New England Memories from YankeeMagazine.com

Endless River Flow

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Tue, 26 May 2009 04:00:00 +0100

Overflowing river banks,
Rolling down with ease,
Never work to roll down stream,
Are carried all the way. When
Dams are built, the rivers cannot bleed.
That unnatural bandage stops the flow,
Halting where the rivers go,
Not allowing them to play. But force
Of river breaks through weaker dam,
And gently carries on. Flow, river, flow!
Not knowing even where to go, but
Laughing all the way. It sings its
Purpose, to glide on down the stream,
Refreshing children's toes, without
Knowing why, like the fragrance of
A garden rose. Never shall this river
Cease to heal our souls, whose purpose,
Too, is to nourish other souls. Tragic
Loss of souls of all, whenever they forget
The blessing of a flowing life,
And swim against the flow. The river
Teaches us to dance, merrily to glide,
But somehow some are still afraid
To make surrender their lucky bride.
So as the rivers flow, our souls would
Do well to see that their fluid
Ride down that river bank leads to
The greater sea. And when the rivers
Of the world cease to roll along,
Contented souls that came to know
That life's a flowing song, will never
Cease their flowing, but gently carry on,
In a higher kind of knowing, when the world
Shall die away, our souls will stroll
Forevermore, with each new dawn of day.

Mermaids

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 04:00:00 +0100

Ten years ago during our annual summer vacation in Round Pond, Maine, our daughters, 12 and 14, ran down to the little harbor at low tide to roll around in the mud. On a lobster pier above them, diners observed with delight, applauding the reckless abandon of these two teenagers whose laughter echoed across the water.

My husband, Ed, and I watched from the deck of our rented house as they emerged and walked toward us. Their slim bodies, clad in tank suits, were covered in muck. It clung to their long hair like clay, and reeked of dead fish, seaweed, and salt. Even though we hosed them down and they took long showers, for days they still emitted a slight scent of fish, as if they were mermaids.

Every year when we'd arrive from the city, the girls would don their bathing suits at high tide, run down to the dock, and plunge into the icy water. We'd have old-fashioned ice cream cones from a country store around the bend, eaten outside in Adirondack chairs. On the pier across the water from our house we could have lobster, pulled wriggling and black out of traps taken from the cold water below us, tossed into a cauldron, and plopped on our picnic table, coral-colored, with a roll of paper towels.

One morning we awakened to find we had no electricity or water. Concerned, we walked up to the market, where the proprietor, working in the dark, said casually, "They'll fix it sooner or later. Help yourself to some fresh donuts, and coffee from the thermos here."

The year of the mermaids we were on a holiday in more ways than one, as our oncologist in Boston had given Ed's 44-year-old body a short break from chemotherapy and radiation. Round Pond became a safe harbor from fear. Short of breath from lung cancer, Ed had difficulty walking to the markets, but as an artist, he was content to sit in front of the picture window and sketch the changing colors of sky and water, the little boats coming and going, and the lobstermen unloading their cargo. "I'll pretend I'm Claude Monet," he joked, "observing the water lilies in every kind of light."

After Ed died, the girls and I returned to Round Pond to find everything eerily unchanged. Perhaps this constancy drew us back each year -- if the little boats were still there and we could have outdoor ice cream cones, would we see him coming around the bend, wearing his baseball cap and carrying his sketchpad?

Eventually, as the girls became too busy to join me, I'd go alone to our cottage, where I'd read, write, swim, and hold Ed in my memory. In the lovely natural light of our house I noticed the lines in my face multiplying and deepening, yet my husband was timeless, like this place. Forever young, his hair and eyes would always remain the same color as shale on the shore of Maine, washed rusty by the tide.

One year back home, a widower and I reached across our respective losses to find each other. Philip, a poet, began coming with me to Round Pond, spilling his impressions into words instead of pictures. A native of Maine, he patiently squeezed every morsel of meat from the legs of his lobster, and took long walks with me by the shore, identifying each bird and sea creature.

