2012CampApp

It all started back in eighth grade when Mrs. Tiller gave us an assignment. We were supposed to write a children’s book and read it to two peers. She printed off the pictures from the original book, and we had to come up with the character’s name, conflict, and setting. I got one that dealt with a little horse no bigger than a butterfly. I wrote my story and presented it to Mrs. Tiller.

She loved it so much that, not only did I get an amazing grade, but I also got recommended to Fine Lines. I was so surprised that inside me, I felt like I was screaming. I know it sounds weird, but that’s what I felt like. I went to the Fine Lines summer creative writing camp, and I had a blast. I recently had a poem I wrote published in a Fine Lines issue. Mrs. Tiller is one of my favorite teachers because she saw my true potential, and so did Fine Lines.

Grace Magisana

I wondered why I had suddenly gotten the urge to rush outside and stuff butternut squash in my ears and up my nose. I wondered why I had an hour before run outside and stuffed peas in my pants. I wondered where the can was. I had just gone to the bathroom and discovered peas in my underwear. I knew then that my craving had taken over.

I am a vegetable overeater! I sighed. I went back to my room and flicked on the light. I gasped!

The room was a disaster area! Broccoli was on my pillow. A bag of frozen lima beans was strewn on my lampshade. Carrots spelled “VEGGIEZ” on my keyboard. Corn was smeared on my window. I remembered opening a bottle of ranch dressing and glugging it down. Then, I painted my name on the walls with tomatoes.

I slapped my forehead. I had thrown myself a veggie party! I slumped into a chair. CRUNCH!! I got up. I just sat on a clump of zucchini.

It was time for an appointment with Dr. Turnipheart. The wimp.

“You are a sick, sick boy, Endive,” Dr. Turnipheart chortled. She tsk-tsked.

“A CURE, Doctor!” I pleaded. I’d do anything to help my ‘disease.’

She stopped whistling. She looked at me. She whispered, “Junk food.” I was sure I heard wrong, but old Turnipheart was nodding.

“The only cure, Endive, is to eat Yodels, lollipops, Doritos, Twinkies, Ring-Dings, and Ruffles. You need to get that veggie juice out of your blood, because you are too healthy. You have eaten too many vegetables. You have never even tasted sugar in your life!”

She looked sympathetic. “Sugar is splendid, Endie. Just one morsel can change your perspective on EVERYTHING!” I wasn’t so sure. Sugar did not look too promising. Give me a radish any day.

I went to the store and bought a box of powdered sugar doughnuts. Then I drove home and gingerly removed one. I took a bite. Ick! Soft white sprinkles of sugar were gently layered over a round, puffy cake. I found it disgusting! I closed my eyes and took another bite.

“EWWWWWWW!” I shrieked.

I dropped the horrible treat and jumped onto a chair. The doughnut lay on the ground, looking like a mutated albino cockroach, balled up. It was gross.

“Sugar is splendid,” I remembered Dr. Turnipheart’s words. I shuddered. Ugh!

That night, I curled up on the floor and twitched all night. Dr. Turnipheart explained my body was used to veggies and not sweets. I was allergic to junk food. Thank heavens. Now, I could eat vegetables to my heart’s content and never worry about having to eat sugar, since I couldn’t.

I drove straight to my VA meeting. There, in the room, were five others.

To be continued…

Allison Keeton Fisher

It’s a small town, the center of which is situated just about three miles south of Interstate 64 in eastern Kentucky. The connecting road between the town and the Interstate is a four-lane highway dotted with businesses and homes built on and into the hills that border the road. Close to the Interstate, nestled on a hill at the edge of the forest, is a funeral home that transports the deceased through town and all over the countryside to small family cemeteries.

On a recent trip home, my mother and I were driving north on this connecting highway toward the Interstate, when I noticed that all the cars in front of me were pulling off to the side of the road and stopping. I slowed down, too, simply because I didn’t know what was going on. Then, around the bend, I saw what was happening. There was a hearse leading a long line of cars toward town. I pulled over, like everyone else, and noticed that everything around us had come to a halt as well. In a parking lot across the road, some high school kids were raising money at a car wash. They stopped their laughing and sloshing around and stood still, some with hands folded in front, some with their heads down.

The whole scene brought back a memory I have of being downtown with my mamaw as a child, walking up the sidewalk with her and seeing a funeral go by. We stopped, as was customary, and I asked why. She shushed me until all the cars had gone by and then told me, “It’s just something you do when someone dies.” In my hometown, it still is, plain and simple. As my mother and I watched this procession go by, I was immediately taken back to my own mamaw’s funeral.

My grandmother was my first close relative to die. My other grandparents had passed on when I was a young child, and I can’t really remember anything about their funerals. I was thirty when mamaw died and consider myself blessed to have made it that far into my adult life without losing anyone intimately close to me. I had long since left Morehead, gotten married, and Rachel was nine months old at the time. It had been years since I attended a funeral, so I had forgotten the small town rituals surrounding it. I had gotten used to the muttering and sighing and eye rolling that usually accompanies a funeral in a big town, because of the traffic jam it causes and how it makes everyone late for whatever they are in such a hurry to get to.

