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I hunch on the bathhouse steps and turn
to the thunk of the diving board
to catch the plush and then her strokes
cutting toward the roar of the spillway.
SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK
NO LIFEGUARD
sheens in three-foot black letters
on the concrete wall staring creekside.
The twin water towers chug steam
in ribbon-thin clouds, the breeze unwinds.
The forest leaves waver on the hill
by the rapids, now gold, now silver.
Shall I go to her now, speak my mind?
A laurel bush winks in the wind,
a few tentative syllables the creek summons:
Not now, not yet, the creek whispers.
At the Waterworks, 1968
by Michael Benigni
photo by Judy Schwab17
saying, “No Way!”) She turned and ran toward the Palace then at the last minute detoured left heading for the back of the house. Trooper hurried inside hoping to begin his breakfast but came back out immediately to help his sister (although I saw him look longingly at that handful of hay.) I took the grain back to the feed barn and grabbed the lid of a metal garbage can. Now I had what I hoped would be protection as well as a wider run-away-blocker to help me herd her back to the Palace. Didn’t work. She did circles around me – head down with determination in her dance of defiance in her attitude. Thinking Lucky might feel abandoned and come running I
stumbled to the Palace and closed myself inside, I could see my outlaw goats just yards away. Lucky was crying, “Ma! Ma!” and Trooper was standing to the side looking confused. I opened the door. Lucky stayed put but Trooper seized the opportunity to grab a mouthful of grain then made a quick exit. Neighbor dog, Abby came to help. Abby is Boxer big and is blessed with a loud, gruff voice. Whatever she told the goats had them heading the wrong way.
Then Abby was called home. I returned to hiding behind the Palace door and this time remained inside a good while longer. Lucky came closer all the while calling for her “Ma” while Trooper watched to see what his sister wanted to do. When she was within a few feet of the door I slowly opened it and stood aside. First the white streak of my billy goat entered screeching to a halt at his feed dish. Lucky hesitated but finally gave in to the smell of breakfast. As fast as my played out body could move, I closed the door, put away my ‘shield’ and climbed the hill to my own door. Once inside I removed a few layers of outside clothes and collapsed in my favorite chair. Without a word Bill delivered a steaming hot mug of coffee and didn’t crack a joke or even a smile until much later. That afternoon that same defiant nanny goat was as sweet and cooperative as could be. Guess she just had a severe case of cabin fever.
Every day on the Summit is an adventure thanks to a collection of critters both tame and wild. This is a story involving our lady goat, Lucky Stripe. Lucky lives (usually peacefully) with her brother, Trooper. It’s been a long winter on the Summit and in order to keep my goats warm and their beds dry they have spent most of the time confined to their rather small barn – commonly referred to as the Palace. Each morning I replace frozen water dishes with fresh water and provide a small breakfast. Lucky always ‘helps’. She can’t wait for the door to open and believes striking it with her front feet and/or ample set of horns will cause it to open faster. She follows me into the hay barn to supervise (aka get-in-the-way) while I collect a bit of grain and a handful of hay for each animal. She then leads the way back to her Palace. The ritual is repeated in the afternoon but with a bigger ration of goat grain, fresh produce scraps and best of all the peels of carrots or apples. Today was cold, dark, wet and windy.This well-fed, sedentary, gray-haired female had piled on triple layers of coats and was wearing long johns under her lined jeans. Her oversize heavy-ugly-warm-dry boots flopped on her feet and her tassel hat was creeping off her ears pushed by the big warm hood that protected her somewhat from the wind. I just wanted to get the critters taken care of and go take a nap...It wasn’t to be. Apparently, the long confinement had pushed Lucky over the edge. On the way down the hill I could hear her calling, “Ma! Ma!” and hitting the door of her Palace until it rattled on its hinges. When I opened it she sprinted out, her brother close behind. But today instead of following me to the feed barn Lucky trotted half way up the path, stopped and turned to look at me. I got the feed and hay and took it to the Palace. Trooper followed me but Lucky refused to move. I walked toward her – she moved further away and now Trooper was outside again. He goes where his sister leads. I got a small portion of her favorite grain and offered it to her. She approached me with her horned head down and mutiny in her eyes. (Pet goats have a unique way of
Cabin Feverby Peggy Zortman
photo by Peggy Zortman
18
There’s beauty in the frosted fields
with haystacks piled high
the rubbled corn left on the ground
and winter’s fierceness nigh
As skeletons of goldenrod—
dry sentinels—remain
to speak of autumn’s once-red hue
to whisper summer’s gain
Frost has killed
and yet the earth sustains
its chosen kind—
a fox amid the crusted stalks,
a hawk among the pines—
The dew collects on weavers' webs
left ragged, insect-torn,
and freezes into mandalas
for spiders yet unborn
Frosted Fieldsby Patricia Thrushart
photo by Jo Scheier Bugay19
My Apple Treeby Wanda Logan
I had forgotten about the old tree and how she comforted me until, as an adult, I read aloud “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein to my children as they snuggled into their beds. Not having pre-read the story, tears were streaming down my face by the end of the book, but luckily, my children had fallen asleep before the emotion of the story overtook me.
