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Chalice

Love Reaches Out

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Chalice—Volume 2, Issue 1, July 2014

Chalice is an independent arts publication started in 2013 at West Shore Unitarian Universalist Church and published by the Editorial Board. Submissions of fiction, poetry, nonfiction, artwork and photography are ac-cepted from members and friends of UU congregations in the Ohio Meadville District and beyond. Send com-ments, questions or submissions (prose 2,000 words or less, poetry 1,500 words or less, photographs and art of at least 300 dpi) to [email protected] or Chalice c/o WSUUC, 20401 Hilliard Blvd., Rocky River, OH 44116. Submission guidelines are available on the church’s website and at www.chalicemag.org as well as [email protected]. Persons who submit work will be required to sign a release form available on the website. If photographs depict living persons, a model release should also be provided.

Subscriptions for the three issues of Volume 2 of Chalice are $20. Individual copies are available by donation. Sponsorships for the publication are $25 per issue with acknowledgement in each issue.

Enhanced digital copies of Chalice are available at www.chalice.org.Issue 2 of Volume 2 will be published in Fall 2014 on the theme of Equality. Submission deadline is Oct. 1,

2014. The Spring issue is open for material on all subjects and the submission deadline is March 1, 2015.

The Editors of Chalice:Barbara G. Howell, Wendlyn Alter, Carter Marshall, Barbara Walker, Ginger Marshall and Andrew Watkins.

www.chalicemag.org

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Seasons of Love — Rachel Friedland

And Now, Back to the World — Patty O’Shea

Elegy for Karen Wachsman — Steve Abbott

Love’s Gift: Organ Donation — Kelly Pinkas

Copley Square — Steve Abbott

Teaching as a Spiritual Practice — Barry Keenan

What’s Love Have to Do With It — Katherine Campbell-Gaston

Stop... Take a Deep Breath — Jessica Woods

All Aboard for What’s Deserving of Respect — Farrell Brody

The View from the 23rd Floor — Maya Wanner

The Goodbyes of My Friends — Anya Hardin

Whitecaps Keep Coming — Louis Cohen

Apocalypse — Claire Boor

Jimmy and Annie — Martha Day Boesel

Learning How to Give — Mary Ann Willis

Adriene — Marie Davids

Halloween through the Years — Ginger Nicole Marshall

On the Wings of Paper Dreams — Becky Hoelter

Northern Fried Dixie: A Romance — John Zylstra

Yearning for Love — Robert Tubbesing

Love Changes Everything — Barbara G. Howell

My Partner — Jane Youel

Between the Worlds; Lethargy — Margaret McConnell

Philosophical Answer to an Inquisitive Grand-Niece — Janet French

All Manner of Love — Lois Davis

Reading the Summer Solstice — Steve Abbott

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Art Credits

Carol Walton 5, 26

Vicki O’Dell 7

Thomas Ensign 8, 19

Belinda Chambers 13, 22, 38

Wanda Lotus 28

Robert Tubbesing 31

Carter Marshall — design & cover art

Wendlyn Alter — design & layout

Contents

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Spring is kind,spreading flower petals like a silky pathfor animals and humans alike to followas she leads us to wonder at thebeauty and togetherness of her worldwhere each moment is a chance fornew lifenew thoughtnew love.

Summer is a hotheaded mother,reminding childish human brothers and sistersnot to play in her sun too long.Her laugh is a cool wind that caresses the earthlike the soft touch one would givea small child.Like the warm embrace of a loved onewho you have missedand longed to see.

Fall is a careful friend,eager to be sure and steady in his decisions.He sighs and blows his leaves about the streetsas people clutch their clothing tight around themfighting the oncoming cold thatpromises frost.Frost to cover the grass and windowpanes.Frost that the children draw in with their fingers.Frost that whispers to us of hot chocolateand curling up by a fire with our families.

Winter is a dancer,her icy embrace draping the earth in a soft blanketof shimmering snow as the frozen leavessparkle in the sunlight.This is her stage.Her icy breath is the restless windwhich causes the bare branches of the treesto whistle and dance in the crisp air.Even as she dances over the snow-covered planesshe knows that her sport is soon to end,for Spring is returning and the warmth isalready within the land.It is within us.That warmth is the love we share.Together.

Seasons of Love

Rachel Friedland Thomas Jefferson UU Church, Louisville, KY

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The other morning I was in a convenience gas mart pay-ing for my gas and I saw a

man come in and buy a case of beer, real inexpensive stuff, and walk out. I observed that he was probably about my age but looked much older. His clothes were dirty and tattered, and my senses told me that he had drunk a beer or two that morning. When I looked at his face, something strange and amazing happened. In an instant, I knew that nothing separated us. Nothing. He is riding the same ger-bil wheel as I, trying to find ways to feel better as I am, and my guess is that what he tries proves temporary. Just like me. But he keeps moving his legs around the wheel, just in case. Just like I do.

Our oneness was excruciating, not only because, in our unity, I could not ignore his pain, but also, in our unity, I could not ignore my own.

So, in a Circle K parking lot, first thing in the morning, my shadow let me know she would be spending the day with me. Great. Something to look forward to on my 52-mile commute.

I have been around the wheel (gerbil or otherwise) enough to know to clear a space for my shadow when she shows up, to see what she has to tell me.

Days later, I am still not sure. I spent part of last evening watching a film called Harrison’s Flowers, about the ethnic cleansing in Yugo-slavia in the early 1990s. I watched the whole thing, somewhat unlike me. I often hide my head from things too difficult to see. I remem-ber back in the late 70s walking out of the film, The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith, because of how realistically it depicted exploita-tion, rage, and violence of the indigenous people of Australia. I ended up running into the bath-

And Now, Back to the World

Patty O’Shea UU Church of Akron, OH

room of the Akron Civic Theater and throwing up.

About a year ago, the battery in my car died. In Hondas, when that happens one must reprogram the radio with a code to reset it. I did not do that for a year. For a year, no NPR, no news in general. I didn’t tell anyone. I was ashamed, a little relieved, and at the same time “more able to focus on the interior journey.” Or so I told myself. What a bunch of happy horsesh**, to quote my dear, de-ceased father. For that year, I actu-ally gave myself a break from the news that had often become too startling and disquieting for me to absorb. Yeah, maybe I also worked on “the inner journey,” but really my quiet radio was not much dif-ferent than that case of beer.

A few weeks ago, I called a Honda dealer to get the code, programmed the radio, and as soon as I tuned in to NPR, the news announcer said “and now, back to The World… on NPR.” Back to the world. Funny. But not really.

The world is the man with the case of Rolling Rock longing for re-lief from his pain. The world is the indigenous Australian erupting into murderous rage after decades of exploitation. The world is the hor-ror of ethnic cleansing, the dying cancer patient, the fecund garden waiting to burst forth from under a cover of rotting leaves, the live puppy, the dead dog, the orgasm, the deep, full cleansing breath of prayer. And God help me, I have no better idea at age 58 how to keep it all in balance than I did in 1978, when I threw up in the ladies’ room of The Civic Theater.

So I guess my shadow will be travelling with me for a while longer. ¢

Carol WaltonWest Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

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Early autumn at the arboretum, we stood under maple and beech celebrating the solitarypine and dark stand of aspen, touching centuriedtowers laid prone by wind’s invisible handor clean cuts of saws ending what blight began.We counted the variable rings, measuringourselves, and as we talked, your name sprang uplike spruce silvered blue against the drought.

A lightning-splintered trunk can’t explainwhat’s missing. In its ragged edge I see myselfpartly digested by some incisored beast of sorrow,scissored into strips and dried like rawhidein some thin book about life on the Plains,where pioneer women wrote of traveling daysto view a tree in the endless sea of grass, rejoicein the living shield against sharpened air and sun.

The solstice festival came this year and wentwithout you, music and the expected rainwashing the rest of us clean as we dancedand breathed herbs from burnished bowls.Your name remained, reminding each of usthere’s always something left overwhen everyone at the table sighs and pushes backfrom empty plates, always some scraps to clean upbefore celebrating a job well done.

In spring we’ll carry you back to Goodale Park,where straight-line wind rooted out an oak, lefta blank space in the sky that blisters us each summer.When we’ve lowered a magnolia into the earth,we’ll pour your gray dust around its roots.Marking our foreheads and nodding toward the placereserved for each of us, we’ll dance under your tree.Arms spread above us, we’ll dance under the tree.

Elegy for Karen Wachsman

Steve Abbott First UU Church of Columbus, OH

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Saying goodbye

Vicki O’DellUU Church of Akron, OH

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My husband, Gerard, and I have always been avid believers in organ do-

nation. We are both registered donors, are regular blood donors and are registered bone marrow donors. I admit though, that I nev-er gave much more than a passing thought to living organ donation. When I would hear stories about family members or friends donat-ing, I would pause, be impressed at the donor’s bravery, reflect and move on with my life.

All of this changed in 2002 when I met Beth. She was a young, vibrant woman whose three-year old son, Clayton had karate lessons at the same school where my son, Ian, and I trained. Our school typically doesn’t take 3 year olds; they generally aren’t ready, but Clayton was. Later I would realize this was the first of many signs that the Universe had something planned.

Beth and I began a casual, pass-in-the-hall friendship. One day I half jokingly suggested she should take lessons. She replied that she couldn’t; she was on peritoneal dialysis which prevented her from exercise, swimming and a host of other activities. She had been diag-nosed with end stage renal failure 2-1/2 years earlier, when Clayton was just six months old. My mind and heart reeled. As a parent of a young child, I wondered how one could possibly be tethered to a machine for 10 hours a day with an active three year old. And,

would she live to see him gradu-ate from high school, get married? She was waiting on the transplant list for a donor. Unfortunately, her family members eligible for testing had not been matches.

Ian and I went home that night and I told Gerard Beth’s story. He too was similarly moved. We both said a “But for the Grace of God…” and went on with our lives. However, unbeknownst to me, a seed had been planted.

The 4th of July approached, and, with the long weekend came a karate school barbecue. Beth and her family had planned to be there, but did not show up. At the next class, I asked what happened? She told me about the emotional rollercoaster that she and her hus-band had been on that weekend. She had been called for not one but two different cadaver donors, only to learn after further tissue testing that she was not a match. She was upbeat, but clearly disap-pointed.

At this point, that seed that the Universe had planted began to grow. I remember the prover-bial light bulb going off over my head, and thinking, I could do this for her and it will work. But for once in my life I kept quiet and went home to talk to Gerard. I came home and once again told Beth’s story to him, only this time I added that I wanted to be tested as a donor. However, I was only willing to be tested if he was on board, and we both were willing

Love’s Gift: Organ Donation

Kelly Pinkas West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

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to take the process to the end— actual donation. We talked, medi-tated and did a little research into the specifics.

Finally, I approached Beth. She, of course, was stunned.

“Are you sure?” “Absolutely,” I replied. She indicated she needed to

talk about it with her husband and get back to me. I’m sure they wondered why a virtual stranger would do this. I know they also debated about asking me to do something they perceived as so drastic. Finally, there were insur-ance matters to consider. Their insurance would only pay for ten donors to be tested—including cadavers. They had already used five of their chances. What if we weren’t a match? Should they waste a chance on something that has less than a 5% probability? I assured them that I was ready, willing and, hopefully, able to do this.

I will tell you that when I of-fered to do this, I knew Beth and I were going to be a match, I would give her a kidney, and we would both be fine. I can’t explain how I knew; I just did. My intuition on this was too powerful to be ignored. I had to honor it and see where I was led.

The next month, Beth and I and one other person were tested. After drawing 14 vials of blood, I was told that it would be about ten days before the results were in and that I would be called first.

At this stage, I had only told a few people what I was doing—my family of the heart. I did not tell my parents, in-laws or siblings. I knew what their reaction would be and reasoned that there was no need getting everyone worked up until we knew some answers. Gerard will tell you that I was chicken—and he was right.

In about two weeks, the trans-plant coordinator from University Hospital called to tell me that Beth and I were “quite a good match,” especially for not being related. Not until after the surgery would I learn that “quite a good match” meant Beth and I were a 98% tissue match. This explained why at every appointment after that, I was asked if Beth and I were sisters.

