THE AFRO DELI Brianna Olson—Carr crunching up riverside, caked ice and salt fight on the bottoms of my boots. my legs wobble under underwear, under-armor. uncoordinated legwarmers slip fall catch. fall catch slip. the dance of winter in minnesota, the dance of sweaty hands inside mittens gripping... Show moreTHE AFRO DELI Brianna Olson—Carr crunching up riverside, caked ice and salt fight on the bottoms of my boots. my legs wobble under underwear, under-armor. uncoordinated legwarmers slip fall catch. fall catch slip. the dance of winter in minnesota, the dance of sweaty hands inside mittens gripping stop signs and hot breath. colors fade away with October. except- the afro deli. the lime green savior ol‘squinting wind chills and minor famine. the picture-windmv frames warm smiles and steaming meats, the roasting lamb rotates beckoning lettuce. tomato. onions. tzatziki sauce. embraced by pita: the gyro. mittens are shed. hats and coats are placed aside to bask in the sunlight orange ofthe afro deli. a bright beacon in the fog ofjanuary. 23 Murphy Square Show less
CALL TO ARMS Brianna Olsan— Carr i have .wn [he [ml mindi (fnp' gmmaliun scribbling on the backs ol‘t‘ardboard boxes and self—proclaimed sustainable paper products yet i haye been crawling through muek to read poetry and fiction and words by peers. it takes visibility what do you want, an elephant... Show moreCALL TO ARMS Brianna Olsan— Carr i have .wn [he [ml mindi (fnp' gmmaliun scribbling on the backs ol‘t‘ardboard boxes and self—proclaimed sustainable paper products yet i haye been crawling through muek to read poetry and fiction and words by peers. it takes visibility what do you want, an elephant with a hand painted banneth and first year education did they not see the elephant.3t to produce for use. a work of art. and yet‘ even with the elephant in the roonL thirty seven years is not legaey enough. well. is this enough: one manifesto. handcrafted by two zealous editors one auburn krakken, ready to swallow the establishment six professors ol‘english, armored and ready thirty silent supporters. whose presence was our roaringr elieer one hundred and eighty~two english students, do the numbers add up? 7 Murphy Square Show less
“My mother got this necklace from an art museum in New York. when she was young " Carol continued. “She loved art. It was based on a medieval design from some monastery I think." I turned the brass necklace over in my hand. The cross was surrounded by a thick border and three smaller crosses. The... Show more“My mother got this necklace from an art museum in New York. when she was young " Carol continued. “She loved art. It was based on a medieval design from some monastery I think." I turned the brass necklace over in my hand. The cross was surrounded by a thick border and three smaller crosses. The simple motif of curved lines and scrolls gave the ap- pearance ofhand etching. The chain was thick. and appeared woyen. like rope, It rested in my open palm, the brass reflecting the morning light. “It‘s beautiful." I said. “But really. I can‘t take it. It‘s a gift from your mother.” “My mother always wanted me to have the tea set. but I didn‘t want to polish it. I said it was too much work to keep up. But she insisted and gave it to me anyway, And after she was dead. I was sitting in the dining room one day. polishing it carefully. and she came and sat right next to me. I looked at her and said. ‘See. I‘m taking care ofit.‘ She smiled at me and then shejust disappeared." “Have you seen her since?" I asked. “Not often." Carol continued. “Not until this morning. She \\ as very specific that you should haye this necklace." \\‘e sipped our coffees. both lost for a moment. thinking about our mothers. “I can picture my mother.