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Maybe it's silly, stupid, weird, bizarre, strange but I love the world and everyone in it.
Today I celebrate you, in all your honor and glory.
I celebrate the good and the bad, it's a lesson sent from long ago.
I choose to see everything as a positive growth and positive thing.
Today I celebrate you, shining, the way I'll always think of you, no matter what happens or happened.
Negativity doesn't scare me.
We will live long and prosper.
Eva Tortora
Artist & Published Writer, NYC
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Disclaimer: As a grassroots group of Moms, our publication dates vary. We work around the kids, the chores, the dogs, the dishes, the laundry, the bills... but, through the grace of God, and everyone’s continued faithfulness and patience, it gets done. Very thankfully. We accept submissions throughout the year, please visit our website for what we look for: screaminmamas.com. You may submit on our website or email: screaminmamas@gmail.com. All work published remains that of the author/artist. Layout and Design remains that of ScreaminMamas. Images, clipart, graphics, artwork courtesy contributors, FreePik, Picryl, RawPixel, Adobe Firefly, AI and Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.†Denotes a tag for author’s work after 100 years or fewer. No part of this may be reproduced without express permission. All rights reserved 2024.
6
Letter From The Editor
◆ D Pistocchi
Loved, Forever Free Now
◆ Julie - Feature ◆
Sophie’s Very Weird Day
◆ Nancy J Hall - Short Story ◆
Sun
◆ Eva Tortora- Poetry ◆
Grief
◆ Vicki Smith - Testimony ◆
My Boy of Twenty
◆ Penny Peyser - Poetry◆
Tiny White Flowers
◆ Raya Yarbrough - Poetry ◆
Noisy Boys
◆ Diane de Anda - Nostalgia ◆
ScreaminMama Shop
◆ ScreaminMamas - Ad ◆
Amazing Grace
◆ Jordan Malone- Poetry ◆
Summer
◆ Paula Timpson - Poetry ◆
In the Park... Spring Afternoon
◆ Rina Palumbo - Short Story ◆
Happy Summer
◆ Eva Tortora - Centerfold ◆ Are You Nervous?
◆ Brittany Sirlin - Feature ◆
Understand
◆ Sarah O’Brien - Poetry ◆
I Love You Mom
◆ D. Sowards - Poetry◆
Mother Nature
◆ Patricia Lynne - Poetry ◆
Deja Vu
◆ Carole C Koch - Nostalgia ◆
Proverbs -
◆ Divine Inspiration ◆
Lullabye Dove
◆ Eva Tortora - Poetry ◆
Airplane - Unaccompanied
◆ Meg Vlaun - Short Story ◆
I Tried to Catch the Wind
◆ Lucia Haase - Poetry ◆
Beneath the Still Water
◆ Crystal D Reynolds - Feature ◆
Friend
◆ Marcella Kumer - Poetry ◆
Seaglass
◆ Jen Waldron - Fun Stuff ◆
Woman to Woman
◆ Sara Sarna - Poetry ◆
I Rise
◆ Paula Timpson - Poetry ◆ The End Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30-32 Page 33 Page34 Page 35-37 Page 38 Page 39-41 Page 42 Page 43-44 Page 45 Page 46 Back Cover
Cover Photo - Brittany Lee Sirlin
Welcome to this collective work of art which honors an amazing group of people - Moms. There is no greater being. It is always an honor publishing their stories, poems and articles that share their joys, fears, love, grief and hope that brings us all together in this journey called motherhood. It is a precious bond among sisters akin, and it is always with great gratitude that they allow me to publish their work. I would also like to acknowledge my son & daughter (pictured with me, right) for being the spark that ignited ScreaminMamas over 20 years ago. James & Raquel, I love you!! Let me also take a moment to welcome all of our first time contributors and give virutal hugs to our rock steadies.
As we forge into the future, we are welcoming the use of AI to help with graphics. You will see several in this issue that have been generated using your words. I am grateful for these opportunities to help build new art for the new world but the most continued source of art is from public domain artists that have given access or left their work to the world to adore and cherish for eternity. THANK YOU!! Please also be sure to visit our online shop, featuring these precious magazines and new items designed to help the everyday mom, spread our work and our brand! Let’s get to it!!
Penny Peyser is an actress/writer/documentary filmmaker best known for a number of wellknown productions such as, “Rich Man, Poor Man" and "All the President's Men", She has also written books including Sonnets from Surburbia. You can find more www.sonnetsfromsuburbia.com/
Raya Yarbrough is a writer, singer songwriter based in LA. Her poetry has been featured in Writers Resist, she won 1st prize in One Page Poetry’s 2023 contest and an honorable mention in Poetry of the Sacred’s 2023 contest. Raya has written and produced three albums of eclectic music, and her voice and original music have been featured in many TV series, including Battlestar Galactica and Outlander. She is currently finishing a humorous memoir about being a parent in a multiracial family while also being a working artist. Visit RayaYarbrough.com/
Jordan Malone is a born and raised Texan with a penchant for writing poetry, prose, and all that in between. As a current high school student, she edits ESSE, the nationally recognized literary magazine of Ursuline Academy, publishing various pieces like “Ode to Chick Flicks” and editing annual publications as well. If one were to ever inspect her bookshelf, they’d find her old-blues, vinyl collection, Texas Rangers memorabilia, and notebook teeming with untamed ideas. ◆ ◆ ◆
Sarah O'Brien is a writer, painter, and mama living in Lincoln, Nebraska with her boyfriend DJ and their daughter Trinity Rose. She is the author of two books of poetry: Shapeshifter and Lover Sar. Currently Sarah is teaching toddlers and writing her first novel. She also reads tarot and performs standup comedy in her free time. Follow her on instagram/twitter: @fluent_saracasm.
*FEATURE - Lost & Found Poetry
Mama,
I never thanked you enough for all you did for me, and what a great job you did loving me with all my faults. You were born on a Friday the 13th during the Great Depression and told me to not fear Friday the 13th’s because that’s your day. I remember your face and eyes filled with love, smiling at me - your little girl, your first born and I loved you back but I never told you with my voice that I loved you back because I knew in my soul you knew it all along. Now, I regret it, especially when they stopped us from seeing you anymore at the nursing home.
Your son went through the woods, up the hill behind the nursing home to see you through the window lying there in your bed to see you still alive. You waved to him and smiled. You never lost your awareness, he got you on video.
We soon found out the only way to get inside to see you in person was if you got on the “soon to die” list. I did not drive to see you, was afraid to catch COVID and vaccines weren’t invented yet. Someone had ordered morphine under your tongue and you had passed before I could have gotten to you anyway. Your son had urged, “Fight Mama, Fight. Fight to live. You are more than a mother to me, you are a mommie, mom, mama, friend, healer, confidante, comedian. I will always hurt for you.
Thanks for givng me life and loving me a lifetime.
First Born Baby Girl, Julie. P.S. Ditto, I love you too.
Nancy Johnston Hall
It’s a lovely English summer day; 5-year-old Sophie skips ahead as we cross Highbury Fields, a large leafy North London park. My goal is to spend some time with our happy-natured, energetic granddaughter, away from our flat. where grown-up “ “
When our family isn’t sightseeing, we watch TV where we’re drawn to the unceasing news of the terrorist attack on the London subway. We all have a need to understand the shocking events we were caught up in just days ago. We finally learn that the four young men who blew up themselves along with dozens of innocent victims on the Underground were all native Brits, radicalized right here in Britain.
