DECEMBER 2023Bay to Ocean Journal Spotlight Writer |
Julie Savell-McCandless Skyward (For a friend who died young) But only the wild geese above us kept flying: On still days, alone, I believe you are here sometimes, as the winter sun sifts through a thousand tall pines. Top Photo by: jodie walton/Unsplash.com
| Russell Reece The Chestnut Man December 24, 2019 But tonight, I’m thinking of another snowy Christmas Eve. It was 1949; I was 6. We lived at 202 Delaware Street, the third-floor apartment across from the courthouse. At the time there was a bakery on the first floor that often filled our little apartment with the wonderful smell of baked goods. We had gone to the candlelight service at the Presbyterian Church, just down the block. I sat in the sanctuary with Mom and Dad, anxious for the service to be over so I could get back home to the tree and the eventual arrival of Santa Claus. But the tall wooden pews held me captive and the preacher loomed above us and droned on. I was stuck. Funny – it seemed like yesterday. The preacher finished and the organ began playing. Everyone grabbed hymnals and stood to sing. I hoped for “Jingle Bells” or “Here Comes Santa Claus,” but it was only church stuff again and I didn’t know any of the words. At least I could move a little when we were standing, and mom wouldn’t get mad at me. Finally, as the service was coming to an end, ushers handed out candles with little white cardboard discs for catching dripped wax. They lit the candles for people in the aisle seats and the flame passed down the row from person to person. Mom let me hold her candle. I moved it around watching the flame go sideways until she grabbed my arm and held it still. When all the candles were lit, the lights in the church were dimmed, and everyone sang “Silent Night,” which I knew the words to. The candles made everyone’s face glow as they sang. That was pretty neat to see. Outside, snow was coming down. Mom and Dad stopped to talk to some friends. The wooden manger and some of the sheep statues in the nativity scene were getting covered. I wondered if it had snowed when Jesus was born. Mom kept telling me not to forget Christmas was a celebration of the birth of Jesus. I knew she was right, but it was such a long time ago, and there wasn’t anything fun about it. Now there was Frosty and Santa Claus, Christmas trees and presents – lots of stuff. On the walk home, I tried to keep up but kept tripping on sidewalk bricks that were popped up because of tree roots. I wasn’t paying attention. Instead, I kept looking at the colored lights strung across Delaware Street. They were really pretty in the snow. Under the streetlight across from our building, an old man was selling roasted chestnuts. He had a beard and a raggedy blanket covering his head and shoulders and tied around his waist with a piece of rope. His fingers poked through old wool gloves. “We’ll take a bag,” Dad said. He pulled out some change. Snowflakes hissed on the grill. The glowing coals, the bitter smell: it all seemed a little dangerous. The man scooped nuts off the griddle, filled a paper sack, and handed it to Dad. “Have a fine Christmas,” he said. “Merry Christmas to you,” Dad said. The man winked at me. There was a twinkle in his eye as our gazes connected – and then he nodded. I didn’t know why. I kept looking back at him as we went across the street.
In the apartment, Dad turned on the Crosley and dialed in some Christmas music. Mom plugged in the tree. There were times I looked at the tree with all its decorations and it seemed to be alive. The tinsel moved whenever someone passed by, the sparkling light changed, there was a fresh smell. I liked to lie on the floor and look up into the branches, into the shiny bulbs, each with its own wide-angle view of the living room. I wished we could have a tree all year long. Dad sat down in his big chair and opened the paper. Mom tapped me on the shoulder. “About time for you to get ready for bed,” she said. I got into my PJs and Mom folded my Sunday school clothes. I leaned on the cold windowsill and looked out over Delaware Street at the colored lights strung across to the courthouse. It was snowing harder. One of the lights kept blinking on and off. A bus stopped and several people got off. Cars went by, snowflakes in the headlights. A woman with an umbrella and a man with a scarf over his hat walked uptown. A couple stopped at the chestnut man. The glow from the grill lit their faces as the man opened the top and scooped up another bag. Mom leaned on the sill next to me. “It sure looks like Christmas out there, doesn’t it?” she said. A man in a red coat rode by on a bicycle. “Are you sure Santa Claus can get in?” I said. “Don’t worry. He’ll get in.” “But we don’t have a chimney. He comes down the chimney. And we lock the door. He can’t come in the door.” Mom smiled. “He has his ways.” “But how?” “It’s Christmas, honey, magical things happen. It’s been that way from the beginning.” I thought of the Star of Bethlehem and baby Jesus and the three kings with their gifts, and then Santa with his sleigh and flying reindeer. “Time for bed,” Mom said. “Go say goodnight to your dad.” I lay in bed thinking of the snow and Santa flying