Michelle Davis
EVWP Summer 2009
From the Kitchen of Michelle Davis
Please note: No actual kitchens were used in this recipe.
You will need: a pickup truck, a CD of Second Helping, a scorching hot day and a Trader Joe’s mushroom and cheese quesadilla.
☼ Shower. Wash and condition hair. Towel dry. Get dressed. Grab a CD of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s album, Second Helping, and jump behind the wheel of your pickup truck.
☼ Roll those windows down. Open the sliding rear window, if your hair is particularly thick.
☼ Drive to the nearest Trader Joe’s. Procure a store brand mushroom and cheese quesadilla from the refrigerated shelves.
☼ Place quesadilla, still in plastic wrapper, within reach on dashboard.
☼ Turn on music. Ride around town singing along and running errands while your hair dries in the breeze. (Note track with similar title.) Take caution when making sharp turns. Your quesadilla may launch itself into another vehicle. (Bad news = no lunch/ Good news= new friend)
☼ Flip the wrapped quesadilla when you sense that it’s time.
☼ The quesadilla is ready to eat when the air in the wrapper appears foggy, and you have to juggle it from paw to paw due to the extreme heat.
☼ Tear into the wrapper and chow down.
☼ Serving this meal to a friend doesn’t exactly spell out southern hospitality. On the other hand, there’s lots of room on the dash for two.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Survival
Tripp Robinson
EVWP Summer 2009
It sounded like a possibly destructive, but pretty mild, water-based college free-for-all. But it made the papers and turned out to be at the jail. Regular apple pie, red-blooded male sort of stuff: The guys having a water fight get shut down by tear gas. Hey, he phoned me, we’re having the greatest water fight ever. And guess who started it? Me! He was delirious. As well he should have been, a male at 19, on a miserably sweaty day. The heat that summer day would prod even Quakers into fighting. And water, the stuff of baptism, was a peaceful solution. While DJ, my foster son, still on the phone, keeps filing his dispatches from the benign front, fluid battles rage behind him. Water lurches, launches, seeps, slickens, clings, drips, attacks, breaks rules, cools. Floors are black ice, sinks stopped up, toilets overflow, soggy toilet paper rolls soak cots. Standard college fare. Better water than blood I think. Presently a wet comrade beckons, sparking in DJ an impulse to leave the phone and wade back into the fray. I’ll call you later. He hangs up.
Nothing about this wet caper at city jail provokes in me the angst his hot water fight in the winter did. Knowing anger pretty well first hand, I don’t have to work too hard to imagine the rage it must take to motivate an assault. But I have to work to get my mind around such a hurtful expression of that rage as hurling a hotpot of near boiling water, heaving superheated powerlessness into another guy’s hapless, by-standing face. Attempting to imagine the pain, I think first of how the hurt might start. I’ve been punched in the nose. The initial, unexpected shock’s not bad, just impact, virtually painless. But how then to imagine the impact of the steaming water. Its savage bite must bring excoriation, excruciating agony, as the wet heat settles in. Shit, man, it didn’t hurt him that much. Besides he deserved it, DJ asserts. He was being a dick, Tripp. You a pussy. Man you just don’t get it. I’m scrambling. Maybe it’s that hot water’s better than a bullet? Vainly trying to find a shred of compassion in this discomfiting bit of DJ’s rationalization, I know he wants nurture, and the skills for deciding not to attack are not yet his, even at 19. And maybe never will be. He is the streets’ disciple, and he yet too much savors the perceived manliness of violence, the very force with which he has sustained his life.
Two days after the floods came, the sheriff himself came. He talked personally with guys on the tier. No one hurt, no damage done, incendiary weather. Boys will be boys. Sorry about the tear gas, guys. So he lifted the lockdown. The phones returned and DJ called to report his surprised relief from a fear that he was going to be on lockdown for months. Fascinated he hung on every word I read from the little story in the Metro section. Ineffable melancholy absorbs me: The pride of leading his men into the cool waters is as close to Joe College as DJ’s ever going to get.
****
DJ’s calls from city jail are prepaid collect. Three bucks a pop. For those who can find someone to prepay the minimum 50 bucks, they are a lifeline. Every word is recorded, many times listened to. A stern, matronly synthesized voice warns of the impending end of a call in 60 seconds; and at 15 minutes, the call clicks dead. So inmates call them “clicks”—that is, a call, a conversation, is a click. Can I call back for just one more click, Please? The phones are supposed to be turned off at 11 p.m. Some nights they are. But not predictably. So if they are still on at 11:09, giving into the power of intermittent reinforcement and DJ’s loneliness, we occasionally may decide to try for one more click. Chances are the line will go dead randomly mid sentence somewhere in the click. That sudden silence feels really bad. But we take the chance because some nights the phones run until almost 11:30. Those nights if he’s talking from a certain phone DJ can see the deputy getting ready to throw the switch. One time only, ironically our last conversation from the jail, providentially, miraculously, the night he was to be transferred from jail to prison at 3:00 a.m., the phones stayed on into the night until his transfer. He was anxious, jumpy—had bubble guts as he said—about going to a state prison, moved with no preparation, to a strange place in the middle of the night, and having no idea who might befriend him there. He was being moved to a DOC diversion center, designed for offenders committing low-impact crimes—on the website it’s ramped up to seem school-like. If I had not called months before to ask when he might be moved, DJ would have been awakened at about 3:00 a.m. and told to get anything he had and be ready to leave. No transition, no good-byes, no nurture, nothing even grasping at the basement of Maslow. So by repeated redialings he stayed grounded in our ramblings until very early morning, and we, wondering if we’d exhaust the money in his phone account, amazed ourselves by keeping the line open and that thread of security intact straight through. Or almost. Pretty late I finally gave in to sleep and the need to be alert in class the next day, and he, as he said, went hard—went the last part of his pilgrimage into the unknown by himself.
