The Cross of Mt Lindo - Kathy

 The Cross of Mt Lindo

Kathy Heim

Marsha set the alarm for 6am, knowing she’d be up before the shrill beeping blared from her 1980’s clock radio.  And sure enough her eyes shot open and she found herself once again wide awake long before the slightest of pink broke on the horizon.  She threw on jogging shorts, wiggled into a sports bra and layered with a tank and hoodie.  After filling a water bottle, she laced up an old pair of Nike’s, headed out the door, and launched herself on the same morning route she’d taken for the last eight months.  Jimi Hendrix blasted on her airpods drowning out both outside noise and the thoughts in her head. 

She’d never been a runner before, Marsha much preferred racket sports or bowling, but those involved being around people and being around people is what she’d been avoiding for months.  Running let her mind go numb, at least after the first mile when she found her pace and rhythm.  She headed up the hill to 32nd Street and turned right towards Golden.  

Eight months ago Marsha completed the last of her chemo marathon, the 26 week treatment plan prescribed following her cancer diagnosis.  For months well meaning friends and coworkers either avoided her completely, not knowing what to say or how to talk to her, or overreacted and responded to her as if she were already dead.  So she found herself alone, a lot, by choice.  

Her path to running began with a walk.  Drained of energy, just walking up the street depleted her, but determined to regain her health, Marsha pushed herself a little farther each day.  Soon she could walk a mile, then two.  Then she tried a jog/walk kind of pattern until she could jog a mile.   Now, eight months later, Marsha blasted music and ran the 5 miles to Golden every morning, stopped for coffee on Main Street, and then ran home.  She felt healthy, stronger, and finally at peace.  Her hair grew back, her taste buds returned, which helped increase her appetite, and the port once used to pump poison and medicine through her veins, gone.  

On this morning, sunlight hinted at itself on the tips of the Rocky Mountain foothills, casting a silhouette of Table Rock Mountain against a slip of bright yellow fading into a still dark blue/gray sky.   She looked up to the southwest and noticed the cross of Mt Lindo. The breaking sun reflected off the white rocks casting a glow even in the early morning twilight.  She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.  Of all the times she made this morning route, it never occurred to her look southwest…why today?  The Cross on Mt. Lindo marked the Moleleum of the Cross, erected by the Olinger and Van Derbur families, pioneers and community leaders from the past, to remind themselves, and the people of Denver, actually, of past loved ones and their blessings through the risen Christ.

Running either from something or to something every day became Marsha’s escape from the world.  She didn’t understand it, it just made her feel more alive after months of feeling near death.  She could not take her eyes off the cross and suddenly found herself quivering and taken over by emotion.  She dropped to her knees right there on the berm of the road and began to pray, giving thanks to God for the blessing of her health and this new found strength of her body.  Tears filled her eyes and streaked her cheeks as she stared at the cross.  A red SUV made its way down the road and passed her, throwing a bit of mud her way. A clod of dirt flecked her cheek, waking her back to the present.  

Instead of finishing her morning run, Marsha turned around and headed home to make her own coffee and call her dear friend, Laura.  She had some catching up to do.  The rising sun was especially bright this morning, warming Marsha’s cheeks, drying her tears, and leading her back the direction she’d come.

Allegory - Nancy

 Allegory By Nancy Montgomery

I really am quite simple to understand. So why don’t they get me? I don’t ask for much. I want to

be a good boy and do the right thing. Which for me means chasing balls, running, running

running, sniffing sniffing sniffing. Letting the world know I am here. The freedom to do these

things is what brings me happiness and is the essence of being a dog. But Lisa and Brandon don’t

see it that way. They insist that I stay in my crate and come out only to eat and do my business.

They control when it’s time to do both. And if I make a mess in my crate they yell at me and tell

me I am a bad boy. I am sad most of the time. But they don’t seem to care. I don’t understand

why they adopted me as they don’t seem to love me.

One day they forgot to lock the door on the crate before leaving for the day. I bumped it with my

nose and it opened. Wow I thought freedom. Time to go explore. I went in rooms I had never

seen before. I took a nap on a sunny spot on the bed. I found a sock that was fun to run around

with in my mouth. I smelled something yummy in the kitchen where my food is kept. Yep, it was

cookies. I could easily reach them on the counter so I gobbled up one and then another and

another.

Suddenly the door opened and I stopped in my tracks. “You stupid dog” Brandon shouted. “Look

what you’ve done.” What had I done but eat a couple cookies and play with a sock. “That’s it” he

said “You are going back to the pound. I won’t have a dog that misbehaves.”

So, I found myself back at the pound with lots of other sad dogs whimpering in their cells. We all

felt the same way. We just wanted to be dogs and live a dog’s life with someone who loved us.

After many days I gave up hope of ever finding a forever home with someone who would

understand me. But then this guy walked by and stopped. He said “what’s your name little guy?”

My ears perked. “It says here your owner disowned you. How come?” If only I could talk and tell

him that I really am a good boy. I heard him ask if he could take a closer look at me. My tail

starting wagging so hard it almost knocked me over as he petted my head. “ Look at you little

buddy you are a happy little guy. Want to go for a walk.” “Yes Yes I really do.” So we walked. I got

to smell all the great scents of all the other dogs. And then we sat for a while and he gave me

belly rubs. He gave me a toy and we played tug of war. I heard him tell the lady at the desk I

would like to take this sweet pup home with me today. This is the best day of my life I thought.