But we’re at the playground to forget all that. Higher, higher I push Sophie on the swings while she giggles and I make whee-ing noises. I’ve always found the push-and-wait … push-and-wait of swinging a monotonous and tedious activity so I’m relieved when she’s ready to move on to other playground delights. This might be a good time to
admit that I’ve never been the perfect mother or grandmother, the kind who likes to finger paint or play “Go Fish!” or Snakes and Ladders—two boring games of complete chance invented to torture moms and grandmothers. That’s my opinion, anyway. My favorite activities always involve words. I love reading aloud or making up stories about mean giants who turn out to be kind, or, every grandchild’s favorite, the true story of our19th century ancestor, Lucy, who was lost for days in the deep Iowa woods. “Lucy, Lucy,” I always call out to each grandchild when they reach the story-telling age, re-enacting that true, scary, longago event.
Several older boys have commandeered the jungle gym, and I am wary of their swearing and
bullying ways. So Sophie and I head toward a water feature that, from the joyful squeals we hear, sounds promising. Babies, toddlers, and children about Sophie’s age are stripped down to their nappies and knickers and are stomping on cement circles that unpredictably squirt water onto their naked little bodies, spouting high and falling in big glorious splashes.
Sophie is intrigued but hesitant. At first, she wants to head into the wet mob fully clothed and refuses to strip down when I explain that she must. But then the noisy, wet fun in front of her becomes too tempting and she agrees to let me lift her flow-
skin, soaked knickers, spouting water … squirting, splashing, squealing … Suddenly I suck in my breath with the realization that I no longer can see Sophie’s body among the dozens of other small bundles of wet skin.
“Sophie?” I call, standing up for a better view. No Sophie. I hurry around the circle of splashing water, looking at each jumping, squealing child, straining to find her recognizable blond hair. “Sophie!” She’s not there.
I run over to a stout woman who looks to be in charge. “I can’t find my granddaughter!” I try not to sound as panicked as I am starting to feel.
ered sundress off, revealing her little bare body and her white cotton underpants. She huddles next to me, covering her exposed chest with crossed arms; I can tell she feels modest, baring her body in front of strangers, probably for the first time. Finally, she inches closer to a nearby circle and stomps timidly, shrieking at the shock of cold water spurting onto her skin. And she’s hooked. I watch, pleased, as she becomes bolder and stomps on circles farther and farther away.
Settled down on a bench to watch, I gradually become mesmerized by the small bodies, bare
She smiles with a calm so maddening I could slap her and points to the nearby bathrooms. “Not to worry. She’s probably in there.”
I run into the darkened room, straining to see in the deep shadows.
“Sophie?” I look under every closed door, every dank corner. “Sophie, are you there?” Nothing here but my own voice echoing back. I run out into the sharp sunlight, feeling breathless, mind buzzing. What kind of neglectful grandmother am I to lose my own dear granddaughter, my sweet little Sophie with her rich blue eyes and long, curling lashes, one eyelid drooping ever so slightly—the beauty mark of imperfection. I think with a gasp of the bullies on the jungle gym. No! My heart thrums in my ears. I rush over and see the same bunch of swaggering and swearing pre-teens high up on the sloping bars, demanding control over their little domain. But no Sophie. I’m losing precious minutes, I think. The longer I race around looking for her, the farther away she can get—or be taken.
This is the second time in the span of a week that I’ve felt this explosion of anxiety because of a threat to a loved one. For months our family hap-
(Continued next page . . .)
pily planned together this multigenerational trip to London. We wanted our two grandchildren, Alex and Sophie, to experience the magic of “our” London. Instead we arrived in the city we so love at the exact moment terrorists blasted it apart. Is this trip doomed?
That is the wrong way to discipline. You must not spank.” A stranger dressed in white is scolding me.
“I don’t usually…I never…” But it seems too much effort to defend myself. I thank her for finding Sophie and quickly help my tearful granddaughter get dressed so we can leave.
I feel myself unraveling. “Stay calm,” I think.
“Don’t panic.” I know it’s all up to me to find my little granddaughter. No one in this noisy, laughing crowd of infuriatingly oblivious mothers, fathers, and children knows about Sophie’s diappearance—or cares.
I feel myself unraveling. “Stay calm,” I think. “Don’t panic.” I know it’s all up to me to find my little granddaughter. No one in this noisy, laughing crowd of infuriatingly oblivious mothers, fathers, and children knows about Sophie’s diappearance— or cares. I call her name over and over, running farther from the fountains into the park itself. But admitting that she could be beyond the playground where I last saw her is like peeking through a door at something unspeakable. But why would she wander off, by herself, into the larger park, wearing only her wet underpants? Especially given her uncomfortable modesty? It makes no sense.
“Sophie! Sophie! Where are you?” I shout helplessly, hopelessly towards the open park space.
And then a woman dressed all in white, striking against her very dark skin, comes toward me. With relief so sweet that I burst into tears, I see that a very sober Sophie is holding her hand.
“I found the child hiding under a bush,” she says soberly, in a clipped Jamaican accent.
“Sophie!” I say fiercely. My panic and relief suddenly, inexplicably dissolve into anger. I take her by her bare shoulders, spin her around, and give her a single swack on her wet bottom.
“Madam,” the Jamaican woman says in elegant, careful English. “You should never hit a child.
Walking back to the flat I ask, trying not to sound angry, “Why did you do that, Sophie? Why did you hide?”
She shrugs. “I thought you’d make me leave and I didn’t want to.”
Months later back in Minnesota, I try to re-live that afternoon with Sophie. I am hoping for more understanding about her reason for hiding. She doesn’t want to talk about that day at all, clearly. But I keep pushing.
“Remember those big fountains of water? How much fun you had stomping on the spouting circles and getting all wet?”
She shakes her head slowly. “That was so weird,” she says.
“What was weird?” I ask. I think maybe it was the Underground bombings, that perhaps she had heard more than we intended. Or maybe the Jamaican woman finding her. Or my swatting her bottom. But no. Her answer:
“Being naked in a new city.” ◆ ◆ ◆
Nancy Johnston Hall is a retired medical and health writer living in North Carolina with her husband of 64 years. During the pandemic she started writing personal essays and joined a small writing group — both of which give her great joy. ◆ ◆ ◆
Vicki Smith
“ “
There is no more profound grief than a mother bereaved of her children.
Grief, sorrow, suffering all come under the same heading—PAIN. Am I right? It is my personal belief that if you have not undergone a period of grief, there might not be more to know about you. Pain brings out the essence of who you are. Your character is developed through tribulation and through the choices you make during that time. Some people call it grit, sand, strength but it only comes through enduring trials.
In my early adult years, my personal development was in for a rude shock. I really thought life was supposed to be a series of ‘rose garden’ experiences. I was not prepared for the hurt that I encountered. I had two boys that I loved passionately. I was jealous of anyone who touched them.
