2023 Writing Contest Winners
Adult Prose
First Place: A Turbid Tide
by Ed Cornachio
It’s almost impossible to emerge pain free and unbloodied when traversing a sandy beach on crutches. Just one hour negotiating Oregon’s northernmost beach taught me that. Crutches are not designed for plodding through dry, undulating soft sand or staying upright on slicker, wet sand near the water’s edge. Those tricky surfaces practically guarantee a humiliating pratfall. But I thought I’d give it a try. I should have known better. But it really doesn’t matter — in just a few more days I can dump these crutches forever. My prosthetics will be ready for final fitting.
With the nip of early Fall in the air, this stretch of Oregon’s northernmost beach is practically deserted. That suits me just fine. It bothers me that too many thoughtless people tend to gawk at a legless man on crutches. Really pisses me off.
I was tired and ready to call it a day, when I happened upon a phalanx of gulls some fifty yards distant. Facing sea and wind, their lance-like beaks confronted a defiant sun hovering above the horizon …
Oh, Christ! Here it comes. Fuck!
… my Post Traumatic Stress syndrome. A remnant of my stint in Viet Nam, I never know when it’s about to happen or what triggers it. It could be something as simple as the sound of a car backfiring, or the sight of a homeless man asleep in a doorway. My doctor calls those provocations my “PTS switch.” Right now it was the sight of the gulls that flipped the switch to “on.”
The scene morphed into a blended mix of partial memory and distorted reality — a kind of military-themed tableau played against a muddled battleground of sand, water and war. The birds’ long, black shadows exaggerated their number, but I counted no more than twenty, a small, isolated unit left to their own devices. As I approached, a sentry squawked an urgent warning, igniting a cacophonous chorus of vigilance and alarm, spreading panic throughout their ranks. Drawing nearer, I saw them shuffle nervously about, abandoning any former semblance of order. When I was almost upon them, they suddenly erupted into a frenzied explosion of flapping wings, screeching a hasty escape seaward. Some distance out from shore they turned in unison and glided to a new, orderly formation further down the beach, safe from my intrusion. They regrouped and closed ranks, seemingly content with their safer deployment. Only the telltale evidence of stirred up sand revealed their evacuated, former bivouac.
Except for one, lone gull. It never took off with the rest of the flock. Mute and unmoving, it lay on its side, one wing outstretched, white feathers ruffling in the wind. Its eyes were open and ghostly glazed, its beak agape, as if crying out just before dying. Like Artie.
Out at sea the infinite line of the horizon teased the upper limb of the sun before swallowing the whole of it in one final gulp, lengthening shadows and darkening memories. In that quiet stillness of the fading light I heard the wind mourn. It mourned for Artie.
Ever since grammar school, Arthur Cantanucci was my best friend. Inseparable, we did everything together, like two peas in the same pod. When we were ten years old we pinky swore to remain friends for life, to look out for each other, no matter what. At the age of ten, a pinky swear is the most solemn, unbreakable oath imaginable.
Shortly after graduating high school Artie and I enlisted in the Army, enticed by its potential adventure and future rewards. Maybe Hollywood war movies were part of the enticement as well. We managed to remain together through basic training and beyond, including our eventual deployment to Viet Nam. The Army taught us how to engage and kill the enemy. Viet Nam taught us how to avoid being killed by them. We served together, side by side, always looking out for each other, always keeping sacrosanct the spirit of the “pinky swear” we made many years ago.
But war was not like the movies. There was nothing romantic or heroic about the smell of death.
Like a coquettish lover, the incoming tide caressed the lifeless gull, tempting it to take wing and fly away with her. The gull’s only response was to sway in unison with the tide’s persistent rhythm. I stood transfixed above the bird, wondering … how? A moment ago it stood in the midst of its lively comrades, and in the next minute it lay dead upon the sand. But how?
In Nam there was never any question regarding the cause of death. Death always laid bare its how. Scabbed-over bullet wounds, grenade amputations, shrapnel disfigurements, torn limbs, burnt flesh — obvious, visible data. When collecting dog tags from the dead it was always easy for me to discern the how.
Not so with this gull. Curious, I laid aside my crutches, and eased down onto the sand. Sidling up to the bird, I examined it closely. I saw no visible wounds, no sign of blood, no battle scars, no missing limbs, no shattered, torn-apart flesh, no nearby sign of an exploded mine. Of all the battlefield dead I’ve seen, this gull revealed no discernible cause of death. Mysteriously it just … died.
The tide’s advance continued its assault on the dead bird. Each new, approaching wavelet anointed the gull with an airy spume, a baptismal inducement, drawing it further into its watery kingdom. Fearing the tide’s insistent attempts to lure the bird away, I drew its lifeless body close to mine, cradling it, protecting it from the tide’s advance. Far out at sea, from somewhere behind the horizon, I heard the distant rumble of muffled artillery.
The sound of an approaching shell is unforgettable — a ghostly, hissing, venomous sound — a take-immediate-cover sound, followed by a world-silencing, deafening blast. Immediately after that first millisecond of head-splitting explosion, my entire world went deathly silent. I heard nothing! Nothing! Not even my own scream! The war was an out-of-focus, silent movie.
I felt myself being catapulted upward. Up and up and up, through blackened clouds and colorless sky, thrust into god’s silent heaven, I hovered momentarily before accelerating down again, back to muck and mud and the certainty of earth. Artie lay some five feet away, bloodied and unmoving, a severed arm, disjointed at the elbow, nearby. Minutes (or hours) later, I managed to drag myself and Artie into the shell’s crater, cradling him in my arms, wondering if he was still alive, wondering if he could hear me pleading with him, “Stay with me, Artie. Breathe.” All the while, a drenching, jungle rain quickly filled the crater with tepid, foul smelling water. I rubbed my wet hands across my face, washed away the mud and muck from my eyes and tried to focus …
Everything was blurred. Behind the silent, falling torrents of rain, nothing came into focus. The war, the world — nothing. Just a sense of separateness.
I tried to move. Tried to push with my legs, tried to lift myself above the crater’s rim. I pushed and felt nothing. Why the fuck can’t I push!
The crater’s water rapidly turned a freakish pink. Various pieces of shredded, bloodied flesh floated up around me. I screamed louder. A louder, silent scream.
All I knew for sure was that I was in this hell-hole of a crater, immersed in muck and blood, unable to move, wondering, for the first time, if I still had my legs. I sensed nothing but the noiseless, ghostly winds of Viet Nam ripping through my head, carrying the fetid smell of fear and death. I welcomed sleep.
Hours, (or days?) later I was jostled awake by excruciating pain and the nearby sound of a chopper. So I wasn’t completely deaf! I turned to Artie, shouting above the helicopter’s noise, “You hear that, Artie? Chopper! Stay with me! Don’t you die on me. ARTIE! DON’T YOU FUCKING DIE!”
A soft onshore breeze accompanied the advancing tide, inching higher with each passing minute, covering the stubs of both my legs. I lay there, unmoving, allowing the tide to wash over me, letting it cleanse away the blood and the gore and the hellish sights and sounds and stink of war. I lay there, listening to the final, somber cries of broken men, men with glazed eyes and open mouths, cursing their demons or trusting their gods. I lay there, at the edge of the ocean, holding tight to my best friend and a dead, white bird.
# # #
With the nip of early Fall in the air, this stretch of Oregon’s northernmost beach is practically deserted. That suits me just fine. It bothers me that too many thoughtless people tend to gawk at a legless man on crutches. Really pisses me off.
I was tired and ready to call it a day, when I happened upon a phalanx of gulls some fifty yards distant. Facing sea and wind, their lance-like beaks confronted a defiant sun hovering above the horizon …
Oh, Christ! Here it comes. Fuck!
… my Post Traumatic Stress syndrome. A remnant of my stint in Viet Nam, I never know when it’s about to happen or what triggers it. It could be something as simple as the sound of a car backfiring, or the sight of a homeless man asleep in a doorway. My doctor calls those provocations my “PTS switch.” Right now it was the sight of the gulls that flipped the switch to “on.”