Some nights DJ has to stand in line a couple hours so we can talk one click. When he can let go of his bedtime snack, he barters for an extra click with one of his four-dollar Cup-a-Soups from the canteen. Many times, because he has to call when he can get the phone, he’ll call when I can’t talk; rebuffed after waiting so long in line, he’ll sound angry, but I know he’s feeling very, very sad. He hangs up curtly as if I personally screw up his life. Truth is there are occasional times when I don’t feel so much like talking—maybe just worn out or in the middle of dinner. But I steel myself knowing his contact with support from the outside is for him imbued literally with life itself. And I want DJ, who has been denied self-determination by every authority in his life, to practice making decisions that impact him and that have outcomes he desires, so that he can nurture a nascent realization that it is he who ultimately has control over his life. So almost always I push myself to talk.
****
Too’s killer, though handcuffed, tried to strangle DJ in the jail. He has this opportunity because both he and DJ chance to be in the isolation area together, march to meals in a line, cuffed. Both there for violence, are seen as threats—DJ to himself for hanging himself. Foiled and lifted up by a friend, his treatment is to be isolated, naked, in a tiny cell. There he ruminates, remembers dangling suspended by his bedsheet from the bars near his bunk, ponders having been on the brink and almost free of pain; he is in a fury at still breathing. His antagonist and he are in the special breakfast line when dude who killed Too recognizes DJ as a witness.
****
A year and a half after Too died, one of our clicks from city jail wanders into conversation about women. DJ repeats his request that I send him pictures of some “bitches.” I’ve been slow. His request is not only for pictures of random women—random as in potluck glamour shots from the internet—but also of his girlfriend. The jail forbids nudes. So I call Nessie and do a quick photo shoot of her. For her part Ness is only too pleased to put on a fly, but somewhat restrained dress and mischievously stick out her nice, tight ass for her horney boo. To meet jail guidelines I have to mail real drugstore prints. While I’m cranking them out I include a couple shots of his moms and little sis I think he might find comforting. Since I’m revved up printing pictures, without much thought I toss in a random photo of Too. DJ likes the Nessie and family pix a lot.
Why you send me that picture of Too? You dumb and slow, Tripp. You so stupid.
Sensing my insensitivity, I apologize, but he doesn’t listen, abruptly changes the subject. It’s a year before we talk again about Too. By then we are face to face. Maybe two sentences.
****
In light of the absence of AC in hot weather—barring all-out water wars—if the heat’s particularly brutal, the guys on the tier may be given a bucket of ice to fight over. No matter the weather, if an inmate is pissed or just wanting entertainment, he may randomly surprise another with his fists to discharge his frustration. So DJ is always on red alert, not out of fear, but cautious to forestall an ambush. DJ, who will talk shit to a gun jammed in his face, relishes demonstrating his prowess with his fists. More than once he has, by slugging the guy using it, commandeered the phone when he was tired of waiting. And more than once he’s sneaked a random guy, dropping him with a brute punch to his nose. This lashing out erupts when the turmoil of helplessness battling hopelessness puts a tension in his chest that he cannot still. Under more considered conditions, he will call and ask me for music. He says it calms him better than punching out a guy. So my telephone receiver funnels Lil Boosie’s familiar voice for an entire click, or even two or three, at full volume from my computer straight into DJ’s soul,
“You don’t know my struggle,
So you can’t feel my hustle,
You don’t know what I done been through…”
When he comes back on the line, DJ’s voice is lower, relaxed; his urgency, stridency has turned conversational; he smiles a little; and his thanks are profound. That was spiritual Tripp. It feels like someone cared enough to write down my life. Makes me feel like I exit.
In 45 minutes Lil Boosie—Torance Hatch of Baton Rouge—speaking to DJ in his vernacular has stilled DJ’s heart. At this moment DJ is a different person.
EVWP Summer 2009
It sounded like a possibly destructive, but pretty mild, water-based college free-for-all. But it made the papers and turned out to be at the jail. Regular apple pie, red-blooded male sort of stuff: The guys having a water fight get shut down by tear gas. Hey, he phoned me, we’re having the greatest water fight ever. And guess who started it? Me! He was delirious. As well he should have been, a male at 19, on a miserably sweaty day. The heat that summer day would prod even Quakers into fighting. And water, the stuff of baptism, was a peaceful solution. While DJ, my foster son, still on the phone, keeps filing his dispatches from the benign front, fluid battles rage behind him. Water lurches, launches, seeps, slickens, clings, drips, attacks, breaks rules, cools. Floors are black ice, sinks stopped up, toilets overflow, soggy toilet paper rolls soak cots. Standard college fare. Better water than blood I think. Presently a wet comrade beckons, sparking in DJ an impulse to leave the phone and wade back into the fray. I’ll call you later. He hangs up.
Nothing about this wet caper at city jail provokes in me the angst his hot water fight in the winter did. Knowing anger pretty well first hand, I don’t have to work too hard to imagine the rage it must take to motivate an assault. But I have to work to get my mind around such a hurtful expression of that rage as hurling a hotpot of near boiling water, heaving superheated powerlessness into another guy’s hapless, by-standing face. Attempting to imagine the pain, I think first of how the hurt might start. I’ve been punched in the nose. The initial, unexpected shock’s not bad, just impact, virtually painless. But how then to imagine the impact of the steaming water. Its savage bite must bring excoriation, excruciating agony, as the wet heat settles in. Shit, man, it didn’t hurt him that much. Besides he deserved it, DJ asserts. He was being a dick, Tripp. You a pussy. Man you just don’t get it. I’m scrambling. Maybe it’s that hot water’s better than a bullet? Vainly trying to find a shred of compassion in this discomfiting bit of DJ’s rationalization, I know he wants nurture, and the skills for deciding not to attack are not yet his, even at 19. And maybe never will be. He is the streets’ disciple, and he yet too much savors the perceived manliness of violence, the very force with which he has sustained his life.