“Are you surprised?” the co-ordinator asked. I was not. The transplant office later told Beth that they were surprised at how calm and unsurprised I was. The coordinator then asked if I wanted to go ahead, and I absolutely did. The screening process would begin the next week. I would undergo more blood work, an EKG, urine analysis, chest x-rays, meetings with the transplant coordinator, a social worker and a nephrolo-gist. If I passed all that, I would undergo a renal angiogram to map my kidneys and finally meet with the surgeon.

The following days and weeks were a little surreal. My days were divided between my regular life u

I did enjoy the irony that I, the Unitarian Universalist, was having a much easier time trusting God and

the universe than my devout Catholic family.

Thomas Ensign, friend

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u and an intense physical program and crash course in renal function. Slowly, I began to reveal my plans to family and friends. My support network continued to work their amazing magic. My family was a lot more hesitant about the whole thing. If they could have applied a family vote that I would have to abide by, I would still have both my kidneys. However, they did give me their support in the end, despite their misgivings. I learned that in my family, I’m the least pragmatic, most likely-to-trust-the-Universe, person in the bunch. I did enjoy the irony that I, the Uni-tarian Universalist, was having a much easier time trusting God and the universe than my “devout” Catholic family.

It was during the two months between receiving the results and the surgery that my faith and in-stincts were most completely test-ed. Whenever there appeared to be a roadblock, something would change, and we would move forward again. Time and again my instincts were affirmed by medical professionals, Gerard or any num-ber of factors. This is also when I realized how truly blessed I am to have the community and support network that I have. As sure as I was about doing this, the process was made infinitely more bearable by my family, both biological and of the heart.

After two months of testing and waiting, Gerard and I arrived at University Hospital for the sur-

gery. The surgeon would remove my left kidney using laproscopic surgery. The kidney would be removed through a three-inch incision at my left hip. My surgery would begin at 8 a.m. and end four hours later. Beth’s would begin at 9 a.m. and end five hours later. Both Gerard and I were calm, well-rested and ready. One of the nurses remarked at how calm we were. We both smiled and repeated what had become our mantra, “It’s just the right thing to do.” Beth and Brad came to see me just before my surgery started. They, understandably, were not calm or relaxed. If this worked, Beth would get her life back, Brad his wife back and—for me, most importantly—Clayton would get the mommy he never had but deserved. It is an amazing gift to be able to help someone on such a basic and fundamental level. I still can’t clearly verbalize how it made me feel.

Both of our surgeries went off without a hitch. My kidney was removed and out of body for only four minutes. Within two minutes of being placed in Beth, her new kidney began to work—which was the medical ideal. Beth’s family will tell you that she looked better even coming out of five hours of surgery than she had in years. I was released not quite 48 hours after surgery—the second fastest donor release for the hospital. I was back to karate in 10 days and back to work one day shy of two

weeks. I am convinced that my rapid recovery was not only due to being in good health and shape, but that I completely trusted the Universe to care for me.

Beth was released after five days in the hospital. After starting on a regimen of 28 pills per day, she is down to 12 pills per day. She is cleared to exercise, swim and do whatever she would like. She has more energy than she has had in years.

The night of the surgery, her husband Brad came to see me and began to thank me profusely. I told him he was allowed to do that that night only, and then he and Beth needed to live well and be happy. I did not donate for anyone to be grateful or eternally indebted to me. I did it because it was the right thing to do and be-cause when you are 26 years old, you should never have to worry about watching your children grow up.

Four years ago, Gerard likewise acted on his beliefs. When I saw a story about the Flood

sisters and their attempts to match up altruistic donors with recipi-ents, I was amazed at their efforts and wanted to be involved. Their father had found his donor match on Craigslist! I was helping them to create a Facebook presence when I saw Gerard’s Italian twin from another mother waiting for a kidney.

There is a 7% chance of a

I did not donate for anyone to be grateful or eternally indebted to me. I did it because

it was the right thing to do.

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match with someone who is not related. I had been a match, and, sure enough, after extensive test-ing, Gerard was qualified to be a match with Brian, a 51-year-old man from Yonkers, NY, who had no kidneys. It was hugely bizarre.

The transplant process was complicated by unhelpful medical personnel and institutions, but, ultimately, Gerard’s kidney was transplanted into Brian and began working.

We have made an intentional decision not to become family with the recipients. We didn’t want control; we gave the kid-neys, so they would have choices.

If we had it within our power, it was our moral responsibility to do it.

There are no negatives to donating. The two kidneys in the human body are a redundant system. When one is removed, the other one literally grows larger and increases capacity to make up for the missing organ. No living kidney donor has ever died from kidney disease. If something hap-pened to my remaining organ, as a living donor, I’d go to the top of the waiting list.The most difficult part of the pro-cess for me has been learning to be gracious and accepting of people’s

help and praise. I learned that people needed to express their amazement, and I needed to let them, despite a little discomfort on my part. I also had a hard time be-ing taken care of; I like to do the caretaking. The whole process was a great lesson in humility for me.

Kahlil Gibran once wrote, “Your daily life is your temple and religion.” For me, this was the very essence of my donation—I needed to live my values. I did not make any kind of sacrifice or perform an act of bravery—I simply honored my inner voice and trusted the Divine to care for me. ¢


If not for its scale—eating six timesits weight each day—this laborwould be amusing: a sparrow worksthe sidewalk café’s breakfast crowd, hoppingthe survival routine, one morsel at a time.In casual clothes, vacationing,I live outside time, beyond the clockthat drives the clerk to workby five so muffins in neat rowswill greet my 9 a.m. need for coffee.Her hair is pulled back, its darknessstreaked with last night’s melancholyradio and today’s electric bill,tomorrow’s groceries. She could beone of those the parable imaginednot spinning or toiling, but stillshe brushes crumbs from a plastic trayas something soft and light, now overheadon a low branch, sings the day alive,calls forth the golden meal of the sun.

Copley Square

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For thirty-eight years of teach-ing I drove home most Fridays with a perceptible smile on

my face. Teachers at any level reading this essay will guess what I also thought was the main reason: I had spent my week facilitating the growth of my students and thereby making some difference in their lives. But it has gradually become clear to me that my years in liberal arts teaching also became a concealed exercise in my own personal development.

Teachers validate the intellec-tual growth of students by taking their interests, their questions and their ideas seriously. We do this best through empathetic listening. At Denison University, where I spent most of my teaching career, I found that the teacher-student interaction had reciprocal effects. I extended myself empathetically each day as a teacher; but I also learned that empathy is like a muscle of the heart. It develops when exercised.

In my particular case the subject matter of some of my courses directly emphasized relationships. Confucianism is a moral and spiri-tual practice; and college students who took a course on this practice studied the canon of the Four Books which formed the core of this ethics for the last 600 years of dynastic China.

In traditional China students of Confucian moral growth actually began from something we see in others that looks like ourselves. We all naturally know when we are being treated disrespectfully. The opposite is slightly less obvi-ous. But knowing how to act

Teaching as a Spiritual Practice

Barry C. Keenan First UU Church of Columbus, OH

respectfully is in fact self-reflexive as we know inside what we would want done if we were on the other side of the interaction. Confucius felt that exercise of the Golden Rule in human relations began from doing one’s best on behalf of others, but when repeat-ed enough could be internalized so the Golden Rule could become second nature in the conduct of the person reaching out.

My students kept journals of the insights they drew from study-ing passages in the Four Books of

I can’t think aboutlovewithout feeling a bit cynical;the simplistic definitions,the flowery words used by romantics, poets, saints, regarding love.

This word so casually spoken, taken back, exploited, tarnished, over used.Yes, I plead guilty.

We love shopping, chocolate, vacations, New York, Green Eggs and Ham.

What’s Love

Have to Do With It

Confucianism, and applied those moral insights to their own experi-ence. Sharing one’s own journal entries in small groups or with a teacher one-on-one were methods used for centuries in Confucian academies. And I learned from personal experience that tutorial sessions focused on student jour-nals can mysteriously transform a teacher into a fellow student so the ethical classic to be understood became the real authority.

Today’s classrooms and teacher-student relations at many levels of

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Katherine Campbell-Gaston West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

It’s become a second-hand emotion.

I’ve been hurt by love.I’ve never been hurt by kindness.

Ah, kindness,a choice,an action.I extend myself to anotherto helpto heal.I don’t have to love them first.Simple.Straightforward.

But wait. I must be careful here.Kindness feels good.I like to feel good.I think my ego is involved.Some pride and satisfaction taken by being kind.Nothing wrong with that.I’m making the world a bit better, I tell myself.Sounds somehow comforting to me.

It evens the score so I can go back to beingself-absorbed,thoughtless,judgmental. Not a lot, mind you.just enough to remind me of my humanness.A kindness a day keeps the guilt away.I’m being cynical again.

Well, let me sayI’ve received kindnessesrequiring nothing back,unexpected, no expectations.Kindnesses have broken open my heart,filled it, healed it.

There are those kindnessesas simple as a smile acknowledging me,a beckoning hand letting me into traffic,a waiter chasing me down the streetto return my sunglasses.

learning provide the opportunity for teachers to model respectful listening. Validating the ideas of students can develop their lifelong capacities as independent learners; and at the same time, reaching out with care reflexively nourishes the teacher’s own character. ¢

Barry Keenan has taught East Asian history for 45 years at three differ-ent colleges. His most recent book is Neo-Confucian Self-Cultivation (2011). Belinda Chambers,

friend

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Sometimes you just think of things. Things you’ve done, things you’re not proud of, things you regret. And it all becomes overwhelming, and your brain gets fuzzy, and all your thoughts are just a huge run-

on sentence, and…And sometimes, you just need to stop and take a deep breath.Way back when I was eleven, for a short time I became someone I

had promised my mother I would never be. I had not only promised my mother, I had vowed to myself, that I’d never treat another person in a way that I didn’t want to be treated.

But there I was, laughing with my new “friends” and making fun of another girl, a girl who thought I was supposed to be her friend.

And sometimes you don’t notice the effect you’re having, until you see that same girl, crying in the guidance office. And suddenly you realize why she’s crying and you can’t get rid of that gut-wrenching feeling of guilt.

Was it worth it in the end? Trying to fit in with those new friends, and ruining a young girl’s day, her week… maybe her life? Breaking her so far down that she stops showing up to school?

Those “friends” ditched me about a month later. And there I was, sitting in my mom’s car on the way home from school, bawling my eyes out, asking her, “How is it that girls can be so cruel?”

I was a hypocrite.Years ago, I apologized to that girl I bullied, and she said it was okay.

But it wasn’t. Later, we became friends again, and I did a better job of be-ing there for her the second time around.

I had learned that when you say you’re sorry you can’t just expect to be forgiven; and I had learned that even if you ARE forgiven, it doesn’t make what you did okay.

What makes it okay is the way that it changes you, and the way you decide to live your life differently afterward.

So what did I do? I decided to go on to graduate school and get my Ph.D. in psychology. It was difficult, but every hardship along the way motivated me even more to succeed in the thing I want to do

most: to help people.And now, as a psychologist, I talk to kids every day. I teach them skills

that they can use; I help them discover how they really feel; and I help them to help themselves.

And if you were to ask me what the best thing in the world is, I’d tell you that it’s the feeling you get when you’ve just finished speaking at a convention about the seriousness of bullying, and an eight-year-old girl runs up to you, hugs you around your legs, and says thank you. ¢

Stop... Take a Deep Breath

Jessica Woods West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

So if you ever feel like you’ve really blown it, ruined it all, felt like you can’t go back, and

nothing can ever make it better, I’ll give you my favorite hint of what to do first:

Sometimes, you just need to stop and take a deep breath.

Now that you’ve calmed down, you’ll be able to think. And then you will be ready to take a good first step toward making it right.

Vision of a Possible Future

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“C’mon, kid,” my dad said to me as he stood;“give up your seat to the soldiers.Respect what’s deserving of respect.”

The “fighting men,” 19-year olds from Columbus, Ohio,and Wichita, Kansas, would soon ship outback towards the old country.To explore their ancestors’ lands, and to put the stop sign in front of Adolf and his storm squads.In 1942, trains and service people deserved respect.

Many went on after that “good war”Under a different but ineluctable banner:The American Dream.

In “Nam,” they boarded at other stations, ships mostly,and few of us would have given up any seats so respectfully.

Now, we would be more satisfied with less respectin times when the wars go on and on, fewer of us waving the flags of patriotism, tired as we areof the useless deaths in endless mountain ravines.

We are left with no more “good wars,” thoughthe constitutional plutocrats thrive on liesabout protecting our freedoms.