through the sky. Colors from the lights strung across the road reflected on my ceiling and I thought of lying on the floor, looking up into the tree again and how the room looked so different in the shiny balls. I could hear Mom and Dad talking in the living room and Bing Crosby on the radio. I wondered if I would hear Santa when he landed on our roof. . . . I jerked awake at the sound of bells. The house was quiet. No light showed under my bedroom door. Bells chimed again and singing sounded out on the street. I got up and went to the window. Snow covered everything and was still coming down. A group of people stood across the street singing carols. They all wore long, heavy coats; the women wore bonnets, the men old-fashioned top hats. Two horses were tied to a railing behind them. A horse pulling a carriage clomped by. I’d never seen horses on the street before. Another larger carriage with a man sitting high on a seat passed going the other direction. And then I realized the colored lights were gone and the streetlights had tiny flames instead of electric bulbs. The chestnut man was still on the corner filling a sack for another man with a small boy about my size. The man tipped his hat and he and the boy walked toward 2nd Street. The chestnut man closed his grill cart and chained it to the lamppost. He walked into the street in front of our apartment and looked up at me. He raised his hand and beckoned for me to come down. At first, I thought it was a mistake, he must be waving to someone else. But he nodded and beckoned again. I shook my head and moved away from the window. Even if I’d wanted to, I’m not allowed to go anywhere without Mom and Dad. I peeked out again. The man smiled. He raised his arms and the snow around him swirled and flew. Then there was a twinkling, and I felt a rush of noise and wind, and suddenly, I was standing in the snow in front of the man. I was still in my PJs but wearing my boots, wool coat, and cap. He held out his hand. I shook my head, afraid, not knowing how I got out there. He was a stranger. Another horse and carriage went by. I couldn’t believe how big the horse was. The man made the special smile he had when we bought the chestnuts. He pointed up at our apartment. Mom and Dad stood by the window and waved. Bells rang again and the carolers began to sing “Silent Night.” “Come on,” the man said. “There’s something I want to show you.” I took his hand, and we were suddenly back at the church standing in front of the manger. I looked around wondering how we had gotten there, when one of the sheep moved. There were a lot more of them than there were before, and they were all real. Several candles lit up the space. Baby Jesus was alive too, moving his arms and making baby sounds. Joseph was off to the side laying down hay for a donkey. Mary kneeled behind the basket where baby Jesus lay. Other people approached, all of them wearing blankets and robes like the chestnut man. And there were other animals too, a horse and a camel. We were no longer by the church but near a narrow street with stone houses which I’d never seen in New Castle before. Everywhere I looked, things were different. Mary picked up Jesus and rocked him in her arms. She noticed me standing by the opening and smiled, then motioned for me to come over. I wasn’t sure I should, but the chestnut man took my hand, and we went through the sheep and lambs and up to Mary. The chestnut man sat down on the dirt floor. I looked at baby Jesus and caught his gaze. He looked right at me. “He sees you,” Mary said. I couldn’t look away. I felt like the baby and I were connected. It was as if we were the only ones there, as if we were new friends who had met for the first time and were getting to know each other. It was crazy because I didn’t hear anything; I just felt it everywhere in my body. And then he looked back at Mary. I glanced at the chestnut man. He was staring at me with kind eyes and a peaceful smile. “Remember this,” he said. I glanced around. The animals were still. Several had lain down. The crowd of people was mostly quiet, but some murmured with their hands folded in prayer. A man with white hair and a white beard approached leading a donkey with bells on its harness that jingled softly. He looked familiar. Someone started playing a flute. The snow had stopped. The sky was bright with stars. Droplets of moisture on people’s clothes and the fence and walls of the manger glistened from the candle flames. And maybe it was the closeness of the animals or the crowd nearby, but it didn’t seem cold anymore. A feeling of warmth and peace surrounded everything. I’d never felt anything like it. Mary put baby Jesus back in the basket and cupped his face in her hands. It seemed to glow. . . . “Hey, sleepyhead, wake up. It’s Christmas morning.” I opened my eyes. Mom smiled down at me. Dad stood in the doorway. At first, I wasn’t sure where I was and then wondered how I got back in the house. I scrambled up and looked out the window. The lights were back again. Snow covered the street, the sidewalks, and the parked cars. There were no more horses or carriages. The city green was white as far as I could see. No one was out. A few tire marks showed on the road. “Looks