I had no other value or feelings of worth apart from them. This is not healthy, I know that now, but then it was all I knew. I wanted to be in control of everything about them. I only let my mother into their lives when they were very small. Growing up of course, they rebelled hard. Our lives went into different directions and they grew up without me basically. I was always trying to find ‘myself’ and never did. I married four times and none of them were the answer to my prayers. It was sad. I put my needs above my children’s needs and that is why they hated me and why my grief was so deep.
There is no more profound grief than a mother bereaved of her children. In my case, my children were alive but rejected me. No matter how inadequate I was as a mother, that did not negate the love I had for them and their repudiation of me tore through me like a knife. Mother’s Day
was a particular hell. My grief was inconsolable. Christmas and holidays were bad also. It’s taken me 15 years to begin to get a handle on it.
I am not the only one to go through such distress. There are many who have gone through loss of one kind or another. I encourage you to get with people who have gone through similar experiences, Whether it is a support group or a church group, find consolation there. You are not alone. I think finding that out was the beginning of my healing.
At this time, I do have limited relationships with my children. I don’t know who said this but, ”where there’s breath there’s hope.” As long as you are alive change can occur. It might take a long time for trust to build again but be patient and it will happen. Don’t expect complete and full restoration right away. Be content with baby steps and rejoice in the little things that bring you together again. You are still loved and there is always hope for full and free reconciliation.
Vicki Smith is a new writer. For the last thirty years she has been involved in social services. She worked as a case manager in several rehabilitation programs and was the owner and operator of halfway houses. From her experiences she has gained a unique understanding of human behavior which enhances her writing. She writes from a Christian perspective, which offers hope to her readers and encouragement to the downhearted.
My boy of twenty played his sweet guitar while I tucked dirty clothes into the wash. His voice escaped, he’d left his door ajar so I could hear, but not his passion quash.
By accident or purpose did he share his oft-shy gift of melody and voice. To interrupt and make him self-aware would cause his muse to flee, and not rejoice.
In all abandon he did play and play, I leaned my ear against his bedroom door. The sigh I sighed my words could not convey, The notion music made me love him more.
When sons’ spirits are of the age to give they couldn’t guess they help their mothers live.
Penny Peyser
She was rooting around in the pocket of her jumper, and I just needed her to get up and put on her pajamas. I just needed her to do the thing.
She was rooting around in the pocket of her jumper, and I just needed her to get up and put on her pajamas. I just needed her to do the thing.
And she just wouldn’t stop, infatuated with her clothing, the magic of a hand disappearing into a tiny denim hole.
And she just wouldn’t stop, infatuated with her clothing, the magic of a hand disappearing into a tiny denim hole.
“Baby, it’s time for jams.” “—but I have something...” “Yes, pockets are wonderful.”
“Baby, it’s time for jams.” “—but I have something...” “Yes, pockets are wonderful.”
If she would just. please. stand up.
take her hand out of her pocket. put on her jams. Why does everything. take.
If she would just. please. stand up. take her hand out of her pocket. put on her jams. Why does everything. take.
geologic. time. with. toddlers.
geologic. time. with. toddlers.
Baby. please. out of the pocket.
Baby. please. out of the pocket.
And then she did.
And then she did.
She opened her hand, and spilled them all over the floor.
She opened her hand, and spilled them all over the floor.
Tiny, white flowers.
Tiny, white flowers.
Raya Yarbrough
Raya Yarbrough
When I was a teenager, my mother convinced me that I needed to have my hearing tested, that there had to be an organic explanation for the loudness with which I surrounded myself. “ “
The doctor concluded my hearing was perfect and that I liked noise This fondness prepared me for living with two male children.
I talk with parents from pacific households, those with one child or female siblings. They marvel at the decibel and activity level of my sons. Parents, especially mothers, with two sons simply smile in pained recognition. Women with grown pairs of sons come up to me in stores and restaurants and discuss battle scars. One woman related with unsuppressed pleasure her ultimate revenge: her youngest son just had twin boys.
But in the knowing nods of battle-weary parents there is always ambivalence--exhaustion tempered with loving amusement, for these ever-moving bodies exhilarate as much as they exhaust. Their sounds echo throughout the house, move around
me, touch me: the deliciously mischievous laugh of my six year old, the laser gun sounds trailing my sons and their friends down the hallway, the cheers as they crush the last alien on the video screen.
We learn to filter out the unpleasant sounds and bickering until they reach parent intervention levels, the “can you buy” that follows us through the store, the “do I have to”. Sometimes amid our pressures and exhaustion, we keep our filter up too long and miss the key points at which to intervene, and more important, to interact. But we are lucky to have learned to live with and enjoy the loving commotion that fills our days.
It will not be just the empty nest that will be painful to parents who revel in their boisterous, ever-moving children. It will be the deafening quiet.
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Jordan Malone
Amazing Grace lulls me to sleep every night with my mother’s strong and sound voice as accompaniment still cradling my dreams after all these years.
Paula Timpson
Summer comes With her hot days
Warm breezes
Tropical light
Summer lives within
Every Mum
Giving her all
For Her children Are not only hers They belong To God
His love heals Frees Helps family grow
To know The truth
Summer winds
Grant us
Peace
Love , Paula
I
I take hold of your hand before we walk across the street. I see you looking both ways, and I feel you squeeze my fingers a little tighter when you see a car coming.
You run to the swings. I sit on a low stone wall, still feeling the warmth of your hand, soon to be eclipsed by that of the afternoon sun. I watch you pump your legs, your body taut with effort as you pull yourself higher and higher. You raise one hand and pluck a cloud from the brilliant blue sky, putting it into the pocket of your favorite skirt, a huge smile threatening to reveal your
secret. The high branches of the trees murmur with the intermittent breeze, a soft conversation I don’t understand but syncopating with the creaking of the iron chains that hold up the wooden seat of the swing. You come in and out of the dappled shade, shadow and light, rusting iron and new leaves.
I will you to stay in the sunlight, the warmth, the brightness and energy of one point of the pendulum, but you persist in going back into the grey shadows. Back and forth, back and forth, until, in a single moment that seems to broaden and flat-
(Continued next page . . . )
flatten, you launch yourself off the swing and, laughing, land feet first onto the wood chips.
You stand straight and look over to me to make sure I am watching and then run with breakneck speed over to the monkey bars, which you scale with ease.
I want to wave my hand and freeze this moment into amber resin and turn it into an amulet for you to carry, to keep in your pocket with your cloud. You could touch it when fear overwhelms
places, with great relief, to her ear.
She stands up quickly and waves her unencumbered arm at another woman who is entering the park pushing a double stroller with a baby and a toddler. She quickly gathered all the spilledover items, placed the bag on her shoulder, and grabbed her son’s hand as she marched over to meet the other mother. Her little boy looked back and waved a chubby-fingered goodbye to all the castles, pirate ships, and other fabulous creations he had made from the soft cedar blocks.
“ I want to wave my hand and freeze this moment into amber resin and turn it into an amulet for you to carry, to keep in your pocket with your cloud. You could touch it when fear overwhelms you, when your heart breaks, or when it seems like the swing will not enter the warmth and light again.”
you, when your heart breaks, or when it seems like the swing will not enter the warmth and light again.
Instead, I smile at you.
