An Open Door

Yesterday, as I worked at revising a poem,
A tap-tap-tap sound began at our front door

It sounded like a staccato someone
Had arrived, unannounced, and so I got up

To see about the visitor. I looked out
The right side window, through the translucent lace panel

Strung tightly across the panes. Nothing.
Then I peered out the left side window, just to be sure.

The light knocking continued. Flabbergasted, finally

I knocked on our door from the inside, thinking that if some

Strange ghost had come to call, he or she would surely understand

My odd behavior. One look out the right side window again

Gave me a unique view of a small black bird with tiny white spots,

Beating his wings. Perhaps exasperated by my lack of hospitality,

He flew away. The staccato rhythm stopped. That night, in a dream,
I ran down the stairs from the second floor landing

To see an ocean of white light flowing into our house from outside.
The strength of the light had flung the front door open, wide.



(Ciampa, Liz. "An Open Door." Wilderness House Literary Review. Cambridge, MA: Spring, 2010. 
Volume 5, Number 1. Print and online.)

Door knocker image provided by:
http://www.sturbridgeyankee.com/metal-bird-door-knocker.html

A Nose Grows

by Mary Higgins

I remember the day my nose grew, really. No, I didn’t mistake the arrival of a behemoth sebaceous gland bursting out on the scene. That usually arrived on my cheek. I woke up one morning from a delicious night of sleep suddenly seeing my nose in my vision. The 13 year old me, still with braces on my teeth, surveyed my nose in the mirror but there were no outward signs of growing a honker under the auspices of the sandman.

At breakfast, over my soft boiled egg and cereal, no-one else noticed either. Believe me, with seven other members of the family clustered around the kitchen table, surely at least one other person would have noticed it. I had to navigate around that bigger nose for at least three days. I thought to myself, so this is what it feels like. There was no pain involved. I wasn’t a normal teenager. Along with the wonder of what my first kiss would feel like, I actually spent time wondering and worrying about that day when I’d have an adult nose. Would I feel it growing? How much pain would be involved in growing one? After all, adults were always talking about those “growing pains”. Which body part would it pertain to?

It wasn’t like the trauma of a master zit on the forehead screaming adolescent angst all over your face. Besides, zits always appear right before the big event, on the eve of an important social occasion such as the school dance or right before your first date. Yes, they send their calling

cards 24 hours in advance, not that there’s much you can do about it at such a late date except to pick them or use a warm compress. We all know nothing good results from doing that.

My nose chose to grow overnight when nothing particularly important was happening. For three days, I was hyper-aware of its presence on my face. Then I guess, I adjusted to it and learned how to focus beyond it. It never morphed into a bird’s beak; never lengthened into a giant ski slope; nor became a pretty turned-up nose like my sister’s. It was simply an average woman’s nose.

My nose growing, along the teenage time line was fairly a blip on the radar somewhere between shaving legs for the first time and buying your first antiperspirant. It was more of a non-event. No cake was baked upon its arrival, no celebratory tea and cookies were served. No presents received, no money collected, yet I remember it so clearly. It wasn’t a life-altering event either such as the birth of a breast bud or the onset of menarche but it made a long-lasting impression on me. Maybe I was afraid that the growth would continue. It certainly lacked the cachet of buying the first training bra.

I often wonder if writers are just different. Our eyes perceiving the slightest change, our sensors tuned in to the world around us even to micro-changes.

Picking Blueberries with Papa

by Lauraine Lombara

            Every summer, around August, when the blueberries ripen in the Boston area, my Papa and I would set out for Concord to spend the day at a spot on a hillside Papa had discovered. The blueberries, mostly of the high bush variety, would be crowning the elevation with bursts of blue.  This day trip would entail a Friday afternoon session of planning as we would leave early on a Saturday morning.  Papa worked religiously Monday through Friday, early morning to mid afternoon at his job as a sous chef at a Boston restaurant.

            From the cellar, I brought out the large metal picnic basket, yellow and brown lattice patterned; washed, aired and lined it with waxed paper. Large paper cups on a string to hang around our necks, and cups to drink our lemonade and water from bottles which would be filled in the morning, went into the tin. We made fresh sandwiches in the A.M., usually salami, mortadella or ham, cheese, lettuce and a few tomatoes, layered on crusty Italian bread. A few  of my mother’s homemade biscotti and some fruit constituted our picnic lunch which always tasted better after a morning in the woods, climbing the hills and picking blueberries.

            Our early jaunt began with a walk to the Andrew Square MTA station, a train ride on the Red line to Harvard Square, and from there, a bus ride to Concord.  I am not positive, but I believe Papa’s favorite spot was somewhere along Route 2.  I do know it was Concord as he would inform me each year about wonderful Concord grapes.  Luckily for us, the day he chose was always rain-free, save for a few occasional sun showers, but we were never drenched.  We would arrive about one and a half hours later if we had made rapid connections.  Time went by quickly as we had fun traveling together; talking and admiring the scenery once we were on the bus.