“ said Carol. “Catherine was her name. sitting on the porch looking over the smoky valley in North Carolina." Carol talked tnore about her memories of Carolina. her eyes halfclosed a. she pic— tured the mist settling over the hills. the snow melting as it touched the dogwoods and small streams. Carol resembled my mother when she closed her eyes while thinking of her beloved desert landscape, especially on harsh Minnesota winter nights. I can imagine that she took the box down. and carefully held each squash blossom necklace. ran her linger along the smooth stones, tracing the veins. feeling the weight olithe pure silver in her hands. She would close her e ' and imagine the mountains. the red walk lit by the setting sun. the sky dropping to a deeper indigo blue and then black. lilled with a thousand stars. Tears fell down my face as I thumbed the metal. “Thank you. I don‘t know what to say." “I know you lost your mother recently. Maybe this irom [11y 11101 l](’l‘ It) your INOIll- er. “Ifyou, or Catherine, ever change your mind." I said. “Just let me know. I would give it back ifyou want it again.“ But I did not want to give it back. I was struck by the generosity of her mother. and Carol's openness to following her direction. My mother was generous in many things. in countless ways. But I never understood why the necklaces alwa remained in the hidden box, even today. Perhaps they were too precious to be in our care. Since her death. no one has dared to go in her closet and open the box. and feel the blue pieces ofsky. For it would mean she was really gone. I thanked Carol for her gilt, one I will wear often, The heavy brass necklace will al- ways remind me of her, Catherine and my mot her. I will feel the weight ofit in my hand. run my finger along the intricate pattern. and close my eyes to picture all the scenes. all the faces that will come to mind. A place holder. until I touch the turquoise squash blossoms again. 21 Murphy Square Show less
he saw through his window scurried by. preoccupied. distracted. He passed other tenants in the narrow hallway outside his door. but they always seemed to lookjust beyond him. He wanted to live around people that knew him. people that noticed him. He hated his apart- ment but he hated that he... Show morehe saw through his window scurried by. preoccupied. distracted. He passed other tenants in the narrow hallway outside his door. but they always seemed to lookjust beyond him. He wanted to live around people that knew him. people that noticed him. He hated his apart- ment but he hated that he couldn't tell his mother even more. He began pacing. If he could move back in with his parents he could save her from her television. from her beloved Mar- tha Stewart, from her crying over Christmas cocktails. If he could only tell her, But in his mother's mind a normal twenty three year old should live on his own. not with his parents, A normal kid doesn’t want to move home. He wants poker nights: he wants a girlfriend Elliot had a girlfriend once. although it didn‘t last very long. Her natne was Maggie and every time she laughed her blue eyes sparkled like morning sunshine. He had taken her home to meet his parents. but Elliot had known something was wrong as soon as they got in the door. From the kitchen Elliot and the girl could hear his father shouting. “It's NOT normal. Samantha." “It‘s normal. He’sjust quiet. you know that," lee cubes clinked against glass. "He’s quiet because you stuffed him in his room with paintbrushes and folk records. You gave him useless distractions. and now he doesni know how to do anything real!‘~ “Those things helped him to grow. Gunther." "Into what? He‘s still your baby. This is all he knows and that's exactly what you waan The kitchen door slammed. Elliot and the girl stood in the foyer He was too embarrassed to look at her, so he stared at the ceramic tiles under his feet until he heard her slip out the door behind him. The boy and girl in the courtyard vanished. and Elliot found himselfstaring once again at the red maple tree. He lit a cigarette and walked to his easel. He had been working on something. some great idea he had come up with on a sleepl , night. Now he realized it was nothing but a few smeared lines which he had painted with his lingers. He threw the canvas on the ground. loaded up the easel with a fresh one. and began to paint the tree that had captured his gaze. After a deep drag from his cigarette he dipped his brush into the ruby red painted he had mixed to match the fiery leaves. He moved his brush across the canvas a few times. then lifted it from the surface and twirled it in his fingers. He already hated it. He went back to the window and lightly tapped his paintbrush on the sill as he peered out, It