After mamaw’s service, we all climbed into our vehicles for the long trek to our small family cemetery about fifteen miles away. As we pulled out onto the highway, I began to see reactions that triggered my memory, and it moved me in a way that took me by surprise. As I stared out the window of our assigned car, I witnessed the same scene, back then, as I did now with my mother. Everything came to a complete halt. Cars on the road pulled over. Pedestrians stopped walking. Even the university students with backpacks thrown over their shoulders walking quickly down Main Street to get to their classes stopped. Small clusters of people gathered on the sidewalk, chatting about one thing or another stopped talking. Children were shushed just like I had been years before by the woman we were now trailing behind. Everything just stopped as we went through town, and even as we wound our way out of town onto the small, winding, two-lane road, the farmers in the fields turned off their machines and took off their hats. It was an emotional time for me. Most of the people we passed would not have been able to tell you the name of the person we’d just lost or anything about her. If there was someone who knew her, there was a pretty good chance they were in the convoy with us to begin with.

In a small town, it’s not knowing the deceased, personally, that compels you to stop and give a moment of silence and stillness. It’s the way you are raised. It’s recognizing and respecting the fact that another human being who shared your community with you is now gone. It’s a way of quietly showing support for the family who is suffering, whether you know them or not. It’s a way of honoring the gift of life that is, without a doubt, taken from all of us one day. It’s a way of saying, “One of us is gone.”

My mamaw was a housewife who was rich only in family and personal experience. She grew up during the depression and didn’t trust banks. Every penny she owned was either in the sole of her shoe, various drawers around the house, jars and panels throughout the house, between mattresses or pinned to the inside of her bra, just for emergencies, mind you. If it wasn’t cash and wasn’t where you could get to it quickly, then there was no use for it. There was a time, as a young mother, when she had to leave her children with her mother to take a job out of state, because it was the only job to be found, and they all needed the money so badly. In an age before phones were in every home and mail to rural areas took ages to get through, I wondered how hard that must have been for her, to be that far away from her babies with very limited communication.

My mother told me that in her younger, stronger days, mamaw could take a full hog, skin it, gut it, and cut it up so that nearly every part could be used in some sort of recipe. She washed clothes by hand, fed each piece through the wringer, and hung the clothes on a line to dry. Her tiny frame gave birth to an eleven pound son with no drugs to alleviate the pain, and she delivered my eldest sister after chasing the doctor away when he showed up to my mother’s house with alcohol on his breath. She was my babysitter growing up, while my own mother went off to work.

I remember her small, cramped kitchen filled to capacity with every kind of ingredient known to mankind, stocked on top of her refrigerator, taking up half the kitchen table and nearly every inch of counter space. When I was young, I personally saw her hold a chicken by the neck and with one swift crank of her arm, snap the neck, decapitate it, fling the head over the fence, direct her son-in-law to bring it in once it collapsed from blood loss (and once his own shock and nausea subsided), so she could boil and pluck it and fix it for dinner that night.

She was a small but mighty force and lived a life I can barely imagine. She never held a title or political office. She never led any committees or served on any boards. She was well known only to those who benefited from her never-ending generosity and amazing common sense. She fed strangers when called upon and sprang into action in the middle of the night if anyone needed anything. She had coffee ready from sunrise to sunset just in case someone dropped by. She didn’t go to high school, but her memory of people and events and the Bible was long, and she drew on that to determine her beliefs and any course of action that needed to be taken.

There are other areas of her life of which I’ve only recently become aware. With every story, she becomes more three-dimensional than I ever would have figured growing up. She was a great woman to us, to the ones who knew her so well. So on the way to the cemetery, it struck me that a whole town had just come to a complete standstill for my mamaw in much the same way that it would have for the mayor, a military hero, or any other well-known person in our town. In a small town, everyone is important, at least once, at least at the end.

My mamaw’s family cemetery is not easily reached. In fact, it used to be a downright nightmare. It sits on top of a hill near the county line. The single lane, gravel road that leads up to the cemetery is a tight, thirty degree right turn off the main road. Most vehicles need to swing wide into the oncoming lane to even make the turn. The grade is steep – too steep for some cars in years past. The distance from bottom to top is probably less than one hundred yards, but it’s a hard one hundred yards. Even in good weather, some mourners chose to park at the bottom and walk up through the tall grass that covered the side of the hill. In rain or snow, only the hearse and those with four wheel drives attempted the climb. Others would walk in the deep tire tracks dug into the gravel after they were sure all the cars reached the top. It was surreal, that long train of people walking up, mostly in single file, not talking, heads bowed, the stronger healthier ones helping the oldest and youngest in the line.

Obviously, it’s a small, secluded place, unlike the massive, sprawling memorial gardens that have become so popular in the last few years. It’s also one of the most beautiful places I know. Because it’s so high, you can see rolling hills that lap over one another until they disappear in a haze. For years, there were beautiful, thick, tall trees that created a columned border, encircling the site like a crescent moon. Those trees were so tall, they were probably old even when the first person was buried there two centuries ago. Storms and disease took their toll, though, and forced the removal of most of them. The cemetery is still an awe-inspiring place, however. The families themselves are the caretakers of the cemetery. Twice a year, usually in the spring before Memorial Day and in the fall before winter sets in, family members gather with their lawnmowers, weed eaters, fresh flowers, and special stones to keep it looking respectable. It truly is a labor of love. The caretaking of a loved ones doesn’t end when they die. Not here, anyway.

I try to visit the cemetery every time I visit Kentucky. There’s just something about the place that I love. It might be the fact that I vaguely recognize so many names from family stories. My mamaw is buried next to her brother, who died as a very young man in the early 1940s from complications during surgery. He was her closest sibling, and she loved him dearly; that much I remember well. My mamaw outlived two husbands who are buried in nicely kept and easily accessible cemeteries in town, but I don’t think there was ever any doubt where she would be buried in the end. She wanted to be with “her people.”