Two days after the floods came, the sheriff himself came. He talked personally with guys on the tier. No one hurt, no damage done, incendiary weather. Boys will be boys. Sorry about the tear gas, guys. So he lifted the lockdown. The phones returned and DJ called to report his surprised relief from a fear that he was going to be on lockdown for months. Fascinated he hung on every word I read from the little story in the Metro section. Ineffable melancholy absorbs me: The pride of leading his men into the cool waters is as close to Joe College as DJ’s ever going to get.
****
DJ’s calls from city jail are prepaid collect. Three bucks a pop. For those who can find someone to prepay the minimum 50 bucks, they are a lifeline. Every word is recorded, many times listened to. A stern, matronly synthesized voice warns of the impending end of a call in 60 seconds; and at 15 minutes, the call clicks dead. So inmates call them “clicks”—that is, a call, a conversation, is a click. Can I call back for just one more click, Please? The phones are supposed to be turned off at 11 p.m. Some nights they are. But not predictably. So if they are still on at 11:09, giving into the power of intermittent reinforcement and DJ’s loneliness, we occasionally may decide to try for one more click. Chances are the line will go dead randomly mid sentence somewhere in the click. That sudden silence feels really bad. But we take the chance because some nights the phones run until almost 11:30. Those nights if he’s talking from a certain phone DJ can see the deputy getting ready to throw the switch. One time only, ironically our last conversation from the jail, providentially, miraculously, the night he was to be transferred from jail to prison at 3:00 a.m., the phones stayed on into the night until his transfer. He was anxious, jumpy—had bubble guts as he said—about going to a state prison, moved with no preparation, to a strange place in the middle of the night, and having no idea who might befriend him there. He was being moved to a DOC diversion center, designed for offenders committing low-impact crimes—on the website it’s ramped up to seem school-like. If I had not called months before to ask when he might be moved, DJ would have been awakened at about 3:00 a.m. and told to get anything he had and be ready to leave. No transition, no good-byes, no nurture, nothing even grasping at the basement of Maslow. So by repeated redialings he stayed grounded in our ramblings until very early morning, and we, wondering if we’d exhaust the money in his phone account, amazed ourselves by keeping the line open and that thread of security intact straight through. Or almost. Pretty late I finally gave in to sleep and the need to be alert in class the next day, and he, as he said, went hard—went the last part of his pilgrimage into the unknown by himself.
Some nights DJ has to stand in line a couple hours so we can talk one click. When he can let go of his bedtime snack, he barters for an extra click with one of his four-dollar Cup-a-Soups from the canteen. Many times, because he has to call when he can get the phone, he’ll call when I can’t talk; rebuffed after waiting so long in line, he’ll sound angry, but I know he’s feeling very, very sad. He hangs up curtly as if I personally screw up his life. Truth is there are occasional times when I don’t feel so much like talking—maybe just worn out or in the middle of dinner. But I steel myself knowing his contact with support from the outside is for him imbued literally with life itself. And I want DJ, who has been denied self-determination by every authority in his life, to practice making decisions that impact him and that have outcomes he desires, so that he can nurture a nascent realization that it is he who ultimately has control over his life. So almost always I push myself to talk.
****
Too’s killer, though handcuffed, tried to strangle DJ in the jail. He has this opportunity because both he and DJ chance to be in the isolation area together, march to meals in a line, cuffed. Both there for violence, are seen as threats—DJ to himself for hanging himself. Foiled and lifted up by a friend, his treatment is to be isolated, naked, in a tiny cell. There he ruminates, remembers dangling suspended by his bedsheet from the bars near his bunk, ponders having been on the brink and almost free of pain; he is in a fury at still breathing. His antagonist and he are in the special breakfast line when dude who killed Too recognizes DJ as a witness.
****
A year and a half after Too died, one of our clicks from city jail wanders into conversation about women. DJ repeats his request that I send him pictures of some “bitches.” I’ve been slow. His request is not only for pictures of random women—random as in potluck glamour shots from the internet—but also of his girlfriend. The jail forbids nudes. So I call Nessie and do a quick photo shoot of her. For her part Ness is only too pleased to put on a fly, but somewhat restrained dress and mischievously stick out her nice, tight ass for her horney boo. To meet jail guidelines I have to mail real drugstore prints. While I’m cranking them out I include a couple shots of his moms and little sis I think he might find comforting. Since I’m revved up printing pictures, without much thought I toss in a random photo of Too. DJ likes the Nessie and family pix a lot.
Why you send me that picture of Too? You dumb and slow, Tripp. You so stupid.
Sensing my insensitivity, I apologize, but he doesn’t listen, abruptly changes the subject. It’s a year before we talk again about Too. By then we are face to face. Maybe two sentences.
****
In light of the absence of AC in hot weather—barring all-out water wars—if the heat’s particularly brutal, the guys on the tier may be given a bucket of ice to fight over. No matter the weather, if an inmate is pissed or just wanting entertainment, he may randomly surprise another with his fists to discharge his frustration. So DJ is always on red alert, not out of fear, but cautious to forestall an ambush. DJ, who will talk shit to a gun jammed in his face, relishes demonstrating his prowess with his fists. More than once he has, by slugging the guy using it, commandeered the phone when he was tired of waiting. And more than once he’s sneaked a random guy, dropping him with a brute punch to his nose. This lashing out erupts when the turmoil of helplessness battling hopelessness puts a tension in his chest that he cannot still. Under more considered conditions, he will call and ask me for music. He says it calms him better than punching out a guy. So my telephone receiver funnels Lil Boosie’s familiar voice for an entire click, or even two or three, at full volume from my computer straight into DJ’s soul,
“You don’t know my struggle,
So you can’t feel my hustle,
You don’t know what I done been through…”
When he comes back on the line, DJ’s voice is lower, relaxed; his urgency, stridency has turned conversational; he smiles a little; and his thanks are profound. That was spiritual Tripp. It feels like someone cared enough to write down my life. Makes me feel like I exit.
