8 minute read
Melissa VanArsdale Goat Rodeo
“A Hundred Years, 2014” by Jackie Grimaldi and Madeleine Vail (Detail of goat, which is similar to David Taylor’s little “S’Tinker”)
Goat Rodeo
By Melissa VanArsdale
“SNAP!” “Dagnabbit!” Oneof my strings brokewhile tuning my violin. I havea packet of synthetic strings, but I prefer the warm, rich sound of my catgut stringslike Popsused to make for mefrom sheep. As Pops would say, “nothin goes to waste on the journey of life, or death.” I think he added that death part to justify slaughteringsheep. I remove all the strings to replace when I hear “tap, tap, tap.” I’m excited, because I know it’s my parents, whotraveled to New York City to attend my recital. I open the door to invite them into my dorm. Dad’ssundrenched face is as tough asleather. He’s wearing new stiff blue jeans and brown corduroy blazer. “Doesn’t your dad look nice?” said mom It probably took a lot of convincing on my mom’s part to get him into a blazer. “Mom cleans up well too, right?” said dad. Probably the onlycomplement she’s gotten from him in a long time. Mom’s skin is soft and slightlykissed by the sun with a few fine lines. Her salt and pepper hair is swept up into a pony tailand she’swearing a navy t-length dress withflats. Dad wraps his arms around both my mom and I, tucking my nose into his shirt and I smell the rich soil from home. For a brief moment I’m no longer in the city. Mom hands me asmall box wrapped in yellow cloth quilting scraps. “Agift from Pops.” said dad I wish Pops traveled with my parents, but he never forgave me for all the years he spent teaching me how to play the fiddle only to have me call it a violin and move to the big city. “Go ahead, open it. Looks like you could use it.” said Dad I opened thebox.
“Pops made you some strings for your fiddle. These are special strings. They come from Tinker.” said dad Mom glares at him “Now why’d you gone tell her that?” knowing her question was more of a statement. “What? When?” I said. “I’m sorry honey. Tinker was getting old. She ate up all my quilting glue and pissed on my scraps. The stench nearly killed us.” Suddenly mom’s eyes widen when she realized that wasn’t the right choice of words to use. Tinker was my pet goatI got when Iwas six. Pops used to say she burst into this world like I did. Tinker had to be surgically removed because she was breeched. Pops named her Tinker when she was caught ransacking through our home. Tinker and I bonded immediately. I cradledher in mom’s quiltsandbottle fed herwhile listening toBach to sooth her to sleep, just like mom did for me when I was colicky. Mom found an old cassette player at a rummagesale. Itcame witha tape: Bach Lullabies. Mom was feeling helpless trying to calm me prior to discovering it. I oftenscreamedand becamerigid. Even Pops tried playing his fiddle… I only wailed louder. Mom pressed play and I calmed down. Bach played 24/7. Dad keptsplicing the tape that would tangle when the batteries were low. Soon the tape was spliced down to bits and pieces of classical tidbits, only Cello Suite no. 1 in G Major, Prélude remained intact. Pops gave me a fiddle on my seventh birthday. Every afternoon we’d sit on the porch with him teaching me fiddle duos. As much as I enjoyed Pops’ company, I looked forward to him leaving so I could switch from screeching fiddle to soothing classical violin. I would leap from rock to rock playing violinwith Tinker bounding closelybehindme. One afternoon, Pops returned after leavingsomethingat our home. I don’teven recall what it was. “What in God’s name are you playing on your fiddle.” Pops shouted. Popstook me by surprise that I stopped short leaping to the next rock then Tinker butted me so hard that I fell to the ground, landing on my violin. “Crack!” The neck broke off. Only the strings kept itdangling together. I laid gasping from the blow. Pops walked over to pick up the fiddle then frowned at me. He never said a word. He just got back into his pickup. Pops returned a few days later, mended fiddle in hand and said it’s time to learn a new fiddle medley. We played it repeatedly. No words, just music. Pops and I played less together, onlyweekends. I made up excuses about after schoolwork at the library. Ithad a large selection of classical albums. I’d wear headphones to drown myself in its splendor. I applied toJuilliard School in New York City. Images of city lights interested me more than the Milky Way. And I longed to be in crowds of people insteadofa herd of sheep. Oneafternoon, Pops handed mea letter. “This is addressed to you.” said Pops I opened it and it was an invite to play before Juilliard faculty. “Time to work out the kinks ofour fiddle medley.” said Pops “No Pops, this is a prestigious school. I need to play the violin now.” “If the school can’t accept the fiddle than it ain’t no school worth attending.” Pops asserted
I finished stringing my instrument with Tinker-guts. Then myparents and I walk to the auditoriumwhere we splitupat the entrance so theycan find seating reserved for families of graduates. One-by-one, students performedtheir final pieces. The auditorium was silent during every performance followed by polite applause. Finally, my turn. I walk out tositinthe lone chair set centerstage. I scan the audience looking for my parents. And I gasp, Pops is seated between them. My eyes well up with tears, causingthe lights to sparkle like the Milky Way. I play Bach Cello Suite no. 1 in G major, Prélude on violin. The audience is silent during the performancethenpolitely applaud. I bow my head in thanks, then I lean toward the micto announce“I will now play for you something from home. I hope y’all enjoy this.” I stand up and starttapping my foot, then I begin todance whileplaying Fiddle Medley, just as Pops taught me. I’m back in the country bounding from rock to rock with Tinkerandfeel agentle country breeze. Before I reachthe conclusion, I hear clapping. I look out at the crowd to see the audience standing, swaying and clapping to the beat. I see Pops grinning and I’ve never felt more at home.