was later now. the sun had been absent for several hours, He knew it was late because all the action in the courtyard had ceased save for the scraps of leaves that were tossed around by the late fall wind. He exhaled a long stream ofsmoke from his purscd lips. It lingered before the window, wrapping around his face like a shroud. Elliot tried to please his mother. tried to live a life that matched her description of“nor- mal." Normal kids graduate high school and then go to college. College had been a disaster for Elliot. He had wanted to share stories of high school pranks and championship football games like the rest ofhis classmates. even ifhe had to make them up. but it didn‘t matter. He didn‘t fll, and after three months he dropped out and moved home. His mother had greeted him at the door with a lit cigarette wedged between her lingers. “Elliot.” Smoke trailed out of her nose. “\\'lieti did you start smoking. mom?" “I've always been an on—again-olllagain—smoker. you know that.“ Elliot knew that wasn't true. There was tension between them but it wasn’t negative They were each doingI some- thing secret. for her it was smoking. for Elliot it was leaving school. They were both with- holding information from one another and they each knew it. He wasn't sure how much time passed while he stood at the window. His cigarette burned all the way to the filter as he drifted in and out ofthought. dwelling on the failed leaf paint- 53 Murphy Square Show less
HUT DOGS AND SUNSETS Ella Robinson As her toes wiggled deeper into the earth, soft and (lamp. she wondered whether or not he‘d eonie looking for her. The tneadow she was standing at the edge ofdidn’t look particu- larly appealing. overgrown weeds scattered amongst dead grass. an abandoned red... Show moreHUT DOGS AND SUNSETS Ella Robinson As her toes wiggled deeper into the earth, soft and (lamp. she wondered whether or not he‘d eonie looking for her. The tneadow she was standing at the edge ofdidn’t look particu- larly appealing. overgrown weeds scattered amongst dead grass. an abandoned red Schwinn bieyt'le left on its side in the tniddle ofthe t’learing. But when the sun was setting beyond the surrounding oak trees it was almost beautiful and she liked standing at the edge ofit and imagining all ofthe people who had stood in the satne spot watching the same sunset before her. It was a quarter of a mile frotn their house to the clearing. and once he got offwork she knew bed figure out where she was. She didn‘t have much time on her own. and she was determined to enjoy it. Her stomach stuck out awkwardly. out ofplace on her normally thin frame. The elastic sewn into the waistband of her pants had done wonders. but the Guns N' Roses 'llshirt she insisted on wearing even though it was now three sizes too small failed to toyer her eyer—growing abdomen. Clumsily. she lowered herselfto the ground with one hand eradling her stomach and the other feeling blindly for balance behind her. She let out a low puffofair. blow ing her cheeks out. "\\'hat do you think. baby?“ she eooed softly, “This is where Momma goes to think." She idly picked a stray daisy and tucked it behind her ear. She heard the crunch ofdi5< tam footsteps on dry leaves. Shading her ey s from the fading sunlight. Annabelle stretched out her legs and sighed She stayed yer) still as a hornet buzzed a few feet away, holding her breath. "'l'liought youd be here." her soon-to-be husband announced from behind her. the foot- steps growing louder: .\ few moments later he ‘topped beside her and crouched down with his hands on his knees. \\'hen she didn‘t ans“ ('1 he didn’t seem to mind, "Sarah wants to know ifwe‘re going to the memorial service tonight." She picked another daisy. \\ ith more force this time. and didn't look at him. flake would ha\ e wanted us to go—--" She stiffened and glared at him, resentment written clearly in both her expression and the way she seemed to curl away from him. "You don‘t know the first thing abottt whatJake would have wanted." she snapped. drop— ping the daisy and pushing herself awkwardly to her feet. He rose with her, reaching out a hand to help her. She swatted it away forcefully. "Don‘t touch me." Slipping into her llip—llops she ignored a little kick from the