was a bit irrational. After all, a fish is a fish. But they can be sneaky. And he wasn’t doing her any good being there. She needed much more than a fish. I know Renee. The only way she’d even consider something better is if I got rid of it. Before I left to find her at work, I went to the kitchen and found a piece of homemade cake in the fridge. I sat in the seat across from Renee’s regular spot at the table to eat. I stared into the emptiness around her chair, imagining her every detail and began a conversation that we’d someday have.

We dated in this manner for several months. She rarely talked to anyone of concern. Mainly just children and elderly choir friends.

Guy didn’t even attempt to get in touch. The red flag appeared when Renee decided to go to a Christmas party that one of those old church ladies was hosting. I followed her to a small, one-floor residence just outside of the city. In order to keep a better eye on her, I got out of my car and snuck around to the side of the house. As she switched 10 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

rooms, I’d change windows. An older woman pulled Renee aside and introduced her to a buff younger man. You could tell he loved steroids.

He shook her hand staring deeply into her eyes like a hungry lion.

Poor Renee. I could only imagine how uncomfortable she felt. He walked away for a moment and returned with two filled wine glasses.

Being polite, Renee took one and sipped it. He clearly pressured her considering I’d never really seen her drink anything alcoholic before.

Steroids kept getting her more glasses. He was trying to get her drunk.

I didn’t realize how bad Steroids was until Renee was leaving. As she swayed out of the house, she turned to him. “Can you take me home?

I don’t think it’d be a good idea for me to drive tonight.”

“Of course. The car’s over here,” said Steroids grabbing her hand. Oh Renee. She had no idea I was here to take care of her, and the alcohol was making her vulnerable to a guy she hated. I rushed back to her place before they had time to arrive. At this point I was so winded. I jumped out of the car and ran to the door. It was locked. I ran to the kitchen window. Being the only window that I could reach, it was my last resort.

With a quick shove, I managed to lift it a crack. It wasn’t locked. I raised the window far enough for me to slip in. After a couple hops and some extra muscle, I rolled through the open gap into the kitchen. As I was slowly closing the window I saw them pull up.

Tell me, do you have a wife? No? What about a girlfriend? Well you would have done the same thing if someone was about to take advantage of your girlfriend. I walked cautiously through the dark into Renee’s bedroom and tucked myself into her closet with the door cracked so I could see. Steroids was in for a rude awakening. To my surprise, when Renee flipped on the light she was alone. She stumbled over to the television set that sat right next to the closet and turned it on. I sunk deeper into the clothes hanging up, but she didn’t even seem to regard her closet. We were inches away from each other. I just wanted to reach out and grab her. Pull her in tightly and breathe her hair deep into my lungs. I needed to squeeze her. Hold her so firmly that she could never fall into harm’s way again. I fought the temptation.

It wasn’t the time. She needed rest and I was there to watch over her. She then flipped off the overhead light so that the blue T.V rays illuminated her room. Tripping over her feet, she tumbled head first

onto her bed. Inching her way to her pillow, Renee sunk under her covers and quickly fell asleep.

Walking to the edge of her bed, I kneeled down so we were face to face. She looked like a doll, with closed eyes and plump lips. Her angelic features radiated innocence and honesty. Looking after her was becoming too difficult. What if I wasn’t around one day when Steroids came back to harm her? Keeping a constant eye on Renee was wearing me out. But we were in love. I needed to take care of her.

I think you see, now, why things ended up the way they did. I did it in that kitchen I always saw her in, while she wore that very robe I described to you earlier.

I’d never go back on my actions because I was protecting her. Renee couldn’t be in this world without protection. She needed me. I could keep her from all these bad guys. She had a place with me in my home. I knew Margo would love her too.

If you knew what’s good for her, you’d have them give her back to me, Dr. And if the neighbors waited an extra day before complaining of the smell, you’d see they wouldn’t have nagged because any foul odors generally disappear a few hours after the procedure. She belongs next to Margo on my mantle. We could spend a life together; just the three of us.

Tamara Lewkowicz  Tamara Lewkowicz recently graduated college with a journalism degree.

She’s a certified writing specialist tutor and currently lives in Wayne, Pennsylvania. Tamara created an online portfolio with more of her work that can be accessed at www.wix. com/tdlewk/tamaradiane Photo by Jessica Crea Robinson  www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│11

Gray Days

By Laura B. Hans

I am amused.

I am a muse By you My dear.

I wonder if there’s still an effect Or if There ever was.

The idea has been left unspoken Though I’ve felt it And like it.

It’s guided my actions With You And around you And I finally see a place with you Though Distance is between us.

I’ve been amused.

I’ve been a muse By you My dear.

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Excerpts from Somewhere Else A Poem by Matthew Grove

I

III

The moon is a cliché-

I believe I saw mankind drinking from a brown paper bag on the bus to any town

a lackey silver dollar on a jet-black landcapeso passé.

And I saw a flap of lip from Cassandra type archetypes cackling in the back row.

I call them random, I call them obligatory. I call them Isadora, I call them Hymns.

II

They are movement, they are paramount dreams. They are inevitable, if you please.

This is the way we do

They are the dust of our generation collecting in the corners of our psyche,

A Night like us:

Collecting on the fringes of sleep, collecting, vicariously prolific and sweet.

The Man gives myth to murder and enjoys the sex of it all.

Like a baby at the teat of the Goddess; suckling. Ogling, Man disrupts the Whole Scene “Cover your eyes,” Mother used to say - - As the Land laid herself out for the Sky -

IV And in April it rained, and rained, and rained, and rained.

I peer wildly into Mid-Night, through the Skank of SLUT NEON LIGHT, imagining a Land where the Old die with a smile, the Young are born precocious and already clandestine and nubile, feeling good, bereft all over again in this Time capsule in this one-horse town on this one-horse planet in this one-horse galaxy floating around,

coaxing abroad an ordinary Star out in the Suburbs among millions afar

We are GLORIFIED ANIMALS, those of a Gilded Youth those of tattered success those of a common Sense those of Melting-Pot descendeants those of Legendary Relevance!

Matthew Grove  Matthew Grove is a mammal living on Earth one day at a time.

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│13

A pain seems to shoot through my chest, but it’s an odd pain I’ve never felt before—one that doesn’t seem physical at all.

Justin

By Vincent VanBuskirk

I

t is a Tuesday night. My best friend, Justin, is driving me home from Brittany’s house after a classic night of our nerdy fun which consisted of watching movies and playing board games. Like usual, Justin won most of the games with just the slightest grin on his face that you would never see him have around anyone he didn’t know well. He’s too shy to smile in public.

I can’t remember how we became friends exactly—there’s never really a marked starting point. But in sixth grade, we had class together. We drew pictures and wrote jokes to each other the whole time. In seventh grade, I got him to come to some school clubs with me despite his protests of, “I’m anti-social.” One was called the writing club where Justin ended up composing a humorous poem on how weathermen never got their predictions right. Everyone found it funny considering he wanted to go to college to be a weatherman— behind the scenes, of course. In eighth grade, my family invited him on vacation with us to the mountains which I’m not sure he’d ever seen before. In ninth grade, I ditched him a lot to hang out with other people I thought were good friends but weren’t. He remained loyal and patiently waited for me as I did what I wanted. Eventually, I found my way back to him but never really apologized. I guess he knew how to forgive better than I did.

The rest of high school we stuck together and surprisingly continued to through college even though he stayed in Hanover while I went to Shippensburg. He kept in contact with me regularly, a great achievement on his part for being so shy. The idea of Justin with a Facebook is hard to fathom.

I look out the window of his black Saturn to see the small layer of snow covering the houses as we sit in comfortable silence. Actually, Justin is more talkative than usual recently. “Are you still transferring to Penn State?” I ask.

The sides of his mouth twitch awkwardly and his cheeks turn red like they always do when someone asks him a question about himself, and then he replies, “Brittany asked me that too. No, I think I’ll keep commuting to York and switch to accounting.”

14 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

I look over at him. He’d lost a lot of weight this year but still hadn’t gained much confidence.

afraid will slow him down, so to avoid getting caught, he cuts into the left lane. There’s oncoming traffic. But, he’s sure they’ll move.

“You’re just afraid to meet new people,” I laugh. He chuckles back but says nothing. He parks in front of my house. I open the door, but my foot gets caught in the mounds of McDonald’s bags and empty soda boxes Justin has lying on the floor of the Saturn.

I brush them off and am about to say good bye. “See ya Thursday bud,” Justin says. “Love ya.”

One car screeches to the side of the road just missing him.

Another car manages to swerve as well. But, a third car--a black Saturn--can’t turn in time.

I’m a bit taken aback—we never say this kind of stuff—and haven’t in the ten years we’ve known each other.

“Uh, yeah. You too,” I reply sounding dumb. Then he drives off.

On Thursday morning, I awake to the muffled sounds of my dogs barking a floor below me. Rolling to the edge of my bed, I stick one leg out and stomp on the ground—my usual strategy to silence them. They just keep barking though which probably means someone is at the front door. I know my mom is home, so I lazily curl back into bed waiting for them to stop.

After a minute or two, I hear my mom ascending the stairway.

The wood creaks with each step. Her walk seems slower than normal. Surprisingly, she opens my door. She never wakes me up on my days off. She walks toward me as I sit up.

“Sorry to wake you, but you have to get up,” she says.

“Something’s happened.” Then her face seems to tighten and her voice starts to tremble as she adds, “And it’s pretty bad.” By the way she said it, I know immediately someone has died. Faces of people I know flash through my mind—my dad, sister, brothers, friends from college—everyone except for who it actually is. I would never think it would be him—it was like he was set in stone to always be in my life.

My mom inhales deeply.

“I got a call from Justin’s mom. He was in a car accident,” she seems to choke. “And, he didn’t make it.” My hands shake as they cover my face.

A young man speeds down the road in a blue Mustang. He hears the police sirens ring in his ears and sees the flashing red and blue lights as he steps harder on the gas. The cop pursues him so he pulls over for a moment. But, when the cop slows down, he steps on the pedal again and races through a red light at a four-way intersection onto Route 94.