Respect some. Respect Mandela, respect King, respect what’s deserving of respect.

All Aboard for What’s Deserving

of Respect

Farrell Brody First UU Church of Columbus, OH

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The View from the

23rd Floor

Maya Wanner West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

Looking down from the 23rd floorOnto one of the biggest cities in the worldFeeling so small.Looking at all the lit windowsOn all the buildingsAnd thinking about the people in those windowsAnd their stories and their thoughts and their feelingsAnd wondering if any of them have felt this small.Thinking of all the windows in this cityIn this stateIn this countryIn this hemisphereIn this universeAll the windows hold storiesAnd in a world so full of windows,We should learn to open them moreAnd let all the melodies of life waft into themAnd allow ourselves to listenAnd maybe even give a responseSo that maybe in this world with so many windowsWe can look out at all of themAnd not feel alone,But feel connected

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Many years ago, I was given the opportunity to travel to El Salvador and stay at an orphanage to work with the children there. While I was there, I played with the children and immersed myself in the culture. During that week I bonded with the people and had a great time on my adventure.

When I arrived in El Salvador, the first thing I thought as I got off the plane was, “God, it’s hot!” The second thing I thought was, “I’m a long way from home!” As I looked out into the street I saw tall palm trees that swayed in the breeze that did little to cool the heavy air. Vibrant flowers grew on every corner. Busses so full that some riders had to hang off the back. Our group got onto a shuttle and began the long bumpy ride to the orphanage.

After we arrived at the orphanage, we dragged our bags to our rooms and then went down to meet the kids. When we met the children, our insecurities washed away.

The rest of the week flew by and before I knew it, we were saying goodbye to our new friends and get-ting back on a plane. The plane ride home was one of the most bittersweet moments of my life. On the one hand, the goodbyes of my friends still echoed in my mind. On the other hand, images of my own bed and the fading memory of air conditioning hung in our future back home.

To many people, home sickness is a well-known emotion. But my relief to be back home could not completely drown out the loss I felt at leaving my

The Goodbyes of My Friends

Anya Hardin West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

So 20 years later, I stand before you as a photographic journalist. Every time I set off on a new adventure, I am excited to experience new cultures, to connect with people from all over the world and to

help them share their stories. ¢

new friends and the sense of adventure from which I had just returned.

I had fully expected to get home and plop into my bed and instantly fall asleep. However, instead I lay awake thinking about how fortunate I was to be born into the life I was.

Vision of a Possible Future

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As we look out over the lakeWe see giant whitecaps rolling in.They smash into the bank, telling part of their story each time.That one made the ground vibrate. It looks familiar..?It’s definitely Walter, still emanating waves in our memory.Close behind now is a new whitecap—Ron.Freshly thrust among the giant whitecaps.

An eternity of waves still stem from his memory.Have you ever met another who liked to tell jokes as much?Or liked to laugh for any reason?Or dribble the ball as much?He was a gentle giant, well liked by everyone.His whitecap follows suit, it is easy to recognize.

I talked to both Walter and Ron at their appropriate timesOf the custom of the Eskimos to sense when to walk outInto the icepack and disappear without a trace.They each found the same solution.Not the icepack but the everlasting waves which appearAs whitecaps often on the lake,And forever in our memories and our hearts.

His wonderful children, grandchildren, sisters,Pat, Kate, and true friendsCould do nothing better than carry on his sense of fun.It’s a game worth playing, and everyone wins.

Whitecaps Keep Coming

Louis Cohen West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

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As I look around this deserted city, most of the buildings that once stood are gone.

How did this chaos unleash? I don’t know, and I’m certain that nobody really knows for sure what actually happened. Rumors are spreading about how this could be the end, that the apoca-lypse may be unraveling from right under our feet. I hope none of that is true, but a person would never know in this world. Perhaps one day we will all know why this happened.

Day by day, it’s getting hotter. From my view it appears that the sun is getting closer. For some rea-son, I’m not surprised by that.

I’ve been away for years and

years, off having adventures, and I didn’t bother to stay in touch with my family. Now, I walk towards the one place I used to call home. I find a picture of my family; the square black frame is chipped, and the glass inside, now cracked. Tears fill my eyes as I realize that I have just lost everything that matters most to me. I feel like curling up in a ball and sobbing for the rest of my days.

No. I can’t do that. Not now. There might be survivors buried un-derneath the rubble and debris. I dig like a madman, trying to find my mother, father, and my twin sisters. Are they alive, or are they gone? I cannot bring myself to face that reality, knowing that I did nothing to help them or protect them in some way. I keep digging, and find nothing. I don’t think I will trust myself after this has happened to the ones I love.

I hear a scream—it sounds partially out of pain, and out of deep sad-ness. I run towards the voice. Halfway there, I look back at my childhood home, say a few words, then go back to running. I feel trapped. Even if I find a few survivors, how will I tend to them properly? I guess I will just have to improvise, considering that I have no training and no medical supplies of any kind. I can’t focus on my emotions at this moment; I need to find the person who is screaming. I can’t let what happened to my family, happen to them.

Apocalypse: Fiction

Claire Boor West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

As I get closer, I see a hand, cut and bruised. Maybe broken, I’m not sure. I start to remove the debris from the body: it’s a girl. She looks no more than my age. She has cream-colored skin and red, almost flame-like hair. She’s wearing skinny jeans that are torn at the knee, and a short sleeved black tee shirt. Even though I don’t know what color her eyes are, I bet they’re a dark shade of emerald green. I feel pity for this girl; her whole outfit, from head to toe, is caked with dirt. As I kneel at her left side and notice that a few of her fingers are twitching, I wonder: Could she be alive? ¢Thomas Ensign, friend

20


Jimmy and Annie

Martha Day Boesel West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

You might wonder how a middle aged musician and construction worker would

fall in love with a devout Catho-lic widow forty years his senior. Come to think of it, if you did wonder about this, you’d have a very strange fantasy life or odd taste in romance novels. Neverthe-less, it really happened.

I first met Jimmy when he began dating my baby sister Mary in 1997. Though she was 33 at the time, as the youngest of my seven siblings, she will ever remain the baby in my mind. Jimmy, a skilled jack of all trades, met Mary when she hired him to do some home renovations. He was strong but lean as a pole, had an affinity for those sleeveless t-shirts known as “wife beaters” and sported a moustache and a ponytail that fell to the middle of his back. A man of few words, he spoke calmly and slowly, considering every utterance carefully as if to avoid saying anything he would regret.

Mary was born when our mother was 47 and dad was 52, one of those surprise pregnancies resulting from a failure of the only form of birth control sanctioned by the Catholic Church, commonly known as Vatican roulette. The poor girl was just out of eighth grade when our parents pulled up stakes in Ohio and retired to Florida, tearing her away kicking and screaming from all family and community connections to a primarily senior environment. Despite the traumas of her high

school years, Mary remained devoted to our mother, increasingly so after our father died when mom was seventy.

Although she came from a large family, Mary was in many ways like an only child, her nearest sibling six years older and five hours away by car. The rest of us phoned, wrote, visited, sent gifts to Mom but Mary was the one keeping tabs on her and helping her with day-to-day needs. Not that Mom required much care in the first decade or so after Dad’s passing. She was fiercely independent, living alone, managing her own finances, vigorously involved in her Catholic parish. She was cheerful, grateful and giving. I remember her at 80 telling me about driving “the old folks” to church and doctor appointments. My eldest sister nicknamed her The Energizer Bunny.

Soon after he became romantically involved with Mary, Jimmy real-ized that Mom and she were a package deal and he was fine with that. Jimmy admired mom’s pluck, her youthful looks (she bragged that at 85, people told her she didn’t look a day over 70!), her cheerful disposi-tion, her thrift, her independent spirit. His own mother was like a spoiled child: dependent, whiny and not above trying to manipulate her son with guilt. She lived rent-free in a duplex Jimmy owned, insisted that he put out her trash weekly and gas up her car when needed although she lived a half hour away. After they married, Jimmy assured Mary that if the need ever arose, ourmother would be welcome to move in with them but his mother would not be extended the same invitation.

“Get to the juicy bits,” I imagine you thinking. I suppose it’s time toadmit that this isn’t that kind of love story. You didn’t honestly think I’d write something lascivious about my own mother, did you? It’s true, Jimmy did come to love Mom, but it was a kind of love few people are capable of or will ever be lucky enough to witness in their lifetimes. Now, back to the story.

Mom aged gracefully and well despite a bout with cancer, hip and knee replacements and two mini-strokes, all of which she bounced back from with remarkable vigor. Mary and Jimmy nursed her through each event with some help from the rest of us. By her early 90’s, though, Mom’s body began to succumb to old age. As her health slowly declined, Mary and Jimmy stepped up their involvement in her daily life, calling often to check on her, driving her on errands that were more than a few miles away, and helping with her finances.

In his youth in New York state, Jimmy had played in a rock band that was teetering on the edge of fame. Because of their day jobs, they were turning down more paying gigs than they were accepting. Jimmy felt that the time was right to quit their jobs and pursue their dream full time, but the others weren’t ready to take the leap. Frustrated, Jimmy quit the group and eventually relocated to Florida where his mother lived. Over the years, he continued playing his guitar, writing and recording music in his home studio, still aspiring to play in a great band one day. Finally, in 2007, Jimmy joined a group called “Armed and Dangerous” as a bass guitarist and vocalist. They were talented guys who had been around the music scene for many years with varying degrees of success. Sadly, just after landing a one-year contract to play at a local bar, one of their

21


At the age of 94, Mom became too feeble to drive safely, so Mary and Jimmy took the keys away and sold Mom’s car, with her reluctant agreement. This loss of independence precipitat ed a disturbing change in Mom’s mental state and she began to show serious signs of depres sion and dementia. That year Mary and Jimmy moved Mom into their home. Mary pointed out the irony that Mom gave birth to her at 47 and when Mary was 47 she began taking care of Mom.

Soon after Mom moved in, Jimmy was making her meals, helping her hobble to the bath room, keeping her comfortable and amused. Each day he would wheel her out to the front yard where she loved sitting under a large shade tree, watching the squirrels scamper about, listening to the birds chirp, scanning the sky for hawks. After a while he would wheel her around the yard to visit the roses. Mary took over Mom’s care in the evenings after work and on weekends.

Gradually, Jimmy found himself changing soiled sheets, spoon-feeding, doling out medica tions, answer ing the same questions

members died suddenly and they ultimately disbanded. In 2010, Jimmy and three supremely talented musicians formed a new band called “Tuk’r Hill.” Before long they perfected their eclectic country-rock-folk style and began to gain some notoriety in southwestern Florida. With Mary’s sup-port, Jimmy quit his construction job to devote his full attention to the band. This coincided with Mom’s failing health and Jimmy soon found himself spending more and more time accompanying mom to doctor ap-pointments, the drug store, the grocery store, the hair salon.

One afternoon Mary got a call at work from Mom, saying she had hit her head on the edge of the kitchen table and was bleeding profusely. Mary rushed over to find what looked like a crime scene from the TV show “CSI”—blood spattered on the table, the chair, the wall, and a pool of blood on the floor. While Mary rushed Mom to the emergency room, Jimmy came over and dutifully cleaned up the bloody mess without complaint.

over and over, but never losing his patience. Each time we offered to look into nursing homes for Mom, Jimmy sternly objected, assuring us that he would let us know when he’d had enough.

By this time mom was also re-ceiving regular visits from Hospice workers who marveled at the level of loving care Jimmy was provid-ing. Eventually, he had to dress mom, bathe her, change her adult diapers and move her in and out of a wheelchair throughout the day. Once Mary and Jimmy reluc-tantly took advantage of respite care and placed mom in a facility for the weekend. Shortly after returning home, (there’s no way to put this delicately) Mom had a massive bowel movement and had to be changed. Jimmy later told us, laughing, that as he cleaned her up, Mom teased, “Did you miss me?” I believe he sincerely did.

After seven months in Mary and Jimmy’s home, my mother, Anne, quietly passed away. No one took her death harder than Jimmy, who had lost 15 pounds throughout the ordeal. With money he received from her estate, he bought a Fender electric bass guitar made of maple, to remind him, he said, of the maple syrup mom loved on her oatmeal. The body is white like the color of her hair. He calls the guitar “Annie.” ¢

22


Learning How to Give

Mary Ann WillisFirst UU Church of Columbus, OH

A few years ago, I encoun-tered a woman who unex-pectedly taught me some-

thing about myself and the process of giving. I learned that giving is not an automatic impulse for me. And that sometimes when I think I’m being generous, I’m really go-ing only part way.