Her mother and father are buried right above her. Set into the monument at the top, there is a ceramic oval that has a black and white picture of the two of them, my great-grandparents. Their faces are worn and creased, and their clothes didn’t fare much better, but I can see the resemblances of these strangers to my grandmother and my mother and maybe even myself, sometimes. It’s not a picture of a well-groomed couple posing for a portrait. It’s a casual picture. They are wearing everyday clothes, and they look natural. I love it.

Mamaw’s sister and brother-in-law are buried a few yards away on the other side of the site. There are several small, plain, diamond and rectangular stones with names of children sprinkled throughout the cemetery. Some stones go back to the late 1700s. I examine the dates of births and deaths, figure the ages, and wonder how these people, these relatives of mine, may have died. Did the children die of illness or accident? Did the young women die in childbirth; the young men in war? My mother can explain some, but others go back much too far.

On one particular visit, it dawned on me that I’m connected, on a genetic level, to nearly every person in that cemetery. My DNA is tied to most of those people whom I will never know, and it makes me wish I listened more closely to my family’s history as my mamaw talked about her parents, grandparents, siblings, and cousins. Why didn’t I take notes and record these things, somehow? Maybe it’s because the stories came spontaneously and in short bursts. They were plopped down into ordinary, daily situations, and were dismissed just as quickly; something my brother did reminded her of her own brother, or something on TV would remind her of her childhood home. Maybe, because as a child, you think nothing will ever change. Everyone you know will always be there, and there will always be time to get the details, later.

Every person in our family cemetery has a story, and for no other reason than just plain ol’ curiosity, I want to know those stories. Who was the black sheep of the family; who was the pride and joy? Who was happy with their lives, and who secretly wished for something much too far from their reality? Who was the hothead, always causing trouble, and who was the constant, dependable one? Who were the parents that grieved for all these children; who recovered, and who didn’t? These are my ancestors, and I can’t help but think that, even though they lived fifty, one hundred, and almost two hundred years ago, there are similarities between some of them and me. At this point, it’s a mystery, and I do love a good story.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve had to do those pesky adult-oriented tasks, such as make a will, buy life insurance, assign guardians of my children in case, well, just in case. I’ve also thought about where I would like to be buried, not that I’m in any hurry mind you. It just doesn’t seem to paralyze me with fear the way it seems to do with some people. It’s a transition, just like birth, and THAT worked out okay. Despite what modern medicine would like us to believe, none of us will live this life forever.

Mom says the hill is nearly filled to capacity. She just can’t see where the rest of us are going to fit. We’re a big bunch, these descendents of Fowler and Winona. Some of the newest members of the cemetery are starting to take their spot down the slope on the side of the hill, just off the plateau at the top. When I mentioned to Mom that I wanted to be buried there, she said there may not be room by the time I’m “called home,” but I figure even if I have to be cremated and scattered over the hilltop, that’s where I’ll be. My ashes will settle over the prettiest little ridge you can imagine, and a little stone off to the side in the corner will have my name, date of birth and death, and a ceramic oval with random pictures of me in it, nothing fancy, the “kiddie table,” as it were. Oh, there’ll be room somehow. I’m sure of it, especially if mamaw has anything to do with it. After all, in mamaw’s house, family is always welcome, and there’s always room for one more.

Courtney Warren

In five minutes, a man could take a gun and shoot up a mall. In five minutes, a war could begin. In five minutes, a person can die, and in five minutes, thousands of lives can change. A lot can happen in a short amount of time. Things happen in minutes that people spend the rest of their lives wishing they could take back. That’s where my gift comes in.

I wouldn’t give a gift wrapped in a box and tied with a pretty bow. No, I would grant the ability to go back in time and change something we wish we had not done. Think about it. Imagine someone close to you died. Would you go back and use your minutes to tell that person you loved them just one last time? I bet thousands would use their five minutes to try and prevent 9/11 from happening. All it would take is one person at the airport to report the situation to the guards.

As with most gadgets, this gift comes with an instruction manual. On that first page of the guide is a warning that states, “You only get five minutes. No more. No exceptions. Use them wisely.” The introduction on page one explains that if you have received this ultimate gift, then you are kind at heart. You can only receive this gift if you always try to do the right thing. The introduction also states that you must use your minutes in a fair and honest manner.

There are a few rules that come along with this gift. For each minute, there is a rule. First, you cannot use your five minutes to hurt anyone. Second, you cannot sell your minutes, though you can give them away to someone in need. Next, you must have a good reason for using your five minutes, and they cannot be used for a greedy or selfish cause. Fourth, you have to use your five minutes all at once. Finally, you have to give your heart to the cause.

There are some fortunate people who do not need their five minutes. “What a lame gift!” They may say. You have to remember, though, that the world is always changing, and people are changing with it. The minutes may come in handy one day. On very rare occasions, people may never need their five minutes. Those are a lucky few! To them, the five minutes may mean nothing, but the same minutes could mean the world to someone else.

In five minutes, a baby can be born. In five minutes, a war can end, and in five minutes a stranger can become a friend. In just five minutes, thousands of lives can change. Five measly minutes can change people and the world, for the better!