A woman sits down next to me, plunking down her heavy bag, all the accessories of childhood spilling from the open top and nudging her little boy from her. She is young, at least much younger than me, and dressed in black workout clothes. I can see shadows under her eyes and small lines starting to form around her mouth that is set with grim intensity until her rummaging through the bag finds a phone which she
My daughter has left her high perch and gone exploring. She will return with her pockets full of stones, sticks, flowers, and scraps of things, some forgotten, some meant to have been discarded. She likes to look in the in-between places: between the cement and the grass, the dirt and the fence, in all the areas where one surface turns into another. I see her now walking towards me, smiling, so I know her exploration has been successful.
From her pockets, her stories pour forth. She tells stories that all have a beginning, a middle, and an end, just like all the books I read to her, and she is now beginning to read to me.
(Continued next page . . .)
In her stories, the ones she tells me, the ones created from all her collected treasures, in those stories I see and hear my daughter’s heart as it navigates the world.
“Ready to go?” I ask her as I stand up.
“Yes. But I have to do one quick thing.”
“Sure.”
My daughter reaches into her pocket and pulls out the cloud, blowing on it until it finds its way upward into the brilliant blue. She waves at it until it has found a place in the sky.
“Ready. Let’s go home,” she says as she looks up at me in her amber radiance and reaches over to hold my hand.
Rina Palumbo (she/her) is working on a novel and two nonfiction long-form writing projects alongside short fiction, creative nonfiction, and prose poetry. Her work appears in The Hopkins Review, Ghost Parachute, Milk Candy, Bending Genres, Anti-Heroin Chic, Identity Theory, Stonecoast Review, et al. You can find out more at rinapalumbowriter.com .
Etching my
Name in the sand
And stars And sea
Nothing better to do
But calmly breathe
And let summer
Take over me
Carrying love and roses
Between my teeth
Eva Tortora artist and published writer in NYC
Brittany Sirlin
Only when it’s dark, when the tiny stars stuck to my daughter’s ceiling glow above our heads—that’s when she asks the questions the press at the corners of her five-year-old mind. One night, as her freshly washed hair dampened my shirt, she asked, “What’s the meanest thing someone ever called you?”
I inhaled her honeysuckle shampoo, biding time while I wondered just how truthful I should be. “Why are you asking?”
She kept her eyes on the ceiling. “Matthew wanted to play with me today, but when I told him no, he called me a loser.”
A tightness gripped my chest, remembering the many times I felt responsible for someone else’s emotions, often at the peril of my own. I kissed her head, apprehensive to give her an honest reply, but even more so not to. It wasn’t that I didn’t have an answer to her question, it was that I didn’t know where to start. When I was ten years old, my parents signed me up for sleepaway camp. I was excited to leave New York and spend eight weeks in the Pocono mountains of Pennsylvania. Many girls go to camp seeking out lifelong female friendships, but I already had three sisters and the connection between the four of us was solid and fulfilling in a way that even then, I sensed wouldn’t exist between me and other girls. By the end of elementary school, I already had learned not to trust the foundation of some of my female friendships, always shaky at best. But I didn’t find this with boys.
At home, there were always boys I could ride bikes with, watch horror movies with, walk the wooded path at the end of our street with. I found an ease to those friendships. My words flowed freely, and my smiles were never forced.
At camp, I discovered this same, easy connection with a boy named Jared. On the days when homesickness would strike, Jared would be waiting at the evening activity with a joke or a bag of Funyuns from the canteen that we could share. When we both grew tired of counselor led relays and karaoke, we would sneak around camp looking for secret passages and hideaways, both
“ . . . he asked me if I heard of a game called, “Are You Nervous?” He explained the rules: he could put his hand anywhere on my body and ask, ‘Are you nervous?’ If I said no, the game would continue, if I said yes then it stopped.”
feeding off the thrill of doing what we shouldn’t. One night, as we sat in the shadows, just off to the side of the basketball courts, he asked me if I heard of a game called, “Are You Nervous?” He explained the rules: he could put his hand anywhere on my body and ask, “Are you nervous?” If I said no, the game would continue, if I said yes then it stopped. He said I could do the same to him.
His hand began on my knee and when he asked if I was nervous, I looked at him with hard defiance and shook my head. I said no because I was curious, and excited, and fearful of losing his friendship for the remainder of the summer. His palm lightly pressed against my inner thigh, the
curve of my stomach where I could feel my skin jump under my shirt. When I laughed and said I was too ticklish, he grabbed my hand and told me it was my turn. Even in the dim light, I could see the shift in his navy mesh shorts. I told him the game was stupid and he told me that I could make it up to him by sitting next to him on the bus for our trip to Dorney Park the next day. I agreed feeling pulled into a game I wasn’t sure I wanted to play.
By morning I convinced myself that everything was fine. Other kids at camp played that game and they didn’t seem to mind, their friendships weren’t ruined because of it. Besides, even if Jared did like me in that way, shouldn’t I feel lucky? I began to think maybe I could like him too. The brightness of morning dulled the thoughts that came the night before. Jared saved me a seat next to him on the bus as promised and when we arrived at the amusement park, the two of us joined the “advanced” group so we could ride every twisting rollercoaster together and go on the Lighting Falls waterslides.
At the end of the day, when we stepped back onto the coach bus, a different energy pulsed under the dim yellow lights that lined the windows. It was quiet and damp, everyone defeated by the adrenaline of the afternoon. The driver turned on the engine and the lights snapped off. I leaned my head against the window feeling the cool glass press against the burn on my forehead.
“You can rest on my shoulder if you want,” Jared offered.
I smiled and silently settled in just under
his chin. The motion of the bus rocked me into a dream, but I could still hear the hum of the engine, the soft chatter around us. When Jared’s hand rested against my inner thigh, I willed myself to stay still, to keep my eyes closed and see what might happen. He reached under my shorts, and I turned my hips slightly away, keeping my eyes shut tight. He didn’t touch me for a moment, but I knew he was watching, waiting to see if I would wake up. I felt him again, this time on the waistband. He slid his hand under the elastic and ran his fingers along the nylon of my one-piece Speedo until he found the seam pressed against my skin. I moved back to the window, pretending to be asleep, my rapid breath fogging the glass until we arrived at camp. The driver turned off the engine, the lights snapped back on, and I finally opened my eyes, my reflection fuzzy and skewed. We walked off quietly. Girls to one side of the camp and boys to the other. Our counselors asked us about the day as we crossed the field to our bunk. What was our favorite ride, favorite snack? The kinds of questions that shaped positive reports in letters written home. One of the girls, the one who notices and the one I felt closest to, asked if everything was o.k., but I wasn’t sure of the answer. Was it? Was I o.k.? I began to tell her what happened and as bits of the story reached the ears of the other girls, a unified fury was sparked. “He did what?!” they spat. “He can’t get away with that!” they fumed. I was comforted by their anger and felt closer to them than I had all summer. At their first chance during the next evening activity, the girls of bunk six pounced.
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“We know what you did!” Jared was stricken with embarrassment and faux confusion. He looked at me pleadingly.
“Well, you did,” was all I could muster. He disappeared into the protective swell of the boys from his bunk while I did the same with mine. I hid out until Jared’s prepubescent entourage called me forward.
“Liar!”
The boys presented a convincing retelling of events. A story that instilled doubt in the eyes of the girls and spawned hatred in the boys. The protection I thought I had vanished because what ten-year old girl wants to be disliked by a group of boys? Who would want to risk that? And besides, why would he lie?