It was raining that day. I had an umbrella and was out running an errand about three blocks from my office. As I crossed the street, I noticed an older woman next to me, walking slowly with no protection. I asked where she was headed—“Downtown”—and of-fered to walk to the bus stop with her. “Oh, that’s so nice of you,” she said, and I felt warmed by

my own charitable gesture. (After all, it was out of my way.) As we went along, sharing my umbrella, she chatted by way of explana-tion. “I’m 85 years old. I’d heard it was going to rain but I’m blind in one eye and I couldn’t find an umbrella.”

I’m embarrassed to admit that we were halfway to the bus stop before I realized that I should give her my umbrella. But that was the problem: I thought of it as my um-brella, and it took a leap of insight to think about giving it away.

The woman in the street need-ed an umbrella more than I did. Giving her the umbrella was the first step, and an important one. But as long as it was “my” umbrel-la that I was generously sharing, I was missing the point.

It was an umbrella to be used as needed.

Over the years, I have accu-mulated a lot of stuff—a house, a car, some money, a few collections (mostly books)—that I consider my personal possessions. When asked to support a worthy cause, I don’t give automatically, although after consideration, I try to give generously. But until I can think of these things—and my time and talents—as resources to be used as needed for all of us, my ego and sense of ownership will continue to infect the process.

I’m not there yet and maybe you aren’t either. I’m working on it. Meanwhile, the rain reminds me that our teachers appear when we least expect them. Got a spare umbrella? ¢

Belinda Chambers,friend

23


Marie Davids Birmingham Unitarian Church, MI

On the day of her death

You sat in your wheelchair too weakto care about life’s swirl today.Ennui or malaise don’t quite describewhat I see in your face, your eyes.When I speak you raise your handin a gesture that saysSorry, too tired to listen. Finallywe help you to bed,undress and comfort you with a cool water baththen a slow massage, your feet, your legs,Erik Satie music playing while we watchold home movies ofyou and Heinz, 50 years agorunning on the beach, laughing and clowning with your kids.I look at that young couple,slim, vibrant, full of joy and grace, thenback to you as you lose consciousnessand call out to that young man.There you are, holding his hand,here you are, reaching out for it againacross time and space.

Adriene

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Halloween, 1967. I was seven years old, in Miss Kosher’s second grade class.

I needed a costume. Store bought was unheard of—we made our own. My mother and aunt sug-gested I dress as a girl. My aunt loaned me a long blonde wig. I wore a soft, off-white sweater, a brown plaid skirt, a bra with a hint of padding, white tights and a bit of carefully applied lipstick and rouge.

At school we had our regular lessons in the morning, then lunch, then the boys went in one room and the girls in another to change into costumes. I dressed, afraid the other boys would make fun of me. The teacher joked I was in the wrong room, then helped me with the makeup. Nobody gave me any problems. I relaxed and had fun at the party.

That evening was trick-or-treating, going door-to-door with a steady stream of neighborhood kids. People thought I was a little girl with no costume. I wanted to correct them, but I also wanted them to think I was a girl.

The next night was the church party. I wore my outfit. Kids I saw every Sunday didn’t know who I was; one boy followed me around all evening. We had a costume contest and then a lot of the kids changed into street clothes to play the games. I didn’t change. I was a girl for the whole party.

Halloween through the Years

Ginger Nicole Marshall West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

25


Halloween, 1969. I was in fourth grade. This time I dressed as an “older wom-

an” with a suit from my mom and a short brown wig and low heels. I had fun. I liked it. I didn’t know what to do about that and didn’t have anybody I could talk with.

Halloween, 2007. Four decades and four failed marriages later. I lived

alone and was not dating or try-ing to figure out how to be in a relationship. I had finally learned that getting married would not fix whatever was wrong. That fall I finally reached a point that I couldn’t deny my history and I came out Gay. It helped, but it didn’t actually solve my problem. I still hated looking at myself in the mirror, still hated my clothing and my body and my very existence.

I decided that, for me, “be-ing gay” meant I could be gender fluid. I didn’t know that term at the time, I just started shopping more and more in the women’s

department. A little at a time I started to experiment and taste freedom. Some days, I didn’t hate seeing my reflection.

Halloween, 2011. Eight hun-dred miles from family and in my second same-sex rela-

tionship. Life was better, but I was still going through each day with resigned misery. At work we were allowed to wear costumes for Hal-loween. I put off thinking about it until the last minute, then threw together my most feminine scrubs and a cheap sports bra stuffed with a rolled towel, some makeup and an artfully tied scarf to cover my lack of hair.

I floated through the day, comfortable with how I looked for the first time in a long time. The next morning I had to wear “boy” clothes to work. I felt like I had tons of weight pushing me into the ground. I thought about killing myself. I went back to avoiding mirrors.

Halloween, 2013. Another work day, and again cos-tumes were allowed. I had

a real wig and women’s scrubs... in fact, everything I wore, down to my New Balance shoes, was from the women’s department. Several people thought I was a

new hire when I introduced myself as “Ginger.” I didn’t look like I was in costume, I looked like a middle-aged woman at work... I was a middle-aged woman at work.

A few days later Ginger went to the Transgender Day of Re-membrance at City Hall, and the following weekend a transgender support group at the Cleveland Lesbian and Gay Center. She went to a play and out to dinner and for coffee, and there were more than a few shopping trips.

I saw my doctor and started the process to be cleared for hormones. And then I hit a wall. Transition means potential job loss. Potential loss of friends and sup-port. Potential loss of home. Loss, in general.

I’ve been in limbo. I’ve watched and re-watched the mov-ie Cloud Atlas with deep under-standing as the characters go from life-to-life, often reincarnating in different genders. The theme song from the movie M*A*S*H has been in my head for months, the phrase ...and suicide is painless, it brings on many changes... repeat-ing over-and-over in an endless loop. Time to make a choice...

Hello. I’m Ginger. I hope there is room for

me at the table. ¢

Hello. I’m Ginger.I hope there is room for me at the table.

26


On the wings of paper dreamsIdeas are scattered in the breeze Disappearing into the sky Silently out of sightOr moving among the stars Thoughtfully Decide what is written on their wings Release the potentialOf what could be Until you no longer see them on the horizonYou cannot tell what heights they’ll reachOr where they’ll go Write thoughtfully On paper wingsBecause ideas can become moreThan just paper dreams But if you don’t release themYou’ll never know.

On the Wings of Paper Dreams

Becky Hoelter West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

Carol WaltonWest Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

27


An excerpt from a novella by John Zylstra. The full story begins on page 40.

He parked in front of a Mon-treal brownstone like those in New York. After paying

the cabbie, I walked up the steps with my overnight bag and found Nikki waiting in the hall. She looked disheveled wearing a fuzzy robe, and her hair was tousled. She hugged me, kissed me, and looked me over.

“No change?” I asked.“No change.”She had an aura of domestic-

ity. I wondered if I caught a vague feeling of the glamorous excite-ment we lost. Was that part of younger passions from our bygone days, now given away to her settled house, town and kitchen routines, I wondered.

Tessie emerged. “Hi, Steve.”I crouched to hug her. “How’s

little Tess? You’ve grown another foot. What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

She stuck out her tongue at me.“It’s summer vacation,” Nikki

laughed.Tessie shook her brown hair

then eyed my bag. “What’s in there?”

“Never mind, Cherub! I don’t think you ever thanked him for your birthday gift, and you’re already wondering what’s in the case.”

“You’ll have to accommo-date yourself to my schedule for a while,” she said, “but there are many things we can do in be-tween. Tonight’s a busy night at

Maxie’s. I sing there with so come and listen. I’m free tomorrow night, then I’m back at Maxie’s the following night.” She held my face in her hands and kissed me.

“She smiled. “The return of the departed spirits. Damn it! Why’d you stay away so long?”

Her movements enchanted me again. I studied her pleasing fea-tures, the soft sweep of her throat, the lines of her face, her fine temple and hairline, and the back of her neck. She moved her arms and legs in a unique way, a total composite of charm and grace.

“Hey.” She patted my cheek. “Are you still there?”

We laughed and batted at each other like cubs playing.

“We’re still dancing through life, aren’t we?” she asked.

I shrugged happily. “Perhaps we are.”

Later, a woman came to baby sit Tessie, and we got ready for Maxie’s. The doorman let us into a thick, smoky crowd. I heard drinks rattle, shouting, loud, amplified guitar rhythm. A man with a high mop of hair and long white cuffs sticking out of glistening jacket sleeves did some sort of imitation on stage.

Nikki and I ordered drinks and watched. Finally, the wild-looking

Northern Fried Dixie: A Romance

John Zylstra West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

man bowed, obviously convinced he’d been successful, then left.

The quintet set up and opened with September in the Rain. A somber man with a beard and sun-glasses played flute in waves of dynamic force and subdued mel-lowness. Nikki was on next, sing-ing It Might as Well Be Spring.

Some of the sensation seekers left, leaving a more serious listen-ing audience. She did a lush rendi-tion of Mister Wonderful during which she harmonized with the flute player who switched to tenor sax. He played with a soft, velvety sound.

I sat and listened, feeling proud. Nikki, I thought, you’ve really got it going.

After shaving and showering the next day, I sat on Nikki’s bed and tried to put on my

shoes. “Mornings are always dif-ficult,” I mumbled.

Nikki lay on her stomach beside me, slowly turning the pages of the Montreal Star. I looked up and saw Tessie. “I thought I heard a little mouse.”

She still had the imprint of her bed sheets on her fleshy chest. She stood in the doorway barefoot. She held up a bottle of nail polish. “I always mess it up if I do it. u

Her movements enchanted me again. I studied her pleasing features, the soft sweep

of her throat, the lines of her face, her fine temple and hairline,

and the back of her neck.

28


u I need help.” I took the bottle and looked

at the contents. The polish was transparent lacquer and tiny glitter chips.

“Hideous isn’t it?” Nikki asked.“Almost vulgar,” I said.“I think it’s pretty.” Tessie

handed me a tissue for spills. “Will you put it on my toes for me?”

“All right. Give me a foot.”

She raised one leg. I was struck by all the femaleness that sur-rounded me.

“Neatly,” Tessie said. “Don’t smear it.”

“The fumes alone are enough to suffocate a rat,” I remarked.

“All in the name of glamour,” Nikki said.

“The other foot,” I said.The child bent to inspect my

work then held up her other leg. “You guys don’t like it.”

“Well, it’s kind of flashy,” I said. “I am beginning to like it.

Nikki winked at me.“All done.” I tightened the cap

on the bottle. Tessie jumped off the bed and waddled around the room, her fingers and toes spread to dry. She raised her arms, almost dancing.

Years and years ago I was visiting a friend in another state. Zir partner at the time looked at my bare feet on the carpet and said, “You have very pretty feet, Wanda.” His statement made no sense to me. To be honest, it still doesn’t. And that is exactly why I made this photo.

To me they are just feet on most days and unattractive feet on the rare bad day. Other than the length of my toes and my ability to use them to pick up things I don’t feel like bend-ing over to fetch, I don’t see anything particularly admirable about my feet. I could list any number of things I find “wrong” with them, but I’m not going to do that. Instead, I am going to put this photo out there to let the world know and to remind myself someone, for some reason I don’t yet understand, thought my feet were pretty.

That’s why I make photos: because we don’t always see the same things, and isn’t that amazing? ¢

Wanda Lotus, friend

29


“A beautiful child,” I whispered to Nikki.

Nikki’s smile reminded me I’d told her she was beautiful, too. She shrugged arrogantly. “Beautiful mother, beautiful child. Can’t go wrong there.” She blew me a kiss.

“If you get ready,” Nikki told Tessie, “we’ll go out to eat.”

“My treat,” I added.“That rhymes!” Tessie said.“This is a golden-ager’s place.”

Nikki spoke as we entered a downtown restaurant on Ste. Catherine Street. “The prices are good, though, and so is the food.”

We stood and waited to be seated, then ordered a huge break-fast none of us could finish.

“I’ve never seen this little girl eat so much,” I teased Tessie, who managed to spill maple syrup on her tank top.