Loren Logsdon

I find myself nearing the end of a long and rewarding career in college teaching. This fall marks the 49th time I will be welcoming students to begin the first semester in the groves of academe. Along the way, I have encountered all kinds of interesting students and colleagues whom I will always remember—students for their energy, individuality, and potential and colleagues for their friendship and generosity in sharing ideas and teaching materials. Of the many authors I taught along the way, one stands out as being very special. He is Ray Bradbury, and I am writing this essay as a gesture of gratitude to a writer who celebrates the joy of living and reminds us that life is a precious gift. Ray’s works have not only given students some exciting reading experiences, but they have also influenced the way I think and live, indeed with the way I touch the world with my life. What also convinces me that Ray is special is the tribute paid by countless numbers of students over the years who have thanked me for assigning his novels and stories. Frequently, students from years ago tell me that reading Ray Bradbury was the highlight of the class.

My own first encounter with Ray’s works was in high school. I read “The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms” and a story from The Martian Chronicles recommended by a teacher. It was not until the summer of 1958 that Bradbury became a powerful influence in my life. I had just graduated from college and was working on construction to earn money to attend graduate school in the fall when two things happened that proved to be life-changing. I saw the movie Moby-Dick for the first time and was amazed at how good it was. I noticed that Ray Bradbury had written the script for the film. During my college years, I had read Moby-Dick twice, for two different courses, and consequently, I knew how long and complicated the novel was. After viewing the movie, I was convinced that Ray Bradbury had to be a genius to transform a 724-page novel into a two-hour movie. Thus it is easy to understand why I would read Ray’s novel Dandelion Wine immediately after seeing Moby-Dick. I finished his novel, and I was in awe, spellbound, and inspired by the magic of Ray’s creative spirit.

Later, as a college teacher with a master’s degree, I taught freshman composition courses, and had little opportunity to teach literature. After I completed my doctorate, thus qualifying me to teach literature, I taught Bradbury’s works whenever I could. For example, the English Department at Western Illinois University had a course entitled “The 20th Century American Novel,” and at that time it was the most popular course on the schedule. In fact, I often taught two sections of it each semester. Since professors were free to choose our own texts, I always taught a Bradbury novel, alternating Dandelion Wine, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and Fahrenheit 451. At one time, my department chairman suggested that I design a major authors course around the works of Ray Bradbury and offer it as an extension course in the Rock Island-Moline area. Thirty-five students enrolled in the class, confirming what I already knew: that students enjoy reading Ray’s works. He speaks to them in ways they can understand. Like a magician, he tells them in his eloquent metaphors and images that life is very special and that they should open their eyes to the everyday miracles that most people either don’t see or don’t consider important.

Life has its delicious ironies. A graduate student who had taken two of my classes at the Quad Cities Graduate Center wrote to tell me of a strange experience she had. She and her husband were traveling to Jacksonville, Illinois, to attend their son’s basketball game at Illinois College, when they encountered a detour because the bridge was closed at Beardstown. She wrote, “We went through this little town that had Logsdon Orchard at one end and Bradbury Plumbing and Heating at the other. I thought we had just entered The Twilight Zone.”

I wrote back assuring her that the town was real and that she had just traveled through Versailles, Illinois, the hometown of my youth. I explained that Logsdon Orchard was owned by Sidney Logsdon, a distant cousin, and the Bradbury store was owned and operated by Raymond Bradbury. The Bradbury family was prominent in Versailles, but I didn’t know if those Bradburys were related to Ray Douglas Bradbury, the world famous writer. I cherish this story as a reminder of the special relationship I have enjoyed with a writer whose books have brought so much joy to people all over the world.

My first actual contact with Ray Bradbury the man occurred near the end of my days at Western Illinois University. For seventeen years, I served as the fiction editor of the department’s Mississippi Valley Review, and the magazine was approaching its twentieth year of existence, a remarkable achievement for a little magazine. The editors decided that we would publish an anniversary issue. As a special feature of that issue, we would write to famous authors, explain the situation, and ask them if they would donate a poem or story for our celebration. I decided that it was the perfect opportunity to write to Ray Bradbury.
I did and two weeks later I received a postcard from Ray remarking about my enthusiasm and inviting me to Waukegan, his hometown, where he was to be honored. He said that he would be glad to meet me there; however, a conflict prevented me from going. Now, Ray did not mention in his postcard anything about donating a story or poem, so I concluded that I had violated an unwritten rule by asking a writer to give away his work. About two weeks later, on a lazy Friday afternoon, I was sitting in my office at school when the phone rang. The voice on the other end asked for Loren Logsdon. I identified myself in a matter of fact professorial voice. Then the caller said, “This is Ray Bradbury. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time for you.”

I was taken so completely by surprise that I didn’t know what to say. I stammered and stuttered, finally saying something inane. Two weeks later, I discovered what I should have said: “Ray you can call me any time you want to.” I just didn’t think fast enough. I believe I can be forgiven, for who could imagine a famous author calling an unknown professor and asking if it was a bad time to call? Not many, I guess.

Ray then announced that he was sending two poems, but he said that he was having trouble with one of them. He couldn’t think of a title for it. Then, he surprised me once more by asking if I could help him edit it and find a title. This time, I knew exactly what to say. “I can do that,” I said.

The poem that was giving Ray so much trouble was based on his discovery that Shakespeare and Cervantes died on the same day. In reading his poem, we editors noticed that he had a line that would be a perfect title: “Death starves for two.” When I sent the poem back to him with the suggested title along with some minor details for revision, I pointed out that the poem contained within itself the perfect title. His response was, “Geez! Why didn’t I see that?”