like Santa found his way in. You have presents under the tree,” Mom said. I looked at them. “I saw him last night,” I said. “You saw Santa?” Mom said. “Jesus. And Mary and Joseph were there and the chestnut man, and other people. I think Santa was there too. He had a donkey.” Mom glanced at Dad and then back at me. “Wow. You had quite a night.” “That was some dream,” Dad said. The sensation I had looking into baby Jesus’s eyes was still with me. I could feel it in every part of my body. I shook my head. “It wasn’t a dream. You waved to me.” They looked at each other again. “Don’t remember that,” Mom said. “I want to go back to church. I need to see the manger again.” . . . After we opened presents and had breakfast, Mom and I went outside. The wind picked up little clouds of snow and piled them against the buildings and along the curb. A car went by. Across the street, a man pulled a little girl on a sled. I looked for the horses and carriages I’d seen last night. There had been so many of them, but this morning, there were none. The chestnut man’s grill cart was still chained to the lamppost and covered with a layer of snow. I tried to remember if I had seen any cars last night. At the church, we stood in front of the manger. The whole display was smaller than I’d remembered. There were fewer animals than last night. Some were dusted with snow. Joseph, Mary, baby Jesus, and the three wise men were protected by a slanted roof. Mary was kneeling with her hands folded in her lap. I didn’t remember seeing the wise men last night. Maybe they hadn’t gotten there yet. A couple of wooden crates in the display had white cardboard discs and piles of melted wax on them where candles had burned down. I was so confused. Some of this seemed right, but some wasn’t anything like I remembered. Of course, this was just a pretend display, statues made of plaster. Nothing was real. Last night everything had been real. We had to have been somewhere else. Mom shivered. “Imagine how cold it would have been in an open manger like this,” she said. I could see the chestnut man’s eyes again and hear him speaking to me. “It was warm in the manger. It was safe and warm like an invisible cloud covered everything.” Mom looked at me, her mouth slightly open. “Was that your dream, honey?” The baby Jesus statue’s nose had a chip in it. I thought about his real face, how we had connected, how it had made me feel. And then I remembered how he looked with his face cupped in Mary’s hands. I wanted to tell Mom about it. Tell her so she’d understand, feel what I’d felt last night. I wanted to tell everyone. But I wasn’t sure how I would ever do it. Then… “Mom... I know what I want to be when I grow up.” I crossed East 2nd Street, careful not to trip on the snow-covered cobblestones, and turned down Delaware Street toward the river. As I approached Jessop’s Tavern, the door opened, and Doris and Ed Maxwell came out. “Ah, the Maxwells,” I said. “How was dinner at the tavern?” “Good as always, John,” Doris said. She wrapped her arm around mine and they both walked with me. “Your evening walk?” “The best part of my day,” I said. “We were talking about you earlier.” “Uh-oh.” “We’ve been going to the Christmas Eve service for more than twenty years now,” Ed said. “I swear it gets better every year.” “You take us right back to that night in Bethlehem,” Doris said. “Everything seems so real. I’m always left with such a comforting feeling.” I smiled, and for just a moment, I was six years old again, feeling very proud. “It is real, you know.” We got to their car and Ed opened the door for Doris. “Enjoy the rest of your walk, Reverend,” he said. “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas to you both,” I said. Top Photo by: josh hild/Unsplash.com
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November 2023Bay to Ocean Journal Spotlight Writer |
Faye Green Bread Pudding Our friendship was easy and strong, no demands and no issues. He was handsome, wild and non-conforming, truant, trouble. I was popular, a class leader, rule-follower, conformist. High school kids. A couple, but not within the definitions allowed in school. Not romantic, not dating, just always seen together. Safe without demands. The school staff questioned my relationship with him. We knew what the opinions were, and we ignored them. We were young and we could ignore. There were very few boundaries and no definitions to our friendship. Two young people who liked to be together. Sometimes he quickly kissed me. Graduation was called commencement in the late ’50s. It was a beginning and the speeches from the podium, on that hot, non-air-conditioned June day, proclaimed new life, new opportunities, new freedom. But he was one of the graduates sweating and not listening under his cap and gown. He did not feel a new life or new opportunities, only a new freedom, which he could not fathom. Freedom. The first thing he would do was render that to a drill sergeant. He was going into the Army. “I’m going into the Army on Friday. What are you doing tomorrow? I have one day. Let’s do something.” He did not want to spend his last day with the girl who was going to cry and moan about him writing to her and coming back to