The scene morphed into a blended mix of partial memory and distorted reality — a kind of military-themed tableau played against a muddled battleground of sand, water and war. The birds’ long, black shadows exaggerated their number, but I counted no more than twenty, a small, isolated unit left to their own devices. As I approached, a sentry squawked an urgent warning, igniting a cacophonous chorus of vigilance and alarm, spreading panic throughout their ranks. Drawing nearer, I saw them shuffle nervously about, abandoning any former semblance of order. When I was almost upon them, they suddenly erupted into a frenzied explosion of flapping wings, screeching a hasty escape seaward. Some distance out from shore they turned in unison and glided to a new, orderly formation further down the beach, safe from my intrusion. They regrouped and closed ranks, seemingly content with their safer deployment. Only the telltale evidence of stirred up sand revealed their evacuated, former bivouac.
Except for one, lone gull. It never took off with the rest of the flock. Mute and unmoving, it lay on its side, one wing outstretched, white feathers ruffling in the wind. Its eyes were open and ghostly glazed, its beak agape, as if crying out just before dying. Like Artie.
Out at sea the infinite line of the horizon teased the upper limb of the sun before swallowing the whole of it in one final gulp, lengthening shadows and darkening memories. In that quiet stillness of the fading light I heard the wind mourn. It mourned for Artie.
Ever since grammar school, Arthur Cantanucci was my best friend. Inseparable, we did everything together, like two peas in the same pod. When we were ten years old we pinky swore to remain friends for life, to look out for each other, no matter what. At the age of ten, a pinky swear is the most solemn, unbreakable oath imaginable.
Shortly after graduating high school Artie and I enlisted in the Army, enticed by its potential adventure and future rewards. Maybe Hollywood war movies were part of the enticement as well. We managed to remain together through basic training and beyond, including our eventual deployment to Viet Nam. The Army taught us how to engage and kill the enemy. Viet Nam taught us how to avoid being killed by them. We served together, side by side, always looking out for each other, always keeping sacrosanct the spirit of the “pinky swear” we made many years ago.
But war was not like the movies. There was nothing romantic or heroic about the smell of death.
Like a coquettish lover, the incoming tide caressed the lifeless gull, tempting it to take wing and fly away with her. The gull’s only response was to sway in unison with the tide’s persistent rhythm. I stood transfixed above the bird, wondering … how? A moment ago it stood in the midst of its lively comrades, and in the next minute it lay dead upon the sand. But how?
In Nam there was never any question regarding the cause of death. Death always laid bare its how. Scabbed-over bullet wounds, grenade amputations, shrapnel disfigurements, torn limbs, burnt flesh — obvious, visible data. When collecting dog tags from the dead it was always easy for me to discern the how.
Not so with this gull. Curious, I laid aside my crutches, and eased down onto the sand. Sidling up to the bird, I examined it closely. I saw no visible wounds, no sign of blood, no battle scars, no missing limbs, no shattered, torn-apart flesh, no nearby sign of an exploded mine. Of all the battlefield dead I’ve seen, this gull revealed no discernible cause of death. Mysteriously it just … died.
The tide’s advance continued its assault on the dead bird. Each new, approaching wavelet anointed the gull with an airy spume, a baptismal inducement, drawing it further into its watery kingdom. Fearing the tide’s insistent attempts to lure the bird away, I drew its lifeless body close to mine, cradling it, protecting it from the tide’s advance. Far out at sea, from somewhere behind the horizon, I heard the distant rumble of muffled artillery.
The sound of an approaching shell is unforgettable — a ghostly, hissing, venomous sound — a take-immediate-cover sound, followed by a world-silencing, deafening blast. Immediately after that first millisecond of head-splitting explosion, my entire world went deathly silent. I heard nothing! Nothing! Not even my own scream! The war was an out-of-focus, silent movie.
I felt myself being catapulted upward. Up and up and up, through blackened clouds and colorless sky, thrust into god’s silent heaven, I hovered momentarily before accelerating down again, back to muck and mud and the certainty of earth. Artie lay some five feet away, bloodied and unmoving, a severed arm, disjointed at the elbow, nearby. Minutes (or hours) later, I managed to drag myself and Artie into the shell’s crater, cradling him in my arms, wondering if he was still alive, wondering if he could hear me pleading with him, “Stay with me, Artie. Breathe.” All the while, a drenching, jungle rain quickly filled the crater with tepid, foul smelling water. I rubbed my wet hands across my face, washed away the mud and muck from my eyes and tried to focus …
Everything was blurred. Behind the silent, falling torrents of rain, nothing came into focus. The war, the world — nothing. Just a sense of separateness.
I tried to move. Tried to push with my legs, tried to lift myself above the crater’s rim. I pushed and felt nothing. Why the fuck can’t I push!
The crater’s water rapidly turned a freakish pink. Various pieces of shredded, bloodied flesh floated up around me. I screamed louder. A louder, silent scream.
All I knew for sure was that I was in this hell-hole of a crater, immersed in muck and blood, unable to move, wondering, for the first time, if I still had my legs. I sensed nothing but the noiseless, ghostly winds of Viet Nam ripping through my head, carrying the fetid smell of fear and death. I welcomed sleep.
Hours, (or days?) later I was jostled awake by excruciating pain and the nearby sound of a chopper. So I wasn’t completely deaf! I turned to Artie, shouting above the helicopter’s noise, “You hear that, Artie? Chopper! Stay with me! Don’t you die on me. ARTIE! DON’T YOU FUCKING DIE!”
A soft onshore breeze accompanied the advancing tide, inching higher with each passing minute, covering the stubs of both my legs. I lay there, unmoving, allowing the tide to wash over me, letting it cleanse away the blood and the gore and the hellish sights and sounds and stink of war. I lay there, listening to the final, somber cries of broken men, men with glazed eyes and open mouths, cursing their demons or trusting their gods. I lay there, at the edge of the ocean, holding tight to my best friend and a dead, white bird.
# # #
Second Place: Lesser-Known Facts About Cows
by Margo Cunningham
When you see a cow grazing in a field or pasture, you probably think there is a lowly beast, a simple dumb animal; or you don’t think about them at all. I’m here to tell you, friend, you’ve got it wrong. Cows are deep philosophical thinkers and have a strong oral tradition. They have contributed much to the evolution of the human species.
You are probably wondering why you’ve never heard of this before. Most cows are modest and shy. Humans can be vain and selfish. No one wants to admit that a cow gave them their ideas. Thus, nothing has ever been written about cows’ contributions. I hope to rectify this lack of acknowledgement.
If we travel far back into pre-history when humans evolved from tree and cave dwellers to hunter/gatherers, it was the cows that helped people identify safe vegetation to eat and what to avoid eating.
The cows observed the difficulties of hunting. They wanted the safety and the protection from predators that humans could provide. A few brave animals approached a band of humans and explained to them their thoughts on the matter. If the people raised and protected the cows, they would have a constant meat source, and could avoid the dangers of hunting. It was understood that only a few individual cows would be killed so that the cows could continue to have young and the meat source would be ongoing.
Humans noticed that when the cows swished their tail to swat flies, the feces on their tails would leave marks on the trees, huts and cave walls. Sometimes these marks would leave patterns or designs. They might look like plants, trees, animals or humans. A few humans decided to make more permanent marks leading to the development of cave painting. It goes without saying that the humans copied the cows when they created their own fly swatters.
* * * * *
Moving forward in time to the year 2630 B.C. in Egypt. We find Imhotep, architect to King Djoser. The kings were not yet called pharaohs. Imhotep is puzzled by what sort of tomb he should make for the King. The tombs for the kings in the past were rectangle boxes called mastabas. King Djoser expressed a desire for something grander.
Imhotep wanted to construct something that had never been done before; something that rose up to the heavens and looked spectacular. As Imhotep was pacing back and forth along a crude fence, he was approached by a couple of cows.
“What grieves you, Imhotep?” one of the cows asked him. “You seem anxious and depressed,”
“King Djoser wants more than a flat box for his tomb. He wants something that rises to the sky,” Imhotep replies wringing his hands.
The cows look at each other and move off to discuss a solution. When the cows re-join him at the fence, one of the cow says, “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“Just look at the trees,” the second cow stated. “Notice that the lower base of the tree is thicker and as it grow up the limbs become thinner.”