But I felt sad for all the other dogs still left in their cells.

But there I was walking out of there and in to his car. I got to ride with my head out the window

and my ears blowing in the wind. When we got to his house, he explained to me that this is

where I would live. He said my name is JD and today you are getting a new name. I’ll call you

Hero, because you have rescued me sweet boy. I slept on the bed with him. I got cookies at

night. We watched TV on the couch together and he rubbed my belly. He told me we would do

lots of cool things like go hiking,camping and go to the dog park and chase balls. He said he

wanted to be my best friend. In my mind he was my Hero. Because this is what every dog wants,

to be understood and the freedom to be a dog. I lived happily ever after.

A New Beginning: I Shot a Man - Nancy

 New Beginnings: I Shot a Man

CoCo's New Beginning - Nancy

 A New Beginning

I walk in the door and the familiar pounding bass of Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing” vibrates in my chest.  My eyes slowly adjust to the dark, with the only light being neon signs saying Girls, Girls, Girls. The  smell of stale sweat, cigarette smoke and cheap liquor violates my nostrils. I wonder if that smell is a permanent odor that I walk around with.  No time to be thinking about things like that as I am late for work and Geno will be sure to give me a tongue lashing for it.

 I avoided seeing him as I sneak into the dressing room. I say hello to the other ladies all in different stages of dress and intoxication. Hi pretty lady Siesta calls out to me. She is one of the newer and more naive of the girls. She hasn’t yet learned the backstabbing ways of the more seasoned ones. 

I find my chair and throw off the contents of someone else costume and sit down ready to transform myself into CoCo. I stare into the mirror and its as if a stranger is looking back at me through the cloud of smoke that fills the room. “Who are you?” I ask myself? “And how in the hell did you get here? “ For a moment I get lost in my thoughts before the door slams open and Geno is shouting out “Coco get your shit together and be out on this dance floor in ten minutes. And don’t you damn well be late again or your pretty little ass will be out on the streets.” 

I hurry up and paint my face with heavy rouge, false eyelashes and red lipstick. I squirm in to a tight leather mini, knee-high boots and grab my whip. I take one last glance in the mirror. As I do I chuckle to myself thinking this really is a joke. A joke on every foolish man out there. And I am the puppeteer. But the show must go on!

I perform my skit as I like to call it. Slapping my whip. Giving that devilish smile all the while as I tease the leering eyes wanting more from me. So, I give them a little more and play the game. I show you what you want and you give me money. The more I show the more money you give me. Everyone knows the rules of this game. 

Although the atmosphere with its bright lights, music and cheering, the underlying theme is loneliness. These men wouldn’t be here if they weren’t lonely and trying to fill an empty void in their life. I feel sorry for them. I know several of the regulars as they really just want someone to talk to. Either their wife has died or they are not particularly handsome and have a hard time meeting woman. They all think they are in love with me, whatever that means. So, I talk to them and listen to their stories. I do care about them. But only to the point that they pay me for that consideration. 

And then there are the others. The mean drunks who want to control you. Who think they are smarter and better than you even though they are losers just like the rest of them. I fell for one of those losers. His name was Randy. He was covered in tattoos and had greased back black hair. Said he had a good job working at Lockheed. He always had plenty of money, much of it he spent on me. But there were big strings attached to it. At first it was flattery with “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I want to treat you like a princess.” But it didn’t take long before the real Randy showed himself. He assaulted me with words that would tear down my self-esteem bringing me down as low as he was. He would physically rough me up but always keeping from bruising me. He knew if Geno saw bruises on me, he would get thrown out of the club. Not because he hurt me. But because no one wants to watch a dancer with bruises all over her. It would result in loss revenue.

But I met a woman several months ago that said some things to me that are now planted in my brain and growing like a spring flower. She asked if she could share my table in a small crowded cafe. As she sat and drank her coffee and ate her tuna sandwich we began to talk. She asked my name. I was hesitant as I didn’t know if I should tell her, it was Kelly or CoCo. I went with Kelly. The conversation was light at first but long after the tuna sandwich was finished, we were still sitting and talking. I liked her. She had kind eyes. She was real. I hadn’t met a real person, a person who knew who they were in a very long time. In fact, I didn’t know who I was. And all the make-believe characters I worked around surely didn’t have a clue who they were. We agreed to have lunch the following week at the same cafe.

Her name was Linda. She was married with two grown daughters and worked part-time in an accountant’s office. Over the next couple of weeks, we revealed more about ourselves over coffee. I don’t know why but I trusted her with my story. I told her about how I left home at 17 with dreams of making it big in the world but with no direction on how to do it. My parents worked late night shift in a factory which left a lot of time for me to be pernicious. I became hard to control and so we fought all the time. I figured I was grown up enough to make it on my own. So, I left. With no money and no direction, I was lured in to the world of stripping. I was always told I was pretty. So why not make money off it. I told her I had made a lot of money and have been saving it for when the time is right to get out. 

Linda listened intently and never judged me. She asked me if I thought my parents still loved me. I told her I wasn’t sure. I would guess they have given up on me. She then asked do you think you could ask them  to forgive you? Those words hit me like a brick. I couldn’t ask anyone to forgive me until I could forgive myself. 