There are too many cars in front of him in the lane that he’s

The Mustang smashes into it head on and spins off the road and flips. The young man is hurt but still alive. He's upside down in the seat and dizzily raises his head to see a tire of the Saturn roll past his window and flop on the ground. He looks out to see the remains of the Saturn looking like a large, crunched soda can with a body in it.

“Brittany and her mom are here to see you,” my mom says wiping away her tears. “Come down when you’re ready.”

She heads down the stairs. I follow, but it’s hard to walk. My eyes are so blurred from my own tears that even the familiar objects in my room are completely obscured. I get halfway down the stairs when my legs buckle and drop me on a step. A pain seems to shoot through my chest, but it’s an odd pain I’ve never felt before—one that doesn’t seem physical at all.

Eventually, I find myself in the living room hugging Brittany and her mother who both have puffy eyes and damp cheeks. We talk a long time. Well, they talk mostly. I can’t come up with what to say. My thoughts are muddled.

Toward the end of their visit, Brittany says, “The kid was driving his friend’s Mustang back from a basketball game. Apparently, he just got his license back a day or two before from lots of speeding violations. I guess he didn’t want it taken away again.” The strange pain surges through me again.

The next few days fade into each other. I get calls and see people I haven’t talked to since high school. My sister, brother-in-law, and ex-girlfriend drive down to see me and attempt to take my mind off things. It doesn’t work. My dad comes home one night and actually knocks on my bedroom door instead of just barging in. He speaks softly to me in a tone of voice I’ve never heard from him telling me about a friend of his who died from leukemia when he was around my age. He says the circumstances of Justin’s death are a lot different, but he knows the feeling.

Over these days, I try to think about Justin in detail, but it’s too overwhelming. So, I mostly sleep.

One night I feel the need to punch my pillow. I heard somewhere www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│15

it relieves anger. But, it doesn’t. It just leaves you feeling more bitter and angrier.

jerk. “You’re right,” Brittany says. “Forgive and forget.”

Anger—I’m not sure I’ve ever felt true anger in my life until this point. I look up pictures of the Mustang driver. My head gets a burning sensation and my hands start shaking uncontrollably to the point where I scare myself. I try to stop them by clenching on to my desk. When my body settles, I find that I have left deep fingernail marks in the wood. I look at the pictures again. How could I possibly forgive him?

When would the anger subside?

The night before the funeral, a large group of us meet at the crash scene. We hammer a white cross into the ground where Justin’s car swerved off the road.

Afterward, we head into a nearby fire hall for refreshments. I’m talking to Justin’s mother about reading a eulogy at the funeral when a blonde-haired woman walks up to me with a pen and notepad.

“Hi, are you Vincent?” she asks.

Never.

“I’ll push the button and one of you say what we want,” Justin says staring over at Brittany in the passenger’s seat. I’m in the back.

“Are you kidding me?!” Brittany laughs which makes me and Justin start laughing too.

We’re at the Sonic Drive-in and, again, Justin doesn’t want to be the one to give the order. This must be the twentieth time he’s done this. Taco Bell, McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and now Sonic.

“Ugh, alright, I’ll do it,” Brittany says.

Once we’ve gotten our food Brittany starts chattering away. She’s the one who keeps most the conversations going.

“I wish Colleen had come with us,” she says. Colleen’s one of our other friends who’s had a long history of bailing on us at the last second.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” I reply. “I’ve just about given up on her.” Brittany nods in agreement and we both look at Justin as if to confirm it.

“That’s just how she is,” he says waving his hand as if brushing off the matter to the side. “We just have to overlook it.”

I sit back in my seat. Now I feel like a

“Yes.” “I’m a writer from the Evening Sun. I was wondering if you’d be willing to have a few words with me about Justin.”

I wonder how she knows who I am, but I know that I want a good story about Justin in the paper if there’s going to be one, so I say I’m willing to talk. She asks me a lot about the future goals he had and who he was. I struggle not to break down in front of her.

Then she asks, “Are you angry?”

I hesitate briefly, but then the words just seem to flow out from my mouth. “I don’t think Justin would be angry.”

recognize it. But, on the ground lie the empty soda boxes and McDonald’s bags scattered around it, so there’s no doubt.

I enter the back of the church. It’s filled with familiar faces and those I’ve never seen but resemble Justin’s in some way. I see Brittany and some other friends and give her a hug. Entering a side room, I nearly gasp when I see an open casket. I was expecting a closed casket from the crash pictures. I kneel in front of it and stare into it like I’m in a trance.

The crash didn’t leave any large noticeable marks except for scrapes on his knuckles and hands which are a bit contorted and stiff looking now. Seeing his hands makes me recall the odd way he used to wave. Then I remember the scuttling pace he used to walk at and his other mannerisms I learned throughout the years and would never see again. My eyes move up to a face I don’t know. The short black hair is there, but his cheeks aren’t red with embarrassment and his mouth isn’t grinning goofily after winning another competitive game against me—no, the face is just pale. Blank.

She starts jumping to other questions but I just keep thinking about my own words for that response. In a way, I didn’t even give my own feelings about whether I was angry. I just gave what I thought would be Justin’s answer—the answer I wish I could have given myself.

I get up to the podium at the front of the church after Justin’s brother is finished reading his eulogy which had a positive and playful tone to it. I feel strange knowing that mine won’t have that same playful quality and that I’m the only other person who’s reading anything. I clear my throat.

When I get home, I look at pictures of the crash posted on the internet where people have made the accident into a debate about whether police should continue a chase or not. There’s a picture of the car. It looks like a vase that got dropped and shattered to pieces. I barely

“I wanted to thank the family for letting me say a few words,” I begin looking at Justin’s mother who has rings around her eyes so dark and sunken that they make me wonder if she’ll ever be happy again.

My eyes scan over the paper I’ve prepared containing my blue-inked, chicken-scratch writing.

16 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

“I’ve known Justin for the past ten years in which...”

Suddenly, I can’t speak. It feels like I got punched in the chest and had the wind knocked out of my lungs.

“In which...” I try again but start to cry and look up to see his family, my family, and our friends start to cry too like I set off a chain reaction.

“In which...”

Still, I choke again. God, why can’t I do it?

Like a deluge of water, memories of Justin engulf my mind, but images of events that are never to be also appear. I imagine college graduation when my family and some friends might be in the stands to cheer for me—but he won’t be. I think of how my twenty-first birthday will come this May and I’ll have a toast with close friends, but there will be one less essential person. I can paint a vivid picture of my wedding with my bride, myself, and everyone else—but without a best man.

I wipe my eyes which I’m sure are bloodshot and red now. I try to wipe away the snot that dripped off my nose onto the open Bible on the podium.

Finally, I build up some strength.

“In which we became best of friends.”

I read the rest of the eulogy shakily but without stopping and conclude.

“I love you Justin.”

It’s exactly a year since the accident. January 13, 2011. I’m at the scene of the crash. It’s freezing and I can see my breath blow over the flame of my candle. A group of us are gathered around the white cross that barely stands out in all the white snow around it. His mom gives me a hug and we all start bringing up old memories that I can finally recollect now much more easily.

I expect to cry but don’t. Things aren’t quite as painful now--maybe because of time, acceptance, or just because I was drained of emotion too much before. No matter what reason, I feel happier again now.

The Mustang driver was sentenced for three years in prison. He apologized to Justin’s mom. She forgave him, but she’ll never have Justin back.

Over the past year, I thought about what I said to the reporter a lot and how bitter my thoughts had been for so long. It was time for a change.

Perhaps, to think more as Justin would’ve. In the end, I knew that the driver hadn’t meant to cause a death. What happened wasthe result of a reckless decision. Somehow, I was able to forgive it. Maybe forgiveness is what made me happy again.

Brittany puts her arm around me and we gather in a circle around the white cross on which is written: “You were the best of us.” But I think the words should say: “You are the best in us.” Fond memories of Justin come back to me now, and a shy smile spreads across my face.

Vincent VanBuskirk Vincent VanBuskirk is a recent communication/journalism graduate of Shippensburg University, born in Hanover, PA. You can reach him at vincentvanbuskirk@gmail.com. www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│17

I Remain Common

By Renee Kelly

Laid out amidst a parched field are the dried carcasses, only shells.

Picking up those brittle pieces I see the bodies are gone.

Imagine their fresh, new skin!

Crumbled in my hands, the bits are sharp, cut through my palms.

Reflections of my presence, they tell the truth. -A name will be kept to promises not.

And sorrow can’t make them the same.

Renee Kelly Renee Lynn Kelly- resides, raises, loves, provokes, invokes, bakes, plays, listens, seeks, writes, challenges, smiles, cries, creates, analyzes, admires, travels, hugs, pays the man, wakens, praises, and just plains lives.

18 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

Kedzu

By Matthew L. Furman

I feel kind of proud about all this, and at the same time, a little ashamed, like those times people push your buttons and you freak out on them, and instead of intimidating them, they just think you’re weird.

Annoyance was my knee-jerk reaction that muggy summer day when I looked down at my vibrating cell phone and saw my mother’s number on the readout. My mother knows I despise talking on the telephone, particularly at work.

Every job I’ve ever had has required me to spend too much of my life talking through plastic, and when I don’t have to do it, I don’t. The sight of people shuffling around, driving cars, ordering fast food, all the while clamping a brain cancer-causing telecommunications device to their head is enough to make me vomit.

In addition, I’ve only known three moderately intelligent people who used Bluetooths. Their wearers remind me of the Lobot character from “Empire Strikes Back,” and this reminds me of gone-forever days, and this makes me sad.

When I want to meet someone for a drink, I text them.

“But Hank, you used to spend hours on the phone talking to this girl or that girl, and especially Helen,” said Rose, my mother, every time I patiently explained to her that I now hated the telephone.

“That’s because I was wooing,” I would say for the hundredth time. “That’s when I found myself more indulgent, going through the whole ‘wonder of me.’ I don’t feel indulgent anymore. Dad understands this; why can’t you?”