Today, when I stand on our dock among lobster traps, facing Loud's Island and Muscongus Sound, the mermaids are missing, my husband is gone, and a different man is at my side. Still, this little harbor on the east side of the Bristol peninsula remains the same. Each morning, the horizon is clear as the sun sparkles on the water like diamonds. At dusk, sky and sea blend into a wash of pink and blue, and the water is so still the little boats seem as though they are seated on a solid surface. Round sandstones covered with stringy seaweed look like lions' heads, and chips of white seashells glisten among pebbles on the little beach. A steady, staccato squawk of seagulls -- one note repeated about 15 times, a pause, another round -- lulls and comforts me, along with the occasional tinkle of wind chimes.

Here, long-ago events are no different from recent ones, as past and present blend into one color, just like the sky and water at dusk. Everything -- pain and sorrow, joy and discovery, an artist and a poet, little girls and young women -- becomes memory, held safely in the embrace of Round Pond.

Christine Cleary's essays and articles have appeared in The Sun Magazine, Yankee Homes, Growing Up in North Cambridge, and the Boston Globe, and broadcast on National Public Radio. In her communications work at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston, she writes profiles of cancer patients and their families, and helps edit and publish their own stories. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and the daughters featured in this story live in Boston.

Mount Hunger

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 04:00:00 +0100

I only met her once. I remember thinking she looked like a witch. She looked a little bit like the plastic skeleton from my fifth grade classroom. She had long, gray, stringy hair that hung down in clumps and her teeth seemed gray too. Her clothes were torn and filthy. She called herself Emma.

She lived alone on Mount Hunger, high above where any roads led. My grandfather found her one autumn day when he was out digging for old bottles. She said only that she was from "away" and, as Mainers are wont to do, he happily left it at that.

She was preparing for winter, but he could see she was not going to be ready in time, with her handsaw and meager stash of canned foods. Not wondering if she was a lunatic or an escaped fugitive, as I would have, my grandfather returned the next day with several bundles of kindling and a chainsaw. He cut some trees and piled her firewood outside her tiny ill-constructed shack, hoping it would have time to dry out a little before the snow came.

The snow did come. Real snow. And my grandfather tied plastic bags full of groceries to his snowmobile and made the trip up to see her almost every weekend. One day I accompanied him. I wanted to see this mysterious woman for myself. She was kind enough, but seemed remarkably sad. She told me to "be careful of the world out there. It is a scary place and will bring you pain and suffering." Of course, at ten years old, I had no idea what she was talking about, was a little freaked out even, but I nodded and said, "Yes, ma'am."

I couldn't believe she was surviving in that one room shack. I could see daylight shining in through the cracks in her walls. I wondered if she'd built the shack herself. She sat only two feet from her wood stove and wore a jacket and scarf. She had a cot and a kitchen table. One chair. Piles of dusty books lay all over the floor. An old bicycle leaned against one wall.

I asked my grandfather why on earth a woman would do such a thing, climb up into the Maine woods with no idea how to survive on her own. He sighed and said, "Sometimes people just need to get away for a while."

One day in the spring, he made the trip up Mount Hunger and Emma was gone. Her few belongings were gone as well. When he told me, I asked him, "Aren't you kind of mad that she never thanked you?" He shook his head and said, "That's not why we help people, honey. We help people because they need help."

Robin Merrill is a mother, writer and teacher from Central Maine. Her work has recently appeared in Margie, Flint Hills Review and The Cafe Review and has been featured on The Writer's Almanac. To learn more about her, visit www.robinmerrill.com.

Poetry of Claire Hersom

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 05:00:00 +0100

Anadama Bread

Winter was the worst.
The farm windows iced inside, wind howled
down off the upper field; through the gauze
curtains it kissed our foreheads, noses buried
in featherbed crazy-quilts. Wooden spindle
framed our heads. It was too cold for ceiling mice.

We always had to pee just before dawn.
When the woodstove fire dwindled,
you could see your breath.
I'd poke my sister to come down the loft stairs
out to the three hole-r in the shed; an unbearable deed.

We'd pull on the crocheted slippers from Great Aunt Ann,
only holding heat for a few steps, down we went,
hands entwined, the flannel nighties hoisted up,
our little derrieres hovering; then jack rabbit quick,
back we went to snuggle while the snow stung the tin roof edge.

We'd cuddle together, drift back to sleep, dreams of flap jacks
and Anadama Bread warm in the kitchen for breakfast.