In 45 minutes Lil Boosie—Torance Hatch of Baton Rouge—speaking to DJ in his vernacular has stilled DJ’s heart. At this moment DJ is a different person.
Part 2: And Yet, I Can't Even Remember the Date
Mary Ellen Kiser
EVWP Summer 2009
The day had come. The day that we would put my mom into the ground forever. Somehow, I knew this day would come sooner rather than later despite all of our prayers. It was simply a knowing deep inside me. I always knew.
The pain had started while my mom was visiting me, and we were trying to finish planning for my wedding which was four months away. We had traveled together the four hours to see my grandmother. I sat at her kitchen table studying the corn and tomato salt and pepper shakers, uncomfortable with the conversation around me. Mom described the pain that she was having as worse than labor. For a woman who gave birth to my sister by herself in the backseat of the car while my dad drove to the hospital, I knew it had to be serious. Still she refused to go to the hospital or see a doctor.
About a week later, the morning after my bridal shower which also happened to be Father’s Day, we had all decided to go out for a big breakfast at Shoney’s. Both my parents were there, my sister, my uncle, and my mom’s identical twin. I remember going to the restroom after placing my order. When I came back to the table my mom, Dad and aunt were gone. They had rushed my mom down the street to the hospital against her will when she had begun having severe pains again.
I met the doctor with the beard and laugh-lined eyes. He said that mom was probably feeling stress from my wedding and that it was probably just a spastic colon. In true Bible- belt fashion he told me he would pray for us. For some reason I was able to see past the words and I just knew. Something was horribly wrong. Ironically, I had been born in this same hospital. It was as if life and death were connecting in some way that I could almost feel. A few days later after some disturbing test results, we were told that mom should return home as soon as possible. She needed more tests.
Still in college, going through the motions that were school proved to be difficult, but routine was soothing. I waited for more news. The call finally came- my parents wanted me to come home and for how long they weren’t sure. They wanted to tell me more when I arrived. But I already knew. They picked me up at the airport and mom had a smile on her face that I had never seen before. As I sat in the backseat I tried to find out what was going on, but they wanted to wait until we got home. I was forced to make empty chit-chat while we all knew already what was happening all around us. The truth was silently screaming. We all could somehow hear it, while pretending that we didn’t. Sometime later I was told by my mom that the reason she didn’t want to tell me the news over the phone was because I had yet to get my bridal portrait taken. She didn’t want the look of death captured in my eyes for all time.
Even when you think you are prepared, you never truly are. I heard the words cancer and six to nine months together like friends. I was standing under the glaring kitchen lights surrounded by pickled oak cabinets that had always reminded me of an old person’s home in Florida- dated. I looked out the window at the setting sun and a view of hills and valleys. It was summer, hardly a time to think of death. Death always brought to my mind winter and coldness. Clichés really do pour through your mind like “It’s not fair” and “She’s too young” and “This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be”. And by the way, “Where’s God?” And then stupid thoughts flood in like “Who will I call when I have a cooking question?” And then once you get over the self-absorbed questions, finally, “Will she suffer?” “Is she scared?” and “What will happen to Dad?”
Two years later I am standing amongst people talking too fast and sounding too loud and asking too many stupid questions about what I am doing now career wise and I just want to be left alone. I view what was once my mom. It is odd what you overhear at a funeral. People chat about how good the dead person looks. Her hand feels waxy and cold- vacant. I look at her long painted nails and remember how she would praise chemo for making them grow long. One of my cousins is obviously avoiding going near her. I want to choke him. He still has his mom and she is much older. It should have been her. I hold my sister’s hand so tightly she is probably uncomfortable, but I don’t care. I won’t let go. I know I will fall over if I don’t keep holding on. She is holding me up. A sob works its way out despite my best efforts to keep it locked down deep. My legs begin to feel itchy under the hose combined with the Alabama summer heat. I want to tear them off. I hear laughter and it feels wrong. The casket itself is strangely luxurious looking with its rich mahogany finish and thick ivory satin comforter-like blanket inside. Like death is inviting me. It seems oddly comfortable. The sweet scent of roses is in the air, but instead of welcoming me like a sweet grandmother, I want to vomit and cry uncontrollably. People keep coming up to me and talking to me, but I can’t really seem to understand what they are saying. Are they words? Why is everyone pretending to be okay with a dead body in the room and not just any body, but my mom? A friend I hadn’t seen in a long time comes in and peers over the coffin, politely nods and then comes over to me saying something about “her lovely dress”. Did she realize it was the same dress that my mom wore to my wedding less than two years ago? Did she know that the memory of that dress for me would always involve this day? Did she even care? A strange image of me climbing into the coffin just to be close to her one last time enters my mind. When the day is over I am relieved. And yet, I can’t even remember the date.
EVWP Summer 2009
The day had come. The day that we would put my mom into the ground forever. Somehow, I knew this day would come sooner rather than later despite all of our prayers. It was simply a knowing deep inside me. I always knew.
The pain had started while my mom was visiting me, and we were trying to finish planning for my wedding which was four months away. We had traveled together the four hours to see my grandmother. I sat at her kitchen table studying the corn and tomato salt and pepper shakers, uncomfortable with the conversation around me. Mom described the pain that she was having as worse than labor. For a woman who gave birth to my sister by herself in the backseat of the car while my dad drove to the hospital, I knew it had to be serious. Still she refused to go to the hospital or see a doctor.