That word forgiveness has propelled me on a journey to change. In order to change one must strip off all the phony layers that the world sees until you are exposed naked to the truth of who you are. What irony with me being a stripper to think this way. But that’s the beginning, a new beginning of a life moving forward into the light. I’m ready. Linda helps me to find a job. An honest job. She helps me get my GED and then enroll in community college. Her positive encouragement allows me to look in the mirror now and be proud of who I am becoming. 

I was late for work today because the final details of my escape out of this world of fantasy are now in place. This is my last show as CoCo the dominatrix. Tomorrow Kelly asks for forgiveness.

A Children's Christmas tale - Ain't no Sunshine - Mike P

A Children's Christmas Tale - Ain't no Sunshine - Mike P 

Goldilocks - an allegory - Mike P

 Goldilocks –an allegory

Not too hot, not too cold. Just right. Not too hard, not too soft, just

right. Not too young, not too old, just right.

Goldilocks was the classic tale of finding the right fit while

avoiding life’s extremes. The trick is to find the happy medium

where life’s fulfillment can be reached. Hence, the Goldilocks

Effect where the porridge is just right.

Youth are often prone to run full speed, 24/7. Burn the midnight

oil, party like there is no tomorrow. Like the great American

philosopher, Homer Simpson, once said, “I thought I had an

appetite for destruction, but all I really wanted was a club

sandwich.”

If you believe that age can bring wisdom, then it stands to reason

that it can also be the catalyst for enjoying that club sandwich.

But I don’t believe that age, alone, can do this. Age and hopefully

the complementary wisdom provide the framework for a person to

find the right fit for their life. A 70+ year old acting like a 25-year-

old is as disconcerting as young whippersnapper wearing a lime

green leisure suit and watching reruns of Matlock.

An Inaugural Address: An Inspiration - Mike P

 An Inaugural Address: An Inspiration

We, the citizens of the Elements, are now joined in a great

communal effort to rebuild our neighborhood and restore its

promise to all our aging residents. Together we will

determine the course of the Elements as we stare down the

Dark Forces of Big V for many, many years to come. We will

face challenges. We will confront hardships, but we will get

the job done. This year we gather on the Magnolia steps to

carry out the orderly and peaceful transfer of power. We are

grateful to Mayor Jim Carpino and First Lady Diane Carpino

for their gracious aid throughout this transition. They have

been hugely helpful.

Only a fraction in our 55+ community has reaped the rewards

offered by the Magnolia while residents of Phase One have born

the cost. The godless Viridian mothership has flourished with our

money, but the Phase One residents did not share in its wealth.

Management prospered, while the events rapidly filled, and

Thursday night happy hours quickly closed to thirsty homeowners.

The Mothership Management team protected itself, but not the

citizens of the Elements. Their victories have not been your

victories. Their triumphs have not been your triumphs. While they

celebrated with heightened HOA fees, there was little to celebrate

for struggling homeowners across our motherland.

That all changes starting right here and right now because this

moment is your moment. This side of the bridge belongs to you. It

belongs to everyone gathered here today and everyone watching,

from Blackwood Cross to Spotted Fawn, out to the distant

reaches of Kings Garden Parkway and down to the swampy

wasteland of Boyd’s Branch. This is your day. This is your

celebration.

The vermin and jail birds who live and breed across the bridge are

listening to you now. You moved here by the hundreds to become

part of an historic movement the likes of which Arlington has

never seen before. At the center of this movement is a crucial

conviction that a retirement community exists to serve its fading

and feeble citizens. Elements citizens want great pools without

bratty kids infesting them, safe neighborhoods free from the

diseased illegals of Big V, and lighted street corners that keep

hungry coyotes at bay. These are just and reasonable demands

of righteous Baby Boomers, but for too many of our residents, a

different reality exists.

Hollowed-out men and women trapped in poverty inside

tenements dotted on Spotted Fawn, rusted out shotgun shacks

scattered like tombstones up and down Park View Place, and rat-

infested Drees McMansions slapped together atop haunted

Indian burial grounds. All of which leaves our lost souls longing for

a life depicted like those gleeful and plastic actors in the television

ad. The Elements carnage stops right here, and it stops right

now.

The oath of office I take today is an oath of allegiance to all

Elements residents. For many years, we've greased Howard and

Bob’s sticky fingers at the expense of Elements wallets,

subsidized the younger and ungrateful varmints across the bridge,

while allowing for the very sad depletion of our Citizens on Patrol.

One by one, our HOA and Social Committee sponsored activities

fill up within a day or two. Too many of our residents left shuttered

to exist within the squalor of their second-rate starter homes. The

wealth of our Baby Boomers has been ripped from their homes

and then redistributed across the bridge to the unwashed scum.

But that is the past and now we are looking only to the future. The

assembled here today are issuing a new decree to be heard on

every block, and pocket park, from the clickety clack railroad

tracks to the barren and bumpy Bark Yard. From this day forward,

a new vision will govern our 55+ community. From this day

forward, it's going to be Elements first. Every decision on

Magnolia parties, on HOA fees, and landscape work will be made

to benefit Elements residents. And Elements residents only!

I will fight for you with every breath in my body and I will never,

ever let you down. As we make our stand, down in Elements land.

Thank you and my God bless Commander Cubin and our Citizens

on Patrol.