As a result of this experience and a further exchange of letters, I wondered if I would ever meet Ray in person. His letters and cards were almost as interesting as his stories and novels. I concluded that I had to be content with the connection I had with him. When I left Western to teach at Eureka College, my undergraduate alma mater, Nancy Perkins, a colleague, and I were brainstorming one day, and we came up with the idea of the college sponsoring a creative writing contest for high school students. To make the event attractive, we decided to invite a famous writer to speak at a banquet and later give a public lecture. “I know the perfect author to launch this event,” I said. “Ray Bradbury, and I hope we can afford him.” Nancy and I sold the idea to three key campus administrators, who promised their support; and after some negotiations with Ray’s agent, our Dean of Students offered him a contract. Ray’s agent told me that Ray reduced his fee out of kindness to me.

Still, I wondered what Ray would be like in person. Some famous writers turn out to be disagreeable, even nasty, in person. Hoping for the best, I took two students with me to meet him at the Peoria Airport and take him out to dinner. He was wonderful! He was even better in person than I expected. I quickly discovered that Ray has the amazing and rare gift to make people feel completely comfortable in his presence. Within ten minutes, the students and I were conversing with him, as though he were an old friend whom we were taking out to dine. The next day, he completely charmed the high school students, and in the evening, he spoke to an overflowing crowd in our auditorium. He gave an eloquent lecture without once referring to notes, and he received an enthusiastic standing ovation. As he left, he said to me, “If you like me, invite me back in three or four years.” I wanted to reply, “What do you mean by if we like you?” But I didn’t say that. I thought he could tell that we liked him.
I published three scholarly articles on Ray’s work, and one time I took a risk and sent him the article I was most proud of. I was hoping he would respond by saying how perceptive I was, how brilliant even, but he was rather diplomatic. He wrote, “It is interesting to see myself through your eyes.” I suspect that he thought I intellectualized too much. Ray has said several times that people think too much instead of following their heart, their intuition.

True to his word, Ray came back three years later. This time I asked my wife to accompany me to meet him. She was somewhat reluctant to do so. “What can I say to a famous author like Ray Bradbury?”

“Ask him about his cats or his grandchildren,” I said. But she didn’t have to do that. In five minutes they were conversing as if they were old friends getting back together after years apart. Once again Ray charmed the audience. Addressing especially the young writers in the audience, he told them about his career. He said that the turning point was being asked by John Huston to write the film script for Moby-Dick, and he advised the young writers to believe in themselves—to follow their talent and their loves. He urged them to do what they loved or love what they do. He said, “I was born with the capacity to love many things.” He explained that he had never abandoned those things he loved; instead he grew with them, cherished them, and was rewarded by them.

My finest moment with Ray Bradbury came on the night of November 19, 2008. The Illinois State Library was honoring Ray as an Illinois writer. I was given the assignment of interviewing him via satellite hookup from Springfield, Illinois, to his home in Los Angeles. I began the interview by confessing that if I were a book person in Fahrenheit 451, I would choose to memorize Dandelion Wine. Once more Ray surprised me—with the greatest surprise of all—and his response will warm the cockles of my heart on many a long, cold, starless winter nights. Ray said, “And I would memorize the letters of Loren Logsdon.”

Deb Carpenter-Nolting

I was five, and I knew how to write.

I stood in the living room, fondling two new red pencils.

“There should be one pencil for everyone. Did you take an extra pencil?” my mother called from the kitchen.

“No, I just have one,” I answered, as I quickly hid the other one behind my back.

When she entered the living room, I extended the one pencil for her inspection, while keeping the other behind my back.

“Are you lying to me?”

“No, Mommy.”

“I know you are lying,” she said in a hurt voice, taking the culprit hand from its hiding. The evidence was right there, a second red pencil clutched in my naughty writer’s hand. Her voice sounded different. I caught the disappointment in it.

The pencil wasn’t an expensive item. It wasn’t so important that I had taken an extra one. The issue was I had knowingly lied. I felt so guilty that I disappointed my mom, the truest and best person I’d ever known.

I’ve tried very hard to never lie again, and for the most part I’ve succeeded, but there’s just something about a shiny new red pencil that still beckons me to lick the lead and be wicked.

Dr. Jenijoy La Belle

In the early 1950s, my mother was on a quiz show. It must have been a radio show, for I vaguely recall listening at home with my brother and sister. We couldn’t have seen it on TV, because we didn’t have one.

As the program neared its end, there were only two contestants left, a man and my mother. She was asked to name the three peaks of Mt. Rainier. Since we lived in Washington state, this was not a difficult question for her. “Liberty Cap, Point Success, and Columbia Crest,” she quickly answered.

The man was then asked, “Who said, ‘I think, therefore I am’?” He couldn’t remember.

“Descartes,” said my mother.

She won the top award, a diamond ring. He won a freezer. As soon as the show was over, they traded prizes. He had just become engaged and had no ring. We had only a small icebox and had to keep our meat in a frozen food locker downtown. Everyone went home happy.

My mother is now 81. Five years ago, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. She no longer knows who said, “I think, therefore I am,” and I’m no longer certain about the great Cartesian proposition. The terrible illness has taken much from my mother, but not her identity. Rather, it has clarified her. She has mastered the art of losing. The affliction has made her even more herself. Always gentle, generous, and full of hope, she now is the very essence of these qualities. My mother has taught me that Descartes was wrong: thinking and being are not one.

My parents live in the woods outside Olympia, Washington. When we stand on the high deck of their house and look west or south, we see the forest. But if we turn east and look down a long tree-lined ravine, there is Mt. Rainier against the sky. Immense. Perfect. Unchanging and ever-changing. Black in the gray light. Scarlet at sunset. White in the blue air. Some mornings, my parents rise early to watch the sun blaze behind it. Dazzled, they go back to bed.