But this day’s oscillating harbinger wasn’t about insensitive husbands or poor service at Giant Eagle. Rose’s mother had died two days ago, and since I truly love my mother, and don’t view her merely as a feature of better, more secure days like so many others my age, I took the call.

“Yes.” “Henry, he is being absolutely hateful to me,” Rose said. “Completely off-the-reservation, out-of-the-pale hateful to me.”

My mother only calls me by my complete first name when the stakes are high. She also has a way of starting conversations with cryptic, tantalizing openings.

I needed more information, but I already knew the basics. Today was the day Rose and my father Dennis were to meet at the funeral home with John, my grandmother’s second husband, and one of his sons, Lewis.

The enmity between this group was both legendary and all-too hellishly accurate. The small, tastefully furnished funeral home near Fox Chapel was in danger of imploding in on itself like that hatch in “Lost,” and too few people knew this.

“What did John say, mom?” I said.

“It wasn’t John, it was that slurry little son of his.”

This was interesting.

Lewis was a doctor, a surgeon at Johns Hopkins, I believe.

I knew him mostly by Continued on page 22

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│19

CulturalCalendar JUNE 5:

“The Washington County Museum of Fine Arts holds their 16th annual Western Maryland Blues Festival.

The Jazz Ensemble will perform from 1-1:45pm and 3-3:45pm.” Workshops and lectures available throughout the day for more details see www.wcmfa. org 

JUNE 11:

“Argentinean guitarist, Marcelo Berestovoy, will present a free concert of Latin, pop, and jazz music with a small ensemble of local musicians in the Student Center at Hagerstown Community College at 7 p.m.” for more details check out www. washingtoncountyarts.com 

JUNE 5- 12:

“SISTERS OF SWING” The story of the Andrew Sisters NOW playing at the Allenberry Playhouse. For times and tickets visit www.allenberry.com  JUNE 5- 12:

Totem Pole Playhouse presents “Hank Williams: Lost Highway.” Tickets available at www.totempoleplayhouse. org  JUNE 7:

“ELVIS: BEFORE THE CAPE”: A musical tribute to Elvis at nineteen. Tickets available at www.totempoleplayhouse. org  JUNE 11:

ART ON THE FARM: A collaboration between CLAC and the Pennsylvania Association for Sustainable Agriculture (PASA). The event will showcase a collection of the regions agricultural products and art expressed “en plein air”. Event held at Dickinson Farm, 6:00 p.m. Tickets Available. For more details see www.carlislearts.org 

JUNE 12:

Cumberland Valley Art Exhibition and Rewards Ceremony. Event takes place at the Washington County Museum of Fine Arts in Hagerstown, Maryland. 2:30 to 4:00 p.m.

JUNE 12:

COURTYARD ATRIUM OPEN HOUSE. Cumberland Valley Art Museum of Hagerstown, Maryland celebrates their new courtyard enclosure. From 2p.m. to 4:00p.m.

For more information see www.wcmfa. org/events  JUNE 15- 26:

“MOONLIGHT AND MAGNOLIAS”: The story of Gone with the Wind and its incredible adventure to fame. Check out this comedy at www.totempoleplayhouse. org  JUNE 15- JULY 24:

“HELLO, DOLLY” Famous matchmaker Dolly Levi hits the stages at the Allenberry Playhouse! For times and tickets visit www.allenberry.com 

20 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

JUNE 15:

TAKE FLIGHT II Final day to see the hot air balloon sculptures located and displayed in downtown Hagerstown, Maryland. For more information check out www.takeflighthagerstown.com  JUNE 17:

TAKE FLIGHT II GLOW AND AUCTION EVENT: The Barbara Ingram School for the Arts Foundation invites YOU to enjoy hot air balloons, antique cars and, planes! Event located at the Rider Jet Center in Hagerstown. Begins at 5p.m. Tickets Available. Learn more and RSVP at www.takeflighthagerstown.com/ hotAirBalloon-Event.aspx  JUNE 18:

SHAPE Art Gallery holds their 6th Annual Solstice Arts Festival.

The event takes place on Britton Road at the Shippensburg Township Park.

9a.m. to 4p.m. www.shapeart.org  JUNE 18:

Chambersburg Ballet Theatre School presents CINDERELLA. Performance held at the Capitol Theatre in Chambersburg. Showings at 2p.m. and 6:30 p.m. Tickets Available.

JUNE 24: LET’S HANG ON:

Tribute show to the Jersey Boys, Frankie Valli and, the Four Seasons. Performance held at the Capitol Theatre in Chambersburg.

Show starts at 8p.m. Tickets Available. www.thecapitoltheatre.org 

The Spring 2011 JUNE 24- 26:

MARCH TO DESTINY: Civil War Encampment, History & Skirmish. Event will take place in downtown Shippensburg. For more information go to www.MarchToDestiny. org  JUNE 24- AUGUST 27:

PIERCE BONDS: Artist, Sue Marrazzo, will be featuring her encaustic and acrylic works at the CALC gallery in Carlisle. Artist reception held on July 29. For gallery hours visit www. carlislearts.org  JUNE 26:

The Edmunds Music Trust presents Pianist, Thomas Pandolfi.

Performance takes place at the Washington County Museum of Fine Arts in Hagerstown, Maryland. Show starts at 2:30 p.m. Tickets Available.

JUNE 28- JULY 10:

“IT COULD BE ANYONE OF US” A murder mystery hits the stage of Totem Pole Playhouse. For details checkout www.totempoleplayhouse.org  JULY 2- AUGUST 8:

“THREE WAYS TO PLAY”: Artists Joan and Gregory Boor exhibit their works at the Washington County Arts Council Gallery in Hagerstown, Maryland.

Opening reception is on Friday, July 8 from 5p.m. to 7p.m. For more details see www.washingtoncountyarts.com 

JULY 7:

Harpist, Ann Hobson Pilot, will be playing at the Luhrs Center. Show starts at 8 p.m. Tickets available at www. luhrscenter.com  JULY 12- 24:

“SUITE SURRENDER” Hollywood Divas fight for the same suite in this 1942 comedy. For details and tickets see www.totempoleplayhouse.org  JULY 14:

Classical and flamenco guitarist, Virginia Luque, will be performing at the Luhrs Center. Show starts at 8 p.m.

Tickets available at www.luhrscenter. com  JULY 21:

Richard Troxell will be performing at the Luhrs Center. Show starts at 8 p.m.

Tickets available at www.luhrscenter. com  JULY 26- AUGUST 7:

“HONUS AND ME”: “A Touching Comedy for the Whole Family.” Tickets available at www.totempoleplayhouse. org 

AUGUST 9-21:

“SOUTHERN CROSSROADS”: The inspiring story of how a musical band finds hope during the Great Depression. For details an tickets visit www.totempoleplayhouse.org  AUGUST 13:

Enjoy food and family fun at the Saunderosa Car and Craft Show.

Festivities start at 9a.m. and end at 4pm.

Located in Mercersburg, Pennsylvania.

For more details and fun activities visit www.saunderosapark.com  AUGUST 24:

“BUDDY”: The Buddy Holly Story enchants the stage of the Allenberry Playhouse. For times and tickets visit www.allenberry.com  AUGUST 27:

POP! A CORK FOR THE CAPITOL: Music, vendors and, wine tasting! Fun begins at 12 noon at the Chambersburg Capitol Theatre and ends at 7p.m.

Tickets Available.

JULY 27- AUGUST 21:

“SMOKE ON THE MOUNTIAN”: A Bluegrass Gospel Musical hits the stage of Allenberry Playhouse. For times and tickets visit www.allenberry.com 

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│21

reputation. The one thing that stood out in my memory, for obvious reasons, was a weird stomach ailment I’d heard he had. He was said to have nerve-induced acid reflux, vomiting, and spastic colon so bad he nearly bled out one night like one of those early Ebola Zaire victims.

Based on John’s boastful descriptions, I had written Lewis off as one of the legions of soft-shelled middle class whose tangential exposure to Our Cultural Luminaries had turned him into an insufferable pencil neck.

I hadn’t expected him to be capable of anything akin to John’s rancor, but then there’s the cliché about fathers and sons.

“What happened, mom? What did he say?

Where are you?” I said, standing up and looking around my small strip-mall branch office. No one had made coffee, as usual. I couldn’t have imagined working with people so boring they didn’t even need caffeine, but there I was.

“We’d been trying to work on what verses to use for the gravestone, when Lewis jumps in with this meaningless Old Testament bit, and it was right there I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer,” said Rose. “I told him my mother would have wanted something from the New Testament, a piece about love, and grace, and forgiveness.”

“This is very true,” I said, waiting for the rest.

“So then John sighs that sigh of his, and puts his head in his hands, and Lewis says, ‘This is the person in this room who is crushed, who is grieving. You’re nothing but the divisive daughter who was only there for your mother at the very end.’”

I gripped the phone and swallowed hard, wishing I had some cigarettes. The implication was clear: Rose made nice after years of strife just to make sure she got in the will.

That rankled me more than the name-calling.

By this point I should mention I have a mother complex.

I care for her deeply, and conversely, she is the only person who knows

how to get under my skin and stay there for days.

Once, when I was 17 and thankfully still a minor, a pick-up driver rear-ended us on McKnight Road. The driver, one of those skinny, angry types with a pubic hair mustache and warrant-less insolence, called Rose a handful of names as she approached him calmly with her insurance information held out in her hand like a religious tract.

It was then that I calmly reached for the big red Mag flashlight under my seat, exited the vehicle and hit the urban redneck in the face until the flashlight fell apart in my hand.

The ensuing court troubles were predictable and boring. I could tell my legal elders were on my side.

I now know, and believe I always did know subconsciously, that my feelings about my mother stem from what she has endured.

Anyone who went through what she did shouldn’t have to put up with anything more.

Someone who lived what she lived, and still cooked dinner, raised me, and got out of bed every day should be left alone the rest of their lives.