baby and started march« ing along the path that led back to their trailer. Frank following close behind, her flip flops thwaeking a steady thump-thump-thump against the ground beneath them. "Belle. wail-- “ She ripped offa branch that was hanging in the middle ofthe trail. throwing it over her shoulder. l’rank taught it and threw it aside. “I‘m only trying to help. BelleJake was my friend too." Annabelle let out a small hiccup of resentment. “He wasn‘t my friend Frank, he was my fiance." “Yes. he was, And now I'm your fiance. So why don‘t we start acting engaged, for once?" She fell silent. angrily pushing away every branch that was unfortunate enough to fall into her path. The sun was setting quickly. and the mosquitoes were almost unbearable. She 14 Murphy Square Show less
centimeter ofgrime and dust covering its once white frame. A most fitting place to sit and contemplate this place. I pick up my notebook. take out a book of matehes and strike one, lighting the Surya in my lips. Bren/l! m and nut l0 {Ill/ff! "9' Mung/11X. “When in a pinch. always describe your... Show morecentimeter ofgrime and dust covering its once white frame. A most fitting place to sit and contemplate this place. I pick up my notebook. take out a book of matehes and strike one, lighting the Surya in my lips. Bren/l! m and nut l0 {Ill/ff! "9' Mung/11X. “When in a pinch. always describe your setting in great detail," I hear my writing profes- sor say back in some stuffy Classroom. It seemed such an easy thing to say to a class full of oh—st1-eager»t()-pleztse college freshmen. My professor, so confident in his corduroy blazer, red Converse shoes and spectacles, a pen perched behind his ear; but here on this balcony, the right adjectives are eluding me. Maybe India is out ofmy grasp. But. what the hell, I’ll abide ProfFieltling. Drawing a line between my taxi ride account and empty paper below it, l begin again. F;om my seat I ova/ooh a 5ma// ravine filled with Bodhi trees and Saréaje. what's oeyond {2‘ is a Comp/etc mystgry to me. 4 heavy mist o/fo//L(Z‘fon covars all o/‘De/hi like a canc‘er causing pa”. 12‘ has Ace” dark all day, no sun/fjhz‘ aé/e to penetrate through 1/72 Shroud. Iron/C that Diwali i5 daoéed 'z‘he fest/Va/ of fights 7hoa3h Z‘he smog é/oc‘ (’5 oaf the Sun‘s ray5, the po/kzz‘ion Vei/ ha5 clone nothing for the stifling z‘emparatare and ham/dify, and fhoujh iz‘ is a MoVeméer night, my Shir-2‘ 1'5 Soahea’. It mat/’es no Sens: to me and my du// exi'sz‘enCe. Quickly. I draw a star next to this thought in myjournal. Be/otu, fachs of doj5 roam the enormous jaréaje files that CoVer the entire raw'ne o’ehind the gueSZ‘hodSe. V/uje 15415, jaréaje (5:15, fly much too c/oSe to my face, and than Aacé dozun oVer the relics mountains. Diwali fireworks Continue to make me k 2sz in frighz‘ eVeI‘y So often. 777ey h'jhz‘ up {he Smoigy night. More in tune with the words. those tight. little English sentences, step by step, I begin to ret'ount the events ol‘that night and my observations so far. Remember. 777a Gaza. 'l'he pen touches again the paper. India has a story in eVefy inch of its exists/vac. Each taA/eaa Seen through a C/ouc/y fax} window Coll/d As a aha/afar in a éooh z‘en thousand pages /o!l5. 777g 5a/Z‘ry Ganb'ez‘ic p/ain, with [2‘5 hora/e5 of/eof/e worh'nj, singing, éefljinj, Amy/>5, (ooh/I73, éanterfnj, Z‘hinf/nj, and jol'nj aéouz‘ Z‘he/I~ chaotic, daily /i'|/e5 that are VeSZ‘ec/ in ancient human fractic‘e and modern innoVaz‘i'on Sima/z‘aneous/y, /i(’e the Giorgio 4rman/ emporium 51w?" t/y erecfed next to the weathered Shiva (emf/e, this fife on the India peninsu/a Seems Somehow more eSSentl'a/ than the I‘d/rye, preterit/on #fled, watered down humanity of 4merica and [arc/7e. 'India is few.” the most human or a// page; on this earth." I mamé/e this astonished conc/asion on the may to my hote/ #om the airport, My taxi dn'var a/mosz‘ dries o/‘l‘ the road nary time he casual/y lights another hand— ro//ed Cigarette C(2//ed a hidi- that he ShaheS oaz‘ of” his 5hfli‘ fochet. Mot at all /oo(/n5 (42‘ the road and 305/13 50 hi/omez‘ers oVer the pasz‘ed Speed hmiz‘, the Indian caééy, in a per/oez‘aa/ Coughing :4’2‘ from each new/y liz‘ Aidi (which 5me// distinct/y like hash as they Continue to Aw”), decided/y .Sz‘radd/e5 two /ane5 on the Z‘hrohjec/ highway, than vr'erhs z‘o driva in the middle of two different /ane5 for no apparent reaSon. other cars hon? az‘ him to Mal/e oVer while they too ignore the c/ear éoandariezs éetween lanes, 7; drive in a straight line and S/ow down whi/e doing Z‘wo thi'n55 at once mod/d 15¢ 66 Murphy Square Show less