her. He did not want to spend the day with the easy girl who would spread her legs for him. There would be plenty of that along the way. He wanted to be with me but did not quite know why. Just an easy choice. The plan to spend the day together came rather nonchalantly when we were entering into the city swimming pool. The day after graduation was even hotter. The all-night parties left most graduates wanting to laze around the aqua water and be together one more day before commencing. Could it be that we were holding on to the one thing we learned yesterday – the knowledge that we and our classmates would never be together again after 12 years? Our class was small, fifty-seven in 1957. We were almost a clique. Within that clique, he and I were part of a core of students that had traveled together since first grade. He and I were in that tight inner group, and even more so because we lived on the same road and saw each other outside of school, too. He was going to miss me, and I was going to miss him. He did not realize it, but this one day was to assure him that I would always be on our road, at the same phone number and walking the same streets while he was gone. “I’ll always be here,” I promised. He called me when he got out of the Army. He called me when his grandmother died. He called me when he got married. Divorced. Married. Divorced. He called when he was diagnosed with cancer and when he was cancer-free. He called me when he put his life back together. He had some interest in my life and family, but not much. Fifty-five years after graduating, he called me to tell me he was very sick. His cancer was back. “I’m not going to beat it this time.” I promised years ago that I would always be here for him but did not expect, after so many years, that he would want me to fulfill that promise. But he just wanted to talk. Easy. I lived a state away and could not incorporate him into my life now. I was a widow and had begun a literary career. He brought me up on his story and asked for mine. During the next weeks, he called often. “Bread pudding,” he said, his voice noticeably weaker. “Custard-topped bread pudding like my grandmother used to make.” I looked up my recipe and resolved to make it for him. But he was so far away, and I delayed. We talked and again I thought, I’ll make that bread pudding. It was so easy to go back to my busy life after hanging up the phone. The bread pudding was nagging me, but I kept putting it off. I do not know why, on that particular Wednesday, weeks after he asked for it, I made custard-topped bread pudding and packed a cooler. Today I would drive from Delaware over the Chesapeake Bay – 200 miles – and take his wish to the nursing home deep in southern Maryland. The nursing home and his room were exactly like thousands of others. Generic and almost clean. Antiseptic to blanket a smell. A cheery bulletin board and a pitcher of ice water. One window. One chair. He was surprised to see me sitting, quietly waiting for him to wake up. “What are you doing here?” he asked with astonishment and happiness all over his face. “Bread pudding,” I replied. He was weak and had little appetite, but he wanted his portion. I helped him to sit up and eat. We each had a creamy, rich, nutmeg-flavored, sugary-sweet bread pudding with custard on top. Just like he remembered. “Exactly right,” he said. “Cancer is burning me up.” He told me he was hot as he handed his bowl back. I got a cool cloth and wiped his head, back, chest, and arms to take the fever down. It was the first time I had ever touched his body. We talked of old times and how important we have been to each other. He said he loved me, and I knew, in some ways, I loved him, too. “I love you, too,” I told him. We had what was our allotted devotion. A love that fulfills promises – eventually. We enjoyed each other in this generic nursing home room where announcements on the speaker interrupted his sleep and the pulsing oxygen helped him to relax. He opened his eyes often to make sure I was still there. “Are you a dream?” “Hardly...you ate my bread pudding.” One last smile before his medication ended our day. I kissed him and said goodbye. He died on Thursday. The End Top Photo by: amanda lim/Unsplash.com
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October 2023Bay to Ocean Journal Spotlight Writer |
Katherine Van Dewark The Secret of Bones So you can get to know me better Victor Top Photo by: christoph von gellhorn/Unsplash.com
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September 2023Bay to Ocean Journal Spotlight Writers |
Emily Decker Reflections on a York River Oyster I. Top Photo by: ben stern/Unsplash.com