I go home as often as I can. My mother and I sit in wooden chairs on the deck and feast our eyes on what Washingtonians call simply “The Mountain.” The conversation invariably takes the same turn. “Isn’t it grand!” my mother exclaims, leaning forward. “Yes,” I say, “but I wish I could recollect the names of the peaks.” I hold my breath for an awful instant. “Liberty Cap, Point Success, and Columbia Crest,” she responds in a rush of words.

“Mama,” I tell her, “That’s what you should have named your three kids.”

She laughs. My mother knows she forgets our names and those of her grandchildren. She frets when she can’t recall the titles of the poems she taught in high school for so many years. It hurts her to have forgotten all the students she tirelessly helped climb up the lower slopes of Parnassus. Yet, she triumphantly remembers the mountain peaks.

The last time I was home, it was impossible to see Rainier. A gloom of clouds each morning, followed by too much of the rain that I used to think gave the mountain its name, but I knew it was there, and even when my mother’s thoughts are foggy and beclouded, she’s there, too. Like the ancient volcano, she may seem inactive, but she’s far from extinct.

I hope Rainier continues to doze; the state hasn’t yet recovered fully from the 1980 eruption of Mt. St. Helens. I dream, however, that some cure will be found for Alzheimer’s, that one day our friends and relatives afflicted with this dementing disorder will awake and burst once more into intensity, shooting plumes of forgotten names into the air, releasing an avalanche of memories, covering the earth with lost recollections. But even if this vision never comes true, my mother is still here, the person she has always been, the human self I love, like the mountain in its serene presence.

Katria Wyslotsky

I’ve spent the past few days considering what I have come to understand as or believe to be bliss. What is it about bliss that makes life worth living? What is it about bliss that makes us smile like lunatics, sigh in ultimate contentment, and cry tears of joy? Just what exactly is this thing we call bliss?

Bliss, as you mature and change, alters itself to better suit your needs and life. As children, my brother and I believed that perfect bliss was my grandmother’s home in New Jersey. She and my aunt lived in the first floor apartment and my parents, brother, and I lived on the second floor. The yard seemed to be enormous, full of cubby holes in which to hide, and there were always kittens, little multicolored kittens that seemed to miraculously appear out of nowhere and were then smuggled into the house to play with. The pool was an old nickel wash tub my grandmother had used to launder clothing in before she purchased a washer that had evil looking ringers to squeeze the water out of the clothes. Sometimes, during the spin cycle, it would vibrate so hard that the washer appeared to be walking towards us which would send us shrieking up the stairs to the safety of the kitchen.

We all lived together in the white house with the wide dark gray porch that spanned the entire front portion of the house on White Street. I was four when we moved to Illinois, but I still remember the house. I can still smell the basement and the Ivory soap flakes my grandmother used to launder clothing. It is where my grandmother, once a raven haired Flapper, taught my brother and I how to dance The Shimmy and where my aunt taught us the words to Beatles tunes. It is where we learned our first prayers. It is where our lives began. It is where I first experienced bliss.

A few years ago, while visiting relatives for the Christmas holidays, I returned to my roots, so to speak, and went back to White Street. The yard was overgrown and littered with trash and the house, now a mottled yellowed gray, was in disrepair, and the windows on the first floor were all boarded up. The railing that was once so lovely and graceful as it wrapped around the porch was missing posts so that it looked as if the sadly grinning home was missing teeth. I found out later that the house was being used by drug addicts and was scheduled to be demolished. I will never return to the house on White Street. I am afraid that if I return and find that it has been razed my memories will disappear.

In high school, bliss was a concert at Madison Square Garden where the music was so loud that you felt like the drummer was beating his sticks on your heart. Bliss was a greasy piece of pizza on a Saturday night. Bliss was a prom date. Oh, those frantic weeks before the event, the torment of finding a gown and a date…all relieved by one slightly pimply young man agreeing to escort me to the prom. Bliss was also being with my friends. There’s nothing like a group of adolescent girls in mid-gossip shrieking with laughter as they walk down the street all elbows and knees, wind-swept hair, and flushed cheeks. We traveled in packs, like small, defenseless animals, taking over the local restaurants and annoying the staff. Bliss was having best friends. I still keep contact with two friends from high school. One is a musician who is currently recording her fourth CD and the other is married to the art director of People Magazine, of all things. Is there art in People Magazine? Honestly, I don’t think so, but that’s only my opinion.

Bliss, in my senior year of high school, was being accepted to Georgetown University as part of the graduating class of 1981. I met my room-mate and we immediately had a connection. I traveled down to the university to get my bearings and to learn the layout of the campus. Then, in May of the year in which I graduated from high school, my parents informed me that I was to return home and enroll at the University of Illinois. They weren’t going to pay for any other school, and I lacked the courage to try and make it on my own. Bliss seemed to disappear in a few tersely worded sentences muttered over the telephone line and I moved back to Chicago and registered for classes as I was told to do. After my freshman year at Illinois, the Dean sent me a lovely letter requesting that I enroll at a different institution of higher learning (aka, the local community college). I would be welcomed back once my grades got better. My GPA freshman year was 0.8. That’s all. Just 0.8. That, in itself, is an accomplishment! The expression on my parent’s faces as they received the news gave me a particularly perverse bliss. I told them I wasn’t ready for college. Bliss would have been to listen to me in the first place.