“The branches on the top and out on the ends of the limbs are thinner still,” the first cow added.” They’re reaching for the sky.”
“So, you’re saying that the base would be the widest and then each level added would be smaller than the one before it?” Inhotep asked wide eyed.
“Correct. That makes a stronger structure as it rises upward,” the second cow shared.
Imhotep became extremely excited and excused himself. He ran to his workroom to make some drawings. He created the Step Pyramid in Saqqara, Egypt. The first of the Egyptian pyramids.
* * * * *
In 428-327 B.C., we find ourselves in Greece. Socrates has been executed. His student, Plato has fled from Athens fearing for his life. For years he travelled throughout Europe. In the year 399 find him in a heated discussion with the cows on his father’s estate.
“You have a good point,” Plato says to a cow. “I’d love to debate this issue with my colleagues in Athens. But how do I get other philosophers to listen, to learn, or to debate?”
“Have you ever thought about having a designated place for them to gather and to live?” a cow with a white face asks.
“If you observe our behavior,” another cow explains. “You’ll notice that we come together for our discussions.”
“We prefer to gather in the shade of the olive trees,” a brown faced cow adds, switching her tail.
“So, you’re saying that I should create a space for philosophers to gather and to learn?” Plato asks wrinkling his brow and rubbing his chin.
“Think of the discussions and learning that could take place,” the most vocal of the cows interjects. “It’s been fourteen years since you left. People and governments can change a lot in fourteen years.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Plato concedes. “The idea is exciting and yet frightening. I think I’ll go to Athens to do this.”
“Consider making your gathering place somewhere outside of the city,” the most vocal cow states. “We always find it easier to think and study if we’re away from the tangle of humans in populated areas.”
The white face cow adds, “You could call it some sort of an advanced school.”
“Thank you, kind and knowledgeable cows,” Plato remarks. “I must ready myself to leave for Athens. You have given me much to think about. I will call my school ‘The Academy.’
The academy he created was the ancestor of modern universities and was one of his leading achievements.
* * * * *
We will be joining Sir Isaac Newton to learn of another cow contribution. He lived from 1642 to 1727. In 1665, he had to leave London due to the Great Plague, so he returned to his family home, Woolsthoupe.
As Newton rambled about the manor grounds, he was accompanied by his favorite cow, Duchess. She was a good listener and posed questions that would challenge Newton’s thinking and beliefs.
They had just completed their stroll of the pastures and orchards. It was a rather warm day, so the two decided to rest in the shade of an apple tree.
“Isaac, why do the apples fall to the ground?” Duchess asked.
Newton was slow to answer and appeared to be pondering the question. “Why, Duchess, I’ve just had an epiphany about gravity, thanks to you,” Newton yelps and jumps up. “Let me explain about gravity. Gravity is the force of attraction happening between two bodies of different sizes. The force of the earth is much stronger than that of the apple. The apple is smaller, so it drops to the earth.”
* * * * *
We find the brothers Joseph and Jacques Montgofier in an earnest discussion. The year is 1783. The location is Paris, France. They are standing near a feedlot.
“There just has to be a way to get off of the ground,” Joseph insists.
“Many men have tried to make all kinds of wings and machines to fly,” Jacques replies. “But
nothing has worked.”
“We need a different approach, but what?” Joseph adds.
“Ahem,” a cow from the lot interjects.
“What?” the brothers ask.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but we may have a solution for you,” a tall, skinny cow states.
“How can you help us?” Jacques asks.
“We have been helping humans since the beginning of time,” the cow replies. “Would you prefer to hear our idea, or would you prefer to hear of our history of helping humans?”
Joseph says to his brother, “What would it hurt to listen?”
“You’re right, brother,” Jacques answers. Turning towards the cow he says, “We’re listening.”
Other cows have moved close to hear and to help, if need be.
“Look closely at the big puddle of excrement. It’s much deeper than it appears. It is made up of urine and feces.” The cow explains. “Look carefully. What do you see?”
“There seems to be bubbles rising up out of it and they burst in the air.” Joseph answers.
“Wait,” Jacques calls out excitedly. “The bubbles are rising. When the burst they give off a strong odor. That means the bubbles are some kind of gas.”
“Yes, the gas is lighter than the muck,” Joseph declares. “Jacques, we need to use gas to rise off of the ground.”
“Let’s go, brother. We have some experimenting to do,” Jacques calls to Joseph.
Later that same year the brothers launched the first hot air balloon.
* * * * *
This is where I have to end my narrative. The farmer down the road who owns the cow has refused to give me further access to his cows. He says it’s not normal and it is unsettling to see me sitting in the pasture taking notes and talking to the cows.
Besides not hearing more about their contributions, I will miss the comradery. His cows are friendly and witty. We had some lively discussions. They are gifted and entertaining story tellers.
They assured me that there many more contributions. They were going to share their contributions to our own Revolutionary War with Britain at our next session. Now, we’ll never know.
# # #
You are probably wondering why you’ve never heard of this before. Most cows are modest and shy. Humans can be vain and selfish. No one wants to admit that a cow gave them their ideas. Thus, nothing has ever been written about cows’ contributions. I hope to rectify this lack of acknowledgement.
If we travel far back into pre-history when humans evolved from tree and cave dwellers to hunter/gatherers, it was the cows that helped people identify safe vegetation to eat and what to avoid eating.
The cows observed the difficulties of hunting. They wanted the safety and the protection from predators that humans could provide. A few brave animals approached a band of humans and explained to them their thoughts on the matter. If the people raised and protected the cows, they would have a constant meat source, and could avoid the dangers of hunting. It was understood that only a few individual cows would be killed so that the cows could continue to have young and the meat source would be ongoing.
Humans noticed that when the cows swished their tail to swat flies, the feces on their tails would leave marks on the trees, huts and cave walls. Sometimes these marks would leave patterns or designs. They might look like plants, trees, animals or humans. A few humans decided to make more permanent marks leading to the development of cave painting. It goes without saying that the humans copied the cows when they created their own fly swatters.
* * * * *
Moving forward in time to the year 2630 B.C. in Egypt. We find Imhotep, architect to King Djoser. The kings were not yet called pharaohs. Imhotep is puzzled by what sort of tomb he should make for the King. The tombs for the kings in the past were rectangle boxes called mastabas. King Djoser expressed a desire for something grander.
Imhotep wanted to construct something that had never been done before; something that rose up to the heavens and looked spectacular. As Imhotep was pacing back and forth along a crude fence, he was approached by a couple of cows.
“What grieves you, Imhotep?” one of the cows asked him. “You seem anxious and depressed,”
“King Djoser wants more than a flat box for his tomb. He wants something that rises to the sky,” Imhotep replies wringing his hands.
The cows look at each other and move off to discuss a solution. When the cows re-join him at the fence, one of the cow says, “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“Just look at the trees,” the second cow stated. “Notice that the lower base of the tree is thicker and as it grow up the limbs become thinner.”
“The branches on the top and out on the ends of the limbs are thinner still,” the first cow added.” They’re reaching for the sky.”
“So, you’re saying that the base would be the widest and then each level added would be smaller than the one before it?” Inhotep asked wide eyed.
“Correct. That makes a stronger structure as it rises upward,” the second cow shared.
Imhotep became extremely excited and excused himself. He ran to his workroom to make some drawings. He created the Step Pyramid in Saqqara, Egypt. The first of the Egyptian pyramids.
* * * * *
In 428-327 B.C., we find ourselves in Greece. Socrates has been executed. His student, Plato has fled from Athens fearing for his life. For years he travelled throughout Europe. In the year 399 find him in a heated discussion with the cows on his father’s estate.
“You have a good point,” Plato says to a cow. “I’d love to debate this issue with my colleagues in Athens. But how do I get other philosophers to listen, to learn, or to debate?”
“Have you ever thought about having a designated place for them to gather and to live?” a cow with a white face asks.
“If you observe our behavior,” another cow explains. “You’ll notice that we come together for our discussions.”
“We prefer to gather in the shade of the olive trees,” a brown faced cow adds, switching her tail.
“So, you’re saying that I should create a space for philosophers to gather and to learn?” Plato asks wrinkling his brow and rubbing his chin.