The Runner in Me - Nez

 The Runner in Me

by Nez Nesmith

As a little kid I always walked with my Mom from downtown across the

tracks to uptown Lyman to run errands to the store and post office. We

usually went two times each week, sometimes three. When I was about five

or so Mom sometimes let me run those errands to the post office and store

by myself. And I ran all the way, nearly half-a-mile to the post office first,

then back to the store two doors away. By the time I was seven I could run

that distance in about eight minutes and run back home with the mail and a

bag of groceries in about twelve minutes. I ran everywhere. When I was

outside by myself I was either running or throwing or shooting baskets.

In school I ran faster than everybody except Bud Ashe. Bud lived in uptown

Lyman. We became good friends in the first grade. Even though we were

raised in the same tiny town we had never met before first grade. His family

were Baptists and mine were Pentecostals, so we never even went to

church together. And we were definitely parented differently.

Our families were kind of alike. He and I were middle kids, and we each

had an older sister and younger brother. The difference was he had a mom

and a dad. I only had a mom.

My Mom was both trusting and permissive. She knew everyone in town and

that they looked out for everybody’s kids, and she allowed us to do things

and go places in town at a fairly young age. Bud’s mother wouldn’t allow

him or his siblings to even cross the tracks except for church or school.

Thus, Bud never came to my house to play, not once. But his mother was

okay with me going to his house any time. So, I was there frequently. It was

like that always.

One might have thought Bud’s mother would have brought him to my

house sometime but she never did. And yes she was invited. She didn’t

even allow him to come to any birthday parties across the tracks. But we all

went to his. And Bud wasn’t allowed to participate in our other escapades

all around Lyman. He and I did things at or near his home but he always

had to stay within sight of his house. Most parents in Lyman weren’t as

strict as Mrs. Ashe, and I’m sure she had her reasons, but all my other

friends came to my house.

In our school classes Bud and I were academically about even and we

always got better grades than the other five boys in our class. We were

both good students as well as athletic. I was a better speller. He was a

faster reader. It didn’t matter what the activity or sport Bud and I were

always the standouts among the boys. Two girls were better academically.

Each year Lyman Elementary had a Springtime field day where everyone

participated in events. On this day each year there was one thing where

Bud was not as good as I, not even close. Ball throw: in ball-throw I always

threw a lot farther and more accurately than Bud. I always won.

When we got to junior high, an intermingling of kids from eight elementary

schools, Bud and I were also the two fastest guys in the whole school as

eighth graders. But I was still the better speller. I even won the junior high

spelling bee, with the word “khaki”. Also, in eighth grade Bud was no longer

faster than I. We were pretty even and I won as many races as he did.

Then in ninth grade in junior high, the high school track coach chose me to

race in the Skagit County High School Invitational Track Meet against the

best sprinters from the five high schools in the county. At the race I was the

only runner not yet in high school. I didn’t come in first, but I took third and

was within a half-step of the winner in the 100-yard dash. I was kind of a

hero for about five minutes. But I was most proud that my Mom got to see

me run that race and she was thrilled. She was always happy and proud of

my successes, but that was the only time my Mom ever saw me compete

at anything.

Bud congratulated me too and was proud for me. But after that race our

long friendship faded and we simply became classmates. I saw him at the

thirtieth reunion and we greeted each other warmly but neither of us had

much to say. Oh! His mother was still alive. Mine was not.

Last Date...Ever? - Nez

 Last Date… Ever?

By Nez Nesmith

Lorraine burst out laughing when his upper plate clicked as he moved in to kiss her. Between guffaws she giggled, “No,” and gently pushed him away saying, “Goodnight Mr. Fisher” as she opened her door letting herself out of the car.  Stepping quickly to her lighted front porch, she turned and waved as he, now obviously embarrassed, sped away in his Cadillac. Knowing that at least one, probably two of her children were watching she kept the smile on her face upon entering. 

“Well,” demanded her teenage daughter, “how did that go?” 

“He’s not going to be our new dad is he?”, questioned her near-teen son. 

“It went okay, we had a nice dinner, and no he’s not going to be your new dad,” she replied. “I’m glad that’s over,” she murmured to herself. That had been her first date since her divorce eight years earlier, and she now expected it would be her last. She had spent those years caring for her old grandmother and raising her three kids. Her longtime friend Edna had more or less coerced Lorraine into this date with her now two-years widowed dad, John. Neither was happy about it. They had known each other for years and attended the same church. 

[In his mind Lorraine was too young for him, plus she had three kids. What would he want with young kids? He wouldn’t want kids dirtying up his Cadillac (Body by Fisher). Plus, Lorraine is two years younger than Edna, his own daughter. What would people at church think? And say? He could just imagine them asking, “What in the world are you thinking at your age taking on a much younger woman with three kids? Are you crazy? You need to act your age. Yet, John wasn’t happy to have been rebuffed like that, either.”]

In her mind John Fisher was much too old for her. He was her friend’s father for crying out loud, and he was an old man. He didn’t even have his own teeth. He was Mr. Fisher. Besides, she had known his wife Bess and attended her funeral. What would people at church say? And think? She could just imagine them asking, “What in the world are you doing taking on a man of his age? You already have your own grandmother. Are you starting an old-age home? Yet she was kind of sorry for laughing at his clicking teeth.”

Lorraine’s kids knew their Mom was often lonely, and they had urged her to try dating and maybe find a single man suitable to be their new dad. At least that was the message from her two older ones, the youngest boy had no such thoughts. He was happy the way things were. 