When I was twenty-one, bliss was my son. Never had I seen a creature as miraculous as he was. I loved his smell, the way he made little noises, how he laughed, how he smiled, how he managed to without a single coherent word make me do whatever he wanted…he was the wizard behind the curtain in what was my Oz. He was my best friend, my buddy, my pal, my guaranteed Saturday night date, and my road dog. He laughed at all my jokes, he liked to read the same books that I read, we both hated cooked carrots, and our favorite pastime was to lie on the couch and nap to the sound of a televised golf game. Have you ever listened to a televised golf game? The broadcasters speak in low, soothing tones so as not to disturb the golfer’s thoughts. Why is that? Why were they whispering to people through the television? It can’t possibly detract from the golfer’s technique or performance. And, after all, the broadcasters always seemed to be in a different location. But, if you have a chance, when it’s golfing season, watch a PGA match. It’s better than Valium to put you to sleep. One night, without the benefit of golf, my son went to sleep and never woke up. Bliss disappeared in a flash and agony took over my life for a long, long time.

In my thirties, bliss was a lengthy vacation somewhere that had pristine beaches and warm tropical waters. Bliss was a Pina Colada on a hot evening. Bliss was not having to answer the phone or try to beat rush hour traffic. Bliss was dating a man who wasn’t married, was gainfully employed, and didn’t live with his mother or another woman with whom he was “just friends.” Bliss was a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps purchased at Nieman Marcus that made you strut, not walk. Bliss was a lunch date. Bliss was a Porsche 944, black exterior, with taupe colored leather seats. Bliss was finally taking a sip of a single malt, well aged Scotch and know what it meant to taste the peat. Bliss was an underwire bra that didn’t sprout fangs each day promptly at five o’clock. Bliss was having some money stashed away in an IRA, mutual funds, and a 401K. Bliss was a parking spot within a hundred yards of your apartment building. Bliss was being invited to a wedding and not having to sit at the singles table. Bliss was a walk down Michigan Avenue in the winter when all the little white lights in the trees twinkle in the gentle snowfall. Bliss was the perfect little black dress. Bliss was being able to afford to have someone else shovel the sidewalk. Bliss was the Green Mill on a Saturday night with your eyes closed listening to jazz so hot it made your toes curl. Bliss was a good dental plan at your place of employment. Bliss existed in possessions, of which I had many. Bliss was short lived. But then, bliss quickly returned once I realized that getting a divorce was the only way to rectify a colossal mistake. Bliss was when he packed his bags and finally moved out.

My forties began with a stunning lack of bliss in prison. Each day, an eternity, seemed to bring its own agony. All of the things that I’d spent the previous two decades running from finally caught up to me and sunk its teeth directly into my somewhat sagging behind that was no longer firm and youthful. The world became a tiny place or very little beauty and equally little bliss. Bliss was surviving a day behind an electrified fence emotionally and intellectually whole and intact. Bliss was a two hour visit from my mother once a month. Bliss was the familiar scent of her cologne on my clothes after she left. Bliss was receiving mail and knowing that you hadn’t been forgotten. Bliss was the day after Christmas, Thanksgiving, or your birthday because it wasn’t as painful to be alone. Bliss was a day when you were not reminded of your unfortunate past and events which lead you to prison. Bliss was the fifteen minutes of phone time allotted to you on a daily basis when you heard the voices of those you most loved in the world. Bliss was the perfume sample insert inside a magazine that gave you a momentary feeling of being human and pretty again as you rubbed it against your wrists. Bliss was finally and forever leaving prison. Bliss was sleeping in my own bed once again. Bliss was hugging the dog. Bliss was washing the dishes. Bliss was answering the phone. Bliss was knowing that no one read your mail before you received it. Bliss was having real cash in your wallet. Bliss was driving the car down a long and empty country road with the windows rolled down, the wind in your hair, and the stereo blasting. Bliss was simply being sober and alive.

Not much can be said about the past eight years of my life and bliss with the exception that it has been a period of tremendous change in my life, in my environment, in my social life, in my family life, and in my future. Gosh…actually, that’s a lot to be said, isn’t it? They say that a woman does not come into her own until she is in her forties. I had difficulty, given my circumstances, adjusting to being forty. I felt that the best years of my life were behind me and that there was nothing but work and drudgery ahead of me until the day I died. I was lead to believe that, without a spouse or a child to raise, my life was empty, joyless, and held nothing good for the future unless I took some drastic action on my own.

So, I mustered up my courage and I went back to school. It was difficult, at the beginning, re-adjusting to a new routine and developing study habits. The fact that I seem to be continuously surrounded by teenagers in class didn’t seem to help much. But, day by day, I became re-involved in life. I have, once and for all, finally convinced myself and have come to firmly believe that my future is not determined by my past and I am not defined as a woman, person, citizen, friend, aunt, sister, or daughter by the worst thing that I have ever done. I am defined by the last good deed I performed, no matter how insignificant and small it may be to others for it was important to someone somewhere in the world. Some people never get to this point of understanding. Some people never truly experience true happiness, much less bliss. All I did was open the door to my heart to a new experience and bliss moved right in. I have been fortunate for I have loved, I have lost, and now I am grateful for I am truly blessed. I am, once again, in bliss.

So, this whole piece began on following your bliss, didn’t it? That if one follows their bliss wonderful things will happen. That’s true, I guess. But its been my experience that you don’t really follow your bliss in life. Instead, bliss has a tendency to grab you by the seat of the pants, send you flying forward at warp speed, all the while shrieking, “LOOK AT IT!! LOOK AT YOUR LIFE! ISN’T THIS ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE AND BEAUTIFUL? This, you dummy, is BLISS!” Bliss forces you look at life through its own eyes and teaches you the true meaning of life. What you do with all the information presented to you is entirely up to your own discretion.