“Think of the discussions and learning that could take place,” the most vocal of the cows interjects. “It’s been fourteen years since you left. People and governments can change a lot in fourteen years.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Plato concedes. “The idea is exciting and yet frightening. I think I’ll go to Athens to do this.”
“Consider making your gathering place somewhere outside of the city,” the most vocal cow states. “We always find it easier to think and study if we’re away from the tangle of humans in populated areas.”
The white face cow adds, “You could call it some sort of an advanced school.”
“Thank you, kind and knowledgeable cows,” Plato remarks. “I must ready myself to leave for Athens. You have given me much to think about. I will call my school ‘The Academy.’
The academy he created was the ancestor of modern universities and was one of his leading achievements.
* * * * *
We will be joining Sir Isaac Newton to learn of another cow contribution. He lived from 1642 to 1727. In 1665, he had to leave London due to the Great Plague, so he returned to his family home, Woolsthoupe.
As Newton rambled about the manor grounds, he was accompanied by his favorite cow, Duchess. She was a good listener and posed questions that would challenge Newton’s thinking and beliefs.
They had just completed their stroll of the pastures and orchards. It was a rather warm day, so the two decided to rest in the shade of an apple tree.
“Isaac, why do the apples fall to the ground?” Duchess asked.
Newton was slow to answer and appeared to be pondering the question. “Why, Duchess, I’ve just had an epiphany about gravity, thanks to you,” Newton yelps and jumps up. “Let me explain about gravity. Gravity is the force of attraction happening between two bodies of different sizes. The force of the earth is much stronger than that of the apple. The apple is smaller, so it drops to the earth.”
* * * * *
We find the brothers Joseph and Jacques Montgofier in an earnest discussion. The year is 1783. The location is Paris, France. They are standing near a feedlot.
“There just has to be a way to get off of the ground,” Joseph insists.
“Many men have tried to make all kinds of wings and machines to fly,” Jacques replies. “But
nothing has worked.”
“We need a different approach, but what?” Joseph adds.
“Ahem,” a cow from the lot interjects.
“What?” the brothers ask.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but we may have a solution for you,” a tall, skinny cow states.
“How can you help us?” Jacques asks.
“We have been helping humans since the beginning of time,” the cow replies. “Would you prefer to hear our idea, or would you prefer to hear of our history of helping humans?”
Joseph says to his brother, “What would it hurt to listen?”
“You’re right, brother,” Jacques answers. Turning towards the cow he says, “We’re listening.”
Other cows have moved close to hear and to help, if need be.
“Look closely at the big puddle of excrement. It’s much deeper than it appears. It is made up of urine and feces.” The cow explains. “Look carefully. What do you see?”
“There seems to be bubbles rising up out of it and they burst in the air.” Joseph answers.
“Wait,” Jacques calls out excitedly. “The bubbles are rising. When the burst they give off a strong odor. That means the bubbles are some kind of gas.”
“Yes, the gas is lighter than the muck,” Joseph declares. “Jacques, we need to use gas to rise off of the ground.”
“Let’s go, brother. We have some experimenting to do,” Jacques calls to Joseph.
Later that same year the brothers launched the first hot air balloon.
* * * * *
This is where I have to end my narrative. The farmer down the road who owns the cow has refused to give me further access to his cows. He says it’s not normal and it is unsettling to see me sitting in the pasture taking notes and talking to the cows.
Besides not hearing more about their contributions, I will miss the comradery. His cows are friendly and witty. We had some lively discussions. They are gifted and entertaining story tellers.
They assured me that there many more contributions. They were going to share their contributions to our own Revolutionary War with Britain at our next session. Now, we’ll never know.
# # #
Honorable Mention: Travels With Ariel - What's Up in Baker Lake?
by Laurie Zaleski
Ariel walked about and gathered a headlamp, toolbelt, geology reference books, dog treats and a pair of thermal long johns – the purple ones with pink flying unicorns on them. She added the growing pile in her arms to the growing pile on her bed next to a very organized half-full suitcase.
Ariel stepped back and reviewed her list, running her finger down the paper. “Headlamp check, Toolbelt check…” Her finger stopped abruptly. Ariel looked up, scanned her shelves and the floor near her desk. She yelled downstairs, “Mom, do you know where my rock hammer is?”
“Which one?” her mom replied.
“The Estwing 14-ounce Blue Pointed-Tip one that I got from Na-ahks’ for my birthday.” Ariel said.
“Check in the garage. I saw it on the workbench.” Mom yelled from the living room as she picked up a pair of safety glasses off the couch. “Your goggles are here.”
“Thanks Mom. You’re the best.” Ariel said as she raced down the stairs, grabbed her safety goggles, giving her mom a quick hug as she headed toward the garage, Champ, her 110-pound Akita, in quick tow. Her mom smiled and shook her head as she watched the pair speed off.
Ariel found her rock hammer on the cluttered workbench underneath a gold panning kit. She looked up and smiled. Staring back at her was a picture of herself standing next to the seismograph she designed and built on the front page of the local paper. Her seismograph won first place in an International Science Fair at school. Ariel’s mom had cut out the article and pinned it on the wall. The edges of the newspaper were starting to crinkle up. That was okay, her mom had about a million copies in the house. She had bought every copy of “The Down-Low on the Heights” from every bodega in a 10-mile radius when the issue came out. Arel smiled again remembering the excitement of the day, all the hard work she had put into the project, and how it was SO worth it. Ariel was going to be a HER.0.
Besides the excitement, the truly best thing was the prize. The prize for First Place was a mentorship with the Headquarters of Environmental Resolution. Each year HER selected a handful of students to be part of the team. People who worked at HER were called HER.0s. They learned from real-life scientists and got to be part of real-life investigations. Ariel was over the moon excited. All her life, she dreamt about being a HER.0 and now her dream was about to come true.
The first thing Ariel did was send Na-ahk’s a picture of her wearing her HER jacket. Her mom sewed her HER.0 badge on the sleeve as soon as she got it.
Ariel loved geology because of her grandfather. Geology wasn’t just a science to him; it was a way of life. Ariel’s grandfather was Blackfoot. They believe the earth is sacred, especially the Little Rocky Mountains where they were from. He would remind Ariel that
rocks are on a journey. They have a spirit, a power, a mystery. Everything does.
Na-ahk’s would recount stories about the Earth and how people are connected to it that his father, Ariel’s great grandfather, had told him when he was a little boy. Ariel’s great grandfather was eight years old when oil was discovered by the white man in the valley near the hills of Montana. He had watched with comical fascination as prospectors searched the valley for copper. To their surprise, they found oil instead. Earth is full of surprises.
Her granddad knew about the earth from stories passed down from the elders, but he had a thirst for knowledge. He loved learning any way it came. Ariel took after him that way. All his life he devoured any book he could get his hands on. Ariel pored over his well-worn books; pages soft from use. As a child, books filled with vibrant pictures of gemstones and minerals, descriptions of sand waves and volcanoes kept her enthralled for hours on end. Her first word, to her mother’s dismay, was igneous. Her first baby picture was of her and her granddad on the cover of “You Rock” a popular geology magazine.
Na-ahk’s was the first of his tribe to attend university and he used his degree to help ensure mineral, land, and energy rights for Native people. He worked with geologists, lawyers, and the US government reviewing and revising outdated treaties and laws. He was a consultant for The American Indian Law Review. He spent a lot of time in Washington, D.C. Ariel loved the stories Na-ahks’ told her about the past, but especially loved hearing about the present. She and Na-ahks’ video chatted weekly to discuss their latest ventures.
No matter what was going on in D.C., Na-ank’s always made sure to make it back to the reservation in the summer. He wouldn’t miss the Sun Dance Ceremony for anything. The Sun Dance Ceremony was super duperly important to Na-anks. It had been illegal from the 1904-1934 so they had to have it in secret. Ariel’s mom was outraged when she learned this. She said it was like if someone outlawed Christmas. How would they like it?
The sacred ceremony was filled with prayers, dancing, singing, and offerings to honor the Creator. It was an opportunity for the four nations to get together and share views and ideas with each other. Last summer, Ariel got to be it for the first time. The vibrant turquoise and red shawl her mom learned to make from her grandmother was hanging on a rack next to the workbench. “It may be too small for next year,” Ariel thought to herself as she grabbed a yellow fleece next to it.
