The Beginning

She is riding in an old Ford, seeing the road to her new home through a rain soaked world. Approaching along the rutted muddy road, she watches with dismay as a small creek rushes across the ruts, carrying dirt and stones down the hillside to a small pond. The pond is formed behind an earthen dam and protects the structure of old wood and unknown, at least to her, machinery. Her husband has told her this is a sawmill. He has purchased it. They are moving. Wiping fog from the inside of her passenger seat window she peers into the rain generated dusk. Fear grips her stomach in a hard knot as she gets her first glimpse of the house. Small and raggedy, it sits on the brim of a bramble and thistle covered hill that slopes away to the pond. The mountain behind the whole scene disappears into a haze of Oregon Fall rain, denying her any sense of the space she is entering. Tears rise in her throat, spill from her eyes and mingle with the fog running down the inside of the car window as she presses her head against the pane. A city girl, born and bred, she jams her screams into her belly. She blinks hard, but it’s all still there when she opens her eyes again.
“Can you get out and push us?”
Her racing thoughts are brought into focus by the hammer of her husband’s voice
“Nell! Nell! We’re stuck. Get out and push.”
Opening the car door she grimaces at the sight of the mud immediately below the running board. Looking back at him, seeking some kind of release from the task, she is met with a dismissive wave and a “Hurry up. It’s getting dark.” Gingerly she steps out into the driving rain, her sandal clad feet sinking ankle deep in the brown muck. Hanging on to the car, she slogs her way to the rear. The rain strings her hair around her face and mingles with her tears.
Mud flies up from the tires and splatters her clothes and face as her husband rocks the car back and forth, finally freeing it from its muddy prison. She watches as the car crawls the final feet to the crumbling front porch of what will be her next home. Standing in the rain, shaking and sobbing, she brushing futilely at her splattered self; clenching and unclenching her fists, screaming unheard into the rainstorm. Anger rises in her being, firing the furnace that will carry her through the next ten years.

Jan Kremenik jankre@sbcglobal.net

OUTSIDE-UPNORTH
Timothy Glasby
June 7, 2007

Ma, Dad, and us four kids settle into the campsite for our Northern Michigan summer vacation. The pop-up camper where Ma, Dad, and Helen will sleep is assembled and looks as if it may tip over at any moment.
It takes almost all day to get here and set up the camp so the twins and I take refuge in the small tent near the camper and are listening to all of the unfamiliar noises. They complain of having to pee but are afraid to go out into the dark and leave the safety of the tent so they yell, “Ma, Dad, we have to go to the bathroom. Come and save us from the bears.”
Ma stirs from the camper, being careful not to tip it over as she walks over to the small tent, cussing about the flashlight, “Damn it, Jack. I told you to buy new batteries.” But her words go unheard by Dad as I hear his loud snoring coming from the camper. Helen laughs at Ma’s dilemma.
Ma pulls the flap of the little green canvas tent back and the twins scamper out and head down the road. She leaves the flap open and I hear more of the night's noises. I love going camping, even though I hate the uncomfortable ground that we have to sleep on. The smell of the tall pines fill my nose and mind with the wonderful thoughts of the only other time that this smell is so strong. I think of Christmas. My ten-year old mind wanders to the holiday, even though I know it is long off, and think again of the Jerry Mahoney puppet that I have longed for since earlier this year and how I’ll convince Santa to bring it for me this Christmas.
“I promise,Santa that I will study the book on ventriloquism and practice with Jerry everyday,” I repeat this promise like a prayer, knowing that these will be the words that fulfill my wish.
The morning is the best time when camping. I wake to Ma cooking bacon and eggs on the small outdoor Coleman cooker. I hear the bacon sizzling in the pan and the sound of the Coleman stove as the fuel hisses it’s way to the burners. The smell fills the whole campsite and lures me to the picnic table as I watch her getting everything ready. She is as at home here, fixing breakfast for her family, as she is at our house in her big old kitchen.
Dad helps because he always cooks breakfast for us kids as Ma works the late shift at the Steering Gear and doesn’t get in until after we leave for school. I see Dad mixing up the batter for his world famous pancakes and see fresh huckleberries nearby that are so deep blue they look like the bottom of the nearby lake. I know he will add these to the cakes. The air is still crisp and fresh and the sun is high enough to filter through the trees and dapple our campsite with the warm glow of its yellow beams.
Ma smiles at me and asks, “T.J., please go fill the plastic pail down by the showers so I can keep up on washing the dishes.”
I will gladly do this for Ma, as the smells of breakfast and the woods and the bright morning make this feel like the most special time in the world. Even the twin's fighting and Helen’s gripping about her friends not being here don’t mar this perfect day.
I walk to the showers, use the restroom, and fill the plastic bucket to overflowing. I jump around the cool water as it splashes off of my flip-flops and onto the cement. I hunt around the area but don’t want to waste too much time for fear that I will miss out on the first batch of the huckleberry pancakes. I grab the overfull bucket and slosh half of it over my legs and feet. This makes me laugh and I hit myself on the head accusing myself of being dumb. But I’m not worried or don’t really care if I have to come back for another bucket because I love the walk and it makes me feel good to help.
As I return to the campsite, Helen and the twins are gathered around the table eating away. Ma and Dad are still preparing the food and Ma yells to me, “Hurry Timmy, so your eggs don’t get cold.”
I run to the table, slopping more of the water on my feet and legs and check the seating arrangement. I decide it is better to put up with the twin’s nonsense and food fights than sit next to Helen and her meanness of pinching and punching. I place the bucket by Ma’s feet and run to the seat next to the twins.
“T.J. you’ll have to go back after you eat. There’s only a cup of water left in the bucket,” Ma says, smiling and setting the plate of bacon and eggs fried in the grease in front of me.
Dad followed with a stack of the huckleberry pancakes and I feel as happy as I have ever felt.
I start eating the breakfast and think of my happiness here at camp. I know the only thing that can make me happier is to get my Jerry Mahoney puppet for my birthday in September instead of having to wait for Christmas.