“You’re not telling me everything,” I said finally.

A pause.

“Your father is just sitting there and letting all this happen,” Rose said. “I need you to come up here and straighten this out. I need you to keep this gorilla off my case so you and I can figure out how to bury your grandmother.”

I told her I’d get there as quick as I could and clacked my phone shut, turned it off.

The idea of getting my input for the procedures of death was a veil.

Someone had hurt Rose. Dennis, as usual, was pretending he wasn’t in the room, and once again, my services were needed.

22 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

*** On special occasions my mother often wears her hair in two short braids.

The effect on me as

a son is both disconcerting and poignant. The look of a simple farm girl mixed with the invisible steel and intellect I know lies within.

Perhaps Rose’s slight figure has always been her greatest asset; no one would think such a tiny collection of sighs and averted looks could, if necessary, argue with you till dawn.

We have. It’s not pretty.

I pulled out into the Etna traffic and wondered how Rose was wearing her hair on this day of days. My pulse was elevated and I was filled with the happy insanity of driving to what would almost certainly turn into a confrontation, the adversary relatively unknown.

Beer bars floated past my car window, bars with names like Nooche’s, and dives specializing in turtle soup. Helen and I often argued if this was truth in advertising or merely old advertisements from a less-squeamish, bygone era.

My present was focused on a fight; my past on the handful of hospital visits which had started out grim and ended, of course, in cheap, plastic death.

Rose’s mother hadn’t been eating properly for months.

She’d beaten breast cancer twice, had her heart cavity ripped open and repaired, and slogged through the mist of pneumonia three times in the last decade.

But she was 91, and liver cancer almost never negotiates. The death process has a way of turning everything sidewise. Cheery back-and-forths between your loved one and nurses who know they won’t be alive in four months, and everyone in the room knows this.

Everyone pretends nothing’s wrong, and if you have a brain and a heart of any sensitivity, this procession fills you with the same poison as the person dying in front of you.

At my first visit to Rose’s mother, a group of Amish teenagers from Ohio were singing in German in a common room down the hall.

Their sweet, untouched voices helped us all.

I wonder if they knew their impact that day?

The last time, the morning my grandmother died, I sat at her bedside and held her hand like anyone would. So cold. I couldn’t understand how anything human could be that cold. Fingernails like ice, too-sweet flowers in the hospital room, and I was reminded, absurdly, of playing in my aunt and uncle’s florist shop. Where my grandmother had worked.

Leaning on my elbows on her hospital bed, I looked down in horror at one point when I realized I was crimping her oxygen feed.

She was on a non-stop flight, no doubt, and I know this stupid action on my part made no difference, but I will always wonder about this.

When she at last stopped breathing, her clock had wound down so slowly it took me a minute to realize it was over.

And almost instantly, the official assembly line of interment began, and it was this falsely-sentimental process that had me driving to confront a man I didn’t know.

I knew more about Lewis’ daughter, Nina, who, like me, was pushing 30.

For years I had heard John brag of her Yale education, her singing career, which included a private performance for then-President Bill Clinton, and her acting talent.

I got curious one day and looked Nina up on the Internet Movie Database.

Her resume included playing a high school student in the MTV-produced “Varsity Blues,” and a recurring character on “Reno 911” called “Speeding Hot Girl.”

I had started to laugh, but shut up quickly.

I had poems I wanted to write and publish one day, and it seemed unwise to give in to schadenfreude. *** People get nervous when you stalk into a funeral home.

Two or more groups of people, who probably don’t know each other well, meet to carry out someone’s last wishes, and you’re bound to have problems.

I would have thought the funeral workers would have been used to this kind of thing, but maybe making each day a fresh experience is the only way they get through the job.

“Brewster,” was all I said to the blandly handsome young man gripping a clipboard.

He showed me to a small room decorated with fresh flowers, probably from my aunt and uncle.

Lewis glanced at me, but otherwise gave no notice.

His plump form was decked out in summer casual wear – expensive golf shirt, cargopocket shorts, Birkenstocks.

Bald, bearded, he reminded me of an unbalanced scientist from those old black and white “Aliens” comic books.

I felt the vapor of dislike I’d always had for Lewis flame into a gas burner.

The funeral worker attached to our case was older than Clipboard Boy, bearded and gray like Kenny Rogers. He was covering some final financial details, and then gave the signal that the meeting was over.

From the time I had walked in, my parents had looked like they were not involved in any way with the proceedings before them.

Kenny Rogers, Lewis, and John stood to leave.

“Not so fast, Lewis,” I said softly.

“What?” he said, looking at me like I was an Inner Harbor panhandler.

“You heard me. We’re not done here,” I said, and like most Americans conditioned to cave at a stern voice, the standers stood down.

They looked at me expectantly.

I wanted Lewis to taste smoke and death, to bury his friend in a jungle grave and kill another for his rations. I wanted this shielded fatso, who’d never been challenged by anyone in his life, to clutch his chest while standing in line at the 7-11.

To sit, squirming in front of a hundred pinch-faced religionists, and get interrogated until he cried.

This moment was about a damaged family infiltrated by a clan of privileged decadents, people who defined suffering by how long they had to wait for their next mainline spike of fun, prestige or nepotistic accomplishment.

I opened my mouth.

“Lewis, you will apologize to my mother right here and now for what you said, right here in front of me, and Kenny Rogers, and God. We both know what you said outright, and intimated. Say you’re sorry and we all walk out of here.”

People like Lewis deal with rare outbursts like this by giving you that look, the one that suggests you need your head examined.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, so I’m leaving. Let’s go, dad,” said Lewis, sputtering and jamming several antacids in his mouth.

“Sit down,” bellowed my father, Dennis, perhaps brought to life by the fire boiling inside his son. “You’re an asshole, your crazy ‘Night of the Hunter’ daddy is an asshole,

and you’re going to apologize, or you won’t be leaving this place.”

I looked at Dad. This was real. This was not a figure of speech. I truly believe we were entering Hollywood territory that day. I could see this altercation swerving into independent filmland, with garbage bags, saws, and quicklime, poor Kenny Rogers just along for the ride. We were that sick and tired.

Lewis’ eyes told me he was starting to get it.

John definitely got it.

The bald old codger stood on his chair and started screaming.

“A curse on you, a curse on you, I put a curse on you for darkening this day,” he bawled, speckling us with spit, and brought his bony forefinger down on each of his afflicters’ foreheads.

Oddly enough, this broke the charged mood.

My mother almost looked like she was going to laugh. It’s how she deals with these situations.

“John, you’re supposed to be a man of God,” she said in a low voice after he’d finished putting a hex on our colons.

John, the Nazarene boy preacher who had harangued the woodland animals at 5, been ordained at 17, and moved from a trailer into my grandmother’s house after her war hero husband had died of a heart attack in a convenience store.

Current executor of my grandmother’s will.

My parents and I looked at each other.

Lewis used the opportunity to steer John down the hallway, toward the funeral home’s front door.

I zipped past them, turned.

“Lewis, you don’t know me,” I said. “You do not know me. Keep that mildly scary thought in mind when I tell you this: You will apologize to my mother this instant, or I will get up in front of everyone Sunday at the funeral, maybe even sit on the casket for effect, and tell all assembled how you insulted my grieving mother and made her cry two days after she watched her mom die.”

Lewis gulped and looked like he wanted to spit; this kind of thing didn’t happen at Johns Hopkins.

He mumbled what could have been a curse on my prostate, or an apology, and shuffled his crazy old man out the front door and into his stylishly aging Renault.

Continued on page 30

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│23

Singapore A Film Review By Lucas Primac Christopher Watson’s Singapore is a short film recently featured at the Waking Giant Film Festival in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. A compelling commentary on the connections between humans and industry, the movie incorporates stylized and surreal elements and is laced with artistic metaphors for audiences to interpret at their own discretion.

The film presents us with images ranging from cryptic scribbles superimposed over a head of hair (likened to solar flares peeking through a canopy of forest) to the Lynchian black-and-white shots of a man sitting at a desk, slyly conversing with folks standing before him. These intriguing scenes are well-accompanied with a hypnotic, almost atonal drone that tows you into the experience, therefore delivering an ethereal appeal to the work.

Shots of cemetaries, figurative ones with cast off desks and chairs, and ones with webs of metal wire let us know that we are in a wasteland of boundaries. There is a sick man in bed, seemingly exhausted by the absurdity of antiquated factory facades and old superstitions. He cannot shake his pale disposition. Other scenes reveal remnants of environmental growth/industrialization, now heavily weeded and covered with nondescript graffiti.

Another focal point is the disheveled man who carries a portion of nature’s supreme architecture: a rock. The sick man and the rock-bearer eventually meet in the course of the film, perhaps not literally, but the weight of the rock is inevitably displaced in a flowing current beneath a bridge.

Footage of a baptism, a fateful drowning session, and a seizure-inducing photo shoot with a female bodybuilder provides us with entertaining non sequiturs not to be forgotten. Shots like these prove to be important to the film’s impeccably wild pace, and all for the better.

Nowhere else will you find beauty or even solace in a satellite dish and a church steeple sharing the same space. Director Watson’s trajectory appears to be an esoteric one at first viewing, but it is surely a wild ride.

He successfully realizes the looming fusion of man and his creations and gives us a film that breathes with character and dubiety. Highly recommended.

Film by Christopher Watson www.Christopherwatsonfilms.com 

24 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

A Restaurant Review Biscotti Coffee Bar Cafe: Meals,Drinks, Deserts in Shippensburg, Pa│By Steven Brenize Almost everyone has a desire to check out the new kid in town. When a new restaurant or store opens in the community there seems to be a rush of inquiry to taste the newness so to speak. What will it be like and will it be successful were the questions that came to mind while watching the renovations to the former Hop, as it was converted into the new Biscotti Coffee Bar Cafe at 300 North Earl Street in Shippensburg.