The love of the earth, rocks, and science in general, had skipped a generation. It wasn’t Ariel’s dad’s thing. She was just grateful that he had brought her to Montana when she was born to meet her grandparents.
Ariel looked down at her list. “I hope there’s internet.” Ariel said. “Na-ahks’ will for sure want to hear about this.” Scribbling a note on her list she brightened up, “So will the Middle Earthlings!” Middle Earth was the name of the Geology Club at school.
“Champ, remind me to ask Mom to buy some jump drives at the store so we have plenty of space for videos in case there’s no internet there. We can make a video journal while we’re there.”
“Woof”, Champ responded, jumping up from his dog bed.
Ariel went to California Heights Middle School. Last September, when she moved up from Littleleaf Elementary. Ariel had scoffed at the name of her new school. Eighty-two feet above sea level didn’t seem very “heighty” in Ariel’s opinion. Montana, where her granddad lived, was 3,400 feet above sea level. Now that was elevated. Topographic maps had been the topic at last month’s Middle Earth Geology Club meeting. Ariel brought up the idea of starting a petition to rename the city to a more scientifically accurate name. Ellie, Ariel’s best friend, supported her and was the first to sign. She even came up with the slogan, “Shorten the Heights” for the campaign.
That was last month. This was this month. In two short days Ariel and her mom would be on their way to Baker Lake, Canada, the very edge of the Arctic Circle. Ariel couldn’t wait for her first HER assignment. She grabbed her Estwing 14-ounce Blue Pointed-Tip Rock Hammer from the workbench and bounced off to finish packing. Champ raced behind her.
Chapter 1 - Landing with a Bump
The small plane hit the runway with a hard bump. “If you can even call it a runway”, Ariel thought to herself as she looked out the small window and saw an empty lot made up of pebbles and dirt and broken up asphalt. “This is one poorly sorted runway.” Ariel chuckled, laughing at her own joke. “Most likely glacial till.” she added as an afterthought.
Her mom looked up from the novel she was reading and smiled.
# # #
Ariel stepped back and reviewed her list, running her finger down the paper. “Headlamp check, Toolbelt check…” Her finger stopped abruptly. Ariel looked up, scanned her shelves and the floor near her desk. She yelled downstairs, “Mom, do you know where my rock hammer is?”
“Which one?” her mom replied.
“The Estwing 14-ounce Blue Pointed-Tip one that I got from Na-ahks’ for my birthday.” Ariel said.
“Check in the garage. I saw it on the workbench.” Mom yelled from the living room as she picked up a pair of safety glasses off the couch. “Your goggles are here.”
“Thanks Mom. You’re the best.” Ariel said as she raced down the stairs, grabbed her safety goggles, giving her mom a quick hug as she headed toward the garage, Champ, her 110-pound Akita, in quick tow. Her mom smiled and shook her head as she watched the pair speed off.
Ariel found her rock hammer on the cluttered workbench underneath a gold panning kit. She looked up and smiled. Staring back at her was a picture of herself standing next to the seismograph she designed and built on the front page of the local paper. Her seismograph won first place in an International Science Fair at school. Ariel’s mom had cut out the article and pinned it on the wall. The edges of the newspaper were starting to crinkle up. That was okay, her mom had about a million copies in the house. She had bought every copy of “The Down-Low on the Heights” from every bodega in a 10-mile radius when the issue came out. Arel smiled again remembering the excitement of the day, all the hard work she had put into the project, and how it was SO worth it. Ariel was going to be a HER.0.
Besides the excitement, the truly best thing was the prize. The prize for First Place was a mentorship with the Headquarters of Environmental Resolution. Each year HER selected a handful of students to be part of the team. People who worked at HER were called HER.0s. They learned from real-life scientists and got to be part of real-life investigations. Ariel was over the moon excited. All her life, she dreamt about being a HER.0 and now her dream was about to come true.
The first thing Ariel did was send Na-ahk’s a picture of her wearing her HER jacket. Her mom sewed her HER.0 badge on the sleeve as soon as she got it.
Ariel loved geology because of her grandfather. Geology wasn’t just a science to him; it was a way of life. Ariel’s grandfather was Blackfoot. They believe the earth is sacred, especially the Little Rocky Mountains where they were from. He would remind Ariel that
rocks are on a journey. They have a spirit, a power, a mystery. Everything does.
Na-ahk’s would recount stories about the Earth and how people are connected to it that his father, Ariel’s great grandfather, had told him when he was a little boy. Ariel’s great grandfather was eight years old when oil was discovered by the white man in the valley near the hills of Montana. He had watched with comical fascination as prospectors searched the valley for copper. To their surprise, they found oil instead. Earth is full of surprises.
Her granddad knew about the earth from stories passed down from the elders, but he had a thirst for knowledge. He loved learning any way it came. Ariel took after him that way. All his life he devoured any book he could get his hands on. Ariel pored over his well-worn books; pages soft from use. As a child, books filled with vibrant pictures of gemstones and minerals, descriptions of sand waves and volcanoes kept her enthralled for hours on end. Her first word, to her mother’s dismay, was igneous. Her first baby picture was of her and her granddad on the cover of “You Rock” a popular geology magazine.
Na-ahk’s was the first of his tribe to attend university and he used his degree to help ensure mineral, land, and energy rights for Native people. He worked with geologists, lawyers, and the US government reviewing and revising outdated treaties and laws. He was a consultant for The American Indian Law Review. He spent a lot of time in Washington, D.C. Ariel loved the stories Na-ahks’ told her about the past, but especially loved hearing about the present. She and Na-ahks’ video chatted weekly to discuss their latest ventures.
No matter what was going on in D.C., Na-ank’s always made sure to make it back to the reservation in the summer. He wouldn’t miss the Sun Dance Ceremony for anything. The Sun Dance Ceremony was super duperly important to Na-anks. It had been illegal from the 1904-1934 so they had to have it in secret. Ariel’s mom was outraged when she learned this. She said it was like if someone outlawed Christmas. How would they like it?
The sacred ceremony was filled with prayers, dancing, singing, and offerings to honor the Creator. It was an opportunity for the four nations to get together and share views and ideas with each other. Last summer, Ariel got to be it for the first time. The vibrant turquoise and red shawl her mom learned to make from her grandmother was hanging on a rack next to the workbench. “It may be too small for next year,” Ariel thought to herself as she grabbed a yellow fleece next to it.
The love of the earth, rocks, and science in general, had skipped a generation. It wasn’t Ariel’s dad’s thing. She was just grateful that he had brought her to Montana when she was born to meet her grandparents.
Ariel looked down at her list. “I hope there’s internet.” Ariel said. “Na-ahks’ will for sure want to hear about this.” Scribbling a note on her list she brightened up, “So will the Middle Earthlings!” Middle Earth was the name of the Geology Club at school.
“Champ, remind me to ask Mom to buy some jump drives at the store so we have plenty of space for videos in case there’s no internet there. We can make a video journal while we’re there.”
“Woof”, Champ responded, jumping up from his dog bed.
Ariel went to California Heights Middle School. Last September, when she moved up from Littleleaf Elementary. Ariel had scoffed at the name of her new school. Eighty-two feet above sea level didn’t seem very “heighty” in Ariel’s opinion. Montana, where her granddad lived, was 3,400 feet above sea level. Now that was elevated. Topographic maps had been the topic at last month’s Middle Earth Geology Club meeting. Ariel brought up the idea of starting a petition to rename the city to a more scientifically accurate name. Ellie, Ariel’s best friend, supported her and was the first to sign. She even came up with the slogan, “Shorten the Heights” for the campaign.
That was last month. This was this month. In two short days Ariel and her mom would be on their way to Baker Lake, Canada, the very edge of the Arctic Circle. Ariel couldn’t wait for her first HER assignment. She grabbed her Estwing 14-ounce Blue Pointed-Tip Rock Hammer from the workbench and bounced off to finish packing. Champ raced behind her.