Supper at the Farm

Nothing prepared me for my grandfather's
peculiar brand of jurisprudence;
the kind he wielded outside
on the north corner of the farm
where his axe sang hallelujah over the
necks of chickens; one minute
their stuttering walk mimicking palsy,
the next in frantic flight, running headless.

Like an odd baptism after the fact,
dipped in the scalding water bucket of floating feathers,
it was last rites for a useless heart.

Dunk and pull - Nana didn't mind the bird in her kitchen sink
to gut and clean, she'd truss across the open belly
like she was mending socks; a plain prosperity.

When dusk fell, it filtered through the farmhouse window
on steaming plates of fresh snapped beans; fluffed
potatoes from the upper field, dotted with
butter - hand churned and set a few days ago.

I bowed my head, swallowed the apparition
rising out of the white and voiceless breast,
the tasty little wing, and dug in.

Claire Hersom is a native Mainer who finds endless inspiration from the love of her family. Her most recent poetry book, Drowning: A Poetic Memoir was published by Moon Pie Press of Westbrook, Maine. She has two other poetry books: The Day I Circled The Wagons, by Snow Drift Press (2006), and Supper at The Farm (2005), a collection of poems about her Irish family. Claire is a freelance writer most recently writing for Courier Publications out of Rockland, Maine. Her essays and poetry appear regularly in Wolf Moon Journal, and her poetry in various other journals. Her most recent book reviews appeared in California's Rattle Magazine and Portland Maine's the Cafe Review. Claire has three grown children, nine grandchildren and lives in Winthrop, Maine.

Rising Tide on Plum Island

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 05:00:00 +0100

Plum Island was deserted except for a slightly offbeat mother, her twelve-year-old daughter and four young sons, including five-year-old twins. I was that mother. If there were another whose children were running wild and free on the island that Easter Sunday, she was nowhere in sight.

A winter chill hung on the breeze. Ripples furrowed the sandy flats into hard ridges. The distant surf glistened under intermittent sunbeams. While his sister and brothers leaped off the dunes, nine-year-old Allan wandered off to the jetty. He skipped from rock to rock, scattering hermit crabs, dodging salt spray. Half way to the end of the breakwater, happy in his dream world, he lost his balance. One foot jammed deep into a crevice. For a few minutes, he struggled to free himself, but to no avail.

"Mommy, Billy, I'm stuck!" he shouted as he thrashed about. "I'm going to drown. Mommy, I'm going to drown!" Then he laid across the rocks and succumbed to his tears.

"We're coming, Allan!" seven-year-old Billy cried out as he raced towards his big brother, the rest of us running as fast as we could.

Allan sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve, pulling himself erect as if to show his courage, not let on that he was terrified.

"I'll get you out...don't worry," Billy said, short of breath and long on encouragement.

I clenched my teeth to control my anxiety as I knelt beside my eldest son. Clearly, his foot was wedged tight between the rocks. I scanned the Atlantic, trying to determine if the tide was coming in and then realized, in near hysteria, sooner or later it always comes in! There was no time to run for fire engines or ambulances or bulldozers. Besides, I couldn't leave the kids alone and drive miles in an old Chevy that was far less than reliable. Where could I go for help on Easter? I asked myself and drew a blank. The family had to extricate Allan.

I tried to keep my senses about me as Allan shuddered with watery chills and mounting fear. Leslie and Billy knelt beside me and tugged Allan under his arms.

"Son, grab Billy around his waist and twist your foot while he tries to pull you up. Hang on tight!"

What if we can't free him? Do we all drown in this God-forsaken place? My God, must we cut off Allan's leg to save his life? With what? Where is everybody? In church, of course. What in God's name am I going to do?

"He's not budging," Billy said, as I cursed our beloved Plum Island from deep in my soul.

"OK, kids, let's all push together and try to loosen this rock."

Attempting to move a huge block of granite would be a vain endeavor but I had to say something while hoping against hope for an inspired solution.

"We need a tank."

Of course we do, dear little Gary! But we can't stand here and do nothing. This can't be happening to this precious family...I love you so much, Allan. You mustn't leave us. You mustn't! What am I going to do, dear God, what am I going to do?