About a week later, the morning after my bridal shower which also happened to be Father’s Day, we had all decided to go out for a big breakfast at Shoney’s. Both my parents were there, my sister, my uncle, and my mom’s identical twin. I remember going to the restroom after placing my order. When I came back to the table my mom, Dad and aunt were gone. They had rushed my mom down the street to the hospital against her will when she had begun having severe pains again.
I met the doctor with the beard and laugh-lined eyes. He said that mom was probably feeling stress from my wedding and that it was probably just a spastic colon. In true Bible- belt fashion he told me he would pray for us. For some reason I was able to see past the words and I just knew. Something was horribly wrong. Ironically, I had been born in this same hospital. It was as if life and death were connecting in some way that I could almost feel. A few days later after some disturbing test results, we were told that mom should return home as soon as possible. She needed more tests.
Still in college, going through the motions that were school proved to be difficult, but routine was soothing. I waited for more news. The call finally came- my parents wanted me to come home and for how long they weren’t sure. They wanted to tell me more when I arrived. But I already knew. They picked me up at the airport and mom had a smile on her face that I had never seen before. As I sat in the backseat I tried to find out what was going on, but they wanted to wait until we got home. I was forced to make empty chit-chat while we all knew already what was happening all around us. The truth was silently screaming. We all could somehow hear it, while pretending that we didn’t. Sometime later I was told by my mom that the reason she didn’t want to tell me the news over the phone was because I had yet to get my bridal portrait taken. She didn’t want the look of death captured in my eyes for all time.
Even when you think you are prepared, you never truly are. I heard the words cancer and six to nine months together like friends. I was standing under the glaring kitchen lights surrounded by pickled oak cabinets that had always reminded me of an old person’s home in Florida- dated. I looked out the window at the setting sun and a view of hills and valleys. It was summer, hardly a time to think of death. Death always brought to my mind winter and coldness. Clichés really do pour through your mind like “It’s not fair” and “She’s too young” and “This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be”. And by the way, “Where’s God?” And then stupid thoughts flood in like “Who will I call when I have a cooking question?” And then once you get over the self-absorbed questions, finally, “Will she suffer?” “Is she scared?” and “What will happen to Dad?”
Two years later I am standing amongst people talking too fast and sounding too loud and asking too many stupid questions about what I am doing now career wise and I just want to be left alone. I view what was once my mom. It is odd what you overhear at a funeral. People chat about how good the dead person looks. Her hand feels waxy and cold- vacant. I look at her long painted nails and remember how she would praise chemo for making them grow long. One of my cousins is obviously avoiding going near her. I want to choke him. He still has his mom and she is much older. It should have been her. I hold my sister’s hand so tightly she is probably uncomfortable, but I don’t care. I won’t let go. I know I will fall over if I don’t keep holding on. She is holding me up. A sob works its way out despite my best efforts to keep it locked down deep. My legs begin to feel itchy under the hose combined with the Alabama summer heat. I want to tear them off. I hear laughter and it feels wrong. The casket itself is strangely luxurious looking with its rich mahogany finish and thick ivory satin comforter-like blanket inside. Like death is inviting me. It seems oddly comfortable. The sweet scent of roses is in the air, but instead of welcoming me like a sweet grandmother, I want to vomit and cry uncontrollably. People keep coming up to me and talking to me, but I can’t really seem to understand what they are saying. Are they words? Why is everyone pretending to be okay with a dead body in the room and not just any body, but my mom? A friend I hadn’t seen in a long time comes in and peers over the coffin, politely nods and then comes over to me saying something about “her lovely dress”. Did she realize it was the same dress that my mom wore to my wedding less than two years ago? Did she know that the memory of that dress for me would always involve this day? Did she even care? A strange image of me climbing into the coffin just to be close to her one last time enters my mind. When the day is over I am relieved. And yet, I can’t even remember the date.
Part I: Shake What Your Momma Gave You
Mary Ellen Kiser
EVWP Summer 2009
Popcorn always takes me back to going to the movies in the summer with my mom and sister. We would use it like a heat refuge escaping the south Georgia sweltering hot that I know has been described in classic southern novels. Well, they are all true. It makes you feel like you can’t stand up against it. You will lose. It will keep knocking you down over and over again.
We would go to see all kinds of movies: Staying Alive for mom, the ultimate Travolta fan; The Fox and the Hound, I’m sure for the benefit of my youngest sister; and for me some sort of break dance movie that must have been out the summer of 1985. You may be wondering how I convinced my Southern Belle of a mom to go see a break dance movie. My mother whose favorite fragrance was gardenia; my mother from Alabama with an accent so thick you could get lost in it. One word- dancing. She loved all kinds and she loved watching it. She also loved “Shaking What Her Mama Gave Her” as I guess the song goes.
She always encouraged us to dance at home. Which I guess would explain why I was enrolled in ballet and tap even though I was the pudgy one in the leotard and not at all graceful like the dance company head ballerina if that is even her title. She would often say, “Dance for me” and then exclaim, “That’s cute!” in her Alabama accent. Behind closed doors, I enjoyed watching Soul Train and wishing that I had the courage to truly let lose. Secretly, I knew I could dance like that.
EVWP Summer 2009
Popcorn always takes me back to going to the movies in the summer with my mom and sister. We would use it like a heat refuge escaping the south Georgia sweltering hot that I know has been described in classic southern novels. Well, they are all true. It makes you feel like you can’t stand up against it. You will lose. It will keep knocking you down over and over again.
We would go to see all kinds of movies: Staying Alive for mom, the ultimate Travolta fan; The Fox and the Hound, I’m sure for the benefit of my youngest sister; and for me some sort of break dance movie that must have been out the summer of 1985. You may be wondering how I convinced my Southern Belle of a mom to go see a break dance movie. My mother whose favorite fragrance was gardenia; my mother from Alabama with an accent so thick you could get lost in it. One word- dancing. She loved all kinds and she loved watching it. She also loved “Shaking What Her Mama Gave Her” as I guess the song goes.