“This little piggy….”Nikki pulled Tessie close. “This

is my little monkey.”While Tessie tried to struggle

free, I asked, “Did I ever tell you about the greedy monkey?”

“What about him?” Tessie asked.

“Pay attention, Tessie.”She nodded eagerly. “I will.”“Once there was a monkey

who had a treat that was more than he could east. There was a problem, though. The treat was in a large bottle with a narrow neck.

“He discovered he could put all his fingers together and slide his arm through the neck, but once he grabbed the treat, his fist wouldn’t slide back out. The only way to get his hand out was to let go which he didn’t want to do.”

“What was the treat?” Tessie asked.

Nikki smiled at me. “She wonders if the problem is worth a solution.”

I shook my head. “Never mind that, Tessie. What would you do if you were that monkey?”

She bit her lip. Break the bottle?”

“No,” Nikki said firmly. “You’d cut yourself.”

“You can’t break it,” I added. “It’s hard plastic.”

I felt a moment of acute pain, a longing ache for the magic of having my own child. I looked at Tessie’s radiance, her health, mis-chief, pranks, laughter, and guile. She wasn’t mine, though, and the feeling passed.

Tessie had inherited Nikki’s delicate features, the same soft, sensitive beauty. It was clear Tessie was her daughter.

Tessie gave a big smile. “I give up. How did he get the treat out of the bottle?”

I wasn’t sure of the answer, and the waitress answered for me. “Shall we put this in a doggie bag?”

“A monkey bag.” Nikki pointed at Tessie. She hugged and tickled her until Tessie’s face turned red.

“Careful, honey,” I said. “It’ll all come back.”

Tessie laughed at that. “Yuck! Gross!”

“All right,” Nikki said. “That’s enough. I’d hate to think I was out with two kids.”

Tessie pointed at me. “You can be the other kid, Steve.”

The rest of the day passed in a

similar fashion. We took Tessie to the zoo and watched fireworks across the Seaway. Tessie was so tired she fell asleep in the cab on the way home.

After Nikki left Tessie with the baby sitter, she looked at me mys-teriously. “I have a treat for you.”

I looked up hopefully.“Not that! Something quite dif-

ferent. You’ll like it. Let’s go.” She tipped her head.

A moment later, we were in another cab heading toward an obscure club that had a one-week engagement of the Bourbon Street Foot Warmers, an American Dixie-land band.

The club had a dance floor, and Nikki and I cut loose while most of the French-Canadian clientele sat and listened, quite absorbed by the American art form. The soloist in the group was a clarinetist of outstanding virtuosity. His clarinet almost spoke as he played. Nikki and I had a great time.

“More people are coming in.” The manager, a rotund man with a moustache, stood at our table. “I think, Monsieur, it is because of you. Your dance is good. The musicians like it”

“Keep the drinks coming, pal.” I smiled perspiring.

Nikki giggled. “You’re getting crocked.”

“All right. Here’s a slow dance. Come on, and don’t drape your-self all over me.

Eventually, things got hazy. The last thing I remember was stum-bling into a cab and going home with Nikki.

When I woke, my head felt u

We’re still dancing through life, aren’t we?

30


u like a hot air balloon. “What happened?

Nikki grinned. “You had too many drinks, that’s what hap-pened.”

“Too many martooinis?”“You told me the city had

forsaken you, that rock and roll forced out all other music, and that even Trudeau couldn’t make it up to you.”

“That bad?”“Horrible.” She shook her head.

“I finally put a hand over your mouth and shoved you into a taxi.”

“Then what did you do?”“I put you to bed, turned off

the light, and left.”“My head hurts, and I probably

caused you all kinds of grief.”“Steve,” she said as she tipped

her head as if seeing me differ-ently. “Shut up, will you?” I’ll fix us some coffee and breakfast, and you’ll be a new person.”

“A nude person?”“I don’t know. I haven’t looked

yet.”“Come here.”“Oh no you don’t. We won’t

get anything done that way.”She turned and saw Tessie.

“That’s another reason. Good morning, Cherub. Are you hungry for breakfast?”

Tessie yawned and rubbed her eyes.

“Aren’t you going to say ‘Good morning’ to Steve?”

“Are you sick, Steve?” Tessie stood in the doorway on one leg and looked at me still in bed.

“He wasn’t doing too well last night,” Nikki said, “so I put him to bed. Maybe he’ll feel better after some rest. As for you, Cherub, get dressed and do your chores. You’re staying with Madame Lefevre this week.”

“Mom!”“Teresa,” Nikki said, “if I get

good behavior reports, we’ll pick you up and do fun things. It depends on you.”

Tessie turned to me. “I wish you were my dad.”“And turn this around?” Nikki laughed. “Not a chance,

Baby. What Mommy says, goes.”“Looks like you lose,” I said. “I’d have told you the

same thing, Tessie.”Nikki looked at her. “Tessie!”“Okay.” She slinked off to her room and closed the

door.Nikki looked at me and pushed me back on the pil-

lows. “Sick! You poor thing—lovesick maybe.” She nuzzled me.

I grimaced and moaned. “Ow! You’re hurting me!” I put a hand on my chest. “Sharp pains. Palpitations. Some-thing’s happening.”

Nikki pulled away. “Steve!”“Almost had you believing it, didn’t I?”“Well then,” Nikki pointed at me. “Get dressed or I’ll

send you over to Madame Lefevre, too.”“I have to finish my coffee,” I protested.We gradually eased into our day.Protests did Tessie no good. She left, and we had the

apartment to ourselves, but those days were numbered.The unused portion of my airline ticket sitting in the

pocket of my jacket started a discussion... ¢

This has been an excerpt from a novella by John Zylstra. The full story begins on page 40.

There he was, just standing in an odd, momentary grandeur.

Left alone in his sadness and yearning...

the quarry clown

31


Robert TubbesingFriend

A clown, a quarry and no explanation.In the 1950s and ‘60s, Cleveland Institute

of Art graduate Bob Tubbesing, his wife Pinkie and their friends made frequent visits out to a clear lake at a limestone quarry in South Amherst. They were not prepared for this character they spied one summer Friday evening.

“Like Emmett Kelley’s clown, this man was not uproariously funny, but rather, he tugged at your heart strings,” recalls Tubbesing.

“There he was at the quarry, wandering around, looking down. We couldn’t even quite tell whether he was looking for something or someone, and, of course, had no idea why he was dressed as he was.

“The clown looked inexpressibly sad. Clearly he was yearning for a lost love or maybe mourning for a dead child. He gave us a little tinge of fear, and we didn’t want to get too close. It was sad but menacing at the same time. There he was, just standing or sitting in an odd, momentary grandeur. Left alone in his sadness and yearning.

“It stuck with me,” Tubbesing recounts, “be-cause it was a dramatic area. There were hundreds of acres. We could go walking along in the deep woods then, suddenly, the floor would fall away and you would be looking into a pit.

“By that time there was just abandoned ma-chinery that looked like there had been an instant plague and everything was left behind. On the edges, there were immense gear boxes with ladders and lines. I had an old picture I had to use to draw in the men. Without them, it looked so empty.

“The quarry was a strange, mysterious place with an air of abandonment. I never went there alone!

“The Clown always reminded me that quarries are places where bad things happen.” ¢

Yearning for Love

Robert Tubbesing, friend

32


Love Changes Everything

Barbara G. Howell West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

Sometimes the most ordinary actions bring the most extraor-dinary results.

After 12 years, a marriage fails; the woman logs on to an inter-net dating site. There is a lot she doesn’t understand as she tries to move life ahead for herself and her 12-year-old-daughter. She is looking for someone to comple-ment her attitudes and beliefs. She creates a profile and meets some-one the first day.

Happens every day, right?That common scenario created

an uncommon family. It is a won-derful, UU-active family even as its members struggle with issues of creating a blended family, of race, autism and mental health.

At West Shore UU Church on June 14, Marcia Jacobs and Jodi Woods celebrated their 5 1/2-year union with a service of commit-ment with everyone there. All seven of their family members

walked down the aisle. Marcia’s dad’s played the guitar accompa-nying their daughter, Nicole, who sang “Nobody Loves Me Like You Do,” by Anne Murray.

Their daughter, Jessica, wrote and performed her own reading. Their son Michael was responsible for the wedding rings, and their daughter Leah lit the chalice. Mar-ley (their grandbaby) had the job of just looking adorable as always.

The vows didn’t mark a begin-ning, and they didn’t observe an end. The family has a lot of history and a lot of future as they were brought together by uncommon love.

When Jodi logged on to a dating site called Plentyoffish, she specified that she was looking for a woman. (For the past 30 years, she thought she was bi-sexual.)

“I decided to look for someone who complemented me. Someone who had the same morals, values,

principles. It didn’t matter if it was a man or a woman, but I didn’t find what I was looking for in a man. I had been raised a Catholic and always did what I thought I was supposed to do. I gave my marriage my best efforts. It wasn’t about sexuality. We were just not compatible with our beliefs, mor-als, and open-mindedness.

When Marcia answered Jodi’s IM that November night, she had been divorced eight years and had three bi-racial children. She had come out right after her divorce.

“I ‘liked’ her picture,” Marcia remembers. “I got an instant mes-sage from her and gave her my phone number. We talked five hours that first night.”

“There was a strong connection right away.” says Jodi. “After one week of talking for many hours a day, I felt I wanted to say some-thing special to Marcia. I thought ‘I’ve got to meet this person.’”

The two talked for each of the next five days. Marcia’s kids talked openly with Jodi

on the phone even though her own daughter, Jessica only knew her mom had a “friend” in Akron.

“It was a whirlwind. I couldn’t believe we had the same ideas on how to treat people, about raising children and loving animals.”

Marcia’s kids, especially Leah, “latched onto” Jodi and “pretty much didn’t let go for two years. They gave me advice about what and how to tell Jessica.” I decided after only one week of talking to Marcia on the phone, I needed to meet her ASAP! That week-end, I drove to Akron in a snow storm, spent the weekend, and knew in my heart that we were meant to be together. At the end of the weekend, I drove straight into my parents’ driveway, went upstairs to their house, and came

33


out to them. I told my step mom first that I had met someone... a woman. She said, ‘It’s about time you said something!’

“I’m very close to my dad,” Jodi continues. “When he came home, I said, “Dad, I met someone I have feeling for... It’s a woman.’ He just asked me if I was happy. I waited a month to tell Jessica, and a little longer to tell my brother for fear of his reaction. I learned later I hadn’t given him enough credit.”

Telling Jessica didn’t go smoothly at first.“I started telling her I met

someone I liked a lot. ‘I feel you have a right to know because you

are the most important person in my life.’ I then told her that I liked her as more than a friend. She said, ‘You’re gay?’ She started cry-ing and ran into the other room. About 20 minutes later, she called me from her cell phone and said, ‘I’m sorry. I cried because I was surprised. I didn’t want to of-fend you. When do I get to meet them?’”

Now, Jessica and Leah are very close. Jessica has what Marcia calls “a very close relationship” with Michael, who is on the autism spectrum.

In addition to helping Michael cope and succeed, the family has had financial struggles with Marcia working only part time since her son had “school bus issues,” and she needed to be home when he

got off the bus. After driving back and forth from Akron and Bridge-port for 2 1/2 years, they decided to move in together in Mayfield Village.

“All in all,” observes Jodi, “it has been quite amazing how we have come together as a family. One of the big reasons it works is because of the children. If they didn’t love each other so much, it wouldn’t work. They’ve been good for each other. Jessica was a social introvert, but does public speaking at church and pertaining to school. She has the feeling she can be herself now since she has experienced our UU church and how she never feels judged. In fact, Jessica was recently on a pan-

el in St. Louis for her school, Nexus Academy, to talk about how the school has been good for her.

They are now grandparents. Nicole, who is studying to become a Jehovah’s Witness, has a 15-month-old daughter named Marley.

“At first,” Jodi says, “we were upset because we thought our grandbaby wouldn’t be able to have a close relationship with us, and wasn’t going to have birth-days or Christmas, but we do ac-cept Nicole and her beliefs. Nicole loves our relationship. She feels we have been an inspiration for her.”

Mental health issues are also a challenge for the family. Marcia explains that “five of us have been diagnosed with anxiety issues and two with depression. For teens,

these are very difficult. And they have all had to learn about Mi-chael’s rigid thinking.”