I could have told my daughter that the worst thing someone ever called me was a liar, but names tend to worsen with age. At ten years old I was a liar, rounding sixteen I was called far worse. So, I learned to be agreeable; to play by the rules of the girls and say yes to the games of the boys. By the end of high school, I prided myself on being easygoing, but easygoing isn’t always best for self-preservation. I considered the response my daughter sought from asking this question-- the question behind the question: What should she do about it? For a moment, dated advice echoed and almost spilled from my mind. Ignore him. He just likes you. But then I looked into her eyes, eyes that pierce, and sparkle, and flare. This is a girl who possesses a ferocity, even at play, as if already aware of the need for it. I wrapped her in my arms with a conviction that she would know how to speak up for herself, and then I told her the truth.
I was only 16, but that’s when names stick to your heart and forever hide in the shadows of memory. He was a friend. He was kind and I trusted him, but when I couldn’t be more than just his friend, his gentle plea turned volatile. At a party, where his words were slippery with shots of vodka, he called me scorpion girl and said that I was poison. He turned into the villain of my story and while I knew that I was once the villain in his, I
never considered myself a scorpion. Now I wish that I had possessed more of a venomous sting when I was younger instead of the people pleasing attitude taught to so many young girls.
Easygoing.
It would have been helpful to have had the strength not to feel shame for wanting to say yes or for needing to say no because it’s not always that simple.
Sometimes it’s an:
I want to, but I’m scared. I want to, but I can’t.
My daughter is six now and still asks me to stay with her until she falls asleep, and I do, maybe more for my sake than for her own. The night before her first day of school, I looked up at the glowing stars and reassured her with different variations of, “It’s going to be great!”.
She replied sleepily, “I know, Mom. I’m not scared.”
This is a girl who will know her worth. Perhaps even be the scorpion that I never was. ◆ ◆ ◆
Brittany Sirlin is an educator, writer, and mother of three living in New York, New York. She has a Bachelor of Science in secondary education for English Language Arts from Penn State University and a Masters in Literacy from Hofstra University. She is an English Language Arts teacher who facilitates after school, middle grade book clubs. Brittany is currently working on a women’s fiction novel, and other shorter works of fiction and creative nonfiction. Her first published work, Playing Dead was released in March, 2023 in an anthology titled Our Magical Pandemic. Brittany has also been published in Mutha Magazine and Kveller.com.
Sarah OBrien
Approximate hope and the itchiness of uncertainty.
I want to play the giant Scrabble board of life, enacting words that score highly with you and make you feel amazing and proud of yourself.
I’m the mother of Trinity Rose, angel of Peace. She’s bringing on the new Earth template, leading the masses of future leaders. I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone.
You are my counterpart, my Twin Flame. I cry sometimes because of how happy you make me. I was blocked from meeting you until I healed. I first had to become my highest Self.
With a purple pen I mark up your manuscript. It smells like chicken here and a girl with blue hair walks by. I feel still-attached to a past version of myself who had nothing. I’m stronger now than I’ve been in any lifetime prior.
Understand: I’m more powerful only because of all the death. Because I entered the void and got to know it intimately. I filled the void with color, painting its walls green and orange. I detached from disempowering falsehoods fed to me by karmics.
Understand: I love myself in every version of the story, even when I turn left and slip on the ice, bruising dramatically. I burp in the quiet crib of this moment, disrupting something. I labor and give birth to this reality of Love, our glowing family.
I love you, Mom, for your advice. Though I ignore some, still very nice. I love you, Mom, for the cookies you bake. And for your pizzas, lasagna, and cake. I love you, Mom, for the way you care. When I am down, you're always there. I love you, Mom, for taking me on trips. For helping me up, for wiping my lips.
Thank you, Mom, for buying me stuff. You always make sure I have enough. Thank you, Mom, for all that you teach me. I'll be there when you want to reach me. Thank you, Mom, for being my friend. You'll be with me until the end. I love you, Mom, for helping me out. For letting me know what life is about.
I love you, Mom, for lending a hand. You showed me how to understand. I love you, Mom, for all that you do. Every day I am happy that I have you. I love you, Mom, even when you yell. It's for a good reason, I can tell.
I love you, Mom, for your instructing. To keep me from self-destructing. I love you, Mom, though you make me work. And keep me too busy to act like a jerk. You punished me when I was bad. But calmed me when I was sad. There were times I made you mad. Offset by times I made you glad.
You told me what I needed to know. What I should do, where I should go. You told me what I should say. How should I find my own way. But it's not about me or about you. Or how I survive when I'm without you. No price can pay for all that you do. So I'll just say, "Mom, I love you."
Sowards
D Sowards is a singer, songwriter, poet, novelist, cartoonist, artist, gagwriter, local TV host, and author
Just sitting under an aged tree Leaves rustle with summer glee
A small garden bursts with color Orchestrated by nature’s mother
Miniature birds tweet their song Melodies bind to string along
Childrens’ laughter so endearing
Mothers, fathers, grandparents cheering Rising and falling on musical scale Sensing the warm breezes exhale
Canines walk masters along lake Woof, yapping, chatter on the uptake
Engine sounds hum, onlookers gaze Bikers speed by catching some rays
Walkers in cadence, hearts beating Worries and cares promptly retreating
Musical harmony of Nature in tune.
I was forty years old when I attended my husband’s 20th class reunion. Sitting near us was a class member, his wife, and their newborn baby. Since I had my children at a younger age, I couldn’t relate to this.
Soon after this reunion, I visited my eightyyear-old mother and related the reunion story and the baby incident. She listened politely when I told her I wouldn’t want to start a family at forty. She then smiled and said, “Carole, I know. I had you when I was forty-three--- my eleventh baby!” I had never thought of her age when I was born. After that, I admired women who had children in their forties. I now think I was entirely too young when I got married. In my day, most girls got married right after high school.
I visited my niece, Bev, after she had her first baby. While she was busy doing motherly things in the kitchen, I sat on the sofa and browsed through the parenting magazine on the table. The first story intrigued me: Planned Parenting. “Hmmm!” I thought. I “planned” my babies two years apart or closer when necessary. One time I “planned” them eleven months apart. I figured that way they’d always have a playmate. I have two older sisters who “planned” their last child about thirteen years after the last. I guess, they felt, having a baby later on, there would be less sibling rivalry.
When my niece finally had a chance to sit and chat, she told me all about this Lamaze birthing method. She explained and showed me
how to do rhythmic pant breathing. “Wow!” I told her, “Why couldn’t they tell us sooner all we had to do was blow air!” I only knew how to instinctively do rhythmic screaming. And every so often the nurse or doctor would tell me to “Push! Push! Push!” Did they think I wanted to keep the baby in there another nine months? I had an anxiety attack just thinking about delivering babies again.
“
diapers for all my babies. I shook out so many yellow poops in the toilet bowl, that even now, the color can make me a bit nauseous.
Today parents have a separate room, called a laundry room, for washing clothes. My laundry room consisted of a 20 inch circular space in the kitchen that held a wringer washer. I didn’t have a basement. My outside dryer, two—20 foot ropes--hung between trees. I think my clothes line was
“‘Carole, I know. I had you when I was forty-three--- my eleventh baby!’ I had never thought of her age when I was born. After that, I admired women who had children in their forties. I now think I was entirely too young when I got married. In my day, most girls got married right after high school.”