No one was supposed to have known about that date, but of course there are very few secrets in the tiny town of Lyman. And word certainly got around quickly. It didn’t take long for the town to know the results of her date with John Fisher, that it hadn’t ended well. Nor for the romantics to try to set Lorraine up with more dates. 

Lila Davis, another divorcee now living back home, offered a date with her dad, Fred, who was even older than John. Lila liked Lorraine’s two boys and included an offer to help raise them. Almost tempted, she turned Lila down. 

Neighbor Mae Hittson offered both of her two still-single brothers. Clifford, Mae’s husband, and church deacon, advised Lorraine to stay clear of Mae’s brothers, they were nothing but trouble. Lorraine thanked him.  Dorothy Dietz offered her lazy good-for-nothing husband, Leyland. There were several more match-maker offers, but Lorraine said no thanks to them all. 

Lorraine’s sister Kathryn, down in Mapleton, Oregon, even heard about it and sent a postcard stating that Mac still had brothers available, if she wanted a logger. Kathryn knew better but obviously couldn’t resist. Lorraine ignored Kathryn.

On the other hand, Jeannie and Sandy, young daughters of Eulene Bivins, the third of only three divorcees in Lyman, and from just around the corner, came over balefully begging and sort of threatening Lorraine not to date their Mom’s dates. Lorraine promised them she wouldn’t. 

Extreme offers and pleas from Lyman folks kept coming. Lorraine was both exasperated and feeling almost guilt-ridden. She didn’t know what to do. Grandma kept saying, “I told you so.” But that wasn’t true either. Her kids took calls asking for their mom, they had a date for her. The kids were asking what was wrong with everyone? Didn’t they realize that the process would involve them and certain rules? That they would have a say in who their mom dated. By Saturday Lorraine was exhausted. She had decided that that was positively her last date. 

At church that Sunday Edna, the preacher’s wife and John Fisher’s daughter, profusely apologized to Lorraine. But yet a deacon scolded her. So, before the sermon began, Lorraine stood and declared that she was not interested in dating or marriage at this time in her life. That she was already busy enough with three kids and her grandmother and would everyone please stop trying to fix her up with a man. Pat Bridgeman, Edna’s preacher-husband seconded that request and counselled that everyone, including his wife, should heed Lorraine’s request. John Fisher, stiffly listening from his usual seat, reddened, looked straight ahead and said not a word. 

Lorraine, smiling inside, now knew she could say, “No thanks” without any guilt, even to her own kids.

 

Abandoned Farmhouse

By Ted Kooser

Words Underlined: broken dishes, God-fearing, lilacs, tractor tire, lonely, sealed jars

Woman Walking

Kathy Heim

A woman walks alone following dry, cracked,

Tire tracks left to settle in a barren field

She Looks for a past blown away with the wind, 

Wondering where her life went twisty

And when it turned to pieces like

Broken dishes heaped in a pile, 

each a fragment of her.  

Some jagged, stripped of soft edges, 

Lonely, dangerous, and warning.  

No one picks these ones,

They come with a warning. 

Leave me alone they shout.  

But the rounded ones, they

Beg to be held, caressed, wanted.

Like lilacs, beautiful, fragrant, delicate, 

Displayed in unsealed jars to be admired, desired.  

The woman heads home praying to God

For a path ahead to put herself back together

Before returning home.

Money Was Short - Nez

 Money Was Short

By Nez Nesmith

Lyman was considered a poor town in the 1950’s. Several families were rather poor. Some poorer than others. Most men in Lyman were loggers which was seasonal work. Snows in the mountains shut down logging in winter. So, most loggers were on what they called “Rocking chair” or unemployment during the winter months, which wasn’t much. For many families that was their whole income during the winter months, especially if they hadn’t saved any of their logging earnings. Also, women generally didn’t work outside the home yet, so most income was dependent on the man of the house. 

Money was always short. Growing up we rarely had spending money for things like candy, or sodas, or toys or games. Lyman couldn’t even support a restaurant other than the tavern. 

Our family was one of the poor ones, too, but our Dad wasn’t a logger. He was gone. Mom was a divorcee raising three kids and taking care of her Grandma Buckner. We were on state welfare. Mom was a good seamstress and earned additional income with her sewing. But that work was sporadic. There really weren’t other work options for her in Lyman, especially with three kids at home. 

When I was old enough I did a lot of things to earn spending money. Neighbors might pay me a couple of dollars to mow their yard with our old reel push mower. Or I helped someone cut and stack stove or fireplace wood for money. 

One year I sold Wallace Brown Christmas cards. They had a really nice assortment, including Currier and Ives cards. Mrs. Hittson loved those cards and bought four boxes of Currier and Ives, the most expensive. Customers pre-paid for their order with a check in September or October and I sent the orders and checks to the Wallace Brown company, and I received and delivered their monogrammed cards the first week of December. The company sent me a check with the deliveries. But Lyman didn’t have enough customers for me to earn much money selling Christmas cards. I did pretty well but that income was so slow in coming to me that it became our Christmas money. 

I tried other things too, like selling GRIT Newspaper, a bi-weekly national newspaper that kids all over the country sold. But I was looking for something with quicker cash results. 