JUNIOR YEAR Myrbal Baryon l’erpelually pushed into pushing pencil Stencils Cookie cut clones \\'c are Strive lar. they tell me, but by far I‘ve underachieved [VlideI'-eoncei\ ed my future \\'asted my past Many places I‘ve passed without stopping t\imlcssly walkingr while getting chased by laces... Show moreJUNIOR YEAR Myrbal Baryon l’erpelually pushed into pushing pencil Stencils Cookie cut clones \\'c are Strive lar. they tell me, but by far I‘ve underachieved [VlideI'-eoncei\ ed my future \\'asted my past Many places I‘ve passed without stopping t\imlcssly walkingr while getting chased by laces all too familiar l'nderclassmen gau‘king 'l‘he underclass hawking up phlegm Under my rm \\'ell in Iront olithem. rather, ’li-rrilied because these faces are beginning to look more like me I stagger \\'ords blur as I read with absurd verve \vhat knowledge hawkers mistake lbr art Yet l'm parlial to what artists choose to embark on i\t least that‘s until the sparks gone Defined by prophesizingr professors and criticizing critics \\'ho inhibit what an artist may exhibit as sell‘expression Our economy li‘eds ol‘liour depression Pop a pill and your poison tasting leads to a vacation away from The reality they ‘ve built for you Poor you But rich them linrieh (limwitted college kids with 1500 dollar an hour nap times 'l‘hree years and I‘ve actually gotten dumber Relapse time to an earlier point before adulthood sets in Before lime itsellilelt like a rope my necks in Before leisure time became stressin‘ Beeaustu obviously, there may have been something more constructive to do. Like . . . Learn. \l'xing this concept olilil‘e and quality .\nd how they internvine false expectations ofsublime happiness Could use some divine help But I‘m blind to the good in that ‘eause l was whipped by hypocrites Stripped ol‘this . , , This pa 'ion that I‘ve been asking to have revived ;\n(l it's not until I‘m off‘task that I realize I have quite a few things to evaluate. 50 Murphy Square Show less
FUR Elise Estrada I walk alnnt‘~ (ltm'n roads that haven‘t IM‘Pn named trawl unmappt'cl hlflit‘fi \‘wiln (‘IKIIK‘SS lakes. Say nut luud what othm‘s can‘t. I u alk thmugh tht' hunting plains \‘lill't' at lllt‘ 81111. a pavk ol’nnr. I'ht‘rt‘ was a moment trim as li‘athct’n! \\'l1(‘11 I li-lt \hamc in... Show moreFUR Elise Estrada I walk alnnt‘~ (ltm'n roads that haven‘t IM‘Pn named trawl unmappt'cl hlflit‘fi \‘wiln (‘IKIIK‘SS lakes. Say nut luud what othm‘s can‘t. I u alk thmugh tht' hunting plains \‘lill't' at lllt‘ 81111. a pavk ol’nnr. I'ht‘rt‘ was a moment trim as li‘athct’n! \\'l1(‘11 I li-lt \hamc in what is [I‘th‘ But I]t)\\' I do not (It-Hy: I am a u il(l animal insidr. And although I IU\'(‘ so loyal it I(‘21\'(‘S blood in the SII‘PFI and thuugh I (’lt‘li‘nd the rub with lt‘ral (law: and naked teeth, I u ill nt‘wr “alk (IU\\'H£1H)'2!ISI(‘ (II‘(‘\S('(I all in whitr tn ht‘t'utnt- a \s'ili‘. I wear umsctx and hlnnd-m‘angt' “TI and I haw burnt-d lltt‘ wedding IJK‘d, I walk this path unrt‘s’igncd. \\III1()lllIH’SIIRIIIH‘ and tlIll‘t‘IllHTl, t\n(l I will Il(’\‘t‘l' takv anotht‘r ntalfs name ur \u-ar a ring I “ill nt'wt‘ he tame. I \talk this world without a homr, lln‘ I am not rugr ur door nr glass, 1 am [null] and blood and bone I liw today no l‘uttu'tu nu paxt. 44 Murphy Square Show less
STORM DREAM Samantha Guck tho \\'(‘I Si(I(‘\\'£lII(S in this ('(mlt‘r morningr giro pruni‘tn Ih(‘ lightning nl‘tht- night hrlbrv In I lay ht'ttvy and warm pinnch in tht- moment by my il\\'£1I\’t‘CInl‘.\‘§ with the rotating Ian plhhing thr hot air ztmttnrl tht- mom and lI]t‘I)III1dS iIit'kt't’ing... Show moreSTORM DREAM Samantha Guck tho \\'(‘I Si(I(‘\\'£lII(S in this ('(mlt‘r morningr giro pruni‘tn Ih(‘ lightning nl‘tht- night hrlbrv In I lay ht'ttvy and warm pinnch in tht- moment by my il\\'£1I\’t‘CInl‘.\‘§ with the rotating Ian plhhing thr hot air ztmttnrl tht- mom and lI]t‘I)III1dS iIit'kt't’ing l’mnt tho breath of tho ()pt’n u‘indtm' \\'it(‘hittg. Show less