As one walks into the establishment you are embraced by the visual ascents. The coffee bar area features stainless steel espresso makers, and seems designed dually for it’s appearance and the functionality to allow staff to meet the needs of patrons. The general seating area features a virtual art gallery, currently featuring the pleasing outdoor still scenes of local photographer Lisa Rhinehart. Seating is available in different group sizes and chairs and bar stools are as comfortable as one can find in a restaurant that doesn’t break the bank.

Having some background in managing and opening restaurants I have a strict policy of dinning twice at a new eatery before I form an opinion. The true test of service rests upon the facilities ability to be able to provide the same service and quality to the lone diner and to a group. My first stop was during Biscotti’s opening weekend, shortly before closing. Despite what had been a long day for the employees I was greeted by a smiling young lady dressed in appropriate and clean slacks and a white blouse. As I sat at the bar, I was given a menu that not only listed meals, deserts, and drinks with their prices, but also listed ingredients that were featured in the items. This was a pleasing feature because one of the worst experiences a diner can have is thinking they know exactly what a dish is only to find a surprise as they take their first bite. The service through both meals was friendly and helpful. Individualized orders were not just tolerated but encouraged, upon ordering my iced coffee I was pleased to be offered multiple options for flavoring, cream, and sweeteners.

The service and atmosphere of a restaurant can be excellent, but to be a top notch eatery the food must be top notch and that is what puts Biscotti over the top.

The Coffee and Iced Tea were both fresh brewed and made with quality beans and tea leaves. The side salad was a generous portion of fresh mixed greens with tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers; and the Raspberry Vinaigrette dressing was the best I have ever tasted.

For a meal, one of the other members of my party had the Nantucket Salad and unlike many meal salads it was more meal than salad. The Pecans so impressed my Mom that she made me try one and they seamed to be toasted in a way that maximized the flavor.

Biscotti’s attempt at a gourmet pizza features a fresh made dough with salmon, mozzarella, baby shrimp and seasonings that results in a dish that was filling and full of flavor. The last dish in this review is the Biscotti Penne. The vegetarian dish featured fresh properly cooked penne, two different types of tomatoes, one of which was cooked to a point that the flavor tapped into the sweetness that some tomatoes have. It was topped with fresh basil and feta cheese bringing the two differing tomato flavors and penne into a harmonious dish.

Biscotti Coffee Bar Cafe offers a quality dinning experience at a reasonable price. One could try to label Biscotti as an Upscale Casual but labels do not do justice to the establishment. Biscotti is a perfect fit for almost any situation and during both of my dining experiences one of the members of the ownership team was present. If that trend continues Biscotti will be a quality dining environment for local and visiting patrons for many years to come.

Steven Brenize Steven Brenize is from Shippensburg, Pa. He works at Roxbury Treatment Center, is the Vice-President of Shippensburg Borough Council and is honored to serve on the board of Post Now Pa.

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│25

Microbrew Madness Has Struck Chambersburg

A

fter a trip to Germany in 2007, I arrived back to the United States as a changed man. In addition to acquiring a larger view of the world, I came back to the States with a new love, namely good beer.

Ironically enough, my return basically coincided with the establishment of “America’s Freshest Brewery”, Roy Pitz, which occurred in 2008. Since discovering the wild and wacky world of craft beer, I have taken several trips to Roy Pitz in the pursuit of good conversation and beer. And Roy Pitz never disappoints.

The Roy Pitz brewery is located at 140 N Third Street in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, in a building that dates back to the earlier part of the 20th century. Even when one spots the building which houses Roy Pitz, it still takes a bit of poking around to actually enter the brewery itself, as the operations and tasting room currently reside in the bottom of the edifice. When one finally finds the beer factory, however, he or she quickly realizes that one of Chambersburg’s best kept secrets is about to be discovered.

I have visited Roy Pitz on many occasions, and their beer offering is always top-notch. For instance, my brother Tom and I decided to ditch the wine and bring some beer to our family’s Thanksgiving celebration.

The beer of choice was Ichabod’s Midnight Ride, Belgian pumpkinflavored ale produced just in time

26 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

for the fall. With the nice hint of pumpkin, the beer paired nicely with the turkey and pumpkin pie. On a different trip, Tom suggested that we sample the Chicken Leg Oatmeal Stout, since he prefers dark beer. We quickly chugged down a sample of the aforementioned brew, and followed it up with the Ludwig’s Revenge, a dark, smoked lager. These beers were also excellent. Some other varieties which Roy Pitz offers include Daddy Fat Sacks (an Imperial IPA), Best Blonde Ale (Kölsch-style), and the Laydown Stay Down (Belgian Strong Ale). Although I have tasted most of their beers over the past few years, there is one which I do not think I have ever sampled. I am most excited to try their White Horse Hefeweizen, as this is a style which I particularly love. Roy Pitz always has about six or seven of their beers on tap in their sampling room, including some seasonal wonders, so it pays to visit the tasting room with frequency.

One of the things that most impresses me about Roy Pitz is that the brewers and owners, Ryan Richards and Jesse Rotz, have a vast knowledge and appreciation of beer, as well as a concern about quality.

Every time I stop by for a quick visit and samples, I always end up talking with the owners about beer. On one occasion, I happened to mention that I rarely receive a hangover after drinking craft beer, and Ryan quickly explained that drinking unfiltered

beer will help prevent hangovers, as unfiltered beer still contains yeast, as it was not filtered out of the beer.

The level of vitamin B contained within the yeast will help keep one’s body from having a vitamin B deficiency, and thus one will not have a hangover. Likewise, Ryan and Jesse have always been more than willing to talk homebrew with us, answering questions concerning anything from stalled fermentations, barley wines and the notorious Brettanomyces to aging beer in bourbon casks.

Our conversations weren’t always homebrew related, however. Ryan, who studied brewing at Doemens Institute in Germany, was only too happy to swap stories with me about times spent in Germany and in Europe. I explained to Ryan how I have a “thing” for Jever’s lager, ever since touring the brewery and that I

also have fond memories of drinking Heineken in Holland. Ryan shared similar sentiments with the Dutch Heineken, though he carefully added the disclaimer that the formula for this Heineken brew is markedly different and much better in the Netherlands than that which is sent to America. Another time, Tom and I handed Ryan a pair of growlers we painted for a contest that Roy Pitz held.

Ryan told us that we had to check out his favorite growler, and he then pulled out a beautifully colored jug from a German brewery, which depicted the likeness of crazy King Ludwig II, the Bavarian king who had the Cinderella castle built. He mentioned that this growler was his favorite.

All this talk of growlers reminds me of one important thing to note about Roy Pitz. If one ever wants to stop by the brewery, one can sample any of the delicious craft brews for free. One does not have to conclude their experience with samples, however, as Roy Pitz offers a growler service. Initially, a small deposit is paid on the 2-liter jug, and of course there is also a fee to have the growler filled with beer. For each subsequent filling, one pays only $10-15. If one joins the growler club (it’s free!), one will receive a free growler refill after purchasing numerous refills. For those who are not interested in going the growler route, you are soon to be in luck as well. The last time I talked to the masterminds at Roy Pitz I was told that they plan on expanding their operations out of the basement of their building and onto the main floor. One of their goals is to install a bottling line. At the time of writing I have heard numerous estimates as to when this will happen, but we might be able to purchase bottled Roy Pitz brews as early as August, though for the curious, it would perhaps be better to stop at the brewery and ask Ryan or Jesse to be sure. I’ve also found that a few establishments in Shippensburg, such as University Grille, Knute’s Pub & Grill and Shipwreck Pub, sometimes carry a Roy Pitz beer on tap.

No matter how I paint the world of Roy Pitz, I do not think that I can say enough to accurately describe their products and service. Sometimes I receive looks when I admit that I have an obsession for beer, but then I think about those guys up in Chambersburg and I realize that our country is undergoing a beer revolution, something that the Roy Pitz slogan “Liquid Art” implies.

Whether interested in sampling a few kinds of beer or having a meaningful conversation, the guys at Roy Pitz never dissatisfy.

Roy Pitz is in the process of expanding their brewery's output.

The Equipment pictured here has recently been sold in order to make room for incoming equipment that can provide a higher capacity.

David allwein David Allwein studied at Shippensburg University and Philipps Universitaet Marburg and is the part-owner of Allwein’s Winery and Roscoe Brewery. In his free time David is writing a book.

Photography by David Allwein

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│27

The Amani Festival

The Amani Festival is a multi-cultural street fair held annually in Downtown Carlisle. Amani, which means peace in Swahili, was first conceived in 1993 by Floyd Stokes to provide the people of Carlisle easy access to different cultures and religions through food, fellowship and entertainment.

As part of the festival, children are encouraged to participate in Amani’s poetry contest to show how the current festival theme enhances the festival’s mission of promoting tolerance and mutal respect between different cultures and religions. Three winners were selected from each age group, K-3, 4-5, 6-8, and 9-12, for creatively portraying this years theme, Plant Peace Harvest Harmony.

Included here are the first placed poems from each age group.

Grades 1-3

The Peace Garden

Grades 4-5

By Olivia Renault,

Untitled

Mooreland Elementary • 2nd Grade

By Katie Junga

In my peace garden I will grow…

Fruit for everyone

CASD Hamilton • 5th Grade

Corn, tomatoes, peppers

Cantaloupe, watermelon, strawberries

Strawberries for love,

Some are sweet or spicy and maybe even bitter

Peaches for passion, Pears for kindness,

But . . .

Mangoes for harmony,

Somehow they form together

Bananas for understanding,

From different backgrounds

Apples for sharing,

To different religions

Tangerines for happiness,

and Passion Fruit for playfulness.

ALL TOGETHER ON ONE TREE

And skin color

With some help My garden

Will produce nice juicy fruits and veggies And when they cooperate Then join together

Friendships are formed From their differences To come together To make a salad AMANI 2011



Like my community

Grades 6-8

Red River

By Jessica Addington Big Spring • 8th Grade • (1st place)

Muskets fire,

red rivers flow.

The sky, covered in clouds of hate and gun smoke.

The smile in the sky, hidden by a black fog.

Lives put o the line to make us one For they knew we were different, but also the same.