Soon after this visit, her mother invited me to a new superstore for mothers and babies. The first thing I noticed inside was a pregnant mannequin clad in a sexy bathing suit. I had a heat flash right then and there. Luckily, I found a rocking chair to sit on until I composed myself. Actually, I was surprised the rocking chair wasn’t battery operat ed! I shouldn’t have been awestruck by an exposed belly. Over the years, I had seen pregnant women wear ing more snug-type maternity wear. I was always happy for the maternity handme-downs from my older sisters. My two sisters, who had babies later, borrowed the outfits they had given away. What a sentimental reverie they must have had wearing those adorable maternity outfits “just one more time.”
a tourist attraction, especially winter months. I could be seen carrying frozen thermals into the house to be draped on furniture to dry. I didn’t have a modern washing machine until all the babies were done wearing diapers.
My babies were raised in the pre-permanent press era. I even kept my girlish figure with having babies. I didn’t go to the gym or jog. You’d be surprised how many knee bends you get out of one hour of ironing!
Everything you could possibly imagine was in this store. In one department there were disposable diapers, wipes, changing pads and more. Disposable was unheard of in my day. For my sisters and I the word was save. I had cloth
Next we checked out some furniture. There were all kinds of high chairs from low to high--all had adjustable something. I always felt a family should eat together. When I had Tina and Mande eleven months apart, we did just that. Mande was on my lap drinking from a bottle. Tina was in her plain wooden high chair. A newspaper was strewn on the floor below for whatever foods landed there. She preferred drenching the food onto the bolts and screws on the sides of the chrome arms of the chair. I did buy some baby foods, but mostly, in order to save money, I mashed whatever food I ate and knew intuitively when the baby
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could eat it.
I was totally surprised to find a “miracle” bottle that reduced colic, spit-up, even gas. Now that’s something I would have stocked up on. Another section was well stocked with play yards, bouncer seats, carryalls, car seats, miniature fences and play pens. I couldn’t begin to tell you how many of them said convertible, travelable, positionable, collapsible, liftable and battery operated. That’s just too many ways for me to think of, let alone do. I lived in a remodeled school house. The Pennsylvania Dutch know how to shift and make do. I nailed those large window shutters together for my outside play yard. Not once did I lose a child.
Most young mothers nowadays have a nursery. Before the baby even arrives, they are choosing themes, colors, and furniture to fill it. The cribs in this store were fan tastic. There were five in one cribs. They went from crib to daybed, to full-size bed, to love seat. In addition, the crib turned full-size for a college dorm when the baby grew up. Maybe there was an eighteen year guarantee on it.
ers.
Another new gadget was the monitoring devices. I found monitors that showed the baby on a screen in color. Some were listening devices so you could hear the baby cry. I heard my baby no matter where I was in the house. It’s called intuition. If I wanted my baby to hear my voice, I just walked by the bedroom and said, “Hello baby!” There were devices where the instructions said , if a baby is still for 20 seconds an alarm goes off. I prefer my babies sleep longer than 20 seconds. Again, experts fail to consult the “older wiser” grandmothers. This article brought back more de ja vu’s then I thought I could ever remember. I realized, even without these modern contraptions, my babies grew up anyway.
I didn’t have a nursery unless you’d call the crib next to my bed a 2-in-one nursery/bedroom. All I had to do, when the baby cried at night, was stretch my leg, hook my foot in between the crib slats, and rock the baby back to sleep.
I saw neat colorful pacifiers with names like soothie and wubbanub. What use are they if they don’t glow in the dark? I spent too many nights crawling on the floor looking for a lost pacifier. These baby experts, who make these items, should consult grandmothers about neon pacifi-
Koch has been one of our strongest encouragers and supporters for the last 10 years. She is the mother 4 children (1 deceased), grandmother to 5 granchildren and great grandmother to 6 great grandchildren. She is a constant inspiration. Now in her 80s she says she is “still growing and learning.
Proverbs 31:31 Honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate . . .
For her worth is far above rubies.
She was alone in seat F of row 36, the last row before the lavatories, and I knew instantly, instinctively, what we shared. She looked up at me without raising her chin, through lenses thick as the bottoms of wine bottles that made her deep brown eyes Disney character enormous. I heaved my carry-on into the overhead compartment and turned my attention to her.
“Hi! My name is Megan. What’s your name?” I asked.
Normally, I introduce myself as Meg, but people mishear it as May or Mag. This moment necessi-
tated clarity. To ask at all was more forward than I’d normally be with a child. Under other circumstances, I’d give her time to become as curious about me as I am about her—not press for instant connection. But my seat assignment was E, and the passenger at my back, seat D, permitted no delay. She might not answer, I knew. I’d have to be okay with that. I slid in beside her—certainly too close for her comfort—shoved my laptop bag under the seat, stretched my winter coat across my lap like a blanket, then buckled my belt over top.
She took this in and said: “I’m Olivia.”
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“It’s nice to meet you, Olivia.” I smiled.
I wanted to ask if she was traveling alone but knew better. Instead, I noted the giant highlighter-pink tag on her tie dye and glitter backpack, on which I could read the second halves of two words: –ANIED –NOR.
“—and this is my stuffed kitty and this is my stuffed penguin,” she added, holding them toward my face.
“What are your kitty’s and penguin’s names?” I asked, again prepared for her to shut down.
I never anticipated Olivia.
At first, I wanted to know how similar our stories were but was afraid to ask questions that pry. It was difficult for me not to project my own experience onto Olivia. Was this her first flight alone, or had she been doing it for years? Which parent lived in Dallas and which in Philly, where we were headed? Were they divorced? How often did she see the parent with whom she doesn’t live? Summertime and Christmas? What was their tone when her parents talked about one another in front of her? Had they each remarried? Does she
“ I thought of my own birthdays, at the end of each long summer, always celebrated at my father’s home, too far for any of my school friends to be invited. I did the math: I started flying as an unaccompanied minor between my parents’ homes in Silver Spring, MD, and Rochester, NY, in 1986 when I was six—one year younger than Olivia. But she ws braver than me: she wasn’t traveling with an older sister.”
“This is Kitty,” she said with more energy, not less. “And this is Pengy.”
“Well it’s nice to meet you, Kitty.” I scratched behind the cat’s tattered ear. “It’s nice to meet you too, Pengy.” I tugged his blue wizard’s cape, then stood his hat up straight: “I just love your hat and cape,” I said. “So magical.”
Having woken at four in the morning for my first flight from Albuquerque to Dallas, I’d wanted to sleep on this flight.
have an older stepbrother who bullies, even when she tries so hard to earn his approval so he’ll let her play with his model aircraft carrier? I decided not to ask.
Olivia was forthcoming with the bits of her life that would interest a seven-year-old, however. Like, she’s seven but can you guess when her birthday is? New Year’s Day! She’d be eight in two weeks! Her eyes glittered through those magnifying glasses. She vibrated in her seat.