DEPRESSION Ella Robinson L‘ndtrnmlh the (‘()\'(‘I'i In the middlc olklhc day. Light hhvring through lht‘ ihhrir As you Irate tho sliu‘hcs. And blink §l()\\'l)' Breathing in and out In :\ slcudy rhythm. “'ilh your (at curled up On a pillow lxxidv you. 17 Murphy Square
SESTINAS ARE WEIRD Jayne Carlson The assignment was to write a type ol‘poem ealled a sestinti. Some say it‘sjust weird. while others like its predetermined form. Some like to play with the words and try to make them sing. But how on earth could you sing. let alone write. something so silly. it‘s... Show moreSESTINAS ARE WEIRD Jayne Carlson The assignment was to write a type ol‘poem ealled a sestinti. Some say it‘sjust weird. while others like its predetermined form. Some like to play with the words and try to make them sing. But how on earth could you sing. let alone write. something so silly. it‘s child‘s play. really. This strange poem ealled a sestina is nothing but form- filting words and thzitjust gets weird. \\'hat a crazy stilted format. and the weird notion that a poem doesn't have to sing. it just needs a solid form. And so the question is. ean you write a sestina.’ Or would you rather play at finding some other game to play. a game that‘s not so weird as writing a sestina, Perhaps you‘d rather sing or even just write or maybe sculpt a form. a form that doesn‘t have to eon-form to some silly word play. Maybe you‘d rather write a Sonnet. it‘s not so weird. or a song that you eould sing. anything but one of these God-lorsaken sestinas. I love the seslina. it‘s got good form. it makes me want to sing and play. because it‘s really weird and 1 really, really like to write. So take a siesta before you write your sestina. so you have energy to play with this odd form. Its inventor surely must have been weird or maybejust liked to sing. or better yet. to write. 71 Murphy Square Show less
own compositions and classics, picturing himselfplaying for people, not pets. I headed toward the stage to find him. A folk singing couple, all denim and snow white hair. sat behind microphones on the parking lot stage. As the woman spoke, I could hear only her kindness. Her words were washed... Show moreown compositions and classics, picturing himselfplaying for people, not pets. I headed toward the stage to find him. A folk singing couple, all denim and snow white hair. sat behind microphones on the parking lot stage. As the woman spoke, I could hear only her kindness. Her words were washed away by the wind. “'hen their singing began, hints broke above the audible threshold that their song lyrics had been reworked to refer to pet dogs An occasional cat was thrown into the songs, in the interest offairness and equal- ity. I laid some applause on them. catching the man’s eye, receiving his knowing nod as he strummed on, I continued to scan the crowd, looking for my son. Something was rhythmically heat— ing on my leg,just below the knee. It was a thick, strong, wagging tail. The rhythm stopped as the dog sat down . . . right on my foot. \\'arm fur against the bare top ofmy Hip-flopped foot was both soothing and unpleasant, The dogs companion took no notice. engrossed in an animated conversation \\ ith a runway-thin. spiky -haired woman attached to a Pomera- nian. “hen the folk duo finished, my furry frictth thankfully gave them a standing ovation, releasing me at last. Taking the microphone, the master ofceremonies shecpishly told the audience that he hoped the rock music wouldn‘t bother the canine ears in the crowd. He was sensitive to the idea that an amplified guitar might sound different to a greyhound than to her gray-bearded hippie host. or that a Dylanesque harmonica may produce some frequencies beyond the spectrum ofhuman hearing Bol) alwa [used us to suspect this, didn’t he? It had been so many years since I felt the exhilaration ofthose moments in the wings, and mounting the stage to a roar. or even a smattering ofapplause. I watched my boy, with his hlend ofcontidence and selllconsciousness, emerge from the shadows. As he brought his lips to the microphone the wind robbed the PA system ofits power. He triumphantly said what sounded like “Hmrrh. “'ephfr (Iofflsh Schwindt.” \Vcll, at least halfofthe crowd didn‘t understand English anyway. with the exception ofcertain key phrases, like “go out?" or “want a treat?