One of the simpler jobs I did for immediate cash was to hike along the highway a mile or two outside of town with a gunnysack (burlap) to collect unbroken beer bottles and pop bottles that had been tossed out of vehicles. Beer bottles each had a One Cent deposit and pop bottles a Five Cent deposit. Those bottles were sturdy and didn’t break easily and glass is heavy. Pop bottles were scarce, but on a good day I could earn a dollar or two in an hour or so, depending on if anyone had recently picked that stretch of highway. In those days most everyone, including the loggers, drank and drove. 

I always took my very heavy gunnysack to the Lyman Tavern and turned the bottles in for the deposit return. When I made more than two dollars I rewarded myself with a Coca-Cola and a bag of peanuts, for twenty-five cents, which I poured into the Coke. Pure joy. I loved that. 

Then I got old enough to pick strawberries at Mapes Strawberry Farm for about three weeks. Hard work but more money.

Borrowed Boat - Nez

 Borrowed Boat

Our Sister - Marc

 OUR SISTER

Our sister is a pearl

who greets me in the morning

Lovely, dazzling

makes me want to embrace her

But to be close to her

ensures certain death

I wonder how one so beautiful

can be so deadly

As a watch her from afar

 

From Susan: Here’s a 10-minute exercise to try. Take a short poem and circle words you want to use.
Write another poem or a story using these words. I used the following Ted Kooser poem, “Two,” from his book of poems called Splitting an Order:

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I circled these words in Kooser’s poem: staircase, dress shirts, polished shoes, holding hands, fingers, reached out. Below is my 10-minute (and a bit more) version. 

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At the foot of the staircase lay

Four dress shirts,

Six tee shirts,

Five pair of white socks,

One weathered scarf, and

Two pair of polished shoes,

The contents of his closet left behind, 

Holding hands with the deserted air,

Fingers grasping for answers.

Reaching out to clutch the past, 

I longed to start again.

The foot of the staircase told a different story.

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I am no poet, but it is a fun exercise to try. You could do this with a paragraph from a book, song lyrics, news article, just about anything. 

Northern Lights - Nez

 Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis)

By Nez Nesmith

I don’t remember the first time I saw the Northern Lights in Lyman. It seems like

we saw them pretty much several times every year. Even when the sky was

overcast, or it was raining those lights shone through. To those of us who grew up

in northern Washington State (Lyman) seeing the Northern Lights (or Aurora

Borealis) beaming over the mountains was not that much of a big deal. It was

pretty commonplace, and once you had seen them as a kid, the excitement wore

off and their appearance just wasn’t all that special. We just took them for

granted.

Oh sure, sometimes the show was more extraordinary than usual, especially the

ones with a lot of dancing and loud colors. Those usually got our attention… for a

while at least. If the sky was fairly clear the show could go on for hours. It was

pretty spectacular. But for us younger adolescents with our short attention spans

it was just doing the same old thing over and over. Pretty soon it became boring.

Plus, they don’t hold a lot of pleasant memories for me. Memories, yes, pleasant,

not so much.

I remember when Aunt Kathryn and Uncle Mac and cousins Diane, Laree and

Terry were visiting us in Lyman. They were from Mapleton, Oregon (which is

about 150 miles southwest of Portland). The Northern Lights were putting on a

show for them that first night. They could sometimes see them from their home

but not like this. They were mesmerized by the quick movement and the colors,

shades of green, pink, purple, white and aqua, and how fast they would change

from one color to another. It was instantaneous. If you blinked it was different.

Anyway, my teenage cousin Diane, who was a bit of a prima donna and as we kids

had always thought, a big showoff, had been taking clarinet lessons in school and

had brought her clarinet on the trip with her to show us how well she was doing

with it. And, since she hadn’t yet had the opportunity to show off her clarinet

prowess, she thought she might do so while the Northern Lights were playing and

attempt to add a little music to the light show. Neither my sister, who also played

clarinet, nor I, who played violin, had any thoughts about joining Diane’s musical

incursion. As far as we were concerned she was on her own. We just knew it

wouldn’t go well. And boy-howdy we were so lucky that we didn’t because to us it

was a totally utter and laughable disaster.

At first, she couldn’t figure out which note to begin with, and when she finally

decided we just heard one squeaky note after another loud squeaky note, if you

could call them notes. And she couldn’t figure out the rhythm of the light show to

where her clarinet could join in. (The light show had its own rhythm.) It was bad,

really bad. Then, of course, everyone, including her whole family and all of the

rest of us (about ten people), except one, laughed loudly at her attempt at playing

along with the dancing Northern Lights. And her dad even pleaded with her to

stop. She ran off embarrassed and crying, which I’m sure any one of us would

have done were we in the same circumstance.

Then, our Mom, the only one who hadn’t laughed at Diane, gave us all a

definitively scowling look and followed after her. Mom spent most of the rest of

the night consoling Diane with calming comments and encouragement and made

every single one of us who had laughed at her playing apologize to Diane, one at a

time. As I approached her I had a smirk on my face, and I swear I couldn’t help it

but suddenly I just laughed out loud again. But instead of crying of humiliation

Diane suddenly attacked me and beat the hell out of me right there in the kitchen.

Mom sat there and watched and smirked, as if to say, “You asked for it Buddy”.

Diane was a girl so I couldn’t even fight back or defend myself and there was

nowhere for me to run. Diane was almost three years older than I and bigger. I

was just a little pip-squeak of about eight. I didn’t stand a chance. She was strong

and hit me hard. Now I was humiliated and crying. After Diane was done Mom

consoled me by giving me a whipping with my own belt and sent me to bed.