She always encouraged us to dance at home. Which I guess would explain why I was enrolled in ballet and tap even though I was the pudgy one in the leotard and not at all graceful like the dance company head ballerina if that is even her title. She would often say, “Dance for me” and then exclaim, “That’s cute!” in her Alabama accent. Behind closed doors, I enjoyed watching Soul Train and wishing that I had the courage to truly let lose. Secretly, I knew I could dance like that.
Firewood
Tom Heggie
EVWP Summer 2009
To farmers, firewood, carefully stacked, is like money in the bank.
It’s the week before Christmas. A few flakes fall from a silent, grey sky, as the old mule meanders, wagon in tow, downhill to the mill. Uncle Thomas and I are delivering a load of firewood – cut, split, and stacked last year. Oak and hickory, sold to earn a few dollars and help pay bills during the winter. Aunt Robbie’s egg money and firewood are the only sources of income during the winter. I’m driving the wagon; Uncles Thomas is slumped down in his coat and hat, legs covered in a buffalo robe that he brought back years ago from time spent out west. The conversation is sparse. A few comments on the nature of mules, the weather and its relationship to hunting success, and the hard work involved in the firewood business punctuate the sounds of the mules’ feet sloshing through the soft snow and the creaking of the dry boards in the bed of the wagon staining under the weight of two chords.
The road from the farm to the mill is pretty much a straight shot as country roads go. For the first half-mile or so it is relatively flat, and then it goes downward gently to the river. One mule can handle this load easily. And the trip back is empty.
We cross the bridge at the mill and start up the short, steep hill that leads to the wood lot where we can unload and head for home. If we are lucky, they’ll help us. About half way up that hill, the old mule balks, comes to a dead halt he does. I slap him on the back with the reins. His head half-way turns as if to look at me, then drops – almost to the ground. I slap him again. This time nothing happens.
“Hop out and let me have the reins,” Uncle Thomas slides over. He slaps the leads again, this time with gentle words of encouragement. No response. The next attempt is the same, but the encouragement is louder. “Robert, take his bridle and shake it.” While I shake, Uncle Thomas repeats the process, except this time he utters oaths that he saves for moments like this. The mule might as well have been dead.
Stepping down over the wheel, he calmly selects a thinly split pieces of hickory as if to gain the mules attention by some violent act of man on mule aggression. But instead, he stoops under the mules belly and rakes a space clear of snow. “Hand me some more of this small stuff Robert,” as he shows me the wood he is holding. As I pass him the wood, he carefully lays a fire.
Normally, I would be asking questions, but I remain as silent as the mule. A few curled shavings are added and a match is withdrawn from a pocket, struck, and touched to create fire. At first the mule seems to enjoy the warmth, but then moved as if by some native force, he plods forward uphill, about ten feet up the hill, stopping with the bed of the wagon directly over the now roaring fire. Instantly the floor boards are ablaze with flames lapping upward making contact with the load. I look at Uncle Thomas, never much affected by anything, who has panic plastered throughout his entire countenance. And I look back at the mule who I swear is laughing. We quickly unhitch the wagon and let it roll back down hill towards the river, guiding it the best we can. It clear the bridge, crosses the sandbar where we sometimes swim in the summer, and comes to rest in the river. Firewood floats slowly down the river.
Mill windows open. Laughter is heard. The two of us climb on the back of that old mule and head for home.
EVWP Summer 2009
To farmers, firewood, carefully stacked, is like money in the bank.
It’s the week before Christmas. A few flakes fall from a silent, grey sky, as the old mule meanders, wagon in tow, downhill to the mill. Uncle Thomas and I are delivering a load of firewood – cut, split, and stacked last year. Oak and hickory, sold to earn a few dollars and help pay bills during the winter. Aunt Robbie’s egg money and firewood are the only sources of income during the winter. I’m driving the wagon; Uncles Thomas is slumped down in his coat and hat, legs covered in a buffalo robe that he brought back years ago from time spent out west. The conversation is sparse. A few comments on the nature of mules, the weather and its relationship to hunting success, and the hard work involved in the firewood business punctuate the sounds of the mules’ feet sloshing through the soft snow and the creaking of the dry boards in the bed of the wagon staining under the weight of two chords.
The road from the farm to the mill is pretty much a straight shot as country roads go. For the first half-mile or so it is relatively flat, and then it goes downward gently to the river. One mule can handle this load easily. And the trip back is empty.
We cross the bridge at the mill and start up the short, steep hill that leads to the wood lot where we can unload and head for home. If we are lucky, they’ll help us. About half way up that hill, the old mule balks, comes to a dead halt he does. I slap him on the back with the reins. His head half-way turns as if to look at me, then drops – almost to the ground. I slap him again. This time nothing happens.
“Hop out and let me have the reins,” Uncle Thomas slides over. He slaps the leads again, this time with gentle words of encouragement. No response. The next attempt is the same, but the encouragement is louder. “Robert, take his bridle and shake it.” While I shake, Uncle Thomas repeats the process, except this time he utters oaths that he saves for moments like this. The mule might as well have been dead.
Stepping down over the wheel, he calmly selects a thinly split pieces of hickory as if to gain the mules attention by some violent act of man on mule aggression. But instead, he stoops under the mules belly and rakes a space clear of snow. “Hand me some more of this small stuff Robert,” as he shows me the wood he is holding. As I pass him the wood, he carefully lays a fire.