ACat’s Eye View: A Year in Paradise by The Sentry of Santorini Island
Kalimera! Welcome to sunny Santorini, The Island of Thira Haunted by myths of the lost city of Akrotiri.
Crowned with blue domes, the white-washed churches of Oia-- Molars on the Black ridges of a volcano’s maw-- Smile a toothy grin, Luring in Spring and summer
Tourists Flossing between little shops, Picking at glitzy souvenirs, Savoring flaky spanakopita, Rinsing with anise-spiced ouzo, And winding down twisting trails Upon dainty-footed donkeys to the
By Wendy Watson
Gullet that swallowed Minoan civilization whole.
Wharf-side of the sapphire sea, Embraced by the Cyclades, Fishermen mend nets and toss away bones, Snatched bits Worth nosing and nibbling By cats that snack, Crouched, ears flat, ignoring angry pelicans and seagulls, and then saunter to a nook for a morning bath Tolick away the salty spray.
In the gutters Ripped bags of trash Drip pungent glistening olive oil Onto the cobbles For pink tongues to lap.
Excursion buses, Condemned like Sisyphus to Endlessly climb and wind through
Narrow passages, Squeal to a stop and Pause in exhaustion for the summit view Where laundry, billowing along rooftop clotheslines Dances, fading beneath the Mediterranean sun, and Itemizes family members-- Widows’ ink-dark dresses, Brilliant bloomers and bras, Work shirts stained and worn, Bleached undershirts, Uniforms of school children, Babies’ bibs and onesies.
Outside a kafenio Roasting coffee beans churn In a vast copper vat.
Men,
Twirling kompoloi--worry beads flicking endlessly Back-and-forth-- Passionately play backgammon, Pouncing on tavli checkers to slide them to victory.
Blue glass mataki eyes Dangling from windows and awnings Avert evil and bad luck.
A fuzzy hand-woven flokati rug Draped over a balcony Hidden beneath magenta boughs of bougainvillea Beckons To be kneaded For a sunset nap.
Late into the evening, Strings of light Glow like lava Meandering down railings.
Laughter and the sprightly music of plucked bouzouki strings Spill from cozy tabernas Serving seven courses: -Horiatiki, cabbage salad spritzed with fresh lemon and balsamic vinegar -Dolmades, stuffed grape leaves -Avgolemono, chicken rice soup -Fasolakia, green beans stewed in tomato sauce -Saganaki, sizzling flaming feta cheese slices -Warm pita-wrapped souvlaki drizzled with tzatziki -Pastichio or moussaka, try them both! And retsina, aged in pine-pitch vessels, Splashed into short glasses-- “Stin ygeia sas!” “Cheers!”
Padded paws Stretch and scratch straw-seated chairs. Flowing tails Wend between legs. Whiskers Quiver, Asking, “Eketekotopoulo?” “Do you have any chicken?” Hoping for calamari tentacles “Parakalo, if you please.” Dropped by dismayed diners.
Opa!
This is a cat’s kingdom.
Golden green eyes blink lazily.
Gataspuddle together-- Fur blacker than the sands of Perissa Beach, Colorful calicos, Black and white tuxedos, Ginger or gray striped tabbies-- Curl on windowsills and stoops Dotted with potted pink and red geraniums;
Sprawl across flagstones Trod by Romans, crusaders, pirates, revolutionaries, and soldiers; Pose, indifferent, on limestone ledges.
Featured in postcards, calendars, paintings, On mugs, t-shirts, bags and screensavers, Proudly on display for visitors-- The icons, Touted Hellenic national treasures, Languish like royalty.
Ochi. No. Not really.
A GreekFelis catus has only seven lives.
Perhaps felines sacrificed two To survive the cataclysmic past of the caldera…
Or to outlast the off-season.
Once autumn crispsthe air, the Sightseeing plague passes.
Brooms, Wielded by unloving locals, Briskly brush the dust and Chase the meowing nuisances away.
Heaving waves snarl and spit, Casting briny frost onto Portside docks Echoing with emptiness.
Diners huddle inside long-necked woolen sweaters by the fire. The mousers must prowl as Glossy fur dulls, Stomachs shrivel and Ribs protrude.
Hissing, howling fills the dark. Claws and teeth flash As neglected creatures Squabble over scraps.
“Kalinikta—good night!” A foreigner with a wriggling, crooked finger beckons. “Psee-psee-psee, psee-pseepsee….” “Here kitty, kitty….” She sees the threatening hibernal plight, Buys sacks of pet kibble from the agora, and Leaves Dried tuna treats strewn on garden walls.
Wary, A single leonine shadow tiptoes near, Presses nose and ears against the proffered hand, Purrs awhispered, “Efcharisto, Kyria. Efcharistopoli. To ektimo para poli.”
“Thank you, Miss. Thank you so much. I appreciate you, very, very much.”
Thus, the Aegean lion Survives winter in paradise.