            Papa would signal the driver to stop and we would get off the bus, looking like peasants in our long pants, long-sleeved shirts, hats to shield the sun and sweaters tied around our waists in case it turned chilly. Papa would check out the area and pronounce the spot perfect.  Now we were set to spend about two hours or so, leisurely filling the extra bag I had carried.  After we finished our delicious lunch and had a little rest, we assiduously gleaned the hillside for a few more hours, gently pouring cups of the dark, sweet blues into the now empty picnic tin, filling it to the top. Tired, but satisfied with our tin and bag filled, we headed home.

            I believe my parents and their forebears and now my brothers and I are genetically programmed to forage.  In Italy, it was and still is done for berries, mushrooms, nuts, olives and fruits of trees-all growing wild or on property of family and friends.  We have a few blueberry bushes in New Hampshire on our property there and my family and I relish the annual harvest of our meager supply -nothing to compare with the Concord treasure chest.  As I pick, I am brought back to those idyllic summer treks, spending preteen father- daughter time alone with my Papa in pleasurable companionship, away from my two older brothers!  When I travel to Concord now to visit my daughter Suzanne and family who reside there, I scan the road side, trying to determine where Papa’s spot was. Finding it or not, I know he would be so happy that Suzanne lives in Concord and when I go there, I revisit this place and the loving memories of him it evokes.

Marjorie....from Act III

by Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

Death tagged along with her like a pesky neighborhood dog. Long ago, in the beginning, it was just a watery shadow which floated next to her, over and around her, the twin who was stillborn at their birth.

Even before she knew the meaning of words, she felt their rhythm; her mother rocked and sang to her of rocking babies in tree-top cradles, boughs breaking, babies falling, cradle and all. When she was a bit older, she saw, in the large picture books her mother held for her, the pieces of Humpty-Dumpty after his great fall, and Jack's broken head at the bottom of the hill, the pail and Jill tumbling after him. On another page, an old man was snoring while it was pouring and her mother read...“and he never woke up in the morning.”

In chapter books, she and her mother read of Sleeping Beauty in a rectangular glass case and Red Riding Hood in the belly of a wolf. There were stories of wicked step-mothers and nasty witches, and children hungry or lost. Often she listened to her parents tell their own stories at the dinner table. “He just dropped dead, just like that, on the sidewalk,” or, “He was carrying the plate to the car when he tripped and fell, banged his head on the steps, dead, just like that, on the path, the dish broken into pieces, the potatoes rolling everywhere.” Someone had “died in her sleep; another had “died in his own bed just like he wanted to.”

Later, in school, she learned the meanings of the words-inevitable-and-immortal- and decided that all of these deaths—even the once-twin's—were just that-- inevitable. When the neighbor's pup, practically brand new, was run over by a pick-up truck, she thought, Well, I guess that's just how it is.

A classmate turned thin and bald, and one day never returned to school; on that week's vocabulary test, she followed the directions carefully. Patsy Ann is not immortal, she wrote, underlining the word in her declarative sentence, ending it with a dark period. When she got the test back, the teacher had put a sticker on it, and had placed a small pink geranium plant on Patsy's now-empty desk. Months after, her great grandfather, whose hand twitched like the second hand of a clock, fell off the kitchen chair, his heart stopping abruptly, his hand stilled.Inevitable--that's just how it is--; this time,though, she did not write a sentence.

When she was twelve, her brother, eight years older, was shot down in the South Pacific, over Guam, the letter said. Where was Guam? Shot down and disappeared forever, though her parents pressed the Army for more details, evidence, remains, whatever. She located Guam in the bulky atlas in the school library and imagined him falling from the sky, his cap swirling like a leaf dropping from its tree in the wind.

Years later, when she was married and more than twenty, she'd push her baby in his little plaid carriage into town, stopping at the war memorial on the village green. Reading down the list of names in the glass enclosed case, she'd linger at Robert Trane, PFC. United States Army; this had been her brother, landed now and fixed forever in small brass letters.

Days lengthened, then shortened; the seasons changed; years passed. One more baby came and grew, yet an inkling tugged at her brain: a spare—it seemed to her that she needed a spare. In a novel she had once read, the mother had wanted a spare—an extra—in case something went wrong with one of her others. When the little one was born, a third boy, she named him Ezra, as close to Extra as she could get.

Years passed; the toddlers grew into teens, the infant turned toddler. She exchanged trikes for bikes. Then her first-born's driver's permit became a license to drive. With his caddying money and some help from her—she now worked part time in the assessor's office in the town hall on the green where her brother's death was stilled marked—she allowed him to buy a very used car. Its trunk was jammed shut, one back door wouldn't even open a crack, and the passenger's door window didn't crank all the way up, jiggling at anything over 25. Her middle boy loved to ride in the car, his feet stretched up on the dash, his elbow on the window ledge, fingers on the roof, tapping to the tunes his big brother played on the AM station. She liked to see them this way, the two brothers off on some foolish and unnecessary errand, or the big one volunteering to pick up the middle one after soccer practice.