Normally, I would be asking questions, but I remain as silent as the mule. A few curled shavings are added and a match is withdrawn from a pocket, struck, and touched to create fire. At first the mule seems to enjoy the warmth, but then moved as if by some native force, he plods forward uphill, about ten feet up the hill, stopping with the bed of the wagon directly over the now roaring fire. Instantly the floor boards are ablaze with flames lapping upward making contact with the load. I look at Uncle Thomas, never much affected by anything, who has panic plastered throughout his entire countenance. And I look back at the mule who I swear is laughing. We quickly unhitch the wagon and let it roll back down hill towards the river, guiding it the best we can. It clear the bridge, crosses the sandbar where we sometimes swim in the summer, and comes to rest in the river. Firewood floats slowly down the river.
Mill windows open. Laughter is heard. The two of us climb on the back of that old mule and head for home.
The Table Was Always Set
Emily Curle
EVWP Summer 2009
I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter. –Winston Churchill
Uncle Whit was an interesting character. He owned a llama and an ostrich, both of which lived in his backyard. That is, until the day the City of Williamsburg told him they were against a regulation or an ordinance of some sort.
Never around much, always on the go, we weren’t sure where he was at any given moment. One of the first to own a “mobile phone”, and quite possibly the first person of his extended age to own such a gadget, he would often call my grandmother, his sister, using the device. Giving her perplexed thoughts about such technology, she often didn’t get how he could talk to her and cross the bridge to West Point at the same time.
I remember that a place was always set for Uncle Whit at the Thanksgiving and Christmas tables. The shimmering white china plate with its silver threading around the lip, the crystal glasses, the sterling utensils, displayed proudly on the crisp linen; all stood guard, waiting for his arrival. It was an arrival that was never fulfilled. In all my adolescent years, through all those holiday meals, never once did he show up. It was always just a “maybe”. No matter how many years he didn’t come my grandmother was steadfast with his place setting. He wasn’t a thoughtless man; he always called, usually from that car phone, to give his well wishes.
One day, this ended. I can only remember the season, not the month; not the day. I think it was 1998, but this, too, is hazy. Uncle Whit drove his big navy Lincoln down to the shore of the Pamunkey River. Then there was just the car. Sitting there. Alone. No Uncle Whit in the car; no Uncle Whit anywhere. The story goes that he got out of his car and just walked into the water.
Goodnight, goodnight! Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it is morrow.
–Romeo and Juliet Act 2, scene 2, 176-185
I don’t remember how old I was when I realized that everyone dies. That I, too, will die one day. Once I knew I had trouble not thinking about it. Instead of having nightmares about monsters under my bed or in my closet, I would often lay awake thinking about death. I would wish for sleep, but my thoughts wouldn’t allow it. I would run down the hall to my parents’ room, and my mother would try to comfort me. I was unable to express what was bothering me, and eventually sleep would take over.
Every once and awhile death pops into my head, and I am caught off guard. I unintentionally think about it for a few moments. I have to busy my hands to distract myself. The fear for me is the unknown. Is there really anything after this? The possibility of an after-life is so difficult to comprehend. Not having much faith doesn’t help. Always forced to attend church and Sunday School as a child, I grew up resenting it. Now as an adult I never attend. I’ve tried to go with family here and there, but the habit never formed. So much of what religious beliefs are based on seems too far- fetched to me.
Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
–Eskimo Proverb
I finally had one of those dreams. You know, those dreams that you read about or see on a TV movie. The ones where a loved one speaks to you in a dream, appearing as a bright figure, comforting you and making you feel that all is right with the world. A couple of months ago, I had the dream.
The loved one I miss the most is my father’s mother. A fine southern lady, she knew the entire family history, from a third cousin’s wife’s name to a great-great-great grandfather’s occupation. Every meal was always decked out in full “Leave it to Beaver” style, complete with a homemade dessert. Rarely did dining take place in the kitchen. She cared for me when I was sick, with red Jell-o, Price is Right on the television, and naps on her sofa. She taught me “Spoons” and gave me afternoon snacks of “nabs” and the smallest glasses of Coke I’ve ever seen. She’s the only lady I’ve ever known to put raisins in brownies. She made family scrapbooks before it was the popular thing to do. She believed in fresh flowers on the table every day, and thought artificial ones an abomination unforgivable.
It wasn’t until her death that I so fondly remembered all her quirks and acts of love. Already out of college and a working adult when she passed away, I still remember the call from my father. It was my third month or so of my first “real” job. It was around 10:00 in the morning, and the last call I expected. I remember the swish-swish of my corduroy pants as I rushed into the cold to hurry to my car. I remember not eating for the couple of days afterwards, and then feeling guilty when my mother finally convinced me to eat a meal. I remember the minute details of those days, down to the exact outfit I was wearing the day I got the news and the pork tenderloin dinner I had chosen to finally eat. But the funeral and the people around are still a blur.
I have this gold locket on a long chain that belonged to my grandmother. The locket sort of looks like a medallion, and I can still picture her wearing it, as she did on so many days of her life. I never wear it, but it has a special place on my dresser, like it is only meant for me to see. When I am upset, I hold it and it brings me comfort.
On the night of my dream I don’t remember being upset about anything. It had been an ordinary day. Perhaps subconsciously something was bothering me, or, maybe not. I awoke the next morning feeling happy, secure. My grandmother had come to me in my dream. She looked as she had the last time I’d seen her, but she was the brightest figure in the dream. There were others nearby, as if we were in somebody’s living room, but I don’t know who they were. She took my hands, smiled, and told me that she loved me. She told me everything would be just fine. I smiled back in my dream. That was it. The dream gave me a renewed sense of hope and faith. For the first time in so many years, it made me want to go to church. Also, for the first time ever, I truly believe there is something after this.
EVWP Summer 2009
I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter. –Winston Churchill
Uncle Whit was an interesting character. He owned a llama and an ostrich, both of which lived in his backyard. That is, until the day the City of Williamsburg told him they were against a regulation or an ordinance of some sort.
