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.