I thought of my own birthdays, at the end of each long summer, always celebrated at my father’s
home, too far for any of my school friends to be invited. I did the math: I started flying as an unaccompanied minor between my parents’ homes in Silver Spring, MD, and Rochester, NY, in 1986 when I was six—one year younger than Olivia. But she was braver than me: she wasn’t traveling with an older sister.
I put on my noise canceling headphones, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. But every time I cracked them open, Olivia’s head with its bobbled pigtails angled toward me. She peered out the corner of her eye to check if I was awake, and all I could think was that if I hadn’t had my sister all those years, at the very least I’d have appreciated a stranger who saw me.
When I gave up trying, she asked, “Did you even sleep, or were you just pretending?”
I laughed.
Olivia and I played with Kitty and Pengy for three hours. She noticed a hole in the airplane’s outer window, and I explained air pressure. She then noticed my water bottle was compressed—and I pointed to this as proof of the former. We talked about the moon and tides and apocalypse, as well as her mind could conceive them. She told me that if a person sleeps with the light on, they get fat. I wondered who’d told her that and why. Through it all, in Olivia I recognized elements of a younger me. I wanted to tell her she’d be okay—but I’m not so sure that I am okay. So instead, I played.
As I engaged with Olivia-as-me, something unsettled in my gut. I didn’t know how to feel or who to blame or whether blame was warranted. All those years of airplane rides as an unaccompanied minor felt like loneliness and strangers and abandonment even though I wanted to believe I was loved. Maybe it was nobody’s fault. And maybe I couldn’t save Olivia from any of it, no matter how deeply I believe that to do so would be to reparent some
wounded part of myself. Maybe none of it mattered at all; it was past. Maybe what mattered was Olivia, that present moment, and maybe for her all I could do was play.
I paused at the gate after deboarding to chat with the agent about my connection. Olivia deboarded with a flight attendant after the last of the passengers—into the arms of her worry-frazzled mother. It was not my intention to witness this moment, but I think I’m glad that I did.
Meg Vlaun has an MA in English Literature and currently attends Regis University’s MileHigh MFA. She has published pieces in Zaum Magazine, Twenty Bellows, Calliope, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Meat for Tea. Meg instructs writing at Central New Mexico Community College.
You can find Meg on Instagram @megvlaun or visit her blog: megvlaun.com. ◆ ◆ ◆
I tried to catch the wind one windy day. Though all encompassing, it passed my way.
It blew beyond me to a hill? a tree? then up into the sky away from me.
But yet there is a wind from in the past, a memory, a drift, a shadow cast that comes forth one more time. It has been caught, and then again becomes a fleeing thought.
I’ve put it into words, a kind of rhyme.
I tried to catch the wind, but wind is time.
Lucia Haase
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons (living or dead) are strictly coincidental. [In loving memory of my Paternal Uncle: Prof. John R. Price (Dean of Economics, Delaware State University, Dover, DE)]
Iwas young, but now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor their seed begging bread.”
King David said it first in the Bible. I echo it now, but from watching others. Emotions such as wonder, joy, and excitement intermingle with loneliness, pride, and heartache, where someone cannot tell how he or she really feels. Death and betrayal are the worst-they’ve crushed the strongest of men.
Yet no one consults me, as I’m just an immobile, inanimate “mason’s creation--” totally impervious to emotions, holding water, a bucket and a ladle. Snow surrounds me in winter, flowers in spring, children’s laughter in summer, and leaves during harvest. For one who’s never been betrayed, how could I know anything? But I do know, for water channels life and I’ve heard enough to share my wisdom.
Unfortunately, no one ever asks.
So here I sit, listening to others proclaim their triumphs or unload their troubles. Many drop a coin and make a wish, as if combining hydrogen, oxygen, and copper or nickel will somehow perpetuate change. It doesn’t, but at least the coins buy cookies and punch for the orphanage Christmas party.
Occasionally I reminisce. Centuries ago, three men with “three pointed” hats and knickers rested during a carriage ride. One man said, “We must make Boston on time. I’m speaking about breaking away from England.” His seat mate stressed, “It’s 1770. We must be free from British rule so we can pursue our individual goals and dreams.”
Across the border from the United States is a very large, cold place. In the 1800’s, I began noticing that more people of color headed to it than
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away from it to a place they called, “Freedom.”
I presumed “Freedom” was a state or town of some kind. It must’ve been grand for these people would travel barefoot and hide for days, especially before the Civil War. Despite venomous snakes and spiders, these people pressed on, looking for “Freedom.” Everybody was searching for it. I hope they found it.
A young man stirred up the autumn leaves like a windstorm. They landed on his windshield, and he hurriedly brushed them off with manual wipers. “Can’t wait til they mechanize these wipers, Ruby” he said tiredly. “I can’t wait til you learn how to really drive,” Ruby replied.
“This horseless carriage is Mr. Henry Ford’s gift for us working class folks, and any wife of mine is gonna drive.”
She gasped, “Alfred, is this a proposal?”
He downshifted and applied the clutch, putting the car in neutral. “Now that I’m gainfully employed and bought a home, it’s a proposal-if you’re accepting.”
was ecstatic to join the country club, and secretly took pennyroyal to abort their child but it didn’t work. One day, status seekers won’t be so prominent, but it’s too late for Maureen Townsend.
They say, “God takes care of babies and fools.” If so, He’s cared for Johnny Westmore since birth. Townspeople call him “Restless Jack” because he tirelessly works his farm, chemical plant, and coaches Little League baseball. He even ran for mayor. But I know why Johnny’s so restless. It started in 1955 when he fell in love with a sweet
“ I can keep a secret, and I keep many-for many. Sacks of: money, stolen jewels, and stock certificates line my walls. That doesn’t include the other “secrets.” People mistakenly thought that if they bury an unwanted child in me, their secret stayed buried. That was until Hurricane Sandy happened and I overflowed. The money sacks were easy to explain. The children . . .”
“I accept,” she answered excitedly, “So long as you don’t enlist in the Army.”
“Why not enlist?” he chuckled. “My grandfather fought at Gettysburg, and Dad years later in 1898. Besides, the war’s in Europe; we’ll never get involved.” They sped off, laughing.
If I had a hankie, I’d hand it to Emma Townsend and her father, crying over her mother’s grave as her father holds his newborn son. “I failed you, Maureen. You said you didn’t want another child. Forgive me.” You see, Maureen enjoyed being a socialite more than anything. She
girl named Laurie. They dated until prom time. Johnny wanted Laurie to be his date but Mrs. Westmore, his mother, declared, “Laurie’s a nice girl, but not in our social circle.” Note: “social circle” was code for, “people who look like us.” Laurie attended the prom with another fellow, who molested her that night. She couldn’t bear the “shame” of rape/subsequent pregnancy, so three months later she sat down under the juniper tree next to me and consumed soda laced with strychnine. Mrs. Westmore skipped the funeral. “Suicide’s for weaklings,” she told Johnny. Now, Johnny sits under that same tree every year on August 10th and drinks vodka til he passes out. Death (especially from heartbreak) isn’t al-
ways quick.