The wind grew stronger. White caps formed on the horizon. In those frantic moments when my son's life seemed to be inexorably slipping away, I glanced down the beach for a sign of life but there was neither a sound nor faint outline of a human being in the heavy mist. Lost in my own fog, I barely heard Lawrence say, "Mommy, we don't need a tank. Why don't we take off his shoe?"

I immediately came back to my senses.

"Great idea, Lawrence. Come on, let's get to it, guys."

I gathered the troops for a concentrated surge of energy and determination. I had to get their adrenaline flowing if I were to save my son's life.

"Listen kids, there isn't much time. Billy, you lie flat on the rocks and reach as far into the crack as you can without getting stuck yourself...stretch! Twins, you two hang on to Billy's feet. Allan, make room for Billy. Leslie, support Allan. He's very tired."

Yes, tired and soaking wet, cold and frightened.

"I can't move my leg, Mom. I can't...I'm stuck!"

I looked up for a split second to see that the sky had turned ominously dark, the tide bearing down on us. It showed no mercy.

"Yes, you can, Allan You can!" I shouted in my anguish, mindful that time was not on our side. "Twist it until Billy's arm can slip through. Just do it!"

Allan twisted with all his might. Billy plunged both hands into the icy water, and inched his fingers along the torn pants, his slim torso dangling over the rock. Each second seemed an eternity, each splash in our faces, a tsunami.

The twins kept repeating, "Got it, Billy?" Allan was crying, "I'm freezing, Mom." And my heart was pounding furiously when Billy said, "Hey guys, I'm touching the sneaker."

"Good going, Billy." I said, and hugged his wet legs. "Listen...wrap your hand around it...got it?"

"Yup."

"Good...push the heel down as hard as you can."

As I squeezed Allan's arm, the pleading in his eyes tore me apart. I kissed his cheek trying to hold back, but this time the tears welled up.

"It's almost over," I whispered, all the while envisioning the consequences if we failed--the very last minute, water swirling around Allan's chest, the time when I would have to send the kids back to the dunes, Allan and I left on the jetty in a rising tide. I would never leave him there alone. Dear God, what shall I do then?

"I've got my fingers inside the shoe, Mom...it's mushy."

"Good. Now grab Allan's heel and yank his foot out. You too, Allan. Pull as hard as you can!"

Suddenly, the words shot out of Billy's mouth. "It's off...it's off!"

A wave splashed hard against the rocks, showering us all as we laughed away the unbearable tension and Allan eased up his scratched leg. Billy cradled his brother's foot in his bloody hands as if to display his trophy for winning the battle. I hugged Allan tight, so overcome with relief and gratitude I couldn't speak. He hugged me back, then resumed his big brother role as if he had merely taken a spill.

"You saved my life, guys...hey, wanna look for horseshoe crabs?"

"I'll race you to the end of the jetty," Billy said. "Look, the sun is out."

"Yowie!" the twins yelled.

Leslie and I stood on the rock where Allan had slipped, smiling at one another as we watched him limp off wearing one shoe, sunlight glowing against his striped hat.

"There's still a little time before the tide gets too high, Mom," she said.

Liz Larrabee was born in Salem, MA, in 1925 and is a proud graduate of Edwards Elementary. She has five children and nine grandchildren. She enjoys traveling, writing, and taking pictures. Her work has been published in the Herald Tribune, Venice Gondolier, Sarasota and Beyond, and Attencion in San Miguel de Allende. Her work can also be read in the appropriately named Liz Larrabee's Book.

Poems and Paintings

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 05:00:00 +0100

Editors Note: This week we have a special treat. Along with two poems by Elizabeth Potter, we also have the paintings that inspired them. It's rare that we get to feature this kind of collaboration, so I hope you enjoy it.
Fog Bank

An apparition moves
when the sea desires company.

Restless with lapping at rock,
her longing lifts--

an aeroform gypsy...

She creeps up the banking,
curls in arches of ferns
breathing in their rooty darkness...

Then climbs slender necks of white birch,
tracing underside of branches;

they do not need eyes to know
it is her moving among them.

They understand the sea can move this way--
caress with spectral feathers cool and moist
and drift away as fast as she alights,

imparting a sheen to whatever she touches,
as if newly born.