They looked under the skin to see, a heart beats,

a rid river flows,

a mind full of ideas an memories, a soul.

So before you decide to hate think of all we share,

and the red river your hate let go.

We need to come together as one, and be an ocean of steel.

28 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

United and strong.

Grades 9-12

An Exchange

by Elizabeth McCune CASD • 9th Grade

There is a hot despairing sun in my old home.

An arid heat covers the entire land.

The water is not clean and families are not fed.

My sisters are not educated and my brothers are taken away.

Five times daily a cry rings.

Five times daily I get on my knees.

There is a yellow house in my old home.

Neat fences and green gardens are popular.

The water is delicious and my children are safe.

My wife is beautiful and I have comrades for brothers.

Five months now we’ve been away from home.

In five months I’ll hold my baby girl.

After many, many, days The echoes of gunshots ceased, And my father wept for joy and sorrow.

He said, “Allah! We are Safe! Please guard the dead.”

The next day we learned a school was to be built.

We lost so many in those days...

And my heart is burdened with things that cannot be unseen.

I asked God, “Was it worth it?”

Soon the poppies in my mother’s garden bloomed And the people were happier than I’d seen in a long time.

My father said we owed the strange men much And should thank them somehow.

I picked Mama’s poppies and whispered a “thank you” into their petals.

A little girl came to me Holding a blood-red flower.

As she passed one to my hands She sang out the words “Inshallah.”

The man took the poppy with his fingers.

After I wished God’s will, He said the words “Hallelujah.”

I knew then I fought for that little girl as well.

I knew then he was not my enemy.

Photo by Jessica Crea Robinson  www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│29

Kedzu

Continued from page 23

I see now how this whole thing was more about domination than classism.

John, the emotional vampire, had had his eye on a family that had been through enough. When the strong ones died, he moved in and took what he wanted.

At 5, my mother said a curse word and was placed in front of a tribunal of church members for judgment. The punishment is irrelevant, and anyway, she never told me.

Rose went on to spend her entire life walking on egg shells around a passive/ aggressive, Borderline Personality Disorderafflicted mother who gave Rose eating disorders almost as soon as she started eating solid food.

Rose’s brothers died early. One ignored doctors for decades, instead relying on his fringe church’s teachings that forbade modern medicine in favor of divine intervention, and died of diabetic complications, but not before getting his foot amputated. Another brother died extremely fast from a blood disease no one had ever heard of.

Rose’s father helped build the Railroad of Death, came home, ripped out asbestos for a living, and died in line waiting to pay for a pack of orange Tic-Tacs.

Through colossal legal negligence, John and Lewis would probably inherit everything meant for my side of the family, but I didn’t care.

I just wanted to let them both know I knew what they were. *** I snuck a cigarette behind the church.

Helen was annoyed at the health setback,

but said nothing. She knew I needed it.

The day of my grandmother’s funeral was sunny, warm, the opposite of my wedding day.

I lingered with two of my cousins in the church lobby as long as possible, but found myself in a cushioned pew sooner than seemed reasonable. Some people think funerals last forever. They’ve always felt rushed to me, vulgar and cost-focused for some reason.

The families were divided up like Congress. Members of one group didn’t look at the other members. I had a feeling word of my promise to Lewis had leaked. Some of these people were probably hoping I had a large red flashlight in my pocket.

Helen sang beautifully, as I knew she would, and then it was my cue.

I stood up, and as I did, Lewis did the same about a half-second later. He was in the middle of a full pew, and getting out to stop me wouldn’t be easy.

I looked at him and felt nothing.

I walked to the pulpit as slow as I could.

Lewis began gasping, and keeping my gaze on him, I could see him clutching his hand to his mouth, clear tendrils of saliva leaking out between his knuckles.

I then gave him my back, but would have the rest of the story retold to me a dozen times by my tipsy cousins.

Lewis fell to his knees once on the way to the back of the sanctuary, a dark brown stain on the seat of his light summer suit pants. He made his way through the swinging entrance/ exit doors, and even though Lewis made sure they were closed, the sound of him vomiting into an offering plate was clear and beautiful.

I looked at the crowd before I spoke. Anyone associated with John and Lewis looked at

me with a mixture of shock and loathing.

John looked like he was unaware anything out of the ordinary had occurred. That had always been his default setting.

I tried to look at each face in turn, gave a smile I hoped was serene, and pulled a piece of folded paper from my left hip pocket.

I read aloud: “I wanted to speak to you today, but I don’t trust my emotions just yet, so I have asked my son Henry to read this tribute to my mother. Mom and I had plenty of differences, but one thing she taught me was…” *** I don’t know if I could have called Lewis out like I’d promised. I can break flashlights over people’s heads, but the idea of giving a calm, pointed attack in front of all those people had me uneasy. I might have puked just like Lewis.

Rose had heard what she wanted in that funeral home hallway – an apology.

She put it behind her, and concentrated her reserve energy into writing a tribute to her mother, and then gave it to me to read to everyone else.

I knew Lewis would have his eyes glued to me the whole service.

He had the false rectitude of privilege.

I had momentary insanity.

Sometimes that’s all you need, all you get.

The rest of the day was pretty standard funeral stuff.

The food was pretty good, and despite the late hour, I wasn’t that hungry.

The End

Matthew L. Furman Matthew L. Furman lives in Chambersburg with his wife, Nancy, and sons, Sebastian and Colin. He is the author of “PostEuphoria,” a literary short fiction collection centered in Pennsylvania. He is currently in the early stages of a novel. Furman can be reached at matt_furman@yahoo.com.

30 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

A collection of Poetry

by Daniel Schuchman flying somewhere far more southward Many of the birds that sat singing outside are gone now its practically winter and they’ve found shelter in a Floridian roost or are flying somewhere far more southward but you, you firmly and presently stand quiet in the early evening you have your pipe, the smoke rises into what will soon become night you think to yourself about the birds about other beautiful things the arms that used to hold you the voices that once spoke your name they’ve left just like the birds for things that love like Florida but you, you despise Florida

the nest in the tree I want to be like wax and oil to never spoil and to never speak I could just be me -words just come between you and me, it and the idea, and the nest in the tree, or at least that’s what I think, but what I think doesn’t matter because the more I think the more you become sadder -if I could just free my mind I could bring in the anchor drift away with you and be happier

Dan Schuchman 

you (wonderful you) When I walk out in front of traffic and feel all those thousand radial tires moving across my body at an unconscious rate of miles per hour, or when I decide to take that plunge down from that blurry height from whichever height I stand when you’re below me, please look on me and notice where my body ends and the street begins notice how it is hard to differentiate the two -that’s what I see when I see the universe in you I see all your body parts strewn across the avenue of everything, embedded in the pavement, giving it your color, or whatever you have to offer and what you offer is more than just a stain a smudge, an impression, or a memory what you offer is your life and all those countless quantum particles that make up your life -you (wonderful you)

Dan Schuchman, a local musician --former member of The Shackeltons and current member of blackblackbeast -- his poetry is an attempt to examine life, modernity using a philosopher’s lense as he writes in a sad romantic tone.

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│31

Giant Sequoia Capturing moments of the

creative process.

By Keely Kernan

Central PA artist Aaron Treher working on his sculpture of a giant sequoia pine cone.

-Early Winter 2010, Shippensburg a photo essay by Keely Kernan 

32 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

Udder Despair: Memoirs of a Lactose Psychosis

By Katie Dempsey In the opening shot of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II, the camera pans into the thick of night-life traffic in Brooklyn, stopping to focus on two men. These men are not characters in the movie, but serve to introduce the theme. They are both chowing down on two huge, delicious-looking, mozzarella-dripping, grease-slathered slices of pizza.

The music heats up. A man and woman kiss in front of a fountain, then each bite into a slice of pizza. A parked cabdriver devours a slice out his open car door window. A crowd of pedestrians start to cross the street, but one man is delayed trying to eat the dripping mozzarella cheese off his slice of pizza.

By the time the title credits are over and we reach the workplace of a pizza delivery boy, I’ve grabbed the remote, hit the stop button, thrown the remote at the TV, and curled up on the couch in the dark pizza-less silence of the living room, wondering where and why my life went so horribly wrong.

I was never “officially” diagnosed as lactose intolerant. I used to be normal. I was seventeen when I started feeling sick after drinking milk. It was at this point that my lactose-intolerant mother revealed to me this prophesy-“You know, lactose intolerance can be hereditary,” she said. “It was at around your age that I started to not be able to drink milk too. Try cutting all dairy products out of your diet, and see if you stop getting sick.”

Katie Dempsey  Katie Dempsey graduated from the University of Pittsburgh in 2009 with a degree in Nonfiction Writing and concentrations in Studio Art, Classics, Psychology, and Advanced Public Transit Studies. When last seen, she was attempting to navigate the perilous world of entry-level professional jobs and graduate schools, while simultaneously harboring a secret dream to become Pennsylvania’s First Post-Apocalyptic Road Warrior.

Visit her on her various websites: drawnduringclass.tumblr.com  toasterlyreasons.blogspot.com  www.flickr.com/photos/ktdempsey 

When I was younger, I didn’t realize that my mother was different. But every time we went out to eat she grimly studied the menu, picked out the least offensive item, and informed our waitress to tell the cooks to prepare it with “no dairy products.”

“No milk, no butter, no cheese, no sour cream, anything like that,” she said. As I grew older, this routine became more embarrassing for me to watch. Most waitress’ reactions alternated between lack of interest to confusion. Often my mom would receive a meal covered with cheese or butter, despite her best efforts.

At the end of a week of dairy-free eating, my digestive problems had started to taper off. My mother encouraged me to go one more week, and by that time, I was feeling completely better. When I told her, she said “Yep, you’re probably lactose intolerant.” www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│33

Before I even had time to process this, my dad and younger brother arrived home from my brother’s basketball game.

“We’re both starving,” said my dad.

“We thought for dinner we’d order some pizza, Katie, what kind do you want?”

I didn’t answer, just dropped my head down onto the table.