Chapter 1 - Landing with a Bump
The small plane hit the runway with a hard bump. “If you can even call it a runway”, Ariel thought to herself as she looked out the small window and saw an empty lot made up of pebbles and dirt and broken up asphalt. “This is one poorly sorted runway.” Ariel chuckled, laughing at her own joke. “Most likely glacial till.” she added as an afterthought.
Her mom looked up from the novel she was reading and smiled.
# # #
Honorable Mention: BFF
by Edith Satterwhite
Beth loved to watch Angie make an entrance to a party. Tall, slender, flowing red hair, emerald green eyes, and flawless skin; beautiful didn’t even start to describe her best friend. Angie gathered everyone’s attention when she strolled through the door.
Smart and funny didn’t hurt either. Beth looked at the men surrounding Angie, and sighed. Maybe someday Angie would meet someone who would see the Angie she knew. She sure wasn’t going to meet that man at one of these parties- these guys were all egos and entitlement.
It had been this way since eighth grade when Angie blossomed and every girl in school avoided standing beside her, just so they wouldn’t disappear. Beth and Angie had been best friends since the first grade and Beth loved her like a sister. They made it through high school, college and grad school still friends. She didn’t mind not getting the kind of attention Angie got. Beth wanted to be loved for who she was, not how she looked. Someday she would meet someone who could look at Angie and still see her.
Beth smiled and went to join the group of men around her friend.
Beth didn’t attend many of these ‘celestial Hollywood’ parties, but it was Friday, their night to get together. As their lives became busier, making time for each other seemed more important than ever. It kept them connected. Beth loved hearing about Angie’s glamorous life, the parties, the famous people she met, the fabulous dates. (As when Angie was flown to San Francisco for lunch). Angie listened to Beth’s life and marveled that Beth hadn’t died of boredom. They were a good team, poster children for “opposites attract”.
Angie, an entertainment attorney, had asked Beth to meet her at the party; she had to chat up a few clients, then they could leave. As Angie worked the room full of ‘beautiful people’, Beth wandered around, enjoying seeing how entertainment royalty lived. This room was fantastic. The decorator had managed to create an elegant, modern room that felt like people actually lived there. She could live in a room like this. Beth held her glass of white wine and admired the abstract paintings. The pale gray walls set them off beautifully, made the colors pop. She put her glass down on an exquisite side table and went to the glass doors to the balcony. It was a beautiful night, with a view of the city all lit up.
Beth couldn’t decide if the art or the view was the best part. It was getting dark and she watched the party reflected in the glass doors to the balcony. She focused on herself and fluffed her short brown hair a little, her warm brown eyes smiling as Angie walked up behind her.
“Let’s go” Angie whispered to Beth. “I’ve done my networking. I think I scored a new client.”
“Remember me when you land him.” Beth’s CPA firm handled several of Angie’s clients.
“OK, I made plans for tonight… you’ll love them.” Angie smirked.
“Not the Underground Rave place again, it gives me a headache.”
“Nope. We are going to the bookstore on Meyers Place.”
Beth looked at Angie, almost shocked. “You’re willing to go to a bookstore? On a Friday night? What’s the catch?”.
“Oh, ye of little faith. You were raving about that book by Jason Xavier, right? Well, he’s doing a reading at the bookstore tonight. I thought you would like to go.”
“I’d love to. It’s a wonderful book, I think you’d like it if you gave it a chance.
“Yeah, right.” Angie laughed.
Beth loved bookstores and this was one of her favorites. Everything about it made you feel like you’d come home. Shelves and shelves of books, alcoves with easy chairs, the smell of paper and coffee mingling. They joined the crowd in the small area in the back where readings were held. It was a bit of a crush and Beth could see why. Xavier’s book was getting good reviews and Jason Xavier had presence. He was tall, dark and thin with hawk like features. His voice was warm and clear as he talked about traveling the world as a child. His father’s career had taken the family to every continent. When he was through speaking and reading everyone was positive that was the best way to raise a child.
Beth had brought her well-read copy of his book and waited at the end of the line to have it signed, listening to his conversations with those ahead of her. “Lovely man.” Beth murmured. As he signed her book, with a little teasing about how worn it was, they chatted. They had a lot in common and laughed together, enjoying the company. He looked at her, listened to her, really seemed to see her. More people joined the line as she stepped aside, and walked back to Angie.
Angie smiled. “Happy? I saw you talking to him.”
“Oh, Ange, thank you for this. I feel totally smitten. He is wonderful, smart and so beautiful…”
“You think he’s beautiful?” Angie laughed. “He looks like a crane, all arms and legs. And that beak….”
Seeing an interesting title, Beth stepped over to the sale table. When she looked up she saw Xavier walking toward them. He was smiling at them. Beth smiled back, until she realized he was looking at Angie, smiling at Angie, locking eyes with Angie. And Angie was smiling back.
An unexpected wave of jealousy washed over Beth. Here he was. Everything she had ever wanted and he could only see Angie. Beth turned toward the door and ran out of the store before she did something she would regret. She started to race away down the street, realized it was a ten-block walk in the dark and hailed a cab. “Shoot,” she thought, “Even when I’m out of freaking control, I’m in control. I am such an accountant.”
She walked calmly into her apartment. Was she really going to let some man she just met ruin a lifelong friendship? She got ready for bed. As she got into bed the dam burst. She had never felt so much, so fast, so hard. She couldn’t stop crying and sobbed till she was spent. “How can I care so much? I just met him.” She spent the night tossing and cursing until morning came.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she was surprised her eyes were still brown. Shouldn’t they be envy green by now? Who knew a jealousy hangover would be as bad as a going on a bender. She was grateful she felt so tired she was numb. With coffee… a lot of coffee, and no thinking, she figured she could get through the day. She couldn’t believe how much she hated everybody right now.
After all it wasn’t Angie’s fault…
“Oh, hell!” She was supposed to go to a party at Angie’s folks, they had relatives visiting from somewhere. She couldn’t go. There was no way she could be around Angie today. She didn’t want to hear about her newest conquest. Maybe in a year or two she could face her. Well, she couldn’t stay home; she needed to be somewhere no one could find her. She put on her jacket, picked up her purse and left.
It was a terrible, awful, bright sunny day. It really should be gray and pouring down rain, sleet, hail, maybe a few locusts. At least it would be a pleasant walk through the park to the library. Head down, kicking at rocks on the path, Beth was trying to decide where to stop for coffee, and a chocolate donut, when she heard her name.
They were coming right toward her. What terrible thing had she done in her last life to deserve this?
“Hey!” Jason called, “It’s you! I looked all over for you last night. You just disappeared.”
Beth just stood there and stared. What could she answer to that?
He suddenly looked awkward. “Did…did I misunderstand? I thought we hit it off.”
“I thought you and Angie…” she started to say.
“Angie? Hardly!” Jason smiled at her. “She’s my cousin. She was there to fix me up with some friend of hers; But I told her I wasn’t interested. I had already met… you.”
“Oh,” Beth sighed. “I had met you, too.”
Angie rolled her eyes. “Is that why you ran out on me? You thought I’d be interested in HIM?”
“Way to cut me down, Ange.”
“OK, let’s start over. Beth, I would like you to meet my cousin, Jason the Jerk. Jason, this is my best friend, Beth, the woman I thought you might like to meet.”
# # #
Smart and funny didn’t hurt either. Beth looked at the men surrounding Angie, and sighed. Maybe someday Angie would meet someone who would see the Angie she knew. She sure wasn’t going to meet that man at one of these parties- these guys were all egos and entitlement.
It had been this way since eighth grade when Angie blossomed and every girl in school avoided standing beside her, just so they wouldn’t disappear. Beth and Angie had been best friends since the first grade and Beth loved her like a sister. They made it through high school, college and grad school still friends. She didn’t mind not getting the kind of attention Angie got. Beth wanted to be loved for who she was, not how she looked. Someday she would meet someone who could look at Angie and still see her.
Beth smiled and went to join the group of men around her friend.
Beth didn’t attend many of these ‘celestial Hollywood’ parties, but it was Friday, their night to get together. As their lives became busier, making time for each other seemed more important than ever. It kept them connected. Beth loved hearing about Angie’s glamorous life, the parties, the famous people she met, the fabulous dates. (As when Angie was flown to San Francisco for lunch). Angie listened to Beth’s life and marveled that Beth hadn’t died of boredom. They were a good team, poster children for “opposites attract”.