Reflections

Let's look ahead to where we're going,
brush the mercuried silk
of morning ocean with ready paddles,

point the red tip of our canoe
toward land we cannot see
but sense ahead--
a musky creature lumbering out of fog
smelling of sinewy earth and sharp pine.

You let me lead,
your woman's body understanding
the itch of a younger version of yourself.

You steady the boat,
steer true with subtle underwater adjustments,

watch my back and remember
your own narrow hips before child,
your own eagerness to get there.

Now you sit legs and back square but unhurried,
your steadfast body
housing a million comings and goings--

pleased with this day
with this girl

this moment
dipping paddle.

Elizabeth Potter is a poet and teacher in Maine. Her poetry has been published in journals and newspapers throughout New England. Her poem "Primitive Runes" won honorable mention in the 2006 Friends of Acadia national poetry contest. She has taught creative writing workshops for the last twelve years to all ages, from elementary school students to seniors. Ten of her poems, written in response to paintings by accomplished artist, Jerri Finch, were on exhibit for the month of October at the Belfast Free Library, as part of the 2006 Belfast Poetry Festival.
Jerri Finch is a painter in Belfast, ME. She has this to say of her work here, "Six years ago I bid adieu to my signature works. I knew it was time for a change. I had been dreaming of brush strokes, and wanted to get away from the technical aspect of airbrushing. I closed the doors of my studio to the outside world and focused solely on painting in oils. I continue to present Maine scenes and landscapes that retain my ability to transport the viewer while adhering to a more minimalist style. This new work is about the intense emotions embodied in images of Maine's landscape as well as the exploration of the deep internal landscapes in each of us."

The Healing Touch

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 05:00:00 +0100

To cure sometimes, to relieve often, to comfort always. -attributed to Hippocrates
I saw Mr. C's last name on the board. Was he still alive? No, the first initial didn't belong to him...He was long gone...
The first time I met Mr. C, he was slumped in a chair, unable to move his right leg. Gray speckled his brown hair, the same shade of brown as his eyes, now tearing from pain. His wife grasped a folder full of notes from their physicians, carrying a diagnosis they could not pronounce for a cancer rarely diagnosed in adults.
I had never heard of the term, but it sounded dreadful. I was a third year medical student, eager to prove myself on the wards. Not wanting to admit my lack of knowledge to the patient, I scribbled down the diagnosis to look up on a nearby computer.
When I did a literature search, I found only a few cases that occurred in adults. There was no treatment. The cancer started in bone and muscle and would grow and spread, to lymph nodes, to the liver, to the brain. Prognosis: weeks, months if lucky. What hope was there for Mr. C?
Yet the eyes of Mrs. C gazed into mine with both worry and hope. Putting on a professional demeanor, I asked, "Can you tell me more about why you're here today?"
She explained, "We were in the Caribbean, on our second honeymoon a month ago--we've been married thirty years. My husband had been complaining about some pain in his thigh, so I rubbed some ointment--I have the bottle here if you want to see it--onto his leg. That's when I felt a lump. It just didn't feel right. I had to argue with him for days until he would see a doctor. The hotel doctor said it was a 'pulled muscle' and that it would get better in a few days."
But the "pulled muscle" did not go away. It grew rapidly, expanding to the size of an orange by the time they returned home. They went to their family doctor, who referred them to an oncologist, who in turn referred them to a famous cancer institute. The institute recommended that they return home to discuss options with a local oncologist.
Even though I woke Mr. C at 6 am each morning during rounds, he always greeted me with a smile. I examined his leg, measuring the size of the tumor to see if it was responding to radiation and steroids, touching different areas of his leg to test his sensation, checking for muscle tone and strength. When I was done, he said, "Thank you. You have the healing touch."
I couldn't look him in the eye. Did he grasp that there was no chance of a cure? Surely his oncologist had advised him on his prognosis during their meetings. Did he understand that the treatments had severe side effects, such as nausea and vomiting, weakness, and confusion?
Mr. C wore a wooden cross around his neck. I asked, "Did someone make that for you?"
He replied, "My nephew."
I noticed the Bible beside his bed: "Are you spiritual?"
"Well, I try to be."
"Do you feel you have enough social support? Do you have people you can talk to about what you're going through?"
"Oh, yes, my priest comes everyday. My family comes everyday, but I try not to worry them too much. My daughter is pregnant with her first child--my first grandchild--and I want her to take care of herself."
Attempting to change the conversation to a happier subject, I said, "When is the baby due?"
"Six months from now. Do you think...do you think I'll be able to see the birth of my grandson?" He leaned forward, anxious to hear my response.
How could I answer? To be completely honest, I would have told him, "No." Yet he had faith that with aggressive multi-drug combination chemotherapy and radiation, he would survive in time for his grandson's birth. Not wanting to tear that hope away from him, I responded, "Well, I'm not the expert. I think your oncologist could give you a better answer. But I do know that these things are hard to predict."
Composed, I walked out of the hospital room. I believed that physicians should not cry in front of their patients. It was only when I locked myself in the bathroom that I began to sob, feeling powerless to help Mr. C in any way.
Every afternoon, I met with his wife and daughter. They continued to call me "doctor" even though I explained I was just a medical student. In private, they confided that their husband and father rarely complained, that it was likely he was in more pain than he showed. I would explain what pain medications we were giving him, and that we would increase the dose to manage his pain as necessary. I would explain how the steroids helped to improve his appetite and energy. I would explain how the radiation would hopefully kill the tumor cells, and help to shrink it. I would explain how the oncologist was planning to use different chemotherapy drugs to kill the metastasized. They clung to my words, as if words had healing power.
Weeks later, on my last day on the service, Mr. C was still in the hospital, waiting for a port placement for chemotherapy. At the end of my morning physical examination, I told him, "Today is my last day. I wanted to say goodbye and wish you the best."
He replied, "Thank you so much for all your help. I don't suppose I'll ever see you again. I wanted to let you know that your kindness meant a lot." A single tear flowed down his cheek. I could not hold my tears back. He reached for my hand, pressing it firmly.
Janet Shu is a second year medical resident at the Harvard Longwood Psychiatry Training Program. She graduated with honors from Brown University, where she did a Senior Capstone Project in Creative Writing with C. D. Wright. Other honors include winning 2nd place in the national DeBakey poetry contest, membership in the Boston Poetry Union, and acceptance in various publications. She is interested in all forms of writing including narrative medicine, but poetry is her first love. To order a chapbook of her poetry, please email Janet at cenesthia@yahoo.com.