“What’s wrong with her?” I heard my brother ask.

It was the beginning of the end. z

Chapter One x

Adapting to being Non-Adaptive: My Struggle At first it was almost fun. As a socially awkward teenager, I kind of enjoyed this genetic oddity that made me ‘unique,’ giving me a reliable conversation piece.

Person: Want some cheese doodles?

Me: I’d love some, but I’m lactose intolerant.

Person: Lactose intolerant?

Me: Yeah I can’t have any milk products, they make me sick.

Person: Oh! (pause) Person: Were you always like that?

Me: No, it just happened recently.

Person: Really?

Me: Yeah.

Person: That’s really weird.

Me: No, it happens...to people...

Of course, usually they asked “makes you sick how?” As eager as I was to have a talking point, this was the part where I changed the subject. Still, for a while, piquing the interest of everyone who offered me cheese was fun, letting me recount the strange tale of contracting this odd disease and my daily struggle, but after a while it began to wear on me, as the following conversation became more common-Longtime Friend: Hey Katie, you want some (food with obvious milk component)?

Me: I can’t. Lactose intolerant.

Remember?

Longtime Friend: Oh yeah. I keep forgetting. Sorry. (devours forbidden food item in front of me with a suspicious amount of satisfaction)

When I began my freshman year at the University of Pittsburgh in 2005, the problem of my lactose intolerance escalated. Since my mother was lactose intolerant too, my parents had always cooked dairy-free meals. In college, my nutritional requirements became my responsibility. And by that I mean I had a dorm room equipped with a microwave and a meal plan.

Back then, the University of Pittsburgh, although boasting of a diverse student population of over 20,000 people, offered primarily ‘American’ dishes. One thing about American food is that it is very dairy-based.

The Meal Plan system of my freshmen year was formed around a system of “meal blocks.” A buffet-pass at Market Central counted for one block, but since I could hardly eat any of the food there, I was forced to pursue other options.

Meal blocks could also be used for combos at ‘Eddies.’ Eddies had burgers, a Chic-Fil-A, cold-cuts and cheese and bread for sandwiches, Taco-Bell-esque Mexican dishes, and a sad, lonely little salad bar.

Chic-Fil-A’s breaded chicken contained milk. Lunchmeat and bread sandwiches, without the slices of cheese, began to get tiresome very quickly. Plain low-quality beef hamburgers sucked. The Mexican food was heaped with cheese and sour cream. The one thing I could eat at Eddies’ was the pita bread and Sabra hummus at the little convenience store.

But one day, after years of thinking I was a freak, I met another of my kind. I don’t remember her name, or where I met her, but I do remember the conversation, for you do not easily forget such lifealtering advice.

“Don’t you take the pills? The lactaid pills?” she asked.

“I’ve tried,” I said. “I did what it said on the bottle, I took two with the first bite of food containing dairy. But I still got sick.

So I figured they didn’t work.”

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“You only took two?” she asked. “God, you have to take way more than two.”

I was confused- the directions for Lactaid said two pills at a time, maximum.

“I take like five,” she said. “Do you take the Fast-Act or Ultra-Strength?”

I had only tried regular.

“Try taking like five of the Fast-Act or Ultra ones,” she said. And then, as if she was acting merely as a messenger from the gods on Mount Olympus, she was gone. z Chapter Two x

It’s Never That Easy

It seemed simple. Carry the pills around all the time, read the ingredients, take the pills if there’s a milk product. I thought all my problems were solved. I was wrong.

I have never been an organized person.

I’ve seen classmates in high school and college carrying agendas and day planners and scrupulously writing in them. I wrote numbers and dates on random scraps of paper that I promptly misplaced.

So the fact that I could not remember to take my lactaid pills with me wherever I went or buy new bottles or switch my current bottle between my backpack and my purse on the chance that I might come across some free pizza on that day, was something I probably should have anticipated.

Consequently, the more long ingredient lists I read with milk or whey or just plain lactose, the angrier I got at the whole situation. Why should I have to buy these stupid pills when no one else I know has to? Why is there so much dairy in everything?

If I was with a group of people and they wanted to go out to eat, and suggested a pizza place or any American restaurant, I got irrationally angry at them. “But I can’t eat anything there!” I exclaimed.

“Why not Chinese food, or that Thai place?” No, everyone wanted pizza. Well, fine. I’m leaving. Have fun eating your goddamn important pizza.

I started noticing all the American Dairy Association advertisements on billboards and on television. “Drink

milk!” they proclaimed. “It’s good for you and makes your bones strong!”

“Drink milk for better health!” the television shouted at me cheerily.

“Fuck you, American Dairy Association!” I shouted back, startling my roommate into dropping her microwaved bowl of macaroni and cheese onto the floor.

Eventually, it got better. When I started living in my own apartments and learned to cook, it was ridiculously easy to avoid ingesting dairy products. Veganism, too, started gaining popularity in Pittsburgh, and some restaurants even listed on their menu which dishes did not contain dairy products. The greatest victory, though, was that the FDA must have at some point passed new laws for the listing of ingredients on food products, because suddenly there was a bolded section at the bottom that said “CONTAINS: allergens MILK, WHEAT” or whatever the case may be.

Unfortunately, the wounds of injustice would take longer to heal than my stomach. z Chapter Three x

A Hero

My last semester at Pitt was a strange one. My friends had graduated the previous spring, but I, having taken a semester off a few years back, still needed 20 more credits, and had a scholarship that would expire at the end of the year.

Up until this point, my transcript at Pitt was...varied. Sure, there were a good amount of As and Bs. There were also frequent croppings of W’s, one G, and several F’s. Some C’s rounded it out.

According to Pitt, the W stands for Withdraw, and the G for incomplete. I don’t have to explain the official meanings of the grades A through F, but in my case, the F stands for Fuck This Class-I’m Leaving.

I didn’t have a lot of what the kids call “street smarts” or “social skills” most of my tenure in college, but one thing I could do was quickly and effortlessly understand and explain theories and concepts in any liberal arts area of study– history, psychology, sociology, literature, social change, politics, women’s studies, anthropology, etc. The other thing I could do was write in a way that demonstrated that I understood these theories and concepts and that I was an intelligent person.

Growing up, I was a shy, awkward kid, terrible at making or having friends. The art of small-talk and casual conversation was lost on me, and the awkward silences in my conversations left most adults or children walking away thinking I was rude or unfriendly. I sensed that people felt uncomfortable around me so I avoided them. I spent most of my youth alone in my backyard or in my house, reading books.

Reading books shaped my understanding of the world. While most kids my age were playing with their friends, I was riding the Dawn Treader across the seas of Narnia, teleporting with Meg and Charles Wallace Murry to a distant planet ruled by a pulsing giant disembodied brain, riding a broomstick around

the Quiddich field at Hogwarts, standing with a boy named Jonas as he learns from the Council of Elders that he will be the first Receiver of Memory in decades.

The more I read, the more I wanted to read, to learn more, to understand more of the world

through story. My addiction to books made me smarter, improved my vocabulary, and made me able to write clearly about my thoughts and ideas.

But the thing about stories is that they work in a way we would like the world to work.

Stories have structure and reason. The hero triumphs over adversity, evildoers are punished. It seemed like every term at Hogwarts all the students would turn against Harry Potter for some reason or another, but we knew it was okay, and they’d come around to his side eventually, because he was the Chosen One. In stories, the hero always wins.

I had shaped an idea of myself to be the misunderstood hero in my own story. I lived in a fantasy world where everyone was against me but that it was okay because I was the hero. So they thought I was weird? Silly, foolish people, living their pathetic, small, normal everyday lives. I had bigger fish to fry. I was destined for great things.

I continued to be the misunderstood hero in college, where people continued to think I was weird–perhaps even more so because going from a high school with less than 1,000 people to a college with over 20,000 people was making me retreat even further into my own mind. Anytime I went anywhere, even leaving my dorm room to go down the hall to the bathroom, my heart-rate sped up and breathing became shallow.

Some of my classes were discussion-based. I sat in a class called Intro to Critical Reading, filled with upperclassmen, hearing them raise their hands and offer cogent analyses of Tennyson poems. I would think of something to say and but my heart-rate would sky-rocket, my palms would get clammy, my breathing would get shallow, and I felt like the walls were closing in on me. Everyone seemed so smart. I started to think that maybe I wasn’t better than everyone else, that maybe I was worse than everyone else, that I was a freak, a weirdo.

Eventually I learned in a class called Evolutionary Psychology that humans did not evolve to partake in a sedentary lifestyle, and this was incentive-enough for my reason-needing brain to start exercising, like all the therapists had always been telling me to do.

I began swimming laps at one of the pools on campus, and the swimming boosted my endorphins, dispelling the anxiety symptoms. I began participating in my classes and was even calm and happy enough to start having real conversations with people.

But there was a new villain in town, in the form of General Education Requirements.

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z Chapter

Four x Math Demons

According to the University of Pittsburgh, the goal of the School of Arts and Sciences is “to provide liberal arts and pre-professional education for undergraduate students that is grounded in scholarly excellence, and offers you the knowledge, understanding, analytical tools, and communication skills to blah blah blah.”

Creativity in thinking will never be a problem for me, and writing papers is my superpower. But

put a worksheet with a math problem in front of me and my first instinct is to douse it in gasoline, set it on fire, run out of the building, hail a cab to the airport, and get on the first plane that will take me as far away from having to solve that math problem as humanly possible.

Because other types of learning have always been so easy for me, and because I knew I was the hero in my own story, I felt that I should not have to take math classes. Why should I? This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. Things weren’t supposed to be difficult. I was the hero.

Did Harry Potter ever actually study or do homework, or apply himself in any way? Did you ever even see him practice Quiddich? The first time he hopped on a broom, having never rode a broom before, he was proclaimed to be the new greatest Seeker of all time! That’s what life is like, right?

The real problem was that I had managed to coast for so long when it came to learning that I had no idea how to learn something that I didn’t understand.