I, too, had a tree. We lived in a little development against a mountain in North Central Pennsylvania during my childhood. I was the eldest. My Mom had divorced and remarried and I had a younger half-sister. We were free to roam the woods and hillsides near our home and often “borrowed” our Father's tools to build tree forts. There was a special place called “The Wax Mine” that was within walking distance. It is told that during the war, explosives were stored there in wax bunkers. We used to pack a lunch and take off for the woods and dig wax out of the old bunkers. I wonder now if it was dangerous?
On one of the expeditions to the wax mine, I wandered off by myself and came upon a lovely apple tree, all in bloom. The lowest limb was rather close to the ground and seemed to beckon me to sit awhile, which I did. As I gazed up into the tree, white blossoms floated down on me, set free by my movement. I soon noticed that the limb had a crook and that I could settle back and lie down as if resting in a hammock, except that it rocked gently up and down instead of swinging back and forth, releasing more fragrant, snow-white petals. I quieted myself and heard the buzzing of the many bees above me, gathering nectar as they dusted themselves with the yellow pollen. Off in the distance, I heard another soothing sound: a brook, bubbling and chuckling along over smooth-edged rocks.
I found myself drawn to the sounds of the singing
water so I moved to where the edge of the creek met the ground. It was covered in dark green
photo by Rose James
fragrant moss so thick that when I stepped upon it, I felt as if I were floating on clouds.
I immediately sat upon the moss, removed my shoes and put my feet into the clear, shining water. It was so cold, my legs ached all the way up to my knees, but as I began to enter the creek and explore, my body grew accustomed to the chilly water.
I felt as if I had discovered paradise on Earth! When I reluctantly headed home as the sun was setting, I knew I would revisit my secret spot again and again.
Over the tumultuous years of my teens, I would escape to the apple tree, the green, fragrant moss, and singing water to avoid the wrath of my mother; to find that quiet place of inner piece; to tattoo the initials of my lover into the bark of the tree; and later to weep over lost love.
I recently revisited my old hometown and decided to go and look for my tree. A factory had been built near the place where the tree was located. Would I even be able to find the place? I hiked around the perimeter of the factory grounds and found the path beside the creek that led to The Wax Mine and then on to my spot. I rounded the bunkers and looked to where the tree once stood. Amazingly, it was still there! The limb I used to rest on was touching the ground and the tree itself looked like there wasn’t much life left. I softly approached my old friend who knew so many of my secrets and gently stroked her rough, dry, peeling bark. I felt like the character in “The Giving Tree.”
I leaned against the apple tree and whispered my thanks and gathered pieces of broken limbs on the ground to remember her. I gave thanks for living in a time and place that allowed me to have this most precious experience of loving a tree; of lying in rich green, fragrant moss; of washing away my tears and fears in a bubbling brook. Have you hugged a tree today?
20
inhabiting the pool.
At the head of the pool was a run of riffles, even but for
an eddy formed by a pyramid shaped rock that stood
twelve inches above the water’s surface. The eddy
served to trap passing food items for the trout and gave
this morning’s mayflies a merry-go-round ride into the
waiting mouth of the great fish. Between their hide and
the trout stood ten feet of open bank comprised of sand
and moss.
The observer stayed hidden and kept tabs on the fish
while the caster snuck away and crossed safely
downstream below the pool. The angler made his
clandestine approach screened from the rising trout by
the mid-pool boulder.
Kneeling to stay hidden, he
made a final inspection of his
leader and tippet. He double-
checked the knot holding the
fly; a barbless AuSable Wulff
#14. The cast would have to
be low and nearly forty feet.
The fly would have to land
just above and to the right of the pyramid rock to allow
the line to stay clear of the eddy and give the fly a drag-
free drift that would not alarm the fish.