Summer Place

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 05:00:00 +0100

A burnt house stood deep in the woods near my childhood Connecticut home. During the summers of the early '60s, my friends and I visited often.
We peddled blue bikes up the crooked sidewalk and turned onto a bumpy path. Our voices vibrated, our hands tingled, wind feathered our hair. As the sounds of the street faded away, we entered the place that bonded us to nature and each other, and became our summer playground.
Towering trees formed a canopy; sunlight filtered through like a kaleidoscope. Landscapes of laurel and twisted vines created our jungle enclave where our mid-grade imaginations wandered out of our parents' sight for hours.
Whatever distractions detained us, our destination was always the same...charred remains of the burnt house. Scorched stairs led to rooms without walls and an upper story opened to the sky. I waited on the first floor for my more daring friends, spooking myself with ghostly images of flames devouring clapboard. Outside we searched the tall grass for trinkets--a cracked teacup, a headless doll, a tarnished perfume cap. Each piece of humanity clues to a family we never knew.
Down a cryptic trail, a car we thought big as a dinosaur was stuck in a ditch. It oozed oil rainbows into a stagnant stream. We didn't give much thought to how that car got there, or if the passengers were hurt in the crash. We figured that they were hoodlums who roamed the woods at night with the other wildlife that lived there. And though we tried, we rarely spied animals more exotic than a chipmunk; the closest we came to seeing even a deer was at the city zoo.
When we tired of exploring, we divided into teams for a game of cops and robbers, speeding past thickets that grabbed us where we least expected. Logs reborn with fungus and dewy cabbage leaves concealed our hiding spaces. Soon enough we would grow bored and surrender in favor of something more fun.
We'd race to the rope swing that traversed the pond and one day found a cement-mixing trough. The rusty vessel became our boat as we piled in and set out for the south shore. We didn't float far before we tipped the bow and dropped hip-deep in black water. We screamed like maniacs as slimy fern tangled our ankles and mud sucked sneakers off of our feet.
But we knew better than to head home just yet.
With wet clothes cellophaned to our bodies, we cycled to the sunny ledge where rocks slabs hot as a sauna evaporated traces of our mishap.
We acted out fantasies on this Flintstone glacier, mining hunks of mica, peeling shiny layers as if each flake were Jurassic currency. We found answers to questions as we flipped rocks to watch a salamander slither, or examined veins of a waxy Maple leaf. We created our own adventures respecting the territory and the life within, sometimes a little too much, the day we all dressed in black, bearing lilacs, to hold a funeral for a dead rat.
Over forty years have passed since my childhood days. I can still see those magical times when we played in the woods. I remember how moss felt like velvet, the smell of wet bark in the air. I remember the smiles of my friends. My life was touched by this.
It was a place once preserved by cool dusk. Now it is preserved in my mind.