Angie, an entertainment attorney, had asked Beth to meet her at the party; she had to chat up a few clients, then they could leave. As Angie worked the room full of ‘beautiful people’, Beth wandered around, enjoying seeing how entertainment royalty lived. This room was fantastic. The decorator had managed to create an elegant, modern room that felt like people actually lived there. She could live in a room like this. Beth held her glass of white wine and admired the abstract paintings. The pale gray walls set them off beautifully, made the colors pop. She put her glass down on an exquisite side table and went to the glass doors to the balcony. It was a beautiful night, with a view of the city all lit up.
Beth couldn’t decide if the art or the view was the best part. It was getting dark and she watched the party reflected in the glass doors to the balcony. She focused on herself and fluffed her short brown hair a little, her warm brown eyes smiling as Angie walked up behind her.
“Let’s go” Angie whispered to Beth. “I’ve done my networking. I think I scored a new client.”
“Remember me when you land him.” Beth’s CPA firm handled several of Angie’s clients.
“OK, I made plans for tonight… you’ll love them.” Angie smirked.
“Not the Underground Rave place again, it gives me a headache.”
“Nope. We are going to the bookstore on Meyers Place.”
Beth looked at Angie, almost shocked. “You’re willing to go to a bookstore? On a Friday night? What’s the catch?”.
“Oh, ye of little faith. You were raving about that book by Jason Xavier, right? Well, he’s doing a reading at the bookstore tonight. I thought you would like to go.”
“I’d love to. It’s a wonderful book, I think you’d like it if you gave it a chance.
“Yeah, right.” Angie laughed.
Beth loved bookstores and this was one of her favorites. Everything about it made you feel like you’d come home. Shelves and shelves of books, alcoves with easy chairs, the smell of paper and coffee mingling. They joined the crowd in the small area in the back where readings were held. It was a bit of a crush and Beth could see why. Xavier’s book was getting good reviews and Jason Xavier had presence. He was tall, dark and thin with hawk like features. His voice was warm and clear as he talked about traveling the world as a child. His father’s career had taken the family to every continent. When he was through speaking and reading everyone was positive that was the best way to raise a child.
Beth had brought her well-read copy of his book and waited at the end of the line to have it signed, listening to his conversations with those ahead of her. “Lovely man.” Beth murmured. As he signed her book, with a little teasing about how worn it was, they chatted. They had a lot in common and laughed together, enjoying the company. He looked at her, listened to her, really seemed to see her. More people joined the line as she stepped aside, and walked back to Angie.
Angie smiled. “Happy? I saw you talking to him.”
“Oh, Ange, thank you for this. I feel totally smitten. He is wonderful, smart and so beautiful…”
“You think he’s beautiful?” Angie laughed. “He looks like a crane, all arms and legs. And that beak….”
Seeing an interesting title, Beth stepped over to the sale table. When she looked up she saw Xavier walking toward them. He was smiling at them. Beth smiled back, until she realized he was looking at Angie, smiling at Angie, locking eyes with Angie. And Angie was smiling back.
An unexpected wave of jealousy washed over Beth. Here he was. Everything she had ever wanted and he could only see Angie. Beth turned toward the door and ran out of the store before she did something she would regret. She started to race away down the street, realized it was a ten-block walk in the dark and hailed a cab. “Shoot,” she thought, “Even when I’m out of freaking control, I’m in control. I am such an accountant.”
She walked calmly into her apartment. Was she really going to let some man she just met ruin a lifelong friendship? She got ready for bed. As she got into bed the dam burst. She had never felt so much, so fast, so hard. She couldn’t stop crying and sobbed till she was spent. “How can I care so much? I just met him.” She spent the night tossing and cursing until morning came.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she was surprised her eyes were still brown. Shouldn’t they be envy green by now? Who knew a jealousy hangover would be as bad as a going on a bender. She was grateful she felt so tired she was numb. With coffee… a lot of coffee, and no thinking, she figured she could get through the day. She couldn’t believe how much she hated everybody right now.
After all it wasn’t Angie’s fault…
“Oh, hell!” She was supposed to go to a party at Angie’s folks, they had relatives visiting from somewhere. She couldn’t go. There was no way she could be around Angie today. She didn’t want to hear about her newest conquest. Maybe in a year or two she could face her. Well, she couldn’t stay home; she needed to be somewhere no one could find her. She put on her jacket, picked up her purse and left.
It was a terrible, awful, bright sunny day. It really should be gray and pouring down rain, sleet, hail, maybe a few locusts. At least it would be a pleasant walk through the park to the library. Head down, kicking at rocks on the path, Beth was trying to decide where to stop for coffee, and a chocolate donut, when she heard her name.
They were coming right toward her. What terrible thing had she done in her last life to deserve this?
“Hey!” Jason called, “It’s you! I looked all over for you last night. You just disappeared.”
Beth just stood there and stared. What could she answer to that?
He suddenly looked awkward. “Did…did I misunderstand? I thought we hit it off.”
“I thought you and Angie…” she started to say.
“Angie? Hardly!” Jason smiled at her. “She’s my cousin. She was there to fix me up with some friend of hers; But I told her I wasn’t interested. I had already met… you.”
“Oh,” Beth sighed. “I had met you, too.”
Angie rolled her eyes. “Is that why you ran out on me? You thought I’d be interested in HIM?”
“Way to cut me down, Ange.”
“OK, let’s start over. Beth, I would like you to meet my cousin, Jason the Jerk. Jason, this is my best friend, Beth, the woman I thought you might like to meet.”
# # #
Honorable Mention: Fledgling
by Caryn Schultzler
by Caryn Schultzler
Life is a balance of holding on and letting go. —Rumi
Nest bulging. Wings flapping. It won’t be long.
From my deck, I watch the brood of two hummingbirds preen their newly feathered bodies, with tweezer-like bills sliding from the base to the outstretched tips. They flap and flutter, standing precariously on the edge of the nest, in preparation for their first flight.
It is apparent. They are ready. But am I?
Peering through my spotting scope, I prepare myself for these tiny birds’ departure. I’d noticed the nest being constructed at the end of January, much earlier than normal since Anna’s hummingbirds usually begin nesting in mid-to-late February. My feelings vacillate between the relief of knowing they will soon fly and not wanting them to go. Anxiously, I watch them survive—cramped tightly within their walnut-sized nest—enduring several days of rain and snow, blustery winds tossing their nest about like a diminutive ship on the high seas. I feel a tinge of parental apprehension creeping in.
This chance discovery has been such a roller coaster ride. From first discovering the nest—a familial microcosm, covered in moss and lichens—to observing the female tend her two navy bean sized eggs. But because the nest is too high to see inside I’m unable to see the eggs. All I can do is look up from below and watch the mother shuffle and roll them beneath the warmth of her body. I begin to track the days until they hatch, then fledge, making daily notations on the calendar. My close observations of this nest evoked memories of my mother and a letter she sent me not long before she died. Together, they revealed a wellspring of unanticipated feelings.
I had flown to be with my mother as she recovered from a difficult surgery. After my lengthy stay with her, she wrote:
When you left me at the end of February, I felt that your leaving was close to unbearable. I found it enormously difficult to say good-bye to you. Remember that day, I think it was the day you wanted to “test” my being on my own? You came home and found me crying. I made excuses, blaming the tears on the book I was reading, but the truth of the matter is that I had been “testing” my own feelings about how I could manage without you.
In her letter, my mother laid bare a moment all mothers must experience when letting their children take flight. Never having had children myself, her reflective wisdom helped me to understand my own struggles with being apart since we lived on opposite coasts after I went away to college soon after graduating high school. Any time we were able to spend together was always bittersweet.
She explained how difficult it was to let me go after I’d been with her in her deepest time of need, about her overwhelming fear of what was yet to come after going through yet a second frightening lung surgery, and the realization that our parting was all too imminent. Perhaps the real test—for the both of us—was the preparation for an unspeakable event beyond our comprehension or ability to control.