Never around much, always on the go, we weren’t sure where he was at any given moment. One of the first to own a “mobile phone”, and quite possibly the first person of his extended age to own such a gadget, he would often call my grandmother, his sister, using the device. Giving her perplexed thoughts about such technology, she often didn’t get how he could talk to her and cross the bridge to West Point at the same time.
I remember that a place was always set for Uncle Whit at the Thanksgiving and Christmas tables. The shimmering white china plate with its silver threading around the lip, the crystal glasses, the sterling utensils, displayed proudly on the crisp linen; all stood guard, waiting for his arrival. It was an arrival that was never fulfilled. In all my adolescent years, through all those holiday meals, never once did he show up. It was always just a “maybe”. No matter how many years he didn’t come my grandmother was steadfast with his place setting. He wasn’t a thoughtless man; he always called, usually from that car phone, to give his well wishes.
One day, this ended. I can only remember the season, not the month; not the day. I think it was 1998, but this, too, is hazy. Uncle Whit drove his big navy Lincoln down to the shore of the Pamunkey River. Then there was just the car. Sitting there. Alone. No Uncle Whit in the car; no Uncle Whit anywhere. The story goes that he got out of his car and just walked into the water.
Goodnight, goodnight! Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it is morrow.
–Romeo and Juliet Act 2, scene 2, 176-185
I don’t remember how old I was when I realized that everyone dies. That I, too, will die one day. Once I knew I had trouble not thinking about it. Instead of having nightmares about monsters under my bed or in my closet, I would often lay awake thinking about death. I would wish for sleep, but my thoughts wouldn’t allow it. I would run down the hall to my parents’ room, and my mother would try to comfort me. I was unable to express what was bothering me, and eventually sleep would take over.
Every once and awhile death pops into my head, and I am caught off guard. I unintentionally think about it for a few moments. I have to busy my hands to distract myself. The fear for me is the unknown. Is there really anything after this? The possibility of an after-life is so difficult to comprehend. Not having much faith doesn’t help. Always forced to attend church and Sunday School as a child, I grew up resenting it. Now as an adult I never attend. I’ve tried to go with family here and there, but the habit never formed. So much of what religious beliefs are based on seems too far- fetched to me.
Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
–Eskimo Proverb
I finally had one of those dreams. You know, those dreams that you read about or see on a TV movie. The ones where a loved one speaks to you in a dream, appearing as a bright figure, comforting you and making you feel that all is right with the world. A couple of months ago, I had the dream.
The loved one I miss the most is my father’s mother. A fine southern lady, she knew the entire family history, from a third cousin’s wife’s name to a great-great-great grandfather’s occupation. Every meal was always decked out in full “Leave it to Beaver” style, complete with a homemade dessert. Rarely did dining take place in the kitchen. She cared for me when I was sick, with red Jell-o, Price is Right on the television, and naps on her sofa. She taught me “Spoons” and gave me afternoon snacks of “nabs” and the smallest glasses of Coke I’ve ever seen. She’s the only lady I’ve ever known to put raisins in brownies. She made family scrapbooks before it was the popular thing to do. She believed in fresh flowers on the table every day, and thought artificial ones an abomination unforgivable.
It wasn’t until her death that I so fondly remembered all her quirks and acts of love. Already out of college and a working adult when she passed away, I still remember the call from my father. It was my third month or so of my first “real” job. It was around 10:00 in the morning, and the last call I expected. I remember the swish-swish of my corduroy pants as I rushed into the cold to hurry to my car. I remember not eating for the couple of days afterwards, and then feeling guilty when my mother finally convinced me to eat a meal. I remember the minute details of those days, down to the exact outfit I was wearing the day I got the news and the pork tenderloin dinner I had chosen to finally eat. But the funeral and the people around are still a blur.
I have this gold locket on a long chain that belonged to my grandmother. The locket sort of looks like a medallion, and I can still picture her wearing it, as she did on so many days of her life. I never wear it, but it has a special place on my dresser, like it is only meant for me to see. When I am upset, I hold it and it brings me comfort.
On the night of my dream I don’t remember being upset about anything. It had been an ordinary day. Perhaps subconsciously something was bothering me, or, maybe not. I awoke the next morning feeling happy, secure. My grandmother had come to me in my dream. She looked as she had the last time I’d seen her, but she was the brightest figure in the dream. There were others nearby, as if we were in somebody’s living room, but I don’t know who they were. She took my hands, smiled, and told me that she loved me. She told me everything would be just fine. I smiled back in my dream. That was it. The dream gave me a renewed sense of hope and faith. For the first time in so many years, it made me want to go to church. Also, for the first time ever, I truly believe there is something after this.
A Paradox
Susan Pongratz
Summer 2009
Send words
she begs her Facebook friends
who write succulent, scintillating,
venture, and juice.
And yet
her heart is still.
Send more words
she implores her Twitter firends
who write dogged diligence, persevering bogtrotter,
voracious veracity, and vehement ventilation.
And yet,
her heart is silent still.
Send even more words
she entreats her blog followers,
who write timid temerity, frenetic respite,
languishing ebullience, and jaded neophyte.
And yet,
her heart is silent and still.
Waiting,
she scuttles her disheveled thoughts,
scooting them to a corner,
and begins with unruly restraint.
Summer 2009
Send words
she begs her Facebook friends
who write succulent, scintillating,
venture, and juice.
And yet
her heart is still.
Send more words
she implores her Twitter firends
who write dogged diligence, persevering bogtrotter,
voracious veracity, and vehement ventilation.
And yet,
her heart is silent still.
Send even more words
she entreats her blog followers,
who write timid temerity, frenetic respite,
languishing ebullience, and jaded neophyte.
And yet,
her heart is silent and still.
Waiting,
she scuttles her disheveled thoughts,
scooting them to a corner,
and begins with unruly restraint.
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