“I have a hard time knowing the difference whether it’s a be-havioral thing or an autism thing,” she admits. “I have to remind myself on a daily basis. I know it’s my problem, not Mike’s. I own it. I have come to learn more,” says Jodi

“When we’re all in a good place, we’re very supportive of each other. We have family meet-ings, and everyone talks about their feelings. My step mom had a lot to do with my open minded-ness. My mother died when I was eight, and my father remarried when I was 10. She was a non-

traditional Presbyterian woman who even helped take care of my grandmother who lived behind us in a trailer. She also abided by my mother’s wishes and helped put us through 12 years of Catholic school.

Jodi and Marcia are looking to their own future now that the kids are growing up.

“As soon as Leah graduates, they are hitting the bricks and we are moving to Lakewood, being just the two of us. We’re even get-ting new furniture.”

They will still keep coming to West Shore, then, where they had their commitment service last month. “We don’t feel like any-body else,” Marcia observes. “All the beliefs match up.” ¢

34


Tilly seems to instinctively know just what people need! I wish my skills were

as well-defined as hers. Her fluffy doggie tail begins to wag as soon as we enter the waiting room at the hospital. It’s busy today. People are sitting in clusters every-where. Tilly zeroes in on a man drinking coffee, looking absently over the top of his paper. In no time at all, her nose is resting on the man’s knee and his hands are gently stroking her soft neck. As he talks, a tear reaches the surface and slowly begins to slide down his cheek.

It’s been a long morning for him. His wife is having some tests done, and he’s worried. Shortly, the talk turns to Tilly, and I answer the familiar questions. Yes, we’re a therapy dog team and work in the hospital several times a month. Yes, there was a fairly difficult test to pass, but Tilly seemed perfect for this opportunity and worked hard during her training. She is six years old and is a labradoodle. Then it’s time to say goodbye and move further into the room. As we circle around, Tilly watches and waits for my signal. Almost everyone wants a visit from her. Most seem happy to rub her ears, but a few rub her all over.

The hallway beside the eleva-tors comes next. As we pass the gift shop, we’re stopped by visitors and hospital personnel. Tilly qui-etly sits and accepts the attention. Someone recognizes us and calls

her name, and her tail begins to thump as though a long-lost friend has been found! Lots of ear tickles come next.

The elevator ride goes smooth-ly. This area isn’t crowded today, and we reach our floor quickly. We’re visiting pediatrics. At the nurse’s station, I hear there are two patients who are available for a visit. In the first room, a teenaged girl is in a bed, and her mother is sitting beside her. The girl cannot leave the bed and asks if Tilly can get in with her, so her mom can take a photo. I spread a clean sheet over her bed covers and direct Tilly to do a “paws up”

My Partner

Jane Youel West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

which means that her front paws and about half of her body come up onto the bed. The two of them have a lovely visit. Photos are taken and there are lots of giggles and hugs for Tilly. Soon, it’s time to leave. The sheet is put into the bin, hand wipes are distributed, and we move on.

Our next patient is asleep, so we catch the elevator to reach an-other patient area. This time, it’s a high-risk pregnancy. There we visit several expectant moms and one dad. All are happy to have a diver-sion. Tilly sits until she is beckoned to come close, and then she works her magic. Smiles appear, and soon

35


everyone is sharing stories about their dogs and admiring Tilly’s soft coat and calm demeanor. As we exit, I look down at my partner and ask how she’s doing. Does she want water? Her look tells me she’s thirsty, so we stop at the vol-unteer office, and I get her some water in the portable bowl I carry with me. Then it’s on to another waiting room for more visits.

After about an hour, I can tell my partner is ready to go. She is slowing down and stands nearer to me when people approach. I

ask her if she’s ready to go to the car, and she turns and gives me “the look.” We head for the door. When we reach the car, Tilly gets her treat and jumps into the back to settle down for the ride home.

As I drive, I think about the mo-ments of delight that Tilly gave as we visited the hospital. My mind drifts back to other visits, and I remember Dorothy, a woman at a local nursing home. Tilly and I visited her for four years and were with her just before her death. Tilly got into bed with her and

nuzzled her lovingly. Dorothy gently stroked her paw and smiled. It was her last response. I’ll never forget that moment.

When I think about the theme of “love reaching out,” I know that Tilly does that each time she enters the hospital and engages a person in a visit. She is truly an amazing dog, and I am priviledged to be her partner. I hope we have many more years of teamwork ahead. ¢

Between the worlds.

Between the worlds,Where am I?

Between the worlds,Where am I?Lost in the space between.

Between the worlds,Where am I?Lost in the space betweenUnable to find home.

Margaret McConnell UU Church of Akron, OH

Between the Worlds

Lethargy Lifeless.Effort requires too much energy.Tired.Healing transforms everything that is not truth.Awareness brings light.Releasing the wheat from the shaft.Going where the energy takes me.Yielding to the great i am.

36


To Sophia, age 8 September 2009

You asked me why I laugh so much. I’ve been

thinking about that. I didn’t realize I laughed more that most other people. You are thoughtful and de-serve longer answers than I gave you then. I told you I laugh because I’m happy. I accept the person I have become and get to do many things I enjoy doing. I have friends old and new—of every variety—and a very interesting, very nice family. And I don’t let much bother me.

You also asked if I ever cry. Yes, of course. I cry when I’m sad, which is much less often than when I was young and got my feelings hurt easily. I cry with other people when they are sad and hug them, because I feel sad with them, and it helps them feel better. I cry at sad stories even.

I smile at people, especially babies and children. I think they need to see smiles, while they are growing fast and stowing in their brains everything they see. I smile at friends and strangers, because they usually smile back and that makes us all feel happier.

I like the feeling of being happy. When you are happy, you are much less likely to get your feelings hurt if someone else does something that could make you unhappy. You simply think, “That person has a problem and must be very unhappy. But that is not my problem (or yours).” Unpleasant people should

Philosophical Answer to an Inquisitive Grand-Niece Who Asks Direct Questions

Janet French West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

simply be avoided, if at all possible. If it’s not pos-sible, you have to build some “tough skin” inside your head, so you can simply turn them off.

I just met a childhood friend again, at my high school reunion. I first met her when I was only a little older than you are. I shared a spelling book with her, because there were not enough to go around, and she got very angry when I misspelled a word in “her” book. She was very bossy. But her suggestion that we both apply for staff jobs on our junior high newspaper led me to discover that I loved writing, which in turn led to the career I loved.

My friend became an early woman engineer for Boeing. She got to do such interesting things as going on test flights. She is retired now, but still angry about being paid less than men during her working years. (Women in what were then “men’s jobs” were not treated very fairly. I lived with that, too.) Her anger has spilled over. Nobody does anything to suit her. She holds grudges and talks about them constantly. Her old friends wonder if she has any friends now.

Laughter—and tears—are glorious gifts, given to human beings. You can use them all your life, without either ever getting old or running out. By the way, when you learn to write fast, you will probably love that as much as you love reading now.

Much love, dear. Aunt Janet (French)

37


I met a Transylvanian pigon an early morning strollalong a village main streetKissolymos,Homorod ValleyCarpathian Mountainshis keeper following hurriedly behinda long stick in handno harm intended

I called out as they passed“where is that pig off toand in such a rush”the reply in the language of love“rendezvous d’amour”

Lois Davis UU Church of Akron, OH

All Mannerof Love

38


All the birds are done for the dayexcept the grackles, fretting loudand non-stop over a small flutter

still testing its wings below the crabapple by the fence. I think I’m readyto go inside when the sky says

How often can you read outdoors until nine-thirty? Two doors downGabriella chatters in Spanish,

dangles from a rusting swing like a crystal twisting inmidday, the late colors splashed

above her like nothing I can recall. Words are fallingoff the open pages in my lap

but I can’t hear themas the young grackle spreadsits wings and the sleepy dog

comes to the doorway and sniffs, unmoving as a Buddha—as always, in the moment.

Reading the Summer Solstice

Belinda Chambers, friend


39


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40


My brother who, quite enthu-siastically, just discovered water-colors after working with oils for years, wasn’t home. Madame Bouchard, his landlady, explained he had received a sudden invita-tion for a modest showing in upstate Vermont. He left immedi-ately, as exhilarated as an author at his first autograph party.

“What about Renee?” I asked.Madame Bouchard thought

for a moment. She was a stocky woman, and her energetic face always reminded me of a curious crow. “Ah, Rene. She also go. They go… ensemble.”

“It figures.”Renee poses, in a variety of

ways well-represented in my brother’s paintings around the small atelier my brother rented.

“He will return by the end of the month,” the landlady said as she hurried off to work in the kitchen.

She left me standing with my small overnight bag on the side-walk. I had the rest of the week free, and it was beautiful July weather in Montreal.

The only other person I new in town was Nikki Teringo who sang at the Pom Pom Club some years before.

When I first met her, I thought

she was French. She said I looked like a television detective played by George Peppard. I had his ap-proximate height, weight, walk and white-blonde, wispy hair. The comparison stuck.

Nikki had the build of actress Leslie Caron and chestnut shoul-der-length hair that bounced with a showy carelessness that seemed ideally suited to her career. Stand-ing in the doorway of the Canadi-an Legion Hall, wearing sneakers, blue jeans, and a pink sweater, she was on her way home from voice lessons and carried sheet music. After listening to the slap happy sounds of our Dixieland jazz group, she dramatically declared music was a great thing we had in common. The stair-step bass l did on the barrelhouse upright, scarred by many beer bottle rings and cigarette burns, excited her.

I knew what she meant, and she often stopped by to hear our fledgling attempts at the New Orleans classics and Roseland Café standards.

One night, just after the severe thunderstorm warnings were cancelled, the humidity rose and a steady raIn fell. The smell of turpentine wafted in through the open doors. I gathered my music and was ready to lock the piano

and hall. Nikki had been poking around at the far end of the room, and she walked across the dance floor. She stood beside the piano, her weight on one leg, and placed a hand on the scarred top.

I walked to her and placed my hand over hers and stroked it. I traced her fingers while inhaling her feline scent from the back of her neck. I kissed it. She lowered her head and whispered, “Don’t do that.”

The hair on her arms stood up. My desperation of the moment mocked the slowly fading daylight.

“Why not?” I asked.“Because it’s too hard to stop.”She turned to me, her brown

eyes looking at me intently. “You’re melting me like butter.” She gasped slightly and smiled. I embraced her.

“Nikki, you’re beautiful.”“So are you,” she said against

my chest.“I think I did something right,”

I gasped.Too many things happened

since then, but the charm and sweetness of that night left me wondering. Change was the only constant I knew, yet, suddenly, I feared it.

Northern Fried Dixie: A Romance

John Zylstra West Shore UU Church, Rocky River, OH

Chapter 1 Vacation Plans Explode

Chapter 2 Retracking the Past

I stared at a nearby telephone booth as four nuns passed briskly, their shiny black shoes moving under their long, gray habits. They glanced at me.

I went to the phone booth, looked up the number for the Pom Pom, and dialed.

“Pom Pom. This is Monsieur Beaudry.”

“Is Nikki there?’“No, she is not. It is 10 o’clock

in the morning.”“She still has a contract there,

doesn’t she?”

41


sated well and often gave him qui-et warnings of things happening in his vicinity. His piano playing was perfect. He caressed the keyboard with an eloquence and finesse that often discouraged me.

One day, he heard a recording of my piano playing, and he smiled and shook his head. “Damn, I wish could do that!”

I was shocked to hear that. We whipped through some quatre mains and became good friends.

Beaudry appeared with a buffet on wheels. He maneuvered it past the bar and into the dining room. When I saw the food, I realized how hungry I was.

I looked across the room at the small stage on the dance floor. It seemed not so long in the past that I listened to Nikki sing there in the Bonheur group. I said so.

“She still does,” Beaudry says with a little smile.

“I don’t know how this ever got started,” Maxie told Floquet, “but this guy”—he pointed at me—“played piano with the Dixie Syncopators of the Mountain City Jazz Club. They practiced in a Canadian Legion Hall.”

“We studiously developed a style that began with vague Chi-cago Bix Beiderbecke sounds,” I said. “Soon we argued about styles and reorganized the group. The big Swiss guy on the banjo sug-gested a more relaxed, Southern way of paying. We also added a bit more swing.”

“What was the guy’s name?” Maxie laughed.

“Art Grunwald. He had a beard.”

“He was a hell of a banjo player,” Maxie said.