At this time in my life, bliss is a new book that is a tropical ocean, fathoms deep, which one dives into without first dipping a toe in to check if it’s too cold. Bliss is a pair of comfortable shoes. Bliss is a wonderful piece of art. Bliss is a balanced checkbook. Bliss is seeing the first tiny purple Crocuses that shoot up from under the snow and open their petals to the sun. Bliss is a family gathering. Bliss is my 68 year old mother surviving two major surgeries within a year. Bliss is my brother’s rapidly receding hairline and the hundreds of barbs I fling at him regarding hair loss and aging. Bliss is being in the same room with my nephew and nieces who amaze me with their command of the world and sense of humor.

Bliss is a man who is so NOT my type who makes me laugh, who understands my references, who is intelligent, kind, generous, creative, and who embodies so many other admirable qualities. He is proudly bald, has a bit of a tummy, and an annoying habit of rubbing his goatee in pensive thought, but he is bliss. He is a nap on a snowy day. He is a good book, a walk in the park at day’s end in the warm rays of the sunset, a full belly after a particularly delicious meal, and a hearty irrepressible laugh. He is without guile or affectation. He, at the age of 48, still doesn’t know how to swim, but I plan on teaching him how to finally float freely and blissfully. He sings and dances alone and without a concern that others may be watching. He plays his brass instruments for the sheer joy of hearing his own music. He is a day at an amusement park. He is a breathtaking rollercoaster ride. He is an unexpected and colorfully wrapped gift. He is a boy at heart with all of the annoying childish habits that I vociferously rail against and secretly admire. He loves the fact that I’m smart. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel wanted. He has brought bliss into my life. He is my bliss.

So, do we truly follow our bliss? Does bliss lead you to ultimate happiness and satisfaction? I guess that that’s what life has always dictated will occur if you follow instructions and advice carefully. One should studiously work toward and follow your bliss, so I’ve been told, but I disagree. I honestly believe that in every lie one tells there is an element of truth and that in every truth there is a small element of a lie. In every fiction there is a provable fact and vice versa. There is a sun and there is a moon, a yin and a yang, and for every action there is an opposite but equal reaction. The same theory can be applied to bliss.

In every bliss, there is a bit of agony, and in every agony there is a bit of bliss. What you do with all of it, all the information you receive whether in agony or in bliss, is what’s important. That’s what determines if you’ll remain in bliss or in agony. It’s all in your hands so choose carefully. Go wherever bliss may lead you and pay close attention to what you are shown. Never, not for a single second, think that it eludes you. Listen to it and heed its call, or sometimes, its whisper. Bliss cannot be ignored, but it can be unintentionally overlooked. Bliss is in the small and everyday things in our lives that we take for granted. Bliss is a perfectly brewed cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream and sugar. Bliss is the way the dog stretches and yawns when you both get out of bed in the morning. Bliss is watching a movie that makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. Bliss is munching on a bagel with Lox and Cream Cheese while you’re reading the New York Times on a Sunday morning. Bliss is remembering the old nickel tub my brother and I played in as children, the dent that was left in the plaster molding over the stairway in the house on White Street for it was where my father invariably managed to smack his head as he sped down the stairs, and the kittens that frolicked under the bed linens on summer nights when the windows to the house were thrown open so that we could hear the crickets sing. Bliss is a purple Popsicle and the accompanying startling purple tongue in a hot August day.

Bliss is your mother’s lips pressed to your forehead feeling if you have a smidge of temperature. Bliss is a idle taxi on a rainy day. Bliss is a long, hot bath with someone you love. Bliss is looking at your prom pictures and thinking that you once thought that you were bulletproof and finally came to the understanding that no-one gets through life unscathed and wondering what on earth possessed you to purchase that incredibly ugly gown you’re wearing in the photo in the first place. Bliss is knowing that you now dress more appropriately. Bliss is in that one moment in the spring when you notice that everything which has been gray for months during the winter has, suddenly and miraculously, turned a bright and brilliant shade of green in the spring.

Bliss is each small victory, each passing day, each smile given in your direction, each thank you that you give or you receive, each hand you extend toward another person, each time you return home after a long day toiling at work, and bliss is that wonderful moment between sleeping and waking when the world is perfection and all you feel is contentment. Bliss is the sudden and inexplicable tears coursing down your cheeks from the pain of too much joy and tenderness.

Do not expect bliss to arrive in a timely manner or exactly when you need it. Bliss will simply wander into your life when you need it most. Trust bliss; it always leads you where you need to go whether you want to believe it or not. Don’t fight it. Don’t try to prevent it. Don’t sit around trying to ignore it because it will find you and knock on the door to your soul until you let it in. It exists. You are bliss’s target, and, sooner or later, bliss will find you. Then, when you’re totally immersed in it, wallow in it. Swim along with its current. Wrap it around you like your favorite blanket. Wear it like a wide-brimmed, straw hat with a bright red ribbon tied around the brim. Cannonball into it with a mighty shout. Ride it off into the sunset. Smell it, taste it, swallow it, hold it, and keep it with you always.

Let bliss lead you. It knows you better than you will ever know yourself and will always take you where you need, but not necessarily want, to go. Bliss flies, so relax. Enjoy the flight. Soar over the mountains and into the clouds with it. Rest assured, bliss knows the most joyful route to your destination.