With a cigarette dangling from her lips Aunt Kathryn came to my room and vainly

attempted to console me. Her constant chuckling didn’t help.

A memory snapshot of the early 1950’s. Unpleasant memory maybe, but lesson

learned.

Peace and Quiet - Marc

 PEACE AND QUIET

Once upon a time, (which is the way most stories should be started), there was a young

couple who were very much in love. They lived in a small house at the end of a cul de sac, with

a grassy yard and woods beyond. They would spend their time laughing over dinner, reading

quietly together in their yard, and hiking through the woods. And wherever they went, they

were happy to be spending their time with Peace and Quiet. Although they never actually spoke

with Peace and Quiet, it was comforting for them know that Peace and Quiet were always there

with them.

On day, the woman announced that she was pregnant, much to the surprise and

happiness of the man. (Why he should be surprised is beyond me, he was there at the start

after all)! It was not an easy pregnancy. Months of morning sickness were followed a course of

pneumonia, and finally severe back pain. But their love for each other, and for their unborn

child brought them through the difficult times.

Childbirth was difficult, but when she first held her newborn daughter all was forgotten

while she bathed in the moment of bliss. The baby was a challenge, being a poor sleeper and

often suffering from cholic, while frequently crying.

It was then that they noticed for the first time that their friends, Peace and Quiet had

abandoned them. Peace and Quiet were nowhere to be found in their lives.

They years rolled on, through childhood sicknesses, the first school play, middle school

madness, and high school proms. And eventually, they forgot that Peace and Quiet had ever

shared life with them.

The day came when they dropped their daughter off at college. Once home, they missed

her terribly. However, one day, while reading quietly in their yard, they realized that their

friends, Peace and Quiet had returned, after being gone for so long. And they also realized that

when life takes something away, it often also gives something back.

Like so many years earlier, their life had returned to a simpler time, shared with Peace

and Quiet.

Peace and Quiet = Marc

 PEACE AND QUIET

Once upon a time, (which is the way most stories should be started), there was a young

couple who were very much in love. They lived in a small house at the end of a cul de sac, with

a grassy yard and woods beyond. They would spend their time laughing over dinner, reading

quietly together in their yard, and hiking through the woods. And wherever they went, they

were happy to be spending their time with Peace and Quiet. Although they never actually spoke

with Peace and Quiet, it was comforting for them know that Peace and Quiet were always there

with them.

On day, the woman announced that she was pregnant, much to the surprise and

happiness of the man. (Why he should be surprised is beyond me, he was there at the start

after all)! It was not an easy pregnancy. Months of morning sickness were followed a course of

pneumonia, and finally severe back pain. But their love for each other, and for their unborn

child brought them through the difficult times.

Childbirth was difficult, but when she first held her newborn daughter all was forgotten

while she bathed in the moment of bliss. The baby was a challenge, being a poor sleeper and

often suffering from cholic, while frequently crying.

It was then that they noticed for the first time that their friends, Peace and Quiet had

abandoned them. Peace and Quiet were nowhere to be found in their lives.

They years rolled on, through childhood sicknesses, the first school play, middle school

madness, and high school proms. And eventually, they forgot that Peace and Quiet had ever

shared life with them.

The day came when they dropped their daughter off at college. Once home, they missed

her terribly. However, one day, while reading quietly in their yard, they realized that their

friends, Peace and Quiet had returned, after being gone for so long. And they also realized that

when life takes something away, it often also gives something back.

Like so many years earlier, their life had returned to a simpler time, shared with Peace

and Quiet.

Untitled - Marc

 UNTITLED

Standing silently

with hands clasped behind them

Necks stretching to watch

The agile fingers working

Hoping for a miracle

As the frigid wind

Brings them closer

on this desolate street

But the sounds make it clear that

Despite his best, there will be no miracles today

The man shakes his head

And calls the tow truck

Newhalem Baseball Teams - Nez

 Newhalem Baseball Teams

By Nez Nesmith

Lyman is one of the few small towns one would pass through when taking Highway 20 east to

cross the Cascade Mountains. Highway 20 is mostly a two-lane east-west highway that crosses

the whole state of Washington from the Idaho border to the town of Anacortes at the Salish

Sea water’s edge in Skagit County. It’s also called North Cascades Highway, as it is the most

northern highway in Washington that you can go across the Cascade mountains over into

Eastern Washington. And from November through April Highway 20 is closed through the

mountains. Too much snow. Of course, it remains open on both sides of the Cascades, so

there’s just about an 80 mile stretch that’s closed.

When I was a kid in the 1950’s Highway 20 didn’t go all the way across the mountains. It

stopped at Newhalem, about 45 miles east and north of Lyman. Newhalem was the end of the

road, and in the mountains. It was and still is a company town owned by Seattle Light and

Power. The town was built for the workers on the Diablo and Ross Dams projects on the Upper

Skagit River. (It’s still the last place to buy anything if you’re going across the mountains to

Eastern Washington.) Newhalem totaled about 400 people, employees and their families back

then. Much less now.