Reiss DuPlessis

The sound of the car, though advertised,  “silent,” by its manufacturer, is not silent enough to deceive Pepe, the Shih Tzu. He hears and he knows. How he knows it’s my car, how he knows it’s me. How he knows I’m here is beyond the grasp of  human sensitivity. He, his cousins, ancestors and friends are all smarter than we, the arrogant we, who dare use the word, “masters.”  Pepe’s masters, the occupants of the house, don’t hear the car, don’t know it’s me, don’t welcome me the way Pepe does. Who is the master of the manor? 

I slam the car door and still no human acknowledgment from the house. The long walk to the door is timed by the wagging of the long, shaggy tail. Pepe decided early on not to bark, not to share his secret. My arrival was his little joy, his little moment ... his alone. The masters can learn about it later. I can see him through the glass window that is his view of the outside world. He can see me and his smile and wagging body tell me I am a most welcome guest. 

Pepe, you see, and I are special friends. He welcomed me the first day we met. He knows I am his friend and I know he is mine.

I don’t know what I did to earn his acceptance. I don’t know why he likes me, I don’t know why we are such trusted friends, but we are and we are happy with each other. The masters? Well, they’re OK too.

Dave Blodgett
Ten thousand Japanese in landing craft are headed our way. Thousands of Japanese paratroopers are climbing into planes in Manila to rain death on us. We’re doomed.

Instead of praying with us, our commanding officer is giving us a lecture on the care and handling of hand grenades. “Hold them for three seconds after you release the trigger before you throw them, or the Nips will toss them right back at you.”
We are amazed at this fearless, macho madman and his promise that we will all die the night of December 26, 1944—our blood soaking into the sands of Caminawit Point on Mindoro Island in the Philippines, our bodies torn asunder from red-hot slugs or exploding shell fragments splattering flesh, blood and bones in a blinding curtain of death. Our orders are to hold this miserable,dirty piece of sandy ground to the last man.

Forty-five of us are dug in—“dug in” two feet down in a narrow slit trench. Three feet down is salt water. Our other 105 base force comrades decide to haul tail into the swamps behind our encampment. They choose not to fight. They don’t like the odds.

The Lord is our shepherd, We shall not want. He leadeth us beside still waters. He maketh us lie down in a stinking, sandy ditch. Lo,we are walking right into the valley of death and are terrified. My .45 automatic. Maybe I’ll use it on myself, but it’s so clogged with sand it probably won’t fire.

Darkness falls.