But my last semester at Pitt I was taking my final general education requirements, the ones I had been avoiding, withdrawing from, and/or failing for so long. This semester was my last chance. I pinned all my hopes on a class called Problem Solving: How Science Works, that seemed to promise of requiring very few actual math problems to be solved for my Quantitative reasoning requirement.

I was also taking Senior Seminar in

Nonfiction Writing, Global Societies, Intro to Human Nutrition, Psychology of Aging, and Writing the Review-more than I’ve ever attempted before in a semester.

And I was living in a small efficiency apartment in a terrible neighborhood that was a thirty-minute bus ride from campus.

There was a cloud of “this is your last chance– no withdrawing from any classes this time” hanging over my head everywhere I went. I applied for December graduation, and did not register for classes for the spring.

And then, in Problem Solving: How Science Works, we turned to chapter five-- the scientific principles of thermodynamics. And there, on the very first page of chapter five, was an equation:

were the stage directions for the part of Academic Adviser. “Yes, I saw you scheduled the appointment online...andjust one second, sorry-” He smiled at me, and clicked on the computer some more, and I wondered if he remembered who I was.

I tried to make Mark Kemp understand the severity of my inability to do math problems, but he seemed determinately optimistic, waving my problems aside as pre-graduation jitters.

“But what happens if I fail this class?” I asked him. “What happens??”

“You’re not going to fail,” he said, cheerfully. “You’re almost there!”

“But what if I do?” I asked. “I missed registration for next semester and everything.”

I tried, really I did. I tried to do the homework, and solve the equations, and pay attention in class. But it was math. I had to fight the urge to reach for the can of gasoline every time I walked into that class.

“Well there are options,” he said, and proceeded to spout a series of academic bureaucratic loopholes that nevertheless did not sound like they would make my parents any less disappointed in me for making them pay for another semester and for them having to tell their friends that I wasn’t graduating this winter after all.

My adviser was named Mark Kemp and he was the chair of the English department. He was about forty or fifty, with a friendly intelligent-looking face, short-ish hair, and wire-rimmed glasses.

“Uh..Writing the Review,” I said, trying to focus. “Senior Seminar in Non-fiction.

Intro to Human Nutrition..”

P= w/t = (mg)h/ t Fuck.

Finally, I made an appointment with my academic adviser. Just for insurance, I told myself. Just in case.

His office had been relocated to a corner office with a high ceiling and big window, on the fifth floor of the Cathedral of Learning. I walked in. I saw he had a new office-mate, a slim, middle-aged woman with curly dark red hair.

He was surprised to see me, of course.

The last appointment I had with him was supposed to be..well, the last appointment I had with him. I acknowledged this.

“Bet you’re surprised to see me,” I said. Mark Kemp clicked on things on his computer screen and rifled through folders, as if he was in a play and these

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“How are all your other classes? What else are you taking?” Mark Kemp asked me now, still cheerful. He couldn’t see the math-problem-demons trying to eat my brain.

“Oh, that’s interesting. Why Nutrition?” he asked.

“Um,” I said, as a math demon tried to grab a parcel of brain synopses and munch on them. “Well, I’m lactose intolerant, so I kind of wanted to understand what that was...”

“Ah,” he said, nodding, and smiling.

“And cooking, do you like cooking?”

“I don’t know! I guess!” I said, still irritated. The redheaded woman at the corner desk looked up and smiled at us, then looked back at her computer. This was probably par for the course for

them, students coming in and freaking out about grades. “Keep them calm, try to distract them”, is probably what it said in some handbook for advisers somewhere.

Another student appeared at the doorway, hesitantly. Mark Kemp waved at her and smiled. He stood up to indicate our meeting was over. I stood up too.

“You’ll be fine!” he said, patting me on the back, herding me out the door.

Judgment day came on a Tuesday. It was our midterm for Problem Solving: How Science Works, and it would contain the thermodynamics equations. Before the exam, I was meeting my friend Andrew for lunch. He was a good-natured, studious young man, tall and skinny, majoring in Engineering. He had gone to my high school.

We met at Taiwan Cafe on Forbes Avenue. It was in a kind of dirty basement but their food was incredible. I ordered Orange Peel Chicken. Andrew ordered General Tso’s Chicken.

We sat at one of the booths, and I told him my problem of the the thermodymanic equations. That is, my Problem Of The Thermodynamic Equations. It had a nice ring to it: Harry Potter and the Problem of the Thermodynamic Equations.

“So, do you want to take this test for me?” I asked Andrew. I was serious, but wasn’t surprised when he smiled and said no.

“Well, I’m not going to take it,” I said. “There’s no point. I’ll fail. I don’t understand any of this stuff.”

“Thermodynamics isn’t so bad,” said Andrew thoughtfully, chewing on a piece of chicken and staring into the air at what I could only assume were imaginary equations. Math problems probably didn’t look like demons to him, they probably looked like...I don’t know.

Amusement parks? Fun Video Games?

Fluffy Kittens?

“It’s just a matter of balancing the equation,” Andrew continued.

“I can’t do it. I just can’t.” I said. “I’m not going to take the test.” It was true. I had

decided not to take the test, which would mean I would fail the class.

“Have you been doing the homework?” asked Andrew.

“I’ve been trying,” I said. “But I can’t do it. I can’t do math problems.”

“Just take the test,” he said. “Seriously, just go ahead and take it. It’s better than just not taking it. I mean, if you don’t take it, you’ll definitely fail. But if you take it you might fail, but you still might not fail.

You know?”

We finished our meal. He had a lab to go on the other side of campus. “Good luck!” he said. I watched him go, shaking my head in disbelief. Math people. They were like a different species. I looked towards upper campus, where the exam would start in twenty minutes, and I had a crazy idea. Why not take the test? z Chapter

Last x Narrative Symmetry

An Open Letter To The Makers Of Duncan Hines Instant Brownie Mix: I returned this summer to my hometown, after graduating from the University of Pittsburgh. I suppose I had become used to Pittsburgh’s diverse food selection, and returning to a very small town made me realize I was going to have to re-evaluate my eating habits.

I had lunch at a diner the other day, and when I finished eating my dinner, the waitress asked me what kind of free ice cream I wanted for my dessert. I shook my head no.

I had been lactose intolerant for about seven years now, and my inability to eat ice cream doesn’t bother me anymore.

Sure, eating or figuring out what to eat is a little extra effort for me, while most people can just eat whatever they want, but that’s life, isn’t it? Sometimes you have to work harder at things than other people do.

I guess I should count myself as lucky, too, that, since becoming lactose intolerant, my consumption of chocolate

and chocolate-based dessert items has been limited to those I am willing to cook myself using dairy substitutes.

A massive problem in maintaining an attractive, slim weight for women is the constant temptation of low-cost delicious chocolately treats available at every corner drugstore in America.

So I was not sure whether to hate you or love you, fine people of Duncan Hines instant brownie mix, because of my discovery, upon picking up a box of your aforementioned product at the grocery store and scanning the list of ingredients, that there was not a drop of a single dairy product contained within.

I am not sure what made you neglect to include milk in a product for which most other food companies throw it in as the fifth ingredient listed. Is it some oversight by the person who first wrote the recipe, perpetuated by some old Duncan Hines by-law that states that the instant brownie recipe not be changed?

Or perhaps one of “my” people, a fellow lactose intolerant, was high-up in the company and decided to omit the milk component of the brownie mix for his or her own unhampered personal enjoyment of the product?

Damn you Duncan Hines. Damn you to hell. Have you seen the amount of commercials on television advertising expensive weight-loss torture devices that your ability to consume large amounts of unhealthy food? I have one built in to my body.

I am far too lazy to be making chocolate desserts from scratch using soymilk, especially when they are bad for you anyway. But with the discovery of your milk-free chocolate dessert product, I can add one egg, 1/3 cup of water, 1/3 cup of oil, mix, pour into a pan, and in twenty minutes I am able to consume 1,000 calories of divine chocolatey ecstasy. I am now back to being a normal, guiltstricken, weight-worrying chocolatetempted woman. I hope you’re happy.

Sincerely, Me.

www.TheEarlofShippenburg.com│37

There’s a road on South Mountain There’s a road on South Mountain that I know so well and though so familiar I can’t ever tell where it is.

Its white-gray gravel is lined with trees that tower and cast with their leaves speckle-printed shadows vibrant and gleaming with familiarity and if someone asks where we are I say, absently, “The Mountains” because that is all I need to know.

And we cruise together, windows open, smelling quietly the life-dense and fragrant air.

By Ray Cressler

There’s a road on South Mountain where moonlight crazy I discovered mortality in moonlight shade swaddled in a membrane that isolated my life force from the nothingness outside, and all life forces from the nothingness of the alternative.

Wildly riding waves of nihilist zeal, I poked and prodded until it felt the membrane might tear and I would be sucked into the vacuum of inert matter and I knew that being alive was a very fragile thing.

Photo by Deborah freidman 

38 │ The Earl Vol. 1 │ Issue 2 │ Spring 2011

There’s a road on South Mountain where driving about I discovered immortality derived from a cloud of endless conversations on winding roads like a puzzle slowly put together and shone through the trees like the sun but instead coming from us, spurring movement that flows so beautifully into or out of lines of poetry underlined in books passed down from persons deceased like flower pedals when they fall and become topsoil for the roots that find eventually their nutrients.

A

A Special Thanks

to the following contributing Photographers

Lisa Rinehart Lisa Rhinehart lives in Shippensburg with her family and owns Rhinehart Photography www.RhinehartPhotography.com

Jessica Crea Robinson Find Her on Facebook: JessicaCrea-Photography

Keely Kernan www.KeelyKernan.com

Deborah Friedman Deborah has a background in Commercial and Fine Art Photography and has shown & sold work in galleries and shows in Baltimore, Washington D.C, and with the Adams County Arts Council.

Contact info and more work On Facebook @ Marketing Consulting & Design

Cece Serino ceceserino.smugmug.com www.serinophotography.com

-Zora Neale Hurston

To be considered submit works as attachments to: editor@postnowpa.com

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