The potentiality of the situation caused the angler’s
world to shrink to just him and the fish. His peripheral
vision blurred and sweat beaded on his forehead as his
partner's voice faded. A large part of the mystique of fly
fishing stems from the enchanting beauty of the cast. To
be sure, the most sublime form of the sport is achieved
while fishing a dry fly. None of those philosophical
arguments mattered to the angler at this moment. The
cast and the dry fly were nothing more than tools he
needed to allow him the chance to possess the trout.
A slight wrinkle in the broken water betrayed the
monarch. The two friends moved forward as quickly as
a stealthy approach would allow. Concealed by a thin
wall of hemlock, they waited. Sip… There it was again.
Sip… sip… sip… The rise was rhythmic but unhurried,
and far too dainty for the size of the old brown trout
enjoying a morning’s hatch of mayflies.
The friends, though approaching middle age, looked on
with boyish wonder and excitement about what they
were seeing. Through the pellucid water, they sorted out
the well-camouflaged trout from the shell and sandstone
streambed. What they saw amazed them. The lovely fish
was approaching twenty inches. He was wholly
disproportionate to the small
stream, flowing through the
quiet Jefferson County
hollow he inhabited.
The giant brown with fan-
sized golden fins continued
his languid rise as the friends
flipped a smooth, disc
shaped, stream stone to see
who would have a go at him. The winner of the stone
toss graciously offered to concede his turn, but the loser,
more graciously, declined. Strategies were discussed in
hushed tones as they remained low and hidden in the
cool shade of the hemlocks.
Though the trout resided in a small stream, it chose the
finest pool within the length of the watershed. The pool,
sixty feet long and twenty feet wide, was formed at a
sharp bend where the stream pushed up against a steep
hillside. Large boulders, the size of compact cars, held
water back at the lower end. At mid pool, another large
boulder protruded from the steep bank and extended,
table-like, just under the surface and ten feet into the
water, forming a wonderful retreat for any fish
Small Stream, Big Troutby Mike Weible
"He sees it!" was
all that his
friend said.
21
He stripped line from his reel as he intentionally made
his first cast to the right of the fish in order that he
might gauge his cast length without alerting the trout.
To the angler’s surprise, the spotter excitedly called out
that the trout was turning toward the fly. The wulff
passed by too quickly and the trout turned back to its
feeding position. The caster skillfully picked the line up
from the water as he prepared to make his measured
presentation to the fish. The line came back low and
straightened out behind the angler as he gently applied
just enough pressure to create a tightly-formed loop on
the forward cast, just above the water’s surface. He
checked the cast and dropped the rod to the right to
mend his line in order that only the fly would float over
the fish. The fly drifted to the water’s surface like goose
down.
“He sees it!” was all that his friend said. Two seconds
later the fly disappeared. The angler raised the rod to set
the hook and the battle was on. The fish raced upstream
ten feet ripping line from the reel then turned and
rocketed downstream past the angler. The rod was
arched high and the tip swung upstream to maintain a
tight line. The gossamer tippet that seconds ago allowed
the trout to be fooled by the fly was now the weakest
link between the trout and the fisherman. He could do
no more than hold on as the trout bulldozed on the
bottom at the foot of the pool.
Typically taciturn while fishing, the angler's verbal
prayers would just as quickly turn to lamentations if the
fish were lost at this point. The great trout, fighting deep
within the pool, now sought sanctuary under the
midstream rock. The angler yelled out to his friend that
the fish would surely be lost now as it was running the
line against the edge of the overhanging rock, refusing
to leave the safety of its fortress.
For a time nothing happened; the angler and the trout
were attached to one another by the arched rod and
strained line. In order to gain control of the perilous
situation, the angler decided to jump up and down on
the rock. It worked! The fish was spooked from its
refuge and was forced to fight for his life in open water.
After several anxious and agonizing minutes of battle,
the fish began to fatigue allowing the angler to coax him
in by degrees. Twice he passed within reach before the
net was swept over him from behind. The great fish
struggled within the net as the angler cried out in
victory.
The fisherman and his friend shared a moment of
elation. They marveled at the gold and tans of the fish.
Its fins were huge and undamaged. Spots of glossy
black and scarlet adorned his sides. In the corner of the
fishes hooked toothy jaws was the fly, barely holding
on. The fly was gently removed and the tape was laid
along the nineteen inches of beautiful wild brown trout.
The thought of relegating the beautiful fish to the lowly
station of a den wall ornament never crossed the
fisherman’s mind. No words needed to be said between
the old friends. The monarch was gently lowered back.