Patti Cavaliere grew up in Bridgeport, Connecticut when the suburbs were still bordered by wooded property. She now lives in East Haven, where her home faces acres of winding paths that remind her of the childhood and friendships that outlasted the woods of Jewett Avenue. She was a veterinary nurse for many years and now works in research at Yale University. Her love of animals and people is reflected in her writing. She has published short stories and is working on a first novel entitled Looking for Leo.

Maine Reflections

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 05:00:00 +0100

In Maine,

virgin soil is still tilled as I walk; oxen strain
to pull a large fieldstone from its place.
The hard crack is heard of stone on stone--
each one upon the last as walls are built up.
Women in long dresses bend, pluck blackberries
from the sun. Inside, precious crimson syrup
seeps through sieves.

Now drumbeats hush as arrowheads whoosh
through air. Long strips of birch bark
are peeled from trees, fastened into homes.
Along the Sandy River, the Amaseconti--
First Ones Here.

Even this ledge-rock
once trembled against ice. In its striations,
the teeth of a glacier live. My fingers
caress what became smooth from the rough.

My father's voice echoes in the fallen tree's rings.
A ring is a year--
in each ring:
listen! the story of a year.

When Even the Inanimate Seem to Rise and Fall With Breath

It's that time of year in Maine--
same time six years ago
when together, we fell in love with this bit of rocky land
after one traipse around its woodsy path,
one round trip down the gravel road--
that godly time in May in Maine when even
the inanimate seem to rise and fall with breath--
when along the road fiddleheads still knot tightly into fists,
the grading truck now come and gone--when you can hit fifty
in the Jeep, when everything
but this one moment and your future
billow out behind you in a cloud of dust.

Cynthia Brackett-Vincent holds a B.F.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Maine at Farmington. Her poetry has had state (Maine Poets Society), regional (New England Writers), and national (National Federation of State Poetry Societies) recognition. She's judged poetry for Writer's Digest, among others. Over 100 of her poems as well as her nonfiction have appeared in the United States and abroad. From rural Maine, she publishes the Aurorean poetry journal, edits anthologies, creates greeting cards featuring her photographs of New England, and she unabashedly delights in grandmotherhood.

Poetry of K. A. Markee

rss@ypi.com (Yankee Publishing Inc.) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 05:00:00 +0100

The Blind

On Sundays too he would rise before dawn
and brew a pot of coffee over the fire,
then call the dogs with a backwards yawn
before packing up decoys, weights and wire
in a wicker backpack and two homemade hods.
I'd wait until I could not see my breath--
The sunrise over the lake he said was God's
own reassurance in divine faith.
So he and I would watch it dissipate,
lying in wait for a chance to imitate
the mellow rasp or nasal hailing call
in ruffled light behind the deadfall
and under the waning eye of Orion
the dog's Hup our command bird on, bird on.

Late November

Out of the barn a woman came
and moments later came a man,
the length of a ladder between them--
A rung for every year
they've cleaned the gutter's together.

K. A. Markee is a Maine native living on the coast where he is raising five children. He is a graduate of the Stonecoast MFA writers Program and current president of the Stonecoast Alumni Association. He has numerous poems published in journals including From East to West, Cider Press Review, Oleander Review, SNReview and many others.