Floquet got a beer. “How does this relate to Nikki?”

“In the summer,” I said, “the doors are usually open, and a small crowd listened outside.

Sometimes they even applauded. One night, Nikki was in the crowd. She stayed until we ad-journed.”

“She thought Steve was the concierge,” Maxie said, “because he had the keys and always locked up after rehearsal.”

“She sang then,” I continued. “She also attended a voice school. Later that year, rock and roll hit. The Dixie Syncopators disbanded. We went our separate ways.”

“Nikki got a contract with the Vedette Casino,” Maxie recalled. “Then she went to La Cave, which was where I first met her.”

Floquet uncapped another Mol-son’s Golden. “She got involved with that agent at the Vedette, remember?”

“That bastard,” Maxie said. “Who could’ve predicted that?”

“I still think Teresa gave Nikki more purpose and rounded out her life,” Floquet added. “She’s crazy about that kid.

“I agree.” Maxie lit a cigar. “She’s a doll.” He turned to me. “Steve, we could sit here all day talking over old times. Why don’t you go see Nikki? She’ll be ec-static.”

“What kind of work do you do, Turner?” Floquet asked.

“Government. I’m in the To-ronto Statistics Division. I move papers around on a desk.” I laughed and Floquet joined me.

I shrugged. “It’s security, good benefits and year-round work.”

Did you come in at Dorval?” Maxie asked.

“No Mirabel. That damn place is a vast wasteland of concrete, hangars and distant terminals. I almost got lost and had to take a cab to the nearest limo service.”

“Just to get out?”I held up a hand. Dorval Air-

port I can handle. Forget Mirabel.” “You know,” Maxie said sud-

The receiver was quiet for a moment. “I think this is true. She sings with the group called Bon-heur. Who are you? Do you know her?”

I identified myself and said, “She’s not in the phone book.”

“This is correct. She has no list-ing for the telephone.”

“The club’s the only way I can reach her?”

“Just a moment, Monsieur. Please stay on the phone.”

I heard sounds in the back-ground.

“Turner? You old dog, what are you doing in Montreal? Did they chase you out of the queen’s city?”

“Maxie, you sly fox! Are you too lazy to answer your own phone?” It was my old friend, the blind pianist who owned the Pom Pom.

“Why don’t you come over to see me?”

“Got anything to eat?”“Not as long as you’re there,

and I’m here,” he laughed.When I got to the club, Maxie

introduced me to Beaudry and Andre Floquet, his right-hand man. He ordered food for us. Andre re-sembled a walkaway from an old Peter Lorre movie. He was slender, in his 40s, with a receding hairline and almost impeccable, deter-mined features. He kept Maxie’s books for him.

Beaudry turned out to be a friendly giant of lumberjack proportions, who, besides other duties, probably was the club’s bouncer. I knew Floquet from the past, but Beaudry was new.

Maxie, the core of the opera-tion, never seemed to change. He had 18 years of classical piano training, and he was of medium height and slightly overweight. No one knew, nor did her ever say, how he lost his eyesight, but his sharply increased faculties compen-

42


Chapter 3 Reclaiming the Parts

“Nikki? This is Steve Turner. Are you asleep?”

She was groggy and irritated. “Not any more. Steve who?”

“Turner. The Toronto Turner who looks like George Peppard.”

“Steve!” she yelled. “Is this long distance?”

“Only if you consider West-mount far away.”

“You’re in the city? That’s wonderful! Why’d you stay away so long?”

I explained about my last week of vacation and my vanished plans to be with my brother.

“So I’m your second-best choice?”

“That’s a typical female come-back, Sweetheart. One thing nei-ther can erase is that we were each other’s very first choice.”

“You big dummy. How can I forget that?” she moaned. “Quit yapping on the phone and come over. God, I want to see you. It’s been so long.”

“I’ll take a cab and be…”“Wait, Steve. It’s a different

address.”“Okay. Burn it into my brain.”“Twenty minutes?”“You got it.”I flagged down the first taxi I

could find, but an older woman with frizzy hair and wearing a yellow-cat coat appeared out of nowhere and beat me to it.

“Thirty minutes,” I thought. Nikki did fairly well those past

years. Her voice training gave her the technical pull toward a profes-sional singing career, and with her special, slightly hoarse voice, she

denly, “What you do in Toronto, you can do more easily here. You can play Dixieland in Montreal and find a better audience for it.”

He located the telephone easily and pushed it toward me. “Here. Oh, never mind.”

I watched in amazement as

his fingers flew over the buttons. He held out the receiver. “Talk to Nikki and keep it clean.”

did a few demos and soon cut her first record.

It sold well.After two more records, she got

into her unhappy marriage to her agent. That lasted four years, then he left her and Teresa, their daugh-ter, for another woman. Nikki continued alone. By then, she was successful, and he hurt her emo-tionally more than financially.

I remembered the night we met. After the guys left at the end of a night’s rehearsal, I sat at the piano and went through some tricky combinations. Nikki startled me by stepping out of the shad-ows.

“I enjoyed your music,” she said. “Music is important in my life. I’m Nikki Teringo, and I want to be a singer. Music leads me—I am its victim.”

“Like an addiction?”“Yes. What was that tune you

played last, Wedding Bells?”“Yeah. Want to sing it?” I

searched through my scores. “We have an arrangement for it, but we only use it for bridge modulations. It has lyrics, though. Here we are.”

She took the sheet and frowned as she studied it.

“Try this.” I played the opening chords.

“Too high!” She laughed. “You’re making it easier on your-self. That’s G, isn’t it? Try A—it’s good for voice.”

“Nikki, that’s three sharps,” I protested.

“How’d you guys do it?”“That was in F. We have to

go F, C and B-flat for clarinet and

horns.” She pouted. “Just fake it in A.”“Okay. You take it after the

intro.”She did.Something told me that night

she’d do better on the misty ballad style. I played Cry me a River. She sang in a softly accusing voice that was wonderful, despite my trouble with chords. I sprinkled a fluffy ending on the higher keys, then let it fade.

We were quiet for a moment.“That was good, Nikki. This is

your specialty. It’s moody as hell, and you caress it. I liked it.”

Far less romantic was the street where she now lived.

Nikki had an apartment on a sad, still street which glistened with a steady summer drizzle and reflected the French Quarter houses on both sides. Their spiral staircases descended into miniature gardens consisting of flowerbeds and the hint of a path. A moody silence prevailed, broken only by the occasional sounds of play-ing children, the clang of garbage cans, and a car starting up. Once those faded, the sound of fine rain returned.

There was a sign in a window across the street—Chambre a Louer. Scribbled under it was avec bain double. To the less compli-cated of society who lived there, haste, the passage of time, and daily activities were forgotten. The division of night and day scarcely touched them. They worried little about the complexities and bur-dens of the times, and it didn’t

43


Chapter 4 The Reality

He parked in front of a Mon-treal brownstone similar to those in New York. After paying the cabbie, I walked up the steps with my overnight bag and found Nikki waiting in the hall. She looked a bit disheveled. She wore a fuzzy robe, and her hair was tousled. She hugged me, kissed me thor-oughly, and looked me over.

“No change?” I asked.“No change.”She had an aura of domestic-

ity. I wondered if I caught, just for a moment, a vague feeling of the glamorous excitement we lost. Was that part of the younger passions from our bygone days, now given away to her settled house, town and kitchen routines, I wondered.

Tessie emerged. “Hi, Steve.”I crouched and hugged her.

“How’s little Tess? You’ve grown another foot. What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you sup-posed to be in school?”

She stuck out her tongue at me.“It’s summer vacation,” Nikki

laughed. “She’s eating all the profits.”

Tessie shook her dark brown hair then eyed my bag. “What’s in

seem to matter to them if the sun shone or if it was Saturday or Tuesday.

Smoke blew down the street, carrying the mixed odor of cheap cigars and cardboard boxes. A cat darted across the pavement, but no traffic compelled it to move so fast. The neighborhood’s washed-out simplicity was pleasant. The changing patterns of the city’s residential areas were compen-sated by offering different views just around the corner. A neon sign in a small delicatessen flashed

Bierre Et Vin—Carry Out. A boy in a white apron calmly rode his bike on the sidewalk. The rear fender scraped against the tire.

Nikki’s windows were open that first day. Sparrows helped themselves to bread crumbs and pieces of cookies left out on the kitchen table. We got there after spending time at Maxie’s.

I fell asleep in her bed. When I woke, I found her at my side. “You don’t mind if I sleep here, too?” she asked.

Hardly realizing where I was, I

asked, “Do you have to be bilin-gual to live here?”

She laughed. That was the last thing she expected me to say. “Let’s put it this way. This is a lot better than the Legion hall floor.” She snuggled closer. “God, Steve, the chemistry is so beautiful. You’re part of my genetic code.

Our timing was better that time.

“Here we are Monsieur,” the cab driver said. “This is the ad-dress, no?”

there?”“Never mind, cherub!” Nikki

pushed her aside. “I don’t think you ever thanked him for your birthday gift, and you’re already wondering what’s in the case.”

I told Tess our meeting was an unexpected one for me, too, add-ing that I’d make it up to her with a surprise. Nikki ushered her out of the room and turned to me.

“You’ll have to accommodate yourself to my schedule for a while,” she said, “but there are many things we can do in be-tween. Tonight’s a busy night at Maxie’s. I sing there with the quin-tet. They aren’t my regular side men, but come and listen. I’m free tomorrow night, then I’m back at Maxie’s the following night.” She held my face in her hands and kissed me.

“She smiled. “The return of the departed spirits. Damn it! Why’d you stay away so long?”

Her movements enchanted me again. I studied her pleasing fea-tures, the soft sweep of her throat, the lines of her face, her fine temple and hairline, and the back of her neck. She moved her arms and legs in a unique way, a total

composite of charm and grace.“Hey.” She patted my cheek.

“Are you still there?”We laughed and batted at each

other like cubs playing.“We’re still dancing through

life, aren’t we?” she asked.I shrugged happily. “Perhaps we

are.”Later, a woman came to baby

sit Tessie, and we got ready for Maxie’s. The doorman let us into a thick, smoky crowd. I heard drinks rattle, lots of shouting, and loud, amplified guitar rhythm. A man with a high mop of hair and long white cuffs sticking out of glisten-ing jacket sleeves did some sort of imitation on stage.

Nikki and I ordered drinks and watched, our eyes watering with smoke. The performance wasn’t impersonations to make you howl as the billboard outside said.

Finally, the wild-looking man bowed, obviously convinced he’d been successful, then he left.

The quintet set up and opened with September in the Rain. A somber man with a beard and sunglasses played flute in waves of dynamic force and subdued mellowness. Nikki was on next,

44


singing It Might as Well Be Spring.Some of the sensation seekers

left, leaving a more serious listen-ing audience. She did a lush rendi-tion of Mister Wonderful during which she harmonized with the flute player who switched to tenor sax. He played with a soft, velvety sound.

I sat and listened, feeling proud. Nikki, I thought, you’ve really got it going.

After shaving and showering the next day, I sat on Nikki’s bed and tried to put on my shoes. “Mornings are always difficult,” I mumbled.

Nikki lay on her stomach beside me, slowly turning the pages of the Montreal Star.

After scanning the entertain-ment section, Nikki paused over an ad which read “One Day Only., the incomparable Pat Benatar! Exclusive Engagement.” The words “Sold Out!” were printed cross-ways over the ad.

“Competition?” I asked.Nikki smiled. “No way.”I looked up and saw Tessie. “I

thought I heard a little mouse.”She still had the imprint of her

bed sheets on her fleshy chest. She stood in the doorway barefoot, wearing nothing but panties. She held up a bottle of nail polish. “I always mess it up if I do it. I need help.”

I took the bottle and looked at the contents. The polish consisted of transparent lacquer and tiny glitter chips.

“Hideous isn’t it?” Nikki asked.“Almost vulgar,” I said.“I think it’s pretty.” Tessie

handed me a tissue for spills. “Will you put it on my toes for me?

“All right. Give me a foot.”She raised one leg. I was struck

by all the femaleness that sur-rounded me.

“Neatly,” Tessie said. “Don’t

smear it.”“The fumes alone are enough

to suffocate a rat,” I remarked.“All in the name of glamour,”

Nikki said.“The other foot,” I said.The child bent to inspect my

work then held up her other leg. “You guys don’t like it.”