Cradled in the cool water his gills flared, he shook his
head, and with a powerful surge of his tail he retreated
back into the depths of his pool to regain his throne.
Fatigue and joy washed over the angler as his friend
extended a hand of congratulations. They both wore a
smile as they made the long hike out, taking turns
retelling and perfecting the story they would certainly
cherish for the remainder of their lives.
photo by Mike Weible
22
23
photo by Greg Clary
Returning home to Greenbottom and hearing
“Hey Baby”, “Darlin”, “Honey”.
“What can I get you?”
“How you doing?”
From unfamiliar women.
How I miss those sweet terms of affection.
But, Sugar is what gets me.
Every time.
Tips are automatically doubled,
Purchases are made that weren’t intended.
My face goes from grim to grin.
Every time.
Today, sitting alone in the woods, buck hunting,
I got to thinking.
Sugar. Why sugar?
Then a vision. An awareness. A discernment. An image.
My mother died as I turned 3, and
her oldest sister, my Aunt June,
would stop by, pick me up,
turn me upside down,
rough me up, make me laugh.
And call me Sugar.
Every time.
Something I needed, but could not name.
Something I still need.
When a grin needs help conquering grim.
When I come home each day.
Every time.
Sugarby Greg Clary
24photo by Tricia Grunick
The fall came suddenly, almost by surpriseWith just a slight twist of an old unforgiving hip
Against The Wind
Unceremoniously, he lay prostrate in itFace down in a pyre of leaves
A pile of autumn, and since the fallA heap of _ _ _ _
Against The Wind
How easily he was raked inBy Jack Frost, the apparition of breath
A cool and colorful callerAlways calling with and never ever
Against The Wind
Stillness lay within the leavesEach one a day in His life
A harvest of daysBlessed or cursed, but fully lived
Against The Wind
His nose spoke first and led The WayTickled into sneezing he inhaled
The mossy joy of his youthWhen falling into leaves was sport
Ah, to fallAgainst The Wind
Then his mind wandered toThe fried green tomatoes of summerThat yellow zoot-suit from his promThe sweet kiss of ruby red lipsThe amber of those momentsAll golden sunsets birthed by the night
He rolls over to look at the sky and treesThere are yet a few leaves on This treeHe stands to face the rakeHe knows will turn intoThe ache of the snow shovelYet again, another seasonAgainst The Wind
He leans on the rakeHe looks head onInto The Wind, and says:
Should this winter bringThe Ides of March
So be it, they will come, as alwaysAnd should the angels come for me
So be it, I will sing with the angelsShould the demons come for me,
So be it, I will drink with the demonsAnd should the light come for me
So be it, I will bow to the lightAnd should the darkness come for me
So be it, I will burn like leavesTo warm the darkness
EternallyAgainst The Wind
The Fall Came Suddenly
(Against the Wind)
by Girard Tournesol
photo by Rose James25
How can I sing that old comforting music
When youth’s melody soon comes to a close?
Beat your breasts, girls, and tear your tunics.
My dear friend Eros has laid down his rose.
Eros, again now, the loosener of limbs
Bittersweet, sly, uncontrollable creature
My servant no longer, follows his own whims.
He has forgotten me, his ardent beseecher.
Rosy-armed Dawn, they say, love-smitten
Once carried me off to the world’s ledge.
But Dawn’s light scattered itself unwritten
And the bleak daylight now cuts with an edge.
Soon comes old age to seize my tender body,
Soon my dark hair will be white as the snow.
My legs will grow tired and my knees knobby;
Already my sallow cheeks have lost their glow.
But Apollo has not yet the sunset begun,
And while my eyes still have their brightness
Is there hope to be found, victory to be won,
Though the die has been rolled in blindness?
Can I learn to create my own delicate fire?
I hear my voice, far off, and listen.
My aching care is no longer required.
A shattered heart is only transition.
Delicate Fireby Sarah Rossey
photo by Sarah Rossey 26
Among the flowers and weeds, somewhere in between, is where I sit;
hidden under their leaves and holding onto their stems.
With whom do I belong?
For which one am I?
Will I be so sly as to escape the weed's deadly grasp?
Am I strong enough to grow tall and bloom,
or will I simply curl in the shadows, never to face the sun?
Perhaps my roots will persevere and my stem be sturdy
that I will indeed grow boldly to the light, casting blossoms yet to be seen.