| Alice Morris Riding With Bees The swarm is in a bag in the back of their station wagon. As her father drives, nine-year-old Stacy wonders how many people would willingly ride across town with thousands of bees in their car, windows rolled-up to muffle outside sounds, which helps keep the bees calm. Stacy thinks about the dangers of riding with bees––if the bag isn’t tied off tight enough, if the queen finds any hole, wanders out, every bee will follow––and attack. There could be collisions. Someone could die. Stacy looks at her red-faced father staring straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel. She knows not to speak to him. Knows he is tense. She needs a breath of fresh air; hopes he will soon crack his window. She doesn’t dare open hers first. From her beekeeping father, Stacy learned about bees as he used the tip of his putty knife to point out workers––drones––queen. With hive opened, she’d watched and learned about the cooperative, efficient, hard-working ways of bees, which she greatly admired. She knew if she could have one wish it would be for her father to run his own home like a colony of bees––instead, he was the long-clawed bear that ripped their hive apart. Stacy learned to keep her distance, except when it came to bees. Always she went along when he collected a swarm. Beforehand, she watched him prepare the new hive. At the swarm as her father puts on white overalls, veil, and gloves, Stacy tells terrified onlookers to keep voices low, stay back in the shade––tells them the bees don’t want to sting, but they will protect their queen! Purposely she doesn’t say that before swarming bees engorge on honey, so most are too doped-up to sting. By making her father look brave and heroic Stacey can earn a few precious days on his good side. All eyes on the beekeeper, her father brings out the smoker, gathers a handful of dry grass, gets a fire going inside the metal canister––first smoke seeping from nozzle. Pressing the bellows, he sends sweet-smelling smoke floating. Walking slowly towards the swarm, more smoke puffs as guard bees attack this invader. Just beneath the beautiful buzzing mass, Stacy’s father lays out a white sheet, evenly, flat. Ladder against tree he climbs, smokes the swarm, then gave the branch one fast snap. En masse the swarm drops to the sheet, lays two inches deep on a sea of white. Her father then gathers the four corners, shakes the bees toward a single opening, and as if they’ve become liquid he pours them into the waiting bag like water. With a piece of cardboard, he whisks away any bees clinging to his clothing, then scoops up clumps of strays, flicks them into the bag. Then the knot tied tight. Only when off the highway does her father crack his window, glance at Stacey, allow a smile. Stacey then cracks her window knowing she has earned a few safe days. Top Photo by: wolfgang hasselmann/Unsplash.com
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July 2023Bay to Ocean Journal Spotlight Writers |
Russell Reece Stolen In the fall of 1967 I was finally home after a difficult tour in Vietnam. But disconnecting hadn’t been easy. My mind often wandered back and gruesome images left me anxious and unsettled. Uncle Jack had offered me a weekend at the cabin on Bear Lake. “A good place to chill out,” he’d said, “shake off the willies.” I took him up on it. Before going to bed that first night I walked down the wooded lane and onto the road. The evening was cool and comfortable; starlight peeked through the trees. It occurred to me that for the first time in months I was out after dark and actually felt safe. I let that sink in as I walked along the pine-scented road, listening to the night sounds. Then I heard a siren; a few seconds later the roar of an engine. Ahead, at the bend, the tree-line lit up. Headlights jumped into view as a car slid through the turn and tilted over. Sparks flew and the mass of steel bounced and rolled toward me at high speed. I couldn’t lift my feet, wasn’t sure which way to go. In the frightening chaos of car-lights twirling and metal bashing, a pin-wheeling body flew into the air. I scrambled out of the way as the car brushed by, slid on its top and plowed into a tree. Dust particles and branches fell through upturned headlight beams, thumped onto the glass-covered road. I gathered myself and caught my breath. A police car rolled to a stop, siren winding down, red light flashing, headlights illuminating the silhouette of a twitching body. A police radio crackled as the door opened and a young cop got out, flashlight and pistol in hand. I froze at the sight of the gun. He momentarily trained his light on the man lying on the road then ran to the battered car. The flashlight beam moved over the front and back seats and the grass surrounding the crumpled heap. The cop holstered his pistol, hustled back. Breathing heavily, he stood over the guy for a moment then turned and retched into the grass. More sirens wailed in the distance. The cop glanced up, eyes widening as he spotted me. He fumbled for the pistol and pointed it at me, his drawn face and the weapon eerily highlighted by the flashing red light. I fell to my knees and raised my hands. His gun shook. “Don’t shoot,” I yelled. “How many others?” he yelled back. The sirens were closer. “Just me… I was out walking.” He stared for a few seconds then lowered the pistol and wiped his face. I slumped down on my hip, braced myself on the road and tried to settle my racing heart. “Hang in there, buddy,” the cop said to the man. “Ambulance is coming.” Still breathing heavily, he offered me his sweaty hand and helped me up. “It’s a stolen vehicle,” he said. “Don’t leave. I’ll need you as a witness.” Another trooper arrived; still more sirens on the way. In the haze of flashing red lights, I dusted myself off. The injured driver was on his back, eyes open, murmuring. His khaki shirt and head bloodied; his right arm and legs twisted grotesquely. A familiar sense of heaviness and gloom came over me. It was something I thought I’d left overseas, something I was done with forever. I sat down on the grass beyond the gravely shoulder and looked up through the trees, surprised for a moment stars were still there. Later that night, after I went to bed, images started coming. There were new ones now: the pin-wheeling man, the shaking gun, the sound of bashing metal as the car bounced and rolled toward me. I flinched each time it slid past. Fifty years later I still do. Top Photo by: jakob rosen/Unsplash.com