After being with her for several weeks, I probably needed this testing as much as she did, and worried how she would manage without me after relying on me so completely. Mom mentioned the many times we’d had to say goodbye, our flying back and forth—with me living in Seattle and her in Connecticut. Though I knew she was elated for me to live my life wherever I was happiest, in this current parting, I sensed her anguish in my pending departure.
You and I have shared so many hellos and goodbyes, but I can truly say that from the very depths of what I am, this was the most difficult test of all—so far. Aren’t mommies supposed to be brave—strong enough to let their daughters leave them?
As I anticipate the hummingbirds fledging, my motherly instinct kicks in. Needing to keep a watchful eye on them, I take another look through my scope and just happen to see the remaining bird lift skyward. The nest now empty, the hummingbirds gone, my heart feels empty, too. I try to grasp what has long been tugging at my soul. Is this the same dread my mother was feeling the day I came home to find her crying? Is this what she felt the first time I left home? I sense that my mother’s struggles with saying goodbye have been passed down to me and my tiny awakening is much bigger than I can fathom.
Seeing the vacant nest, I miss my mother even more and ache to share my feelings with her, knowing she would understand and want to witness this gift of nature with her daughter. Though it wasn’t clear to me at the time, I imagine that what she had been feeling was a deep maternal longing that comes with being apart from the ones we love.
Holding the well-worn letter, I glide my fingertips over her script as if I am reading Braille, and I vividly relive that day. Even after all these years, I can still feel her angst as my departure grew closer. Torn between wanting me to stay and not keeping me from my life, wishful to make up for the time we’d lost, she suffered in silence—yet she knew we could not avert this parting. Her letter helped me realize I was like that bird leaving home, leaving my mother, starting a new life, learning life’s hardest lessons. When the last bird left the nest, my heart ached for it—I so wanted it to stay another day just as my mother needed me to stay—but we both knew no length of time would ever be enough. Neither of us could forestall what was to come.
I want to hold on, freeze time, stave off the inevitable. But as Rumi’s quote tells me: “Life is a balance of holding on and letting go.” Time is fleeting, delicate. Like a synchronized aerial ballet of birds, life reveals its mysteries to me in a silhouette of wonder.
My mother’s words, never spoken aloud, express exactly how I feel in my own emptiness, in my yearning for her. I can feel her urging me on, wanting me to thrive. And yet, in these transient moments my longing is palpable. Like trying to coax a dream upon waking or enticing a foal with a sweet apple to muzzle my palm, I try to capture this elusive feeling. Perhaps the stirring in me is a residual flutter of wings—from both the joy and pain of letting go.
As I stare at the empty nest, I finally understand how much her letter and a hummingbird revealed to me: how interconnected our experiences, how profound the contemplations within mom’s letter—how much they still echo inside the canyon of my soul.
We do not love any less in letting go. Though it never gets easier, somehow love just slips under the door, into the next room, while you’re still trying to say goodbye. In my liminal longing between past and future, I remain my mother’s fledgling.
# # #
Nest bulging. Wings flapping. It won’t be long.
From my deck, I watch the brood of two hummingbirds preen their newly feathered bodies, with tweezer-like bills sliding from the base to the outstretched tips. They flap and flutter, standing precariously on the edge of the nest, in preparation for their first flight.
It is apparent. They are ready. But am I?
Peering through my spotting scope, I prepare myself for these tiny birds’ departure. I’d noticed the nest being constructed at the end of January, much earlier than normal since Anna’s hummingbirds usually begin nesting in mid-to-late February. My feelings vacillate between the relief of knowing they will soon fly and not wanting them to go. Anxiously, I watch them survive—cramped tightly within their walnut-sized nest—enduring several days of rain and snow, blustery winds tossing their nest about like a diminutive ship on the high seas. I feel a tinge of parental apprehension creeping in.
This chance discovery has been such a roller coaster ride. From first discovering the nest—a familial microcosm, covered in moss and lichens—to observing the female tend her two navy bean sized eggs. But because the nest is too high to see inside I’m unable to see the eggs. All I can do is look up from below and watch the mother shuffle and roll them beneath the warmth of her body. I begin to track the days until they hatch, then fledge, making daily notations on the calendar. My close observations of this nest evoked memories of my mother and a letter she sent me not long before she died. Together, they revealed a wellspring of unanticipated feelings.
I had flown to be with my mother as she recovered from a difficult surgery. After my lengthy stay with her, she wrote:
When you left me at the end of February, I felt that your leaving was close to unbearable. I found it enormously difficult to say good-bye to you. Remember that day, I think it was the day you wanted to “test” my being on my own? You came home and found me crying. I made excuses, blaming the tears on the book I was reading, but the truth of the matter is that I had been “testing” my own feelings about how I could manage without you.
In her letter, my mother laid bare a moment all mothers must experience when letting their children take flight. Never having had children myself, her reflective wisdom helped me to understand my own struggles with being apart since we lived on opposite coasts after I went away to college soon after graduating high school. Any time we were able to spend together was always bittersweet.
She explained how difficult it was to let me go after I’d been with her in her deepest time of need, about her overwhelming fear of what was yet to come after going through yet a second frightening lung surgery, and the realization that our parting was all too imminent. Perhaps the real test—for the both of us—was the preparation for an unspeakable event beyond our comprehension or ability to control.
After being with her for several weeks, I probably needed this testing as much as she did, and worried how she would manage without me after relying on me so completely. Mom mentioned the many times we’d had to say goodbye, our flying back and forth—with me living in Seattle and her in Connecticut. Though I knew she was elated for me to live my life wherever I was happiest, in this current parting, I sensed her anguish in my pending departure.
You and I have shared so many hellos and goodbyes, but I can truly say that from the very depths of what I am, this was the most difficult test of all—so far. Aren’t mommies supposed to be brave—strong enough to let their daughters leave them?
As I anticipate the hummingbirds fledging, my motherly instinct kicks in. Needing to keep a watchful eye on them, I take another look through my scope and just happen to see the remaining bird lift skyward. The nest now empty, the hummingbirds gone, my heart feels empty, too. I try to grasp what has long been tugging at my soul. Is this the same dread my mother was feeling the day I came home to find her crying? Is this what she felt the first time I left home? I sense that my mother’s struggles with saying goodbye have been passed down to me and my tiny awakening is much bigger than I can fathom.
Seeing the vacant nest, I miss my mother even more and ache to share my feelings with her, knowing she would understand and want to witness this gift of nature with her daughter. Though it wasn’t clear to me at the time, I imagine that what she had been feeling was a deep maternal longing that comes with being apart from the ones we love.
Holding the well-worn letter, I glide my fingertips over her script as if I am reading Braille, and I vividly relive that day. Even after all these years, I can still feel her angst as my departure grew closer. Torn between wanting me to stay and not keeping me from my life, wishful to make up for the time we’d lost, she suffered in silence—yet she knew we could not avert this parting. Her letter helped me realize I was like that bird leaving home, leaving my mother, starting a new life, learning life’s hardest lessons. When the last bird left the nest, my heart ached for it—I so wanted it to stay another day just as my mother needed me to stay—but we both knew no length of time would ever be enough. Neither of us could forestall what was to come.
I want to hold on, freeze time, stave off the inevitable. But as Rumi’s quote tells me: “Life is a balance of holding on and letting go.” Time is fleeting, delicate. Like a synchronized aerial ballet of birds, life reveals its mysteries to me in a silhouette of wonder.
My mother’s words, never spoken aloud, express exactly how I feel in my own emptiness, in my yearning for her. I can feel her urging me on, wanting me to thrive. And yet, in these transient moments my longing is palpable. Like trying to coax a dream upon waking or enticing a foal with a sweet apple to muzzle my palm, I try to capture this elusive feeling. Perhaps the stirring in me is a residual flutter of wings—from both the joy and pain of letting go.
As I stare at the empty nest, I finally understand how much her letter and a hummingbird revealed to me: how interconnected our experiences, how profound the contemplations within mom’s letter—how much they still echo inside the canyon of my soul.
We do not love any less in letting go. Though it never gets easier, somehow love just slips under the door, into the next room, while you’re still trying to say goodbye. In my liminal longing between past and future, I remain my mother’s fledgling.
# # #