For I am dually the weed and the flower; a wildflower, unlike any other,
who has landed to root in the mud to be only what I am.
Among the Flowersby Laurie Barrett
photo by Greg Clary
27
I have never been a bel iever in reincarnation and have only slightly considered the theory of the recycling of the souls. My mother’s wee granny, however, according to family lore, was born with a “veil over her face”, an old-time term for a birth anomaly that some believe gave her the “gift” of foretelling the future. There are many family stories of her predictions, including her vision that she was going to die soon when apparently there was nothing wrong with her health. And sure enough, a few days after her prediction, she did die. Her death certificate lists the cause of death simply as “old age”.
It was when I was given an opportunity to accompany my husband on a business trip to the Far East, namely Hong Kong, Malaysia, and Taiwan, that a local doctor, a native of India, cautioned me to be wary of people from Sri Lanka during our trip. Seems his warning had something to do with mysticism.
Flying from DuBois, we touched down in Pittsburgh, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Anchorage, and then the big hop across the Pacific to our first stop, Hong Kong. I vividly remember the crowds of people performing tai chi in the streets in the morning on their way to work. We toured the city by double decker bus and rode the ferry back and forth between Kowloon and Hong Kong Island. We rode the train to the top of Victoria’s Peak and back.
Looking for more adventure on the last full day we were there, we decided to take a train north out of the city toward the rural area that the British named the New Territories. The track ran along the coast and we went to the end of the line, which then was under British rule. About half way back to Hong Kong, the train stopped at a large metropolis, Shatin, with a population at that time of more than 461,000. It is the location of the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas. By chance, we exited the train to visit the Temple.
To reach the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas, we first passed the Po Fook Hill Ancestral Halls where we witnessed families gathering to have picnics in front of the walls where their ancestors were interred. Passing the Halls, we climbed 500 steps up the path through heavy vegetation to reach the top. The day was hot and steamy, but upon arrival the temple area was quiet and peaceful. Pilgrims were here and there making offerings of rice to Buddha. I was quite taken with the embalmed body of the founder of the Temple, Rev. Yuet Kai, painted with gold leaf, draped in robes, sitting cross-legged on display in a glass case in front of the main altar.
Eventually my husband and I sat in a courtyard reflecting on the sights around us; gold Buddhas of various sizes adorning the walls. It was while we were sitting there that I noticed a man watching me from across the courtyard. Eventually he approached. “Excuse me.” he said in English. “I am from Sri Lanka. Are you from Portugal?” “No”, I responded, “I’m from Pennsylvania.” Never taking his gaze off me, he said, “I have met you before in another life. The Portuguese sailors used to bring their wives.”
I can’t recall what our next actions were other than we politely declined further conversation and walked away. What sticks with me to this day is that on the first leg of our journey to the Far East we encountered a person from Sri Lanka, as our doctor had cautioned. How could he have known? We made the trip to that mountainside north of Hong Kong by chance. Certainly our encounter with this stranger from Sri Lanka was far from ordinary. He knew me in another life. In retrospect, I wish I could share this experience with my mother’s wee granny and what her vision might reveal to me.
My "Other" Life by Kathy Myers
28
photo by Kathy Myers
I walked
No I ran
Towards the storm
Wanting it to consume
Me
With its wild winds
Its monstrous rains
I wanted its lightning
Its bright flashes
To pull me up
Wash me clean
And rebirth me
Free
But the madness
Enslaved me
Kept me
Breathing fast and alone
Searching for light
That was never there
I tried to find my
Footing
But the storm knocked
Me loose
Tumbling
Into the crash of thunder
Silencing my screams
This one thing
I thought would save me
Crippled me
Left me hunting
Hungry
I saw the storm
In you
When you never could
And now
The storm
Is me.
Broken Watch
by Amy Salsgiver
photo by Aaron Ames29
Reflections in Retrospect
I look upon my life thus far,
Wonder where I lost my star,
Did I lose it at the Liberty Bell?
Or did it go in a lobster shell?
Can I recapture it in forest green?
Should I look more closely in a dream?
What is important at this stage in the
game?....love? money?...the latter insane,
The former still most important by far,
For love is truly a reachable star.
by Elaine Bigley
photo by Sandi Bell
30
by Rick Abbot
Lyrics by Tim Rice Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber
Music by Andrew Tom Kitt Book & Lyrics by Brian Yorkey
A Reitz Theater Original
Book by Roald Dahl Dramatized by Richard R. George
by Ken Ludwig
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