Suddenly, the pitch-black night is lit up by magnesium Japanese star shells brilliantly illuminating sea and sand and quaking cocoanut palms. The deafening roar of aircraft engines and staccato burst of machine-gun fire fill the air. Every plane—ours and Japanese—has its landing lights on, so enemy fighters can strafe our planes as they sit down on Mindoro’s three-day-old airstrip to refuel and rearm.
The blinding flares’ glow, the red tracers arcing and streaming across the sky, the night-fighter engine racket, the red-orange flash of the cruiser’s big guns, the barrage of 20-millimeter cannon fire—all combine to heighten our terror.

This is it—the final scene of an endlessly-repeated tragedy acted out by “civilized” man. The madness of war holds us in its deadly, unbreakable grip. The curtain is about to fall.

Midnight comes. Then 0100, 0200, 0300. Silence descends on Caminawit Point and Mangarin Bay. The Japanese cruiser and destroyers cease their bombardment. The beach is bare, the sky empty. A cooling breeze is blowing away the stench of gunpowder smoke. The star shells fade, flicker and die, leaving a deep tropical night sky stretching like a protective canopy over our exhausted bodies. No landing craft. No paratroopers. No Japanese warships.

The first rays of dawn reveal our flag is still flying over the miserable, filthy, soggy forty-five of us squatting in our half-dug graves. We are the gallant survivors of the “Great Japanese Counterattack on Mindoro Island.”

A PARSEE WEDDING
Georgialee Granger

I open the envelope and read: Jeroo and Savak Pirojshaw Antia (Ex Air India) request the pleasure of the company of Mr. And Mrs. Fred Granger on the occasion of the wedding of their son Noshir to Miss Bapsey Tehmton Parakh on Saturday, the 6th of November, 1971 at 5;30 p.m. at the Calcutta Swimming Club 1, Strand Road, Calcutta 1. 5:30 p.m. Ceremony, 7:00p.m.
Drinks and Dinner. R.S.V.P. Dr. D.P. Antia.

The Antias are Parsees, followers of Zoroaster. Before we attend the function, I must study something about their beliefs. I have saved an article by Phiroze J. Shroff entitled “Thus Spake Zarathustra.” He writes that Zoroaster’s followers are not many, but the teachings are profound and widespread. The prophet appealed to people’s reason: “Ponder well what I say. If my teachings appeal to your reason, adopt them.”

Most scholars say Persia was the cradle of Zoroastrianism in about the 6th Century B.C.E. Pliny and Aristotle wrote that he taught as early as 6000 B.C.E. though. The language is like Sanskrit. Whatever the date of his time on earth, he was a remarkable prophet who taught the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man, and exhorted people to live a life of good thoughts, good words and good deeds. He referred to God as Ahura Mazda (Light), prophesied that a Savior would appear, and that life continued after death.

The day before the Parsee wedding a terrific hurricane strikes south of Calcutta, in the state of Orissa, killing more than 25,000 people. The exact number will not be known because most of the people are nomads. It heads our way, but is diverted, leaving a star-studded night to bless the coming wedding day.

Our hosts have seated us in a spot where we can photograph the ceremony. The ritual begins with incense burning, throwing a fresh egg on the floor, then a good-sized coconut. What is the significance of this? The coconut doesn’t break, so I guess that forecasts a stable marriage. Grain is strewn about before the dais on which the bridal couple are to take their places on gold striped satin chairs opposite each other. The prospective fathers-in-law exchange long fringed white shawls as tokens of esteem.

Then the heavily garlanded bridegroom, dressed in a white cotton suit with a jacket tied in three places instead of buttoned takes his place on the steps of the dais to receive the laying on of hands by one of the female members of wedding party. The bride dressed in a diaphanous white sari embroidered all over with seed pearls and crystal beads goes through the same procedure. An unmarried woman symbolically washes the feet of the couple. No water.

The major part of the ceremony is a half hour chant by two priests dressed in white outfits like the groom’s, with jackets tied in three places. All of the men in the bridal party, and some of the guests are dressed the same. On their heads, they wear black fez-shaped hats.

During this part of the ritual the bride and groom are seated opposite each other with a white cord wrapped around them many times. The priests chant more earnestly, all the while throwing rice at the couple. The bride pulls her sari close around her face as she sees that she is about to be the target. The groom manages to fend off the onslaught. Finally the rings are exchanged and the cord snipped. The couple embrace, and the guests crowd around them to wish them happiness.