“ He began to sing, and the voice that was so effective in saturating our living room, or open mike night at the coflcehouse. was no match for the rising wind. Surrounded by indiflerent Afghan Hounds. exhausted Basset Hounds, charming Collies, and wiggling Dachshunds, I fixed my eyes on the young man that all these pets and people ignored. These purehi‘eds had their own egos to contend with. One dirty gray mixed breed, more knowing ofthe ways ofthe w orld, cocked his head at an angle. This may have been his first harmoni- ca experience. .\ dark gray wall ofw *ather approached and fat raindrops split the crowd into its indi- vidual elements. \\'ith leashes pulling this way and that, the festival dissolved. From beneath the weathered wood overhang ofthe barbecue shack, I watched the festival fade away. As he ran fast through the raindrops trying to protect the precious Contents ofhis guitar case. my son caught my eye. In that Ileeting split second I saw only satisfaction, not regret. The experience was not what he had expected, but his smile showed he knew some- thing, Now he knows . . . as I have known. I smile at the good fortune ofthis day, reminded that the best memories are not from triumphs, but the unexpected - the dog shows. People will listen as my son‘s tale begins: “I played at \Voofs‘tock.n 46 Murphy Square Show less
"Hey l)ad.".]ohn said hopefully, "\Ve brought your golft’lubs." Grandpa‘s ey s swept over the bag in the t'orner. but it was obvious he had no inter- esl in these Obit’t‘ls he had spent so much of his life ttsingjolin had hoped that this simple gesture might bring a simple smile to the old man's... Show more"Hey l)ad.".]ohn said hopefully, "\Ve brought your golft’lubs." Grandpa‘s ey s swept over the bag in the t'orner. but it was obvious he had no inter- esl in these Obit’t‘ls he had spent so much of his life ttsingjolin had hoped that this simple gesture might bring a simple smile to the old man's late. but that hope quickly faded and his shoulde shrugged. “How are you doing. Grandpa?" asked Danny. The old man (‘l()S(‘(l his eyes and nodded his head slowly as if. meditating upon the answer. but the door opened and Billy"s aunt, Kathy. walked in. “Hi‘lohn. Hi Danny." she said. hugging the boy. “lt‘s \i‘tiiitlet’ful that you're here. Oh, and you brought Dad‘s t‘lubs. Did you see that. Dad? They brought your Clubs." Grandpa ignored the clubs again. lnstead he looked up at‘lohn and made a Clumsy motion with his hand. “You thirsty?"‘]ohn asked. G andpa nodded. Yes. "\Vhat do you want to drink?" G indpa t'losed his eyes and moved his lips. but nothing came out. "l’epsiRiIohn asked. Grandpa shook his head. No. "Mountain Dew?" Grandpa opened his eyes and nodded. Yes, .\unt Kathy interrupted “The dot‘tor says he shouldn't drink carbonai“ But‘John shot her a \'i('l()llS look and she stopped. “Here Danny." he said reaching into his “and. “Go get me and your grandpa a Mountain Dew and whatever you want from the vending maehine." Danny grabbed the hills out ol‘his father‘s hand and hustled out the door. He found the vending marhine and looked at his ehoit‘es. S/Irilr, (Io/(e. Dir! Cake, .llr. Pibb... N0 Jrloimmin [but] Shoot. Danny thought to himself. Thin/i. Damn: l/Iilt/t. He put the bills into the machine and got a eouple Sprites and a Coke instead. He brought them back into the room and poured a Sprite into a plastic cup with a straw. Grandpa closed his eyes and the hubny liquid rushed up the clear tube. “How's the Mountain Dew. Dad?“‘]ohn asked. Grandpa shook his head. [IR nolllmmlnin Deu'. “They didn‘t have any in the vending machine. All they had was Sprite.” Danny said. Grandpa smiled and nodded his head. Thank you. .\l‘ter a whileJohn bent over to give his father a hug. “Listen Dad. it’s Sunday today. \\'e‘re t'oming hark on Thursday. okay? Don't you go anywhere ‘til we get back.” Grandpa nodded and raised his arms to give Danny a hug. “Goodbye,” the old man whis- pered in Danny‘s ear. "Bye, Grandpa." Danny replied. smiling at the old man. * * 3k The boy and his lather drove to the airport and flew back to hIinnezipolis without saying tnut'h olianything. Danny sat in his wind0\\’-seat staring out at wispy clouds in the distance and then his gaze shifted down to the ground miles below. There was nothing down there that looked like anything. .