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Caroline Kalfas An Egret and His Property During
my childhood, the marsh across the sound appeared impossible to reach
without a motorboat or the skills of a bird. But the land’s slick,
emerald blades waved for me to come and explore its exposed shores. I
wanted to wade in the channel waters and step over shells like its
resident white egret. The
measured distance grew more manageable in my young adult years. With
access to a bright red kayak, I answered the long-standing invitation
and paddled with strong strokes in the scorching sun from my sandbar to
the edge of the knee-high grass growing in the wetlands. I
expected a soft arrival and a glide upon the sand. But thick, mushy mud
stopped my boat at the habitat’s edge, and the majestic bird I had
hoped to befriend took flight at my landing. His outstretched, pleated
wings and dangling stick feet navigated toward the very dock from which I
had launched my vessel. I
have often thought I should not have encroached upon the stomping
grounds of the three-foot-tall bird without his permission. Innocent
invader that I was, he fled from me with suspicion. And in seeing that
we couldn’t share the verdant space, which I admired and he roamed, I
looked to end my trespass. Releasing
my boat from the sticky swamp sludge, sweat upon my forehead, muscles
stiff from my struggle with the oars, I retreated toward home across the
green, choppy saltwater. Sea spray slapped my reddened face. The afternoon wind rushed my ears. Rocking swells threatened me with seasickness. And
sure enough, my elusive friend the egret met my arrival. The aloof,
feathered ambassador paced among tidepools on the sand at the foot of my
cottage, which stood in the center of a row of ostentatious houses
along the waterfront. I saw from afloat what the exotic loner witnessed daily from his prime property across the way. The
line of dwellings were not nests hidden in the landscape. They were
monstrosities overgrown with cement driveways, tidy carpets of thirsty
Bermuda grass, and, at my house, a two-story oleander with green, pointy
leaves and enticing fuchsia blossoms swaying next to my rickety steps.
The flirty, toxic bush beckoned the elegant bird to wander closer. I made my way up the yard, giving my boat several strenuous tugs. The
sleek egret skipped through the air and landed a few cottages down on
the sandbar. He studied the nearby shallow water, and, as if using
chopsticks, captured a floppy minnow in his pointy yellow beak. The bird
swallowed the catch down his agile, thin neck, followed by a second
helping of fish plucked from the tide. The well-fed fowl shook his head
in satisfaction and paused as if in thought. Winning
my full attention, the bird uttered a series of throaty clucks that
sounded like the slap of a playing card against a child’s bicycle
spokes. And before lifting his wings and heading back to his place in
the marsh, the creature poked his threatening mouth in my direction and
released a raspy call. Witnessing
his frustration, I came to an unspoken understanding with the bird: I
will stay on my property so he can continue to live on his. top Photo by: David Clode/unsplash.com
| Ann Bracken Problems with Diving Sometimes she’s afraid to jump. No, not on the blacktop playground, where she’s mastered Double-Dutch and excelled at Chinese jump rope. That’s solid ground. No, she’s afraid of crashing on her head when she tries to hit the diving board, spring up in the air and slice through the water, arms and legs aligned in arrow-like perfection. She freezes the day her father puts his arm across the board, a tan, muscled lever, a foot up in the air for her to clear. Tears well in her eyes, messengers of her failure, then shame rocks her body as her baby brother executes the dive like a dolphin. Failing, failing in front of everyone at the pool that day. Yet in the woods with friends, she’s fearless. Standing atop a hill, grabbing the coiled metal ring on the end of a bristly rope, swinging out over the rocky gorge, she moves in time to an inner metronome—then lands on beat, dropping down on the only patch of grass. Years later, she freezes at the thought of stepping onto a stage. Seeking out the feel of success from her quarry-jumping days, she finds an extravagant mall that promises an indoor bungee jump. As if buoyed by an invisible parachute, she launches, unafraid. top Photo by: Jess Zoerb/unsplash.com
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