Was it the sudden drop in temperature that dusky evening? Or was it the boy's speed? The ice had formed quickly and silently, spinning the car into the guard rail, ricocheting it off like a bumper car at the fair, landing it on its side, the jiggling window silenced forever, her middle one as well.

At least there was a body and a burial this time—and a spare, the little one, Ezra. She never blamed the eldest, not did she ever forgive him, and when her husband, their father, died suddenly (dropped dead, just like that, she heard her mother's voice say) newly retired by barely a month, she buried him next to her boy in the ecumenical cemetery near the town's only traffic light.

Distant from her eldest (that's just how it is), she gave her storehouse of un-used love to Ezra, now grown with a family of his own. She lived her small life in the small town which was her world; there were twice-a-week bingo nights occasionally ending with a Jack Daniels with her friend John, a bridge game now and then, monthly trips on the van to the Mall (for stockings, or perhaps to replenish the bourbon) and holiday dinners at Ezra's. There were school plays and confirmations and soccer matches to watch from the sidelines in the blue chair Ezra spread open for her—a place for her pocketbook, even. She went to the wakes of acquaintances, the funerals of friends, never asking of the world more that it could offer.

One year, as she poked with her cane in the brown, damp leaves looking for Spring—a crocus or two, the start of a daffodil, the neighborhood dog, an old thing himself, came over to nose in the smells of the earth she had unturned. Suddenly she felt dizzy and trembly, the dog graying and fading as she dropped, like a light bundle, to the ground. So this is how it is; so this is how it is. The dog nuzzled her gently, and lay down next to her, his nose on her knee, his tail raised in alert.

My turn now, she thought, as she lay in the hospital bed, refusing transfusions and tests (bone marrow? Spinal tap?

What for?); on the second night there, she heard in the far distance of the hallway, her mother's voice saying to her: remember the prayer? ...remember the prayer. Opening her eyes wide to the window and beyond, she thought she knew it by heart: Now I lay me down to sleep...what was the rest?...something, something, something keep...if I should die before I wake, something, something,something...take.

That would have to do: rummaging in her head for the missing words had exhausted her.What for?She lowered her eye lids, turned her face to the wall, and slipped gently and quietly into a sleep that would not bring a morning.

Limes
by Liz Ciampa

This drink saved me
when I was pregnant with you both
and towards the end
could eat almost nothing
could feel almost nothing
& definitely could not sleep a wink
but I could make this drink
lemon seltzer water
my fingers steeped in lime
its veins strewn all over me
sticking out from under my fingernails.
I would lick my fingers
pour the seltzer over them
and watch the fizz rise to the top
above the ice chunks.
My favorite part was upending the last cubes
into the Wonder Woman pint glass before me, laughing;
the small, crunchy ice pebbles
tinkling into the glass,
mixing with the lime sinews,
the seltzer water,
and the big pieces of ice.

That drink refreshed me
long before I took a sip
and when I did take a long drink
I would think:
Someday, you two girls will remember
your mother's fingers,
touching your faces, your arms,
& holding your bodies so close,
and my hands still smelling pleasantly, freshly,
of limes.


(Ciampa, Liz.  Good for Everyday Use.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2012. Pp. 30-31. Print.)

Being 50

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     Next month I am celebrating a milestone birthday and decided that I would share my reflections of the past five decades. I scribbled down thoughts on Post-its, thinking how those pearls of wisdom would turn into this magnum opus that would attract readers from far and wide. Instead, when I sat in front of my laptop with those scraps of paper, I couldn't write anything. Not one word. Zilch!

     My first response was to berate myself for ever thinking I could write in the first place. (I am very good at mental self flagellation!) It occurred to me, however, that my mistake was writing with the sole purpose of attracting the reader instead of writing for myself. If I am not being true to myself in my writing (and life) then everything I project rings hollow. There is always a risk in showing your true self. What if people see me and don't like that person? At my age I think the risk is worth taking, so I will share a few of those Post-its.

My cute shoe days are over, and that's okay.

     This may seem like a shallow statement, but in my younger days I could skip down the cobblestones of Faneuil Hall in three inch spiked heels at 2 a.m. without a second thought of spraining an ankle. A few years down the road I would wear the cute shoes and bring the practical ones in an oversized bag. Today, I test run a pair of shoes for 5 minutes before going out, and if I am thinking about my feet once during that time, I ditch them. I would rather be present in my surroundings and the people I am with, instead of thinking about my feet! The same applies to uncomfortable clothing and complicated hair.