-\11 that could be made out were shapes, lines, and specks ofcolor. There were no people down there. no cars. and no noise)just silence. Ifanyone on the plane was making noise. it was eompletely drowned out by the constant overwhelming hum ofthe jet engines. Silt/Ire. Danny thought to himself. T/ml’r w/ml (lent/i ix, JilPflrFfiYt‘l'Ef, Silent? injvlll hem] and tin-yum em. The humming engines vibrated gently, and staring out the window at the 48 Murphy Square Show less
MY MOTHER LOVED TURflUOlSE Judyjolmsan It was an odd thing to remetnberjust as my friend Carol pressed her thick brass necklace into my hand while we were having lunch. "I want you to have this.“ Carol said. "I was sitting in church this morning and my mother said ‘Give this to your little friend... Show moreMY MOTHER LOVED TURflUOlSE Judyjolmsan It was an odd thing to remetnberjust as my friend Carol pressed her thick brass necklace into my hand while we were having lunch. "I want you to have this.“ Carol said. "I was sitting in church this morning and my mother said ‘Give this to your little friend over there. I want her to have it.‘~ "l ( an‘t take this." I answered back. “It‘s too much." “No.” she said. “I \\ ant you to have it, and I always do what my mother tells me. even if she‘s dead," May be it was the mention ofthe word "mother“ that brought this sweeping back into my mind May be it was because (Iarol was an artist. much like my tnother. and had bright eyes and colorful clothing. But when Carol placed the intricate patterned necklace on my palm. I felt the density ofthe tnetal: my hand sank from the weight. And I remembered \\'e lived in New Mexico fora few years. back in the late 30’s. Mom fell in love with the landscape. the red plateaus against a deep blue sky. She traded bland Scandinavian cui- sine for spit y salsas and smiled chili peppers. She loved the adobe houses with great cedar beams. She was fascinated with the Indian cultttre and people. And she developed an obses— sion with turquois jewelry. She \\ as so taken with the artistry and color that in a moment of rare indulgence. she bought several turquoise squash blossom necklaces. They were designed by a friend. a silver smith. who folded the heavy silver into deli— cate leaves that \\ rapped around the large polished stones. The massive necklaces resembled intricate vines or ancient cave paintings straddling from shoulder to shoulder. Each necklace weighed over a pound. Tiny imprints along the silver edges formed a geometric pattern out— lining the turquoise, The stones hues ranged from the color ofa robin‘s egg to the saturated blue oftw ilight. My mother .said the stone captured the sky. stretching from mountain to mountain. sometimes broken by feather clouds orjet streams. she would say. “Then you know it is “.\|\\ays look for the natural veins in the stone. real. and not that fake powder stuff," \\’hen Mom placed one ofthe squash blossom necklaces in my hands. it was heavy ‘lver. black tarnish nestled in the crevasses. I felt the soft and cold. I ran my linger along tht stone. and the slight indentation along a sand—colored vein. She watched me feel the neck- lace. become familiar \\ ith it. Then she took it back. as ifshe couldn‘t bear to watch it rest in another‘s hand. “For safe keeping." she always said as she packed it awa'. My mother never wore the squash blossom necklaces. but kept them in a Red “ing shoe- box on the top shelfof her closet. wrapped irt felt. She said they gave her a headache. pulled too much on her neck. She had smaller turquoise necklaces for special events, and she had a large oval turquoise ring she wore every day until arthritis finally made her take it off. But the squash blossoms stayed out of reach, unseen. in a cardboard shoebos \Iy sisters and I were considered too young to be responsible for them. even when we reached our middle ages. "When I die. you girls can each have a necklace. They are your inheritance." she would tell my sisters and [tie every time we brought up the subject. The waitress brought Carol and me more coffee. 20 Murphy Square Show less