Newhalem had no schools. A town of 400 people with a lot of kids and no schools. And it’s

actually in Whatcom County, but there is no access from Whatcom County to that mountainous

region. You had then and still have to go through Lyman, Hamilton, Concrete, Rockport and

Marblemount, all in Skagit County. Neither did Rockport or Marblemount. Kids from those

towns and Newhalem were all bussed to the town of Concrete, population 705, in Skagit

County. The Seattle Light and Power Company paid the Concrete Schools for the Newhalem

students and provided their school bus and its driver. It was about an hour and a half each way

from Newhalem to Concrete. Can you imagine? Five days a week. That’s fifteen hours each

week spent on a school bus. I guess you shouldn’t have had any homework left to do by the

time you got home. (I wondered what the bus driver did while the kids were in school.)

Although Newhalem didn’t have schools, it did have a nice park with a baseball diamond and

baseball players. Boy, did they have the ballplayers. They always had really good Little League

and Babe Ruth teams. Whenever our team from Lyman, then coached by Mr. Shirley Allen,

played at Newhalem it was an all-day affair, over two hours each direction on Highway 20.

Newhalemites were very friendly people. They didn’t get many visitors. And there was no

restaurant. So, the townspeople rolled out the red carpet for us and fed us. Picnic tables near

the ballfield were crowded with homemade dishes of food, every kind we could think of. Since

it was such a long drive we usually played a double-header. We ate between games. We were

thrilled to win one game against them. They typically easily won both, even when they made

the trip down river to play in Hamilton or Lyman. Those trips were pretty much all-day for them

too, and usually double-headers. Newhalem teams were always exceptionally good.

But here’s the rub. At Marblemount Highway 20 turns north still following the Skagit River and

as mentioned earlier, that puts the town of Newhalem in Whatcom County, by just a couple of

miles. And because of that two miles Newhalem baseball teams weren’t eligible to compete in

Skagit County for Little League or Babe Ruth championships. They were relegated to Whatcom

County which meant they had to compete with teams from Bellingham, Ferndale, Lynden,

Deming and Sumas, which were in the western part of that county. To play any of those teams

would have meant at least a 200 mile roundtrip drive, and that just wasn’t feasible. Thus, they

never played any Whatcom County teams. The Skagit teams even petitioned the two baseball

commissions, Skagit and Whatcom, on their behalf and were denied. So Newhalem could only

play the upriver Skagit County teams in the regular season without being in the playoffs, which

I’m sure they would have dominated regularly.

Even though they knew they were not eligible to win a championship, they still put their best

players on the field and played their hearts out. Every other team admired and respected them.

Coaches, too, especially Coach Allen. He and another coach initiated the petitions. I always

thought Newhalem got cheated just because they were in Whatcom County. Why wouldn’t the

Little League and Babe Ruth commissions have made some sort of exception/concession for

them? I’m sure there were times when they were good enough to have maybe won a State

Championship and competed for the Little League World Series. The last season I played against

them in Little League their team went undefeated. Never lost a game but there was no trophy

for them. They were the best team in the area by far, yet another team was awarded the

championship trophy.

But, you know, I never really knew how they felt about it.

A Girl and a Map

 [Prompt: Write a story about hope.]

by Susan Hunt

Fila sat on the wide wooden steps of the farmhouse, a tattered and dirt-smudged map of the Southern United States resting, unseen, on her lap. The two mules, Jack and Mike, stood patiently in the dusty yard, hitched to a wagon loaded with the barest of supplies for this move to Texas. Everything else had been sold, and now only what was left -- the mules, the wagon, the heat, the very air itself -- seemed to be waiting for Fila and her mother to abandon their past to a future both unknown and uncertain.

Fila knew she should be studying the map, memorizing the route from her birthplace in Girard, Alabama, to her uncle’s farm in Plano, Texas. But her mind was blind to the paper in her hands. She sat, unmoving, and stared down at lines and faded words. They meant nothing to her, and she grieved the paper they were printed on.

This was her father’s map, a good father’s map, and she wondered if he would have led them west had he lived. A moot question now. Her mother saw no future here in Alabama without a husband and income to manage 40 acres of cotton, not to mention a heavy equipment business that thrived during the War of Northern Aggression, a business doomed after the restless peace of loss descended on them. Her father’s skill at building roads and rail lines for the Confederacy meant an end to the business and its owner.

Now, the land was sold and along with it, equipment, livestock, and the house that had been home to Fila since birth. With her finger, Fila traced the route on the map, wondering where this move would lead beyond the miles a wagon train would travel. What good could possibly come from this uprooting of body and soul? From the brokenness of their hearts? Everything but a grave left behind?

Fila’s mother, although grieving and anxious about the future, had assured Fila that this move was necessary and not entirely without hope. Their uncle in Texas was a good man who had befriended Fila’s family on more than one occasion. “We will trust the goodness of others and Uncle Ned’s promise to help us,” her mother said with conviction.

Fila was not so convinced as she stared at the map, giving it her full attention now. They would start in Girard, meeting up with the wagon train in Columbus, just across the river. From there they would cross Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, then into east Texas, turning north at Dallas and on to Plano. The wagon boss estimated covering 10 miles a day, God willing and the weather held. How far was it, anyway? 800 miles? 900? 80 days minimum. That’s almost three months in a Conestoga wagon. Dear God, how would she ever survive such an ordeal? Yet, here they were.

Fila folded the map and stood to greet the young man hired to drive the wagon into her future. As she held out her hand to greet him, she said, “I hope you know the way.” Clasping her hand, the young man replied, “Yes, ma’am, I do. Your hope is not misplaced.”