I am never too old to learn something new.

    When I was 19, I went to Disney's Epcot with my mother and sister. The park was brand new and only half the countries in the World Showcase had been built. I remember viewing the progression of human communication on Spaceship Earth and marveling at scenes depicting future children talking to each other through television screens. Of course, the attraction has since been updated several times, because the progression far surpassed anything Disney could imagine.

     It has been amazing coming of age during this incredible surge in technology. Our “Spaceship Earth” has indeed become a smaller place, with the exchange of thoughts and ideas via social media and the internet. I know personally, I discover something new everyday, and with an open curious mind the capacity to learn is endless. Hopefully technology will some day help people see past their own stagnant dogmas and focus on our commonality instead of what sets us apart. It is indeed a Small World After All.

I am grateful for this body.

     I am starting to appreciate this vessel of mine no matter what its size or appearance, which is a giant leap from my 22-year-old self that thought she was too fat at a size 7. I am thankful for wide capable hips that brought new life into the world. My furrowed brows are a reminder of how many times I was able to squint into the sunlight and I am grateful to have laughed so much as to create some lines. I look at every scar, stretch mark and wrinkle as a road map to this body's journey. I also realize that I should treat this vessel a little bit kinder and in a more healthful way, so the journey may continue for years to come.

It really is all about L-O-V-E

     Millions of songs have been written about it, movies are based on it, and there are websites to help you find it (although be careful what words you put into your search engine). It is love. Everybody wants it, but strangely enough it is hard to define.

I recently found a wonderful quote from Brene Brown in The Gift of Imperfection. She writes:

Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow. A connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them—we can only love others as much as we love ourselves.

     Loving yourself is not an easy task, (see mental self flagellation above). I wish I were evolved enough to say, that it is rare for me to have a self-defeating thought during any given day, but I am getting better at recognizing those thoughts for what they are. Writing has helped enormously, although it still takes some courage to share what I write, as I am left vulnerable to scrutiny. I know that when I am feeling secure within myself, it opens the doors to better connections with family and friends, and especially my writing. It also points me into a direction of higher purpose.

     I have also learned that the best parts of me have always been there. I am still the little girl singing next to her father while he plays the piano and the giggling teenager surrounded by high school friends. I am still the young bride looking forward to a future with her groom and I will forever be a mom worrying about her children's welfare well into their adulthood. Though outward appearances have changed I remain essentially me, although now at 50...even more so.

The Riddle

by Gail Balentine

          She had entered and left through that gate countless times during childhood and beyond. As she went through for this last visit, the usual squeak announced her arrival. She looked at the house and was sad to think of her parents in another place. Even though she and her brother had left years ago, it was still "home" as long as their parents were there.
     She walked up the path, into the house, and through each room. Family meals, pets, fights with her brother, Christmas parties, and friends' faces came to mind. And then she remembered the summer of her junior year and sat down on a stair to let her memories play out like a television rerun.
     She and her twin brother were 17, filled with thoughts of all the "cool" things they could do if only they had a car. Dinner discussions were dominated by efforts to wrangle the Chevy for Saturday nights.
     One particular evening, their father tried to introduce something different. Concerned they were racing so fast they would miss important moments, he cautioned them to pay more attention to details, to really look at their lives and the people and things in it. The advice fell on deaf teenage ears.
     Not one to give up easily, the next night he had a proposition. Whoever could solve his riddle in the next week could have the car every Saturday night for the summer. The riddle was: "The answer I seek is a representation of our family, something right in front of you that you see and touch every day, something that speaks when you touch it, and something that I doubt you ever really notice."
     Her brother, bragging he could get the car if he solved the riddle, turned to football buddies for advice; they were clueless. She went to the library and looked up famous riddles but after reading them was no closer to solving her father's particular riddle. Both of them put their minds to the task. They searched the house, the car, and the school for answers. she remembered her mother saying it was, hands down, the quietest week since they'd been born.
     The deadline came and went with no answers found. No amount of begging got him to reveal any more clues. Instead, he replied that he was confident one of them would figure it out one day and gave them his oft repeated advice: "Just try to slow down a bit and pay more attention to what's going on around you." The episode faded into family lore and while now and then she'd thought about the riddle, time passed and no solution had presented itself.
     She stood up and went to check that all doors and windows were locked. The new owners were signing the papers the next day and her father had asked her to make one final round. She sighed as she went onto the porch, stepped down, and paused for a last look around the yard.
      Finally, her eyes focused on the gate and there it was-"something right in front of you that you see and touch every day, something that speaks when you touch it"and certainly some-thing she never really noticed. When she was small, her father had replaced the gate pickets with five he had carved to look like a man, a woman, a boy, a girl and a dog - together they were a representation of their family. She lovingly touched each picket before she left.
     She was grinning on the way to her car as she reached for her cell phone.....