I can keep a secret, and I keep many-for many. Sacks of: money, stolen jewels, and stock certificates line my walls. That doesn’t include the other “secrets.” People mistakenly thought that if they bury an unwanted child in me, their secret stayed buried. That was until Hurricane Sandy happened and I overflowed. The money sacks were easy to explain. The children…
Betty Finch, Mrs. Westmore’s bridge partner and President of our local S.A.V.E. (“Solid American Values for Everyone”) Organization stopped by, anxiously reading a letter from her son Martin about “Robbie.” “Martin’s finally found the one,” she told her husband. “Robbie’s an event planner, 5’ 7” tall, medium build, with brown hair and brown eyes. Martin says Robbie’s the love of his life. I’m no fortuneteller George, but like Jill Westmore told Johnny-we mothers know what's best. Martin and Robbie can marry and make us grandparents!” Just wait until she sees that Martin’s lover is “Robert,” not Roberta. Hope Johnny Westmore’s nearby-she’ll need his vodka-after she passes out.
Rev. Samuel Finch, Betty’s brother-in-law stands ready with a kind word or relevant scripture. Recently, he read a letter; specifically, an employment offer from his alma mater. “We have an open position for Assistant Professor, teaching Greek and Hebrew. Salary negotiable.” Rev. Finch was ecstatic as he loved to teach. “Elaine wants me to leave the pastorate,” he remembered. Then he read, “Please respond as soon as possible.” The dedicated minister stopped smiling and thought back. He’d interviewed at the university last month. His congregation thought it just a week’s “R&R,” and The Finch’s kept silent. After all, fifty people interviewed for five positions; Sam and Elaine didn’t think he’d get an actual offer. But he did, and he wants to take it. Yet, he worries about his congregation. They need his leadership-but he wants to teach. Members [especially “Restless Jack” and (soon) his sister-in-law Betty Finch] need him. But he needs a change and teaching
opportunities at his age aren’t plentiful. He’s torn. So…he keeps reading the correspondence repeatedly, hoping that the answer will somehow appear. It does not.
I don’t have “quick fixes” or solutions for Emma, Mr. Townsend, Betty, “Restless Jack,” and especially Rev. Finch. But if I could, I’d explain that their answers aren’t far away. They’re intelligent, hard-working people. All can rise above their problems, and someone could help them (including me)—
If only they’d ask.
Crystal Darlene (Price) Reynolds
is the youngest of five children born to the late Rev. Calvin D. and Gertrude L. Price. Her proudest accomplishment (other than being a mother and graduating from college) is being a two-time breast cancer survivor in 2001 and 2011. In 2004, Mrs. Reynolds discovered another spiritual gift, writing. Along with Sammie’s War, she is the author of a manuscript entitled, It Feels Like Cottage Cheese, (a 180 + page spiritual memoir outlining her breast cancer experience). In the past, she has had articles previously published in Seek, Living, and More.com magazines. She has also written for ScreaminMamas on several occasions. Find her outstanding books on Amazon.
Twenty years or more Is when you first opened your door. A friend you became, I have never been the same. Your honesty and trust is present without a fuss. These are qualities I adore.
Each year our friendship soars. Growing up and walking through many doors. Each of us has changed, even when were in pain. life has brought us ups and downs. As we bare this negative and positive town. Horror stories of each other’s life we have done. Each time we have won. Friends we are.
Marcella Kumer
JEN WALDRON
After faith and family, all I really need to survive are chocolate, coffee, and seaglass. I'll leave the coffee and chocolate conversations for another time, just know that I keep a secret stash of chocolate in my bra drawer, an obviously safe place. As far as coffee goes, let's just say I learned during our last ice storm with no power how to make coffee with a metal measuring cup and a candle. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Long, long ago- when I was twelve years old, I discovered seaglass, and I was hooked. If you don’t know what seaglass is, it’s ordinary glass turned into frosty little gems by time, sea, and sand. Collecting can be quite a hobby, and there are some things you should know.
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Here are a few of my favorite tips. . .
1. "Seaglass is not sharp or shiny" (just smooth and frosty). I need a T-shirt with this quote on it. My kids would bring me pieces, and I'd say this a million times. "It's sharp; save it for the 'throwback' jar. This is a separate jar of not-ready pieces that you take to the ocean and ceremoniously throw back into the sea, wishing it well as it takes the journey to become real seaglass. Great activity on a day you feel the need to throw something I'm just saying.
NOTE: Do not let your kids bring the throwback jar to school for show and tell so that the teacher has to take it away for safety purposes (not that this has ever happened…lol)
2. Every piece tells a story, and you are the author. Pirate booty? Wayward fisherman's bottle? Yacht party? Shipwreck? There are a few good books out there to help you learn the types of glass, the rarity of colors, and even its likely origins. I still prefer my own dramatic, poetic, and romantic versions. When and where you find it adds to the story, too. I once saw what I thought was a rock but when held to light, I discovered the only black piece I've ever found. I don't know if a lost DaVinci could hold more value or excitement.
3. Be aware of the family traditions you will likely pass on. I'll never forget visiting my son Matt's first place and seeing a jar of seaglass on the table. I genuinely thought it was a gift for me, naturally, since every piece found had always been lovingly handed over to me. Alas, this was no more; I created another seaglass hunter and remain proud of this!
4. Gear is required. This is an all-season sport. After storms and big tides are the best times to search. My seaster (a term used for the friend you
plan weekends away from hubby and kids to do nothing except search for seaglass, eat pizza and chocolate, sleep, and get up to do it again), Nancy, and I have been known to use all kinds of hightech gear. Butterfly nets for deep water swoops, pasta colanders for sifting sand, .99cent trash bags for rain, and hair ties so we can see on windy days. Muck boots for subzero searches. A tide chart, cross-body bags, and clothes with pockets should be included. You'll also get glass *ss from all the bending and walking… so sell your Stairmaster and use the money to find a new beach.
5. It is perfectly normal to plan family vacations, trips, weekends, holidays, parties., picnics, getaways, and gatherings around “possible” beach locations that might have seaglass. Perfectly normal, I say!
6. Everyone doesn’t get it. I can’t tell you how many people have said “So you collect garbage?” That’s fine by me; I have just one less person to hog the treasure. We are, after all, a secret society, not always willing to share our favorite spots. I once asked a lady in my church for the best beach near her to find seaglass, and she replied, “We don’t ever tell that.” So much for loving your neighbor as yourself, but I did respect and understand completely.
Lastly and pretty importantly, it’s a free form of therapy. Walking along the coastline, listening to the sounds and scent of the sea around you, looking for these treasures, it’s almost impossible to stress, and the wind just carries away all the everyday troubles and tough days we have to deal with.
I hope that your search never grows old, and may you find many treasures.
I see you grocery shop with a toddler who didn’t nap.
I see you power walk in early morning with wrist and ankle weights.
I see you age past wolf whistles and come-ons.
I see you admonish yourself, lips moving but voice silent.
I see you stuck between building a sisterhood and building a wall. I’ve been you.
I am you.
I see you.
As the flowers Lift toward pink skies, I rise too
As the flowers Lift toward pink skies, I rise too
Angels carry us to heaven, and we find everlasting Joy
Angels carry us to heaven, and we find everlasting Joy
Awaken to the quiet
Awaken to the quiet
Feel God’s love
Feel God’s love
You are not alone
You are not alone
Freedom is in His Way Everyday
Freedom is in His Way
Everyday Amen
Amen
Paula Timpson