“Well, it’s kind of flashy,” I said. “I am beginning to like it.

Nikki winked at me.“All done.” I tightened the cap

on the bottle. Tessie jumped off the bed and waddled around the room, her fingers and toes spread to dry. She raised her arms, almost dancing, pirouetted, and stood on her tiptoes.

“A beautiful child,” I whispered to Nikki.

Nikki’s smile reminded me I’d told her she was beautiful, too. She shrugged arrogantly. “Beautiful mother, beautiful child, Can’t go wrong there.” She blew me a kiss.

We assured Tessie her polish wouldn’t come off for anything, even a blow torch.

“If you get ready,” Nikki told Tessie, “we’ll go out to eat.”

“My treat,” I added.“That rhymes!” Tessie said.“This is a golden-ager’s place.”

Nikki spoke as we entered a downtown restaurant on Ste. Catherine Street. “The prices are good, though, and so is the food.”

“They’re all over Toronto, too.” We stood and waited to be seated.

We ordered a huge breakfast none of us could finish.

“I’ve never seen this little girl eat so much,” I teased Tessie, who managed to spill maple syrup on her tank top. She wanted the waitress to box everything to take home with us.

“This little piggy….”Nikki pulled Tessie close. “This

is my little monkey. She wants to have her cake and eat it, too.”

While Tessie tried to struggle free, I asked, “Did I ever tell you about the greedy monkey?”

“What about him?” Tessie asked.

“Pay attention, Tessie.”She nodded eagerly. “I will.”“Once there was a monkey

who had a treat that was more than he could east. There was a problem, though. The treat was in a large bottle with a narrow neck.

“He discovered he could put all his fingers together and slide his arm through the neck, but once he grabbed the treat, his fist wouldn’t slide back out. The only way to get his hand out was to let go which he didn’t want to do.”

“What was the treat?” Tessie asked.

Nikki smiled at me. “She wonders if the problem is worth a solution.”

I shook my head. “Never mind that, Tessie. What would you do if you were that monkey?”

She bit her lip. Break the bottle?”

“No,” Nikki said firmly. “You’d cut yourself.”

“You can’t break it,” I added. “It’s hard plastic.”

I felt a moment of acute pain, a longing ache for the magic of having my own child. I looked at Tessie’s radiance, her health, mis-chief, pranks, laughter, and guile. She wasn’t mine, though, and the feeling passed.

Tessie had inherited Nikki’s deli-cate features, with the same soft, sensitive beauty emphasized by a mouth that was just like Nikki’s. It was clear Tessie was her daughter. I had a pet theory that an only child often bore a likeness to the parent who most wanted it.

Tessie gave a big smile. “I give up. How did he get the treat out of the bottle?”

I wasn’t sure of the answer,

45


and the waitress answered for me. “Shall we put this in a doggie bag?”

“A monkey bag.” Nikki pointed at Tessie. She hugged and tickled her until Tessie’s face turned red.

“Careful, honey,” I said. “It’ll all come back.”

Tessie laughed at that. “Yuck! Gross!”

“All right,” Nikki said. “That’s enough. I’d hate to think I was out with two kids.”

Tessie pointed at me. “You can be the other kid, Steve.”

The rest of the day passed in a similar fashion. We took Tessie to the zoo and watched fireworks across the St Lawrence Seaway. Tes-sie was so tired that she fell asleep in the cab on the way home.

After Nikki left Tessie with the baby sitter, she looked at me mys-teriously. “I have a treat for you.”

I looked up hopefully.“No, not that! Something quite

different. You’ll like it. Let’s go.” She tipped her head.

A moment later, we were in another cab heading toward the Lachine area where an obscure club had a one-week engagement of the Bourbon Street Foot Warm-ers, an American Dixieland band.

The sound of Canal Street warmed my heart. The club had a dance floor, and Nikki and I cut loose while most of the French-Canadian clientele—with a typical sense of artistry—sat and listened, quite absorbed by the American art form. The soloist in the group was a clarinetist of outstanding vir-tuosity. His clarinet almost spoke as he played, imitating the sound of the Dixieland greats.

Nikki and I had a hell of a good time.

“More people are coming in.” The manager, a rotund man with a moustache, stood at our table. “I think, Monsieur, it is because

of you. Your dance is good. The musicians like it”

“Keep the drinks coming, pal.” I smiled as perspiration rolled down my throat.

Nikki giggled. “You’re getting crocked, Steve.”

I touched her chest, then mine. “You protect me.”

“All right. Here’s a slow dance. Come on, and don’t drape your-self all over me.

Eventually, things got hazy. A group of American sailors in a corner pointed at us and started making comments.

“He looks like George Pep-pard….”

“Ray, don’t bother. The Shore Patrol’s around. I seen them. For-get it.”

The last thing I remember was stumbling into a cab and going home with Nikki.

When I woke, my head felt like a hot air balloon. “What hap-pened?

Nikki grinned. “What hap-pened? You had too many drinks, that’s what.”

“Too many martooinis?”“You told me the city had

forsaken you, that rock and roll forced out all other music, and that even Trudeau couldn’t make it up to you.”

“That bad?”“Horrible.” She shook her head.

“I finally put a hand over your mouth and shoved you into a taxi. When we got home, you thought you were in your brother’s place and started looking for him.”

“What did you do?”“I put you to bed, turned off

the light, and left.”“Great. My head hurts, and I

probably caused you all kinds of grief.”

“Steve,” she said as she tipped her head as if seeing me differ-ently. “Shut up, will you?” I’ll fix

us some coffee and breakfast, and you’ll be a new person.”

“A nude person?”“I don’t know. I haven’t looked

yet.”“Come here.”“Oh, no, you don’t. We won’t

get anything done that way.”She turned and saw Tessie.

“That’s another reason. Good morning, Cherub. Are you hungry for breakfast?”

Tessie yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I was sweating, Mommy. Did you turn on the heat?”

Nikki laughed. “Of course not. It’s summer. Aren’t you going to say good morning to Steve?”

“Are you sick, Steve?” Tessie stood in the doorway on one leg and looked at me still in bed.

“He wasn’t doing too well last night,” Nikki said, “so I put him to bed. Maybe he’ll feel better after some rest. As for you, Cherub, get dressed and do your chores. You’re staying with Madame Lefevre this week.”

“Mom!”The clock radio clicked on.“Teresa,” Nikki said, “if I get

good behavior reports, we’ll pick you up and do fun things. It de-pends on you.”

Tessie turned to me. “I wish you were my dad.”

“And turn this around?” Nikki laughed. “Not a chance, Baby. What Mommy says, goes.”

“Looks like you lose,” I said. “I’d have told you the same thing, Tessie.”

“You don’t even know Ma-dame Lefevre,” Tessie pouted.

“I don’t have to. It makes no difference.”

Nikki looked at her across her coffee cup. “Tessie!”

“Okay.” She slinked off to her room and closed the door.

Nikki looked at me and pushed me back on the pillows. “Sick! You

46


Chapter 5 Scraps of the Dream

“When you strike those big, rich chords,” Nikki said, “it’s as if my voice can lie on that bed of safety and order and feel secure. I have a base to build on.”

“I’m too melodic-blues ori-ented,” I said. “I slide into some rhythm pattern before I know it.”

“Steve, that’s good.” She whis-pered against my face. “I need to rely on that.”

“But Dixieland is instrumental—happy and cheerful.”

“I know that, Love, but life is blues, too.”

“Yes,” I mused. “Pain, heart-ache...”

“I can answer that.”“Why should you?”“So that you’ll know you’re not

alone.”“You mean almost a coming

together that’s liberating, like satiating a hunger or quenching a thirst?”

We talked about music, too Our play was our work; our work was our play. Always, we talked of music.

At one point, Nikki made a half-hearted attempt to put on a gown, then she sat in the living

poor thing—lovesick maybe.” She nuzzled me.

I grimaced and moaned. “Ow! You’re hurting me!” I put a hand on my chest. “Sharp pains. Palpita-tions. Something’s happening.”

Nikki pulled away. “Steve!”“Almost had you believing it,

didn’t I”“Well then,” Nikki pointed at

me. “Get dressed or I’ll send you over to Madame Lefevre, too.”

“I have to finish my coffee,” I protested.

We gradually eased into our day.

Protests did Tessie no good. She left, and we had the apartment to ourselves, but those days were numbered.

The unused portion of my airline ticket, sitting in the pocket of the jacket Nikki had placed on a hanger, started a discussion. We talked about my brother, my work in Toronto, and her future plans. We ordered Chinese food. Reverting to a Bohemian life style, we experimented on each other capriciously and childishly, then sank into a complex study of sheet music arrangements using Tessie’s

toy piano to illustrate ideas. I told her I had only gone so far with the jazz group. I always enjoyed play-ing, but I never attained technical superiority.

“The California Zep Meisner ar-rangements,” I said, “are well put together. They’re simple, generic, Dixieland arrangements that call for easy bass chording that jumps to follow the melody, then it repeats. It’s nothing like the highly structured chords in the sophisti-cated ballads you do.”

room. Her pouting mouth, her dark brown hair, her bare arms and sculpted hands, entranced me. She used those hands to accent the songs she sang. She was born to be an actress. As she closed her eyes and licked her lips, I saw warmth, safety, security, and the promise of her immortality in the creation and growth of her daughter, em-bodying the same soft beauty.

No creation of art could ap-proach her. She was a waking reality, a self-contained wonder, mystifying and dazzling. She was also painful, difficult and cruel in counterpoint, crouching in her lus-cious lure, talking about music.

Nikki rummaged through a stack of sheet music under the coffee table. “Look at the chord-ing on this.” She tossed it to me. “La Vie en Rose. That’s the studio arrangement when we cut the master. The strings courted the piano parts. It was beautiful.”

“Supporting the piano?” I asked.

“Not entirely. The intro was a bit symphonic, and it had its own section in the middle, then it hesitated before the strings picked

it up.”“I can hear it.”“Sharps and flats all over the

place, too.”I smiled. “I’d leave that to

Maxie.”Suddenly, she whirled. “We

could work on a lot of this to-gether.”

The room became very quiet.“You want me to stay, don’t

you?”She bit her lip, and a tear ran

down her cheek. “God, Steve, how the hell am I going to hang onto you?” She sat on the bed.

I raised myself to a sitting posi-tion, half turned, and reached for my shirt on the night table. I took the last cigarette from my crum-pled pack and lit it.

Nikki laughed softly. “Look at us, Steve. My career isn’t as glam-orous as it looks. There’s a lot of hard work involved, plus I’ve got the responsibility of raising a child. There’s no balance with Tessie and me. We’re two females flounder-ing. It’s like going through life with one leg. Did you notice how we look like a family when we’re together?”

47


Chapter 6 Exploring the Dream

“That’s funny,” I said thought-fully. “Maxie wanted me to come back, too. It’s strange.”

“No, it’s not. Women are strange, Steve. One minute we laugh, the next we cry. We’re always falling victim to our emo-tions and seldom reason things out. We think of leading, but we

really want to be led. We want to play music, my love, but, in reality, we’re instruments to be played.”

“Add one more.”“What?”“Women talk too much.”She rested her head on my

thigh. “I’ll bite.”

I laughed. “That would elimi-nate talking. Anyway, you’re not supposed to bite unless you’re a back biter.”

“Okay,” she said cheerfully. The last thing she said before

we drifted off to sleep was, “The world doesn’t exist anymore. I’m so happy with you, Steve.”

That September, I called Nikki from Toronto. She was sullen and fatigued, irritable and short-tempered. She had no contract renewal, and she was on standby, working Maxie’s bar and at the Beaux Arts Institute. She made money, but she wasn’t singing.

“By the way,” I said cheerfully, “the provincial government of Quebec has approved my transfer to Montreal. Thank Christ, I have

a working knowledge of French. They’re funny about that now.”

“I know. Tessie has to take it in school. It’s mandatory. What the hell did you say?”

I heard her crying. “I said I’ll be working for La Belle Province as of November first.”

She sniffled. “In Montreal?”“Yes. Will you marry me?”She cried again. “Yes, Steve,

you… you just made my life glow.

Yes, Love! I don’t know what to say...”

I laughed. “You just said it. You’d better check Quebec’s mar-riage laws.”

She laughed. “Steve, we violat-ed every law in the book. There’s no hope for us.”

“I was thinking that, too.”“You big dummy.”

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